Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  Tibor quietly set about copying the tactics of the secret police and established a network of informers within his own organisation. He set his spies to catch their spies, and more spies to watch his spies. One by one he weeded out the suspect and disloyal from his organisation but could never be sure he’d got every one. The bottom line remained the same. He could trust nobody and he couldn’t delegate control.

  Back in Sarospatak, Tibor had always had a safe haven from his activities. He could always go home to their little cottage after his nocturnal forays. But in Budapest there was no such cottage and nowhere Tibor could call safe for more than a day or two. Gradually he’d established a more enduring coexistence with his more powerful opposition by taking care not to intrude into their activities. Now it was the AVO setting traps for him, and it was only his network of informers and his survival instincts that kept him safe.

  Tibor often thought about Sarospatak and Gabriella and wished he could visit. But the inescapable fact was, the instant he stepped out of Budapest he lost the protection of his network. Once his absence was noted, his opposition would move quickly against Pal Szarbo. Once he’d decided to run, he knew he would have to take everything with him. There’d be no coming back.

  As Christmas 1947 approached, Tibor made the biggest and most far-reaching decision of his life up to that moment: he decided it was time to leave Hungary. The Russians had gained control of the government and the crackdown on crime had begun. With his high profile, he realised his would be one of the first organisations targeted. He was not just a criminal but a trophy to be held up and made an example of. It would only be a matter of time before he was betrayed and caught. He’d managed to convert some of the new forints into Western currency and secreted it in a bank account in Switzerland, but nowhere near enough to justify the risks he’d taken over the previous years, or to give him the head start he needed in a new life. Yet he also realised there was a limit to the amount of assets he could convert without attracting attention. If his rivals even got a sniff of his intentions he would become a target. There was only one way out, but it was a way fraught with risk. Tibor set up the meeting that would either help him escape Budapest and Hungary or get him killed.

  The man Tibor approached was the only competitor he would consider dealing with. His name was Endre Benke and his organisation was more than twice the size of Tibor’s. In the limited dealings Tibor had had with his rivals, Benke was the only one he trusted to honour an agreement. As a sign of good faith, Tibor allowed his rival to nominate a meeting place. For security, they followed the convention of exchanging their trusted deputies as hostages to fair play.

  They met early one morning in a private bath house in Gellert Hill near the western bank of the Danube. It was a legacy of Turkish occupation and was fed by thermal spring waters. It was one of many bath houses in the area but few were as ornate. The pool was circular and ringed by elegant stone archways which supported the high domed ceiling. The walkway around the pool was also circular, like a dimly-lit saucer around a cup. The effect was to focus attention onto the pool, which was illuminated by lights set into the domed ceiling that caused the water to glow an almost iridescent green.

  When Tibor arrived, Endre Benke was already in the bath, floating on his back with his eyes closed. Tibor smiled as he eased himself into the soothing warm water. The meeting place was perfect. There were no windows and only one way in or out, a narrow stone corridor with a single solid timber door. Behind the door, at the furthest end of the corridor, his bodyguard would now be sharing American cigarettes with Benke’s bodyguard. They could not be overheard or surprised. Tibor lifted his feet from the bottom of the pool and lay with his head resting on the stone edge of the bath. Both men were clad only in their swimming costumes so there was no possibility of concealed weapons. Tibor relaxed but didn’t close his eyes. Instead he seized the rare opportunity to look at his rival at close quarters.

  Benke was at least twice his age, stocky and heavily muscled. Old scars criss-crossed his stomach, chest and shoulder, white ridges and lines amid a profusion of black hairs. At some stage Benke had taken a bullet through his shoulder and at another time suffered a jagged wound diagonally across his lower chest and abdomen. The wound had been stitched up by someone who had clearly never held a needle before in his life. It suddenly occurred to Tibor that Benke had probably done the stitching himself. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

  ‘I would come here every morning,’ said Benke, finally breaking the silence. He still floated on his back, eyes closed. ‘If only people like us were allowed the luxury of routine.’

  ‘I would join you,’ said Tibor. ‘If only people like us were allowed the luxury of trust.’

  A slight smile played across Benke’s face.

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘No. But I trust you more than most.’

  Benke’s smile grew.

  ‘Then we have common ground,’ he said. He opened his eyes, rolled onto his stomach and swam leisurely over to Tibor. The two men shook hands.

  ‘Is it coal?’ said Benke.

  Tibor nodded.

  ‘Then why this meeting? Our arrangements are in place.’

  ‘New arrangements,’ said Tibor.

  Tibor and his rivals all dealt in food and most commodities, although each had an area in which they were stronger than the others. For some it was pharmaceuticals, others cigarettes and whisky, nylon stockings and clothing or weapons. Tibor’s strong point was coal.

  ‘What new arrangements?’

  ‘The Soviets have stockpiled more black coal for shipment back to Russia. Fuel for heating is already at a premium in Budapest, Debrecen, Pecs, you name it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Think what you got last winter for every bucket of coal you sold and double it.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  Tibor sighed, as though unwilling to be rushed.

  ‘It is possible to steal one of the trains. I want you to buy it, every wagonload, every single lump of coal.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Along with the train comes something much more valuable. My contacts in the railway.’

  Benke pushed himself away from the wall and once again floated on his back. The man gave the impression of being totally relaxed and untroubled but Tibor could imagine the thoughts taking shape inside his head. The only question was, would Benke exploit his weakness or allow him to go graciously and with a fair portion of his wealth? Benke’s eyes were closed but that was an indulgence beyond Tibor. Even relaxed, the older man was intimidating. He was a criminal and a killer by choice, not necessity. Tibor couldn’t take his eyes off him.

  ‘You defied my predictions,’ said Benke eventually. He rolled over and stood staring hard at Tibor. ‘I didn’t think you’d last twelve months. I knew you didn’t have the stomach for this work. You’re nothing! Just an arrogant upstart, a piece of crap best flushed down the sewer. Did you really think that you, a boy, could walk into town and steal our business? I have children older than you. Do you have any idea how insulting it is to have you call meetings? To have you, a worthless piece of dog shit, deal us into your little schemes? You have no respect! I would have killed you if Vilagosi hadn’t intervened.’

  Tibor said nothing, just met Benke’s eyes. Earlier he’d drawn comfort from the fact that neither of them carried a concealed weapon, but now he realised Benke didn’t need one. The choice of location suddenly seemed deliberate and chilling. Benke could drown him without raising a sweat. It took all of his willpower to meet Benke’s eyes and not react.

  ‘Three things saved you,’ snarled the older man. ‘First, Vilagosi and, second, the fact that you were largely irrelevant. They were busy times and threw up more opportunities than we could handle. Three, you had coal. We should have killed you but what does it matter? I knew you wouldn’t last.’ His lip curled contemptuously.

  ‘Lasting was never my intention.’

  ‘Nor opt
ion.’

  ‘The opportunity was there so I took it. But Hungary is not the only country which offers opportunity. There is all of Western Europe and America.’

  ‘You come to Budapest, steal from me, shoot my men and now you ask me to finance your exit?’

  ‘I never stole from you and I never shot at your men, except when Vilagosi was killed. My understanding is that neither were wounded fatally. And, yes, the deal is good so I’m asking you to finance my exit.’

  ‘What’s to stop me killing you now and taking over your operations?’

  ‘You want the railways.’

  Benke swam back towards Tibor, who braced himself for some kind of assault. He only hoped it wouldn’t be fatal. Instead Benke folded his massive arms and rested them on the edge of the bath. He ignored Tibor and stared at the closed doorway.

  ‘Tell me the deal.’

  ‘Between twenty-four and twenty-eight wagons of black coal delivered to an abandoned railway warehouse on the outskirts of Budapest. From that point on you own the coal. You pay me for twelve wagons in hard currency at the same rate I normally charge.’

  Tibor paused to let the first part of the deal sink in. He waited for a nod from Benke to continue before realising that there wouldn’t be one.

  ‘I need new identity papers. And help to cross the border into Austria. Once I reach the West I will contact Pal Szarbo with instructions to locate a package and deliver it to you. Inside the package you will find a complete breakdown of my railway network and letters of introduction.’

  ‘What if you don’t reach the West?’

  ‘It’s your job to make sure I do.’

  ‘Supposing you make it to the West, what guarantees do I have that you will contact Szarbo? Or that he will send me the package?’

  ‘Once I leave Hungary I leave for good. I have no need for the contacts. However …’ Tibor paused to make sure Benke understood what he had to say next. They were considerations which would never enter Benke’s ruthless head. ‘However, my contacts have need of me or at least a successor. My contacts in the railway are the only people in the world who trust me completely. They trust me with their lives. In return, I trust them completely and look after them. Life is not easy under this regime and barely sustainable on their pay. They need things to continue the way they are. I undertake to look after them as a debt of honour.’

  ‘Touching.’

  ‘Pal Szarbo was once a railwayman. I trust him not to betray me to the AVO or anyone else but I don’t trust him not to make mistakes. He is very ambitious but, alas, not yet ready. If I just leave, he will try to take over and get himself killed. However, he is known to my contacts in the railway. Take him into your organisation. Look after him, supervise him, make his cooperation worthwhile, and he will be an excellent go-between with the railwaymen.’

  ‘Again, touching.’

  ‘My men are loyal because they are paid to be loyal and my spies make sure they are loyal. If I abandon them it will only be a matter of time before they are sold out to the AVO or shot as you and your competitors fight over the spoils. Look after Pal Szarbo, reassure my men, and there will be no vacuum, just a straightforward takeover.’

  ‘I envy you your simple view of life.’

  ‘What’s complicated? You get a trainload of coal for less than half price. You get my railway network. You get my number two and you get my organisation. There will be issues, but none you haven’t faced before and overcome.’

  ‘How do I know the AVO haven’t penetrated your organisation? How do I know I won’t be infecting my own?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ said Tibor. He smiled inwardly. Benke was in the bag. He was discussing the detail. He couldn’t resist the deal.

  ‘What if I refuse?’

  ‘I’ll offer the deal to someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone else I can’t trust.’

  Benke smiled despite himself and slowly dragged his eyes away from the closed door. He used the wall to push off into the centre of the bath.

  ‘Hard currency.’

  ‘Or in combination with gold. In small ingots, not jewellery.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At the warehouse. Once you’ve counted the wagons and verified the contents.’

  ‘Now we negotiate.’

  ‘The deal is already weighted in your favour. My risk is unchanged but my return is halved.’

  ‘You came to me, boy. I didn’t come to you. You are in no position to make demands.’ Benke’s eyes narrowed, the pupils as cold and hard as the coal they were discussing. ‘Eight wagons. I will pay for eight wagons.’

  ‘Ten,’ said Tribor. ‘I can’t take less. There are too many palms to grease.’

  ‘Eight,’ said Benke. ‘That is my final offer.’

  ‘Ten,’ said Tribor. ‘And I’ll throw in the pigs.’

  ‘Pigs?’ Benke’s head rose sharply.

  ‘A legitimate business,’ said Tibor. ‘I have been bringing sows into Budapest. They are distributed among peasants in nearby villages. I have more than two hundred and enough boars to make sure they are always breeding.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have no need to tell you how valuable they are. They fetch astonishing prices at the market.’

  ‘You sell at the market?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The bidding is fierce but I always win.’

  Benke stopped floating and stood in the centre of the bath. Tibor could see that he was intrigued.

  ‘You buy your own pigs?’

  ‘Of course. What does it matter how much I pay? I get my money back, less a small percentage to the peasants, and I’m free to on-sell to butchers. Like I said, it is a legitimate business. Profitable, legal, safe.’

  Benke nodded and for once his poker face betrayed him. He was impressed. More than that, he was weighing up possibilities.

  ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘Ten wagons.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Tibor. This time he swam over to Benke and shook hands.

  ‘I underestimated you, boy. I should have had you killed years ago,’ said Benke matter-of-factly.

  ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t,’ said Tibor.

  ‘Comrade Kiraly?’

  Istvan looked up from the pile of dossiers on his desk. He was so deep in concentration that it took a moment for his focus to adjust and his mind to re-engage the present. He was aware of other officers looking up from their desks, clearly curious.

  ‘Yes?’ said Istvan. An officer roughly the same age and rank as him stood respectfully in the doorway.

  ‘Major Bogati sends his compliments and requires your attendance. He asks that you bring your dossier on Tibor Heyman.’

  Istvan shuffled through his files until he found Tibor’s. He flicked the file open and checked to see that it was both intact and up to date. He worked on it daily, either adding to it or simply digesting the information it contained. There was no reason to suspect that the dossier would be other than the way he had left it, but Istvan was nothing if not thorough, and thoroughness demanded certainty. He rose, aware that the looks on his fellow officers’ faces had changed from curiosity to envy, and accompanied the young officer down the stairs and out onto the street. There was a car parked there, a black AVO Poboda. The young officer held the rear door open for Istvan.

  Istvan suppressed a smile and climbed into the car. He hoped at least one of his fellow officers was observing from the window. None of them liked him and he was aware that behind his back they ridiculed him both for his size and his obsession with his dossiers. It didn’t matter. It was enough for Istvan to know that they envied him, and one day soon he would be promoted far beyond their wildest ambitions. The young officer, who Istvan now realised was one of Major Bogati’s drivers, started the car and pulled away from the kerb. Istvan had ridden in a car only three times. The first time in the Russian Zis which had taken him from Major Bogati’s office in Sarospatak to his home so he co
uld pack his bags. The second ride had taken him to the station with Major Bogati and the third, also in a Zis, had taken him from the station in Budapest to the police academy. The Poboda was nowhere near as imposing as the Zis but nevertheless Istvan settled back into the leather seat and did his best to make out that riding in the back of automobiles was a common occurrence.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked.

  ‘Sixty Andrassy Street,’ replied the driver.

  Istvan tried to contain his excitement. He’d never been to the AVO headquarters before and envied those who had. The major had his main office at Sixty Andrassy Street and Istvan hoped that one day he would be invited to join him there. Istvan opened Tibor’s dossier and began speculating on the reason for the summons. What did the major want? What did he need to know? Istvan was certain a desk in Andrassy Street depended upon his answers.

  When the car pulled up in front of the AVO headquarters, Istvan waited for the driver to open his door for him, as he’d seen Major Bogati do. He realised the guards would be observing him and wanted to create a first impression that commanded respect. He strode from the car without casting so much as a glance at the sombre façade, as though it was as familiar to him as his own home.

  ‘Officer Kiraly for Major Bogati. The major is expecting me.’ Istvan presented his identity card. He was led up two flights of stairs before being shown into the ante room of the major’s office. A middle-aged, grey-suited woman sat behind a drab green desk typing noisily. She looked up briefly to give Istvan a thin smile and pointed to a solitary wooden chair. Istvan sat and waited, continuing to review everything he knew about Tibor Heyman.

  Twenty minutes later the door to the adjoining office burst open and Major Bogati swept through.

  ‘Come,’ he commanded.

  Istvan rose from the seat as though a powerful spring had been released. He followed the major back out into the corridor and down a different stairwell to the one he’d ascended. These stairs were bare concrete and caged in by bars which reached up to the underneath of the stairs above. Istvan counted the flights as they descended and took note when they passed ground level. The change in the atmosphere the lower they went was immediately noticeable: the temperature plummeted and the air became both rank and damp. He shivered as his body adjusted to the chill. But there was something else which caused the small hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. This was a place to be feared and the sense of fear was so powerful Istvan could taste it. At the bottom level they entered a long corridor with what appeared to be cell doors at regular intervals. As the major led him along the corridor he motioned to a couple of guards to join them.