The Budapest Protocol (24 page)

The domed roof of the Rudas bath was inlaid with squares of tinted glass, framing coloured light sabres that cut through the steam, deep into the water. Built by the Ottomans in the sixteenth century, the Rudas had survived centuries of turbulent history. Empires rose and empires fell, swallowing and disgorging Hungary, but from Sultans to Soviets, the Rudas endured. A large hexagonal pool was kept at a steady thirty degrees, while its four smaller satellites varied from toe-clenchingly cold to hot enough to boil an egg, or so it felt. There were also two saunas and steam rooms. In short, the perfect way to spend a leisurely morning.

Now Alex was jobless he had plenty of time to take in the city’s pleasures and join the poets, politicians and mobsters who colonised the Rudas. He lay back in the main pool and stared at the roof. He felt punch drunk, and not just from the steam and mineral tang of the waters. He had lost his grandfather, his job, his lover and any chance of getting together with Natasha. And he had just learned that as he was seconded to the
Budapest News
on a one year contract he would not even receive any redundancy money. Sixteen years of loyal journalistic service counted for precisely nothing with the Volkstern Corporation. He felt angry and betrayed. But even if he was unemployed he was still a journalist. Miklos had been killed. Vince Szatmari had died in a mysterious hit and run. KZX and the Volkstern Corporation were buying up the country on the cheap. And now he had time to dig deeper. As for Ronald Worthington, he was moving to Dorset to open a pub. He was, he promised, organising ‘the mother of all leaving dinners’.

“You could always come and work for me,” said Mubarak Fonseca, lolling companionably next to him as they soaked.

“As what? A waiter in Café Casablanca?” Alex laughed. “Actually I have worked as a waiter. I once had a summer job in a four-star hotel. I am fully trained to silver service standards. I know how to serve soup from a tureen without spilling it, and the correct way to fold a linen napkin.” He nudged Mubarak as he spotted the country’s most famous boxer, chatting to a former Foreign Minister in the cold pool.

Mubarak sat up and cupped water before pouring it on his head. “So, you see. You are ready to start. But I’m not sure that we need linen napkins at Café Casablanca. Maybe I could teach you how to be a money-trader. Although it seems that is a bit risky nowadays,” he said, touching his black eye, now fading.

“Did you make a complaint?” asked Alex.

Mubarak snorted with derision. “To whom? My business is not exactly legal and transparent. But I did speak to a friend of mine who works for a different state agency. This might be interesting for you, Alex. There is some kind of power struggle going on in the Interior Ministry between the Gendarmes and the security service. I am not the only one this has happened to. The Gendarmes keep beating up their contacts in the more, let us say, eclectic sections of society. The crime rate keeps going up, the nationalist press is howling for a crackdown, and the forint is collapsing. Everything’s for sale at bargain prices.”

Alex smiled. “Including English-language newspapers. I think I’ll get some steam. See you in a minute.” Mubarak smiled and stretched out.

The steam-room was a small tiled space, about two metres by four. A notice was pinned to the metal pipe that carried the boiling vapour, warning customers that they used it at their own risk. An ancient thermometer showed the temperature: forty-five degrees. Two elderly gentlemen, pink and plump, were sitting on the wooden bench, discussing Hungarian literature. They made space for Alex. He sat back with his head against the tiles with his eyes closed, half-listening to their animated discussion. The sweat began to erupt from his pores and he felt the tension slowly drain away.

He did not see the door open as the two men came in. The literary critics quickly left. The first man was tall and well-muscled, heavily tattooed and completely bald. A crudely stitched scar stretched from his forehead to his right ear. His sidekick was a head shorter, but almost a foot wider, with a heavy, bony brow over tiny eyes. His head appeared to have been directly transplanted onto his shoulders, as though he was born of a new species that had eliminated the need for a neck. The tattooed man sat down next to Alex. His sidekick stood in front of the door with his arms crossed.

Alex sensed movement in the room, stirred and opened his eyes. Bolts of pain shot down his back. Iron claws gripped his right shoulder, forcing him down and his neck forward, as though he was held in a vice. He tried to twist away, but to no effect. The tattooed man smiled as he steadily increased the pressure. Alex arched his back in agony, staring at the spider’s web tattoo across the man’s neck and the giant lion’s head roaring angrily in the centre of his chest. He opened his mouth to shout. A meaty palm suddenly slammed over his lips, pressing hard against his teeth.

“Easy now, Sasha. You don’t mind if I call you Sasha, do you?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “You can call me Yuri. We just have a couple of little questions for you. And don’t think about biting my fingers. If you do, I will knock out every tooth in your mouth. Nod if you believe me,” he said, his voice calm and assured.

Alex did as he was told, panting as fear and pain coursed through him. He looked around the room. Where was everybody else? The second man stood immobile at the door.

Yuri spoke again. “I will also do the same if you shout when I take my hand away from your mouth. Nod if you understand.”

Alex nodded again. The pressure on his shoulder eased slightly.

“Good. Very good. Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

Yuri’s eyes turned dull and distant. He yanked Alex forward and his right hand snapped back and forth. The slap cracked like a whip. “Carefully now. We don’t want you to bang your head,” he said, as he caught Alex’s head and gently leaned him back against the tiles. A hose led from a nearby cold tap. He turned it on and drenched Alex with the cold water. He shivered violently, no longer knowing if he was hot or cold.

“That’s better,” said Yuri, soothingly. “Perhaps it will help your memory. I will ask you one more time. Where is it? Have you got it, or has she? A beautiful girl, your colleague. A terrible shame if anything happened to her.”

“I – don’t – know – what – you – are – talking – about,” said Alex through gritted teeth. The heat was unbearable. His fingertips felt as though they were cooking. The sweat and steam poured off him as the room wobbled. The punch sent him spinning to the side. He felt that his head was exploding. Blood gushed from his lip, and he toppled off the bench onto the floor. Alex twisted round and hit the man hard twice in the groin. He gasped in pain and Alex dashed for the door. The thug standing there easily batted Alex back into the room and he crashed into the bench, sliding on the slippery floor.

“That was a mistake,” said Yuri. “A big mistake.” He picked Alex up and punched him in the stomach. Alex collapsed and threw up, the sour reek filling the tiny room.

“No sleeping on the job, Sasha,” said Yuri. He sprayed Alex again with the ice-cold water and hosed the vomit into the corner. He slipped a knuckleduster over his fingers, a sculpted brass oval studded with metal points, with a short blade attached to the end. He knelt down next to Alex as he lay on the tiles. Alex tried to get up, but his limbs would not obey. Pincer fingers gripped his arm, forcing him back down.

Yuri slid the tip of the blade into Alex’s upper arm, his movements quick and precise, as though he was slicing a salami. Alex twisted in agony, panting as the knife cut into his flesh. Drops of blood sprouted on his wet skin, mingling with the steam, dripping pink on the floor.

He stood back for a moment, admiring his work, as Alex’s blood beaded along the incisions, before cutting him again. Alex screamed.

The door crashed open and Mubarak skidded across the floor. He turned and punched the thick-necked heavy hard and fast in the chest, slamming him against the wall. Mubarak span around with a back kick to his jaw. There was a loud crack as his jaw broke and his head bounced off the tiles. He grunted and slumped unconscious to the floor.

Yuri advanced, knife at the ready. When he saw Mubarak his hand dropped in surprise.

Mubarak looked at him with contempt and took the knife from his hand. “Yuri. Enforcer for the Ukrainians. You’re a tough guy when it’s two against one. How about one to one?” he demanded, holding Yuri’s jaw in his right hand. Mubarak shoved him backwards and Yuri sat down hard on the bench.

Mubarak threw the knife between his legs. It stuck in one of the wooden slats with a dull thwack. “Does your boss know you are freelancing? I’m meeting him later tonight. I think he would be very interested to know that you have other employers.”

Yuri looked alarmed. “Mubarak. Don’t please. How was I to know he is your friend?”

Mubarak said: “Stay there. I want to talk to you.” He turned to the Ukrainian’s sidekick. “Get a clean cloth from one of the attendants, a medical kit, towels and plenty of mineral water.”

Mubarak walked over to the steam pipe and switched off the valve. It clunked several times, hissed and fell silent. He helped Alex up, the room slowly clearing as the vapour evaporated.

* * *

Peter Feher wrapped his coat tighter around him as he waited at the skating rink in front of Vajdahunyad Castle, next to the City Park. Every winter the small artificial lake in front was frozen over. He smiled indulgently at the childrens’ first faltering attempts to skate. Parents shouted encouragement, while their children wobbled onto the ice. Feher watched a young girl in her teens swish around the outer edge, lithe and smooth as a gazelle. She stopped in front of a proud father, her skates hissing as they sent up a little spray of ice, before he kissed her.

He felt a pang of regret. He could, he thought, have been a better father. The plan was to meet his daughter and go for a walk in the park, take a look at Sanzlermann’s election rally in nearby Heroes’ Square, and then lunch. Heroes’ Square was an inspired choice for Sanzlermann. Here King Istvan, the first king of Hungary, and his chieftains were immortalised in two curved colonnades of sculptures. Heroes’ Square stood at the top of Andrassy Avenue. Where had the Farkas family mansion been? No. 106. A vanished world, servants graded by rank, fine china and silver polished until it gleamed like platinum. No wonder Antal Noludi, the factory manager, had appropriated it so quickly. His son Balazs, editor of
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
was living there now. Did Alex know what was rightfully his? Not that Feher believed in inherited privilege, of course. But still...

* * *

“Hallo Daddy,” he heard a voice say. “Sorry I’m late.” She offered her cheek to be kissed.

He turned to look at her. She looked so much like her mother that sometimes he did a double-take. Turquoise eyes, thick blond hair cut short in a modern style, a ready smile. But there were shadows under her eyes. He offered her his arm, and they walked down to Heroes’ Square. Giant red and white banners were draped across the façade of the two art museums that flanked the open space. One side proclaimed: ‘Family, Work and Unity,’ the other ‘Forward to a Christian Europe.’ Both were emblazoned with giant pictures of Frank Sanzlermann. King Stephen stared out from his plinth in the centre of the colonnade, unmoved. Workmen put the last touches on a stage, to face straight down Andrassy Avenue. Gendarmes were sealing off the roads around the square and redirecting traffic, ignoring the vocal complaints of the motorists.

A small counter-demonstration was gathering in a far corner, opposite the Yugoslav embassy. The demonstrators were mainly young, students probably, he thought, dressed in denim, but also some middle-class types. Wasn’t that Krisztina Varga, the female President of the Christian Democrats, a handsome woman in her fifties, who had just resigned as Minister of Justice after Hunkalffy took over? In fact there were several MPs and former MPs, including one or two who had been expelled from Hunkalffy’s own Hungarian People’s Party. A boy and girl stood together, holding banners in English: ‘Hunkalffy is not Hungary’, proclaimed his. ‘And Hungary is not Hunkalffy,’ announced hers.

He pointed at the banners. “Look at them. Maybe there is a chance.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Cassandra Orczy.

* * *

Alex winced in pain as the doctor stitched and bandaged the cuts on the side of his arm. They were shallow, and clean. Mubarak had called a taxi and wanted to take Alex to hospital, but he just wanted to go home. The doctor was a bulky, shambling man, with kindly eyes. He concluded his examination, shaking his head as he closed Alex’s cuts. “You seem free of concussion or any brain injury. But you are to call me immediately if you feel nauseous, dizzy or confused, or if you cannot look at bright lights. Take your painkillers. You must rest and drink plenty of fluids.”

Alex lay back on his bed. Mubarak showed him to the front door, slipping him two 5,000 forint notes before he left. He pushed the door hard to close it.

“Your front door is sticking. Looks like someone has been testing your locks. I’ll send my security guy Zoran over to have a look.”

“Thanks. And for rescuing me,” said Alex. “You should go. You will be late. You have an appointment with Schevchenko’s boss.”

“I do. But not till next Wednesday,” said Mubarak, laughing. “But I’ll be sure to tell him that his chief enforcer is doing mysterious freelance work on the side. So mysterious that he has never met the people paying him. And paying him very well. I’ll leave you now. Try and rest.”

Alex slept for several hours after Mubarak left. The room did not wobble when he woke, but he could barely move his left arm. His face was scratched and sore and his stomach ached where the bruiser had punched him. He slowly made himself some tea and soup. The food and drink revived him and he picked up that day’s copy of
Magyar Tribün
. A new law would allow the Gendarmerie to hold anyone for up to three months, or even longer with permission from the Interior Minister, without having to charge them with a crime. A planned demonstration against the new law had been immediately banned.