Retro-kert, Kazinczy Street, 8.25 p.m.
Eniko Szalay was not sure which was making her more uncomfortable: the whisky fumes that Roland Horvath was breathing over her, or the fact that he was sitting so close to her that she had no choice but to inhale them. ‘Kriszta was waiting for you in her office at two o’clock. So was I,’ he said.
Eniko closed her eyes for a second. Shit. She had completely forgotten that she was due to meet with the news editor that afternoon. But there had been no mention of Roland. Why had he been there as well? He continued talking, ‘And you didn’t call or message her. She tried to call you but could not get through.’
Contrition, Eniko decided. Contrition, and mild – very mild – flirtation if absolutely necessary. Lately, Horvath had been coming on quite strongly to Eniko, with clumsy attempts at gallantry. Hungary was an old-fashioned society where working women had to contend with a much higher level of sexism than their western counterparts. Middle-aged men, especially, still seemed to think that a stream of compliments and comments on a female colleague’s appearance were a likely path to seduction. Thankfully, apart from being over-attentive, Horvath was still behaving himself in the office. His hands did not wander. But now they were having an after-work drink, at his insistence, and she was scared they soon would. Eniko could have thought up an excuse, she supposed, but on balance had decided it was better to get the encounter over and done with.
Horvath reminding Eniko of her missed meeting was a way to get her on the back foot. Horvath was trying to show her who was in control, even outside the office. But she also had some weapons in her armoury. The editor of 555.hu was a lonely divorcee, she knew. His former wife, Julia, was now the government’s spokeswoman. Julia was married to the mayor of District VIII. Horvath had a teenage daughter called Wanda he adored but rarely saw. Eniko had several times seen him browsing Wanda’s Facebook feed on his office computer.
Eniko turned to Horvath, leaning in closer. ‘Roland, I am so sorry. My phone was stolen. But of course I could have got a message to her. It’s completely inexcusable, especially as I also wasted your time. Not too much, I hope. Let me get you another whisky,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm.
Horvath glanced down at her hand, turned pink. ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’ He kept looking down at his arm. She lifted her hand up, picked up her mineral water and sipped it, feeling guilty and uncomfortable. Was that all it took?
They were sitting on an old school bench on the top floor of Retro-kert, the oldest, largest and best known of the ruin pubs in District VII, on Kazinczy Street, a couple of minutes’ walk from Balthazar’s flat on Dob Street. Retro-kert took up the whole building. The walls were raw brick, covered with spray-painted graffiti, torn flyers and handwritten notes. The floor was bare concrete, the furniture a shambolic array of old-school furniture and cheap office chairs. Three Trabants stood in the centre of the courtyard, each with its roof removed. A decade ago, Retro-kert had been edgy, an Ungar outlier crowded with Budapest’s bohemians. It was now in every guide book. Eniko had not been back for years.
Loud shouts in English and cheers carried up from the ground floor. She glanced down, grimacing as she watched a pale man in a vest and Union flag shorts carry a tray of beers to his friends. A woman, slim, in her thirties, her dark-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, walked in. She was not exactly pretty, but she had strong features that made you look twice. The blonde woman passed the stag party, smiled in an amused way at their invitations to sit down, and walked over to the far corner of the ground-floor bar area. She looked familiar. Where had she seen her?
Roland watched Eniko looking at the scene on the ground floor. ‘What is it?’
Eniko smiled. ‘Nothing. Just another stag party.’
Eniko watched him look down at the boisterous group. He was about to turn back to her when his eye caught something. He was staring hard at the far corner of the bar, where the blonde woman had sat down, she noticed. He turned back to her, picked up his whisky and took a large swallow. Then Eniko remembered. At Keleti Station. The blonde woman was a taxi driver, always hanging around outside. What was she doing here? Why was a taxi driver making Roland nervous? Or maybe she was just over-thinking things.
‘Really, Roland,’ said Eniko, pointing at his drink. ‘Let me get you another one.’
Roland shook his head. ‘No, no, don’t worry. One is enough. I’m sorry about your phone.’ His voice turned serious. ‘But where were you?’
Sitting on my ex-boyfriend’s bed, wondering if I had made a huge mistake, after he was beaten unconscious by the Gendarmes, then doing something so appalling for a story that I don’t even want to think about it, she wanted to say.
‘With a contact. Working on the refugee story.’ That was more or less true, she thought to herself. Or at least a version of the truth, which was good enough. ‘There’s so much material. And the refugees keep coming in. It’s amazing that there has not been a riot at Keleti.’
Horvath frowned. ‘They are not all refugees. We need to talk about our house style. Half of them – more probably – are economic migrants. I see a lot of fit, healthy, young men in their twenties. Not so many women and children. Wasn’t there a mini-riot today? Someone was attacked. A cop, I heard.’
Eniko was about to answer when Horvath’s iPhone beeped. Eniko sneaked a glance as he checked his screen. A text message, she saw. Just a time: 9.00 p.m. No name or initial or number showing. That was curious. She glanced at her boss. Worry, even anxiety, flickered across his face. Who was he meeting? But at least she could escape in twenty minutes at the most, perhaps less. ‘Anything important? Do you have to go?’ she asked, making sure to keep the hope from her voice.
He glanced quickly downstairs, Eniko noticed. ‘No. I’m meeting someone here later.’
He put his phone down, turned to Eniko, fixed her with his pale-blue eyes.
‘What do you know about the attack at Keleti today?’
‘Not much. Only what I saw on YouTube.’
Horvath frowned. ‘You’ve spent days there. You must have some contacts. A policeman was beaten up.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Where you there?’
Eniko nodded. ‘At Keleti. Yes.’
‘Then why didn’t you file something? An eyewitness account, some colour, anything? We could have had it up on the website immediately.’
Eniko thought quickly. That was a good question. But not one she would answer truthfully. ‘I was on the other side of the Transit Zone, interviewing a family from Afghanistan. By the time I walked over to see what was happening, it was all over.’ She looked at him, gave him her brightest smile. ‘Sorry, Roland. It seemed quite a minor thing, compared to everything else going on.’
Eniko had planned to go back to the moneychangers on Rakoczi Way to check up on Maryam after she left Balthazar’s flat. But Roland had called, insisting that they get together so she could bring him up to date on her progress. And she’d been ready to leave Balthazar’s flat. Horvath’s whisky breath was at least a distraction from the powerful sense of guilt that she felt. She had several times forced herself to ignore the overriding urge to touch the right-hand pocket of her jeans, and check that the SIM was still there.
‘It’s not minor. It’s major,’ said Horvath, his voice focused now. ‘The guy who was attacked was a cop. Balthazar Kovacs. A detective. You know him, I believe.’
Eniko thought quickly. Roland was a recent arrival. Her relationship with Balthazar had ended six months ago. Her editor was sharper, or better informed, than she had realised. ‘I know lots of people,’ she said, wary now. ‘That’s my job.’
‘Not like you know him.’
Eniko sat very still. Had he really said that? ‘I don’t think my personal life is any of your business, Roland.’ Her voice was cold.
Roland flushed again, took a sip of his whisky to cover his embarrassment. He had stepped over a line and knew it. ‘No. And I apologise for that remark. But, you were at Keleti when a policeman was attacked. You didn’t file anything. The policeman is a Gypsy, who you... have some knowledge of. You yourself wrote that “two well-known Roma figures in the Budapest underworld” are rumoured to be connected to a people-smuggling operation. Are they linked to the detective who got attacked? It’s your job to make the connections. You are absolutely right about your personal life. It’s nothing to do with your job. Let’s keep them separate. But a reporter files reports. Do your job, please.’
Eniko nodded. She had been outmanoeuvred. ‘Yes. I will. Sorry.’
Horvath continued talking. ‘OK. Who are the “two well-known Roma figures in the Budapest underworld”?’
My former boyfriend’s brother and his consigliere, Eniko thought, but did not say. ‘I’m trying to get some more details, but I don’t have enough to get it past the lawyers yet.’
‘I am the editor. I take the lawyer’s advice. But I decide what runs. So you can tell me. Who are they?’
For a moment she was back on Balthazar’s bed, watching him while he was asleep, breathing slowly, his battered face restful. Balthazar’s connection to his brother was common knowledge among the police and Gaspar’s ‘associates’ but was not in the public domain. The two-way channel was useful for both sides to exchange information. And Eniko still felt a kind of loyalty to Gaspar, who had once stepped in when her family needed him.
Eniko’s father, once a high-ranking Communist Party official, had walked out in the late 1980s, defecting while on a trade mission to Vienna, where he had been having an affair with an Austrian civil servant. Eniko’s mother had raised her and her brother alone at a time when single parents were rare and unsupported, battling an indifferent bureaucracy, a very conservative society and hostile in-laws. Eniko’s mother was an attractive woman, had remarried and had borne another child. David was seventeen, a gangly teenager, and also went to Fazekas school. The middle-class children were no match for the gangs of street toughs who occasionally waylaid them on their way home in the backstreets of District VIII. After David had his iPhone stolen, Gaspar made some enquiries. The iPhone was returned two hours later. David was not bothered again.
So she did not feel like giving Gaspar up. In any case, what was this about? Horvath had never shown so much interest in one of her stories before. Play for time, she decided. ‘Umm... I don’t have my notes with me, Roland. It’s been a very long day.’
Eniko glanced around. A window was pulled shut nearby. There was no smoking in the bar but the room was hot and airless. Her boss had mild but intrusive body odour, smelling of sweat. She smiled at him, pointed at the window. ‘Would you mind if I opened that?’ she asked. Horvath nodded, and after a second or two realised that he needed to move away from her and let her through. She opened the window and sat back down, this time a good yard away. He noticed the movement and would, Eniko thought, doubtless exert his power by asking again for the names of the ‘two well-known Roma figures’.
She needed to pre-empt that, for there was no real reason why a reporter would not share such information with her editor, especially when operating in legally murky waters. There was only thing she could think of. She turned to him and smiled, ‘How’s Wanda? How old is she now? Thirteen? You must very proud of her.’
Horvath’s face softened. ‘Almost fourteen. They grow up so fast.’
‘You must have some photographs. I’d love to see them,’ said Eniko, feeling vaguely ashamed of herself for dragging Horvath’s daughter into the conversation.
Her boss did not seem to mind. He quickly took out his iPhone and called up the photographs. A tall, pretty girl with large brown eyes stared out from the screen. Eniko smiled and nodded, made encouraging noises as Horvath scrolled through several photographs, talking Eniko through Wanda’s school exams, her love of horse riding, how he wished he could spend more time with her. ‘I only get to see her every other weekend. I am supposed to get one evening twice a month as well, but she’s so busy with her schoolwork and horse riding...’ he said, swallowing hard, and picking up his whisky.
Eniko felt a curious pang, a kind of longing mixed in with her sense of shame. Shame at exploiting Horvath’s loneliness and love for his daughter. And longing for a father who wanted to see his daughter as much as Horvath did. Her father was a shadowy figure in her memories, occasionally appearing for birthday or name day celebrations or sending gifts, but never present in any meaningful way. Lately, after Eniko’s increasing success and fame as a reporter, he had been reaching out to her. She sometimes returned his calls.
Horvath was still for a moment, a wistful look on his face, then he put his phone away. He sat up straight, his demeanour businesslike now. ‘So, Eniko. I’d like a memo from you, outlining what you know about the Roma connection to the people-smuggling operation, how we can cover it and where the story might go. We need to make the running on this. We need to move on from Keleti and take the story forward.’
‘ОК. When?’
Horvath thought for a moment. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is Saturday,’ replied Eniko, aware how feeble she sounded.
Horvath raised his eyebrows. ‘It is. But if you want a nine-to-five job, there are some openings in the administrative department.’ He paused. ‘Monday morning. First thing. I expect something clear and detailed.’
Eniko nodded. ‘I’m on it.’
‘Good. Because we have something else to talk about.’ He sipped his drink. ‘An exciting potential opportunity for you.’
Eniko’s internal radar started pinging rapidly. She knew her editor well enough to know that what he considered exciting was likely to be less appealing to her. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Mr Kaplan is increasing his investment. We are going to expand. We will be hiring new recruits, covering new areas. And you can be a key part of that. In a new executive role.’
The news, not completely unexpected, triggered mixed emotions. Eniko loved being on the trail of a story, digging deep for the key nuggets of information, persuading contacts to talk, putting it all together. It was still a thrill to see her work on the website with her name underneath the headline. But as 555.hu’s most experienced reporter, she had also watched many of her junior colleagues make novice mistakes: approaching a story from an obscure angle, speaking to the wrong people, or asking the wrong questions when they found the right people. Increasingly, they asked Eniko for help and guidance, rather than Kriszta, the news editor. There was even talk of a reporters’ delegation making an official approach to management to replace Kriszta with Eniko. Eniko knew she could contribute more as news editor, guiding her colleagues, than as a reporter. She had even considered opening a conversation with Roland about taking on a wider role in the newsroom. But the refugee crisis was the biggest news story she had ever worked on, so she wanted to stay on the beat for at least a while. Now, however, it seemed management had realised of its own accord that she was editor material.
Eniko swirled the remnants of a melting ice cube in her mineral water, then looked at Horvath. ‘Thanks, Roland. I think Kriszta can still bring a lot to 555, but you are right, her skill set isn’t quite right for the newsroom. I am definitely interested, but could we hold off, at least until the migrant crisis has eased?’
Horvath frowned. ‘I am not sure what you are talking about, Eniko. Kriszta will remain as news editor. In fact she will have increased day-to-day responsibilities, overseeing the news diary and the reporters’ assignments.’
A weight appeared in Eniko’s stomach. ‘She’s staying?’
‘Absolutely. In fact, we are bringing in her deputy from the state news agency as well. There will be much tighter management of the whole newsroom operation. I will be overseeing both of them, of course,’ Horvath added quickly.
The weight turned heavier. This was a disaster. ‘Then what would I be doing?’
‘It’s a new challenge for you and a great opportunity. But I am absolutely confident that you can rise to the occasion.’ Horvath took out his wallet and fished inside. It was sleek black leather, with a white-gold clasp, Eniko saw, its three compartments filled with 5,000-, 10,000- and 20,000-forint notes. As far as she knew, he earned around 300,000 forints a month, had a mortgage and was expected to contribute to Wanda’s fees at the American school. Where did all that money come from? ‘The drinks are on me,’ Horvath said.
‘Can you please tell me what?’ asked Eniko, barely able to keep the exasperation from her voice.
‘Sandor Kaplan has purchased Szilky.hu. The site will keep its name but will be absorbed into the 555 brand. Mr Kaplan thinks – and Kriszta and I agree – that Szilky needs a new editor.’ He turned to her, raised his glass. ‘Congratulations.’
Royal salon, Buda Castle, 9.00 p.m.
The Qatari businessman stared down at Reka Bardossy’s breasts as he asked, ‘And who do you work for, my dear?’
They work for me, because they are attached to me, Reka felt like replying. Instead, she smiled sweetly, glanced again at the name tag on the pocket of his dark-blue Brioni suit: Abdullah al-Nuri, business development director and executive vice-president, before she answered. ‘I work for the prime minister, Mr Al-Nuri.’
So far, this had proved easy but dull. Al-Nuri was in his early sixties, short, paunchy and balding with straggly black hair that was too dark to be natural. He had talked about himself for five minutes without a break before asking this, his first question. She had merely smiled and nodded every now and then, which seemed to be all he expected. She wore a black, long-sleeved Donna Karan cocktail dress, a grey silk-and-cashmere pash-mina over her shoulders for modesty’s sake, and white Christian Louboutins with hundred-millimetre heels. Her outfit, elegant but restrained, had turned the head of every male in the room, and drawn barbed looks from many of the women present. So far everything had gone to plan, apart from the growing ache in her calf muscles and balls of her feet. The hundred-millimetre heels, she realised, would be OK for a dinner or a theatre outing, but were a mistake for a standing reception.
Al-Nuri, one of the most important guests at the Hungarian government reception, was to be humoured and entertained, she had been instructed. She was to laugh at his jokes, flirt if necessary, make him feel as though he was the centre of her world. That was all, thankfully. Anything more would be supplied by the city’s most upmarket madame who had been paid to keep all her oromlanyok, joy girls, free for the evening and ready to work at a moment’s notice, once the reception was over.
The business development director was in charge of a planned ten-billion-dollar investment. If the development went ahead, Hungary would be catapulted out of its post-Communist torpor. New cities would be built in the impoverished east. Cracked and pitted two-lane roads would be turned into smooth motorways. A high-speed rail link would reach to Vienna, and on to Frankfurt. The country would be blanketed in super-fast broadband. A state-of-the-art medical centre would be built in Budapest to attract patients from across the Arab world. And while the government and state media railed against the migrants and refugees at Keleti, other, richer immigrants were more welcome. An investment of €500,000 in Hungarian government bonds would bring immediate permanent residence for the bondholder, his parents and children, with a fast, smooth path promised to citizenship and a Hungarian passport, which meant the right to live anywhere in the European Union. Mr Al-Nuri, and several of his colleagues, had already been offered such benefits as a ‘goodwill gesture’, without having to invest a single euro.
Reka glanced across the room. Pal Palkovics was in the corner, nodding enthusiastically as the Qatari ambassador spoke to him. The reception was taking place in the grandest salon of the Buda Castle. Palkovics had recently spent hundreds of millions of forints refurbishing a palatial suite of offices overlooking the city. The building work on the outside was still going on. The rooms had barely been used. After a couple of weeks overlooking the Danube, Palkovics tired of the view and realised that he preferred to be at the epicentre of political intrigue, rather than overlooking it.
The government protocol department had gone all-out. Attractive young male and female waiters circulated with silver trays of mineral water, fruit juices, several types of colas, and canapés. There was no pork or alcohol served. The parquet floor had been polished so that it shone, the walls were lined with specially selected masterpieces of Hungarian art – none with any human forms, out of deference to their Muslim guests – and the view over the Danube and the city was spectacular.
Al-Nuri smiled, drawing back two purple, fleshy lips over some expensive cosmetic dentistry. ‘How nice. Are you one of his secretaries or personal assistants?’
Reka smiled sweetly, took a sip of her mineral water. ‘No. I am his minister of justice.’
Al-Nuri flushed a satisfying shade of red and looked at her chest again, but higher up this time, where her name badge was pinned. ‘Ah. Ms Bardossy. Of course. You are related to Peter Bardossy?’
‘My husband.’
Al-Nuri sipped his orange juice. ‘I saw Peter last week in Dubai. Such a charming, clever man. Peter is doing a wonderful job, for his country and for our two countries’ growing friendship.’
Peter Bardossy was one of the richest men in the country, and ran an opaque business empire through a web of local and offshore companies. He was an old friend of Pal Palkovics. Like Palkovics, he was a scion of a former Communist dynasty. His father, several uncles and a grandfather had all served as ministers under the old regime, including during the worst times of Stalinist repression. The two men had shared a room while they were history students at Budapest University. During the 1990s Peter Bardossy had worked in the Ministry of Finance, overseeing tenders for privatisation of state-owned factories, land and holiday resorts, while Pal Palkovics served as minister of finance in several coalition governments. A large number of these tenders had been won by companies ultimately owned or controlled by allies or relatives of Pal Palkovics. Several had then been passed back to Bardossy through a complicated web of offshore holding companies. Reka and Peter had not discussed the passport operation. He operated at a much higher level, diverting EU subsidies and foreign investment to companies favourable to government – and Palkovics. Lately, he had been spending more and more time in the Gulf on business, working on the massive investment plan.
Reka was about to reply, when her mobile phone trilled twice in her Prada bag. It was the sound made when a new Snapchat; message arrived. Snapchat was a messenger service that automatically deleted messages once they had been viewed. Reka only used Snapchat to communicate with one other person: Pal Palkovics, to arrange their assignations.
She gave the Qatari her sweetest smile. ‘Would you mind terribly, Mr Al-Nuri? I really have to take this.’
He shook his head, jowls wobbling, more than happy to have a reason to escape. ‘Please, I leave you to it,’ he said, scuttling off.
Reka walked over to a corner of the room. She took out her iPhone and stared at the screen. A document was attached to the message. The document showed two columns: the first was a list of two letters and seven numbers. Some of the letter combinations were random, but the top half-dozen all started with ‘HM’. The second column showed a list of numbers, usually between 30,000 and 40,000. She realised immediately what she had been sent and took a screenshot of the message before it disappeared. Who had sent this? Whoever it was, it was not Pal Palkovics. She thought rapidly. There was only other person who had this information. He was supposed to have been taken care of, neutralised.
But it seemed he was still at large. What did he want? She left the room without saying goodbye and headed to the ladies’ toilets. On the way there, her phone trilled again. The message showed a photograph: the old castle wall, a corner spot at the far end. A shiver of fear rippled through her. She was being blackmailed and lured somewhere remote, at night. On the other hand, she was not afraid of Akos Feher.
She stepped away from the toilets and walked outside, along the side of the castle wall. The medieval ramparts were just higher than her shoulder, blocks of large grey stone a couple of yards wide, with two-foot gaps between them. Each had an indent for bowmen to fire down on besieging troops. Several now housed powerful lamps, which shone on the side of the building, bathing the edge of the castle complex in a reassuring yellow light. The path was several yards wide, made of small grey cobblestones. The side nearest the castle wall was still filled with construction equipment, piles of old stones and debris. She peered down between two of the ramparts. The wall fell sharply away, an almost-verti-cal dark slope of greenery that reached a hundred feet or so down onto the Buda embankment where the number 19 tram snaked along the waterfront.
Reka had grown up a few blocks from here, in an eight-room villa with an attached servants’ flat, an only child of privilege under Communism. Her father, who had served as minister of justice during the old regime, had purchased the family home after the change of system for perhaps ten per cent of its value. He had died in 2002 and bequeathed the house to Reka in his will. It was a beautiful property, now worth more than a million euros. Reka had added a gym and steam room, private cinema and a covered swimming pool in the garden. She tried not to think about the metal box filled with Hebrew prayer books, wrapped in a silk prayer shawl, and women’s jewellery, that she had found there while playing as a child, and had kept hidden in secret for years.
Reka took a step away from the rampart, but her right leg could not move. She glanced down and around, her adrenalin levels rising, her eyes wider in the gloom. There was no one else around, at least that she could see. She pulled her right leg again. It still did not move. She turned her right foot left and right. A tearing noise sounded. She looked down. Her heel had caught in the gap between two cobblestones. She really had chosen the most impractical footwear – but then she had not anticipated a night-time walk on a medieval cobbled street. She stepped out of her shoes, knelt down and pulled the stuck heel out of the road. It was still in place, but definitely looser. Now what? Barefoot or Louboutins? No contest. She was not going to this... encounter... whatever it was, at a psychological disadvantage. She put her shoes back on, carried on walking to the end of the path, making sure not to place all her weight on her right foot.
Reka walked under a low arch topped by a small gatehouse, and on to the end of the path. Her unease grew. Here too there were small lights set in the archers’ recess. But none worked. The view was as beautiful as ever: the river shimmered black and silver, the Pest side shimmering, reflecting the five-star hotels along the riverbank. The Chain Bridge spilled golden light onto the water. A mile downriver, the Elizabeth Bridge, a graceful four-lane arch, swept traffic back and forth between Buda and Pest. A cool breeze blew in across the river. She watched a flotilla of tourist cruise boats slide by, faint noises of revelry carrying over the water. Part of her – a small but significant part – wished she was on one of the boats, gliding downriver towards the border, into Serbia, Romania and the Black Sea. She was, she knew, in way too deep for that. The Louboutins had come at a price, and she had chosen to pay it. And she would fight as hard as she could to keep what she had. Reka looked around until she saw what she wanted. She bent down and gathered a handful of the stones.
‘Madame Minister, Ms Bardossy, over here,’ called a male voice, and not one she recognised.