Warehouse, District X, 7.00 p.m.
Balthazar read through the form once more, printed his name, signed and dated it. It was a one-paragraph declaration that the signatory would not film, record or discuss with any third parties what he or she was about to witness, and that he or she would not leave the area until authorised to do so. He handed the paper to a wiry, shaven-headed security guard wearing a black T-shirt and black combat trousers, holding a two-way radio. The guard added the paper to pile of sheets in a plastic tray next to a standing U-shaped metal detector, the same size and type used in airports. A large poster, professionally printed, was affixed to the wall nearby. It showed pictures of a mobile phone, a hand-held video camera, a microphone, a knife and a pistol. All the images were scored through with a thick red line. A second graphic in the lower half of the poster showed the camera followed by an equals symbol and a burly man standing above a prone figure, his right foot raised above his head. This was the second security check. Another security guard, at the entrance to the building, had already checked Balthazar and Goran’s names against a list of several dozen entries.
The shaven-headed guard gestured at Balthazar to step through the metal detector. It instantly beeped loudly, a green light on the top flashing. The guard held up the radio and spoke in a rapid burst of a language that Balthazar guessed was Albanian. He understood nothing except the mention of his name and the word ‘ polici’. A second of silence, a burst of crackle sounded and more words in the same language.
The guard nodded, gestured at Balthazar’s rope chain. Balthazar unlocked it, placed it in a plastic tray, walked around the metal detector and through it again. This time the machine , stayed silent. He turned around, picked up his chain, looped it back around his neck. Another guard gestured for him to step aside. Balthazar waited while he waved a metal detector wand up and down his chest and back, around and inside his legs. The guard nodded, and Balthazar walked towards a rusting double metal door. There he waited for Goran, his eyes scanning the long queue waiting to pass through the metal detector.
Most of Budapest’s underworld was here: Tomi bacsi, the Hungarian-Romanian from Transylvania who ran the pickpockets and bag-dippers who worked the tourists downtown and in the Castle District; Lajos, the Hungarian Harvard graduate whose upmarket brothels in Districts II and XII were all extensively wired with sound and video recording equipment that, according to one rumour, fed straight to the prime minister’s office; and a few yards behind them, Rita, a Hungarian originally from Slovakia, who bussed in the beggars who prostrated themselves on the Grand Boulevard and shuffled back and forth by the five-star hotels, pretending to be disabled. Other than Rita, who was accompanied by her two sons, the crime bosses were surrounded by lissom young women in tight dresses, giggling excitedly. The only notable figure missing was Balthazar’s brother, Gaspar. And not all the customers were criminals, Balthazar noticed. A gaggle of Buda housewives wrapped in designer dresses, tottering on high heels, talked over each other with excited voices. Their husbands were a few feet ahead, talking among themselves. Balthazar saw the boss of a national supermarket chain, a well-known industrialist, one of the country’s biggest landowners and several high-ranking officials from the Ministries of the Interior and Justice. Balthazar nodded at a short, rotund Roma man with long, black slicked-back hair, dressed in a green and gold tracksuit. Lajos Kolompar was a city politician, a distant cousin who delivered the District VIII and IX Gypsy bloc vote for the Social Democrats. Kolompar, Balthazar knew, was somehow enmeshed in the prime minister’s business network and was also working with Gaspar. Kolompar nodded back, raised an eyebrow, as if surprised to see Balthazar there. Balthazar had spoken with Sandor Takacs before he had gone out, telling him where he was headed, when and how long he planned to stay. Takacs had wanted to send a plain-clothes squad to keep an eye on Balthazar, especially after the attack at Keleti. But Balthazar had talked him out of it. Black George would have spotted the officers immediately and in any case the event was strictly invitation-only.
It was surprising that Goran was on the list. During the Yugoslav wars many commentators had opined about the supposed ‘ancient ethnic hatreds’ between Serbs, Croats and Muslims that were driving the slaughter. In fact the hatreds were comparatively modern, re-animated unfinished business from the Second World War. Serbs, Croats and Bosnians had gone to war then and again in the 1990s, but they still spoke variations of the same language, ate the same food, laughed at the same jokes, even married each other. It was the animosity between Serbs and Albanians that was visceral, reaching back to 1389 and the battle of Kosovo Polje, the Field of the Blackbirds, between the advancing Ottomans and the Serbs. The Ottomans won, opening the door for the Turkish conquest of the Balkans. The war in Kosovo in the late 1990s, the atrocities and massacres, were merely the latest chapter in a long chronicle of conflict that reached back to the fourteenth century. But Balkan crime knew no borders. Gangsters of all stripes had worked together in all the Yugoslav wars. Militias had sold each other weapons across the frontlines, ran cigarette-smuggling operations from Greece to Austria. Goran and Black George were both Balkan criminals operating in Budapest, with networks that reached far south, so it made sense to keep the lines of communication open. But that did not mean that they, or their people, liked each other.
Balthazar watched Goran step forward, hand his form to the guard. He glanced down at the paper then glared at Goran with barely concealed hostility. ‘Go,’ he said, pointing at the metal detector.
Goran stepped through the machine. It stayed silent. He waited to be frisked and checked again, then walked up to Balthazar. The two men stepped through the double doors. The warehouse stood at the centre of a long-abandoned industrial estate in District X, a mile or so from the city’s international airport. The concrete floor was rough and pitted, here and there bisected by sections of rusting tramlines that scavengers had failed to dig out for scrap. The roof had collapsed in places, the glass skylights had all shattered. The warm air was damp and heavy, thick with perfume, cigarette and cigar smoke, the acrid smell of marijuana, and an underlay of mould and decay. There were several dozen people inside, standing in small groups, smoking and passing hip flasks between themselves. Balthazar spotted numerous off-duty policemen, all of whom avoided catching his eye. He ran his index finger over the brick wall. The mortar was decaying, so soft with mould that he could dig it out with his fingernail. A generator hummed in the corner, providing power for the halogen lights strung around the ceiling. Despite the dingy surroundings, the huge space crackled with excitement.
Teams of security guards, all dressed in black T-shirts and combat trousers, patrolled the ground floor, with two-way radios in hand. More guards walked up and down the air bridges that criss-crossed the roof area. The exit, Balthazar saw, was chained and barred. A large, square metal cage, its sides about twenty feet long, stood in the middle of the space. The walls were ten feet high, made of chain-link fence, and a door was cut into one side. Standing near the front of the cage, flanked by his bodyguards, was the man Balthazar had come to see.
Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.05 p.m.
Five miles away, Eniko and her companion were ensconced in a corner table of the café of Budapest’s most glamorous hotel. Both women stopped talking as the waiter arrived. A small black bag, slightly larger than a mobile phone, rested on the polished dark wood surface. Eniko moved it aside to make space as the waiter put down two coffees and two mineral waters. He was in his late twenties, slim but well-proportioned in a tailored white shirt and slim-cut black trousers. Like his colleagues, male and female, he was notably good-looking. Eniko glanced through the picture windows as the waiter arranged the drinks, watching the traffic sweeping around the large green space of Szechenyi Square, onto the Chain Bridge and across the Danube. The bridge was lit up, the lamps draped along the sides glowing orange over the water.
‘Can I bring you anything else?’ asked the waiter, his large brown eyes sweeping over the two women, holding their gaze. Both shook their heads. Eniko smiled. He really was handsome.
Reka Bardossy saw Eniko watching the waiter as he walked away. ‘His name is Hunor. He’s very pretty. But not very smart.’ She smiled. ‘That doesn’t always matter, of course. I can introduce you if you like. They know me here.’
Eniko flushed pink. ‘That obvious? Thanks. But I’m focused on work at the moment.’
‘And you are right to be. Where did they hold you?’
‘An abandoned building, in the middle of a field. Somewhere near the Csepel HEV station.’
‘Did they get rough with you?’
‘Not physically. But I was threatened.’
Reka needlessly adjusted the blue-and-gold silk scarf around her neck. ‘I know that place. You were lucky to get out in one piece.’
Eniko glanced at Reka’s neck and hands. Why was she wearing a big scarf and black leather gloves indoors? ‘Luckier than Bela Balogh, Madame Minister.’
‘Yes. We will talk about that. But why don’t we get to know each other a little bit first. You do good work, Eniko. I’m a fan. And please call me Reka.’
Eniko told herself to ignore the flattery. Reka had invited Eniko to meet, so she wanted something. But Reka was right, there was no need to rush to business. Even in transactional relationships, the human connection was important. The two women chatted for a while, talking about their schools in Budapest and scholarships and foreign universities, their shared love of London, their favourite bars and restaurants. Eniko was surprised at how easily the conversation flowed. Reka was the minister of justice. Which meant that she was in charge of the legal system that tolerated, even facilitated widespread corruption. It was Eniko’s job to expose that, shine a light on the hidden channels where the dirty money flowed back and forth. Despite that, Eniko realised, somewhat to her surprise, Reka was also very good company. She was witty, funny, and an interested, engaging conversationalist, dropping snippets of gossip about high-profile politicians and minor celebrities. In exchange, Eniko gave her an inside account of her date with Tamas Nemeth, which Reka relished. In another universe, Eniko thought, they could easily have become friends.
After a while, when the two women began to relax in each other’s company, Eniko looped the conversation back to work. ‘Who do you think killed Bela Balogh?’
Reka Bardossy looked down at her coffee, stirred it before she answered. ‘I know who killed him. His name is Gabor Kozminsky. He is part of the prime minister’s security detail. His driver, in fact. He was trained in Moscow. It was Pal’s order. Our prime minister is tidying up his loose ends. Or trying to.’ Reka paused. ‘But it doesn’t always work.’ Reka unwrapped the scarf around her neck, then unpeeled her gloves and splayed her hands on the table.
Eniko stared at the dark red marks around Reka’s neck, the torn nails and cuticles, her eyes widening. ‘He tried to kill you?’
Reka laughed derisively. ‘Not personally. But he ordered it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It was a Gendarme.’
‘Maybe someone else hired him.’
Reka shook her head. ‘That’s not possible. They are all extremely well paid. They have complete legal immunity. Pal personally micro-manages their operations. They don’t step out of their headquarters without his say-so.’
‘Oh.’ Eniko looked down at the table before she spoke. ‘But I heard that you were... er...’
Reka laughed. ‘Yes. I was. We were. So it was a crime of passion.’
Eniko felt the familiar adrenalin rush. This story just got bigger and bigger. She took out her notebook and started scribbling. ‘Can I use what you just told me?’
Reka smiled. ‘The politician and the journalist. Why don’t we wait until the end of our conversation, Eniko? Then we can talk about the terms and conditions, what you want to use, and how.’
Eniko knew she was being played. ‘Terms and conditions’, as Reka put it, were usually defined at the start of a discussion, not afterwards, otherwise a source could let something slip and then say that it was off the record, not to be used.
Sometimes, though, it was worth bending the rules – and this was one of them. But that did not mean that tough questions went unanswered. ‘OK. But why did Palkovics want you dead? And why did he have his former interior minister killed?’
Reka glanced at her watch. ‘It’s well after seven, Eniko. I’m coffeed out and I won’t be able to sleep if I have any more. How about a proper drink?’
Eniko was about to say no. She was exhausted. She had been taken off a train, detained and threatened. The man she was supposed to meet earlier in the day had been murdered. The minister of justice, sitting with her at the same table, had just survived an assassination attempt and was feeding her the kind of information journalists dream about. Eniko needed a clear head. But it was also important that Reka felt comfortable. Nobody wanted to drink cocktails on their own. She glanced at the circular bar in the centre of the room, where a tall barman ladled ice into a gleaming cocktail mixer and shook it back and forth. Eniko said, ‘OK. Whatever you are having.’ She watched Reka summon the handsome waiter.
‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Reka said, glancing at Eniko, who nodded. ‘Make that two.’ He took their order and walked over to the bar. Reka turned back to Eniko. ‘You were saying?’
‘Bela Balogh. Why was he killed?’
‘He was unfinished business. A loose end. A loose end who knew too much.’
Eniko tried to process what she had heard. Part of her was beyond excited, part incredulous and another quite terrified. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. For a moment she was sitting in a circular rubber raft, white-water rafting on a summer holiday in Slovenia, the currents spinning the boat around as she fought the undertow that almost crashed her into the river bank. But the waters had calmed, and she brought the raft back under control. ‘And he also tried to kill you?’
‘Yes.’
Eniko asked, ‘Aren’t you scared? I know I am. This has been the scariest day of my life.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And there are still more than four hours to go.’
Reka looked into the distance. ‘Sometimes, I am, yes. But this has started, and now it has to finish.’
Warehouse, District X, 7.10 p.m.
‘Good evening, Detective Kovacs,’ said Black George. He gestured at the two women standing on either side of him. ‘Have you met Bettina and Dorentina? They are twin sisters. From Prizren, in Kosovo.’ Both women were wiry and toned, with dark eyes, full lips, long, raven hair pulled back from their faces and walnut-brown skin.
Balthazar smiled and wished the bodyguards good evening. They did not answer but stared at him with cool, assessing glances, taking in his physique, body language, and the bruises and scratches, quickly deciding he was not a threat. They wore heavy perfume over the tang of fresh sweat. Like Black George himself, the two women were Gypsies. Balthazar knew that their knives were concealed, but would appear the instant they thought that Black George was in any kind of danger. The blades would be wielded faster than any man’s fists. Black George continued speaking. ‘It’s going to be a great evening. But before the entertainment starts, we should clarify something.’
‘I signed your form,’ said Balthazar.
‘Someone called Balthazar Kovacs signed it, but who? The policeman, or the brother of the city’s biggest pimp? The Gypsy from the backstreets of Chekago, or the diligent student at Central European University?’
Balthazar shrugged. ‘All of them.’
‘Where is your brother?’
‘He’s not coming. He doesn’t approve.’
Black George laughed, reached into his back pocket and took out a brass knuckleduster. It had a short, pointed blade at one end, encased in a leather sheath. ‘A pimp with a conscience.’
‘A pimp with an agreement with you, brokered by the Kris.’
Black George slid the sheath from the weapon and touched the end of the blade with his fingertip. A small dot of crimson appeared on the skin. Black George nodded approvingly, handed the blade to Bettina. ‘The time of the Kris is finished, Detective Kovacs. The whole world is in chaos.’ He squeezed his fingertip until the crimson dot swelled and burst, then licked his finger. ‘Look at poor Bela Balogh. One minute he is the minister of the interior, the next he is dead.’
Black George was a well-built man of medium-height in his mid-forties, with the dark complexion of a southern Balkan gypsy. He wore a skin-tight black vest, black jeans and trainers. The sides of his head and most of the top was shaved, apart from a backwards triangle of black hair which was gathered into a topknot. Both of his hands and arms were covered with tattoos of eagles, the symbol of Kosovo. Another bird was tattooed on the back of his neck, its wings reaching around to his cheeks, its talons down his back. His eyes, which gave him his name, were his most compelling feature, black as obsidian, they seemed to glow in the dark. He exuded a coiled, menacing energy, and was, Balthazar knew, capable of extreme violence on a whim. Bela Balogh’s death in a hit-and-run earlier that day was all over the news. The reference to Bela Balogh was a thinly veiled threat.
Black George had first arrived in Budapest in 2000 after the war in Kosovo, claiming to be a refugee from Prizren. He had lived there for a while, but he was born in Albania, in a slum outside the capital Tirana. By his mid-twenties he controlled much of the downtown capital, running prostitutes, pickpockets and selling adulterated fuel. But the Kosovo war brought new opportunities. Suddenly the city was awash with aid workers, reporters and spies. He quickly hired more prostitutes, trained more street children to pick pockets. His empire grew rapidly. Several of his rivals were found dead. Then the borders opened to let the Kosovo Albanian refugees flee. Black George walked into Kosovo from Albania and there linked up with a column of refugees fleeing to Macedonia, where he secured false papers. With those, he flew to Hungary and claimed asylum. On that trip, he kept a low profile, gathering intelligence about crime in the city. Budapest, he decided, would be his springboard into operations across western Europe, where the real money was to be made.
A slim young blonde woman in a red dress walked up, holding a silver tray. Three lines of white powder were laid out next to a polished silver tube. ‘Will you join me, Detective?’ asked Black George, his tone only slightly mocking.
‘No, thanks,’ said Balthazar.
Black George looked down at the tray, ‘Do you mind if I...?’
‘Not at all.’
The young woman held the tray as Black George inserted the tube into his nose and bent forward.
Black George sniffed up the two lines, one after another, exhaled hard and shivered with pleasure. ‘The best. Pure Colombian.’ He held the tray out to Balthazar. ‘There’s enough left.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You want to talk?’ Black George looked down at the tray. ‘Then try it. You are safe here. There are no cameras.’
Balthazar dipped a finger in the white powder and dabbed it on his tongue. A strong chemical taste flooded his mouth. His tongue fizzed for a second, turned numb. The drug was so pure that he felt a kick. ‘As you say. Very good.’
Black George gave him a quizzical look. ‘You intrigue me, Balthazar Kovacs. The Gypsy detective. Why do you spell your name with an “h”? Why not Baltazar, like the Hungarians?’
‘My mother changed it. She liked that version better.’
Black George laughed, his eyes creasing. ‘If that was a disguise, it didn’t work. And look where it gets you. Why do you bother? You can arrest us, your cousins, your brothers, all day and night. You will still be a budos czigany, a filthy Gypsy. Why not come and work for me? I can pay you much more than you will ever earn as a policeman.’ He lifted up Balthazar’s rope chain, looked him up and down, taking in his close-fitting T-shirt and jeans. ‘I think you would fit right in. This Gaspar business, we can sort it out, fix things amicably. And there are other benefits.’
Black George gestured at his bodyguards, nodded at Balthazar. Bettina came to stand close to him on one side, Dorentina on the other. He felt the soft weight of their breasts on his arms, the warmth of their breath on his neck. ‘They like you, Bal-tha-zar,’ said Black George, mockingly emphasising each syllable.
Two hands slid up and down his spine, fingers pressing gently on his back, a further two sliding down to his backside and under his crotch. Balthazar blinked, tried to ignore the wave of pleasure running up and down his body.
Black George dropped Balthazar’s neck chain, smoothed it back in place. ‘Such fun and no complications.’ He sniffed, flicked a smudge of white powder from the underside of his nose. ‘None at all. And you would be protected. No more fights at Keleti. No one would dare. You, me and Gaspar. Partners, the three of us, what do you say?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ replied Balthazar, stepping forward, away from Bettina and Dorentina. ‘But we need to talk. Alone.’
‘Police talk?’
‘Friendly talk. A few questions. Let’s see if we can cooperate.’
‘OK.’ Black George gestured at his bodyguards to leave him. The two women began to protest. His voice dropped and his eyes suddenly glittered. ‘I said, leave us.’ The women immediately stepped aside. Black George stepped into the crowd. It parted instantly as he led Balthazar to a corner of the room.
The two men stood in the corner. The generator hummed and coughed. Balthazar took a sheet of paper from his back pocket, a printout of the photograph of Simon Nazir. He unfolded it and showed it to Black George. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked.
Black George shook his head. ‘Never met him.’
‘But you know who killed him?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘The killer’s name is Mahmoud Hejazi.’
‘Is it?’
‘You were going to take Hejazi across the border. With a passport issued by the Ministry of Justice.’
‘Was I really?’ asked Black George, his tone bored.
‘Yes. There are three ways out of here. With Gaspar and Goran, but they won’t take him. Through the green border with one of the guys who hang out at Keleti, but that’s way too risky. Or with you.’
Black George slid a finger back under Balthazar’s rope chain, lifted it up and down again. ‘Partners?’ Balthazar said nothing. He dropped Balthazar’s chain, started walking back to the seats in front of the cage. ‘Think about it, Detective Kovacs. But first, let’s watch the fun.’
Ungar home, Bimbo Way, Buda hills, 7.10 p.m.
Attila Ungar put his can of beer down and pressed the pause button on the television remote control as his phone rang. The football match, a Budapest derby between Ferencvaros and Ujpest, froze on the sixty-inch television screen that dominated the room, the Ujpest goalkeeper suspended in mid-air.
Ungar had been divorced for a decade. He lived alone in a new luxury development in the Buda hills. The flat had a large wraparound terrace and a panoramic view of the river, but he rarely ventured outside, and kept the blinds down. There were three bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. One was kept for his teenage son, Henrik, complete with an Xbox and flat-screen television. The boy rarely visited and had never stayed over. The flat had a fully fitted American-style kitchen diner, most of whose equipment was unused. Ungar scrabbled around among the beer cans and empty pizza boxes on the coffee table until he found his phone. The ring tone, the Hungarian national anthem, meant one particular caller. One who definitely needed to be answered.
‘Did the journalist get the message?’ asked Pal Palkovics.
‘Of course.’
‘How long did you hold her?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Then why is she ordering gin and tonics with Reka Bar-dossy in the bar of the Four Seasons?’
Ungar shook his head, exhaled hard, put his can of beer down and glanced at the screen, a wave of nostalgia for simpler times washing through him. He had come a long way from his childhood in a cramped tenement flat on the outskirts of the city, with a cowed mother and an alcoholic father who regularly beat him half-senseless. He had learned to fight on the Ujpest terraces, had been a founder member of the Ultras squad. By the time he was fourteen he had learned enough to hit back against his father, who had not beaten his son again. Some of Ungar’s former brawling partners had been recruited to the Gendarmes. Others were dead or in prison. A few were still there on the terraces. He looked harder at the screen, thought he could even make out their faces. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Deal with her.’
‘A few hours ago, you told me no violence.’
‘Just shut this down, Ungar. You have a station almost next door. How many people are on duty?’
‘Around a dozen.’
‘Is that enough, or shall I send reinforcements?’ His voice turned sarcastic. ‘There are two of them. They might be wearing high heels.’
Ungar grimaced. ‘I got it. And Reka?’
‘Leave her. Once the journalist is out of the way, she’ll get the message.’
‘OK, boss. I’ll deal with it myself.’