by Adam LeBor
NINETEEN
Balthazar’s flat, Dob Street, Sunday, 6 September, 9.30 a.m.
The knocking on the front door was light but persistent, waking Balthazar from a deep sleep. He scrabbled for his watch on his bedside table, checked the time and sat up slowly, gingerly waiting for the assault on his muscles to begin. Today there were no sharp pains, just a general ache and an all-encompassing stiffness, from his shoulders down to his calves, as though he had been strapped to an ironing board. He winced as he reached for his drawstring trousers, slipped them over his boxer shorts, and walked to the bathroom. He had slept decently, certainly better than on Friday night, although he remembered being woken around dawn by some light noise in the lounge. He had called out to Eniko, asked if she was OK, and she had replied that she was just coming back from the bathroom. He had immediately gone back to sleep. The knocking started up again. He shouted that he was on his way, splashed his face with cold water, quickly brushed his teeth, and walked to the front door. The door to Alex’s room was half-open and he could hear Eniko gently snoring.
He looked through the peephole. Two women stood waiting expectantly. One, with a tray of pancakes in her hand, was short and elderly. The other was neither. Balthazar opened the door. Eva neni marched in, Anastasia Ferenczy behind her. Eva looked around at the mess in the lounge and shook her head, tutting then gathering up the pizza box and polystyrene burger containers. She pointed at several cold chips and a single slice of pizza on a greasy plate. ‘It’s a shame to waste food, Tazi. I should make you finish them before you get these,’ she said, making space for the tray of pancakes.
‘I’m sorry, Eva neni,’ said Balthazar. ‘We did the best we could.’ The door to Alex’s room opened. Eniko poked her head around, her eyes widening as she saw how many people were in the room, then quickly retreated, closing the door firmly behind her.
Eva neni put down the pancakes, gathered up the mess, and left. Anastasia stood in the middle of the room, a halfsmile playing on her face. She wore a close-fitting green scoop top that matched her eyes, and pale-blue skinny jeans. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping in.’
Balthazar shrugged. She was really quite attractive. ‘Why not? Everyone else is. Are they still outside?’ he asked.
Anastasia’s smile widened. ‘They are all there, Balthazar. The cops. The Gendarmes. Our British and American friends. God knows who else.’
‘And your people?’
‘Oh, definitely us as well. We do like to keep an eye on things.’ She looked at the sofa. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down?’
Balthazar opened his hand towards the sofa. ‘Please do.’
Anastasia picked up Eniko’s T-shirt, still stained brown from the Betadine, looked at it quizzically, put it aside, and made a place for herself. ‘How was the fight?’
There was no point asking how she knew about it. ‘Horrible. Desperate men pummelling each other to stay in Europe. I knew the winner, Samuel. He helped me out at Keleti.’
‘Who’s Samuel?’ asked Eniko as the door to Alex’s room swung open. She stepped out. Anastasia stood up. Balthazar watched the two women introduce themselves. Eniko warily assessed the new arrival, taking in her clothes, her figure, and her confident body language. ‘Sorry,’ said Eniko, not sounding very sorry at all. ‘The door was open. I couldn’t help overhearing.’
Balthazar said, ‘Anastasia works for the ASB.’ He turned to Eniko, ‘And Eniko, as you know, is a journalist.’
‘Of course,’ said Anastasia. ‘I know your work. I am a fan.’
‘Thanks,’ said Eniko warily. Beyond the spark of jealousy, something else about Anastasia nagged Eniko. Her face, her upright posture, was familiar. ‘Have we met? I’m sure I’ve seen you before.’
Anastasia gave her a bland smile. ‘Possibly.’
‘Retro-kert,’ said Eniko, her voice confident now. ‘Friday at around 9.00 p.m. You were downstairs. While I was upstairs with my editor. He was nervous. He kept looking down and I couldn’t figure out why. It was because of you, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. People get nervous for all sorts of reasons.’ ‘Were you meeting him?’
Anastasia did not answer, her smile still fixed.
Eniko continued talking. ‘And before that, I saw you at Keleti, several times, at the taxi drivers’ stand.’ Eniko leaned her head to one side, shot Anastasia an assessing look. ‘Is that part of your cover?’
Anastasia nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Eniko, it is. Was. But I would be grateful if you didn’t write that.’
Balthazar looked down at the tray of pancakes. There were at least a dozen, piled one on top of another, dusted with lemon zest, oozing turos, and four lemon quarters. ‘Why don’t we eat first, then we can get to know each other. It’s going to be another long day.’
‘OK. I’ll make some coffee and get some more plates,’ Eniko said and walked into the kitchen.
Anastasia waited until Eniko had left the room. ‘I didn’t know that you had a guest. A reporter.’
‘I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you.’
‘You weren’t.’ Anastasia added, sotto voce, ‘Black George?’
Balthazar shook his head, made sure to hold her gaze. ‘He won’t help.’
‘You passed on my offer?’
‘I did. He said he was not interested.’
‘You explained the consequences to him? That this goes far beyond criminal business as usual?’
‘He doesn’t care. He won’t help. He thinks he is invulnerable.’
‘Then we’ll have to show him that he’s not,’ said Anastasia.
Balthazar was surprised at how easily the lies came. Easily and guilt-free. Anastasia was easier to deceive than Dorentina. ‘Let’s do that. Once we have Hejazi.’ The ASB could save Gaspar’s business, if all went well, and never even realise.
Eniko walked back in with three plates, sat down and placed two pancakes on each. ‘Coffee on the way.’ She looked at Anastasia, then at Balthazar, trying to work out what was happening.
Balthazar sat in an armchair and the two women perched on the sofa, their plates on their knees as they ate Eva’s turos palacsintas. He squeezed his quarter lemon over the pancakes. The atmosphere was uncomfortable. The two women neither liked nor trusted each other, that was clear, but he was beginning to enjoy himself. For once, he was on home territory and in control. Anastasia wanted something, but she was here in his flat, had come to him. He knew Eniko well enough to recognise her initial flash of jealousy.
Balthazar turned to Anastasia. ‘So how can I help?’
Anastasia put her plate down. ‘The SIM card. You have it?’
‘Yes. I have that. And a proposal.’
Anastasia leaned forward, her voice brisk. ‘This isn’t Lehel Square market, Balthazar. This is a matter of national security. International security.’
‘So you say. But if this is so important, then why doesn’t my boss know about your visit? Where is the inter-agency liaison request? There is a protocol for this. Impromptu meetings in my flat on a Sunday morning are not part of it.’
‘Neither is keeping vital evidence in your personal possession. This is an emergency, Balthazar. We are sidestepping protocols.’ Anastasia glanced at Eniko, clearly uncomfortable about speaking in front of a reporter, then looked back at Balthazar. ‘What do you want?’
‘Two things. One, the file on Hejazi.’
Anastasia reached into her shoulder bag and handed a plastic folder to Balthazar. He opened the file. There were several sheets of typewritten paper inside and a photograph of him clipped to the front. ‘OK.’
Balthazar glanced through the contents. ‘Thanks.’ Eniko, he saw, was staring hungrily at the papers. He gathered them together, closed the file and placed it on the coffee table.
Anastasia asked, ‘And two?’
‘Samuel. The South Sudanese refugee who won the cage fight last night. He was promised Hungarian passports for himself and his family, his wife and two childr
en. Make sure he gets them.’
‘OK. Four passports.’
‘Proper passports. Genuine passports. And IDs, tax numbers, healthcare numbers, everything. Citizenship.’
‘We can do that.’
‘If I give you the SIM card—’
‘When you do.’
‘If I do, you will immediately strip it, source and analyse the numbers, and make a network of the connections.’
‘Yes. It will go straight to our analysis department.’
‘I’d like you to share that information with Eniko.’
Anastasia looked aghast. ‘With a reporter?’
‘Not a reporter. This reporter,’ said Balthazar, nodding at Eniko. She looked oddly embarrassed, he thought, but guessed it was just the general tension in the air.
He stood up, walked across the room, lifted up the rug and used a twenty-forint coin to lever up the parquet slat where he had hidden the SIM card and the call list. The floorboard was much looser than when he had left it and it moved easily. Too easily. The space underneath was empty.
Shamsi family home, Rakoczi Way, 9.40 a.m.
Maryam sat on the brown fake-leather sofa in the moneychangers’ office on Rakoczi Way, staring at the tattered poster of Damascus, wondering what to do with the rest of her life. She had been here for two days now. The Shamsi family had been very kind, checking on her every hour or so, inviting her to join them for meals, treating her like a welcome guest. She sat at the table, grateful for the company, and glad not to be sitting in the dust and dirt of the forecourt of Keleti Station. The food they served was delicious: tender kebabs, crisp salads, spiced rice, a taste of home. She pushed it around her plate, without a trace of appetite. The hours passed like sand through a sieve, one grain at a time.
The shock of Simon’s death had worn off, but the pain only seemed to intensify. She had not slept, had spent the nights staring at the ceiling. The worst was that she did not know what had happened to Simon, how he had died or where his body was. The reporter had been kind, in her way, but Maryam, in her grief and shock, had forgotten to ask her to send a copy of the photograph. Sometimes she thought this was all a bad dream, some kind of hideous nightmare, that Simon would walk through the door, take her in his arms. Then she glanced at their two rucksacks, and the list of unanswered calls on her phone.
This horror, a life bereft and empty, a sick weight in her stomach every waking moment, was her new reality. She had two options, she supposed. She could go back to Keleti, somehow find the strength to continue their journey westwards, and try and ensure that Simon had not died for nothing. Or she could go back to Syria. Her parents, and many of her friends and relatives, were still in Aleppo. Refugees, yes, driven from their homes by the bombing, but at least there she would be among people who knew her and some who loved her. She glanced at the piece of paper on the table, the last word she had from Simon: bustani, the Gardener. The man who had tortured her husband, and who, if he had not personally killed him, had caused his death.
And then she realised. She had a third option. She walked over to Simon’s rucksack, reached inside and pulled out a large Swiss army knife. She opened the biggest blade, ran her finger carefully along the edge. It was extremely sharp. For a moment, she imagined the knife in Hejazi’s throat, the expression of surprise as the blood sprayed, the fear and the realisation that he was dying.
At that moment Amal, the Shamsis’ youngest daughter, who had first served her coffee when Maryam had arrived, knocked on the door. Maryam put the knife into her rucksack and told Amal to come in. Her smooth-skinned face was alight with excitement. ‘Come quickly,’ she said. ‘Something is happening at Keleti.’
They walked into the lounge, where the family was gathered watching the BBC international channel. The local correspondent was explaining how rumours had been swirling around Keleti Station for more than a day that the refugees and migrants had decided to walk to Austria. ‘We have had enough, we are not animals to be caged here,’ said a tall man in his twenties, clearly agitated. ‘We have no proper food, not enough toilets or water. We will leave. And nobody can stop us.’ The reporter nodded, turned to the camera. ‘Hungarian authorities have refused to comment on these latest rumours, but it seems unlikely that they will seal off the station. For many Hungarians, the sooner the refugees and migrants leave, the better.’
Maryam watched the report until the end. The camera showed small groups already packing up, poring over maps. She walked back to the office and sat on the brown sofa, deciding what to do. After a couple of minutes she got up, found Simon’s passport in his rucksack, placed it in hers together with the roll of banknotes, and went to explain to the Shamsis that she would be leaving later that afternoon.
Balthazar’s flat, Dob Street, 9.45 a.m.
Balthazar leaned forward and stared down at the space. There was nothing there. He ran his hand around the inside, just to make sure. An indentation in the packed dirt, the edge of the supporting wooden floorboard underneath, but that was all.
He frowned. The SIM card and the printout were definitely there yesterday afternoon. Had he been burgled? The Gendarmes were outside, lurking in the square, driving their vehicles around, but it was almost impossible for someone to break into the flat, especially after Sandor Takacs had deployed three police cars nearby. But the flat had been empty for several hours the night before while he’d been out at the fight. There was the security system linked to the Budapest police headquarters, but nothing was completely secure. There was one agency that specialised in domestic break-ins. It had a team of experts that was renowned for getting into the most difficult places. He turned to Anastasia. ‘They’re not there.’
She looked alarmed. ‘Then where are they?’
‘I have no idea. Your colleagues?’
‘No. Of course not. Why would I be here now if we already had it?’
This was a fair point, Balthazar had to concede. So where was it? He suddenly remembered the noise that had woken him soon after dawn, a scrabbling sound, asking Eniko if she was OK. He looked at her. She was staring down at her coffee cup and had turned pink.
‘Eni?’ he asked.
She looked away, flushed and embarrassed. ‘I meant to put it back. I just wanted to check if there was anything else, if you had something new. Then I panicked when you called out to me. I thought you were going to get up and see what was happening. Then I overslept and it was too late because you were up.’
Balthazar stood up, walked back to the armchair, feeling a familiar mix of disappointment and vindication that he had not let events take another course last night. ‘Why didn’t you just ask me?’
‘I don’t know. I should have. I should have trusted you. I’m sorry, Tazi.’
Anastasia leaned forward. ‘I hate to interrupt this therapy session,’ she said, her voice lightly ironic, ‘but the SIM card?’
Eniko reached inside her shoulder bag, took out the evidence bag and the printout of the numbers. Balthazar reached for them, took them from her hand. Eniko looked hopefully at him, waiting for him to remind Anastasia of his request to share the information with her.
‘You’re on your own now, Eni,’ he said, as he turned to Anastasia.
Balthazar kept hold of the SIM card and printout. ‘There is one more thing.’
Anastasia sighed. ‘What?’
‘You found Jozsi. The gypsy kid at Republic Square.’
‘I did. Are you going to arrest him?’
‘No. Of course not. Just send me his full name and address.’
Anastasia held her hand out. ‘Sure. As soon as I can get back to my office with the SIM card. Is that it?’
Balthazar nodded, gave her the SIM card and papers.
Eniko said, ‘You’ll share the network analysis with me?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘We have a lot of interests in common, Eniko. You have spent a lot of time at Keleti and other places. You know all sorts of interesting peo
ple. And we are both in the information business. Kez kezet mos.’
Eniko looked down at her hand. Some things could never be washed off. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Balthazar’s phone rang and he glanced at the screen. It was Sandor Takacs. He took the call and stepped away on the balcony.
Takacs said, ‘You’re very popular today.’
Balthazar laughed, looked out over Klauzal Square. The police cars were still parked nearby. The black Gendarmerie vehicle was slowly turning onto the square. A stocky man in his forties was sitting on a park bench near the Bubi bikes, reading Magyar Vilag. Another, younger man, was inside the park, watching the playground. ASB or Gendarmes?
‘Not with everyone. How am I going to get out?’ asked Balthazar.
‘I’ll take care of that. Get ready, you need to come in for a briefing. The rumours are already flying around Keleti.’
Balthazar said goodbye and walked back into the lounge. The two women looked at him expectantly. ‘Finish your breakfast. I need to go to work. And so do both of you.’
Keleti Station concourse, 3.05 p.m.
Maryam stood in front of Keleti Station, her rucksack on her back. She had left some of her clothes behind, together with most of Simon’s, but the bag was still heavy on her slight frame, already sticking to her top. She wiped her brow for a moment, glanced at the station entrance. The line of riot police had vanished. A few officers stood here and there, wearing their summer uniforms of blue trousers and white polo shirts, chatting and smoking. An overweight man in blue shorts carrying a Hungarian newspaper walked through the gate, but none of the migrants or refugees were trying to get into the station.
The tension, the sense of desperation, had gone. Instead, the atmosphere was excited, almost festive. She watched a family of four – mother, father, two toddlers – pack up their meagre belongings in two canvas bags, pick up their children and walk out. Two teenage boys, bottles of water in their hands, were shouting, ‘Yalla, yalla, let’s go, let’s go,’ waking those still asleep. A CNN reporter, a blonde American woman in her forties, was interviewing a skinny young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, as his friends crowded around him, nodding and gesticulating. ‘We won’t stay here any more. We are going west to Germany, west to work,’ the boy declared, to cheers and whoops from those nearby.
