by Adam LeBor
After a month, they were virtually living together. Things were moving fast, perhaps too fast, a small voice told him. He listened and decided it was still too early to introduce Eniko to Alex. He knew his son would like Eniko and would approve of her. Alex had been nagging Balthazar for months to find another girlfriend. But what if he and Eniko met, and got along very well, as would likely happen, and then the relationship crumbled and Eniko disappeared? There had been enough upheaval in the boy’s life. A week or so later, he decided it was time. But the very day when Balthazar finally planned to suggest that Eniko meet Alex, she had told him that she had accepted a job offer in London and that she wanted to break up. He did not quite understand why: the position was a three-month internship, extendable to six months. London was not Lima or Hong Kong. Several budget airlines flew there, sometimes for less than a hundred euros return. Distance was no reason to what was turning into -for him, at least – quite a serious relationship. He pointed all this out to Eniko, tried to explain how much she meant to him. She would not meet his eye, but was adamant. It was over. He felt numb at first, in a kind of shock. Then nauseous. But when he heard her say that it really was over, pride kicked in. He stopped trying to persuade her to do anything, silently watched her pack her belongings and leave.
In any case, she seemed to be dating Tamas Nemeth now, if Szilky.hu was to be believed. He certainly wasn’t going to ask. Balthazar glanced through the kitchen door. The edge of the bed was visible in his bedroom. There she was, sitting on it, absorbed in her computer and some or other news feed. She was fully dressed, in a T-shirt and jeans. For a moment he imagined her there, wearing one of his white shirts, and nothing else, as she used to. He closed his eyes for several moments. This would have to stop.
A memory flashed through his mind: he was back at home on Jozsef Street, in the aftermath of the boxing match with Rudy. His mother, aunts and grandmother all fussed around him, pressed sweets into his hand, hugged and praised him; Rudy too, before serving him his favourite meal of csirke paprikas, chicken paprika, with home-made egg noodles, his father looking on, beaming with pride. He felt safe, loved, wanted. And now, when he could have used some TLC? He was alone, apart from an ex-girlfriend who had dumped him when he was falling in love with her. He turned on the cold tap again and stuck his head underneath, before rubbing his hair even harder with the tea towel.
Every man he knew – apart from Sandor Takacs – had woman problems. But Balthazar had something else to deal with. He was a Gypsy in a gadje world. A perpetual outsider. In his bleaker moments, he thought that Sarah had seen him as an exotic plaything, to be used up and cast aside when the novelty wore off. For all his education and the ease with which he moved among Budapest’s hipsters and liberals, and the diversity-loving faculty of Central European University, he never truly felt at home there. Almost without fail, every time he met someone from that world, or someone new in the hipster bars of District VII, they gave him what he called ‘the Look’. The Look had three stages. The first was an involuntary expression of surprise. Surprise that a Gypsy could speak fluent English, was not wearing a shiny tracksuit. The second was the awareness that the surprise was showing and a flash of guilt in the person’s eyes. The third was a rapid over-friendliness, an eagerness to show that really, he or she had no problem chatting with a Gypsy. Eniko, to her credit, had never given him the Look. But part of him was still, would always be, the Gypsy boy growing up in a tenement flat on Jozsef Street, wearing hand-me-downs, eating zsiros-kenyer – bread and dripping – for dinner, longing to see the world, but scared it would not let him in.
On top of that, and another complicating factor, was his policeman’s instinct. The voice from Eniko’s computer had stopped very suddenly as he awoke. That was not a coincidence. Her nimble fingers had clearly switched off a sound file. Who was the woman speaking? He knew an Arabic accent when he heard one. Plus, there was the article about his brother. ‘Two well-known Roma figures in Budapest’s underworld, both with connections to organised crime, appeared to be operating out of a café near the station,’ Eniko had written. One of those ‘well-known figures’, he knew, was Fat Vik, Gaspar’s consigliere. What did Eniko know about Gaspar and how had she come by that information?
He walked into the bedroom. Eniko was sitting with her back against the wall, laptop on her knees, staring at the screen, her hair falling around her face. She glanced at Balthazar as he stood near her. A black-and-white terminal window was open on her laptop screen, lines of code scrolling down. There was no point asking Eniko to explain. Her knowledge of computers and secure communications was far beyond his, knowledge honed ever sharper as the government’s campaign against troublesome journalists intensified.
Eniko brushed her hair away from her cheek. ‘I owe you a thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘B is for...?’
Balthazar frowned. ‘I don’t know. What is “B” for?’
‘And next time use Telegram,’ she continued, only half listening as she stared at the computer screen. ‘It’s more secure than WhatsApp.’
‘I really have no idea what you are talking about.’
Balthazar opened the curtains and sat back down on the bed, ignoring the various pains that shot around his body. Light flooded the room. ‘Let’s go through to the lounge.’
She looked up. ‘But you need to...’
‘Walk around a bit. To stretch my muscles. To move.’ To get you off this bed, before one of us does something we will regret later.
Eniko picked up her computer and followed him through to the next room. They sat down on the sofa. She glanced at him, her eyes warm, a soft look on her face, her lips slightly open. For a moment he thought about drawing her towards him, moving his mouth to hers. And then he remembered their last morning together, on this same sofa. That was history now. And he had no desire to experience it again.
‘I can offer you tea,’ said Balthazar. ‘No sushi though.’ He realised immediately how petulant he sounded, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
Eniko blushed, looked away. ‘He’s not my... I mean, we’re not...’
‘I’m sorry. Bad joke. Your private life is your own affair.’
‘I don’t have a private life. I just work.’ She picked up a gold rope neck chain from the coffee table. ‘This is new. Not your usual style.’
‘Birthday present.’
‘Gaspar?’
‘Who else?’
Eniko ran the chain through her fingers. ‘Do you wear it?’
Balthazar smiled. ‘Not for work.’
Eniko put the chain down. A silver-framed photograph of a young woman lay on the table. She had long dark-brown hair, tawny skin, a wide, full mouth and bright-green eyes. Eniko looked down at the photograph. ‘I’ve never seen her before. She is beautiful.’ She stared at Balthazar for several seconds, then looked back down at the photograph. ‘She looks like you, a bit. Same green eyes. But she looks sad. Who is she?’
‘A relative,’ said Balthazar.
‘Close or distant? One of your zillions of cousins?’
‘Something like that.’ Balthazar’s voice was abrupt.
Eniko watched him pick up the photograph, walked across the room and put it on the bookshelf. She got the message. ‘How is Gaspar?’ she asked instead.
Eniko had met Gaspar several times. He was a rogue, a pimp and a criminal, but also had a certain charm. She was fascinated by the ferocious loyalty Balthazar and his relatives showed to each other. Gaspar sometimes managed to appease his father, Laszlo, enough that Balthazar was allowed to appear at important family gatherings for a while. Eniko had attended Balthazar’s niece’s christening party with him. Laszlo had barely acknowledged Balthazar, but had formally welcomed Eniko. Gaspar had played the violin and danced with Eniko. There were vast amounts of food and drink but what she remembered the most was how the air was thick with love. Gaspar had decided that he liked Eniko, and after a couple of weeks sh
e was declared an honorary family member. She was surprised at how pleased she was to be accepted into the colourful chaos of the Kovacs clan. And more, how much she missed it.
‘Gaspar is fine, thanks,’ Balthazar answered, his voice still curt. Eniko was the second woman he had introduced to his family. And the second to walk out on him. It was nice of her to watch over him this afternoon but he had no desire to talk about his relatives with her. He sat down on the sofa, making sure to keep his distance. ‘What were you talking about before? What letter B?’
Eniko read his body language. Her voice turned brisk. ‘Somebody sent me a WhatsApp message this morning on my phone. An address, 26 Republic Square, and a photograph. I thought it was you.’
‘It wasn’t. A photograph of what?’
‘A man. He looked like he was dead.’
‘Show me.’
‘I can’t. I lost my phone in all the excitement at Keleti. Someone stole it.’
Now it was Balthazar’s turn to work out how much to trust her. Somewhat, he decided. She already had the photo of the dead man. She also had information he wanted, about Gaspar and the people-traffickers. He picked up his phone from the coffee table, opened the message with the photograph of the dead man and passed her the handset. ‘Like this?’
Eniko looked down at the picture for several seconds. ‘Yes. Exactly. Is this your new case?’
Balthazar nodded.
‘Any leads?’ she asked brightly.
Balthazar half-smiled. ‘None I can share with the press. Who sent you the photo?’
She frowned for a moment. ‘It came from a number I didn’t know. I called it but it had been disconnected. There was a letter “B” as well.’ She handed Balthazar his mobile back. His puzzlement, she saw, was genuine. But if he had not sent the WhatsApp message, then who had? And why had they added a ‘B’ to lead her to Balthazar?
Balthazar said, ‘But you can track your phone.’
‘Yes. I can. And I know where it is.’
‘Good. Why don’t you go and get it? Or at least call the police?’
Eniko opened a new window on her laptop and handed it to Balthazar. ‘Maybe you could get it for me, Tazi.’
A map appeared, showing Kossuth Square and Parliament in great detail. A small red light blinked continuously on the side of the building overlooking the Danube.
He passed the laptop back to Eniko. ‘Maybe not. What’s on it? Palkovics’s people will strip it out.’
Eniko shook her head. ‘They won’t. I’ve already remotely wiped it. Everything is gone, except the GPS. It’s not that big a deal. All the data, contacts, everything is backed up in the cloud.’ She reached inside her handbag and took out a silver iPhone. ‘And I have more than one phone.’
Balthazar knew that Eniko also used her phone as a digital recorder. ‘All your interviews as well?’
‘Yes, of course. Anyway, I immediately email them to myself and put them on my computer. Tazi, who attacked you? They weren’t migrants or random hooligans. It must have been planned. They must have been following you.’ She paused, thought for a moment. ‘It was a warning, wasn’t it? To stop investigating the dead man at Republic Square.’
Her quicksilver intelligence was one of the things that most attracted Balthazar to Eniko. And she had something, clearly. Something that could help his investigation. ‘Maybe. Let’s trade.’
She sat up straight, alert now. ‘I’m listening. What have you got?’
‘I know who attacked me. Or at least who they work for.’
‘OK. And you want?’
‘The sound file you were listening to earlier. The woman. The woman with the Arabic accent.’
‘What Arab woman?’
Balthazar sat back, and exhaled loudly. ‘Eni, let’s stop playing games.’
Eniko was about to protest, stared at Balthazar for several moments, saying nothing. ‘OK.’ She picked up her mobile phone, flicked through the menus and pressed down on the icon of the recording. Maryam’s voice sounded.
They both listened to Maryam talking about the Gardener, Simon’s disappearance, and reading out the telephone number. As Maryam spoke, Balthazar took notes in a small black notebook, and wrote down the telephone number. ‘Thank you. That must have been a tough interview.’
‘It was. I felt like a vulture, preying on her misery.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Calm, composed, until I showed her the photograph. Very beautiful. Long, black, curly hair halfway down her back. She’s a Christian, so she doesn’t wear a headscarf.’
‘Where is she?’
‘At the moneychangers, 46 Rakoczi Way. They said she can stay as long as she wants.’
‘Have you called the number?’
Eniko shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Be careful. Block your outgoing number. Or use a burner when you do.’
Eniko rolled her eyes. ‘Thanks, Tazi.’
‘You’re welcome. The Gypsies she talks about. These are the two “well-known figures in Budapest’s underworld” that you wrote about?’
‘Yes. They are.’
‘How well known?’
‘To you, very. That’s one reason why I didn’t name them.’ ‘That and because even gangsters have lawyers.’
Eniko laughed. ‘Yes. That as well.’
‘Can you please send the sound file to me?’
‘Of course not. That would leave a data trail. I’m not even supposed to let you listen to it. Now it’s your turn. Who beat you up?’
Balthazar smiled, said nothing.
‘Tazi,’ Eniko replied, her voice rising in indignation. ‘We had an agreement.’
Balthazar thought for a moment. He could play the police card, accuse her of withholding evidence. But she would likely then walk out and break off contact. He glanced at her flushed face and her eyes shining with annoyance. It was kind of nice to have her around again. And she had looked after him all afternoon, as the doctor had asked. He rummaged in the bowl on the coffee table, under the layers of crumpled receipts, old bills and used tram tickets until his fingers found something small and hard. Plus, he wanted to know what she knew about Fat Vik.
Balthazar handed Eniko a memory stick. ‘No data trail. Even I know that. Nobody will ever know.’
She pulled a face, sighed, inserted the memory stick into her laptop and pressed several buttons on her keyboard. Five seconds later she pulled out the stick, handed it to Tazi. ‘You didn’t get that from me. Now who beat you up?’
Balthazar put the memory stick on the coffee table. He looked at the skin on his knuckles. There were thin red lines where it had cracked open. ‘The Gendarmes.’
‘A name?’
‘Attila Ungar. My former partner.’ Eniko took out a small notebook from her handbag and wrote Ungar’s name inside.
Balthazar said, ‘Be careful. He is dangerous. And very well protected.’
A telephone ring sounded. Balthazar glanced at his handset, which remained silent. Eniko reached for her handbag, took out her iPhone, which was lit and vibrating. She took the call. ‘Now? I’m in the middle of something.’ She listened for moment, nodding, said, ‘OK. I’m on my way.’
She turned to Balthazar. ‘Tazi, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. It’s my editor. Something’s come up. I’ll call you later. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’
She walked over to the door and left. Balthazar watched her depart, regret and desire and some emotions he could not even name all mingling with exhaustion.
The clothes he had been wearing earlier, his shirt and jeans, he saw, were folded on an armchair in the corner. He picked his jeans up and went through the pockets. His wallet was still there. He opened it up – credit cards, his police ID, picture of Alex, money, everything was in place. He put the wallet down and reached back inside the ticket pocket for the evidence bag. The pocket was surprisingly large, but it was empty. He quickly checked all the pockets of his jeans. Nothing. He checked all around the armchair, took
out the cushion and slid his hand down the side, peered underneath, checked the pockets again. The SIM card had gone.
EIGHT
Dob Street, 7.30 p.m.
Balthazar stepped out of his apartment building. The warm, humid air was heavy with the summer smell of the city: car exhaust, cigarette smoke, the greenery of the park on Klauzal Square. A familiar soundtrack too: a tram trundling by twenty yards away on the Grand Boulevard, raised voices from the faux-Irish pub on the corner across the street, a stream of abuse involving farmyard animals conjoined with various relatives – nobody swore like Hungarians – and a long burst of laughter. Two young women, one blonde, the other brunette, in close-fitting tops and short shorts teetered towards him on high heels, on their way to one of the many nearby rom-kerts, ruin pubs. The pubs were a Budapest night-life speciality, ramshackle open-air bars set up in the courtyards of run-down apartment buildings. The brunette openly looked him up and down, eyes wide as she registered the scratches on his face and neck, whispered something to her friend. He watched them walk past, hips swaying.
He smiled as he glanced at his watch: a summer evening in downtown Budapest. It was barely 7.30 p.m. and his city was already getting into gear for another night of partying. Eniko had left just over an hour ago. Balthazar had bathed and eaten a tin of tomato soup he had found at the back of the cupboard. The bath and the food had revived him. The pain was manageable now, a steady ache, dulled by paracetamol. The iron bar in his head had not vanished but had definitely shrunk and stabilised. Even so, he knew that his respite and new-found energy were fleeting. He was now on alert, running partly on adrenalin, but that would fade in an hour or two. So would the paracetamol.
