The Budapest Protocol (25 page)

He turned on the television news. CNN showed the charred wreckage of a car in Vienna, while ambulances screeched by, sirens howling. A young woman staggered on the pavement, blood streaming down her face. The announcer said: “Nine people were killed today and seventeen injured in a car bomb several blocks from the Austrian Parliament in the latest in a series of terrorist attacks on European capitals. Hasan Al-Ajnabi, leader of the Immigration Liberation Army claimed responsibility. Riots erupted later on the outskirts of Vienna when a group of skinheads tried to attack a Turkish mosque and burn it down. In Strasbourg nationalist MEPs called for the immediate abolition of the right of asylum, and automatic internment in detention camps of anyone entering the Schengen zone without a visa.”

Alex switched to Hungarian state television. Aniko Kovacs said: “Don’t miss our live coverage of the historic rally in Heroes’ Square where Frank Sanzlermann, guest of the Hungarian Prime Attila Hunkalffy, will be speaking. And now for some good news. The Volkstern Corporation today announced its internet expansion plans into central and eastern Europe. Volkstern is offering a free broadband internet connection for all customers who sign up for its multi-sector loyalty plan, covering consumer goods, mobile telephones and health insurance.”

Alex picked up the digital tape recorder that Natasha had returned. It looked like an ordinary micro-cassette recorder, six inches by two inches, covered in chrome-coloured plastic, with a series of buttons down one side, above a speaker grill. A small LCD screen showed the date, time and current status of the machine. It recorded the data on an internal memory card, which could be transferred directly to a computer, stored on its hard drive and burned onto a CD. He pressed the data information button. The display showed two tracks, taking up thirty-five minutes. He pressed play for track one. The LCD screen flashed once, but stayed silent. A second try produced the same result. He tried track two, also with no success. This was puzzling. He connected the recorder to his laptop computer. The screen showed a bar slowly filling a space until the connection was made. A software programme launched, with a range of options both to access the digital files in the recorder and transfer them to his computer. He moved the cursor over the graphic buttons and pressed ‘play track 1’. “Encrypted. Access denied” the screen flashed up. “Enter your digital key password.” He tried track two, with the same result.

Encryption was used for very sensitive or confidential data. It meant the data in the recorder had been scrambled, and was only available to those with a special password. The recorders the
Budapest News
had bought were the basic models. They did not have a digital encryption facility. He checked the connection: everything seemed fine. Had Natasha done this? Possibly. But why? Alex switched off his laptop and disconnected the recorder. If the data was encrypted, it might be set to self-destruct after a couple of unauthorised access attempts. Alex looked more closely at the recorder. A tiny trident logo on the bottom caught his eye. Underneath was printed in tiny letters: Property of KZX Industries.

Alex stared at the recorder in alarm. A voice sounded in his head.
Where is it? Have you got it, or has she?
He rapidly skimmed through his mobile’s directory and called Natasha. Voicemail. He left a message to call him immediately. He tried her home. No answer. He left a similar message on the answering machine. Where was she? He called Kitty Kovacs.

“Alex, it’s great to hear from you. It’s awful at the office now. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay. They’ve sent us a load of clones from London and Munich. Smith is marching around, ordering everybody about. Next week we’re running two profiles: one of Hunkalffy, and one of Sanzlermann. And the business pages are just a plug for the Patriot Bond.”

“Kitty, do you know where Natasha is?” asked Alex. “I need to find her.”

“I don’t know how you two survive this perpetual state of dramatic tension. And I thought you wanted to talk to me. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” She laughed as she spoke.

“I do miss you Kitty, of course. But it’s really urgent. She may be in danger.”

“In danger? Are you serious?” she asked, no longer laughing.

“Completely. Tell her to call me as soon as she can.”

“We think they’ve started killing people,” said Cassandra. They were walking through the City Park, behind Heroes’ Square. A grey squirrel nibbled at something before scampering up a tree.

“I thought that would happen sooner or later,” replied Peter.

“A young man called Vince Szatmari died in a hit and run accident on Wednesday night. On Elizabeth Bridge. We had been keeping an eye on him.”

“Not enough of one, it seems.”

“I know Daddy,” Cassandra sighed. “But half our people have been ‘reassigned’ to other duties by the new service head. I don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Why were you watching Vince?” he asked. He looked up. The weather was getting worse, the sky turning the colour of dull aluminium. The wind blew harder, sending dead leaves whirling along the footpath. He belted his beige trench coat tighter.

“Because he worked at the National Bank, for Ignac Akardy, who has recently returned from a secondment at the Federal Monetary Authority in Munich. Akardy – who also once worked for KZX Industries – is in charge of privatisation now.”

“Akardy worked for KZX Industries. It makes sense,” said Feher, nodding to himself.

“It’s not just KZX,” Orczy interjected. “Swiss banks and German and Austrian companies are signing contracts to either purchase or take controlling interests in virtually every national industry, as well as the media. Hunkalffy is pushing this through. And look at that,” she said, waving her arm at a giant billboard recently erected on the edge of the park.
“Magyars: Don’t support international finance capital! Invest in the Patriot Bond!”
it announced.

“Fifteen per cent interest a year. How can they afford to pay that? And now Heinrich Vautker has been confirmed as the new President of the Federal Monetary Authority,” she continued.

“Heinrich Vautker. The Good German. Let’s rest for a minute,” Feher said, reaching inside his coat for a packet of
Munkas
cigarettes as he sat on a park bench.

“I wish you would give those up. What about Vautker?” said Cassandra, sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry darling. You’re quite right. I will stop soon. Vautker is one of the new generation of ‘green capitalists’,” he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “Former senior aid official, served as German Deputy Minister of Finance in the 1990s. Worked in Africa and South America on various development projects, funded by the banks. Saving the rainforests, giving out condoms. He makes a lot of noise about ‘social responsibility’ and using capital for ‘empowerment’, to help ‘build our common European home’. Tell me more about Vince Szatmari. Was he in on this, whatever it is?”

“We don’t think so. His record is totally clean. No convictions, no record of political agitation. He was a regular church goer. Even attended Bible study classes in his lunchtime.” She paused and steeled herself. “Daddy, I’ve got something else to tell you.”

Feher took her arm. “Yes, I know darling. But let’s go and watch the Frank and Attila show first,” said Peter, steering her towards the stage at Heroes’ Square.

The camera panned across Heroes’ Square as Alex sat on his bed watching the Sanzlermann election rally on state television. Hunkalffy was due to speak first. A ring of Gendarmes stood around the stage, dressed in riot uniform: full body armour, helmets with dark visors and knee high boots. They held long truncheons, heavier than the usual issue. The camera cut to a close-up of Hunkalffy standing on the podium. He stood silently, his head bowed, for several seconds. The speakers blared out the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the European anthem. The music stopped and he looked at the crowd. The camera zoomed in to show him holding a faded black and white portrait of a teenager in his best suit.

“This was my father. Jozsef Hunkalffy. This picture is all I have left,” Hunkalffy said, in a strong, determined voice. “I never knew him. He died before I was born. He fought in 1956 against the Soviet invaders. The communists arrested him. They tortured him, to make him reveal the names of his contacts. But my father would not break. Eventually they hanged him. The same AVO torturers whose sons and daughters now sit in Parliament as ‘Social Democrats’. The same AVO torturers whose friends and business partners in New York, and other cities far to the east of here, are buying up our land and our country.”

The crowd stirred, murmuring its approval. An elderly man in a shabby raincoat shouted ‘Down with the communists!”

“My mother died without ever being able to visit his grave,” Hunkalffy continued. “His body was taken away, and buried in an unknown plot. I once asked a former member of the AVO, a billionaire who now runs one of our biggest banks, where my father’s remains were. He told me that he is encased in concrete under the foundations of the Communist Party headquarters, now the headquarters of the Social Democrats.”

Hunkalffy paused and looked out at the crowd, from left to right. “He smiled when he told me that, this communist-turned-capitalist...”

The audience booed. A few demonstrators chanted “Death to the AVO”.

Hunkalffy held up his hand, and the crowd fell quiet. “And then he told me, that it was the ‘best place for him’.”

An angry murmur ran through the crowd.

“Thank you, my fellow Hungarians. Thank you,” said Hunkalffy. “There is no more AVO, and no more communists, they tell us. But their power lives on. Their networks still thrive. They seek to keep us under the dominance of international capital, instead of Moscow. But we did not surrender in 1848. We did not surrender in 1956. And we will not surrender now. These are great days in our country’s history, when one of our greatest friends will soon be the first President of Europe. Frank Sanzlermann is our best guarantee of independence.”

More applause followed, and some jeers. The camera zoomed in on the counter-demonstration: a couple of hundred peaceful protestors, standing silently with their placards, led by Krisztina Varga, the recently-sacked former Minister of Justice.

“They should have hanged you as well,” shouted a heavy-set unshaven man in a leather jacket in the middle of the main crowd. An angry murmur ripped through the audience as they turned to look. The man pushed a middle-aged lady in her shoulder, and she stumbled and fell. The camera panned back to show several knots of hard-faced men weaving in and out of the crowds, knocking and scattering people out of their way, shouting more abuse. A can of drink landed on the podium. Hunkalffy’s bodyguards looked agitated, and muttered into their lapel microphones. Alex sat up and stared at the violence. Who was throwing things? He could not imagine Krisztina Varga hurling missiles at her former cabinet colleague. The camera panned as pandemonium erupted and the men in leather jackets rampaged through the crowd.

Hunkalffy nervously glanced from left to right, and then down at his notes. He continued speaking. “A new dawn is breaking over Europe. When my friend, and our ally Frank Sanzlermann is President, Hungary will be in prime position to...”

A can bounced off his forehead. Hunkalffy stepped back, reeling in shock and surprise. He dropped the framed picture of his father. “My photograph,” he shouted. The camera zoomed in on the blood trickling down his face as he tried to pick up the pieces of the broken picture from the stage. His bodyguards quickly hustled him off the podium.

The Gendarmes waded into the audience, lashing out with their riots sticks and firing tear gas canisters. Feedback shrieked and howled across the podium speakers and pandemonium erupted. The men in leather jackets quickly disappeared. The crowd ran in every direction, screaming and coughing as the clouds of gas gusted over them. The Gendarmes charged into the small counter-demonstration by the Yugoslav embassy, although none of the protestors had taken part in the fracas. An elderly man wearing a beige trench coat held up his arms to try and protect himself from a Gendarme wielding a riot stick. A blonde woman screamed at the Gendarme, thrusting a card in his face. A truncheon came down on the elderly man’s shoulder. He slumped to the floor, his face contorted in pain. Alex sat up and looked closer at the television. The camera was far away but the elderly man’s face looked familiar. Alex stared at the scenes of chaos as the programme cut back to the studio.

* * *

Sanzlermann smiled at the waitress as she cleared away the remains of dinner. He was sitting at the table in his suite with Reinhard Daintner and Attila Hunkalffy, feeling pleasantly replete, after sautéed goose liver, roast duck and poppy seed cake, and most of a bottle of red wine. Sanzlermann looked at her name tag, pinned above an impressively curved bust, and watched her tidy the plates, glasses and cutlery onto the serving trolley. With her wavy brown hair, freckles and lively green eyes, Eva made a very pretty picture, he thought, his fingers gently stroking the raw, cracked skin of his left hand.

“Would the gentlemen like anything else?” Eva asked decorously, looking from Sanzlermann to Daintner and Hunkalffy, as she held the coffee pot.

Daintner and Hunkalffy shook their heads. “Not now, thank you Eva. Perhaps you could look in a couple of hours time. I usually enjoy a nightcap,” he said, lightly patting her bottom.

She smiled shyly. “Certainly, sir,” she replied, refilling their coffee cups. She smiled at Sanzlermann before she left, her hips swaying as she pushed the trolley towards the door.

“Frank, we do have business to conclude,” said Daintner, his voice brisk. “And whatever your plans are, I don’t intend to be here in a couple of hours.”

Sanzlermann sat up and lit a cigar. “And nor would I want you to be, Reinhard. But you are right. Let us finish our discussion. Attila?” he asked, turning to Hunkalffy, as the smoke trickled from his mouth.

The Hungarian Prime Minister sipped his coffee. “Stage one is going to plan. Csaba Zirta, our Interior Minister, is doing an excellent job. The Gendarmerie are steadily supplanting local police forces. The necessary legislation is sailing through Parliament, despite our lack of a majority. The forint is steadily losing value. Our private polls show that anti-Roma sentiment remains strong and is increasing. The Pannonia Brigade is proving profitably disruptive. But it is all happening very slowly. There is a danger of a sympathy backlash on the Roma question. And there are obstacles at the national security service. We are working on clearing those. But I am worried that we might lose momentum. I think we should seize the moment and move to stage two as soon as possible.”