Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  Pal grimaced in a half smile. He turned to the side and spat a crimson gout of blood. ‘Somewhere safe. Somewhere that you won’t find it. And it won’t matter if you do. You are both dead men.’

  Balthazar said, ‘Lie down. On your back.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Pal.

  Balthazar nodded at Attila, who stepped away from Pal. Balthazar swept his legs from under him. Pal crashed to the floor. Balthazar walked across the cellar to where Anastasia’s jacket lay crumpled on the floor, picked it up and walked back to the two men. Attila looked at him, puzzled. Balthazar straightened out Pal’s legs then dropped Anastasia’s jacket onto his face. Pal shouted in pain as the jacket made contact with his broken nose, started coughing and protesting.

  Balthazar told Attila. ‘Bring one of the water bottles.’ He did as Balthazar asked. Balthazar bent down and said to Pal, ‘Where is the radio control?’

  Pal muttered something unintelligible. Balthazar lifted Anastasia’s jacket from his face. Pal said, ‘I told you, somewhere safe.’ Balthazar replaced the jacket, gestured at Attila for a bottle of water. The two men stood on either side of Pal, jamming him between their legs. Balthazar opened the water bottle and starting pouring it over Anastasia’s jacket. Pal coughed and shouted, tried to slide out from under the deluge but was trapped between Attila and Balthazar.

  Balthazar gestured to Attila, who handed him another bottle of water. He stretched out his arm, held the bottle over Pal. To Balthazar’s surprise, his anger had faded. Instead he focused on the task: to find the radio controller and save the lives that Pal planned to take. For a moment he remembered reading about the psychology experiment at Stanford University where some students pretended to be prisoners and others prison guards. Many of the guards quickly turned into sadists. It was surprisingly easy to move from prisoner to jailer. Balthazar looked down at Pal, prone, in pain, red rivulets of blood mixing in with the water around his head under Anastasia’s jacket. He felt no sympathy, none at all, just a desire to get the job done. Perhaps it was this place. Or the memory of Virag. In the end it didn’t matter. Muffled grunts sounded under the wet clothing. Balthazar tipped his hand to the side, watched half the water pour over Pal’s head. The grunts got louder, more desperate. Pal tried to wriggle away. Balthazar and Attila both moved closer, jamming him tighter between their legs.

  Balthazar lifted the sodden clothing from Pal’s face. Pal shouted, ‘I’m sorry, I told you. I wanted to rescue her. But Reka stopped me.’

  Balthazar said nothing, dropped the wet jacket back on Pal’s face and tipped the rest of the bottle of water on top of him. Pal thrashed and gurgled until the water stopped. Balthazar said, ‘There are worse ways to die. You won’t actually die from this, but your brain thinks you will. So at least you get to experience the terror she felt.’ He lifted the jacket once again. ‘Where’s the radio control?’

  Pal lay panting and coughing, blood still seeping from his nose, crimson tendrils floating in the water as it pooled around him. ‘OK. Stop, please stop. It’s in my office. At the foundation, on Szabadsag Square.’

  Balthazar asked, ‘Are you lying? Because if you are…’

  Pal was half sobbing now, ‘I told you. It’s in the office.’

  ‘Al-Nuri. Why did you have him killed?’

  Pal tried to compose himself. ‘He was in the way. If Reka got the money from the Gulf she would stay in power. But if she doesn’t, she won’t. It’s simple.’

  ‘Is that it? A man died.’

  Pal shrugged. ‘Coked-up, on the job with a hooker in your brother’s brothel. I’d keep quiet about that one if I were you.’

  Just as Balthazar was about to answer, a muffled sound, something between a sharp crack and a bang, echoed in the room, followed by the thump of something, or someone, falling.

  A muffled voice shouted, ‘Batyam, batyam, where are you?’

  Balthazar gestured at Attila, who quickly unholstered his pistol and gave to it to Balthazar. He rushed over to the door, pulled up the bar and opened the door, the Glock trained. Gaspar stood outside, together with Fat Vik and a tall, skinny man he recognised as the Nissan driver yesterday. All three had pistols in their hands. They lowered their weapons and the two brothers embraced.

  ‘This is all very moving,’ said Attila, ‘but we need to get out of here.’

  Gaspar’s eyes widened when he saw Attila. He moved to raise his gun when Balthazar put his hand on Gaspar’s arm. ‘He’s with us.’

  Gaspar said, ‘If you say so.’ He and Attila glared suspiciously at each other.

  Balthazar said, ‘I do say so. Mondd ocsim, tell me little brother, where’s Anastasia?’

  ‘Here,’ she said as she walked into the room.

  ‘Are you OK? Did they…’ asked Balthazar.

  ‘I’m fine. And no, they didn’t touch me. They shouted at me a lot, that’s all.’ She turned to Balthazar, gestured at Attila. ‘And now he’s on our side? Are we supposed to trust him? What brought that on?’

  Attila walked over to the far wall. He pointed at the spot where his father’s initials were carved into the brickwork. ‘Z.U. Csepel Island, 1984. Zeno Ungar My father. A prisoner of the state security service. The predecessor to your employers. They even had the same name.’

  Anastasia blushed, looked down for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. That was a different organisation. In different times. We don’t torture people.’

  Attila laughed. ‘But we do, don’t we, Tazi?’

  Anastasia frowned, walked over to the other side of the room, where her jacket lay on the floor near Pal, a bloodied, sodden mess, and picked it up. ‘What did you do with it?’ She looked at Pal, sitting slumped against the wall, saw that he had been drenched, the blood still dripping from his broken nose. ‘Oh,’ she said, realisation dawning. She reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a handful of tissues and handed them to him. ‘Here – clean yourself up.’ She dropped the jacket, turned to Balthazar. ‘You’ll buy me a new one, once all this is over.’

  ‘Sure. We’ll go shopping.’ He turned to Gaspar. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘There were two Gendarmes in front, guarding the gate,’ Gaspar said excitedly. He turned to Szilard. ‘He shot them both. Boom, boom, one to each chest and down they went. Just like in the movies.’

  Anastasia closed her eyes for a moment, reopened them and said, ‘Szilard, please tell me you haven’t killed two Gendarmes?’

  Szilard said, ‘Of course not. They had body armour on. They are alive, although they will have sore ribs and awful headaches when they wake up.’

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Anastasia.

  ‘In the van,’ said Gaspar.

  Balthazar asked, ‘And in the house?’

  ‘Only two more,’ said Szilard. ‘They thought that would be enough.’

  ‘And those two?’

  Szilard smiled proudly. ‘Same. Close-range chest shot. Body armour. Target is winded, may have broken ribs, can’t stand up. Is then knocked unconscious.’

  Anastasia smiled. ‘Busy weekend you’re having, Szili. But nice work.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Balthazar. He pointed at Pal. ‘And we need to get him out of here.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Marton Ronay’s flat, Alkotmany Street, 10.00 a.m.

  Marton surfaced unwillingly from a deep slumber, turned in his bed and tried to ignore the noise. Finally, he had managed to sleep through the night. His jet lag was fading and he had been looking forward to a lie-in, then perhaps a visit to one of the city’s famed Turkish baths. And now this. Whatever this was. Muffled chanting, shouting and laughter sounded through his windows. What the hell was going on at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning in the middle of the government quarter? Some kind of street party, or something more significant? If it was here, on Alkotmany Street, it was almost certainly heading to Parliament. Which meant this was something political. But now the crowd sounded like it was passing under his window, yelling something about the Gendarmes and democracy.
This was definitely political. He grabbed a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, put them on, walked over to the balcony and peered out. The crowd reached most of the way down Alkotmany Street and was slowly heading towards Parliament. Half the city seemed to be here. He watched a group of elderly pensioner couples, dressed in their weekend best, walk arm in arm, waving Hungarian flags; a platoon of groggy-looking hipsters stopping momentarily to peer longingly into the window of the artisan coffee shop, a gaggle of tough-looking men in shiny tracksuits.

  He turned to look in the other direction and did a quick calculation – Alkotmany Street was about a third of a mile long, extending from Parliament to Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Way, by the Nyugati Station, and four lanes wide, two in each direction, with a bicycle lane on the other side of the street. It was full. There were easily twenty or thirty thousand demonstrators heading towards Kossuth Square. Marton and Pal’s people had discussed organising a demonstration here earlier in the week, to show the strength of feeling against Reka Bardossy’s government. But this protest seemed to embody the opposite sentiment. He watched a middle-aged man in a brown coat hold up a home-made cardboard placard proclaiming: ‘Down with Pal. Up with democracy’. Marton tried again to call Adorjan Molnar, but his phone was still on voicemail, had been since yesterday. In fact, his clients seemed to have disappeared. He had called and texted several times to see when they next wanted him to meet, saying he was available over the weekend – rest days were also paid at full day rate – but nobody replied or called back. He also sent emails to say he was available – it was important to leave a data trail in case there were disputes later about the bills – but when he checked his bank account his full fee had been paid in advance.

  He turned back around to watch the first protestors reach Kossuth Square. The Gendarmerie vehicles were still parked in front of Parliament, the blue tents remained pitched on the green verges. Marton had seen footage of the 2006 protests. The square and its surrounds, including Alkotmany Street, could hold more than 100,000 people. What if the Gendarmes and the blue tent dwellers started fighting? Perhaps that was part of Pal’s plan, some secret battle order for chaos that Marton was not to be trusted with. Well, that was their choice. He’d been paid.

  Marton turned, went back inside and switched the television on, frowning as he stared at the screen. Every channel was blank, showing the same wording: ‘This channel is not available for technical reasons.’ Impressive work by Pal and his people. That creepy old guy had a hand in this, Marton was sure. So how had all these people known to come to Kossuth Square? Television channels could be blocked but it was impossible to switch off the Internet. He grabbed his telephone and checked his Twitter feed: it loaded slowly, but eventually he saw that #saveHungarydemocracy was trending, and a video of Reka Bardossy had gone viral. He clicked and watched it. It was not very professional and appeared to have been filmed in what he guessed was her home, probably on an iPhone. She looked pale and drawn. But she got her message out. The clip lasted for about a minute:

  ‘My fellow citizens and guests in our country. We Hungarians are good at dividing among ourselves and fighting each other. But today is a time to unite. Our democracy is under attack. Pal Dezeffy and the Gendarmes are attempting to mount a coup. Yesterday morning I dissolved the Gendarmerie by executive order. But its commanders and officers have defied that. They are an illegal organisation, operating illegally. They are criminals.’ The clip switched to the Gendarme checkpoint at Blaha Lujza last night, and the long lines of vehicles waiting to pass through, then went back to Reka. ‘As you know, I assumed the office of prime minister after Pal Dezeffy resigned due to his involvement in facilitating the movements of terrorists through Hungary. But this is only a temporary measure. I am now calling a general election to take place as soon as possible. I may win or I may lose. But this is how we transfer power in this country. Not by an illegal organisation of armed paramilitaries taking control of the streets. I call on all loyal democrats – left, right, and centre or none of these – to come to Kossuth Square and show their support for democracy, not a dictatorship.’ She paused, stared at the camera and blinked. ‘Hungary will be a democracy, not a dictatorship. But we need you to make that happen. Please come now to Kossuth Square. Thank you.’ The video ended with a plain white screen and the hashtag #saveHungarydemocracy.

  Marton nodded and put his telephone down. Reka’s impassioned speech was impressive for a home-made broadcast. She was sincere and passionate. In a way the rough and ready feel made it seem more honest and appealing. Would it work? He walked back onto the balcony. By now the front of the crowd was spilling into Kossuth Square, and the protestors were still pouring in from the top of Alkotmany Street. Whatever was going on here was more interesting than a trip to the baths. He grabbed his telephone, quickly brushed his teeth and went downstairs to take a look for himself.

  *

  Sarah held tightly onto Alex’s hand as they walked down Alkotmany Street. They were on the edge of the crowd – she hated large gatherings, felt trapped and claustrophobic when she was surrounded. Once she and Eva realised that Balthazar had disappeared and his flat was not a good place to be, they had quickly left. Eva had gone back to her apartment and loudly locked the door. Sarah decided to head home, wondering which route to take back to Buda. But just as they sat in the car Alex started checking his telephone. His Instagram feed was full of excited messages from his school friends, many of which linked to Reka’s video appeal. Sarah and he had watched it together after which he had pleaded to go on the demonstration. She was torn between being a protective mother, keen to shield her child from any potential conflict or trouble, and letting him experience something memorable. And there would be safety in numbers, she was sure.

  She had parked the car on Kalman Imre Street, which ran parallel with Alkotmany. She had the laissez-passer that Attila had given her at the ready, but the Gendarmes had waved her, and the other vehicles, through. The pavements, empty an hour ago, were now crowded with people heading to the demonstration. The Gendarmes who had previously stopped her at Nyugati Station were nowhere to be seen and there the traffic was flowing freely again. Government coercion, she remembered studying in a class at Central European University, rested on consent. That consent could be either active or passive. But no government could control its population if they chose, en masse, to take to the streets. Fear was the greatest weapon an oppressive regime had in its armoury. But the fear was in people’s heads and once they banished it, they could take back control of their country. Violence, even shooting protestors, would merely fuel a greater determination.

  She looked around, trying to get the measure of what was happening. After five minutes’ slow walking they were on the corner of Bihari Janos Street, three long blocks from Kossuth Square. The atmosphere was tense, the faces of the protestors focused and determined, as though they understood what was at stake. A grey-haired lady in her sixties proffered a bag to Alex, looking at Sarah for permission. ‘Pogacsas, home made – take some, please,’ she said.

  Alex also glanced at his mother. She nodded and he took a couple of the savoury pastries, and gave one to Sarah. The layered, salty pastry was delicious. Just as they both thanked the lady, the chant went up again, ‘No to dictatorship, yes democracy’. The grey-haired lady joined in, shouting lustily, as did everyone around them.

  Alex was wide-eyed with excitement, looking around, drinking it all in. Sarah felt him tug hard on her hand and he pointed rightwards. ‘Look, Mum – there’s Henrik. That man’s son. With his mum – I think her name is Monika.’

  Sarah’s gaze travelled through the crowd until she saw a tall, skinny teenager with floppy brown hair, sixteen or seventeen years old, chanting and waving a rainbow flag. He was perhaps ten yards away, with a middle-aged woman with short brown hair.

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ said Alex. ‘I want to say hallo.’ He smiled at Sarah. ‘I really do remember him. We had fun that day. Don’t worry, Mum – he’s much nicer than his dad
.’

  Sarah nodded and they eased their way through the crush of people. The boys greeted each other. They smiled with their arms around each other. Henrik took a selfie of them together. ‘Shall I send it to Dad?’ he asked his mother with a mischievous smile. ‘With the flag?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Why not?’

  *

  Budapest looked the same as ever from the tinted windows of a Gendarmerie SUV, thought Balthazar, but the vehicle seemed to be surrounded by a force field. Cars pulled over to the side of the road to make way, pedestrians stepped back or rapidly turned to walk in another direction, and when the black SUV stopped at a corner or ran a red light, other vehicles kept a healthy distance.

  Attila looked at Balthazar as they raced down from Rose Hill onto the Margaret Bridge as though reading his mind, two saloons in front of them almost banging into oncoming traffic as they swerved out of the way, ‘Fun, eh? Much better than a cop car.’

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, Attila,’ said Balthazar. He winced as Attila yanked the SUV sideways and onto the tram lines, skidding until he righted the vehicle. There were four of them in the car: Attila drove while Balthazar sat next to him. In the back Anastasia sat next to Pal, who had been recuffed and now had his hands in front. Gaspar and the Fat Vik had gone home. The four injured Gendarmes had been left on the pavement after two ambulances had been called for them.

  Balthazar stared at the panorama of the city as they crossed Margaret Bridge, swerving at the sharp bend in the middle where, on the other side of the road, a spur led down onto the island. Budapest looked magnificent, spread out along the riverbank, the water for once almost blue, shimmering in the bright autumn sunshine. Parliament was visible in the distance on the Pest side of the river bank, a gothic concoction of needle-sharp spires, long rows of windows set in pale stone, topped by a brown dome. The pavements were unusually crowded, he realised, and not with the usual gaggles of tourists and teenagers taking selfies against the backdrop of the river. This was a crowd on the move, calm and determined, walking en masse to a destination. Many carried placards and home-made banners all with the same message: ‘Democracy not dictatorship’.