by Adam LeBor
‘Of course not. Gaspar should know about your offer.’
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘In my car.’
‘OK. But she goes with you.’ He nudged Dorentina, who stood up. ‘And come back quickly. They’ll let you in again.’
Balthazar stood up and stepped around the crowd, Dorentina following him. The second set of fighters were walking into the cage. One was African, tall and lean with the build of a Somali or Ethiopian. The other was shorter and heavier-set with olive skin and slicked-back hair. The African man looked vaguely familiar, then Balthazar realised where he had seen him before: it was Samuel, the South Sudanese man to whose family Balthazar had given the supplies at Keleti, and who had helped him when he had been beaten up. The cheering started again as the two men faced each other. This was one fight that he definitely had no desire to see. Balthazar quickened his pace, stepping out of the main warehouse into the front area. The security guards moved forward to block his path, receding when they saw Dorentina escorting him.
Balthazar stepped outside and stood for a moment, taking deep breaths of the cool night air. He looked up, watched an aeroplane climb slowly, red and green wing lights blinking as it banked westwards towards Vienna. He walked over to Goran’s car, a battered blue Lada Niva four-by-four, and leaned against the door, taking the keys from his trouser pocket. A light breeze washed over him, carrying the smell of green fields. Headlights swept back and forth on the road in and out of the city. The only sounds were the distant hum of the traffic and the wind blowing through the trees. The exhaustion was hitting him in waves now. He had not taken any painkillers since lunchtime. His back and shoulders were a mass of aches and the iron bar had reappeared in his head. He reached into his pocket, still leaning against the car door, found a packet of paracetamol and dry-swallowed two tablets, the bitter taste of the medicine flooding his mouth. He fought to stay awake but the tiredness briefly won and he dozed off for a few seconds, until he smelled a heavy perfume and felt a touch on his arm. Dorentina said, ‘Wake up, this is not a place to sleep.’ Her voice was soft, but laced with warning.
He thanked her and she watched him as he opened the car door and took his phone from the glove compartment. She stepped away, pretending at least to be out of earshot. Balthazar started to dial Alex’s number, pressed the first five digits, then stopped. Black George doubtless knew that he had a son, but there was no need to let his bodyguard listen in on the conversation. Even standing at a distance, she would be able to hear Balthazar speaking. But more than that, his son would ask him where he was. He could not tell him, that was obvious, and he did not want to lie to the boy. He was already manipulating Sarah to get access and an extra visit next week. He felt no guilt about that, none at all, but there were enough secrets and unsaid things in his family. His relationship with Alex was one that he intended to keep open and honest. He could at least text him. Balthazar tapped out a couple of lines, explaining that he was working and that he was really looking forward to seeing him tomorrow and that he loved him. All that was true. A few seconds later the telephone beeped that a message had arrived.
I love you too Daddy. We will have fun tomorrow.
Balthazar smiled, leaned back against the door and closed his eyes for a few moments. However chaotic his personal and professional life was, he had his son. And nobody would ever take that from him. He suddenly had a craving for a cigarette. He had smoked, only socially, for years. Gypsy family gatherings were usually accompanied by a fog of tobacco smoke. It seemed easier to smoke his own cigarettes than passively inhale his relatives’. After Eniko had left, he was soon up to half a packet a day. One morning, he had lit his first cigarette before he even got out of bed. He had met Alex later that day. After his son told him that he smelled of cigarettes, he had stopped completely. The craving was not overpowering, but he needed, he realised, a reason to stay outside while the desperate men inside pummelled each other senseless. He opened the car door again. There was a half-empty packet of Marlboro Lights in the side compartment of the driver’s door. He reached inside and took the crumpled box out, but realised he did not have a light.
He smelled perfume again, turned around to see Dorentina standing next to him, lighter in hand. She moved like a ghost. He offered the packet to her. She shook her head. He took out a cigarette from the box. It was bent and the paper was cracked, but it would do. Her thumb slid across the top of the lighter and a small flame caught. He leaned forward and inhaled. The tip of the cigarette glowed red in the darkness. He coughed. The tobacco was dry and stale and the acrid smoke caught in his throat. Now he remembered why he had given up.
Dorentina watched him for several seconds, then said, ‘Boy or girl?’
‘That was Gaspar. He texted me. We’ll talk later.’
Dorentina smiled. ‘I don’t think so. You aren’t going into business with Black George. And you can see Gaspar whenever you want. That was someone else. Someone who fills your soul, who softens your face.’
Balthazar laughed. Gypsy women. They knew everything. He could lie with a straight face to any gadje and be believed, but never to his own. ‘Maybe it’s my wife.’
Dorentina took the cigarette from his hand and dropped it on the ground. ‘You don’t want this. And you aren’t married.’ She picked up his left hand. ‘No ring.’
Balthazar felt a current pass through him as his fingers rested on hers. ‘Maybe it was my girlfriend.’
Dorentina shook her head. ‘No girlfriend either.’
‘How do you know?’
Her eyes glowed in the dark. ‘I just do. You are lonely. So, boy or girl?’
‘Boy. Almost thirteen. You?’
She looked away, let her fingers slide from his. ‘Son. He is five. We don’t live together.’
‘That’s hard. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Here, I think. I see him a few times a year. He is brought to me.’
‘By who?’
She turned around to Balthazar, pain written on her face. ‘Who do you think? I heard your conversation with Black George. How much do you want this Hejazi?’
‘He is a killer. I’m a cop. So, very much. Do you know where he is?’
‘No. But I know where he will be tomorrow evening.’
‘Where?’
‘Can you help me get my son?’
Balthazar thought before he answered. The likelihood of him being able to locate and rescue Dorentina’s little boy was remote. But not impossible. ‘I cannot guarantee anything. But we could try.’
Dorentina looked at him. ‘Good. Then I can tell you this.’ She stood very close to him, spoke for some time, then asked, ‘Is that enough?’
‘Yes. But how do you know all this?’
‘Black George speaks freely in front of us. He trusts us with his life. We know everything about him.’ She paused. ‘My son?’
Balthazar laid his hand on her arm, feeling the hard muscle underneath. A distant cheer sounded across the fields. ‘I will try. I give you my word.’
‘I believe you. Then let’s go back.’
Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.45 p.m.
The Four Seasons doorman tried to protest but was quickly pushed out of the way as the Gendarmes stormed into the hotel entrance; his hat flew from his head. For a second, Attila Ungar seemed lost in the enormous space, with its vaulted ceiling, tiled walls, stained glass windows and sleek wooden reception desk with vases full of orchids. He glanced back and forth then ordered his men towards the café, pushing their way through a crowd of startled tourists. A Japanese man held up a smartphone and started filming. Ungar grabbed the handset and hurled it against the wall. It smashed into pieces. ‘Would anyone else like to film us?’ he demanded. The Japanese man jumped back and quickly left.
A short, dark Spanish woman in her forties stepped out from behind the reception desk and stood in front of Ungar. ‘This is an outrage. You have no right to behave like this on private property.’
Ungar w
alked up to the reception desk and slowly pushed one of the vases with his forefinger until it reached the edge.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Carmen Esperanze. The manager. And I must ask you to leave.’
A Gendarme stepped back into the foyer. ‘She’s not there, boss,’ he said to Ungar.
Ungar pushed the glass vase an inch further. It fell off the reception desk and shattered on the floor, spilling water and flowers all around. Ungar looked at the manager and said, ‘Ooops.’ He gestured at another Gendarme, then at the staff behind the desk. The Gendarme grabbed one of the receptionists, a redheaded German in her twenties, and dragged her out from behind the desk, her face twisted in pain as he held her hair in his fist.
Ungar turned to the manager. ‘You can help us, or we can take her into one of the vans. Where are they?’
‘Where are who?’
The Gendarme yanked the redhead’s hair. She shrieked in pain. Ungar said, ‘Reka Bardossy. You know who she is. And you know where she is.’
‘I don’t,’ said Esperanze.
Ungar stepped forward, an inch from her face. ‘Don’t waste any more of my time.’
The manager glanced at her employee. She shook her head, her face set in determination. Esperanze thought quickly. ‘Tower Suite. Fifth floor.’
Ungar smiled. ‘OK. I’ll send up my men. If she’s not there, we’ll take you in and all your staff.’ The Gendarme yanked the receptionist’s hair again. This time she flinched but stayed silent.
There was movement on the other side of the foyer. ‘Behind you,’ said Esperanze, her face like thunder. ‘She’s behind you.’
At that moment Reka appeared, accompanied by Zsolt, Eniko and her two other bodyguards. Reka walked into the foyer, as poised and calm as though she was entering the gates of her ministry, all eyes on her, and knowing it. ‘Are you looking for me?’ she said to Ungar.
Ungar gestured at the Gendarmes. ‘Take her in.’ He glared at Eniko. ‘What are you doing here? Are you deaf or stupid?’
Eniko said, ‘Neither,’ as Zsolt stepped in front of Reka and drew his pistol.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Reka said. ‘Take a look outside, Attila. Because neither are you.’
Warehouse, District X, 7.50 p.m.
Balthazar walked back across the field with Dorentina into the warehouse and they took their seats. The atmosphere had changed, the bloodlust fading. Samuel was standing inside the cage, his tall body shining with sweat, blood seeping from a cut on his cheek. In front of him, semi-conscious, lay a dark-skinned man in his late twenties. The MC stepped forward, held Samuel’s arm in the air. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the winner, the Sudanese Strangler. Three knockouts in a row, all within one minute. Soon to be an honoured citizen of Hungary.’ The crowd cheered. The cry went up, ‘Fekete bajnok, black champion.’ Samuel gave a tight-lipped smile.
Balthazar watched, pleased for Samuel, but also ashamed. The sooner he could get out of here, the better. ‘You missed all the fun, Detective Kovacs,’ said Black George.
‘It’s over?’
‘Yes. That man is a machine. Perhaps I will give him a job. Did you speak to your brother? Are we going to be partners?’
Balthazar shook his head. He had not called Gaspar. There was no need. They both understood what a ‘partnership’ with Black George would mean. ‘No. That’s not going to happen.’
Black George said, ‘Then you may leave. I hope you enjoyed the evening. There is nothing more to talk about.’ He walked off into the audience, Dorentina and Bettina beside him, the crowd instantly making way for him.
Except there was something to talk about, although Black George did not know it. Balthazar still had not mentioned Islamic terrorism, the involvement of western intelligence services, or broached Anastasia Ferenczy’s offer. He looked around. The black-clad security guards had moved out of sight. The lighting was back on. Some of the spectators were preparing to leave. Others had formed small groups, discussing the fight and the further rounds planned later. Pretty hostesses were circulating with trays of finger food and drinks. The atmosphere was more relaxed but the blood-lust would soon be running high again, Balthazar knew. He was done for the evening and could not wait to get out. He could see Goran standing on the other side of the cage, now talking to a Hungarian businessman who he knew was trying to start up a budget airline. Balthazar stood up and walked over to the door, waiting for his friend.
Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.50 p.m.
It is usually an eight-minute drive from the District V police station on Szalay Street, four blocks behind Parliament, to the Four Seasons Hotel. The six cars that roared out of the station car park made it in under three minutes, although they did go the wrong way down several one-way streets. The two vehicles that flew out of the District VI police station, on Szinyei Mersze Street, were further away but had an easier route, straight down Andrassy Way, sirens blaring, then on to Jozsef Attila Street. The District V cars split into two groups of three. One squad blocked in the Gendarme vehicle on the Zrinyi Street side of the hotel – one police car in front, another behind and the third parallel-parked – and the second trio blocked in the Gendarme vehicle on the Merleg Street side. The District VI cars split into two groups. One drove onto the narrow road in front of the hotel and boxed in the Gendarme vehicle behind Reka’s Audi, while the second police car carried out the same manoeuvre in the front. The Gendarmerie vans were now trapped.
Four police officers spilled out of each car. Each group executed the same manoeuvre. Two carried sledgehammers, two utility knives. The officers with the sledgehammers swung them hard against the locks of the empty Gendarmerie vehicles. The locks shattered and the doors buckled inwards. The policemen with the sledgehammers gave the locks a couple more blows. There was no way to open the doors now. Then they smashed in the windscreens. At that moment, a Polish tour bus parked in the road in front of the hotel, its passengers staring in amazement at the scene unfolding in front of them. The policemen with the utility knives rapidly slashed each tyre of the Gendarmes’ vehicles, ran into the hotel and formed a ring around Reka and the others, protecting them from Attila Ungar and the gendarmes.
Reka greeted the policemen, then looked at Ungar. ‘Attila, you were saying?’
SEVENTEEN
Unmarked road, District X, 8.45 p.m.
Balthazar was dozing off in Goran’s car when it slowed suddenly, waking him. Goran had parked in a far corner of the parking field at the warehouse, then had got stuck behind a procession of SUVs leaving the fight. The spectators and their vehicles had been checked by Black George’s toughs at the exit as well. Balthazar and Goran were the last ones out. It had taken the two men more than forty minutes to leave. Balthazar stared through the windscreen, watched a car’s headlights flash on and off in the distance. They were driving down a narrow access road, little more than a muddy path, that led through the fields back from the warehouse and onto the road that would take them into downtown Budapest. The blackness was almost total, the only other lights the glow of houses a mile away and headlights on the distant highway. To the left stood a small copse of trees. The curl of tension in his guts started to tighten again. What was this?
A light rain had begun to fall and the windscreen wipers scraped back and forth leaving a greasy smear on the glass. Goran flicked his cigarette out of the window, then held the steering wheel with both hands, suddenly alert as the Lada carried on down the path. The lights came on again, brighter and more powerful now, full in their faces. Goran grimaced, flashed the Lada’s headlights back. The lights dropped down. Balthazar still peered ahead, his tension easing somewhat when he saw the two police cars pointing forward, parked in a V-shape across both lanes that blocked the road. They were brand-new Toyota SUVs, white and spotless, fancier and more powerful than the police’s usual Volkswagen Golfs or Opel saloons. A policeman stood by the side of each vehicle; one was tall and lanky, the other shorter and tubby.
Goran sl
owed down, pulled over to the left of the two police cars. The tall policeman walked up, wished Goran and Balthazar a good evening.
‘Good evening,’ said Goran. ‘What’s happening ahead?’
The policeman peered inside the vehicle, nodded at Balthazar and smiled, his manner easy and polite. He looked to be in his early thirties, pale, with dark-brown hair. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir. There’s been an accident. No through traffic until the road has been cleared. You might have to wait a little while. Probably best to turn your engine off. No need to waste petrol.’
‘How long?’ asked Goran, keeping the engine running.
‘As I said, sir,’ the policeman replied, his manner a degree less cordial, ‘as long as it takes. You can switch your engine off.’
Balthazar glanced at the short policeman. He was younger, in his late twenties, with small eyes and greasy black hair. He walked right up to the car, staring hard at Goran and Balthazar, then checking the number plates. His uniform was so new it was still stiff and shiny. Balthazar looked ahead, his unease growing. There was no sign of a roadblock, but the road began to curve leftwards about ten yards ahead and it was impossible to see further. He did not recognise either of these officers, but there were several thousand police officers in Budapest and he had not worked on many cases in District X. He checked the Velcro name pad that was attached to the tall policeman’s uniform: Janos Kovacs, John Smith, then looked over at the short policeman. Janos Kovacs, again. The name patch was crooked. Neither of the officers had asked for Goran’s driving licence or to see the car papers. That was automatic whenever a police officer engaged with a driver.
The short policeman pulled a handheld radio from his waistband. Standard police-issue radios were small and grey, clipped to the jacket uniform. This was green. The same model that the Gendarmes had, Balthazar knew, that used restricted military frequencies. Balthazar heard the radio crackle, but the short policeman turned away, speaking into a cupped hand. The two policemen, he saw, had black spe-cial-forces-issue knives in sheaths on the sides of their belts. Balthazar watched in the mirror, his back rigid, fully awake and alert now, the adrenalin starting to course through him. Four more headlights were heading towards them, two more police cars, he realised, one next to the other, blocking the road behind them. He glanced again at the knives. No policeman openly carried a bladed weapon.
