Kossuth Square Read online

  Balthazar said, ‘They leave from—’

  ‘We know where they leave from, Balthazar.’

  ‘Then why don’t you stop them?’

  ‘We aren’t in the immigration-control business. And we are not the police. We are not interested in crime unless it’s organised, international and affects or threatens national security.’

  ‘And Gaspar is doing that?’

  Anastasia leaned forward. ‘Yes. He has been. I keep telling you this. I do wish you would listen. And Pal had plans for you. Nothing good, I’m sorry to say. This is him talking to Attila Ungar, last week while he was still prime minister.’

  Anastasia picked up her telephone and played a sound file: Pal’s voice sounded. ‘What matters is that you get rid of him. Make it look like an accident. Use a knife. They like knives. Everyone will think it’s some kind of Gypsy feud.’

  NINE

  Headquarters of the Foundation for the Relief of Inequality, Szabadsag Square, 10.00 a.m.

  Marton Ronay looked down at the flyer he had just been handed. It was A5 in size, printed on heavy glossy paper in full colour. A racist cartoon version of a black man groping a young, frightened-looking blonde-haired white woman filled most of the page. The headline across the top declared ‘Defend our homeland’ in large letters, while written underneath in smaller type were the words Magyar Nemzeti Front, Hungarian National Front.

  Marton put the flyer down, trying to keep a straight face. ‘O-kaay,’ he replied, his Midwestern American accent stretching out the second letter. ‘Talk me through this,’ he said, making sure to keep his voice neutral.

  Pal Dezeffy nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure. It’s a leaflet. As it says, for the Hungarian National Front.’

  ‘And what, exactly, is the Hungarian National Front?’

  Pal smiled, pointed at the flyer. ‘That. More or less.’

  ‘So there is no actual, functioning organisation of that name?’

  Pal shook his head. ‘No. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No. Not all,’ said Marton, telling himself to be grateful for small mercies.

  Pal picked up another flyer from the small pile on the table in front of him and started reading the words on the bottom half. ‘“Stop the migrant flood – join the patriots’ revolution.” What about that? I wrote it,’ he said proudly.

  Marton replied, ‘The slogan is good. You define the problem and offer a solution.’

  ‘And the picture,’ said Pal. ‘It’s effective, no?’

  ‘It’s…’ perfect for Alabama in the 1930s, Marton almost said. Instead he paused for a moment while he searched for the right words, ‘… certainly very direct.’

  ‘But?’ asked Pal. ‘I hear a “but”.’

  The former prime minister, Marton could see, was starting to get irritated.

  ‘The picture is…’ he paused, looked for the right words, ‘a bit old-fashioned. Does the MNF have a website?’

  Pal shook his head.

  ‘Twitter? Instagram feed?’

  ‘No. Only an email address.’

  That was something, Marton thought. The less of the MNF there was, especially in cyberspace, the better. He asked, ‘Does the email address work? Is anyone monitoring it?’

  Pal replied, ‘Yes. We are building a database of contacts.’

  ‘That’s useful,’ said Marton.

  Pal tapped the pile of leaflets. ‘So will we use these? We still have thousands of them.’

  For kindling, maybe. Or confetti, Marton felt like saying. But he had to be careful how he answered. Firstly, because these guys were the client, paying him $1,500 a day plus accommodation, a generous per diem and other expenses. And secondly, he knew how proud and prickly a certain type of Magyar could be, especially when on the defensive. And this guy, who had been prime minister a week ago, who had been humiliated in the national and international media, portrayed as an aider and abetter of terrorists, and who faced an uncertain legal future, was very defensive. ‘Explain to me, please, Mr Dezeffy. What exactly is the purpose of the leaflet?’ Marton asked.

  ‘To make people nervous, scared. So they welcome the new Gendarmerie,’ said Pal. ‘To create fear, not just of the migrants, but the consequences for society as a whole if they come, a potential breakdown in law and order.’

  ‘Well,’ said Marton. ‘Instilling fear is an effective technique. The question is how you do that so that people want the solutions you are offering. They have to be scared, but not too scared. It’s a quite delicate balancing act.’

  Marton watched Pal as he considered his reply. Understanding, he saw, was slowly dawning. Pal said, ‘So you don’t like the leaflet.’ He looked down again at the flyer. ‘You think it’s crude.’

  Crude is one word, thought Marton, but did not say so. ‘It’s not about what I like. It’s about what works.’

  The picture, Marton knew, was a total disaster. The aim was to bring over the undecided, not pander to mouth-breathing Neanderthals and scare everyone else away. But he could not say that. He needed to get Pal to realise it himself. A bit of flattery always helped. Marton leaned forward. ‘Mr Pal, you are an experienced and very sophisticated politician. You have won two general elections for the Social Democratic Party. You have steered this country through difficult times, transitioning from one system to another. You know how to manage such dramatic transformations, how to guard the nation’s interests. You have always been a patriot, someone true to the interests of his homeland. What’s not being reported in all the distortion about the Gulf investors is what that money would mean for Hungary. How much good it could do.’

  Pal’s voice rose in excitement, ‘Exactly. We need to rescue that deal. So we can bring Hungary into the twenty-first century.’

  Marton watched Pal as he spoke, trying to take the measure of the man. The former prime minister had just turned forty. Trim, apart from an embryonic paunch, he wore a white open-necked shirt. He had regular, even features, brown eyes, and short black hair trimmed with grey. He was a handsome man, but the strain of the last few days was etched on his face, in the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, while his skin, under the remnants of a tan, had an unhealthy pallor, all too familiar to Marton, of someone who spent too much time indoors, mainlining coffee, if not other stimulants as well. There was a pale raised line of flesh on the right side of his neck, Marton noticed, some kind of scar, he guessed. Sitting next to him was a younger man who looked to be in his late twenties. Adorjan Molnar – call me Adi, he had said – had been introduced as an ‘adviser’. Adorjan was slimmer, and wore a tight black polo shirt that showcased a muscly build that must have cost many hours in the gym. He had wide-set blue eyes, spiky hair so blonde it was almost white, and sensual lips, and exuded an easy charisma.

  Marton continued, ‘So, Mr Dezeffy—’

  ‘Call me Pal, please.’

  ‘Pal, we – the world – are now in transition between two systems, two ages. This is the dawn of the digital age. It is reshaping politics and the world in ways that we could not imagine a few years ago.’

  ‘We are aware of that,’ said Adorjan. ‘That’s why we have brought you here. We have seen your work in the United States. Your record is impressive.’

  Marton nodded. ‘Thank you. Let’s look back for a moment. Who did you and your party target in those successful electoral campaigns? Party loyalists, who will vote for you anyway, or undecided voters?’

  Pal said, ‘Undecided voters, of course.’

  ‘And where are they?’

  ‘On the centre ground.’ Pal paused, looked down again at the picture. ‘Well, perhaps it is a little… direct.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Marton.

  That was something at least, thought Marton. He looked down at the crude caricature. ‘Are there many black people among the migrants?’

  ‘A few,’ said Pal, ‘but they are mostly from the Middle East or Afghanistan.’

  Marton frowned. ‘That’s what I thought. I’ve seen a lot of the coverage f
rom Keleti. Most of the people seem to be from Syria or Iraq. I’m curious – why the focus on black people? Shouldn’t that be someone dressed as an Arab, or wearing a headscarf? That would be much more relevant, surely?’

  Pal shifted in his seat, looked momentarily uncomfortable, before recovering his composure. Because you don’t shit on your own doorstep, he thought, especially when it is covered with golden tiles. Instead he replied: ‘The leaflet, as I said, was part of a campaign to spread fear, build support for the Gendarmerie. But we have moved on from that. The Gendarmerie is established. And now we have a very different political situation.’ For a second, anger flashed in his brown eyes. ‘As you know.’

  There were four of them in the conference room, sitting in expensive chrome-and-leather office chairs around a long, black mahogany table: Marton, Pal, Adorjan and a gaunt older man, with straggly grey hair and a nasty flaking skin problem, who looked like he was well into his seventies. His beige shirt, with a large, fraying collar and brown jacket with wide lapels looked like they were either long-owned items of 1970s clothing or had been bought in a job lot at a jumble sale. He sat watching at the other end of the table, like a vulture waiting for its prey to finally expire while he took notes in a yellow legal pad, between taking drags on a disgusting-smelling cigarette. The brand, Marton saw, was called Sopianae, something local, he assumed. The old man had not asked anyone else in the room if they minded if he smoked. Marton did – a lot, in fact. But something about the man’s manner, his hands that were like yellow talons, most of all the way Pal and Adorjan kept glancing at him, made Marton sense that he should grin and bear it.

  The conference room was a large space, on the top floor of a modern office building on the corner of Szabadsag Square, in the very heart of the city. The walls were a brilliant shade of white, decorated with a series of photographs showing some of the foundation’s projects: redecorating a ramshackle school in a remote village in eastern Hungary; a summer holiday camp for underprivileged children, many of them Roma, on the south shore of Lake Balaton; a soup kitchen in Budapest, where Pal and others served hot meals to a line of the homeless and destitute. A large flat-screen television was mounted on one wall.

  The windows looked out onto the landscaped gardens of the square where, at the far end, the Soviet war memorial to the liberation of Budapest stood next to the highly fortified American embassy. Szabadsag Square – the name meant Freedom – was one of the most important in the city, second only to the nearby Kossuth Square.

  Pal continued speaking, ‘So if you don’t like the leaflet, then how do you suggest that we proceed?’

  Marton’s voice was emollient. ‘May I speak frankly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Marton glanced at the end of the table. The old man was watching him intently, smoke trickling from his nostrils. Marton thought quickly. This discussion, where he set out his thoughts and tried to guide clients into the twenty-first century and the digital age, was often difficult. It was certainly best conducted when he was reasonably alert and not numbed from travel. But it had to take place, and if it was going to be a deal-breaker, then better to know that now. And the main principle was very simple. He started to speak: ‘Our aim is simple: to sow doubt. Doubt and confusion. Doubt as to why Reka Bardossy is sitting in your chair, in your office. Confusion as to why someone deeply enmeshed in the recent’ – he paused – ‘events is now running the country.’

  Marton glanced at Pal, who nodded in agreement. ‘Then we provide the answer.’

  The man at the end of the table spoke for the first time. ‘How?’ he asked, his voice raspy from cigarettes. ‘How do you suggest that we do that?’

  Marton said, ‘We destroy Bardossy’s credibility, shred her image. But we don’t target her directly. That would be too obvious. People would dismiss it as more politicians’ infighting.’

  Pal leaned forward, his gaze locked on Marton. ‘So who do we target?’

  Marton replied, ‘So far, Bardossy’s media strategy has worked very well. She is using Eniko Szalay to frame the story. Szalay’s reports, that Bardossy was running a sting operation to catch the Islamic radicals, are the main source for the international press. Much of the domestic press is also following her lead.’ He sat back for a moment, nodding slightly. ‘As a professional, I must say that it’s a highly effective approach. So far the story has been framed to Reka Bardossy’s advantage. We need to stop that. And we can, because Bardossy’s strategy has a serious weakness. It rests on the credibility of one person: Eniko Szalay.’

  Pal smiled. ‘If we destroy Eniko Szalay, we take Bardossy down with her.’

  Marton said, ‘Precisely. Once we have unsettled Eniko Szalay, made her scared, she will start to make mistakes. Then we strike. You have followed my suggestions?’

  Adorjan nodded. ‘Of course. She received the footage this morning. We messaged her personal phone as well, which will unsettle her even more.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marton.

  A tentative knock on the door sounded. Marton watched as Pal glanced at the grey-haired man, who nodded. Adorjan stood up and opened the door. A young woman walked in, holding a tray of coffees. She was notably pretty, Marton saw, her light-brown hair pinned up in a bun, wearing a cream blouse with a high collar and a black tailored business suit with a short skirt that highlighted her shapely legs.

  ‘Thank you, Csilla,’ said Adorjan, as she placed the tray on the table. ‘Csilla is an intern here at the foundation,’ he continued, his hand resting on her lower arm. She turned to smile. ‘Csilla might be working with us, depending how we go forward,’ said Adorjan. ‘She’s developing the foundation’s social media strategy. She’s very talented and up to speed on the digital world.’

  Marton said, ‘That’s good to know,’ wondering if Csilla could actually speak for herself. He asked her, ‘What do you find works best here?’

  Csilla turned to Marton, her eyes quickly assessing him. Marton sensed immediately that she seemed smart and capable. She said, ‘That depends on the age of the target audience.’

  ‘Under thirties,’ said Marton.

  ‘Same as everywhere. Instagram and Twitter. We have a Facebook page, but it’s quite lame. Facebook, websites, they are for old—’ she paused, blushed slightly before continuing, ‘… a different generation. That’s what I have been explaining to my colleagues.’

  ‘Are they listening?’ asked Marton.

  Csilla said, ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Marton.

  ‘We are,’ said Adorjan.

  This was something, thought Marton. At least there was one person plugged into the twenty-first century. Csilla handed each of the men a white porcelain coffee cup, except the grey-haired man who shook his head. She looked around, asked, ‘Do you need me for anything else?’

  Adorjan replied, ‘No, thanks. We’ll catch up later.’

  Marton watched Adorjan’s eyes on Csilla’s backside as she walked out of the door. Csilla, he thought, probably had a month or two at most in Adorjan’s bed until the next intern arrived. Then things would get messy, especially if he and Csilla were working together. But he would deal with that if and when it happened.

  Marton stifled a yawn as he reached for his coffee. The jet lag rushed over him again like a sucker punch. He looked down at the flyer. The picture aside, a leaflet? Really? In 2015? What were these guys thinking? There was a lot going on here, a lot to process. He needed time to think, to formulate a proper plan and strategy. But meanwhile all he wanted was to go to sleep, had done since he’d landed and struck out with Ferenc the handsome policeman. Instead he had been taken straight to his apartment by the driver who met him at the airport. He had been given ten minutes to drop off his luggage at the apartment on Alkotmany Street and quickly freshen up, then was brought here. Luckily the two places were very close to each other.

  Pal’s voice broke Marton’s reverie. ‘We are taking some other measures as well.’

  ‘Which are?’ asked
Marton.

  ‘Some virtual, some physical, in the real world.’ Pal glanced at Adorjan, who picked up a remote control and pointed it at the large flat-screen television. The screen filled with the first frame of a video. Adorjan pressed down and the images began to move. A group of skinheads ran into the forecourt of Keleti Station, shouting abuse, kicking and punching wildly among the migrants. Many cowered in fear but several fought back, and eventually enough of a crowd had formed to drive the skinheads out of the station and into the traffic on Thokoly Way, where the brawl continued, cars and buses flowing around the fighters, pedestrians scurrying away.

  A squad of police cars and vans arrived and swept up the brawlers. A slow montage followed, of news clips about the violence on state and private Hungarian channels, as well as the BBC, CNN, French, German and other international channels. Many featured a short interview with the government spokeswoman, a stern-looking woman in her thirties, with short-cropped brown hair. She blamed the migrants for provocations and starting the violence, and promised strong measures would be taken to keep the streets safe.

  The news clips finished, and the video then showed the police vans parked in a large courtyard. The skinheads and the migrants piled out, many of them laughing as they slapped each other’s backs and shared cigarettes around. Each one presented himself to a man with a clipboard, who checked his name, handed him an envelope containing 30,000 forints, around £80, then ushered him across the courtyard to where several long tables were piled with food and drinks.

  Marton said, ‘Impressive. They were all yours?’

  ‘Every one,’ said Pal. ‘A few were hired for the day.’

  Marton smiled. This was more like it. ‘Whose idea was this?’

  Pal glanced at the grey-haired man at the end of the table. Something passed between them, Marton sensed, but he could not quite figure it out. Pal said, ‘Does it matter? It worked.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ said Marton.

  ‘Better than the leaflet?’ asked Pal.

  ‘Much,’ said Marton. ‘We can do a lot with video. What else have you got? Stuff that can go public?’