by Adam LeBor
He folded the flyer into four and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. The MNF. Here it was again, the third time today – and it was barely lunchtime. And who was paying for these glossy flyers?
FIVE
Moneychanging office, 46 Rakoczi Way, 12.45 p.m.
Eniko Szalay looked down at the torn sheet of paper Maryam Nazir had just handed her. One word was written on it – in flowing Arabic script, she guessed, although maybe it was Persian – with a line of smaller symbols underneath. ‘I’m sorry,’ Eniko said, handing it back, ‘I don’t read...’
‘... Arabic,’ said Maryam, her voice flat. ‘I found it my sleeping bag this morning. I woke up and Simon was gone.’ ‘What time was that?’
‘Around 6.30 a.m. Seven hours ago. I have called him dozens of times. His telephone is switched off. He has never done anything like this before.’
Eniko scribbled rapidly in her notebook as Maryam spoke, shooting glances at her between sentences, trying to evaluate her state of mind, judge how far she could push her. Maryam sat still and composed. Her black, curly hair reached halfway down her back. She had olive skin, large, dark eyes and was very beautiful. She wore blue jeans, a crumpled white longsleeved T-shirt and black tennis shoes. She seemed calm but that was clearly a coping mechanism. How could it not be? Maryam was stranded in a strange, foreign city. She could not speak the language, did not even want to be here. Her husband had disappeared. Simon Nazir knew nobody in Budapest apart from his wife. He had nowhere to go. He had not called her all day, was not answering his telephone. Most of all, there was the photograph.
Eniko glanced at Maryam. She was staring into the distance, seeing nothing. Eniko gently touched her leg. ‘What does the Arabic say, Maryam?’
Maryam started with surprise, blinked several times. ‘Sorry. Bustani. It’s Arabic for gardener.’
Eniko put the paper down on the coffee table in front of them. ‘And underneath?’
‘They are numbers. A mobile telephone.’
Eniko had gone straight to Republic Square after she received the WhatsApp message on her telephone with the photograph of the dead man. The whole area around number 26 had been sealed off by the Gendarmerie. She had tried to approach the square from two different side streets. Each time, she had immediately been stopped by Gendarmes and threatened with arrest. Their presence told her what she needed to know: something bad had happened there, something important and politically sensitive. From there she had walked down Rakoczi Way to the 555.hu office at Blaha Lujza Square. She spent half an hour typing up her notes, encrypted them, then walked back up Rakoczi Way to Keleti.
Eniko had checked in at the MigSzol offices to see if they knew anything about a missing male migrant, probably in his early thirties. The room was packed with people asking for food, water, medical attention, speaking a babel of languages. It was impossible to find out anything. She’d been about to give up when one of the volunteers had suggested that Eniko try the moneychangers on Rakoczi Way. A young Syrian woman had been in earlier, he said, asking for help to find her husband who had gone missing that morning. She had refused to get involved with the police, but had said she had a contact at the exchange office on Rakoczi Way. Eniko had walked straight there, and found Maryam.
Eniko took out her mobile telephone and loaded the camera app. ‘May I?’ she asked Maryam. She nodded and Eniko took several photographs of the paper, before asking. ‘Why gardener?’
‘It is his nickname.’ Maryam paused for a moment. ‘We had a garden, with olive and lemon trees. We lived in Aleppo, by the Citadel in the Old City. Have you been to Aleppo?’
‘No, I always wanted to. I heard it’s beautiful.’
‘It is... was. It is ruined now.’
Eniko saw that Maryam was drifting off. She smiled and leaned forward, her body language encouraging. ‘Maryam, who is the gardener?’
A shadow passed over Maryam’s face. ‘We knew him, before the war. He was a teacher. An art teacher. He taught painting. Now he is a different kind of artist. They called him the Gardener because he likes to use garden shears on prisoners. Simon told me it took him just a few seconds to take off two fingers. They sent his fingers to us, held him for a week, while we raised the money. Our families sold almost everything we had to pay the ransom. Then we fled. We are Christians. Our families were in Aleppo at the time of Jesus. But there is no future for us in Syria.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
Maryam shrugged. ‘Germany. Britain. It doesn’t matter. Anywhere safe. Simon said there was a way...’
‘There are several ways. Smugglers will take you on back routes through the forests. The Gypsies will dress you up and drive you across the Austrian border. But you will still be travelling on Syrian passports.’
‘Not necessarily. We have money. Simon had a contact. Someone who could get us Hungarian passports. He was going to call him, set up a meeting later today. He said we might even be able to go tomorrow.’
‘But he got diverted by the Gardener.’
‘Yes. It looks like that.’
‘Who was he going to call?’
Maryam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Someone who could get hold of the passports. The number is on the bottom of the paper. He made me memorise it.’
Eniko processed what Maryam had said. This was the third or fourth time she had heard that Hungarian passports were for sale. But the details were always elusive. ‘Did Simon say anything else about who this contact was? Or how to find him?’
‘No. Just the phone number. Simon said he would make sure we are not stuck in Budapest, even if the trains have stopped. But we are stuck in Budapest.’ She paused, stared at Eniko, her black eyes suddenly glistening. ‘I am stuck in Budapest. He is dead, isn’t he? That’s why you are here.’
‘I don’t know. Really, I don’t.’ Eniko thought quickly. That was technically, if not morally, correct. But she did know that she was about to wreck Maryam’s life, perhaps forever. And when should she tell her, show Maryam the photograph of her husband? Whatever iota of hope Maryam still had would be instantly vaporised by a pixelated image on a mobile phone screen. But how could she not tell her? And then what – would she let Maryam go back to Keleti, newly widowed and traumatised, to sleep on the floor, waiting, alone?
On a human level, her heart went out to Maryam. On a professional one, Maryam had information that Eniko needed. Information about this morning. Why Simon might have left his wife at Keleti. Who he was following. Who might have killed him. Information that may help Eniko find out more about his dreadful fate. She glanced at Maryam. She was trembling now. Eniko had a sense for people. They told her things, made all sorts of confessions. Even Bela Balogh, the disgraced minister of the interior, had made contact, wanting to meet. But Maryam would close down as soon as she saw the photograph, Eniko knew. So she would have to stonewall, and Maryam would have to wait a while longer.
Eniko steeled herself, her voice encouraging but firm. ‘I am here, Maryam, because I want to find out more. Who is the Gardener? What is his name?’
‘His name is Mahmoud Hijazi. He is thirty-six years old. He was born in Aleppo.’ Maryam’s voice strengthened a little. These, at least, were known facts. ‘At the start of the war, he was with the Free Syrian Army. Then he went freelance. A freelance interrogator. Now he is with Islamic State.’
Eniko continued writing. ‘But you think he is here?’ Maryam nodded, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. ‘Yes. Why else would Simon leave me a note about him? And then disappear. He has never done this before. He must have seen the Gardener at Keleti. We both saw other fighters there, from Syria. Everyone is at Keleti. The Free Syrian Army. The Nusra Front. The al-Shams brigade. Even the Kurds. They made a truce not to fight each other while they are in Hungary. Everyone except the Islamists.’
Eniko ignored her rising excitement and focused hard, writing down everything as clearly as she could, the future headlines already spinning around her brain. This was a huge story �
� if she could prove it. Syrian Militiamen Sign Ceasefire at Keleti. The whole world’s media would really be knocking at her door. But for now, she needed to focus on Maryam.
The two women were sitting in on a brown fake-leather sofa in the back room of the moneychangers’ office at number 46 Rakoczi Way. The plastic had cracked open on the cushions, revealing yellow foam rubber. A faded poster of Damascus was affixed to the wall. The floor was covered in dark-grey linoleum and the walls were painted dark yellow. A dusty striplight hummed and buzzed overhead. Maryam’s and Simon’s luggage – two rucksacks and two sleeping bags -was piled up in the corner. Eniko’s telephone lay on the sofa, surreptitiously recording the conversation.
A knock on the door sounded. ‘Come in,’ said Eniko. A slim teenage girl wearing jeans, a green T-shirt and a white headscarf walked in. She carried a tray of coffees in small thimble cups, and glasses of water.
‘Shukran, thank you,’ said Maryam.
‘’Afwan, you are welcome,’ the girl replied, as she put down the tray. She turned to Maryam and spoke in Arabic. Maryam half-smiled and said, ‘ jazeelan, thank you so much.’ She turned to Eniko. ‘Amal says I am welcome here as long as I want. I can stay here.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Eniko, feeling considerable relief. She had thought about offering to put Maryam up in her flat. ‘It’s much better than the Transit Zone. How do you know them?’
‘I don’t. But I knew to ask them for help if I needed it. Her uncle knew my father. My father is from Homs. So is her uncle, Asaf Shamsi. He came here as a medical student in the 1980s.’ She picked up the coffee, sipped it and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Tastes like home.’ She opened her eyes and sat up straighter, suddenly revived. She looked Eniko up and down, as if seeing her for the first time, wondering who she was, why she had agreed to talk to her. ‘The Syrians run the moneychanging business in Budapest. But you must know that. You are a journalist.’
Eniko nodded. She had known about the Syrian money connection, but not that the Shamsi family was a contact point for refugees. It made perfect sense, of course.
‘Now I have a question for you,’ said Maryam.
‘Go ahead,’ said Eniko as she sipped her coffee. It was semisweet, scented with cardamom. She knew what was coming.
‘Where is my husband?’
‘I don’t know.’
Maryam stared at Eniko, her eyes locked on her like dark lasers. ‘But you know something, don’t you? That’s why you are here. Please don’t lie to me. Tell me the truth.’
Eniko swallowed, looked down at the floor. She had learned her trade on the local newspaper in her home town of Nyiregyhaza, in the east of the country, near the border with Ukraine. The worst job in the newsroom, the one nobody ever wanted, was the ‘dead-knock’, visiting the victims of the newly bereaved. Usually the door had been slammed in her face. Occasionally the grieving relatives seemed glad to talk about the person they had just lost. On one awful occasion she had arrived before the police and inadvertently broken the news. Eniko steeled herself. She had chosen this profession. She owed it to herself, and to Maryam, to be professional. ‘Yes. I know something. I was sent a photograph this morning.’
‘Of my husband?’
‘I think so.’
‘Show me.’
Eniko hesitated. ‘It’s...’
‘Show me’
Eniko took out her phone and called up the photograph. She handed it to Maryam and braced herself. Maryam looked at the screen. She gasped, gave a small cry like a wounded animal, swiped to enlarge the image.
For a moment she sat very still, her mouth slightly open as she stared at the screen. ‘Ya qalbi, ya hayi, oh my heart, oh my life,’ she chanted, rocking back and forth, her voice breaking, her whole body shaking. The phone slid out of her fingers. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted.
Keleti Station, 1.00 p.m.
Balthazar stood on the station concourse watching the scene in front of him. On one level it was surreal, but now the only surprise was how quickly the city had adjusted to the new normality. Dozens of refugees sat in silent protest, arranged in orderly lines. A line of riot police standing in front of the station doors watched impassively. Many of the refugees held handwritten signs in English, scrawled on cardboard or pieces of ripped-up boxes: ‘Freedom’, proclaimed one; another, ‘Syria loves Germany’. Television journalists wandered among the crowd, interviewing the migrants. Balthazar recognised the BBC correspondent, a skinny man in his forties, on the edge of the concourse, talking to camera. A young boy, aged perhaps six or seven, hovered at the back of the shot. He was a handsome child, with blond hair, large blue eyes and a bright smile. Each time a reporter crossed his path, he instantly held up a sign proclaiming, ‘Let My People Go’. Families were camped out on grubby blankets and bedrolls, men smoking and staring listlessly into space, women busying themselves with their children, teenagers playing with their mobile phones. A municipal street-cleaner in a green day-glo jacket desultorily cleared up some of the rubbish with a long metal picker and dropped it in his mobile dustbin. Two Gendarmes stood by the side entrance, smoking and chatting.
The sun was overhead now and the heat seemed even more unbearable, beating down from the cloudless sky, radiating off the hot concrete. Makeshift cardboard signs pointed towards the Transit Zone, one level down. His rucksack was resting on the floor by his legs, the black fabric bulging with the contents. As soon as he alighted from the bus, Balthazar had gone shopping at the supermarket on the corner of Thokoly Way. It was the nearest grocery shop to Keleti and was packed, its aisles a babel of foreign languages. A sign by the cashier listed the currencies that were accepted: euros, dollars, Turkish lira and Kuwaiti dinars, and the day’s exchange rates. It had taken Balthazar a good half an hour to buy eight half-litre bottles of water, a large bunch of bananas, six packets of sandwiches, biscuits, and a dozen bars of chocolate. He could stand on the concourse for hours, people-watching, but it was time to unload the groceries, and as fast as possible. The trick was to pick a target, ideally a family, walk over, give them the bag and leave quickly. Or donate the food and drink to MigSzol and let the volunteers distribute it. The previous day, a group of well-meaning CEU students had turned up with supplies and started handing them out to random people, almost triggering a riot.
The station concourse was a modern plaza on two levels. The main section, in front of the entrance, where Balthazar stood, was at street level, stretching to Baross Square and Rakoczi Way. Halfway along the street-level plaza, a staircase led down to the lower level and the metro station, now surrounded by the Transit Zone. Balthazar picked up his rucksack, hoisted it onto his back and walked down. Last year, when Keleti was just a train station, Balthazar had investigated a murder near here. An Iranian property developer had killed his Arab business partner in a dispute over money. The investigation had taken Balthazar deep into Budapest’s small Middle-East migrant communities. He had a gift for languages, spoke English, German, Lovari and had picked up some Arabic and Persian.
Balthazar recognised the guttural vowels of Arabic, the softer sounds of Persian and Turkish. The exclamations of joy and annoyance that carried over the clack of backgammon tiles were universal. Despite the overcrowding, the migrants had somehow managed to keep an open space in the middle of the Transit Zone. A queue was forming in the centre, in front of the MigZsol offices, for the lunchtime handout of donated food. At first, the government had refused to provide any facilities for the migrants. Officials said that they had entered the country illegally and they would do nothing to ‘legitimise’ their situation. But the reality was that public health, if nothing else, demanded that the crowds be provided with rudimentary sanitary facilities. It was a fraction of what was needed. There were no official food supplies.
A gang of teenage boys was playing football on one side of the Transit Zone. A group of elderly men had set up a makeshift café on the other, sitting on the floor as they brewed coffee over a camping stove. Baltha
zar jumped back as a football flew past his face. It bounced off the rear wall, towards a second group of men nearby, who were playing backgammon.
‘Ya, sbabab, sbabab, youths, youths, watch out,’ exclaimed one of the players, a potbellied man in his sixties wearing a grimy yellow T-shirt. The boys held their hands up in a gesture of apology.
Balthazar kicked the ball back to them. Considering that hundreds of people were camped out here, it was a marvel that riots had not broken out. A rota of volunteer doctors and nurses provided rudimentary medical care, while the seriously ill were taken to nearby hospitals. He watched a young girl in a brown hijab, perhaps twelve years old, wash T-shirts under the standpipes, laughing as the water splashed against her baggy red trousers. There were several parks nearby, but nobody wanted to be too far from the station, in case the borders were opened again. The Keleti rumour turned continuously, blending lies with truths, wishful thinking with the deepest despair. Routes had been opened, were closed, were opened again in a blur of gossip and hearsay.
Volunteers had set up a makeshift kindergarten by the entrance to the metro station: some children drew pictures in chalk on the ground, while the lucky ones had sheets of paper and coloured pens. Nearby, Balthazar spotted an African family, sitting on a grey blanket, a mother, father, two children, a boy and a girl aged six or seven. The parents were in their early thirties, tall and slim. They looked exhausted and disorientated, their clothes covered with dust. The mother was braiding her daughter’s hair. The boy lay fast asleep in front of them, stretched out, moving in his sleep on a flattened cardboard box. Balthazar knelt down by the family and slipped his rucksack off his back. He started unpacking the groceries.
