Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.25 p.m.
Hunor the waiter reappeared and placed Reka and Eniko’s drinks on their table. The drinks were served in tall, frosted balloon glasses with large, transparent ice cubes and a semicircle of lime. The two women clinked their glasses. Neither noticed Hunor walk out of the main area and into a small service annex.
Eniko took a small sip of her drink and put the glass back down. It was delicious, ice cold with a bracing taste of lime and juniper. But she was very definitely still at work, so a sip was enough. An American couple in their sixties walked by. Eniko waited until they had gone before she answered. ‘There are rumours at Keleti, some of the migrants say that it’s possible to buy a Hungarian government passport.’
‘That’s true.’
Eniko braced herself. She was probably about to ruin what was turning into quite an enjoyable evening, and burn a potentially excellent contact. But she had no choice. ‘Do the passports come from your ministry?’
‘Yes.’
Eniko thought for a moment. ‘But you are the minister of justice. If you know this, then why don’t you do something about it?’
Reka picked up her cocktail and took a longish drink. She closed her eyes for a second. ‘The cocktails here really are unbeatable.’ She put the glass down. ‘I am doing something about it. I am telling you.’
‘It took you a while.’
Reka smiled brightly. ‘Better late than never. Do you want this information, Eniko, or not?’ she asked, a hint of steel in her voice.
Eniko scribbled in her notebook, her heart thumping as she held her pen in her hand. ‘Yes, of course. Can you say that on the record?’
Now it was Reka’s turn to hesitate. She had thought about this all day. The words she was about to say could not be unsaid. Even if Eniko did not write the story – which she thought highly unlikely – the information, or a version of it, would soon be flying around the city’s bars and cafés and up and down the corridors of power. No journalist could keep something like this to themselves. Budapest, or at least the insiders’ part of it, was a very small place. Pal Palkovics would come for her, again. But he was going to anyway. The choice had been made for her. ‘I can say that on the record and more. Much more, but not all of it tonight. Let’s spend some time together, get to know each other a bit. See how we can help each other.’
Eniko nodded warily. ‘Sure. That makes sense.’
Reka continued talking, ‘But before that, I have a question for you. About how the media works. As I understand it, the time to frame a story, to shape how it is covered, is when it is first reported. Is that correct?’
Eniko nodded. ‘Broadly, yes. The way it is projected stays in people’s memories. That is how they perceive it. But any story can go in different directions afterwards. Once it’s out, it’s impossible to control.’
‘Of course. But its initial impact, the first impression – that can be managed?’
‘To some extent, yes,’ said Eniko, now thoroughly intrigued as she started to understand the trajectory of the conversation. She put her notebook down. ‘Reka, why don’t you tell me what you want.’
‘I want to help you, Eniko, to report what is happening in the highest reaches of our government. But Bela Balogh is dead. I am lucky to be alive. So we have to be smart, and careful.’
‘Is that why you have brought a bodyguard?’ asked Eniko. A tall, broad-shouldered man with buzz-cut blond hair had accompanied Reka into the café. He now sat nursing a still mineral water two tables away, a Bluetooth earpiece in his right ear, and a noticeable bulge under his left armpit.
Reka nodded in his direction. ‘Yes. Zsolt. Zsolt and his colleagues.’
Eniko looked around. Now she noticed that another man of similar build and appearance was sitting by the door to the café. Another bodyguard stood outside, by an Audi 6 saloon parked at the hotel entrance. The Four Seasons took up a whole city block. A small private road ran in front of the building, crowded with hotel cars and taxis. Eniko recognised the government vehicle, low on the road, heavy with armour plating. The Audi pointed at the flow of traffic into Szechenyi Square, gauzy grey smoke drifting from its exhaust pipe. The windows were tinted black, but there was surely a driver inside, keeping the engine running.
Eniko looked down at the table. ‘And that’s why our phones are in a signal blocking bag?’
‘Yes. But it’s very important, crucial, for our future cooperation that your report is accurate and’ – Reka paused, looked for the right word – ‘fair.’
Eniko understood instantly what Reka was offering. Reka was a journalist’s dream: a high-level source, a cabinet minister privy to the innermost reaches of the government. But she wanted if not to control, then at least to shape her reporting. What was fair to a government official was not necessarily fair to a reporter. Even now, more than twenty-five years after the change of system, numerous government officials demanded to see the whole article in which they were mentioned before it went online. Eniko never agreed. Nine times out of ten, they still spoke to her afterwards. She smiled as she thought of the poster in the 555.hu newsroom and the quote from H. L. Mencken about journalists and politicians, dogs and lamp posts. That was all very well, but the real world was transactional. Lamp posts were not very good sources.
Eniko sat up, her voice businesslike now. ‘I cannot give you copy approval. Nor can I show you the article before it’s published.’
Reka tilted her head to one side, smiled. ‘Eniko, please. I’m not asking for that. I would like us to have a mutually productive working relationship. And that any article reflects my point of view and gives weight to my perspective. I trust you to do that. And that you check any direct quotes with me.’
‘I can do that. My next question is: did you know that passports issued by your ministry were ending up in the hands of traffickers?’
‘Yes, I knew that passports, issued by my ministry, were being sold. Some of them ended up in the wrong hands. British officials have arrested several Islamic radicals at airports, posing as Hungarians.’
Eniko scribbled in her notebook. This story just got better and better. ‘How many? Where? Can you give me more details?’
‘We are agreed. Accurate and fair?’
Eniko nodded. Whatever. She could negotiate the details later. Hunor the handsome waiter appeared, hovered near the table, looking questioningly at the two women. Reka smiled, said, ‘We’re fine, thanks.’
Reka waited until he walked away, and leaned forward. ‘This is the key point, Eniko. It was a sting operation. The passports were bait to draw out the traffickers. Obviously it was all highly confidential. Only I and a couple of my most trusted officials knew about it. Now that we know who the traffickers are and how their networks operate, my officials are preparing a dossier to share with the British, European and American authorities.’ She sipped her drink, carried on talking. ‘You can use that. It’s all on the record. I can see the headline now: “Hungarian Officials Run Sting Operation to Catch People-Traffickers.” What do you think?’
Eniko continued writing. Was that really the headline, that Hungarian officials had run a sting operation to catch traffickers? She would think about that later. This was part of the story, she thought, but not all of it. There was something else here, she was sure. Reka’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, mouthed ‘My husband’ to Eniko and took the call, turning away as she dropped her voice.
Eniko sipped her gin and tonic while Reka spoke. It was delicious, certainly the best she had ever tasted, the ice cold spirit exploding on her tongue with tiny juniper taste bombs as the alcohol coursed into her bloodstream, mixing with the adrenalin. The synapses in her brain crackled and snapped. Dead ministers. People-traffickers. Passports for terrorists. Islamic radicals. Still, there was something else, something more here, she was sure of it. It could not be a coincidence that all this was happening as a massive influx of money was pouring in from Gulf investors. She remembered a report she had read in the Economist, about the shadowy figures in the Gulf who were secretly funding Isis in Iraq and Syria. There had already been questions in Parliament about the residence bonds, the ease with which Arab investors acquired them. When opposition MPs had raised the matter at a meeting of Parliament’s national security council, Palkovics’s allies had all walked out, thus preventing a quorum and any further discussion. What if the Gulf investment came at a much higher price? A price that only Pal Palkovics knew about. It seemed a wild idea, too wild to be feasible. But it also made perfect sense and explained why Simon Nazir had been killed.
Eniko waited until Reka finished speaking and put her phone away. ‘Tell me what else the Arab investors get for their money?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Reka. ‘Transit. Transit for whoever they want.’
Warehouse, District X, 7.35 p.m.
Black George beckoned Balthazar to sit down. Four white plastic chairs had appeared a couple of yards in front of the cage. The Kosovar sat at the end of the row, Bettina next to him. Balthazar sat between her and Dorentina. He was the guest of honour, it seemed. There were no other seats. The rest of the audience stood, craning forward for the best views. The lights dimmed and a ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd.
A tall man with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail stepped forward and climbed up the short staircase that led to the cage. He wore a black tuxedo and trousers and a crimson bow tie over a white dress shirt, and held a cordless microphone in his hand as he stepped through the door. He walked into the centre of the stage and a single spotlight bore down on him. The talking stopped and the crowd fell silent, the air electric with anticipation.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced in Hungarian, English, Russian and Albanian. ‘Tonight we have a fantastic show for you, with a special prize for the winner.’ He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small burgundy booklet. ‘A passport.’ The crowd murmured its approval. The MC cupped his left hand to his ear. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.’ The crowd shouted louder. ‘That’s better. Because this is not just any old passport.’ He paused, opened the document and showed a blank page. ‘It’s a Hungarian passport. Ready and waiting for a name and a photograph. And if the winner has a family, they all get one as well.’
The crowd roared, shouting, ‘Hajra Magyarorszag! Hajra Magyarorszag! Go Hungary! Go Hungary!’
‘ That’s better. Because this is going to be an amazing evening. Eight fighters. Each bout will be a single round of three minutes. The four winners will go through to the semifinals, then the last two will fight in the final. Now, before we start, a quick recounting of the rules of the ring.’ He put the passport back in his jacket pocket, turned and looked across the warehouse, a long sweeping gaze that took in every corner of the room, a solemn expression on his face. He stood still for several seconds, before his face split into a wide grin. ‘ aren’t any!/’ The audience roared. The MC smiled. ‘Except these: no tearing, gouging or biting. We are not animals. Just good, clean, dirty fun. And please, dear fighters, try not to kill each other. Dead bodies are so inconvenient.’
Balthazar half-watched as the MC ran through his routine, remembering what he knew about Black George. Even his nickname was a deliberate provocation. Karadjordje, the original Black George, was a nineteenth-century Serbian nationalist leader, regarded as the founder of modern Serbia. The Albanian Black George had returned to Budapest a few years after the Kosovo war. District IX, he decided, would be his base. The quarter had been run by Karcsi bacsi. Karcsi had been a distant cousin of Gaspar and Balthazar’s, an oldschool crime boss in his seventies, overweight and with a heart problem. He had run streetwalkers and pickpockets, and provided protection for local bars.
There had been a comfortable modus vivendi between Karcsi, the locals and the police. Karcsi was preparing to hand over to his son, Karcsi junior, and retire. Despite being one of the poorer areas of the city, District IX was comparatively crime-free. The pickpockets operated downtown. The prostitutes used cheap hotel rooms, not back alleys or playgrounds after dark. There were no condoms or syringes on the pavement. The bars were protected. Until Black George had arrived. A spate of muggings had erupted, bars and cafés were smashed up or set on fire, prostitutes found beaten halfsenseless. The cheap hotel near Boraros Square that doubled as Karcsi’s brothel had been burned down.
Soon afterwards, Karcsi junior had disappeared. So did six of Karcsi’s highest-earning prostitutes. Karcsi, Gaspar and Balthazar had used every contact they had to try and locate Karcsi junior and the prostitutes. All they could discover was that they had been bundled into vans and driven away. After three days, the call came. The prostitutes were found stripped naked, freezing, dehydrated and hungry in the warehouse where Balthazar was now talking to Black George. Karcsi junior was nearby, unconscious and barely alive. He had also been stripped naked, beaten severely, forced to stand against the wall while his hands were nailed into the brickwork. Such an assault was enough to trigger an all-out war. Gaspar and the bosses of Districts V, VI, VII and XIII had all pushed for a ferocious response, even hiring a hit man from the Balkans or Ukraine to take out the dangerous new interloper. But Karcsi seemed to lack the heart to take revenge. He had then received a series of photographs of his wife, sons, daughters and numerous grandchildren leaving their homes, playing in the park and going to school. He handed control over to Black George, and died soon afterwards of a heart attack.
Did Black George know where the Gardener was? Almost certainly. His offer might even be genuine. But the partnership would soon turn into a takeover. Gaspar would lose his business and Black George increase his empire. In any case, Gaspar would never agree to go into business with Black George to help Balthazar solve a murder case. Balthazar watched the spotlight fade, then move to the back of the warehouse, where it stayed for a couple of minutes, before following the two fighters as they stepped forward.
Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.40 p.m.
‘I think that’s enough for now. I’m fading,’ said Reka. ‘You have a murder, an attempted murder, a passport sting and a government providing transit facilities for Islamic radicals in exchange for foreign investment.’
Eniko nodded. Reka was right. Her head was reeling and not from the gin and tonic. She needed to go home, type up her notes, make a pot of coffee and work out what to do next. Reka caught Hunor’s eye and made a scribbling motion with her hand. He nodded. The drinks would be charged to the ministry’s account. She left a thousand-forint note on the table, put her jacket on, and adjusted the silk scarf around her neck. Zsolt, her bodyguard, stood up and strode rapidly towards the table. ‘We have to leave, Madame Minister, and now.’
Eniko glanced at Reka, then out of the window. Four black Gendarmerie vans were approaching the hotel. The Four Seasons had three entrances: one in front and two side entrances on Zrinyi and Merleg streets. A Gendarmerie van forced a path between the hotel taxis and tourist buses on the narrow road that ran in front of the building, stopping behind Reka’s Audi. A second reversed down the same road, stopping in front of the Audi, boxing the vehicle in. The other two vehicles blocked the entrances on Zrinyi and Merleg streets. Four squads of four Gendarmes spilled from each vehicle, advancing on the front entrance, barging the startled tourists out of the way.
‘We really do have to leave now, Madame Minister,’ said Zsolt.
Reka said, ‘Give me a moment, Zsolt. And Eniko, you stay close.’ Reka turned to Zsolt. ‘She is with us, OK?’ Zsolt nodded. Reka reached for her iPhone. ‘I need to make a call.’ She quickly scrolled through her numbers until she found the one she was looking for, and pressed the dial button. The call was answered after three rings. ‘Sandor, it’s me. We have a problem.’
Warehouse, District X, 7.40 p.m.
Balthazar watched the spotlight track the first fighter as he walked across the warehouse into the cage. ‘Go West’, the 1980s hit by the Pet Shop Boys, suddenly boomed through the space. He was a giant of a man, at least six feet four inches tall, shaven-headed, with dark brown eyes, his heavy-set muscles oiled and gleaming. He wore a pair of shiny black nylon shorts and a blue lycra singlet. He stepped through the gate and the MC announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Ahmed, better known as the Baghdad Brawler, and a former captain of the Iraqi Olympic wrestling team.’ The giant grabbed the chain-link fence, baring his teeth, roaring out loud and shaking it hard. The sound of rattling metal triggered another cheer from the crowd.
The spotlight remained on him, while another light followed the second fighter as he emerged from the shadows. He was considerably smaller, about five feet eight, with rope-like muscles and a large lion tattooed on his back. He also wore nylon shorts and a singlet, had a boxer’s nose, badly straightened where it had been broken, and he bobbed up and down on his toes. Balthazar thought he looked fast and light on his feet. ‘And on the other side of the ring, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the MC, ‘Memet, better known as the Kurdistan Killer, for reasons we don’t need to discuss here.’
The MC, who doubled as the referee, brought the two men together to shake hands. The giant tried to grab his opponent and pull him towards him. ‘Naughty, naughty,’ said the MC. ‘Wait until the bell.’ The giant released his opponent. The MC stepped back into the corner. The bell sounded and the crowd cheered.
Both men circled each for several seconds, their hands up, looking for an opening. The giant moved first, rushing towards Memet, trying to use his weight and mass to force him into a corner of the cage. Memet seemed to allow himself to be swept forward. Once the two men were in the corner, the giant tried to grab Memet, who dodged sideways. Balthazar watched as his left leg flew out, sweeping hard behind the wrestler’s leg. He aimed for the back of his knee. The blow would have dropped the giant instantly but the giant crouched down as the kick connected. Memet’s foot hit his thigh then slid off.
Even so, most men would still be floored by such a move. The giant laughed and remained immobile. Now Memet was off balance, grimacing with pain as the force of his failed leg-sweep ran back up his leg. The giant grabbed for him again and this time succeeded. He wrapped his arms around Memet and raised him up, trapping his arms, ready to throw him to the ground. The crowd cheered. Balthazar looked around. It wasn’t just blood lust that was running high. There were rhythmic movements in the shadows, gasps and moans as well as cheers.
Memet drew his head back then slammed his forehead forward into the giant’s nose. The crack was audible. Blood erupted from his face, pouring over the two men. The wrestler staggered back, then hurled Memet against the wall of the cage. Memet landed on his side just as the wrestler rushed at him. Memet scrabbled back up from the floor, instantly jumping forward with his left leg, scissor-kicking with his right into the giant’s groin. The giant’s face twisted in agony. He staggered back, tried to right himself, then collapsed sideways in a heap, blood still pouring over his torso from his broken nose.
Memet walked over to him, looked down at his defeated, half-unconscious opponent. ‘Kill him, kill him,’ echoed around the warehouse. The MC walked over and held Memet’s hand high. ‘Bout one goes to the Killer from Kurdistan.’
Black George turned to Balthazar. ‘Not bad. Less than a minute.’
Balthazar nodded. The Baghdad Brawler was a wrestler. He knew how to grab and throw and lock down. But the Kurdistan Killer was a street fighter and the result had never been in doubt. There were another six bouts of this to go. He had no desire to watch the parade of desperate men fighting and injuring each other for the chance of a passport. He looked around the audience. Goran was huddled in a corner with a Croatian gangster who smuggled stolen cars out of Hungary into the Balkans, from where they were shipped to South America. The two men were deep in conversation, their body language friendly and animated. Balthazar smiled. In crime at least, the old Yugoslavia lived on. But what he wanted, more than anything, was to see his son. Or at least to speak to him. Goran had given Balthazar his car keys in case he wanted to use his phone. Balthazar turned to Black George. ‘I need to make a call. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Is that OK?’
Black George said, ‘Bored already?’
‘Not at all. But I need to speak to someone.’
‘Your colleagues? You calling in a team to shut us down, arrest us?’
‘Of course not. Gaspar should know about your offer.’
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘In my car.’
‘OK. But she goes with you.’ He nudged Dorentina, who stood up. ‘And come back quickly. They’ll let you in again.’
Balthazar stood up and stepped around the crowd, Dorentina following him. The second set of fighters were walking into the cage. One was African, tall and lean with the build of a Somali or Ethiopian. The other was shorter and heavier-set with olive skin and slicked-back hair. The African man looked vaguely familiar, then Balthazar realised where he had seen him before: it was Samuel, the South Sudanese man to whose family Balthazar had given the supplies at Keleti, and who had helped him when he had been beaten up. The cheering started again as the two men faced each other. This was one fight that he definitely had no desire to see. Balthazar quickened his pace, stepping out of the main warehouse into the front area. The security guards moved forward to block his path, receding when they saw Dorentina escorting him.
Balthazar stepped outside and stood for a moment, taking deep breaths of the cool night air. He looked up, watched an aeroplane climb slowly, red and green wing lights blinking as it banked westwards towards Vienna. He walked over to Goran’s car, a battered blue Lada Niva four-by-four, and leaned against the door, taking the keys from his trouser pocket. A light breeze washed over him, carrying the smell of green fields. Headlights swept back and forth on the road in and out of the city. The only sounds were the distant hum of the traffic and the wind blowing through the trees. The exhaustion was hitting him in waves now. He had not taken any painkillers since lunchtime. His back and shoulders were a mass of aches and the iron bar had reappeared in his head. He reached into his pocket, still leaning against the car door, found a packet of paracetamol and dry-swallowed two tablets, the bitter taste of the medicine flooding his mouth. He fought to stay awake but the tiredness briefly won and he dozed off for a few seconds, until he smelled a heavy perfume and felt a touch on his arm. Dorentina said, ‘Wake up, this is not a place to sleep.’ Her voice was soft, but laced with warning.
He thanked her and she watched him as he opened the car door and took his phone from the glove compartment. She stepped away, pretending at least to be out of earshot. Balthazar started to dial Alex’s number, pressed the first five digits, then stopped. Black George doubtless knew that he had a son, but there was no need to let his bodyguard listen in on the conversation. Even standing at a distance, she would be able to hear Balthazar speaking. But more than that, his son would ask him where he was. He could not tell him, that was obvious, and he did not want to lie to the boy. He was already manipulating Sarah to get access and an extra visit next week. He felt no guilt about that, none at all, but there were enough secrets and unsaid things in his family. His relationship with Alex was one that he intended to keep open and honest. He could at least text him. Balthazar tapped out a couple of lines, explaining that he was working and that he was really looking forward to seeing him tomorrow and that he loved him. All that was true. A few seconds later the telephone beeped that a message had arrived.
I love you too Daddy. We will have fun tomorrow.
Balthazar smiled, leaned back against the door and closed his eyes for a few moments. However chaotic his personal and professional life was, he had his son. And nobody would ever take that from him. He suddenly had a craving for a cigarette. He had smoked, only socially, for years. Gypsy family gatherings were usually accompanied by a fog of tobacco smoke. It seemed easier to smoke his own cigarettes than passively inhale his relatives’. After Eniko had left, he was soon up to half a packet a day. One morning, he had lit his first cigarette before he even got out of bed. He had met Alex later that day. After his son told him that he smelled of cigarettes, he had stopped completely. The craving was not overpowering, but he needed, he realised, a reason to stay outside while the desperate men inside pummelled each other senseless. He opened the car door again. There was a half-empty packet of Marlboro Lights in the side compartment of the driver’s door. He reached inside and took the crumpled box out, but realised he did not have a light.
He smelled perfume again, turned around to see Dorentina standing next to him, lighter in hand. She moved like a ghost. He offered the packet to her. She shook her head. He took out a cigarette from the box. It was bent and the paper was cracked, but it would do. Her thumb slid across the top of the lighter and a small flame caught. He leaned forward and inhaled. The tip of the cigarette glowed red in the darkness. He coughed. The tobacco was dry and stale and the acrid smoke caught in his throat. Now he remembered why he had given up.
Dorentina watched him for several seconds, then said, ‘Boy or girl?’
‘That was Gaspar. He texted me. We’ll talk later.’
Dorentina smiled. ‘I don’t think so. You aren’t going into business with Black George. And you can see Gaspar whenever you want. That was someone else. Someone who fills your soul, who softens your face.’
Balthazar laughed. Gypsy women. They knew everything. He could lie with a straight face to any gadje and be believed, but never to his own. ‘Maybe it’s my wife.’
Dorentina took the cigarette from his hand and dropped it on the ground. ‘You don’t want this. And you aren’t married.’ She picked up his left hand. ‘No ring.’
Balthazar felt a current pass through him as his fingers rested on hers. ‘Maybe it was my girlfriend.’
Dorentina shook her head. ‘No girlfriend either.’
‘How do you know?’
Her eyes glowed in the dark. ‘I just do. You are lonely. So, boy or girl?’
‘Boy. Almost thirteen. You?’
She looked away, let her fingers slide from his. ‘Son. He is five. We don’t live together.’
‘That’s hard. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Here, I think. I see him a few times a year. He is brought to me.’
‘By who?’
She turned around to Balthazar, pain written on her face. ‘Who do you think? I heard your conversation with Black George. How much do you want this Hejazi?’
‘He is a killer. I’m a cop. So, very much. Do you know where he is?’
‘No. But I know where he will be tomorrow evening.’
‘Where?’
‘Can you help me get my son?’
Balthazar thought before he answered. The likelihood of him being able to locate and rescue Dorentina’s little boy was remote. But not impossible. ‘I cannot guarantee anything. But we could try.’
Dorentina looked at him. ‘Good. Then I can tell you this.’ She stood very close to him, spoke for some time, then asked, ‘Is that enough?’
‘Yes. But how do you know all this?’
‘Black George speaks freely in front of us. He trusts us with his life. We know everything about him.’ She paused. ‘My son?’
Balthazar laid his hand on her arm, feeling the hard muscle underneath. A distant cheer sounded across the fields. ‘I will try. I give you my word.’
‘I believe you. Then let’s go back.’
Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.45 p.m.
The Four Seasons doorman tried to protest but was quickly pushed out of the way as the Gendarmes stormed into the hotel entrance; his hat flew from his head. For a second, Attila Ungar seemed lost in the enormous space, with its vaulted ceiling, tiled walls, stained glass windows and sleek wooden reception desk with vases full of orchids. He glanced back and forth then ordered his men towards the café, pushing their way through a crowd of startled tourists. A Japanese man held up a smartphone and started filming. Ungar grabbed the handset and hurled it against the wall. It smashed into pieces. ‘Would anyone else like to film us?’ he demanded. The Japanese man jumped back and quickly left.
A short, dark Spanish woman in her forties stepped out from behind the reception desk and stood in front of Ungar. ‘This is an outrage. You have no right to behave like this on private property.’
Ungar walked up to the reception desk and slowly pushed one of the vases with his forefinger until it reached the edge.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Carmen Esperanze. The manager. And I must ask you to leave.’
A Gendarme stepped back into the foyer. ‘She’s not there, boss,’ he said to Ungar.
Ungar pushed the glass vase an inch further. It fell off the reception desk and shattered on the floor, spilling water and flowers all around. Ungar looked at the manager and said, ‘Ooops.’ He gestured at another Gendarme, then at the staff behind the desk. The Gendarme grabbed one of the receptionists, a redheaded German in her twenties, and dragged her out from behind the desk, her face twisted in pain as he held her hair in his fist.
Ungar turned to the manager. ‘You can help us, or we can take her into one of the vans. Where are they?’
‘Where are who?’
The Gendarme yanked the redhead’s hair. She shrieked in pain. Ungar said, ‘Reka Bardossy. You know who she is. And you know where she is.’
‘I don’t,’ said Esperanze.
Ungar stepped forward, an inch from her face. ‘Don’t waste any more of my time.’
The manager glanced at her employee. She shook her head, her face set in determination. Esperanze thought quickly. ‘Tower Suite. Fifth floor.’
Ungar smiled. ‘OK. I’ll send up my men. If she’s not there, we’ll take you in and all your staff.’ The Gendarme yanked the receptionist’s hair again. This time she flinched but stayed silent.
There was movement on the other side of the foyer. ‘Behind you,’ said Esperanze, her face like thunder. ‘She’s behind you.’
At that moment Reka appeared, accompanied by Zsolt, Eniko and her two other bodyguards. Reka walked into the foyer, as poised and calm as though she was entering the gates of her ministry, all eyes on her, and knowing it. ‘Are you looking for me?’ she said to Ungar.
Ungar gestured at the Gendarmes. ‘Take her in.’ He glared at Eniko. ‘What are you doing here? Are you deaf or stupid?’
Eniko said, ‘Neither,’ as Zsolt stepped in front of Reka and drew his pistol.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Reka said. ‘Take a look outside, Attila. Because neither are you.’
Warehouse, District X, 7.50 p.m.
Balthazar walked back across the field with Dorentina into the warehouse and they took their seats. The atmosphere had changed, the bloodlust fading. Samuel was standing inside the cage, his tall body shining with sweat, blood seeping from a cut on his cheek. In front of him, semi-conscious, lay a dark-skinned man in his late twenties. The MC stepped forward, held Samuel’s arm in the air. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the winner, the Sudanese Strangler. Three knockouts in a row, all within one minute. Soon to be an honoured citizen of Hungary.’ The crowd cheered. The cry went up, ‘Fekete bajnok, black champion.’ Samuel gave a tight-lipped smile.
Balthazar watched, pleased for Samuel, but also ashamed. The sooner he could get out of here, the better. ‘You missed all the fun, Detective Kovacs,’ said Black George.
‘It’s over?’
‘Yes. That man is a machine. Perhaps I will give him a job. Did you speak to your brother? Are we going to be partners?’
Balthazar shook his head. He had not called Gaspar. There was no need. They both understood what a ‘partnership’ with Black George would mean. ‘No. That’s not going to happen.’
Black George said, ‘Then you may leave. I hope you enjoyed the evening. There is nothing more to talk about.’ He walked off into the audience, Dorentina and Bettina beside him, the crowd instantly making way for him.
Except there was something to talk about, although Black George did not know it. Balthazar still had not mentioned Islamic terrorism, the involvement of western intelligence services, or broached Anastasia Ferenczy’s offer. He looked around. The black-clad security guards had moved out of sight. The lighting was back on. Some of the spectators were preparing to leave. Others had formed small groups, discussing the fight and the further rounds planned later. Pretty hostesses were circulating with trays of finger food and drinks. The atmosphere was more relaxed but the blood-lust would soon be running high again, Balthazar knew. He was done for the evening and could not wait to get out. He could see Goran standing on the other side of the cage, now talking to a Hungarian businessman who he knew was trying to start up a budget airline. Balthazar stood up and walked over to the door, waiting for his friend.
Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel, 7.50 p.m.
It is usually an eight-minute drive from the District V police station on Szalay Street, four blocks behind Parliament, to the Four Seasons Hotel. The six cars that roared out of the station car park made it in under three minutes, although they did go the wrong way down several one-way streets. The two vehicles that flew out of the District VI police station, on Szinyei Mersze Street, were further away but had an easier route, straight down Andrassy Way, sirens blaring, then on to Jozsef Attila Street. The District V cars split into two groups of three. One squad blocked in the Gendarme vehicle on the Zrinyi Street side of the hotel – one police car in front, another behind and the third parallel-parked – and the second trio blocked in the Gendarme vehicle on the Merleg Street side. The District VI cars split into two groups. One drove onto the narrow road in front of the hotel and boxed in the Gendarme vehicle behind Reka’s Audi, while the second police car carried out the same manoeuvre in the front. The Gendarmerie vans were now trapped.
Four police officers spilled out of each car. Each group executed the same manoeuvre. Two carried sledgehammers, two utility knives. The officers with the sledgehammers swung them hard against the locks of the empty Gendarmerie vehicles. The locks shattered and the doors buckled inwards. The policemen with the sledgehammers gave the locks a couple more blows. There was no way to open the doors now. Then they smashed in the windscreens. At that moment, a Polish tour bus parked in the road in front of the hotel, its passengers staring in amazement at the scene unfolding in front of them. The policemen with the utility knives rapidly slashed each tyre of the Gendarmes’ vehicles, ran into the hotel and formed a ring around Reka and the others, protecting them from Attila Ungar and the gendarmes.
Reka greeted the policemen, then looked at Ungar. ‘Attila, you were saying?’