The Budapest Protocol (26 page)

“I tend to think that it would be a mistake to rush things now. What exactly do you have in mind?” asked Sanzlermann.

“The Reichstag Fire,” said Hunkalffy, clipping the end from a cigar.

“You want to burn down Parliament?”

Hunkalffy leaned forward, his voice enthusiastic, waving the unlit cigar. “Not exactly. But the Reichstag Fire gave Hitler the excuse to declare a state of emergency, suspend civil liberties and arrest political opponents. The delicious irony is, of course, that the Nazis almost certainly started the fire themselves. Marinus van der Lubbe was executed for an arson he did not commit. A similar outrage would help us move quickly to stage two. What do you think Reinhard?”

Daintner said: “It is possible. Carpe Diem. But where is our van der Lubbe?”

Hunkalffy looked at his watch. “In the hotel lobby, hopefully.”

The telephone rang. Hunkalffy picked up the handset. “Yes, send him up. Thank you.”

* * *

Alex stood on his balcony, enjoying the breeze blowing in off the river. The night air smelled fresh and sharp, with a watery tang. His jaw and stomach still hurt and his arm ached, but he was slowly feeling better, if only thanks to the powerful painkillers the doctor had prescribed. But what would have happened if Mubarak had not been there? If they, whoever ‘they’ were, the ones paying Yuri, had tried once, they would certainly try again. Alex looked down at the street. The elderly man who sold flowers on the corner was finally packing up his folding stool and plastic table. Two Romany boys pushed a shopping trolley along the pavement, a third standing inside, all laughing uproariously. He envied the youths their freedom and innocence. He envied them their parents, too. A now familiar longing surged through him. He had tried for some time to prepare himself for his grandfather’s death. Miklos was in his eighties, after all. But Alex had not expected to lose him like this. He missed him more than he had ever imagined possible.

Alex went back inside and switched on state television. A male newsreader announced that all demonstrations were banned until the end of the election campaign, in response to what he described as “the shameful events today, when hooligans, saboteurs and anti-national elements attempted to assassinate the Hungarian Prime Minister and caused the cancellation of the election rally of Mr Frank Sanzlermann.” The screen showed the fighting at the rally, and cut to a shot of Hunkalffy with blood streaming down his face. “It is still to be decided if pre-arranged election events will be permitted to take place,” the newsreader said.

Alex laughed out loud. Throwing a can of drink at the Prime Minister was hardly an assassination attempt. But the earlier footage of the Gendarme attack on the protestors outside the Yugoslav embassy still nagged at him. He thought he had seen Peter Feher, but why would he be there? And who was the blonde woman? He had tried to call Peter but could not get through. Aniko Kovacs appeared, sitting in a comfortable armchair, surrounded by three guests. She was now hosting her own chat show. The woman’s rise was unstoppable. Kovacs introduced the trio: Csaba Zirta, the Interior Minister; Balazs Noludi, the overweight, glum-faced editor of
Magyarok Ébredjetek!
and Krisztina Varga, the former Minister of Justice.

Varga spoke first. “I think we all understand what happened at Heroes’ Square today,” she said, her voice cold and determined. “One by one, this government is stripping away our basic rights and freedoms. The violence we saw today was a provocation, deliberately organised.”

Csaba Zirta began to protest when Noludi shouted: “Horseshit.” He leaned forward and pointed at Varga, his jowls wobbling. “You are the provocation. You and the traitors and those who would sell-out our nation, the liberals and cosmopolitans, the dirty agents of New York and Tel Aviv, of international finance capital,” he exclaimed, his voice shrill, his mouth flecked with spittle. “But we will not stand by as our homeland is turned into a bargain basement.”

Varga handed him a paper handkerchief. “Calm down, Balazs. We already are a bargain basement – for the Volkstern Corporation and KZX Industries.”

Noludi balled up the paper handkerchief and threw it in Varga’s face. Alex watched in amazement. Krisztina Varga was one of the most popular and respected politicians in the country. She had modernised the legal system and brought in new safeguards for human rights. Which were now being rapidly rescinded, so she knew what she was talking about. And now she was saying that the government had organised the violence. Why? The answer was another question – the oldest and most useful: who benefits? Then it quickly made sense. The government instigates riots so that it has an excuse to crackdown on violence and suspend civil liberties.

He picked up his telephone. No messages. He tried to call Natasha again. It still didn’t work. He looked at the handset’s screen. There were no bars where the signal indicator usually had four or five. That was strange. Strange and worrying, especially when he really needed to contact her.

He looked back at the television. Varga’s eyes blazed. “You always were a fool, Balazs Noludi. A useful idiot. You were a useful idiot for the communists and now you do the same job for Sanzlermann. They will chew you up and spit you out, once they have done with you,” she said, her voice contemptuous.

Kovacs looked around the studio, her face panicked. The screen went blank and cut to a commercial. A line of chorus girls, dressed in white, red and green, exhorted the audience to ‘be patriots and buy Patriot Bonds’ to a backdrop of 1930s nightclub music. The screen then cut to shots of Zagreb, Bucharest and Bratislava. “Coming soon to Croatia, Romania and Slovakia,” a deep male voice announced. “The investment of a lifetime.”

The doorbell rang. Alex walked over to the flat entrance and opened the door.

Natasha said: “You’re looking for me.”

* * *

Sanzlermann stood in the bathroom of his hotel suite, scrubbing his hands as hard as he could. The tap was open to its maximum and scalding water gushed over the black marble washbasin, splashing over the Italian tiled floor, filling the room with steam. He methodically worked the nailbrush up and down each finger, under the nails and across both sides of his palms. He rinsed his hands and stared at them. They were raw and red and he sighed with satisfaction. He looked longingly at the soap dispenser again, paused, but turned away.

He ran through the day in his mind as he dried himself on a thick white towel. Hunkalffy was a typical Hungarian, he thought. Passionate, impatient, always thinking in the short-term, and no sense for the bigger picture. Still, his idea of accelerating the programme had a certain élan. It needed some thought but probably could be done, with considerable benefits, if it worked. The weirdo Daintner was as enigmatic as ever. If he had any choice in the matter he would have sacked him months ago, if only because of his bizarre colouring. But it had been made clear that the Presidency of Europe was a package deal, and Daintner was an integral part of it. And the man did have brains, he had to admit.

Sanzlermann looked at his watch. Almost 11.00pm and it had been a long day. Hunkalffy and Daintner had finally left and taken the hideous Gypsy with them. Imagine, he thought, he had actually shaken his hand. It was all he could do not to rush to the bathroom and scrub himself clean there and then. He shivered at the feel of the dark, rough palm and his fingers on his. Perhaps he should wash his hands just once more, to make sure.

A memory flashed into his mind: he was eight years old at the children’s home in Carinthia. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and he was sitting in the waiting room, dressed in his best shirt and neatly-pressed shorts while the nuns ushered in his only visitor, the man he called “Oncle Klaus”. Sister Evangelina had called Frank’s name. He walked forward, hoping Oncle Klaus had brought him another toy or book when she screamed at him, pointing at a dirty mark on his shirt. He held out his hand, trying to stop it shaking. The ruler slammed into his palm, leaving a red weal that did not heal for days. Oncle Klaus had not returned for three weeks.

He smeared antiseptic ointment over his hands and walked through to the lounge, naked under his bathrobe. He poured himself a brandy, sat down on the sofa and picked up the hotel telephone. “Room service, please,” he asked, smiling with anticipation.

Natasha stood in the doorway, staring at Alex’s bruised and scratched face and his bandaged arm. “What happened?”

“I was attacked, in the Rudas.”

“Why? Who did it? Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. It was two thugs. They thought I had something they wanted. Do you want to talk about this here? Come in, please.” She hesitated. “It’s OK. I don’t bite,” said Alex.

Natasha walked inside, taking in the grubby decor, boxes of books and rickety furniture. At least he had cleaned up the kitchen, Alex thought. “The nicest bit is the balcony,” he said.

“I’m not here for the views, Alex. What’s going on? It’s eleven o’clock at night. You’ve been beaten up. Kitty told me you think I’m in danger. I tried to call you but your telephone is switched off.”

“It’s not switched off, it’s dead.”

He handed the digital recorder to Natasha. She looked at the machine. “Somebody attacked you for my recorder?”

“It’s not yours.” He showed her the KZX logo on the bottom.

She weighed the machine in her hand. “I dropped mine during the interview. I must have picked up the wrong one. Daintner had the same model, to record Sanzlermann as well.”

“So it’s Daintner’s. That explains it. It’s encrypted. There are two sound files but I can’t open them. And they know about you. The people who attacked me in the Rudas asked if you had it. That’s why I wanted to find you. You may be in danger.”

Natasha shrugged. “I can look after myself. We have another problem.” She opened her bag and took out the USB stick from Sanzlermann’s press pack. “I’m such an idiot. I meant to tell Kitty not to use this. It’s the most basic rule: never, ever put an unknown USB stick in your computer. I went back to the office to get my things and it was still there, in Kitty’s desktop. It’s loaded with a Trojan Horse. You click on the video file for Sanzlermann’s speech and it launches a hidden data extraction programme. I think it’s forwarded the contents of all the computers on our network back to a server in Germany, probably in Munich.”

Alex sat down. “Everything?”

“Every word file, every email, every password.”

“Can we get it back?”

Natasha shook her head. “It’s gone. And even if we got it back, they would have archived and copied all the information by now.”

Alex brought his laptop over to the kitchen table. Natasha looked him up and down. “You look pale. Sit down Alex. I’ll make us some tea,” she said.

He sat down and watched her bustle around the kitchen. It was a long time since a woman had made him anything. Zsofi was even less domesticated than he was. He saw Natasha looking at the photograph of him and Azra on the wall, but sensed that she was determined not to ask about it. She brought two cups of tea to the table. Alex connected his computer to the digital recorder. The software opened, as it had when Alex had first tried to open the encrypted files. Natasha moved the cursor over the graphic buttons and pressed ‘play track 1’. Silence. “Access denied” the screen flashed up. “Enter your password.”

“How can we open it without a password?” asked Alex.

“We use a dictionary attack.”

“A what attack?”

“A programme that uses every word in the dictionary as a potential password, with different number combinations added on. But the recorder may be programmed to shut or wipe the data after several unsuccessful attempts, which would make things much more difficult.” She paused and sipped her tea. “There is another option. I wonder...” she said, reaching for the laptop and turning it towards her. She quickly pressed several keys on the keyboard. A few seconds later the recorder blinked and flashed.

“Try it,” she said, nodding at Alex’s laptop. Two new icons had appeared.

Alex moved the cursor onto an icon and clicked. A familiar console opened, offering play, stop, fast-forward and reverse. He pressed track two and jumped forward to the middle.

“Miss Hatvani, you now have a scoop,” Sanzlermann said. “Our policy now, which I am pleased to make public here, is that everyone in Europe be fingerprinted.”

Natasha pressed pause. “See, he really said that.”

“I know. That’s why we published the story. What was the password?”

She smiled. “Password.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was the default, issued when it was manufactured. The password was still ‘password’. Nobody had changed it. It’s amazing how often that works.”

She pulled her chair closer to the table. “We could be pro-active here.”

“How?”

Natasha took out her laptop from her bag, and a USB stick. “There’s a Trojan horse on this USB stick. The same one that was on Sanzlermann’s. I’ve added a keystroke logger, which records everything he does on his keyboard. The CEO of KZX is Dieter Klindern. We need him or someone whose computer is networked with his to open an email from us with the Trojan Horse and keystroke logger disguised in an attachment. It will then start trawling
their
archives and send everything back to us, hopefully including Klindern’s system passwords. I’m sure most of his emails go through his secretary. Can you get her name and email address?”

“How do you know all this stuff?” asked Alex.

“My ex-boyfriend was a computer security engineer,” she said lightly. “He taught me.”

Alex was surprised at the pang of jealousy he felt. He reached for his laptop and looked up the KZX website for the telephone number of the headquarters, clicked on his internet telephony programme, and dialled the number. Natasha nodded approvingly. “Good. Internet telephone calls are much harder to trace. You won’t leave a number on their records.”

Alex spoke in brusque, formal German. “Good evening. This is Dr Braun, at the research division of KZX pharmaceuticals. We urgently need to send some information to Dieter Klindern. Yes, I understand you cannot give me his private telephone number. But you can supply me with the name of his secretary and her email address.”