The Budapest Protocol (15 page)

Alex looked doubtful. “We would be a bit mob-handed, with Edina as well. I’ll also need someone to take us in. The Roma won’t talk to us if we just turn up. That’s already four.”

“OK, go with Natasha but take a digital camera and make sure you get some pictures.” Ronald gave him a wry look. “Alex, your considerations here are purely professional?”

“Of course,” he replied, careful to keep his voice deadpan.

*  *  *

The Hotel Savoy’s presidential suite was on the top floor. Her mother’s flat would have fitted comfortably inside, thought Natasha, as she walked in. There were three large rooms, all painted light green: a bedroom, lounge and office area. The furniture was original Beidermeyer, an elegant nineteenth century style. Oil paintings hung on the walls: a stag in a forest, a young woman in a ball-gown. Silk rugs covered the polished parquet floor. Stepping inside was like time travel back to Berlin or Vienna a century ago, to an age of deference, respect for authority and carefully graded social distinctions. The view was magnificent: the grey curve of the Elizabeth Bridge arching over the Danube, the Buda hills rolling into the distance. It was a sunny winter’s day, the sky blue and flecked with clouds, but the heating inside was overpowering. The room smelled of cigars and aftershave. Natasha fought off a powerful urge to open a window.

Sanzlermann sat on a sofa in the middle of the lounge, and Reinhard Daintner sat next to him on an armchair. A bottle of Hungarian sparkling wine stood in a silver ice bucket on a nearby coffee table, flanked by two crystal glasses. Natasha walked over to an armchair but Sanzlermann stood up and beckoned her to come and sit next to him, on the sofa. She hesitated, then sat down at the other end, and placed her digital recorder on the coffee table. Reinhard Daintner walked over and placed an identical model next to hers. “So we both have an accurate record of Herr Sanzlermann’s statements,” he said dryly. “Would you like some tea or coffee, Miss Hatvani? Or something stronger?”

Natasha declined and opened her notebook, trying to sound efficient, businesslike and not at all nervous. This was the most important interview she had ever done, and she was still not quite sure why Sanzlermann had offered it. One reason might be the way he was smiling at her. He moved slightly nearer the middle of the sofa.

“Interview on the record with Frank Sanzlermann, for publication in the
Budapest News
,” she began. “Herr Sanzlermann, your critics accuse you of whipping up hatred against the Roma. For example, in your speech yesterday you showed three pictures of Roma: of poverty and squalor, young criminals and two men fighting. You have also called for compulsory fingerprinting of Roma. Why only Roma? Isn’t that racist?”

Sanzlermann leaned forward as he spoke. “I also announced the launch of our new Roma Education Fund, to which I have personally donated 250,000 euros. These claims of racism are baseless, but might be open to misinterpretation. So Miss Hatvani, I am happy to tell you that you now have a scoop. Our policy now, which I am pleased to make public here, is that everyone in Europe will be fingerprinted, and their prints, together with a DNA sample, stored on a secure database.”

Daintner immediately sat up, a look of alarm on his face, and whispered rapidly in Sanzlermann’s ear. He waved him away. “What does it matter,” he muttered, scratching his hand. “We were going to announce it this week anyway.”

Natasha’s heart thumped. She had not been expecting that answer. This really was a story. She looked at her notebook and back at Sanzlermann. She needed a follow up question. “Everyone? Every European citizen?”

“Everyone,” said Sanzlermann decisively.

“And what if someone does not want to provide their fingerprints and a DNA sample?”

“Law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear. But to answer your question, anyone refusing will be subject to sanctions, initially civil, and ultimately criminal,” he replied.

“Meaning what, exactly?” asked Natasha, the adrenalin coursing through her body as she scribbled notes in case the recorder failed. She looked down at the machine. The red recording light glowed comfortingly.

“Fines, then imprisonment, and ultimately being stripped of citizenship, which would render refusers liable to deportation,” said Sanzlermann, his voice calm and reasonable as his fingers dug into the skin on his left hand.

Natasha’s brain was whirling. “Deport them where? And how will you obtain DNA samples from people who don’t want to give them?”

Reinhard Daintner interjected. “Miss Hatvani, as I am sure you understand we are still working on the policy details of this complex and hitherto
confidential
policy,” he said, staring hard at Sanzlermann as his tongue flicked out over his lips. “Let us move on.”

Natasha glanced at her watch, an antique timepiece that had once belonged to her grandmother. She had nine minutes left. “What is your opinion of the new Gendarmerie?”

“A new national police force that combines intelligence gathering with law enforcement? It sounds like an excellent idea,” said Sanzlermann.

“But we already have national and regional police forces. Why do we need an unaccountable paramilitary militia?”

“Frankly speaking, these are internal matters for your government. But let me speak in general terms. Hungary, like most of Europe, suffers from increasing levels of crime. A new approach is certainly needed, to unify the various law enforcement agencies under a cohesive efficient leadership. And as far as I understand the Gendarmerie is absolutely accountable. It reports to the Prime Minister, who is elected by universal vote in a free and fair election.”

“But why ‘Gendarmerie’,” demanded Natasha. “The word has terrible historical associations here. The Gendarmerie put the Jews on the trains at gunpoint in 1944.”

“Nineteen forty four was a long time ago. What I think, what the European People’s Union thinks, and Prime Minister Attila Hunkalffy agrees, is that we must move on. We cannot allow Europe to be forever haunted by events that took place more than sixty years ago, no matter how regrettable they might have been.”

“
Might
have been?” said Natasha.

“Were. I mean were, of course.” She watched him gouge his hand again, deep enough to leave red marks across the skin. “But this is a different age, and difficult times call for strong measures, and strong leadership.” He caught her watching him and immediately stopped scratching. He smiled, sat up and looked into her eyes. “Some
sekt
?” he asked, as he picked up the bottle. His blue eyes seemed to glow from within as he leaned forward to fill her glass.

There was no denying how handsome he was, Natasha thought. It had been a long time since a good-looking man had offered to pour her a drink. She steeled herself. “No, not for me, thank you.” she said, putting her hand over her glass just as Sanzlermann began to pour. The wine splashed over her hand and onto her trousers. She jumped up and knocked over the coffee table. Wine, ice-bucket, and digital recorders tumbled to the floor. Natasha stepped back and apologised, her face red with embarrassment.

Sanzlermann picked up several napkins and handed one to Natasha. “It’s nothing. Really, don’t worry. A minor accident. Shall we call room service to help with your wet clothes?”

Natasha shook her head, and patted her trousers with the napkin. “There’s really no need, thank you.” Daintner handed her the digital recorder, which she placed on the table. She checked the light: it still glowed red. “Again, I do apologise for that. But let’s proceed.” Natasha looked down at her notebook. “Isn’t your party encouraging xenophobia against Muslims?”

Sanzlermann looked shocked. “Xenophobia? How? I am fully committed to ensuring the rights of all minorities, of whatever colour or creed, as long as they accept our modern European values. It is not us who are encouraging anti-immigrant prejudice, but the outrages perpetrated by groups such as the so-called Immigration Liberation Army.”

The telephone rang, cutting Sanzlermann off. Daintner answered, and handed it to Sanzlermann. “Attila, a pleasure to hear you. In ten minutes? Yes, that’s fine.”

He turned to Natasha. “I apologise, but I have to cut our interview short. Your Prime Minister summons me. I hope you have something you can use.”

“I certainly do. Thank you for your time,” she said, and quickly left.

* * *

From the outside the Sphinx Egyptian Restaurant looked unremarkable, even unwelcoming, and the owners seemed to like it that way. Grimy windows, a hand-written menu in Arabic taped to the glass, a tattered poster of the Red Sea Riviera. Inside, shipped Formica tables and canteen chairs. Tucked away in the run-down Seventh district, not far from Keleti, the city’s eastern railway station, the Sphinx looked out over Garay Square market. By day Chinese stall-holders sold imitation Nike trainers and stale shrink-wrapped German Chocolate cakes; robust countryside women offered vast jars of pungent, home-made pickles and live squawking chickens. Other goods could also be obtained: a U.S. or E.U. passport complete with valid visas; a new BMW; a crate of Kalashnikovs, still packed in factory grease. At 10.00pm on a Monday the square was deserted.

Alex and Mubarak sat at the back of the restaurant’s corner. A bottle of Lebanese arak, a carafe of water, an overflowing bowl of pistachio shells, humous and salads sat on the table between them. Mubarak’s minder Hamid sat a few metres away, reading an Arabic newspaper. Despite its dilapidated appearance, the Sphinx served the city’s best Middle Eastern food. Alex dipped a piece of pita bread into the rich, nutty humous. The smell of grilling kebabs, rich and spicy, wafted through the restaurant.

“Something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said. A lone backpacker diligently spooned up lentil soup, a guide book resting on the bowl.

Mubarak poured them both some arak. “How can I help you, Alex? My prediction for the dollar rate against the euro? Good buys on the FTSE or the New York stock exchange? The Romanian property market is booming.”

Alex had met Mubarak soon after his arrival at the
Budapest News
. The paper had been in the midst of one of its periodic cash-flow crises. The promised funds from the
Sentinel
had not yet arrived, and even the pile of ten thousand forint notes that Ronald Worthington carried in his back pocket were spent. The printer was demanding payment within twenty-four hours, or he would pulp that week’s paper, with its biggest ever advertising spend. It would have been the last issue. Spurred on by Ronald Worthington standing on his desk and delivering a resounding version of Henry V’s speech at Agincourt, the staff rallied. Bank accounts were emptied, credit cards maxed-out, relatives tapped for loans. Alex had been despatched to Café Casablanca with a briefcase full of euros and dollars. The room had fallen silent as he walked in, like a scene from a bad western. Alex asked a man dressed in a purple velvet jacket and orange trousers if he knew what the forint exchange rate was. Mubarak did. As a loyal reader of the
Budapest News
he donated an extra 50,000 forints. The paper was saved, a friendship born.

“What do you know about the ILA, the Immigrant Liberation Army?” asked Alex.

“Very little,” said Mubarak, pouring more water onto the arak, turning the drink an oily milky-white. He paused while the waiter, a bald giant with a long moustache, who looked as though he should be guarding a harem, set down a plate of kebabs on the table with a flourish. Mubarak piled several on Alex’s plate before serving himself. “The curious thing is that nobody seems to know anyone with any connection at all to them. Setting up a terrorist organisation is expensive, and time-consuming. You need funds, organisation, recruiters, and safe houses, secure communication networks. There is usually a supporters’ organisation, like the IRA’s Sinn Fein. A website, something. Inevitably, there are leaks. Someone talks, people hear things. Except with the ILA. Off goes the bomb, and silence. Until Hasan al-Ajnabi – his name means something like ‘the good foreigner’ you know – is back on CNN, promising us more blood and death.”

Mubarak paused and speared another kebab. “And you?”

Alex shrugged. “The same. Mostly what I see on television.”

Mubarak sipped his arak. He laid his hand on Alex’s arm. “What about your grandfather? Is there any news?”

“The post-mortem results will be released at some stage. I am also looking into it myself.”

“Anything I can do to help, Alex, you know. We have to stand together against these
mumzers
,” he said, using the Yiddish word for bastards.

Alex laughed. “Where did you learn that?”

“Not far from here actually. At school, from Eszter Weiss. We were sixteen. She taught me several things,” he said, nostalgia flitting across his face. “She lives in London now. Married to an accountant in Golders Green. I see that London is full of Russians now. Which reminds me, we are being invaded by Ukrainians. Some old faces, many new. The new ones are very violent.”

The waiter appeared and cleared away their plates, before murmuring in Mubarak’s ear. Mubarak answered: “
Aiwa, min-fadlik
, yes please.”

Coffee appeared, thick and dark, together with sticky pastries drenched in sugar syrup. The two men leaned back companiably. The waiter brought out two water-pipes, elaborate constructions of glass and polished brass. He prepared them: the tobacco packed just so, the coals glowing a certain colour. Mubarak took a small cube from his pocket, wrapped in silver paper. He showed it to Alex, who smiled. Mubarak broke off a small piece of brown resin and crumbled it over the coals. The smell of burning rope drifted across the room. The backpacker, by now the only other customer, looked up, happily surprised, less so when his bill arrived and he was ushered to the cashier and out of the door.

The waiter locked it and pulled the shutters down. The magnificent voice of Um Kulthoum, Egypt’s most famous singer, filled the room. She sang, her voice vibrating with enough grief and longing to make the pyramids crumble. Alex puffed on the pipe, watching the smoke bubble through the water. It tasted cool and sweet, nothing like the throat-burning marijuana grown on Csepel Island that appeared at
Budapest News
parties. The music coursed through his body. He floated peacefully. Zsofi’s face merged into Natasha’s. Alex smiled and looked over at Mubarak staring into space, smoke wafting from his nostrils, lost in his thoughts.