District VIII

by Adam LeBor

  After a while, when the two women began to relax in each other’s company, Eniko looped the conversation back to work. ‘Who do you think killed Bela Balogh?’

  Reka Bardossy looked down at her coffee, stirred it before she answered. ‘I know who killed him. His name is Gabor Kozminsky. He is part of the prime minister’s security detail. His driver, in fact. He was trained in Moscow. It was Pal’s order. Our prime minister is tidying up his loose ends. Or trying to.’ Reka paused. ‘But it doesn’t always work.’ Reka unwrapped the scarf around her neck, then unpeeled her gloves and splayed her hands on the table.

  Eniko stared at the dark red marks around Reka’s neck, the torn nails and cuticles, her eyes widening. ‘He tried to kill you?’

  Reka laughed derisively. ‘Not personally. But he ordered it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was a Gendarme.’

  ‘Maybe someone else hired him.’

  Reka shook her head. ‘That’s not possible. They are all extremely well paid. They have complete legal immunity. Pal personally micro-manages their operations. They don’t step out of their headquarters without his say-so.’

  ‘Oh.’ Eniko looked down at the table before she spoke. ‘But I heard that you were... er...’

  Reka laughed. ‘Yes. I was. We were. So it was a crime of passion.’

  Eniko felt the familiar adrenalin rush. This story just got bigger and bigger. She took out her notebook and started scribbling. ‘Can I use what you just told me?’

  Reka smiled. ‘The politician and the journalist. Why don’t we wait until the end of our conversation, Eniko? Then we can talk about the terms and conditions, what you want to use, and how.’

  Eniko knew she was being played. ‘Terms and conditions’, as Reka put it, were usually defined at the start of a discussion, not afterwards, otherwise a source could let something slip and then say that it was off the record, not to be used.

  Sometimes, though, it was worth bending the rules – and this was one of them. But that did not mean that tough questions went unanswered. ‘OK. But why did Palkovics want you dead? And why did he have his former interior minister killed?’

  Reka glanced at her watch. ‘It’s well after seven, Eniko. I’m coffeed out and I won’t be able to sleep if I have any more. How about a proper drink?’

  Eniko was about to say no. She was exhausted. She had been taken off a train, detained and threatened. The man she was supposed to meet earlier in the day had been murdered. The minister of justice, sitting with her at the same table, had just survived an assassination attempt and was feeding her the kind of information journalists dream about. Eniko needed a clear head. But it was also important that Reka felt comfortable. Nobody wanted to drink cocktails on their own. She glanced at the circular bar in the centre of the room, where a tall barman ladled ice into a gleaming cocktail mixer and shook it back and forth. Eniko said, ‘OK. Whatever you are having.’ She watched Reka summon the handsome waiter.

  ‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Reka said, glancing at Eniko, who nodded. ‘Make that two.’ He took their order and walked over to the bar. Reka turned back to Eniko. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Bela Balogh. Why was he killed?’

  ‘He was unfinished business. A loose end. A loose end who knew too much.’

  Eniko tried to process what she had heard. Part of her was beyond excited, part incredulous and another quite terrified. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. For a moment she was sitting in a circular rubber raft, white-water rafting on a summer holiday in Slovenia, the currents spinning the boat around as she fought the undertow that almost crashed her into the river bank. But the waters had calmed, and she brought the raft back under control. ‘And he also tried to kill you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eniko asked, ‘Aren’t you scared? I know I am. This has been the scariest day of my life.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And there are still more than four hours to go.’

  Reka looked into the distance. ‘Sometimes, I am, yes. But this has started, and now it has to finish.’

  Warehouse, District X, 7.10 p.m.

  ‘Good evening, Detective Kovacs,’ said Black George. He gestured at the two women standing on either side of him. ‘Have you met Bettina and Dorentina? They are twin sisters. From Prizren, in Kosovo.’ Both women were wiry and toned, with dark eyes, full lips, long, raven hair pulled back from their faces and walnut-brown skin.

  Balthazar smiled and wished the bodyguards good evening. They did not answer but stared at him with cool, assessing glances, taking in his physique, body language, and the bruises and scratches, quickly deciding he was not a threat. They wore heavy perfume over the tang of fresh sweat. Like Black George himself, the two women were Gypsies. Balthazar knew that their knives were concealed, but would appear the instant they thought that Black George was in any kind of danger. The blades would be wielded faster than any man’s fists. Black George continued speaking. ‘It’s going to be a great evening. But before the entertainment starts, we should clarify something.’

  ‘I signed your form,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘Someone called Balthazar Kovacs signed it, but who? The policeman, or the brother of the city’s biggest pimp? The Gypsy from the backstreets of Chekago, or the diligent student at Central European University?’

  Balthazar shrugged. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Where is your brother?’

  ‘He’s not coming. He doesn’t approve.’

  Black George laughed, reached into his back pocket and took out a brass knuckleduster. It had a short, pointed blade at one end, encased in a leather sheath. ‘A pimp with a conscience.’

  ‘A pimp with an agreement with you, brokered by the Kris.’

  Black George slid the sheath from the weapon and touched the end of the blade with his fingertip. A small dot of crimson appeared on the skin. Black George nodded approvingly, handed the blade to Bettina. ‘The time of the Kris is finished, Detective Kovacs. The whole world is in chaos.’ He squeezed his fingertip until the crimson dot swelled and burst, then licked his finger. ‘Look at poor Bela Balogh. One minute he is the minister of the interior, the next he is dead.’

  Black George was a well-built man of medium-height in his mid-forties, with the dark complexion of a southern Balkan gypsy. He wore a skin-tight black vest, black jeans and trainers. The sides of his head and most of the top was shaved, apart from a backwards triangle of black hair which was gathered into a topknot. Both of his hands and arms were covered with tattoos of eagles, the symbol of Kosovo. Another bird was tattooed on the back of his neck, its wings reaching around to his cheeks, its talons down his back. His eyes, which gave him his name, were his most compelling feature, black as obsidian, they seemed to glow in the dark. He exuded a coiled, menacing energy, and was, Balthazar knew, capable of extreme violence on a whim. Bela Balogh’s death in a hit-and-run earlier that day was all over the news. The reference to Bela Balogh was a thinly veiled threat.

  Black George had first arrived in Budapest in 2000 after the war in Kosovo, claiming to be a refugee from Prizren. He had lived there for a while, but he was born in Albania, in a slum outside the capital Tirana. By his mid-twenties he controlled much of the downtown capital, running prostitutes, pickpockets and selling adulterated fuel. But the Kosovo war brought new opportunities. Suddenly the city was awash with aid workers, reporters and spies. He quickly hired more prostitutes, trained more street children to pick pockets. His empire grew rapidly. Several of his rivals were found dead. Then the borders opened to let the Kosovo Albanian refugees flee. Black George walked into Kosovo from Albania and there linked up with a column of refugees fleeing to Macedonia, where he secured false papers. With those, he flew to Hungary and claimed asylum. On that trip, he kept a low profile, gathering intelligence about crime in the city. Budapest, he decided, would be his springboard into operations across western Europe, where the real money was to be made.

  A slim young blonde woman in a red dress walked up, hol
ding a silver tray. Three lines of white powder were laid out next to a polished silver tube. ‘Will you join me, Detective?’ asked Black George, his tone only slightly mocking.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Balthazar.

  Black George looked down at the tray, ‘Do you mind if I...?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  The young woman held the tray as Black George inserted the tube into his nose and bent forward.

  Black George sniffed up the two lines, one after another, exhaled hard and shivered with pleasure. ‘The best. Pure Colombian.’ He held the tray out to Balthazar. ‘There’s enough left.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You want to talk?’ Black George looked down at the tray. ‘Then try it. You are safe here. There are no cameras.’

  Balthazar dipped a finger in the white powder and dabbed it on his tongue. A strong chemical taste flooded his mouth. His tongue fizzed for a second, turned numb. The drug was so pure that he felt a kick. ‘As you say. Very good.’

  Black George gave him a quizzical look. ‘You intrigue me, Balthazar Kovacs. The Gypsy detective. Why do you spell your name with an “h”? Why not Baltazar, like the Hungarians?’

  ‘My mother changed it. She liked that version better.’

  Black George laughed, his eyes creasing. ‘If that was a disguise, it didn’t work. And look where it gets you. Why do you bother? You can arrest us, your cousins, your brothers, all day and night. You will still be a budos czigany, a filthy Gypsy. Why not come and work for me? I can pay you much more than you will ever earn as a policeman.’ He lifted up Balthazar’s rope chain, looked him up and down, taking in his close-fitting T-shirt and jeans. ‘I think you would fit right in. This Gaspar business, we can sort it out, fix things amicably. And there are other benefits.’

  Black George gestured at his bodyguards, nodded at Balthazar. Bettina came to stand close to him on one side, Dorentina on the other. He felt the soft weight of their breasts on his arms, the warmth of their breath on his neck. ‘They like you, Bal-tha-zar,’ said Black George, mockingly emphasising each syllable.

  Two hands slid up and down his spine, fingers pressing gently on his back, a further two sliding down to his backside and under his crotch. Balthazar blinked, tried to ignore the wave of pleasure running up and down his body.

  Black George dropped Balthazar’s neck chain, smoothed it back in place. ‘Such fun and no complications.’ He sniffed, flicked a smudge of white powder from the underside of his nose. ‘None at all. And you would be protected. No more fights at Keleti. No one would dare. You, me and Gaspar. Partners, the three of us, what do you say?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ replied Balthazar, stepping forward, away from Bettina and Dorentina. ‘But we need to talk. Alone.’

  ‘Police talk?’

  ‘Friendly talk. A few questions. Let’s see if we can cooperate.’

  ‘OK.’ Black George gestured at his bodyguards to leave him. The two women began to protest. His voice dropped and his eyes suddenly glittered. ‘I said, leave us.’ The women immediately stepped aside. Black George stepped into the crowd. It parted instantly as he led Balthazar to a corner of the room.

  The two men stood in the corner. The generator hummed and coughed. Balthazar took a sheet of paper from his back pocket, a printout of the photograph of Simon Nazir. He unfolded it and showed it to Black George. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked.

  Black George shook his head. ‘Never met him.’

  ‘But you know who killed him?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘The killer’s name is Mahmoud Hejazi.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You were going to take Hejazi across the border. With a passport issued by the Ministry of Justice.’

  ‘Was I really?’ asked Black George, his tone bored.

  ‘Yes. There are three ways out of here. With Gaspar and Goran, but they won’t take him. Through the green border with one of the guys who hang out at Keleti, but that’s way too risky. Or with you.’

  Black George slid a finger back under Balthazar’s rope chain, lifted it up and down again. ‘Partners?’ Balthazar said nothing. He dropped Balthazar’s chain, started walking back to the seats in front of the cage. ‘Think about it, Detective Kovacs. But first, let’s watch the fun.’

  Ungar home, Bimbo Way, Buda hills, 7.10 p.m.

  Attila Ungar put his can of beer down and pressed the pause button on the television remote control as his phone rang. The football match, a Budapest derby between Ferencvaros and Ujpest, froze on the sixty-inch television screen that dominated the room, the Ujpest goalkeeper suspended in mid-air.

  Ungar had been divorced for a decade. He lived alone in a new luxury development in the Buda hills. The flat had a large wraparound terrace and a panoramic view of the river, but he rarely ventured outside, and kept the blinds down. There were three bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. One was kept for his teenage son, Henrik, complete with an Xbox and flat-screen television. The boy rarely visited and had never stayed over. The flat had a fully fitted American-style kitchen diner, most of whose equipment was unused. Ungar scrabbled around among the beer cans and empty pizza boxes on the coffee table until he found his phone. The ring tone, the Hungarian national anthem, meant one particular caller. One who definitely needed to be answered.

  ‘Did the journalist get the message?’ asked Pal Palkovics.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How long did you hold her?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Then why is she ordering gin and tonics with Reka Bar-dossy in the bar of the Four Seasons?’

  Ungar shook his head, exhaled hard, put his can of beer down and glanced at the screen, a wave of nostalgia for simpler times washing through him. He had come a long way from his childhood in a cramped tenement flat on the outskirts of the city, with a cowed mother and an alcoholic father who regularly beat him half-senseless. He had learned to fight on the Ujpest terraces, had been a founder member of the Ultras squad. By the time he was fourteen he had learned enough to hit back against his father, who had not beaten his son again. Some of Ungar’s former brawling partners had been recruited to the Gendarmes. Others were dead or in prison. A few were still there on the terraces. He looked harder at the screen, thought he could even make out their faces. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Deal with her.’

  ‘A few hours ago, you told me no violence.’

  ‘Just shut this down, Ungar. You have a station almost next door. How many people are on duty?’

  ‘Around a dozen.’

  ‘Is that enough, or shall I send reinforcements?’ His voice turned sarcastic. ‘There are two of them. They might be wearing high heels.’

  Ungar grimaced. ‘I got it. And Reka?’

  ‘Leave her. Once the journalist is out of the way, she’ll get the message.’

  ‘OK, boss. I’ll deal with it myself.’

  SIXTEEN

  Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.25 p.m.

  Hunor the waiter reappeared and placed Reka and Eniko’s drinks on their table. The drinks were served in tall, frosted balloon glasses with large, transparent ice cubes and a semicircle of lime. The two women clinked their glasses. Neither noticed Hunor walk out of the main area and into a small service annex.

  Eniko took a small sip of her drink and put the glass back down. It was delicious, ice cold with a bracing taste of lime and juniper. But she was very definitely still at work, so a sip was enough. An American couple in their sixties walked by. Eniko waited until they had gone before she answered. ‘There are rumours at Keleti, some of the migrants say that it’s possible to buy a Hungarian government passport.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Eniko braced herself. She was probably about to ruin what was turning into quite an enjoyable evening, and burn a potentially excellent contact. But she had no choice. ‘Do the passports come from your ministry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eniko
thought for a moment. ‘But you are the minister of justice. If you know this, then why don’t you do something about it?’

  Reka picked up her cocktail and took a longish drink. She closed her eyes for a second. ‘The cocktails here really are unbeatable.’ She put the glass down. ‘I am doing something about it. I am telling you.’

  ‘It took you a while.’

  Reka smiled brightly. ‘Better late than never. Do you want this information, Eniko, or not?’ she asked, a hint of steel in her voice.

  Eniko scribbled in her notebook, her heart thumping as she held her pen in her hand. ‘Yes, of course. Can you say that on the record?’

  Now it was Reka’s turn to hesitate. She had thought about this all day. The words she was about to say could not be unsaid. Even if Eniko did not write the story – which she thought highly unlikely – the information, or a version of it, would soon be flying around the city’s bars and cafés and up and down the corridors of power. No journalist could keep something like this to themselves. Budapest, or at least the insiders’ part of it, was a very small place. Pal Palkovics would come for her, again. But he was going to anyway. The choice had been made for her. ‘I can say that on the record and more. Much more, but not all of it tonight. Let’s spend some time together, get to know each other a bit. See how we can help each other.’

  Eniko nodded warily. ‘Sure. That makes sense.’