The Budapest Protocol (2 page)

Miklos shook his head. “No news.”

“And Ruth?”

Miklos smiled. “Alive. I wonder how sometimes. Whenever I bring her something to eat she gives it away. And with you?”

“They sent my boy to the front,” said Aladar, his voice cracking. “He’s sixteen. They gave him a rifle from the first war. He’s never fired a gun in his life. His mother can’t stop crying.”

Miklos shook his head and laid his hand on Aladar’s shoulder. He walked back into the throng. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, perfume and alcohol fumes, the room loud with laughter now, tinged with hysteria. Miklos stared in wonder at the men and women gorging themselves at the table. His mouth flooded with saliva: goose liver and crisp potatoes, fried in fat, roast ducks with piles of vegetables, beefsteaks slathered in creamy pepper sauce. Dusty bottles of fine wine were lined up in front of the food. A minute’s walk away they were starving to death.

Colonel Vautker beckoned him over, as he poured himself a large glass of red wine. “So, Kovacs, the Russians will probably be here soon. You’ll put in a good word for me, won’t you? Tell them how I saved you from the Arrow Cross? I might need it.”

Miklos nodded. “Of course, sir. Anything I can do to help,” he replied, his voice deadpan.

Vautker turned to the redheaded actress sitting at his side, putting his arm around the back of her chair. She smiled invitingly.

Miklos walked back to the Savoy’s kitchen. The room was hot, airless and stank of fat and cooking. The walls began to wobble and Miklos felt he would faint at any moment. He poured himself a glass of water and sat down until the meal was over and what Colonel Vautker called the “evening’s business” began. The doors were closed, and the waiters left, bringing in the leftovers. Miklos reached across the table for a goose leg, barely touched. A thin, stooped man snatched it away before him, his eyes triumphant as he jammed the greasy meat into his pocket.

Something snapped inside him and Miklos lunged forward, raising his right fist. The thin man grabbed a kitchen knife. Aladar stepped between them. He put one hand on Miklos’ chest and held out his palm to the thin man. He handed Aladar the knife. Aladar said: “There’s enough fighting outside. None in here if you want to work another shift. Now shake hands.”

The two men did as Aladar ordered. Aladar took Miklos’ arm and led him away. “Don’t worry. There will be plenty for you. Come.”

Aladar thanked the staff and sent them home, each with a package of leftovers. Miklos cleared some space among the debris of dinner and sat down with a plate of chicken and potatoes. He chewed slowly and carefully. The rich food was hard to digest after the ghetto diet. Aladar poured them both a glass of red wine.

“How much time do you think they have?” Aladar asked.

“Not long, thank God. The Russians have surrounded the city. They have no shortage of shells, as you can hear. The German supply lines are being cut off. I heard some generals want to surrender, but Hitler won’t let them. The Arrow Cross are fleeing westwards. The Russians are capturing the city house by house, room by room. Could be weeks. Could be days.”

Aladar nodded. “I’ve no love for the communists. But I just want this to be over as soon as possible, and for my boy to come home. What will you do when the Ivans get here?”

Miklos shrugged. “Try and rebuild our lives, I suppose.”

“You’ll stay? After this?”

“Of course. We are Hungarians.” Miklos carefully speared a chunk of chicken breast and a slice of potato. “But what are these lunatics doing, having a party now?”

“It’s strange. The two Swiss suits arrived a couple of days ago.” Aladar paused. “We had quite a show this morning. They made us turn the hotel inside out.”

“Why?”

“Some documents went missing. The suits were hysterical.”

“And did they find them?” asked Miklos.

Aladar smiled and poured more wine. “Drink up. Soon there’ll only be vodka.”

Alex Farkas jerked awake, his body slick with sweat, his heart racing. He lay still in the semi-darkness, forcing himself to breathe steadily, listening to the low roar of the early evening traffic.

“Why you did wake me? I was having such a nice dream,” a sleepy female voice asked indignantly. “You were shouting. What’s the matter?”

Alex sat up, shaking his head, willing away the memories. “Nothing. I’m fine.” This was reality, he told himself: here, now, her skin warm against his, her blond hair tousled with sleep.

Zsofi Petcsardy stretched and propped herself up on her elbow, green eyes full of concern. “You don’t look fine. You look like you just saw a ghost.” She turned and reached for the bottle of mineral water next to the bed.

It was warm and stale, but he gulped the water down. He looked at his watch. “Thanks. I’m sorry, Zsofi, I have to be at Kultura at eight, then I’m meeting my grandfather.”

She glared at him. “Is that my thanks for looking after you? Throwing me out?”

“You can wait for me here if you like,” Alex offered, as he kissed her head.

Zsofi shook him off and looked around the one room, fifth floor corner flat. The walls, once white, were grey and peeling. The 1970s furniture was faded brown and orange. Boxes of books were piled in every corner, their contents spilling onto the worn parquet floor, whose loose slats rattled when walked on. The flat overlooked Kossuth Lajos Street, a busy four lane road stretching from the Great Boulevard that encircled the inner city, down to the Elizabeth Bridge and the river. French windows opened onto a small balcony which offered a view of the Danube in one direction and the Hotel Savoy, on nearby Ferenciek Square, in the other, but the panorama was now partially blocked by a cordon of browning plants. “No thanks, I don’t like. At least make me some tea,” she said, pulling the quilt around her.

Alex clambered out of the bed and walked into the bathroom. He stepped into the claw-footed bath-tub, where a hand-shower attachment reached from the mixer tap. He was too tall to stretch out, so he sat and sprayed himself with the hottest water he could bear, washed quickly, and jerked the lever to cold, gasping and shivering as the freezing water coursed over him. His head clear, he stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist and walked through to the kitchen. Tea was more complicated than it sounded. The cooker pre-dated the collapse of the Berlin Wall, if not the wall itself. The fridge roared like an airplane, when it worked. The electricity board had declared the wiring a health hazard and only a bribe of 10,000 forints, thirty-five euros, had stopped the inspector cutting off the supply.

He touched a worn photograph taped to the wall. He was younger, his face thinner, standing with his arm around a tall, Slavic-looking young woman with her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. They both wore flak jackets and helmets and were grinning nervously. ‘Welcome to Hell’ was painted on a wall nearby, the letters pockmarked by shrapnel scars.

Alex looked away, filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. He looked in the two kitchen cupboards for some tea. One was empty, the other contained a packet of sugar and an ancient jar of plum jam. A pizza box poked out of the rubbish bin. Inside was a single, curling slice, and a used tea bag. He had rinsed the teabag and placed it in a cup when the socket popped and the kettle went dead. He turned to see Zsofi struggling with the zip of her black leather biker’s jacket. Zsofi was a ballerina, a rising star of Hungarian dance. They had met in the summer when Alex profiled her for the
Budapest News
, an English-language weekly newspaper, where he worked as associate editor. An interview over drinks had stretched to dinner and more.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass on the tea. I’m going,” said Zsofi, walking into the kitchen as the zip finally slipped into place. She walked over to the photograph. “A new picture.”

“It’s not new. It’s Sarajevo, in the war,” said Alex, fiddling with the kettle.

“You were skinnier. Who is she?” Zsofi asked, pointing at the picture.

“Everyone was skinnier then. Her name is Azra.”

She looked closer. “Attractive Azra. Was it really hell there?”

He smiled. “Not always.”

“So I see,” she huffed.

“It was a long time ago,” he said, half to himself. He reached inside the pizza box and took out the remaining slice. “How about dinner?” The pizza slice broke in half and flopped onto the floor.

Zsofi glared at him. “Ask Azra. Maybe she’s hungry.”

He bit his lip. “I doubt it.” He stepped towards her. “Zsofi, I’m the one who should be jealous.”

“Forget it, Alex. Call me when you can fit me into your busy schedule,” she said, slamming the door behind her.

*  *  *

Alex lived on the corner of Petofi Sandor Street and Kossuth Lajos Street, a few minutes on foot from the Danube. Kultura was fifteen minutes walk away, in the heart of District VII, Budapest’s historic Jewish area. Many of its streets, squares and markets had been untouched since 1945. Students, artists and expatriates had moved in, and District VII was now the city’s hippest and most bohemian quarter. Its central location and grand but dilapidated apartment houses made it a prime target for foreign property developers. Numerous buildings were on the verge of collapse, as their new owners waited for them to become uninhabitable so they could demolish them. Once the developers received their construction permits there were usually several months before the work began. Then the squat-bars arrived. The owners brought in a lorry-load of used chairs and tables, drinks and a sound system, and the party started.

Alex walked away from the river, up Kossuth Lajos Street, glancing at the tourist coaches parked outside the Hotel Savoy. The traffic roared past him towards the Elizabeth Bridge, the exhaust fumes mixing with the smell of doner kebabs from the Turkish fast food place on the corner of Karoly Boulevard. The freezing wind blowing towards the Danube made his eyes stream and he huddled into his leather jacket. He was tall and lean, with thick, unruly black hair and a long, straight nose over a full, wide mouth that he chewed when nervous. His eyes were his most unusual feature, one blue, the other green, both framed by long, curved eyelashes.

He turned left onto Karoly Boulevard, walked past the Great Synagogue, crossed the tramlines on Deak Square and into Kiraly Street, the heart of District VII. A giant poster, four stories high, covered the front of a building being renovated. It showed a well-built, suntanned man, standing next to an attractive blonde woman. Three children stood in front of them, all smiling with perfect teeth. The poster proclaimed: “Vote Sanzlermann: Family, Work, Unity.”

Kultura’s security guard greeted Alex and moved aside to let him pass. A wide entrance opened onto a maze of bars and smoky alcoves. A raw brick wall was covered with advertisements for room-mates, bicycles for sale, jobs for English teachers. Alex walked through to the main courtyard, covered with a plastic sheeting roof and warmed by garden heaters. Roma Party, a popular Gypsy group, played on stage, the music surging across the courtyard. The owner greeted Alex with a loud “
Shalom, habibi
,” and handed him his regular glass of chilled
szilva palinka
, plum brandy. Ehud was an Israeli, a sinewy former commando, the grandson of Hungarian Holocaust survivors, with a pierced nose and shaven head. He had dropped out of medical school in Budapest after his first year and now ran the city’s hottest bars and clubs.

Alex thanked Ehud, sat down at an empty table and picked up a copy of
Magyar Tribün
, the former Communist Party newspaper that was now a left-wing daily. Six people had been killed, including a deputy minister, and forty injured by a car bomb outside the Bundestag, the German Parliament. The bombing was the third attack in recent weeks, after Paris and Rome. The Immigration Liberation Army, a terrorist group, claimed responsibility. Alex put the newspaper down and called his grandfather on his mobile phone to let him know he would soon be there. No answer. That was strange, he thought, for Miklos rarely ventured out in the evenings. Perhaps he had gone to see his friend Peter Feher for a game of chess and a cup of tea.

A well-fed man in his fifties walked up. Istvan Kiraly looked around with interest, like a naturalist who has discovered a new species of tropical plant. “You do find the most
fascinating
places, dear boy. I had no idea that there was a secret universe behind that drab door.”

Kiraly spoke English with the careful enunciation of a 1930s BBC newsreader announcing the scores of a cricket test match. A wily survivor of vicious political infighting under the communist regime, and a former spokesman for Hungary’s last communist President, Kiraly was nicknamed ‘Teflon’. After the change of system in 1990, he reinvented himself as a ‘strategic lobbyist and communications strategist’. He had lines into every political party and was friendly with every Cabinet Minister. He advised western companies how much was needed to bribe the old communist networks that still ran much of the economy, and guided Hungarian businesses in milking EU subsidies. He was of one Alex’s best sources.

Kiraly pulled out a flimsy metal chair from under the rickety table. He positioned himself carefully, as though the chair was about to collapse under him.

Alex stared at Kiraly. “You’ve changed.” He looked the PR man up and down. The familiar hand-tailored navy Italian suit, the monogrammed cufflinks and hand-made shoes. The same wary blue eyes, set deep in a lined face, under a carefully trimmed head of grey hair. But the lines stopped abruptly above Kiraly’s eyes.

Alex touched his forehead. It felt hard and taut. He laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

Kiraly blushed and moved back. ‘What are you talking about?” he blustered.

“You know that there have been cases of people getting Mad Cow Disease after a botox? Something to do with the extracts they use in the injections,” Alex said, nodding solemnly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. And I would like a drink.” Kiraly waved at a waitress, a willowy brunette. “Now I see why you come here. A glass of Bailey’s Irish Cream please, my dear.” The waitress looked at Alex. He picked up his glass. “Another
palinka
. Thanks.”