One Day In Budapest (10 page)

The bullet hit László in the chest and the look on his face was pure disbelief. He dropped the tire iron and turned, clutching at the altar. The Holy Right still lay there and as he toppled, László grabbed it, pulling it to his chest like a talisman. His blood pumped out, soaking the mummified hand and Zoltan could only watch as his once friend died, his eyes going blank as his spirit joined the ancestors that haunted the cave system.
 

Zoltan heard footsteps in the stone corridor. He gripped the gun again, aware that there were only a few bullets left. He tried to rise, but was so weakened by the blood loss and the aftershock of the fight that he sank to the floor again. A figure rounded the corner and he saw it was Morgan, her eyes alight with concern. She ran to him.
 

“I heard the shots,” she said. “I had to come back. We have to finish this together, Zoltan. But first, I need to get you to a hospital.” Morgan pressed her hands over the wound in Zoltan’s arm, blood oozing out around her fingers. She looked over at
László’s corpse, with his blood forming a pool around him before the altar.
Zoltan clutched at her hand, his eyes searching hers for judgment.
 

“I didn’t mean to kill him, Morgan, but now I have to wonder … Would you have killed Hitler in 1933, given a chance? Before he gained the kind of power that led to the camps? Before Eichmann slaughtered the Jews of Budapest?”
 

“It’s impossible to say.” She shook her head. “Of course we would have in hindsight, but no one knew what kind of man Hitler would become in the beginning.”
 

“Or no one would have believed it of him.” Zoltan’s eyes closed for a moment. “Except his closest friends, perhaps. Those who knew him before he became powerful, when he let down his guard and showed his true lack of empathy.
László
could have gone that way, Morgan. I know it. He could have even been worse in an age of media devotion to the beautiful, where his perfect face could hide his rotten soul.”

“I can’t believe that the people of this country would allow genocide again, that Europe could let something like that happen.”
 

Zoltan smiled bitterly, his scar twisting into a grimace. “Srebenica was only 1995, and Rwanda the year before. We let it happen, and history repeats itself because people remain the same underneath. Brutal, tribal, violent.”
 

Morgan shook her head. “Not all of them.”
 

“Enough of them to call for the secret police to create a register of Jews. Enough of them to burn a synagogue with innocents inside if we don’t stop that rally,” Zoltan said. “
Berényi is still out there, stirring up a hornet’s nest of neo-nationalist hate. The city is dry kindling waiting for the spark and we have to dampen it.”

He struggled to push himself up from the floor, but his face whitened with the effort and he sank back.
 

“I don’t think you’ll be much use against
Berényi
,” Morgan said. “I need to get you some help.”
 

“There’s no time,” Zoltan said, his eyes pleading with her. “You have to stop him without me.” He looked round at
László’s
body. “And I need to deal with the body and get far away from here, because if it’s discovered that a Jew killed the nation’s favorite son, albeit in self-defense, we’ll have more than a day of terror.” He pulled his cellphone from his pocket. “Call Georg from outside and tell him where I am. He’ll be able to find out where the rally is, too.” He pushed at her arm weakly. “Now, go.”
 

***

As Morgan ran back through the cave system, she felt a rising sense of fatigue, for despite the death of one man who had incited racial hatred, there were many more ever-ready to take his place. The caverns seemed oppressive, their unyielding walls a reminder that the nature of humanity doesn’t change. But there were furrows in the rock and trickles of water that ran down the walls, carving their way over centuries. Perhaps that was the only way, she thought as she ran, the gentle, insistent push of water reflecting the slow progress of equality. She remembered little Ilona at the synagogue, her eyes wide with terror, fearful of something that she didn’t understand and a world where already some hated her for no reason. Enough, Morgan thought, the time for gentle insistence was over.

Emerging through the battered door into the light, Morgan checked the cellphone coverage and finally managed to get a signal. She switched on the camera as she dialed Georg and watched the bars on the screen as the files were transmitted. He answered within two rings.
 

“Zoltan, are you OK?” he asked, his voice blurred as he covered the mouthpiece to disguise his words.

“It’s Morgan,” she said quickly. “We’ve got video footage but Zoltan’s hurt. He needs help but it has to be secret. He needs evacuation from the labyrinth under Castle Hill.” She heard Georg’s shocked intake of breath as she recounted the events.

“We’re still outside the Andrassy offices,” he said. “Many employees are drifting home so I can slip away too. I know those caves and I’ll get Zoltan out of there.” Morgan gave him the directions to the back entrance where she stood.

“Do you know a doctor?” she asked. “He needs urgent medical attention but it needs to be discreet.”

Georg laughed, a harsh bark. “We’re Jews, Morgan. Doctors are something we have a lot of. Don’t worry, Zoltan will be fine, and we’ll keep him safe. I’ll need time to process the video before we can release it to the media. Shall I meet you near the labyrinth entrance?”
 

Morgan hesitated a moment, a part of her longing to wait for him and then fly home as she had meant to hours ago. But then she thought of the bodies in the Danube, imagining her own father’s face amongst the dead. It could have been him, she thought. It could have been Elian, or any of those I love.

“No,” she said. “I need to go after Berényi. He’s heading for some kind of rally, a gathering of nationalists. If he succeeds in enraging the crowd, there could be a bloodbath before we can get the media to release the video.”
 

“Thank you, Morgan,” Georg said, and she heard unspoken layers of meaning in his words. Some were called to fight and others to work behind the scenes, and Georg knew that they were both important today. “Just a minute, I’ll check the chatter and call you right back.”
 

He cut the line and Morgan stood for a moment. She didn’t want time to think about what she was doing, and she knew Director Marietti would have told her to get out of town hours ago, for this wasn’t a fight that ARKANE should be involved in. There were no religious mysteries here, only a deep-rooted hatred embedded in the DNA of the region, startled into life again by economic crisis and spiraling unemployment. But Morgan knew that she couldn’t leave knowing she might have prevented violence.
 

The phone rang, and she answered it quickly. Georg’s voice was rushed, and there were street sounds in the background now as he spoke.

“I’m in my car now, heading for the labyrinth. The video is processing and I’m editing it to remove your voice and Zoltan’s in the corridor.” The sound of horns made Morgan move the phone from her ear, then he continued. “I’m also monitoring the neo-nationalist forums and there’s chatter about a large gathering at Memento Park, just outside the city center. One right-wing fundamentalist blogger has been tweeting about the atmosphere building there, how they’re waiting for something huge to kick off, how the Jews will pay, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds like it might be the place.” Morgan said, as she headed back towards the main road of Castle Hill. “What are the police doing? Surely that’s got trouble written all over it.”
 

“They’re strung out all over the city, trying to quell the unrest evident in a spate of revenge attacks on both sides. The Jewish community isn’t entirely innocent in this anymore, Morgan. Some groups are taking steps to retaliate for the Danube murders.”

Morgan closed her eyes, willing frustration from her.
 

“Of course, this escalation is exactly what Eröszak intended. I’ll get to the rally and see what I can do.”
 

“There will be a lot of media there on a day like this. With so much potential for conflict, it’s a broadcaster’s dream and we can use that.” Georg paused and Morgan could almost hear his brain whirring. “There’s a USB key in the side of the camera, do you see it?”
 

She turned the camera over in her hands, finding the tiny device embedded in the base.
 

“Yes, got it.”
 

“If you can plug that into a media device, I can hack in and send the edited video. It will be more effective if you can do it at the rally rather than me posting it on the net.”

Morgan thought of the potential danger of walking into a neo-nationalist rally and trying to share the explosive video. It would be hard enough to get that close and even if she could, the crowd wouldn’t exactly be receptive to the dark unveiling of their favorite son.

“I’ll try,” she said. “Keep your phone handy.”
 

She thrust her hand out, waving at an oncoming taxi.

CHAPTER 13

The taxi dropped Morgan a little way from the entrance to Memento Park because the roads were so busy. It seemed that all of Budapest was gathering, or at least those who supported the nationalist cause. And what good Hungarian wouldn’t want to, she thought, as the red, white and green flags fluttered in the breeze. There were families holding hands and groups of young people laughing and drinking. It was a scene that resonated with pride, and Morgan certainly understood the attraction of nationalism. After all, who didn’t want to be proud of their own country?

She looked around for Berényi but the crowd was thick, moving through the park slowly, and there was no sign of him. Around the edges, Morgan could see groups of men with hard faces and fists that clenched plastic tumblers of beer. They wore the uniform of the civilian militia, officially dissolved by the Hungarian courts, but tolerated, and even encouraged, by many who supported their cause. The black uniform and caps evoked pictures that Morgan had seen in Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum, in Jerusalem. She knew that psychological research had shown that a uniform cloaked the individual in collective responsibility, and it was the best way to get people to obey authority figures and overcome their natural reticence to hurt others. She had read reports of the militia’s torch-lit marches around Roma communities, creating terror in the persecuted group and even causing some to be evacuated for fear of explosive violence. It wouldn’t take much to encourage this lot to attack the synagogue in revenge for the outrage of the Holy Right.
 

Morgan entered the gates and moved with the crowd into the park. It was a strange throwback to the Communist era, with huge statues of famous figures like Lenin, Marx and Engels as well as the boots of Stalin, all that remained of the dictator’s statue, torn down in the 1956 revolution. Nearby, the Liberation Army Soldier stood six meters tall, striding with fists raised towards the enemy, shouting for revolution. The park was meant to be a reminder of the fall of Communism, but Morgan felt it somehow glorified those dark days, its propaganda now serving a modern purpose.

The open plan park was designed in six circles surrounding a central seventh, with the Communist star in the very middle. A dais had been set up there, but the focus of the crowd was on a large stage near the back of the park where a band was playing folk rock. As Morgan slid through the throng, she could see that some of those massed in front of the band had their right arms raised in a Fascist salute. No one seemed to care, and again, Morgan felt that she was witnessing a flashback, or an alternate universe where the last seventy years had been but a dream.

Behind the band, large screens projected visions of Hungary’s greatness, images of propaganda that the Communist regime would have been proud to call their own. The handsome face of László Vay smiled while he greeted housewives and kissed babies, as strong men shook his hand and pledged allegiance. The video switched to footage of the militia marching underneath the banner of the Turul, the mythical bird, representing power, strength and nobility. Morgan noticed that many in the crowd watched the images even if they ignored the music, and the press were gathered around the edges, interviewing people. She had to get the footage of the labyrinth up onto that screen.
 

Weaving through the crowd, Morgan smiled up at the leering men so they would let her pass. Women eyed her suspiciously and Morgan suspected that any violence here would be equal opportunity. The smell of sweat and beer intensified as she made it to the front of the crowd, who were now swaying and singing along to what must be a popular song.
 

Peering into the shadows at the side of the stage, Morgan tried to see where the video was controlled. There was a guy hunched over a several laptops and a mixing desk, earphones on his head. Next to the technician, she spotted Hollo Berényi, compulsively looking at his watch, clearly expecting László to arrive for his big speech any moment. He pulled out his smartphone and dialed, appearing to be swearing silently as it failed to be answered. He must assume that László was still underground, but he would be more concerned soon enough.
 

Morgan noticed the lead singer glance to the side of the stage and Berényi made a gesture to carry on, keep playing. So László was already late, and that meant she didn’t have much time. If Berényi couldn’t fire up this crowd, he might take his militia and attack the synagogue anyway. Morgan thought of little Ilona, and of the old woman, screaming as she relived past horrors.
 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.