Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  *

  As Balthazar set off in pursuit of Pal, a black Audi A6 with government plates came to a racing halt at the other end of Szabadsag Square, just behind the large obelisk monument to the Soviet liberators of Budapest.

  Reka and Eniko got out first, ignored Antal’s protests and stepped into the crowd. They were immediately swept up in the flow of people heading down Vecsey Street to Kossuth Square, a hundred yards away. Antal Kondor pushed his way through and quickly caught up with them, Sandor Takacs and Akos Feher trailing in their wake.

  Reka was quickly recognised. The word spread quickly that the prime minister had joined them. Someone pressed a Hungarian flag into Reka’s right hand, which she gladly accepted and loud cheers soon echoed across the street, together with the now-familiar cry, ‘Democracy, not dictatorship’. A light rain, an autumn flurry, began to fall but did nothing to dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm. The sky was a light grey, shot through with blue as the sun struggled to break through the crowds.

  A camera crew from the BBC filming on the edge of Kossuth Square quickly scurried over and started filming. Theodore Nichols, the BBC correspondent, thrust his microphone towards Reka, and asked, ‘Prime Minister, your government is collapsing and you face a no-confidence vote on Monday. Will you resign?’

  Reka stopped walking for a moment, about to answer, when a familiar figure appeared in the corner of her vision. Was it… could it be? ‘Prime Minister, will you resign?’ asked Nichols again.

  It was him, Reka could see. She put her shock aside, suddenly remembering she was live on international television. ‘You can see yourself how much support I have. Not now, and not next week. But in my own good time, once the situation has stabilised, I will call a general election.’

  Eniko said, ‘OK, Theodore, you’ve had your interview. We need to move on.’

  Nichols nodded, turned away and began speaking to the camera again.

  Eniko whispered in Reka’s ear, ‘On the steps. That would be best.’

  Reka nodded, the protestors steadily swelling in number in her wake as she walked forward, Antal Kondor at her side, steadily sweeping the square for signs of threat or danger.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Kossuth Square, 11.40 a.m.

  Balthazar forced a path through the crowd, ignoring their protests and the pain in his head as he sprinted after Pal. He held his Glock in his right hand and with his left he wiped away the trickle of blood that ran from his forehead into his eyes. Pal, he could see, was about twenty yards ahead. The black SUVs were still parked in clusters on the square but there was no sign of the Gendarmes themselves, although in the distance, on the left side, he could see some figures in black uniforms walking past the statue of Ferenc Rakoczi on his horse, in the direction of the Ministry of Justice. There was no sign of Attila or Anastasia but there were thousands of people here, so they could be anywhere. There were some police officers walking around, though, the first he had seen since the crisis started. One was female, with red hair. It was the officer he had seen yesterday, on nearby Szalay Street, giving the Gendarmes the finger, he realised. She was already following the commotion, had registered Balthazar’s presence and that he was in pursuit of somebody.

  ‘Vera,’ shouted Balthazar. ‘It’s Pal, stop him.’

  Vera whirled around as Pal approached. She looked at Balthazar, then at Pal, and tried to grab him. He lashed out, caught her on the side of her head with a lucky blow and she staggered backwards. A tall, well-built man was standing by the tents, wearing a Hungarian Freedom Movement T-shirt and holding a walkie-talkie to his ear. A voice crackled from the handset as he scanned the crowd. He nodded and replied. When he saw Pal advancing through the crowd, he lowered the walkie-talkie and started moving towards him. A few yards later, the two men’s hands brushed past each other. Pal slipped something into his trouser pocket. The man with the walkie-talkie raised the handset to his mouth again and spoke quickly before moving back into the crowd.

  By now Balthazar was just a few yards away. Pal turned around, quickly smacked his palm against his broken nose. He gasped at the pain, tried to ignore it as his nose immediately started bleeding again, and shouted, ‘Help, help, this man is attacking me. He’s beaten me up. Help me. I am Pal Dezeffy. He is beating me.’

  The protestors nearby turned, trying hard to see what was happening. Pal started yelling again, shrinking back in fear from his pursuer. Some in the crowd recognised Pal and began to form a protective ring around him. Balthazar took out his police ID, pushed forward. ‘Make way. This man is under arrest.’

  Pal smiled for a moment, turned to the spectators, pointing at his nose, proclaiming, ‘What kind of policeman does this? Please, I beg you, protect me. I am the rightful prime minister. This criminal and his associates kidnapped me and assaulted me. They are organising a coup against us, against our democracy.’

  The protestors looked at each other uncertainly. The mood of the crowd was already tense, almost febrile. It could turn in a second, Balthazar sensed. Law and order was collapsing. The fear had gone, both of the Gendarmes and of the regular police. Plus he was a Gypsy. Some of the protestors advanced towards him. ‘Look at him,’ said one lady in her fifties with purple dyed hair, waving her hand dismissively at Balthazar. ‘How can he be a policeman? We know his kind. They break the law, they don’t enforce it.’

  A thin, bald man with thick horn-rimmed glasses nodded in agreement, his companions gathering around him, starting to circle around Balthazar. None of them were particularly dangerous or even fit-looking, but they could crowd him in, certainly delay him. He thought back for a moment to what he had just seen. Or thought he had seen. Had the man in the Hungarian Freedom Movement T-shirt handed something to Pal? The radio controller? He thought so, but it was impossible to be sure. Pal was moving off now, Balthazar could see, and another thick-set man, also in a Hungarian Freedom Movement T-shirt, was helping him. Balthazar looked back at his immediate surrounds to see that around twenty people had gathered around him. The atmosphere was turning hostile.

  Balthazar pulled out the Glock 17 and fired twice into the air. The crowd scattered instantly. The sound of the gunshot resounded over the square. The protestors started running in all directions. Pal too was running, towards the Ferenc Rakoczi statue on the far side of the square, trying to escape. Now the red-haired police officer was in pursuit, sprinting after him, her pistol in her hand, shouting at him to stop. At that moment the bulky man in the HFM T-shirt stepped out in her way, barged into her and she went flying. Her gun skidded across the damp flagstones, towards Pal. He picked it up and pointed it at Balthazar, then swept it back and forth across the square. The bulky man put Vera in a bear hug from behind, above her elbows, trapping her arms, or so he thought. She grabbed his hands with her left hand to hold them in place, stepped sideways, slid her right hand up towards her left shoulder then out of his bearhug, pivoted on her left foot and slammed her open palm down into his groin. He groaned in pain. Just as his grip loosened, she delivered the same blow again, even harder. He staggered backwards and she stepped away.

  Balthazar watched as Vera advanced on Pal from a side angle, out of his line of sight.

  ‘You are going to let me go, Detective Kovacs,’ said Pal. ‘I’m not a good shot. If I miss you, I might hit anyone. You don’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death, do you? Think of that nice photo your son sent you. He’s having such fun with Henrik.’

  For a second Balthazar was back on the firing range. The chest offered the biggest and most lethal target. He aimed the gun at Pal’s leg and fired. Pal quickly stepped sideways, dropped the gun down. The bullet went wide and smashed into the base of the Rakoczi statue. Pal raised the gun and took aim again. At that moment Vera launched herself onto Pal, grabbing his gun. He let go of the weapon and started running again, in a straight line towards the end of the square.

  Balthazar lowered his Glock and aimed at Pal’s legs. He fired once. Pal flew forward, landed face-down on the grass.


  Balthazar ran over to him and turned his prone body over. The bullet had passed through his leg, and the exit wound was clearly visible. It was only a flesh wound, the kind that healed quite rapidly. But the shock of the wound, after the waterboarding and beating, was too much for Pal. He was semi-conscious now, his eyes rolling back in his head, his eyeballs fluttering.

  Balthazar shouted at the nearest protestors, ‘Find an ambulance.’ He quickly slid his hands through each of Pal’s pockets, simultaneously glancing at his watch. It was 11.43 a.m. The pockets were empty. There was no radio controller. He looked around, scouring the surrounds in case it had fallen out. There were cigarette ends, sandwich wrappers, empty bottles of mineral water. But no small black box with a keypad. He shook Pal, tried to wake him, asking urgently, ‘Where is the controller? Where is the box?’ But Pal had slipped into unconsciousness.

  Balthazar closed his eyes for a second, forced himself to think. Heart pounding, he checked the pockets again. They were still empty. He ran his two hands up and down Pal’s body, as though he were a suspect who had just been arrested. Arms, legs, armpits, waist, small of the back. Nothing. Until he reached his ankles. There was something inside his left sock, square and hard. Balthazar pulled out a small black box, perhaps two inches long, his hands sweating so much that he almost dropped it, looked again at his watch – 11.44 a.m. – forced himself to control his breathing, tapped in the numbers 2006. Nearby, he saw that several small metal grilles embedded in the flagstones were now sliding open. Had he entered the numbers incorrectly? Balthazar tapped in 2–0–0–6 again, slowly and carefully, glanced sideways. The metal grilles stayed open. Small black nozzles were slowly moving upwards.

  Then it came to him. He could hear Pal’s voice again. ‘The year I first took power, Detective Kovacs, the year our revolution started. You remember when that was.’ Pal had lied. But he had also given Balthazar a hint. He was not talking about his election victory. He had first taken power not in 2006 but in 1995, when he took over the leadership of the Social Democratic Party, disposing of the old guard who had made him their protégé. The year that was seared into Balthazar’s brain. The year that Virag had died.

  Balthazar prayed, for the first time in many years, then tapped in 1–9–9–5.

  The nozzles moved back down and the grilles slid shut.

  He collapsed onto the grass, closed his eyes and took great gulps of air, until he felt a shadow move across his face.

  He looked up to see Alex and Sarah standing over him. Alex said, ‘Hi, Dad. We were on the other side of the square, then we heard the shooting, so we hid behind the Kossuth statue till it stopped. It was scary but kind of exciting as well. What are you doing down there?’

  THIRTY

  Parliament, six days later, 4.00 p.m.

  Balthazar stood by the window in the ante-room to Reka Bardossy’s office, watching a police launch bump along the water towards the Chain Bridge, wondering how much longer he would have to wait. He was wearing his black Zara suit, which still fit, just, a white shirt and grey tie which Eva neni had knotted and adjusted for him. It was Friday afternoon, the start of the weekend and most Hungarian workplaces were already closing up. But here there was no let up in activity. A stream of officials and aides bustled up and down the corridors outside and in and out of Reka’s office. The door opened again and Balthazar turned around. He looked expectantly but Akos Feher walked in. He smiled broadly at Balthazar, crossed the room and shook his hand vigorously.

  ‘The man of the hour. That’s twice you have saved us from something very unpleasant indeed, Detective Kovacs. Thanks so much for coming in today. The prime minister will be with you very shortly.’

  Balthazar felt himself redden. He hated this kind of attention. Once again the footage of him in action, this time taking down Pal, had gone viral. The former prime minister was now recovering from his bullet wound in hospital, under armed guard. He was facing charges of attempted mass murder and terrorism. Adorjan Molnar had also been arrested and Pal’s foundation closed down. This time there would be no quiet departure and comfortable life of think-tanks and consulting. Pal Dezeffy was going to prison for a very long time. Perhaps for ever. The water tanks under Kossuth Square had been decontaminated by specialist chemical units from the Hungarian military. The liquid had contained a new compound, heavier than water. Had it been sprayed over the epicentre of Kossuth Square, the area directly in front of the Parliament’s entrance, everyone in the immediate vicinity would have died or at least become very ill, but it would have been extremely localised. Those on the edge of the square, where Pal had been trying to reach, would likely have been OK, or only suffered minor side-effects. It was a very precisely targeted new type of chemical attack, being studied with great interest by all sorts of agencies.

  As Balthazar said goodbye to Akos, he sensed Kati Tolma, Reka’s personal assistant, watching him closely. ‘Are you sure you won’t have something to drink, Detective Kovacs?’ she asked, a hint of a smile on her face. ‘Coffee, tea, perhaps something stronger?’ Was she flirting with him? She was not really his type, pale and skinny with a bob of black hair, but her face was finely sculpted with delicate cheekbones. And her almond-shaped blue eyes fizzed with confidence and intelligence. Kati tilted her head to one side so her hair slid across her face, then flicked it aside. ‘Go on. Be a devil, detective. It is Friday afternoon. The prime minister won’t mind. She might even join you.’

  Balthazar smiled, despite his nerves. She was flirting with him. This was happening ever more frequently. So why not enjoy it? Not everything had to be agonised over.

  Kati continued speaking, glanced at her watch. ‘I’m finishing in half an hour.’ She looked back up at him, her eyes alight. ‘Or maybe I can buy you a drink, Detective? Once you’re done in there.’

  He was about to say no, reflexively, when the door opened. Eniko Szalay walked out. He and Eniko looked at each other for several seconds. She wore a navy business suit and a pale blue blouse, and carried an oversized iPhone in her hand. Her nails were painted with a uniform clear varnish, her hair had been cut back to half its former length and the hoop earring was gone. She smiled uncertainly, then she greeted him. ‘Taz… Detective Kovacs, what a pleasure to see you. How are you?’ she asked.

  He nodded slowly. She was a long way from the pale, frightened woman on his balcony just a week ago. ‘Fine.’ He sensed Kati Tolma watching their interaction with more than professional interest. The air turned heavy with his and Eniko’s history. Then she broke the spell. ‘It’s nice to see you, look after yourself, Detective,’ she said, her voice brisk and professional. Just as Eniko started to move towards the door, Reka Bardossy walked in.

  A minute later Balthazar and Reka were sitting in the corner alcove of her office. The Beidermeyer furniture had been replaced by modern pieces by young Hungarian designers, and the whiskery men had been banished to a far corner. Most of the walls were empty, and there were dust marks around the spaces where the portraits had hung. The Zsolnay coffee set stood in the centre of an elegant, light-wood table. A plastic folder lay nearby, next to a catalogue for an art gallery.

  Balthazar started with surprise when he saw the name of the gallery: Rainbow. ‘That’s my sister Flora’s place.’

  Reka smiled. ‘I know. I’m redecorating. She has some really nice pieces by young Hungarian artists. I’m thinking of buying quite a few.’

  ‘Good. She’ll be really pleased. So will the artists.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Reka poured Balthazar a cup of coffee without asking. He accepted the drink and took a sip. It was very good coffee.

  This was the second time they had met this week. The first was on Monday, two days after the dramatic events on Kossuth Square. They had discussed what had happened, the charges that would be brought against Pal, and Balthazar’s future. Reka had offered him a job in her security detail, working with Antal Kondor at double his salary. He had refused. Few things seemed more welcoming than simply going b
ack to his desk at the Budapest police headquarters and dealing with the back-log of murder cases. They had also discussed his medal ceremony and the reception for under-privileged children to take place next month at Parliament. Balthazar had not then raised Pal’s claims that Reka too had been at the party where Virag had died. It was too soon and there were many other things to talk about. But it hung in the air, and Reka, he thought, could sense something. Two days later he had asked for this meeting and she had immediately agreed.

  Reka sipped her coffee as they exchanged greetings and pleasantries. ‘My door is always open, Detective Kovacs. How can I help you?’

  He looked down at the table for a moment, considered how to answer. Hungarians appreciated the direct approach. ‘Prime Minister, Pal told me that you were there when Virag died. You were at the party. He said you stopped him from diving in to rescue her.’

  Reka put her cup down. Her hand, he saw, was still. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because Pal tried to sleep with Virag. She was scared and she ran away. She would have made accusations. They would have messed up his political career.’

  Reka looked at him. She was no longer pale. The marks on her neck and scratches on her hand were fading. Her posture was straight, her voice confident as she replied without hesitating. ‘This is a very hard thing to say, Detective Kovacs, but think back to 1995. Pal would have denied everything, of course. Who would have been believed? A young Gypsy girl from District VIII, or Pal, a scion of one of the country’s most powerful dynasties?’

  The answer was obvious to Balthazar. And would not be very different in 2015. ‘Pal. But were you there?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘That’s a politician’s…’

  ‘…answer, I know. Except it’s not.’ She held her hand up for a moment, before she continued speaking. ‘Please wait a moment. Yes, I was there at the party. No, I did not see Virag drown and I certainly did not stop Pal from diving in to save her. I would have dived in myself.’ She lowered her hand and her eyes turned distant for a moment. ‘It was a big party, Detective Kovacs. I was in another part of the house entirely.’