Kossuth Square Read online

  He turned back to look at the villa before he stepped outside. He had never liked this place. Gaspar had recently spent a small fortune renovating the building, adding a jacuzzi, steam room and sauna. It was one of the most upmarket brothels in Budapest. There was even a chef, lured from one of the city’s Michelin-starred restaurants, although few of the clients were interested in eating. The faded yellow walls had been repainted a light blue, but the paintwork had been shoddily executed and here and there on corners and by the roof, the yellow was still visible.

  A line of plane trees planted in the garden loomed over the fence, their branches poking out over the wall. Balthazar waited for a moment as he pressed a small red buzzer on the side of the gate. A few seconds later the heavy panels slid open, rusty wheels squeaking on the rails underneath, and he stepped through onto the pavement. For a second or two he heard the buzzing noise again, before it faded away. The sun was up now in a clear blue sky and the air was already warming. He closed his eyes, stretched his arms upwards, his fingers interlinked. Perhaps he should move to Buda, find a nice place with a garden. And perhaps one day he would not have to spend half his waking hours clearing up his youngest brother’s mess. Neither was likely. He and Gaspar were far more similar than they were different. Balthazar’s life path could easily have slid into the grey area between crime and legitimate business, if not full-on criminality. His other three siblings at least lived comparatively normal lives.

  Balthazar’s second brother, Melchior, was a successful musician and was often abroad, playing with his group Roma Drom – Roma Way – at international festivals. Balthazar had not seen him for several months. One sister, Ildiko, still lived in the family building on Jozsef Street, and kept the books – one to be presented to the authorities and another that showed the actual movements of money – of Gaspar’s businesses. Flora, Balthazar’s youngest sibling, ran a hipster art gallery in the downtown part of District VIII that was rapidly gentrifying. But he and Gaspar were bound together, he knew, slotting into each other’s lives like the symbols of yin and yang. For a moment he thought of his parents: his father, Laszlo, who would no longer acknowledge his existence, and his mother Marta’s pain at their estrangement.

  As Balthazar stepped through the gate and onto the pavement his telephone rang. He checked the number and smiled. It was true, surely, what they said about Gypsy women: they could see into the future, read people’s minds. Especially those of their own blood.

  He stopped walking and took the call. ‘Hallo, Mama,’ he said. It was a brief conversation. Marta wanted to see him, which was fine by Balthazar. They agreed she would come over around 2 p.m., and bring him some food. Which was especially welcome as there was nothing to eat in the house, except a half-full packet of Gyori biscuits.

  He ended the call. Both he and Marta knew not to discuss the events of the morning on the telephone. And she would hear everything soon enough when Gaspar and Fat Vik returned to Jozsef Street. As Balthazar continued walking, a skinny man in his fifties with short grey hair, wearing grey shorts and a white Nike T-shirt jogged past. He was panting and glanced quickly at Balthazar as he ran uphill. How many middle-aged male joggers with grey Nike T-shirts were running around this part of Buda at 7.30 in the morning? It was the same man he had seen on the CCTV monitor on Eszter’s computer, Balthazar was sure. Sure too, that this was not a coincidence, especially after his telephone call. Balthazar wished the running man a good morning. Hungarians were extremely polite, greeted each other in most personal encounters. Strangers wished each other Jo etvagyat, a good appetite, in restaurants, said hallo and goodbye when entering and leaving lifts.

  The man did not answer, stared straight ahead, carried on running. Balthazar was mildly irritated. Every Gypsy had dozens of stories like that, and many far worse. He watched the man jog away, before looking up and down the street. Balthazar, Gaspar and Eszter had a much bigger problem. Someone was inside the CCTV system – and wanted Gaspar and his brother to know it. All four of them had stood watching for about half a minute, staring silently at the miniature images of themselves on Eszter’s monitor. Eszter had been about to switch the computer off, when all six feeds suddenly started working properly again. But only from that moment. Eszter had tracked back through the timer again to the time when the VIP salon had been occupied, then to the arrival of the Qatari, tried all of the cameras, in fact – everything had been wiped from half an hour before his arrival shortly after 11 p.m. the previous day.

  Balthazar watched as twenty yards away a black Mercedes 520 with tinted windows was pulling in on the other side of the road, sliding into a space between a white Toyota SUV and a navy BMW saloon. Such a vehicle might raise eyebrows in District VIII – unless it belonged to Gaspar or one of his business rivals – but was less unusual in this rich part of the city. Even so, Balthazar took a quick mental note of the car as he started to walk up a narrow stairway, before turning left onto Filler Street. The thoroughfare stretched from Rozsadomb down to Szel Kalman Square, the main transport interchange on that side of the Danube. For decades the square had been called Moszkva, after the Russian capital, and most Budapesters still called it by its old name.

  If it wasn’t for the events of the previous two hours, Balthazar might almost have enjoyed his early-morning stroll in one of Budapest’s most pleasant neighbourhoods. Filler Street, like its neighbours, was lined with trees in front of houses, small shops, villas and low-rise apartment blocks set back from the pavement. The British ambassador’s house, a gorgeous cream-and-white art nouveau villa, stood a few minutes walk away, on the corner of Filler Street and Lorantffy Zsuzsanna Street.

  Balthazar walked to the brow of the hill, looking down towards the ambassador’s residence. A grey pillbox stood outside the house with slit windows on three sides. Under Communism a member of the secret police had been stationed there twenty-four hours a day, monitoring the ambassador’s movements and those of his family, taking note of any visitors. Nowadays the pillbox was manned again, watching for potential terrorist threats. The house was surrounded by a black iron fence and landscaped gardens. Another jogger passed Balthazar by, heading uphill, this time a woman in her thirties, wearing skin-tight pink lycra leggings, white wires trailing from her ears, oblivious to his presence.

  Balthazar smiled at the memory of his first time at the residence, twelve years ago, when he had been invited to a reception to honour graduating Roma police officers, and how nervous he had been. Balthazar had seen some of Hungary’s grand historical homes before, on school trips, or occasional family excursions to the countryside, but never something like this that people actually lived in. A uniformed maid had taken his coat, then directed him to a leather-covered guest book, where he scrawled a shaky signature. A few seconds later a waiter appeared with a tray of drinks. Balthazar rarely drank alcohol, but had taken a beer, about half of which he downed in a couple of gulps, before stepping into the marble-floored reception room. A waitress in a black-and-white uniform had offered him a shrimp canapé. He had never eaten seafood before and could still remember the burst of salty flavour exploding in his mouth. The reception room’s walls had been lined with works of art and opened onto a landscaped garden with a small swimming pool. The ambassador and his wife had been very kind, chatting with everyone, making sure they felt at ease.

  Another few yards downhill, just past a small ABC grocery shop, where the road curved on its slope, Balthazar saw a familiar profile: a woman in her early thirties, with an athletic build, dark-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a strong, intelligent face. She wore skinny dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue hoodie, and was leaning against a nondescript grey Skoda, reading that day’s edition of Magyar Vilag, a pro-government newspaper.

  She waved at him, put down the newspaper and beckoned him over, waiting until he crossed the road. ‘Good morning. You’re up early today, Tazi.’

  He smiled. ‘Likewise.’ He looked at the car, then back at her. ‘And you’re not on your bike.�
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  ‘Not today. This is a very steep hill.’

  Balthazar gestured at Magyar Vilag. ‘What’s news?’ ‘I was hoping you could tell me that, Tazi.’ She opened the car door, gestured inside. ‘Jump in. I’ll take you home.’

  FIVE

  Filler Street, 7.45 a.m.

  Balthazar climbed into the car, sat down and looked at Anastasia Ferenczy. ‘At least you say “Good morning”.’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Your jogger.’

  A glimmer of a smile flickered on her lips. ‘What jogger?’ she asked, turning towards him, her eyes wide and faux-innocent.

  ‘How many have you got? Skinny, balding, probably in his fifties. White Nike T-shirt, grey shorts that matched what was left of his hair. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. And he could change his route. He keeps running up and down Loczy Lajos Street.’

  ‘Oh. Him. He’s a grumpy old fart. Sorry. I’ll pass the word on.’

  ‘Good. Why was he watching me?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t watching you, exactly. More the place where you were and the people coming in and out of it. We were already keeping an eye on al-Nuri. Did you bring them?’

  Balthazar handed her al-Nuri’s passport and the packet of blue pills. ‘Thanks for sorting that out. The ambulance came quickly. When will we get the forensics?’

  ‘We’re on it. Our guys will go back in an hour or so, take swabs and samples from the room. So tonight, with a bit of luck. Thank you for the tip-off. Meanwhile, Tazi, we have so much to talk about. Maybe over breakfast? There’s a new cafe on Falk Miksa Street I really want to try. Café Habsburg. It’s Austrian–Hungarian fusion.’

  ‘Breakfast yes; Falk Miksa Street, no.’

  Falk Miksa Street was a stately, tree-lined thoroughfare of art nouveau apartment buildings, tourist-priced antique shops and several fancy bistros, popular with politicians and their retinues, in the heart of District V. It ran from the side of Kossuth Square to the Grand Boulevard just before the start of Margaret Bridge. The street was also home to one of the headquarters of the ABS. That, and its proximity to Parliament, meant that it was widely believed that the cafes there were bugged.

  Still, the mention of food made Balthazar realise that he was very hungry. He had eaten nothing since Eszter’s dawn telephone call, just drunk a glass of water and a coffee.

  Anastasia continued talking, the car still stationary. ‘You and I are quite safe. Café Habsburg has only been open three days. We won’t get to it at least until the end of the week.’

  ‘No. No Falk Miksa.’

  ‘Why not? Are you scared to be seen with me?’ Anastasia asked, her voice gently teasing.

  ‘Not at all. I’m very happy to have breakfast with you. Just not fifty yards from your office.’

  ‘OK. Let’s get going. I’ll try and persuade you on the way.’

  ‘And you,’ Balthazar asked. ‘What’s news with your family castle?’

  Anastasia laughed. ‘It’s not a castle.’

  The Ferenczys were one of Hungary’s best-known aristocratic dynasties, Transylvanian nobility whose history mirrored that of Hungary. Every schoolchild knew their name. Balthazar too had been somewhat star-struck when he first met Anastasia a week ago. The Ferenczys had taken leading roles in the 1848 revolution against Austria, for which several had been executed. After the 1920 Treaty of Trianon that had seen two-thirds of historic Hungary handed to its neighbours, the family, and their palace outside Timisoara, had found themselves in Romania. The Ferenczys had moved to Budapest. Several had been sent to concentration camps after they were caught hiding Jews in 1944 after the Nazis invaded. More Ferenczys had taken part in the 1956 uprising against the Soviets for which they had again been executed or exiled. During the reign of Nicolae Ceausescu, Romania’s half-crazed Communist leader, the family’s palace had been turned into a holiday home for the party elite.

  Balthazar had recently read a story on 555.hu that the Ferenczys were trying to reclaim their historic home. ‘Palace, then.’

  ‘Country mansion. Maybe. If we can raise a big enough bribe.’

  Anastasia started the engine and began to drive. She had barely gone ten yards down Filler Street when a blue Volkswagen Golf began to pull out in front. She braked, waiting for the car to drive off. Balthazar shot her a sideways look. She looked good in profile, he thought, not for the first time. You wouldn’t describe her as pretty, exactly, but she was definitely striking, slim but with the requisite curves; large, clear eyes the colour of emeralds; straight nose; a wide, full mouth and slightly pointed chin, the result of centuries of well-planned breeding, perhaps with the odd German noble and Jewish trader thrown in to spice the mix. He smiled for a moment, almost laughed as he remembered the verdict of Eva neni, auntie Eva, his neighbour and surrogate Jewish mother, after Anastasia had left an envelope with Eva the previous weekend to pass on to Balthazar. ‘Nice teeth, spoke very well. No slang. Quite classy, I would say. You could do a lot worse.’ Maybe she was right.

  Anastasia looked sideways at Balthazar. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I was remembering how Eva neni described you.’

  ‘And how was that?’

  ‘Don’t worry. She liked you.’

  ‘And I liked her.’

  The VW Golf driver finally manoeuvred his vehicle out into the road and drove off, orange hazard lights flashing a quick ‘thank you’.

  Anastasia carried on driving. ‘So how is the hero of Rakoczi Way?’

  Balthazar looked around the vehicle before he answered. It was very different to every police car he had been in. Apart from the copy of Magyar Vilag, now on the back seat, it was empty. There were no crumpled coffee cups, fast food wrappers or empty plastic water bottles. Instead of the odour of stale tobacco or fast food there was a faint scent of soap and shampoo. Anastasia Ferenczy, Balthazar was sure, smelled better than he did. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘But you are a hero. You took down Mahmoud Hejazi. I hear our new prime minister is going to give you a medal. And a reception at Parliament.’

  The Budapest police headquarters on Teve Street was full of rumours that Balthazar was to be publicly honoured by the new prime minister. Sandor Takacs, Balthazar’s boss, had made several jokes about getting his suit dry-cleaned. The prospect of a public ceremony filled Balthazar with horror. It was bad enough that Eniko Szalay, his former girlfriend and the star reporter at 555.hu, was all over the news. Eniko seemed to have an incredible source at the highest level of government, who was feeding her all sorts of details about the passport rackets and terrorist connections. Balthazar just hoped that Eniko kept his name, and what she knew about him and his family, especially Gaspar, out of her reports. She had already elliptically referred to Gaspar in one of her stories last week, before all the weekend’s excitement, mentioning a ‘well-known figure in Budapest’s underworld’.

  Balthazar said, ‘I really hope not.’

  ‘Really? Why? You are a good role model.’

  ‘You mean a good diszcigany,’ he said, his voice wry.

  A medal, a reception and no doubt lots of media attention – especially about his Roma origins – were the last thing he wanted. Firstly, because he had no desire to be a diszcigany, a decorative or token Gypsy, paraded before the cameras to show the Hungarian establishment’s supposed but actually token commitment to equal rights. But more than that, his survival sense, honed over centuries, passed down through his ancestors, urged that the less attention he received, the better for him and his family. Especially at the moment.

  Anastasia said, ‘Do you remember that Roma boy, Jozsi, the one you met at Republic Square last week, when you were looking for the body of Simon Nazir, the dead Syrian?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jozsi had been a younger version of himself, Balthazar thought. Dressed in hand-me-downs, light-brown eyes, tawny skin, street-smart, wary.

  ‘I told you I think that Jozsi told me that he had never been to a ha
mburger restaurant. The security guards always turned him away. I thought that was so sad.’

  ‘He has now. I took him on Sunday to that new burger place on Oktober 6 Street. He loved it. We had a great time. There were three of us. We went with my son, Alex.’ There should have been four, he almost said. He glanced again at Anastasia. Maybe he should have invited her instead.

  Anastasia smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘That’s great, Tazi. I’m really pleased.’ She shot him a sideways look. ‘And how proud do you think Alex and Jozsi would be if they saw you getting a medal from the prime minister? What message would that send about hope and opportunities and breaking down stereotypes?’

  Balthazar raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK. I’ll think about it. How’s that?’

  ‘Better.’

  Maybe Anastasia had a point. Even if he did not want to be a role model, it seemed he was one. Perhaps that did bring some responsibilities. A diszcigany in Parliament, decorated by the prime minister, was still better than no Gypsies there at all. Meanwhile, he had enough to think about, and the day had barely started. The first time he had encountered Anastasia – it was not exactly a meeting – she had been sitting on a park bench near the municipal bicycle rack on Klauzal Square, near his flat in the heart of the old Jewish quarter in District VII. He had sensed she was watching him, a suspicion confirmed when soon afterwards a mobile telephone arrived in an envelope, one which she had used to make contact. Over the last weekend Balthazar and Anastasia had worked intensely together, especially on the fateful Sunday when Hejazi had been shot.

  Anastasia asked, ‘You remember what I was doing at Keleti, Tazi?’

  ‘Sure. You were the world’s most stationary taxi driver.’

  She laughed. ‘Something like that.’

  Anastasia, Balthazar had learned, had been working undercover at Keleti during the migrant crisis, posing as a taxi driver, although one who had never had any fares and whose vehicle remained permanently parked. Her real job was to watch the migrants and keep a lookout for the dozen or so most wanted Islamic radicals whom her boss and his colleagues in London, Washington DC and other capitals, believed were using the chaos in Europe’s borders to transit through the Balkans then westwards through the chaos at Keleti. Number one on the most wanted list was Mahmoud Hejazi