One Day In Budapest (7 page)

Elena had felt confused, but she would do anything to avoid the beatings her mother doled out. So when the attendant lady had come to fetch her, she had walked behind carefully, following her to the door of one of the private spa rooms.

“I’ll get you in thirty minutes,” the woman said, her eyes flicking over Elena, dismissing her with one glance. “Go in, then.” She pushed open the door and shooed the girl inside the darkened space.
 

Elena barely remembered what had happened that first time, she had been so terrified. But by the end, her new bikini lay discarded on the floor and her insides felt bruised. The baths had always been a place to get clean, so why did she now feel so dirty?
 

After the third time, Elena had spoken up, telling her mother she wouldn’t go again, that she wouldn’t let the men do what they did, that she would scream and tell the police. Her mother had twisted her arm in a Chinese burn, making her listen as she told her daughter that she was a whore, she was ruined and she was nothing. This was her only life choice, this or be sold to the sex trade, and even that would be too good for a little bitch like her. Elena still wondered why her mother hated her so much.
 

Then, one day, she had entered the spa room and there was a new man in there, his hair a gleaming black. He had wrapped her in a towel and said he only wanted to talk, that he would pay the same amount but he just wanted to speak with her. As he had asked about her school and what she enjoyed doing, Elena had been surprised, but after a few sessions, she began to trust the man and to look forward to time with him. Her mother was none the wiser. A few weeks ago, he had asked her if she wanted to escape the life she led, that if she did one thing for him, he would get her out. She would have money to leave Budapest, to change her life. Did she want that?
 

Elena wanted that very much, which was why now, nearing her sixteenth birthday, she found herself wearing a false pregnancy stomach, heading into the baths for an antenatal pool session. Earlier, she had gone to an address the man had provided and listened as he told her what to do. “You must wait, stay with the package until it’s collected,” he had told her. He had made up her face, giving her a wig so that no one would recognize her. It was kind of exciting, like the movies and Elena wanted to do a good job for him. As she left, he had kissed her forehead and she had felt his love. Perhaps he would look after her, rescue her like she had wished the King of the Baths would do in her childhood fairytale.
 

Wrapping her hands around the pendulous belly, Elena leaned back and looked up at the grand Neo-Baroque entrance. Its pillars and domes were so familiar and yet today, it was as if she saw them with new eyes. The daily stream of visitors was heading through the gates, into one of the largest spa complexes in Europe, with eighteen pools and myriad saunas, steam chambers and corners to relax in. She went through the ritual of entry, her feet following a well-trodden path. The mustard yellow walls dripped with condensation from the steam that billowed through the changing area and Elena felt sweat pool beneath the false stomach. She wondered again what was inside it, knowing not to ask, only hoping that its delivery would secure her freedom.
 

Inside the baths, she went to her locker and then to the spa room where she had met the man, right next to the pool where the antenatal class was starting. Elena shrugged off the false stomach and placed it beside her on the bench. It looked like a grotesque sack of flesh. Would it hurt to have a look inside it?
 

She heard the chimes of the clock as her hand reached for the zipper on the side. Elena heard a click and there was a flash of light, a burst of pain and she thought no more as the bomb exploded her young body into a million pieces.
 

CHAPTER 9

Aware of the seconds ticking away, Zoltan peered down at the cars streaming over the bridge and assessed the danger from falling masonry. He looked further out at the boats on the Danube, suddenly noticing that Morgan was now on one of the tourist barges, staring out after a motorboat that was speeding away. He didn’t know how she had got down so fast, but he half smiled. She certainly knew how to look after herself, and it was damn attractive.
 

He glanced down again, feeling a little vertigo. The Danube seemed the only option, for the package wasn’t held in place on the bridge. Zoltan picked it up, as gently as he might a precious child, careful not to dislodge any parts. He walked slowly, barely breathing, to the side of the arched tower. Looking down, he inched his way closer to the edge. His heart thumped in fear, for he didn’t know the power of the bomb, only sure it would be better off at the bottom of the Danube.

Peering over, he saw a gap in the boat traffic on the river. With a gasp of effort, he threw the package out and away from the bridge. It turned end over end in the air and Zoltan flinched, his muscles tight, expecting an explosion. But the package plopped into the river, floating for a moment and then sinking as the water leaked into the casing. Zoltan looked at his watch, reckoning that there would be just over two minutes remaining.
 

He stood for a moment looking out over the city, his anger welling up, for he would defend this country he loved to the death. He was a Jew but he was also Hungarian, like he was a son and a brother. A man could be many things, and one aspect did not define him. He would not deny any part of himself to conform to some crazy definition of who was considered a ‘real’ Hungarian. So he would fight those who tried to divide this glorious city. Zoltan clenched his fists as the time ticked into its final seconds and then he waited, holding his breath.
 

But nothing came, only the bellowing horns of the boats below, and the hum of the traffic across the bridge. Zoltan exhaled in a long rush as the seconds continued to tick by. He watched the boat that Morgan was on dock at the Vigadó tér pier and turned, heading for the pylon and the tricky climb down. He felt relief flood his body that they had managed to stop at least one of the plans laid for this chaotic day.
 

Just as Zoltan started his descent, he heard a muffled explosion. His head jerked towards where he had thrown the bomb, but there was nothing there. No plume of water, no ruined boats. The sound had come from the East and he looked in that direction, suddenly seeing a plume of smoke rising above the skyline as the police sirens began to sound.
 

***

A short distance down Vigadó tér, Zoltan could see the final passengers emerging from the tourist boat. He ran hard towards the pier, pounding the street like he wanted to thump the terrorists who had set off the bomb. Had the bridge just been a decoy? Or was it meant to be a symbolic attack, drawing attention while innocents were targeted at the same time? Zoltan felt a surge of frustrated anger that he channeled into a burst of speed. How dare these people attack his country, his culture, which had already suffered so much?
 

He slowed on the approach to the ferry pier and stood getting his breath back, waiting for Morgan to disembark. Tourists gabbled away in various languages, some pointing to the plume of smoke evident in the sky to the East. Some were taking photos with a frisson of excitement at being so close to something significant, as if they were somehow immune to the vagaries of attack. Zoltan shook his head, for they didn’t realize how arbitrary terror had now become. They should be thanking God that it wasn’t their city at the mercy of madmen.
 

Morgan walked briskly up the metal walkway, having finally extricated herself from the interrogation of the boat’s captain. Her face was serious, her eyes fixed on the dark smoky clouds blooming in the sky. As she drew closer, Zoltan noticed the slash of violet in her right eye, almost a burn across the cobalt blue. Her dark curls were tied back and she moved with economy, the grace of a woman who knew how to fight, and how to dance. Who was she really, Zoltan wondered. He had heard of ARKANE, the name mentioned in a whisper when the Jewish elders met to discuss evacuation plans. He knew that the group had an academic side, well represented at conferences, but it was this secret militant arena that he was interested in. Because Dr Morgan Sierra was clearly not just an academic. He hadn’t seen her jump, but he didn’t know if he could have done the same thing.
 

“It was the Raven, and the bastard got away,” Morgan said, as she joined Zoltan at street level. “I’m sorry.”
 

Zoltan shook his head, dismissing her concern.
 

“You jumped from the bridge to go after him. I don’t think anyone could fault your dedication. What were you thinking?”
 

Morgan gazed back towards the water.
 

“I thought I saw the bodies in the Danube, floating there in the water, calling for justice. Those who died today, as well as the ones from seventy years ago.” She paused, looking into the eddies of the fast-flowing river. “Did you find anything up there on the arch?”
 

“There was a bomb, but I threw it in the Danube before it timed out. It was encased in plastic, tamper-proof.” He gestured upwards to the smoke dissipating in the sky above. “But seeing that, I suspect it was a decoy anyway.”

Morgan nodded.
 

“They were playing the local news on the boat. The bomb was at the Széchenyi Baths. Twelve dead.” She paused. “It was during an antenatal class, so there were pregnant women amongst the casualties.”
 

Zoltan clenched his fists, willing his rage to a simmer, but there was nothing he could do to help those people now. He and Morgan had to focus on what must surely come next.
 

“There was an anonymous call to the TV station,” continued Morgan. “The bombing has been claimed by a previously unknown Jewish group, in retribution for the Danube murders.”
 

Zoltan snorted, shaking his head. “As if it could have been organized so quickly. They’ve set this up so well. Whoever is behind this must have been planning it for months.”

“That guy from Eröszak is calling on the government to boycott Jewish businesses until the perpetrators are brought to justice. Of course, he’s not advocating violence officially but his supporters are calling for a march tonight, in solidarity with the victims.” Morgan put her hand on Zoltan’s arm, her voice urgent. “We need to find the Holy Right, it’s the only way to stop a bloodbath after dark.”
 

Zoltan gazed across the water at the Palace, a dominant presence that loomed above the city. On the edge of the battlements, he could just make out the giant statue of the Turul, the divine messenger bird of Magyar origin. In the myths of the beginning, it had perched on the top of the Tree of Life, along with the spirits of unborn children in the shape of birds. It was a symbol of power, strength and nobility, a bird of prey with a beak that could rip the hearts from the chests of men, sacrificed on its blood-spattered altar.
 

As he considered the symbol, trying to discern a pattern in the chaos, Zoltan thought about Castle Hill itself. It was the centre of the nation, a symbol of the might of Hungary as it had once been and how some wanted it to be again. While Pest was the realm of the past, the Ghetto, the Basilica and a Parliament that had become too left wing for many, Buda was the proud fortress of might, the dominion of the future. Surely a nationalist cause would want that symbol to be at the heart of their strategy, and something niggled at the back of Zoltan’s mind about the tunnels beneath the hill.
 

He took out his mobile and dialed Georg, who answered quickly.
 

“I need you to go back on the right-wing chat boards,” Zoltan said. “Can you see what you can find from 2011?”
 

While he waited for Georg to search, Zoltan turned back to Morgan.
 

“There’s an ancient labyrinth beneath Castle Hill. It was shut down a few years ago under suspicious circumstances, around the time when Eröszak was on the rise.”
 

His attention returned to the phone. “Great, we’ll check it out.”
 

Zoltan pointed to Castle Hill. “Let’s head up there, it’s the only lead I can think of right now.”
 

He led the way up the wide boulevard away from the ferry port. Stopping in front of a giant billboard advertising the elections, Zoltan looked up into the face of László Vay. His scar contorted as his mouth twisted with anger.
 

“This man knows nothing of honor, and he will do anything to further his pursuit of power. None of what has happened today is beyond him, for he wants to win this election, and I think he aims to waltz in on the back of a nationalist uprising. I knew him once, you know, we were friends … but then one day I discovered the true man behind that perfect smile.”
 

As Zoltan spoke, he remembered that dark day in Bosnia, when his friendship with Vay was obliterated.
 

***

Srebenica, Bosnia and Herzegovina. Spring 1995.

“Come on, Zol. Seriously, you’re always so slow. You can’t do anything for it now, let’s just leave.”
 

Zoltan didn’t look up from the body he was examining, this one just a boy with a gunshot through his forehead. He was used to the taunts of his friend, the dismissive attitude to the people they were there to protect. The child’s arms were curled around himself as if he had tried to find comfort in the moments before death. Zoltan found himself silently reciting the opening words of the Kaddish, the Jewish prayers for the dead, even though the boy was probably Muslim in this part of town. Finally he rose.
 

László was smoking a cigarette, his body relaxed. He lifted his face to the sun, caught in a brief sunbeam, and reveled in its warmth. There were no dark shadows under his indigo eyes, only the movie star looks that made him the envy of the other soldiers. Zoltan didn’t know how László managed to shrug off the deadening weight of sadness that he found engulfed him every day.