One Day In Budapest (11 page)
“We’re out of the labyrinth,” Georg’s voice was halting as he tried to catch his breath. “We’ve dealt with the … package … and I’ve got Zoltan out and we’re at a local doctor’s. Where are you?”
“On location,” Morgan said briefly. “I should have something for you in the next ten minutes. Will you be able to monitor when the feed goes active even if I can’t call you?”
“Yes, if you can plug the USB in, I’ll get a ping on my phone and I can send the video. I’ll be waiting.”
Morgan considered her options. Berényi had seen her briefly on the boat but would he place her face on this day of chaos? She made her decision and ducked back out through the crowd towards the busy bar. She adjusted her clothes, pulling down her T-shirt to reveal a little more cleavage. Grabbing two beers, she headed back to the screen control desk, evading the attentions of several inebriated men along the way.
When she returned, Berényi had his back to her and was talking to three other men, their bulk barely covered by the tight-fitting black uniforms. A couple of them glanced at her as she approached and she raised the beers in fake inebriation, giving a cheeky smile before she bent to the man at the desk. After a second, they carried on their conversation, clearly thinking she was a groupie for the band, but Morgan knew that Berényi’s eyes could fall on her any minute. She hoped that Georg was ready to initiate whatever he needed to do if she managed to get the USB key into the computer, because she was on the edge of potential trouble here.
The technician turned at her approach and said something in Hungarian. His tone indicated that she shouldn’t be there, that he was busy, but Morgan saw his eyes take in her curves with barely concealed interest. He was fat and his skin was pockmarked, clearly not the most attractive member of the band’s team. Perhaps he would take any chance of attention. She stepped in close and gave him the beer, smiling and turning with her back to Berényi, shielding the view of the mixing desk and hiding her face.
“I love the music,” she said, mouthing the words, as the band segued into something more thrash metal than folk. “You must be so clever to work with the band.”
“Oh, English,” the man said, smiling in a way that made Morgan suspect that he had enjoyed the attentions of British groupies before. He patted his lap, pulling out the chair to make room for her. She swallowed her disgust and sat on his knee, using the chance to get a look at his setup. She felt a hot hand on her thigh as he indicated the computer system with pride.
“This … most important for band,” he said. She smiled and nodded, seemingly enthusiastic as he explained the setup in Hungarian, pleased to have someone share his passion. Morgan noticed a USB port on the side farthest from her, but she would need to stretch across him to plug it in. She felt his hand move up from her thigh, towards her breast, his breath hot on her neck.
Morgan fought the desire to get up and run, instead pressing forward into his hand. As he took the chance to feel her soft curves, she retrieved the USB key from her pocket. Palming it, she turned towards him, trying to glaze her eyes in a parody of drunken lust. She could hear the band winding up their song, the chorus on its third repetition. She bent her head, her lips meeting his and as he closed his eyes, she felt behind her for the USB port.
The man’s thick tongue plundered Morgan’s mouth, all sense of his job forgotten as he groped her breast with one hand and with the other pulled her firmly onto his stiffening crotch. Just one more second, Morgan thought, her body desperate to pull away as she tried to dock the USB key. She felt the click and she leaned away from the man, smiling coquettishly. He said something in Hungarian, no doubt some version of “let’s go somewhere more private later,” his hand never leaving her breast. Everything in Morgan screamed at her to use her Krav Maga close combat skills and get out of there, but she had to stay and make sure that the video was delivered.
She smiled again, nodding as if in agreement, glancing over his shoulder at the screen. Nothing had changed and the band played on, with the video of militant propaganda still playing in the background. Had something gone wrong?
“What are you doing here?” The voice was rough and heavily accented. Morgan felt a hand on her arm pull her away from the technician’s lap. She found herself staring into the dark eyes of Hollo Berényi, his black hair shining, like an oil slick hiding the lifeless depths beneath.
CHAPTER 14
“I’m on holiday,” Morgan said. “And I wanted to meet the band.” She smiled at Berényi, forcing flirtation into her gaze, fully aware of what this man was capable of. “Are you part of the band?”
Morgan’s senses were in overdrive. As Berényi’s eyes assessed her, she could feel his men drawing in closer behind, their interest sparked by her lewd behavior with the technician. She needed to get out of there, but so far, there was no change on the screen. Had the USB stick not been pushed in far enough?
“I’ve seen you before,” Berényi said, suspicion growing in his eyes and an edge of menace creeping into his voice. “What are you really doing here?”
The crowd started chanting as the band led them in another popular song, the chorus some kind of repetitive rant. But then the sound faltered, tailing off into silence as the giant screens flickered from the nationalist symbols to the view of a cavern lit by candlelight.
Berényi noticed the change of mood and turned from Morgan towards the screen, his eyes widening as he saw the táltos cutting a piece of the Holy Right, and the face of László Vay rapt with wonder as he knelt to receive the dark Mass.
Morgan took her chance to slip towards the barrier, but as she moved away, Berényi spun and caught her arm.
“You,” he hissed. “Jew bitch.”
He barked something in Hungarian and two of his men rushed forward to hold her as Morgan struggled to escape. She slipped from one grip, defending herself, but the other man caught her from behind. One meaty hand covered her mouth to quiet her, and her heart raced as she knew it was only a matter of time until Berényi would deal with her himself. She was pulled tight against the hard body of one of the guards, waiting for the order. She gathered her strength, focusing on the weak points of the man behind, her mind recalling her training in the Israeli Defense Force.
The technician was frantically tapping at the computer, clearly unable to gain control of the screens again. He spotted the USB stick and pulled it from the side but the video kept on playing, a loop clearly focused on the Holy Right and Vay drinking the tainted wine. From her pinioned position, Morgan could see disgust dawning on the face of the crowd as Hungary’s golden boy showed his true colors. The press were filming and Morgan had no doubt that this was going out on national television, that the radio waves would be alive with gossip, and social media would be spreading the word. Some in the crowd held up their phones, recording the images and in this age of connectivity, there would be nowhere to hide from this scandal. Vay’s disappearance would be taken as a response to public shame, and he would be forgotten.
Berényi spun from the technician’s desk, and Morgan could see indecision in his eyes. Should he go on stage now and take control for his party? Or should he disappear before he was tainted with the same disgrace? He walked toward her, and she could see in his eyes that he would make her pay for this outrage. He nodded at the men and they started pulling her backwards towards the curtained area behind the stage. It had to be now.
Morgan bit the man’s hand, tearing at his flesh as she bent forward hard, shifting her centre of gravity so that the man was pulled over her. At the same time, she stomped back with her boot, raking the side of his calf. That opened up enough space for her arm to swing back and hit him once, twice, in the groin, all in a matter of a second. He grunted and let her go, clearly not expecting such resistance. Morgan spun away, arms raised in the open palm Krav Maga stance. She saw the other men pull batons from their waist pouches, flicking them to full length. Morgan knew that she couldn’t hold off this many, but she was determined not to go easily.
The men advanced and then, suddenly, Berényi barked an order and they stopped. Morgan looked around to see two news crews filming them from the crowd, now focused on the drama unfolding around her. It was as if the real world had suddenly flooded into Hollo Berényi’s consciousness. He knew that there were too many witnesses to what he wanted to do and he wasn’t going down like his boss.
The reporters called out to him, wanting a statement, but he spun away, walking quickly behind the stage followed by his men. The technician ran out after them, followed by the tenacious media, and soon Morgan was left alone at the side of the stage. The band members left sheepishly and the crowd began to disperse, the energy of the day sucked dry by the revelations of the video feed. There was an air of anti-climax, as the tension dissipated into gossip and the planned riot was forgotten. Morgan knew that the danger was over, at least for today.
CHAPTER 15
Morgan sat on the steps of the synagogue, watching as a team from the local community swept up the broken glass and picked up the piles of rubbish. The Eröszak party was in disarray and the relic returned to the Basilica, so a tentative calm had descended on the city. A woman sang softly as she worked, a melody that Morgan recognized as a tune her father used to hum. It was a song of hope and resurrection that Jews had sung as they recovered from disaster in their long history. There was great pride in the woman’s cleaning, an attitude of prayer in her work, as if God saw her service.
Zoltan came out from the doors behind her, his body stiff and arm in a sling.
“Many Hungarian Jews have fled the country, but these people won’t leave,” he said. “This is their home and mine, despite its dangers. And I will stay to help them, because it’s not over, Morgan. It will never be over while the mob is only one degree away from violence.”
Morgan knew that his words were true, for she had seen it for herself in the eyes of the people at Memento Park as well as all over the world on her travels.
“You know where I stand, Zoltan,” she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Your people are my people and that is my truth, regardless of what others might say. I wasn’t born Jewish, but a part of my heart lies in Jerusalem, and now a part lies here.”
Zoltan looked at her, and she saw past the scars to the man within. One day he would die in defense of justice. She knew that, and he probably did too, but his loyalty was to the downtrodden, to those who could not defend themselves. Morgan felt a spark of recognition, as she knew that there was a part of her that felt the same, but the ARKANE team was fast becoming her family, and she needed to get back to join them.
She stood up, brushing the dust from her jeans. Zoltan held out his hand to shake hers.
“You always have a place here, Morgan. And if you ever need me, I’ll come.”
She ignored his hand, leaning forward to kiss his scarred cheek. His fingertips briefly touched her back, and as she hugged him, she felt his stiffness relent and he embraced her in return. At last, she pulled away, smiling.
“I’ll see you again, Zoltan. I’m sure of it.”
Morgan walked out of the Dohany Street synagogue and into the waiting taxi, heading back to the airport and ARKANE.
As the car sped along, Morgan sat quietly for a moment, staring out at the same streets that she had passed so early this morning. Could it really have only been one day? It seemed that so much had happened.
She sighed, finally turning her ARKANE cellphone back on, ready to return to her real world. There were several text messages from Martin Klein, the genius head archivist. The first text contained her updated flight information, but the second made her heart race.
There’s a strange package waiting for you. The writing is faded and the sender is noted as Leon Sierra.
But how could that be, she wondered. It was her father’s name and he had died several years ago, blown apart by a suicide bomber in
Beersheba
. Morgan was suddenly keen to get back and find out what was in the impossible package.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novella is a work of fiction, but the inspiration for it comes from actual events and real places.
I visited Budapest in November 2012 and was deeply affected by the horrific layers of history that the city has endured. The Dohany Street Synagogue and the House of Terror were devastating, and once I saw the Holy Hand of St Istvan in the Basilica, I knew what the crux of my story would be. I wanted to give a taste of the grand city in the book but also evoke visions of a day that seemed all too possible given the political situation. Here are some of my sources if you want to investigate further.
