by Adam LeBor
Attila shifted uneasily. Half his mind was on his encounter with Balthazar and Anastasia. He still felt sick from taking Balthazar’s knee in his groin and furious that Balthazar had taken control of his weapon, in front of his men. By now the prisoners should be safely locked up. But nothing was ever certain with those two. Meanwhile he was cold, his balls ached and these two men gave him the creeps. Attila had also done his research, called in some favours at the Ministry of Defence and had managed to access the files on the two men. He knew who they were and what they had done. Pal had assured him that nothing serious would happen. But the photos he had seen still haunted him. ‘Can you please remind me what the effect of your mixture will be?’
Omar, Attila noticed, glanced at Pal for a fraction of a second before he answered. Pal nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Nausea, vomiting, dizziness. It will last an hour or two. That’s all.’
Pal rested his hand on Attila’s shoulder. ‘We’ve talked this through, Attila. No permanent harm will be done. It’s the final nail in Reka’s coffin. Not only can she not control her front yard, she cannot even keep the people there safe. She’ll have no choice but to resign. I’ll be back behind my desk, and then we dissolve the police into the Gendarmerie, just as we discussed.’
Attila turned to Omar. ‘Can you guarantee that? No serious after-effects or worse?’
Omar scratched his beard before he answered. ‘Of course. I can guarantee whatever you want.’ He handed a small black control panel to Pal. ‘Here it is. Radio-operated, as you requested. You need to be nearby, within fifty yards or so. The mixture needs sustained exposure, several seconds, for full effect. It will be coloured green. Just press the button and move away. And you, Mr Dezeffy, can guarantee that we will leave Hungary safely?’
Pal looked down at the control panel. ‘That’s all I need?’
‘Yes. Shall I explain it again?’
‘No, no need. Once the job is done, I can guarantee your safe passage. The exit plan is ready for tomorrow evening.’
Omar’s black eyes flickered for a moment. ‘Good. Because you know that if anything happens to us, our friends have long arms, and longer memories.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Nyugati Station, Grand Boulevard, 8.05 a.m., Saturday 12 September
The queue to get through the Gendarmerie checkpoint at Nyugati Station reached back fifty yards on the Grand Boulevard, down towards Margaret Bridge, but the line of cars was at least slowly moving. Sarah lowered her hand back into the side pocket on the driver’s door and took out her driving licence and the car papers again. The boulevard sliced through downtown, a long, sweeping curve of road and tramlines from Margaret Bridge to Petofi Bridge, further along the river. It was four lanes wide, two on either side. The number-four and -six trams usually ran back and forth between the traffic but today the service was closed. Both the Nyugati tram stops were empty. Instead, three stationary yellow trams lined up back to back. Two black Gendarmerie vehicles were parked at an angle across each lane, leaving enough space for a single car to pass through.
Sarah watched the Gendarmes stand in front of each vehicle as it stopped, walking around, peering inside, checking the drivers and their papers. Her unease grew. Normally at that time on a Saturday morning it would be a fifteen-minute drive from her flat on Rose Hill, on the Buda side of the city, to Dob Street and Balthazar’s place. But today the journey had already taken her over thirty minutes just to get across the river to here. Then they had to get past Oktogon and turn down into the backstreets of District VII. She glanced at her watch again. They were already late. They would be lucky to get there by nine o’clock at this rate, and she couldn’t get through to Balthazar on the telephone.
The car in front, a grey Nissan Micra, moved forward a yard or so. Sarah moved her Toyota SUV after it, then tried calling Balthazar again, her phone on speaker. The ringing tone sounded inside the car, followed by a burst of Hungarian. ‘What is that, Alex? What are they saying?’
Alex frowned. ‘I told you, Mum. It’s the same as before. This number is no longer available.’
‘How can it be not available? It worked fine yesterday. Maybe there’s something wrong with mine. Try him again on your phone.’
Sarah had already been stopped by Gendarmes on both the Buda and the Pest side of Margaret Bridge. Each time, the checks had been swift, almost cursory, but the message was clear enough: we control the city. She had not seen a single police officer. The pavements were almost deserted, the shops all closed or shuttered, even the cafes and Turkish kebab houses that were usually open all hours. Her driver-side window was open and a cool breeze blew through the car. She watched the Gendarmes, wondering if she and Alex should have cancelled and just stayed at home. She was not sure what was happening here, but one thing was clear: it was nothing good. She glanced at Nyugati. The station was one of her favourite buildings, but today its elegance brought her no pleasure. Gendarmes stood at the entrance, checking the papers of everyone going in and out. Even the drunks and homeless people that usually congregated on the steps had gone.
‘Same as yours, Mum,’ said Alex, as he put his phone down. ‘Why isn’t he answering? He’s never done this before.’
‘Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure it’s just a problem with the telephone networks. We’ll be there in a few minutes and we’ll all head off on our trip,’ she said, trying hard to convince herself. Hungary was blanketed in mobile coverage. There were multiple national networks. Mobiles worked perfectly here in every part of the country, far better than when she went home to New York. There was something wrong, she knew.
The Toyota moved forward to the checkpoint. A Gendarme approached, stocky, thickly muscled, with a tattoo of talons up the side of his neck. Sarah watched, feeling increasingly nervous as he looked at the car, walked around, peered inside on both sides. ‘Hallo, Sarah,’ said Attila Ungar. He looked at Alex. ‘Hi, Alex.’
Alex’s eyes widened. ‘Hi,’ he said, uncertainly.
Sarah flinched at the mention of their names. ‘Hallo, officer. How do you know who we are?’
Attila said, ‘We’ve met before, Sarah. Don’t you remember?’
She looked at him again, taking in his hard, intelligent eyes, muscular build, intensity of movement, the way he seemed to simmer with an unspoken anger. Then it came back to her. Years ago, when Balthazar first joined the police and she had once visited him at work. This was Balthazar’s former partner. She had never liked him, but had always tried to be courteous. As she was now.
Sarah tried to smile, cover her nervousness. ‘Of course. You’re Attila Ungar, you and Balthazar worked together.’
Attila nodded. ‘You remember my name. I’m impressed.’
Now she smiled with more confidence. ‘Of course. Balthazar was so excited to have a partner. He talked about you a lot.’
‘Did he? But now we’ve gone our separate ways.’ Attila turned to Alex. ‘Remember once, you came over, and had a play date with my boy Henrik? We went to the park and had pizza and ice cream. You probably don’t. It was a long time ago.’
Try and remember, Alex, Sarah thought, sensing that this was somehow important, wondering if she could send her son a telepathic message. She watched with relief as Alex nodded enthusiastically. ‘I do, there was a castle in the playground that we climbed on.’
‘Good boy. We should do that again sometime, once all this is over,’ said Attila. ‘You can meet Henrik again.’
Alex nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure. That would be great.’
Oh, you clever boy, thought Sarah.
Attila’s air of menace seemed to soften, Sarah saw. She asked, ‘Attila, perhaps you could help us.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll try.’
‘We’re supposed to be meeting Balthazar this morning. But we keep getting stopped. It takes a long time when they check all the car papers, our IDs and my driving licence. So now we are running late. We’re going on a day trip but it will take hours to get out of the city. Could you cal
l ahead or something to the next checkpoints?’
She watched Attila as she spoke. Something flickered in his eyes, a shadow that for a second looked like regret. There was something else going on here, she was sure. None of this was a coincidence. Attila knew they would be here. But how and why? For a moment she thought about calling the American ambassador, whose number she had on speed dial. The ambassador was an old friend of Sarah’s mother. The two women moved in the same circles in New York, of charity galas and fundraising. Sarah watched the news, had seen the reports from Kossuth Square. The government was under extreme pressure, that was clear, and might even collapse. Attila and the Gendarmes were part of that. But whoever took power next would not want to make an enemy of the United States.
Attila nodded. ‘I can help with that.’ He reached into his pocket, took out several sheets of headed A4 paper. The documents were topped with an impressive letterhead from the Gendarmerie headquarters, had a couple of lines in Hungarian and a large stamp underneath. He handed it to Sarah. ‘It’s a laissez-passer. There’s another checkpoint ahead, at Oktogon. Show them this and you won’t have any trouble. You can travel freely around the city.’ He tapped the bonnet, waved at Alex.
Sarah thanked him profusely and drove off. Ten minutes later, she had parked the Toyota in front of Balthazar’s building. Attila had been as good as his word. The stamped paper worked like magic. One glance at it and the Gendarmes at Oktogon had waved her through. They had not even checked the wording. But there was still no sign or sound of Balthazar.
Now she and Alex were standing in front of his building, her anxiety growing by the second. She pressed the door buzzer for the third time. No answer. She looked at her watch: they were almost twenty minutes late, but that was no reason for Balthazar not to be at home.
‘Where is he?’ asked Alex, his voice tight.
‘Try calling him again, honey,’ said Sarah.
Sarah glanced up at Balthazar’s balcony then looked around Klauzal Square, as if Balthazar might suddenly appear. The square was almost empty at this time in the morning, the rows of Bubi bicycles standing waiting. Beer cans, wine bottles and scattered cigarette ends evinced last night’s partying. But now it was clear that the Gendarmes were taking control of the city the air was thick with tension. The corner ABC, usually open all hours, was also closed and shuttered. A black Gendarmerie SUV was parked on the other side of the square, but so far had remained stationary.
Maybe Balthazar had gone out for some breakfast, or to another shop further away, to get supplies for their trip. Her ex-husband was not the most organised or domestic person. Except, she knew, when Alex was involved. Then he was ready ten minutes early, keen to maximise every moment he could spend with his son.
The front door of the building opened and Eva neni came out. Her face lit up when she saw Alex, who ran towards her for a hug. Eva greeted Sarah more formally and the two women exchanged polite greetings in Hungarian. As neither spoke the other’s language, that was the extent of their exchange. Alex and Eva then began a rapid-fire conversation in Hungarian, which Sarah was unable to follow. Eventually, exasperated, she turned to her son. ‘What’s all that about? Does she know where he is?’
‘No, Mum, she doesn’t.’ Alex’s face twisted with worry. ‘What’s going on, Mum? We were talking about this all week.’
Eva continued speaking in Hungarian. Sarah could understand one word that Eva said several times: Eniko.
Sarah asked Alex, ‘What is she saying?’
‘That Eniko was here yesterday evening, but she thinks she left around midnight.’
To her surprise, Sarah felt a stab of jealousy. Budapest sometimes seemed a small town. Sarah had known all about Balthazar’s romance with Eniko and its messy end. Part of her was sad for him, that he was alone again. Another part, she was surprised to discover, was still pleased that there was no other woman in his bed.
Eva turned to Alex. ‘Come in, both of you. Let’s go upstairs and see for ourselves. He’s probably overslept.’
The three of them stepped inside, Sarah for the first time. Balthazar had always invited her up for a coffee or tea when she dropped off Alex, but she had always declined. Once inside the foyer, she was impressed. The apartment house had been built in the 1930s and had retained its art deco style: a spacious foyer with pale marble walls and clean, curved lines. She glanced at the marble plaque on one side commemorating Rezso Seress. Why had she never stepped into the building before? The truth was, part of her felt guilty for divorcing Balthazar. Feeling guilty made her feel angry with herself, anger which she then dumped on Balthazar. None of which was good for Alex, she knew. He had adjusted well enough, as children do, to his new situation and enjoyed the novelty of having two mothers. But not all her feelings were complex. She was seriously worried now. Balthazar was a doting father. Wherever he was, at any time of day, he left his mobile telephone on so Alex could contact him. Strictly speaking, they were not supposed to have unsupervised phone calls or contacts. But she knew all about their SMS exchanges and did not interfere.
The three of them stepped into the lift and travelled up to the fourth floor. It was a small space and nobody spoke, but Alex held her hand tightly. They stepped out into the corridor. There were three flats on each floor, each with the original 1930s dark wooden door with a small panel that opened behind a black metal grille. Alex ran forward and banged hard on Balthazar’s door, shouting, ‘Dad, where are you?’
The door flew open and Alex fell forward, almost tumbling to the floor. Sarah rushed to catch him. All three of them stepped forward. Sarah turned with her arm out and said, ‘Wait,’ guiding Alex and Eva back out to the corridor. ‘Alex, you stay here with Eva,’ she told him.
Sarah took out her iPhone and called Amanda on Facetime video. ‘Listen, Mandy. I need you to record this call.’ Amanda immediately started firing off questions: where was she, what was happening, was she safe? ‘I’m fine, honey, just please do as I say. I’m going into Balthazar’s flat. He’s disappeared and his door is open. If there is someone in there, then we’ll have a record of whatever happens next. Can you record this?’
‘Yes, but maybe you should call the police. It might be dangerous. Why you?’
‘Because I’m here,’ Sarah said, and she stepped inside the apartment, her iPhone held out in front of her as though it might save her from the bad news she knew was coming.
Apostol Street, Buda, 8.40 a.m.
As his ex-wife stepped into his flat, three miles away across the city, in the basement of a 1920s villa perched on the crest of a hill with a sweeping view of Buda, Balthazar awoke. He blinked several times, then fully opened his eyes. His mouth felt like someone had vacuumed it dry. His eyes felt dry and gritty. His joints and muscles ached as though he had been beaten unconscious again. Where was he? He felt weak, groggy. His brain took several seconds to start processing information. His phone had been smashed and his watch taken from him, so he had no idea what time it was. But a weak light filtered into the space from a small barred window recessed into the wall, just under the low ceiling, so he knew one night at least had passed.
And why was there a deep burning pain on each shoulder? Then he remembered the taser probes ripping through his light summer jacket and T-shirt. He tried to raise his arms to take a look at the marks. But something heavy was clamped around his wrist, dragging on his hands, and then he could not move his arms any more. He looked down to see his arms in two large manacles, both on the end of a heavy black chain that was attached to the wall. The sight triggered a rising sense of panic. He was trapped here. Nobody knew where he was. He was an irritant, an ant to be crushed as Pal and his allies stepped closer to taking power. He closed his eyes for a moment, saw Alex’s boyish face twisted with anxiety as he wondered where his dad was. He pushed his son’s image aside, tried to focus on a plan to free himself. Firstly, he needed to understand as much as possible about his situation.
He was a prisoner, but his legs at least were f
ree, although clearly he was not going anywhere soon. And there was another ache, in the side of his neck, a different, dull pain to the soreness he still felt after his fight last weekend at Keleti Station. He rolled his left shoulder. A sharp pain shot through the base of his neck on his left side. It felt sore and tender. He turned his head from side to side. The dagger shot through the side of his neck again, but the pain was localised. A taser could knock someone unconscious, and he had taken two. But not for more than eight hours. If it was daylight now he must have been drugged, probably with an injection in his neck, which would account for the soreness. And where was Anastasia? He looked around the room. It was a cellar with raw brick walls, and a rough, cracked concrete floor that was slightly sloped on both sides, leading to a narrow channel in the middle with a drainage hole at the halfway point. Brown stains and patches spread across the concrete. He felt a sudden chill, and not only because the room was damp and cold.
There was a set of manacles on each wall around the room. There was writing on the walls, he realised, graffiti in Hungarian and Russian. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he looked again at the second set of manacles on the facing wall. There was something there, by one of the chains, crumpled, made of fabric. He narrowed his eyes. It was a dark-blue denim jacket, Anastasia’s jacket. So she had been here, and was at least alive when they’d arrived. Not far from his right leg were two crumpled, empty cigarette packets showing a space satellite against a dark-blue sky. He recognised the brand from his youth: Sputnik, as smoked by Russian soldiers. Next to the packets was an empty bottle of sweet Russian champagne. He frowned for a moment, did a quick calculation. The Russians had left in the summer of 1991. It was now 2015, twenty-four years later. The air was stale and his head was starting to ache. The place had been untouched for more than twenty years. Then he realised he was in a mokkry haz. The phrase was a mixture of the Russian word for wet and the Hungarian word for house. The cellar, he guessed, was underneath one of the numerous fine villas in the Buda hills that had once been owned by an aristocratic or rich industrialist family and appropriated during the Communist era. Some had been taken by the families of the party elite as residences – Reka and Pal both sprang to mind – others were used as offices or by the secret police. They had taken a special delight in working with hands, fists and other tools in the basements of the mansions of the former ruling class to bring about the classless society. All the mokkry hazak were haunted. He looked again at dark patches on the concrete. This place certainly was.
