Bandi Polgar stood on the roof of the Art-Deco apartment block on the corner of Kossuth Lajos Street and Ferenciek Square and studied the streets below with a practised eye. The Hotel Savoy, on the other side of the road, was built on a corner and occupied half a city block. The famous corner café, on the ground floor, looked out onto Kossuth Lajos Street and Ferenciek Square. The Gendarmes had erected three lines of fences to seal off the area. The first, in front of the pavement, stretched around the hotel’s two sides. The second line, forty metres away, ran parallel with the first. A single television crew from the state channel, Gendarmes and security guards milled around in the empty space in the middle.
A third set of fences sealed off Kossuth Lajos Street from the north, Free Press Street, which led to the Elizabeth Bridge from the south, and all the side streets. Gendarmes controlled the checkpoints in each cordon. The crossroads, usually one of the city’s busiest intersections, was now eerily empty and quiet. The fences were made of sections, twelve feet high and ten feet wide, built of grey metal rods welded to a steel frame. They had wide feet, long sliders on the right side and metal sleeves on the left. The international press milled around in the area between the second and third cordon. Bandi spotted CNN and BBC camera crews. The journalists wore green vests marked ‘Press’ and many carried helmets and gas-masks. A tall American photographer was even wearing a flak jacket. Smart guy, he thought to himself. If all went well, they were about to get the story of a lifetime. Either way, it was going to be a night to remember.
It was 7.00pm, a chilly winter evening, with a sharp breeze blowing in from the Danube. Thankfully, it was dry. The roof had an excellent view. Large crowds were pouring down Kossuth Lajos Street and up Free Press Street and the side streets – all to be blocked by the fences and Gendarmes. The Elizabeth Bridge was so jammed with protestors no traffic could get through. So far the crowd’s mood was spirited but determined. They waved excitedly at the helicopter circling overhead. The fences were bedecked with Hungarian flags, ribbons and flowers. Bandi rested his mobile telephone on the balcony railing. He took numerous pictures and uploaded them to a secure photo-sharing website.
He lit a cigarette while he waited for confirmation that the pictures had arrived. All he wanted nowadays was a quiet life, to run his chain of non-stop flower shops. But fate, it seemed, kept conspiring against him. Bandi was a powerfully-built ethnic Hungarian from Vukovar in Croatia, with wiry red hair, strong features and unusually large hands. Back in 1991, he had fought in the Croatian army trying to hold his hometown against the invading Serbs, escaping with minutes to spare before it fell. After further service in Croatia and Bosnia, he then went AWOL, smuggling his fiery Serbian wife Vesna and their three children across the border into Hungary and applying for refugee status. Bandi’s military experience made him of special interest. After two weeks of debriefing, all five were made Hungarian citizens. He received a substantial soft ‘loan’ to start his business and buy a house. There was a price, the glamorous blonde female official at the concrete office block on Falk Miksa Street had explained: every now and then Bandi would be available for ‘special assignments’. If not, he could return to the front. Bandi paid willingly.
His last mission was in Belgrade in October 2000. If Slobodan Miloševič was to be overthrown by the CIA, MI6 and their new Serbian ‘friends’, then Budapest needed to know as much as possible. When, after several attempts, the Belgrade crowd had successfully stormed the Parliament, Bandi was in the first wave. He still had a crooked nose and scar on his left eyebrow to prove it. Many valuable lessons about urban street fighting had been learnt that day. He drew deeply on his cigarette and watched, alert now, as a paunchy, middle-aged man in a light brown overcoat walked towards the first Gendarmerie checkpoint. If he got through and made it inside the Savoy he would probably last two hours, perhaps longer if he was lucky, according to their gaming scenarios. Bandi wished him well, whoever he was, for as far as he could judge it was little better than a suicide mission. Maybe not, he hoped, if the plans worked. The Gendarmes’ security looked tough and efficient. But so was his team.
* * *
Alex waited for the denunciations, the shrieks of outrage, as he walked towards the checkpoint. His heart thumped and he wiped his hands on the thin raincoat Ehud had given him. “Him, officer, that one over there,” someone would surely scream, “He’s wearing a disguise. A spy! An infiltrator!” He waited for the Gendarmes to rush over and club him to the ground, pull off his moustache, rip open his shirt. He felt someone tap him lightly on the shoulder. Not yet, please, he said to himself, not yet, I haven’t even got inside the hotel. He turned around.
“Jozsef?” Natasha asked tentatively. “We met at the funeral. Alex’s funeral. I’m... I was his girlfriend, I suppose.”
He smiled shyly and tried not to stare. She looked more desirable than ever. She was wearing her Afghan coat, jeans and knee-high boots, with a wide scarf wrapped around her head. Sadness had etched a stark beauty on her face. Guilt and longing churned inside him. “My girlfriend,” he wanted to shout, and grab her by the hand, tell her everything, and flee from Budapest as far and as fast as possible. The funeral, at the Jewish cemetery, had been mercifully brief. Peter Feher, David Jones, Mubarak, Isabelle Balassy, Natasha, Kitty, Edina, Ronald Worthington and several other former Budapest News staffers had all attended. Ronald and David had delivered a rather touching eulogy. Alex had gone with Ehud, who had warned him it would be difficult and unsettling but was absolutely necessary. Alex had to believe he was Jozsef Zenta, for if he didn’t nobody else would. Shut down your emotions, instructed Ehud, as they walked in. He tried, but he had never imagined how hard it would be to watch his friends mourning his death when he was alive and well, and standing just a few yards away. And how wretched he would feel.
Ehud had insisted that he introduce himself to everybody as an old friend of Alex’s. The first one will be the most difficult, Ehud told him, and then it will be easier. Don’t worry, he murmured deadpan, everyone thinks you’re dead. Alex had practised speaking in a hoarse whisper, with a lisp, to disguise his voice, using lots of street slang. He said hallo to Kitty first, excusing himself with a long-winded explanation about his sore throat. Ehud was right. She and the other mourners were polite and friendly, but not overly interested in the chubby, nondescript man from Szeged. It worked, although when he shook hands with Natasha he felt himself blush bright red as he rambled on about his bad throat. She smiled kindly, which only made him feel worse. After the prayers Peter Feher had invited him to join everyone at the Margaret Patisserie, where he had arranged a private room. Alex declined. Peter had winked at him.
Alex said: “Yes, I remember, of course. You’re also a reporter.”
“It’s a big story today. What are you doing here?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m a waiter. I’m working in the hotel tonight,” he said hoarsely, gesturing at the Savoy.
Natasha blew a plume of smoke to one side. “You shouldn’t be working if you’re still sick.”
“I know, but I need the money.” Alex’s heart thumped even faster and he bit his lip. The best disguise, the most practised legend, he knew, was meagre defence against a woman’s intuition.
“Will you do something for me, Jozsef, when you have finished work?” Natasha asked.
He smiled uncertainly.
“Call me please. I’d love to know what happened inside, with all those important people.”
“Gladly. It was nice to see you again,” he said, walking off.
“Jozsef!” Natasha called.
He turned back, and looked at her questioningly. She handed him a card. “How can you call me if you don’t know my number? Here it is.”
* * *
Bandi watched the man in the light brown overcoat present his papers, pass through the two Gendarme checkpoints and walk towards the Savoy’s entrance. It looked like he was in. Time to go to work. Bandi’s toughest guys were waiting in a safe house, and dozens more were spread out in the streams of protestors converging on the Savoy from all directions. His team was far outnumbered by the Gendarmes, but would hopefully soon be leading something unstoppable: the crowd. Each of his boys carried a mobile telephone loaded with maps, GPS, still and video cameras. The handsets automatically mashed-up the photographs and video clips they uploaded with a street map. A button on the map marked each upload which, when clicked, opened it up. Information was everything when fighting for control of the streets. His teams could all report vital tactical developments to each other in real time.
The handsets were also linked to a live video feed from the city’s CCTV network. Everything ran through a secure satellite connection, linked to a central control room somewhere downtown. Quite who was controlling that he didn’t know. That information, a slim American in a blue button-down shirt, had told him, was “above his pay grade”. Bandi flicked rapidly through the camera locations: Kossuth Lajos Street, Free Press Street, the Elizabeth Bridge and both sides of Ferenciek Square all showed a steady flow of protestors heading towards the Savoy crossroads. His handset buzzed twice. The first was confirmation that his photographs had been successfully uploaded, the second that a ‘blogbeep’ had arrived. Blogbeeps were sent through a micro-blogging service that simultaneously uploaded messages of up to 150 characters to a linked group. It said: “Gendarmes reinforcing on Petofi Sandor,” a street that led onto Ferenciek Square. Bandi tapped out: “We are on,” and pressed send.
The telephone buzzed again. He opened the photograph website and clicked on a shot of two Gendarmerie vans on Petofi Sandor Street. Gendarmes milled around, dressed in full body armour, carrying heavy plastic shields. Bandi’s pictures of the crowds, the fences and the Gendarmerie checkpoints, the weakest link in their lines, were already uploaded. Another photograph appeared, of two dozen motorcyclists, sitting on their motorbikes, in a square not far from Kossuth Lajos Street. They were drinking and shouting at passersby. Good, thought Bandi, we’ve been waiting for you.
* * *
Alex walked into the Savoy’s entrance. So far, so good, Jozsef, he thought. Meeting Natasha had been as unexpected as it was unsettling. But he couldn’t allow himself to think about her now. The important thing was that he was inside. The Gendarmes had checked and double-checked his documents, but they had worked. The Savoy’s black and grey marble lobby, with its Art Nouveau lamps and deep leather armchairs, was usually crowded with guests and hotel staff. Tonight it was hushed and tense. The reception staff had been replaced by Volkstern Corporation security in black uniforms.
A guard holding a clipboard barred his way. “You are?” he demanded.
“Jozsef Zenta,” replied Alex, handing his papers over again. “I’m a waiter for the dinner. Last minute substitute, someone got sick. It’s all arranged with Istvan Nagy, the dining manager.”
“Empty your pockets and walk through this, slowly, then stand here,” said the security guard, ushering Alex through a metal detector as he looked at the papers. The machine whined as the guard checked Alex’s papers. Alex reached into his jacket.
“No! Put your hands up!” shouted the guard. More security staff appeared, looking at him menacingly. Alex began to sweat. “It’s just a few coins,” he said, breathing hard. The guard reached into his pocket and took out some small change.
The guard ran a handheld metal detector over Alex’s front and back, and up and down his arms and legs. It remained silent. He pulled out a small device, the size of a handheld radio, from his pocket. He waved the device over Alex. It stayed silent. Nodding, he thoroughly frisked Alex, checking every limb, his armpits and groin. His hands quickly skated over Alex’s stomach. He looked puzzled, and then began poking and kneading. Alex squirmed in protest. The guard’s fingers felt like gun barrels.
“Shirt off,” he grunted.
“Pardon?” asked Alex.
“Are you deaf? Take your shirt off.”
The guard looked at the tightly-strapped corset that was wrapped around the false stomach.
“I’ve got a hernia, you know. Do you want me to take this off as well?” asked Alex, indignantly, pointing at the corset. He looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to start serving in a few minutes. Or shall I tell them that I’ll be late?”
The guard handed his papers back and waved him on disdainfully. “OK fatso, get to work.”
* * *
Alex, Istvan Nagy and five other waiters lined up outside the entrance to the Presidential suite. Two more armed guards frisked them, before ushering them through another metal detector, and finally into the dining room. The Beidermeyer furniture had been waxed and polished. Dim light-bulbs glowed in the crystal chandelier. A table had been set for sixteen, with solid silver cutlery, crystal wine and water glasses and antique porcelain place settings. Berlin cabaret music from the 1930s played in the background. The air was already filling with cigar smoke. Alex helped the other waiters quickly set up the bar in the corner, and poured wine, schnapps and champagne into glasses. He stepped out and circulated with his tray of drinks.
The guests drifted in; fourteen men and two women. The youngest looked to be in his late forties, the oldest, a pensioner in a wheelchair. Hrkna was there, together with Malinanescu, Daintner, Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann. All as sleek as seals, thought Alex, shiny, prosperous and satisfied, as though the world was theirs by right. They talked in low voices, with the easy arrogance of those whose wishes are always met, and quickly. Dieter Klindern chatted animatedly with the President of the Volkstern Corporation, Sylvie Krieghaufner. Krieghaufner was a well-preserved blue-eyed ash-blonde of a certain age, dressed in a shimmering black silk dress. She was smoking a long, slim panatela. The skin above her cheekbones was drawn unnaturally tight, Alex noticed. Her forehead was virtually unlined and her lips too large for her narrow, bony face, which gave her a rather equine look.
Malinanescu walked over and introduced himself to Krieghaufner, bowing low and kissing her hand. Klindern looked on, with an expression of amused condescension. A petite, elderly lady stood slightly aside from the others, watching carefully as she sipped a glass of mineral water. She was dressed in an old-fashioned green tweed jacket and skirt, her hair wound tight in a bun.
Krieghaufner caught Alex observing them and nudged Klindern, muttering something that made him laugh. Both looked at Alex. He blushed and turned away. He tried unobtrusively to eavesdrop on the conversations as he circulated, without much success. Once he had served the drinks he could hardly stand there listening. He heard the words “Czigex”, and “the Gypsy problem,” but the two silver-haired men with loud voices were on the other side of the room. “Who would have thought the Jews would turn out to be such fighters,” another proclaimed. Otherwise it was scraps and snippets: names of Swiss banks, newspapers and television stations recently acquired and politicians now declared to be ‘good friends of ours’ prompting a quip from Sylvie Krieghaufner that “so they should be, they cost enough”.
For a man who might soon be President of Europe, Sanzlermann did not look very happy, Alex thought. And where was the much-vaunted chemistry between him and the Hungarian Prime Minister? The two men seemed to be doing everything to avoid each other, and could barely conceal their mutual distaste, sitting far apart, at opposite ends of the table. The talk moved on to ski resorts, European politics, the last U.S. Presidential election. The dinner passed quickly. Goose liver followed by beef tenderloin with roast potatoes, then dessert – pancakes with flaming brandy. Alex lit the hot spirit, as Nagy poured it over the line of plates before each was presented. The first tot of brandy ignited with a whoomp. He barely jumped back in time so that his fake moustache was not set on fire. The grey-haired lady ate little, and waved away dessert.
Alex looked up to see Reinhard Daintner watching him. Daintner worried him. Alex had met him two years ago, when he had interviewed Sanzlermann as a rising star of Austrian politics. He knew Daintner was extremely intelligent and those pale eyes caught everything. Did he remember him? Or even know? Of course not, Alex told himself. How could he? It was a ridiculous idea. Focus on the task at hand.
Once the plates were cleared, the waiters were dismissed. The doors were closed, and the waiters retreated to the hotel’s basement kitchen to construct a feast from food cooked but not served. They sat noisily helping themselves to the beef, goose liver and vegetables, pouring each other generous glasses from the half-drunk bottles of wine.
Istvan Nagy, a chubby, bald man, was clearly relieved that the dinner had gone smoothly. He wiped the sweat from his shiny forehead with a white napkin. “Have a glass of this,” he said, handing Alex a glass of twelve year old Cabernet Sauvignon.
Alex sipped disconsolately. The rich, velvety wine was vinegar on his tongue. Here he was, in the same building as the Directorate, even serving their food, and all he had discovered was that a Prime Minister, two current Presidents, and a probable future one were having dinner with some German industrialists and a Swiss lady. He pushed a piece of beef around his plate.
The telephone rang. Istvan Nagy nodded. “Yes, Mr Daintner. Of course,” he said. He looked at Alex. “Go up. They need someone to serve drinks. Daintner asked for you.”