The Budapest Protocol Page 2

  She glared at him. “Is that my thanks for looking after you? Throwing me out?”

  “You can wait for me here if you like,” Alex offered, as he kissed her head.

  Zsofi shook him off and looked around the one room, fifth floor corner flat. The walls, once white, were grey and peeling. The 1970s furniture was faded brown and orange. Boxes of books were piled in every corner, their contents spilling onto the worn parquet floor, whose loose slats rattled when walked on. The flat overlooked Kossuth Lajos Street, a busy four lane road stretching from the Great Boulevard that encircled the inner city, down to the Elizabeth Bridge and the river. French windows opened onto a small balcony which offered a view of the Danube in one direction and the Hotel Savoy, on nearby Ferenciek Square, in the other, but the panorama was now partially blocked by a cordon of browning plants. “No thanks, I don’t like. At least make me some tea,” she said, pulling the quilt around her.

  Alex clambered out of the bed and walked into the bathroom. He stepped into the claw-footed bath-tub, where a hand-shower attachment reached from the mixer tap. He was too tall to stretch out, so he sat and sprayed himself with the hottest water he could bear, washed quickly, and jerked the lever to cold, gasping and shivering as the freezing water coursed over him. His head clear, he stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist and walked through to the kitchen. Tea was more complicated than it sounded. The cooker pre-dated the collapse of the Berlin Wall, if not the wall itself. The fridge roared like an airplane, when it worked. The electricity board had declared the wiring a health hazard and only a bribe of 10,000 forints, thirty-five euros, had stopped the inspector cutting off the supply.

  He touched a worn photograph taped to the wall. He was younger, his face thinner, standing with his arm around a tall, Slavic-looking young woman with her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. They both wore flak jackets and helmets and were grinning nervously. ‘Welcome to Hell’ was painted on a wall nearby, the letters pockmarked by shrapnel scars.

  Alex looked away, filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. He looked in the two kitchen cupboards for some tea. One was empty, the other contained a packet of sugar and an ancient jar of plum jam. A pizza box poked out of the rubbish bin. Inside was a single, curling slice, and a used tea bag. He had rinsed the teabag and placed it in a cup when the socket popped and the kettle went dead. He turned to see Zsofi struggling with the zip of her black leather biker’s jacket. Zsofi was a ballerina, a rising star of Hungarian dance. They had met in the summer when Alex profiled her for the Budapest News, an English-language weekly newspaper, where he worked as associate editor. An interview over drinks had stretched to dinner and more.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass on the tea. I’m going,” said Zsofi, walking into the kitchen as the zip finally slipped into place. She walked over to the photograph. “A new picture.”

  “It’s not new. It’s Sarajevo, in the war,” said Alex, fiddling with the kettle.

  “You were skinnier. Who is she?” Zsofi asked, pointing at the picture.

  “Everyone was skinnier then. Her name is Azra.”

  She looked closer. “Attractive Azra. Was it really hell there?”

  He smiled. “Not always.”

  “So I see,” she huffed.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said, half to himself. He reached inside the pizza box and took out the remaining slice. “How about dinner?” The pizza slice broke in half and flopped onto the floor.

  Zsofi glared at him. “Ask Azra. Maybe she’s hungry.”

  He bit his lip. “I doubt it.” He stepped towards her. “Zsofi, I’m the one who should be jealous.”

  “Forget it, Alex. Call me when you can fit me into your busy schedule,” she said, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  Alex lived on the corner of Petofi Sandor Street and Kossuth Lajos Street, a few minutes on foot from the Danube. Kultura was fifteen minutes walk away, in the heart of District VII, Budapest’s historic Jewish area. Many of its streets, squares and markets had been untouched since 1945. Students, artists and expatriates had moved in, and District VII was now the city’s hippest and most bohemian quarter. Its central location and grand but dilapidated apartment houses made it a prime target for foreign property developers. Numerous buildings were on the verge of collapse, as their new owners waited for them to become uninhabitable so they could demolish them. Once the developers received their construction permits there were usually several months before the work began. Then the squat-bars arrived. The owners brought in a lorry-load of used chairs and tables, drinks and a sound system, and the party started.

  Alex walked away from the river, up Kossuth Lajos Street, glancing at the tourist coaches parked outside the Hotel Savoy. The traffic roared past him towards the Elizabeth Bridge, the exhaust fumes mixing with the smell of doner kebabs from the Turkish fast food place on the corner of Karoly Boulevard. The freezing wind blowing towards the Danube made his eyes stream and he huddled into his leather jacket. He was tall and lean, with thick, unruly black hair and a long, straight nose over a full, wide mouth that he chewed when nervous. His eyes were his most unusual feature, one blue, the other green, both framed by long, curved eyelashes.

  He turned left onto Karoly Boulevard, walked past the Great Synagogue, crossed the tramlines on Deak Square and into Kiraly Street, the heart of District VII. A giant poster, four stories high, covered the front of a building being renovated. It showed a well-built, suntanned man, standing next to an attractive blonde woman. Three children stood in front of them, all smiling with perfect teeth. The poster proclaimed: “Vote Sanzlermann: Family, Work, Unity.”

  Kultura’s security guard greeted Alex and moved aside to let him pass. A wide entrance opened onto a maze of bars and smoky alcoves. A raw brick wall was covered with advertisements for room-mates, bicycles for sale, jobs for English teachers. Alex walked through to the main courtyard, covered with a plastic sheeting roof and warmed by garden heaters. Roma Party, a popular Gypsy group, played on stage, the music surging across the courtyard. The owner greeted Alex with a loud “Shalom, habibi,” and handed him his regular glass of chilled szilva palinka, plum brandy. Ehud was an Israeli, a sinewy former commando, the grandson of Hungarian Holocaust survivors, with a pierced nose and shaven head. He had dropped out of medical school in Budapest after his first year and now ran the city’s hottest bars and clubs.

  Alex thanked Ehud, sat down at an empty table and picked up a copy of Magyar Tribün, the former Communist Party newspaper that was now a left-wing daily. Six people had been killed, including a deputy minister, and forty injured by a car bomb outside the Bundestag, the German Parliament. The bombing was the third attack in recent weeks, after Paris and Rome. The Immigration Liberation Army, a terrorist group, claimed responsibility. Alex put the newspaper down and called his grandfather on his mobile phone to let him know he would soon be there. No answer. That was strange, he thought, for Miklos rarely ventured out in the evenings. Perhaps he had gone to see his friend Peter Feher for a game of chess and a cup of tea.

  A well-fed man in his fifties walked up. Istvan Kiraly looked around with interest, like a naturalist who has discovered a new species of tropical plant. “You do find the most fascinating places, dear boy. I had no idea that there was a secret universe behind that drab door.”

  Kiraly spoke English with the careful enunciation of a 1930s BBC newsreader announcing the scores of a cricket test match. A wily survivor of vicious political infighting under the communist regime, and a former spokesman for Hungary’s last communist President, Kiraly was nicknamed ‘Teflon’. After the change of system in 1990, he reinvented himself as a ‘strategic lobbyist and communications strategist’. He had lines into every political party and was friendly with every Cabinet Minister. He advised western companies how much was needed to bribe the old communist networks that still ran much of the economy, and guided Hungarian businesses in milking EU subsidies. He was of one Alex’s best sources.

  Kiraly pulled out a flimsy metal chair from under the rickety table. He positioned himself carefully, as though the chair was about to collapse under him.

  Alex stared at Kiraly. “You’ve changed.” He looked the PR man up and down. The familiar hand-tailored navy Italian suit, the monogrammed cufflinks and hand-made shoes. The same wary blue eyes, set deep in a lined face, under a carefully trimmed head of grey hair. But the lines stopped abruptly above Kiraly’s eyes.

  Alex touched his forehead. It felt hard and taut. He laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

  Kiraly blushed and moved back. ‘What are you talking about?” he blustered.

  “You know that there have been cases of people getting Mad Cow Disease after a botox? Something to do with the extracts they use in the injections,” Alex said, nodding solemnly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. And I would like a drink.” Kiraly waved at a waitress, a willowy brunette. “Now I see why you come here. A glass of Bailey’s Irish Cream please, my dear.” The waitress looked at Alex. He picked up his glass. “Another palinka. Thanks.”

  “Tonight we are celebrating,” Kiraly proclaimed.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Firstly, because it’s your birthday.”

  Alex looked surprised. He didn’t feel like celebrating. He had not even told Zsofi.

  “Don’t think I didn’t know. Happy Birthday, dear boy. And secondly, because I have just signed up the future President of Europe.”

  Alex sat up straighter. “Sanzlermann?”

  Kiraly nodded. “That’s right. Frank Sanzlermann. Presidential candidate for the European National Union, Austrian Foreign Minister, intellectual godfather of the drive for European unity, and devoted husband and father. He arrives tonight to start his election campaign. “

  Alex looked doubtful. “That’s the same Sanzlermann who has called for all Gypsies to be fingerprinted?”

  “Alex, every country needs to keep track of its citizens. The fingerprinting is part of a proposal for a Europe-wide census. These are dangerous times. There are bombs going off all over Europe. You’re a journalist, a born cynic. Herr Sanzlermann is a thinker, a writer, like you. You would have plenty to talk about. He has repeatedly stated his commitment to the values of European integration.” Kiraly tapped his fingers on the table top in time to the music. “This is rather good. What is this group called?”

  “Roma Party. Maybe they could play at one of Sanzlermann’s rallies. That would show a real commitment to European integration. Can Gypsies still vote?” Alex asked, deadpan.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kiraly indignantly.

  Alex sipped his palinka. He could not allow Kiraly to escape that easily. “Did you see that article in Ébredjetek Magyarok! about you?” Ébredjetek Magyarok!, which meant “Hungarians Awake”, was a new conservative newspaper that had just been launched by the Volkstern Corporation, a German media conglomerate with extensive holdings across eastern and central Europe. The papers’ editors saw communist conspiracies everywhere, but as ex-party members themselves they knew what to look for. Kiraly looked alarmed. Few things made him more nervous than press coverage that he could not control.

  “I know it’s a dreadful rag, but they had dug up one of your old speeches,” Alex continued. “I quote from memory: ‘Under the guidance of the party leadership, and the implementation of Marxist-Leninist principles, we build the new socialist future.’ Or something like that.”

  Kiraly spluttered into his drink. “My dear boy. We are none of us gifted with perfect foresight. That was a long time ago. Another world.”

  “October 1989, actually. The wall came down two weeks later.”

  “A low blow, Alex. Times change and we must move with them.”

  “I’m sorry, Istvan, you are quite right,” said Alex, mock contrite. His nose twitched at the strong smell of burning rope wafting over from a nearby table. Two young women were passing a badly-rolled joint back and forth, giggling as scraps of tobacco mixed with marijuana spilled on to the table. They sat dreamily as the music suddenly speeded up, the violinist sawing at his instrument as though he was trying to cut it in half. The notes soared, plunged, capturing the whole open space. Conversations faded as the audience watched, entranced. The violinist played a long, drawn-out note, and bowed. The applause exploded, Kiraly too clapping enthusiastically.

  The waitress brought their drinks, and the two men clinked glasses.

  “Happy Birthday. And here’s to the new Europe,” exclaimed Kiraly.

  “The New Europe,” echoed Alex. He looked at the entrance. “And here it is.”

  A large black van pulled up outside the bar. Its windows were black, covered with a thick wire mesh, “Gendarmerie” painted on its sides. Hungary’s paramilitary national police force had been disbanded after the Second World War. But the government had just reconstituted it, with sweeping powers of arrest and detention for nebulous offences such as “disturbing citizens’ tranquillity” and “insulting national pride”. Local police forces reported to the Ministry of the Interior, but the Gendarmerie answered solely to the Prime Minister, Tibor Csintori, and the Interior Minister.

  Csintori’s government described itself as “moderate conservative” but was under increasing pressure from the far-right Hungarian National Front. Every concession Csintori made only increased the National Front’s power and confidence. Even with the Gendarmerie, few believed Csintori, a middle-aged former dissident sociologist, would remain in office much longer. Across eastern Europe membership of the European Union had turned sour. Authoritarian nationalists had already taken power in Romania, Slovakia and Croatia. Poverty and unemployment were soaring as state-owned industries were sold off on the cheap. Rocketing inflation ate away at the value of wages and pensions.

  Riots had erupted in impoverished eastern Hungary, and Budapest’s decaying inner city. A Romany family had been killed the previous week after someone had hurled half a dozen petrol bombs through their windows. The police force seemed ever more ineffectual, mired in a turf war with the Gendarmerie. A new far-right group, the Pannonia Brigade, whose members wore paramilitary-style uniforms, held rallies and marches every weekend across the country. The Brigade even policed these itself. There was a growing sense that the state was no longer in control of the country. The government only survived the Hungarian National Front’s vote of no-confidence by boosting the Gendarmerie’s budget by fifty per cent.

  Alex watched two Gendarmes saunter in. They wore paramilitary khaki fatigues and narrow pointed caps, topped with a bright cockade of red, white and green feathers, Hungary’s national colours. Each was armed with a machine pistol and a long billy club. A Sam Browne leather belt stretched across their chests, studded with clip-on cans of CS gas. They ignored Ehud’s protests. Four more Gendarmes soon followed.

  Kiraly’s lips pursed in distaste. He watched the two students nearby stub out their joint and empty the ashtray into a plastic bag. They walked quickly to the bathrooms. “I hope those toilets flush properly.” He paused, “And Miklos?”

  “I’m a bit worried about him. He seems very distracted lately. He was insistent that I come over for a birthday drink to talk about ‘family things’. I just called him but he didn’t answer.”

  “Don’t worry about Miklos. He’s probably visiting a lady friend,” said Istvan lightly. “And how is your prima ballerina?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Very little is confidential in this town, dear boy. Especially from me. A word to the wise, if I may. Mr Karoly Petcsardy. The lissom Zsofi’s husband.”

  “I know who he is. They’re separated. She wants a divorce.”

  “Does she?” Kiraly’s voice was sceptical.

  “He has his own lovers,” said Alex, feeling a sudden stab of acid jealousy.

  “Yes, he does. But Mr and Mrs Petcsardy are not divorced. Nor have any papers been filed, or lawyers hired. There is nothing like the appearance of a rival suitor to make a previously unappreciated woman suddenly worth fighting over. Frankly, Alex, I think you deserve better. She is very pretty, but this is a dead-end relationship.”

  Alex finished his palinka. “Istvan, you are absolutely right.”

  He knew Zsofi would never leave her husband and in his heart, he probably didn’t want her to. But how long was he going to keep running from any potential commitment? He put down his glass, watching the Gendarmes. They slowly checked the identity papers of everyone entering and leaving. Their commander stood nearby, smoking a cigarette as he watched approvingly. The party atmosphere quickly evaporated. A group of boisterous students heading towards the entrance fell silent, crossed the road and briskly walked by when they saw the Gendarmerie bus.

  Kiraly called the waitress over and paid the bill. “Alex, I’m sorry, but I also have to meet someone at 9.00pm.” Alex reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Kiraly waved his money away. “Enjoy your birthday, Alex. And give my best to your grandfather.”

  They shook hands as Kiraly departed, flashing his identity card at the Gendarmes, who made way for him. The Gendarmes spread out across the bar. Alex checked his watch. It was 8.45pm, and definitely time to go. He walked over to the entrance where a Gendarme blocked his way. He was well built, his head shaved under his cap, his face pitted with acne.

  “Papers,” the Gendarme demanded, one hand resting on his billy club.

  Alex reached into his back pocket and took out his press card. The Gendarme carefully read Alex’s name and held on to the card. “Go back and sit down,” he ordered Alex.

  “Why? And I would like my press card back,” Alex said, not moving.

  The Gendarme signalled to the commander. He was tall and dark complexioned, with thick black eyebrows. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it out on the ground and walked over. The Gendarme handed him Alex’s press card. The commander checked it and glanced at his watch.

  “I need to be somewhere at 9.00pm,” said Alex, his voice insistent.