Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  The three of them had been up all night. Anastasia had texted Szilard with Gaspar’s address before she and Balthazar were taken away by the Gendarmes. He had then taken a long and circuitous route to Jozsef Street, going around the outskirts of the city to avoid the Gendarme checkpoints, before cutting down into the backstreets of District VIII. The paramilitary force was only a few hundred strong and did not have the manpower to seal off large parts of the city outside the crucial downtown areas. Away from the centre, public transport had continued to run as normal, the pubs and bars had been as crowded as any other Friday night. For most people, the Gendarmerie checkpoints were a minor inconvenience.

  Szilard had been tense and nervous as he arrived at the Kovacs family building. He had grown up not far from where they were now parked, in the leafy streets of Rose Hill, another world to the back alleys and courtyards of District VIII. He realised that he had never interacted with a Gypsy before, apart from tipping the occasional violinist at a restaurant when the family celebrated a special occasion. The Laci brothers had searched him in the courtyard, were about to rough him up when they found his gun. Then Gaspar had appeared. He fired off questions about Balthazar: what did Szilard know, where was he, what was the plan, what was happening with these fucking Gendarmes? Szilard’s answers were satisfactory and he was ushered into the family salon, where, despite the stress and anxiety over Balthazar’s disappearance, or perhaps because of it, everybody, including the largest number of children he had seen in one place outside a school classroom, seemed to eat and drink non-stop.

  Gaspar and Fat Vik had been all for getting into the van straight away, finding his brother and busting him out. Szilard – and an older man called Laszlo, Gaspar and Balthazar’s father – had been more level-headed. They needed to think this through and plan things out. Szilard agreed. They had one chance and they needed to make it work. First of all, they needed a list of likely locations. Szilard had made some calls to colleagues working on communications intercepts. They had picked some chatter from Pal’s phone when he had let slip a mention about the mokkry hazak, but had not revealed which one. The six mokkry hazak were all sited in a fairly small part of Buda. Szilard, Gaspar and Fat Vik had left shortly before dawn, looped around the city to avoid the Gendarme checkpoints, then drove back in through the distant suburbs. The white van was a perfect disguise. They had been stopped twice, each time Gaspar talking them through by pretending that they were Gypsy labourers heading to Szell Kalman Square, where employers had their pick of would-be workers every morning. Szilard kept a baseball cap pulled down over his face and pretended to snore loudly.

  ‘This must be it,’ said Szilard, pointing at the house. ‘It is the last one on the list. And the only one with Gendarmes posted outside.’

  ‘Great,’ said Gaspar, reaching for the door handle. ‘Let’s go.’

  Szilard put his hand on Gaspar’s. Gaspar and Fat Vik’s determination to rescue Balthazar was impressive – and touching. But this was not a time to be headstrong. ‘Wait a moment. We can’t just go in and start shooting.’

  Szilard had been dreaming of becoming a field operative for months. Yesterday’s little outing with the Nissan had gone very well. But this was something of a very different magnitude. And he had imagined that once in the field, he would have all the resources of his service to back him up: communications, research, reinforcements, the full force of the law. He had received a smattering of intelligence from a couple of colleagues, and the chatter from Pal’s telephone, but his request for operational support was, he had just learned, ‘still under consideration’, even though Anastasia was likely held here as well. The process of consideration, he knew, could last for days. He had hours at most, if not minutes, to deal with this. So instead he was out with a pimp and his chief enforcer. Who both wanted to rush into the house, would probably start shooting and in all likelihood end up shooting each other or even Balthazar. But that was the mark of a good field operative, he remembered the instructor telling the class: he could work with what was available.

  ‘You said he is in there,’ said Fat Vik. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘So what are we waiting for?’

  ‘For me to have a look, and then we’ll know what to do next,’ said Szilard. He took his telephone out and called Gaspar’s number. ‘Comms check.’

  Gaspar’s phone rang. ‘It works fine.’ He looked at Szilard, who said, ‘I’m going for a little walk. I’ll call you.’

  Mokkry haz, 8.45am

  The door to the cellar was a thick slab of grey mottled steel in a metal frame that turned on rusty tubular hinges. Balthazar watched as Attila stopped tapping his feet, turned around, walked over to the entrance and closed the door. There was a simple bar by the handle that slid into a metal holder. The door was still loose and not completely soundproof – distant voices echoed - but it was impossible to open from the other side. Attila dropped the bar into place and walked over to the channel in the floor. He dropped down to his knees and looked at the dark stains.

  ‘These people,’ he said. ‘I don’t know exactly what they did to him. The burns healed but he never really recovered. He asked for an operation to fix his broken nose, but the doctors said it was “non-essential” and he would have to wait. He waited until he died. My mother went soon after him. Maybe that’s why I’m so angry.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but Attila, we don’t have much time.’ Balthazar lifted his arms. ‘Can you get me out of these? And where’s Anastasia?’

  ‘Anastasia is in a room upstairs, being interrogated.’

  ‘Will they kill her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Pal said they won’t. So probably not. But as you can see, he’s half out of his mind.’ Attila looked hard at Balthazar. ‘Do you really think he’s planning some kind of massacre at Kossuth Square?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. And you know it. That’s what those two Arabs do. They kill people.’ Balthazar turned leftwards and started pulling hard on the chain, which loosened further. ‘Help me get this out of the wall.’

  ‘No need.’ Attila walked over, took something from his pocket, slipped it into the manacle, and turned. The metal loop sprung open. ‘I put you in these,’ he said as he released the other one.

  Balthazar tried to stand up, but the room spun around him. He sat back down, feeling the cold bricks against his back, slowly rubbed his arms as the circulation returned, sending waves of pins and needles through his muscles. He gingerly touched his neck, wincing at the pain and soreness. ‘What did they give me?’

  ‘You both got a sedative. Nothing toxic. They wanted you both alive. Anastasia to question and you… well, you saw why.’ He looked down at the floor for a moment, then back at Balthazar. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Virag. To let a kid die like that.’

  ‘Thanks. We need to move fast,’ said Balthazar. ‘Then we can stop a lot more kids dying.’

  The sound of banging, of a muffled voice, carried through the door. Pal shouted, ‘Attila, what’s happening, are you OK?’

  Attila turned, his voice confident, ‘I’m fine, sir. The prisoner tried to escape. I’m just securing him now. Don’t come in yet, until the room is safe.’ He turned to Balthazar, spoke rapidly, sotto voce. ‘OK, here’s the sitrep. He’s got a radio signal device. The Arabs gave it to him. There’s a remote timer release device on the pump under Kossuth Square. He has to be near enough to set it off.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he just use a mobile phone?’

  ‘By that time there won’t be any mobile coverage within several miles of Parliament. It’s all been arranged.’

  ‘So now what?’ asked Balthazar.

  Attila bent low, spoke rapidly for a few seconds, walked across the room and opened the door.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Corner of Verhalom Street and Apostol Street, 8.47 a.m.

  Szilard walked towards the front of the mokkry haz, his heart racing, feeling the weight of the Glock in his waistband, the suppressor pushing against the small of his back each time
he took a step. The villa, an ornate turn-of-the-century pile with long, curved balconies, was set back from the road in a tongue of land that ran between Verhalom Street and Apostol Street. Low stone walls ran down both sides of the plot, topped with a spiked black sheet-metal fence. There was a large garden in the front and substantial grounds in the back, all of which were overgrown with weeds. Seven circular stone steps led to the ornate grey metal gate, each smaller than the previous one.

  Two Gendarmes stood outside the house on either side of the steps; one tall and rangy, the other shorter and stocky. The tall Gendarme was playing with his telephone; his companion was leaning against their vehicle, smoking a cigarette. They looked relaxed – who would bother them up here, in the middle of Rose Hill? Both Gendarmes, he was glad to see, wore bulletproof vests. Szilard had no desire to kill anyone. He had spent many hours on the ABS shooting range, focusing on leg and shoulder shots on moving targets. But leg shots would be no use here, as the Gendarmes would still be able to draw their own weapons and fire back if they were not disabled by the pain. And shoulder shots were very risky, just a few inches off and the bullet would hit the heart.

  The Gendarmes noticed him as he walked towards them, and suddenly turned alert. ‘Hey, fuck off,’ the tall one shouted, waving his hand at Szilard as though he was a fly or other irritant, ‘Or we’ll—’

  But he did not get a chance to finish his sentence. In one swift move Szilard drew his gun from his back, dropped into a two-handed stance, swung a little to the left, fired, swung to the right and fired again, the Glock making a noise each time like a loud cough. The first shot hit the tall Gendarme in the centre of his chest. As the bullet embedded itself in his Kevlar vest, rather than entering or passing through his body, the kinetic force did not dissipate but spread out, driving the Gendarme backwards. He lost his balance, tripped, and went sprawling over the curved stone steps, banging his head as he went down. He stayed down. The second shot hit the stocky Gendarme a little lower in his vest, instantly winding him. He flew back then sat down in the middle of the street, gasping for breath, his face red with disbelief and fury.

  Szilard quickly took in the scene. The tall Gendarme was no threat at the moment but the second was still in the game, wheezing and breathing raggedly but about to get up. Szilard walked over, swallowed hard, grimaced with distaste at what he was about to do then swung his right hand out in a horizontal hammer punch. The stock of the Glock slammed into the side of the Gendarme’s head; he groaned, his eyes rolled back and he slid sideways, unconscious.

  ‘Not bad, for a gadje,’ he heard a gravelly voice behind him.

  He turned to see Gaspar standing behind him, flanked by Fat Vik, both with their guns in their hands, both breathing hard. Gaspar asked, ‘Are they dead?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Szilard. ‘And I said you should wait for me.’

  Gaspar walked over, poked the stocky Gendarme with his foot. Blood seeped from the side of his head, but his breathing was regular. ‘Yeah, you did, but you know us Roma, we’re not very good at following orders. What do you want to do with them?’

  Szilard handed Gaspar two sets of plasticuffs.

  ‘Sure,’ said Gaspar, ‘and then? You want to leave two trussed-up Gendarmes on the street?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Szilard. ‘Good point.’

  Gaspar shook his head, turned to Fat Vik, and said, ‘Bring the van here. We’ll get them inside.’

  Fat Vik nodded, walked back and drove the vehicle over, bumping over the pavement so that the rear doors rested almost on the round stone steps. The three of them quickly dragged the two Gendarmes inside the vehicle. Gaspar made sure both were in the recovery position, then stepped out and closed the door. Fat Vik then parked the van nearby and walked back.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Gaspar.

  ‘I’m going in,’ said Szilard. ‘You wait here. Cover me when I come out.’

  Gaspar laughed and gestured to Fat Vik, ‘I told you once, my gadje friend. We are not waiting for anyone. We’re coming with you.’ Szilard nodded, then led as the three of them slowly moved forward through the thick weeds, Gaspar and Fat Vik wheezing audibly from their efforts.

  *

  As soon as Pal stepped back into the cellar, carrying two plastic bottles of water, he realised something had changed. The scene looked the same as when he left: Balthazar sitting with his back against the cellar wall, his legs outstretched, his arms in manacles, Attila standing by him as though watching a prisoner. But his sixth sense told him otherwise. There was a subtle charge in the air, a sense of anticipation of something about to happen. It was the mood of a cabinet meeting about to turn on an errant minister, of an inner-party cabal about to take power. Pal had not survived in politics for this long without being able to sense such changes.

  As Attila walked towards him to take the bottle of water, Pal spun on his heel, aiming to step out into the corridor and call for more Gendarmes. But Attila was faster, positioning himself in less than a second behind Pal. One hand slammed the door closed, the other was instantly clamped over Pal’s mouth. Pal coughed and struggled. Attila gave him a fast, light jab to his left kidney, then released him.

  Balthazar opened his manacles, stood up and walked over to Pal. He was coughing now, pale and bent over, his hand on his left side as he took deep breaths. Attila drew his pistol with one hand, pushed it against the side of Pal’s head and handed a plasticuff to Balthazar. Balthazar guided Pal’s hands behind his back and yanked the plastic tie into place.

  Pal winced, stopped coughing, recovered enough strength to stand up and turn to Attila. ‘Attila, are you out of your mind? Firstly, you will never get out of here alive. And even if you do, you will be spending the rest of your days in prison.’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Attila.

  Pal said, ‘Whatever he’s offering you, Attila, I’ll double it. Triple it. And make you overall commander of the Gendarmes and the police.’

  Attila said, ‘Do you really think this is about money?’

  ‘In my experience it usually is. How much do you want?’

  Balthazar shook his head. ‘Wait a minute.’ He checked the plasticuff, saw there was still a little bit of give and yanked even tighter.

  Pal gasped. ‘Ah, that hurts.’

  ‘So will this,’ said Attila. He turned to Balthazar, his meaty fists now clenched. ‘One each. Do you want to go first?’

  ‘Be my guest. But we need him conscious.’

  ‘Sure. A grade one. That’s all.’ He turned to Pal. ‘You remember the manual that you insisted we use? The ex-KGB instruction book for dealing with prisoners. Five grades of beating, from light to terminal. All laid out, page by page, complete with illustrations. I wonder which one my father took from your uncle and his komcsi friends.’

  Pal’s eyes widened. ‘Your father?’ His body seemed to sag as he spoke, realising why Attila had changed sides and that there was no inducement he could offer to save himself.

  Attila handed his gun to Balthazar, walked over to the graffiti, ran his forefinger over the etched initials. He turned to Pal. ‘Z.U. Csepel Island, 1984. Zeno Ungar.’

  Pal’s eyes widened in fear. ‘Oh. Attila, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.’

  Attila walked back. ‘Of course not, because in all the months I have been working for you, you’ve never once asked me anything about myself, my family or my background. I’m just the hired muscle.’ He stopped talking, walked around Pal, sizing him up. ‘They broke my dad’s nose. And that was just the start.’ He ran his finger down Pal’s nose, then stepped back. Attila turned to Balthazar. ‘Hook or cross?’

  Balthazar looked Pal up and down as he considered his response. ‘Right cross, I think. Although a left jab would probably do the job, if it’s fast enough. A hook might break his jaw. And don’t knock him out. We need him to talk.’

  Attila smiled. ‘Right cross it is. Brace yourself, Prime Minister.’

  Balthazar said, ‘And mind you don’t hit his teeth. You can get blood
poisoning from that.’

  ‘Thanks. I have done this before.’

  ‘Then you will know how it works,’ said Balthazar as he stepped behind Pal and held him up, a hand on both of Pal’s forearms.

  ‘Attila, no please,’ shouted Pal. Attila pivoted on his right foot, his hips driving the punch forwards as his fist smashed into Pal’s face. The crunch of snapping cartilage sounded. Pal’s plea turned into a howl of pain as the blow landed. Attila’s eyes turned distant and cloudy, a look that Balthazar knew too well from their time in the cells of the District VIII police station. He swung back for another blow.

  Balthazar said, his voice sharp, ‘Attila. We agreed. One is enough.’

  Pal rocked back and forth on his feet, dazed and moaning, his nose splayed to one side. Attila blinked, focused and returned to the room. He looked at Pal, satisfied with his work. ‘I’ll search him.’ He quickly ran his hands up and down Pal’s trousers and shirts, checking the pockets. He extracted an iPhone and a wallet. ‘It’s not here.’ He turned to Pal, ‘Where is the radio controller?’

  Pal had turned white, made paler by the gouts of blood seeping from his broken nose. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, his voice thick and shaky.

  Balthazar said, ‘The radio controller that will set off the gas attack on Kossuth Square. Where is it?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  Attila gestured to Balthazar. ‘Your turn. Where now?’

  Attila took Balthazar’s place, holding up Pal as Balthazar walked around him. ‘I’m thinking about it,’ said Balthazar. He swung around with a right hook to Pal’s midriff, winding him. He sagged, groaning loudly.

  ‘I’ll ask again,’ said Balthazar. ‘Where is it?’