The Budapest Protocol (16 page)

Alex sat entranced, the music coursing through his whole body. He opened his eyes to a loud knocking on the door. He blinked and sat up. Mubarak walked over to Hamid, and murmured instructions into his ear. Hamid reached for his mobile telephone, and Mubarak walked to the restaurant’s entrance. Alex moved to follow him, but he held his hand up and went alone. The waiter appeared with the keys and opened the door. The lights went on in several apartments overlooking the square.

“Horses’ asses!” someone shouted. Two Gendarmerie officers stood outside, one male, with a narrow face, thin sandy hair and nervous eyes. The boss, it was clear, was a tired-looking middle-aged female, a chunky bottle blonde with dark roots. A loud bang sounded as something bounced off the police car roof. The young Gendarme jumped, and reached for his gun.

The female Gendarme sighed, bent down and picked a large potato from the ground. She handed it to her colleague. “Take it home to Mum, Geza,” she said, wearily.

Mubarak laughed. “Sergeant Kovacs. A pleasure as always. I see you’ve joined the Gendarmes. What can I do for you tonight? Or rather for Captain Toth?”

She shrugged apologetically. “We all have, including Captain Toth. They pay double what I got before. Sorry, sweetheart. He says we have to bring you in. Maybe he wants to go on holiday again. Where was it last time? Greece?”

Mubarak snorted. “I wish. Two weeks in the Seychelles.”

“Come on then, get your coat,” said Sergeant Kovacs. “You know the form. The sooner you’re in, the faster you can be out and back at home.”

Alex squeezed onto the early-morning metro to Keleti station. Sullen commuters pored over their free newspapers, and a gang of schoolchildren chattered excitedly. He found a space pressed against the rear door of the carriage, his overnight bag between his legs. A bearded homeless man sat a metre away, exuding a powerful odour of stale sweat and urine. Budapest’s Soviet-built metro was cheap, fast and reliable. But the outside of the carriage was covered with graffiti and the hard plastic chairs were cracked and battered. ‘Gypsy Free Zone’ – the name of a new far-right rock group – was scrawled along the top of the door. Frank Sanzlermann grinned down from the advertising placards. Alex had yet to see a single poster for his main opponent, Edith Leclerc. Sanzlermann’s camp seemed to have bought up every empty hoarding in the city.

Alex tried not to breathe the stale, pungent air too deeply. The train rolled out of Blaha Luiza metro station, picking up speed as it headed towards Keleti train station, the next stop. He looked at his watch: 7.42am. The train to Kosice left at 8.06am. He was cutting it fine. No word from Mubarak, but he had seemed nonchalant when he drove off with the police officers. Hamid had assured Alex there was nothing to worry about. The bribes were ‘business expenses’, even written off by Mubarak’s accountant. Zsofi had called when Alex was drifting off to sleep. She was back from Vienna and wanted to come over. Not tonight, he told her. “Why not?” she asked, almost indignantly. “Because I’m going to Slovakia tomorrow with a colleague. I’m meeting
her
– he knew it was juvenile but could not resist a slight emphasis – at 8.00am.” Silence had followed, for several seconds. “Enjoy yourself,” Zsofi snapped. “Thanks, I’ll try. Good night,” he said, and hung up. He felt quite proud of himself, and enjoyed his first good night’s sleep in days, helped by Mubarak’s water-pipe.

Two vivacious young women, a plump redhead and a tall brunette with a noisy laugh, stood nearby. They had well-styled hair and were carefully made-up. Even though it was winter, they were dressed in figure hugging skirts and well cut heavy coats. Hungarian women certainly knew how to use every asset they had, thought Alex admiringly. They both worked at a car assembly line and were gossiping about their German boss, Helmut, who had repeatedly asked the redhead out to dinner. So far she had declined, worried for her job if it all went wrong.

“You’re absolutely right, Ildiko. Keep work and play in separate compartments. What if he just wants a bit of fun?” said her brown-haired friend. “He’s not very good-looking, And he’s got a moustache! It would tickle.”

“Depends where,” said the redhead, laughing.

The train juddered and stopped in the tunnel. The lights flickered, it crawled forward a few metres, then stopped again. Alex’s heart thumped faster. He told himself that it would move any second. The lights flickered again and went out. The darkness was absolute. Nervous laughter coursed through the carriage. The schoolchildren joked and fell silent. Several passengers reached for their mobile phones, cones of light cutting through the blackness. The rumble of trains echoed in the distance. The homeless man began moaning, his smell seemingly getting even stronger. Alex felt the tunnel walls steadily close in, as though they were inching towards him. Someone lit a cigarette lighter and shadows danced on the anxious faces. There was no way out. No way out. The words bounced around Alex’s head. He tried to control his rising panic but his hands were wet with sweat.

He is locked in a dark, windowless cell in Mostar prison. He hears a key turning in a lock, sees the heavy door open. The Bosnian Croat soldier is drunk, almost staggering, the brandy fumes coming off him in waves as he walks. He has a torch in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. He shines the torch on Alex, laughing as he prods him with the barrel of his gun. Alex blinks and recoils, trying to shield his eyes from the sudden light.

“You, journalist. Muslim lover. We will deal with you, like we dealt with them,” he says. “One shot, maybe two. In the head, if you are lucky.” The soldier jabs him in the stomach with the end of the gun barrel. Alex gasps in pain. “Or maybe here, if you are not.” The soldier raises the gun and fires several shots into the ceiling. The noise is thunderous. Chunks of concrete fly around the room. A jagged lump smashes into Alex’s shoulder, sending him reeling against the wall. The soldier fires once more and staggers out. The cell door shuts. Alex touches his shoulder. His shirt is ripped, the skin torn and bleeding. A warm trickle slides down the inside of his leg to the floor.

Alex felt the dread straining in his chest. It was a living thing trying to burst out, to force its way into the carriage, into the tunnel. It would gallop along the tracks until it found a station, with escalators that rose into the air, and open spaces, until it was free and could evaporate. Sweat slipped down his forehead. He began to hyperventilate. He willed himself not to try and force the carriage doors open. A light shone on his face and he jerked away in fright.

“Are you all right, love? Don’t be scared,” asked the redhead, using her mobile telephone as a torch. “It’s only a phone. You don’t look very well.” She put her hand on Alex’s shoulder.

Alex blinked and swallowed. “Please don’t shine it in my face,” he said, trying to smile.

“Sorry, love. These trains are always stopping in the middle of nowhere. Nothing to worry about. Where are you off to today then?” she asked brightly, bringing the handset down.

“Slovakia.” She was being kind, Alex knew, trying to distract him from the panic attack. The fear fed itself. Think about something else and it would fade. “Kosice. I’m going with a friend.”

“Lucky you, at least you won’t be stuck in a factory all day, with Helmut,” she laughed.

Alex took a deep breath, breathing slowly through his nose. He had been released from the Mostar prison. The train would soon move. He wiped his hands on his trousers. The train would soon move. Wouldn’t it? The lights flickered on and a tinny voice apologised. The carriage lurched forward and pulled into Keleti station.

“There now,” said the redhead. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind,” said Alex, gratefully.

He picked up his bag and headed into the station. Despite its seedy appearance Keleti’s familiar yellow departure hall had never looked so welcoming. The platforms were lined with fast food stalls, offering fried meatballs of doubtful provenance and cheap wine ladled out from aluminium barrels into plastic cups. Pirate taxi drivers wearing home made badges proclaiming ‘Official Taxi’ touted for passengers among disorientated tourists. Swarthy men in tracksuits stood around smoking, guarding woven plastic bags filled with cheap clothes and sports shoes. Alex weaved past a peasant lady, swaddled in flowered skirts and laden with bags overflowing with peppers and tomatoes, and just missed bumping into a very overweight Gendarme.

The newspaper stands were piled with copies of
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
and local language editions of
Playboy, Hustler
and
Penthouse
. He glanced at the cover lines on the women’s magazines: ‘Magyar Mothers Prefer Home to the Office’, was one article’s offering, while another offered advice on ‘How to Keep Your Hungarian Husband Happy’. None displayed the
Budapest News
. Lately he had asked several kiosks around the city without success for a copy. It was not sold out, but rather, the stallholders said, was ‘unavailable’. A crowd of humanity speaking a babble of languages surged underneath the information board. Alex heard Romanian, Serbian, Russian and even Turkish. Trains left south from Keleti for Belgrade, before going on to Sofia and Istanbul, and east to Lvov and Kiev, before trundling north to Moscow and St Petersburg. The train to Kosice departed from platform five, a few yards away.

The Gendarme barred his path. His giant belly strained against his jacket and rolls of fat rippled over his collar. His grubby cockade drooped over his cap. “Destination?” he demanded.

“Slovakia. That’s my train. Just over there.” He glanced at his watch: 7.55am.

“Your train? I don’t think so. Papers,” he grunted.

Alex handed over his press card, smelling the stale tobacco on his rank breath. A stubby finger prodded his chest. “I’m talking to you,” the Gendarme said.

“I just gave you my identification.”

“Don’t get clever. Passport. Or I’ll have you in the station. And you wouldn’t want that.”

Alex looked over to Keleti’s small police station, now run by the Gendarmerie. Two Gendarmes were manhandling a young Romany man in a shiny shell-suit. His protests were cut off with several slaps around his face and the Gendarmes threw him into the foyer. Alex handed over his passport. The Gendarme looked through its pages and scribbled in a grubby notebook when a policeman walked over. He was slim, in his late twenties, with buzz cut blond hair, and intelligent blue eyes behind rimless designer glasses.

“Is this man bothering you?” he asked.

“No, it’s all under control,” the Gendarme replied, not bothering to look up.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the policeman said. He turned to Alex. “Is he?”

“Yes. Immensely.”

The Gendarme bristled. “What the fuck is it to you?” he demanded, turning to the policeman. “This man is,” he said, rustling in his pockets, and pulling out a laminated sheet of paper, “disturbing citizens’ tranquillity.”

The policeman laughed mockingly. “Horseshit. He’s trying to catch a train. You and your Gendarmes are the ones disturbing citizens’ tranquillity.”

Alex watched with pleasurable fascination as the Gendarme looked around for help. Six more policemen walked over and surrounded him. Two took out their billy clubs and began smacking them into their palms. The blond policeman held out his palm. The Gendarme reluctantly handed him Alex’s passport.

The policeman flicked through its pages and gave it to Alex. “Bon voyage, Mr Farkas.”

Alex thanked him and ran down the platform. Natasha waved at him from the window and the whistle sounded as he clambered aboard. She had found an empty compartment, with two rows of seats facing each other. It looked like it had not been cleaned since the collapse of communism. The windows were caked in dirt, their rubber seals cracked and peeling, the upholstery on the seating grubby and torn. It smelled of dirt and tobacco. Natasha sat by the window, that day’s
Magyar Tribün
and
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
next to her. Alex flopped down on the facing bench, near the door.

“Good morning. That was close,” she said dryly.

“Closer than you think,” said Alex. He flicked through his passport. A business card fell out: Captain Jozsef Hermann – Criminal Intelligence. He put the card in his wallet, puzzled. Why would such a high ranking officer be hanging around at Keleti station at eight in the morning?

Natasha rummaged in her bag. “I brought you the Sanzlermann interview transcript, and my article. I’ve emailed them both to Ronald.”

She handed Alex the print-outs as the train began its slow trundle east, past the blocks of grey communist era flats. Alex quickly read them through and looked at her in admiration. The news story was perfectly structured, explaining how Sanzlermann wanted to take DNA samples, by force it seemed, if necessary, from everyone in the European Union and store it on a central database. She even had quotes from a human rights organisation about civil liberties. They had a major international scoop. David Jones would be green with envy.

“Brilliant,” he said enthusiastically. “Well done.”

A half-smile flickered on her face and she picked up her newspaper. Alex’s telephone rang and he scrabbled in his pocket.

“Alex, old chap,” said Ronald. “Dusan Hrkna has just announced that Novy Marek has been sealed off. A closed medical zone, while they investigate. Can you still get in?”

“We’ll already on the train, so we’ll have to try. I’ll call you.” He hung up and sat back, pondering his unlikely guardian angel before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Vince Szatmari was troubled. He couldn’t concentrate. He recognised the words, but they were just swirls and squiggles of ink. He usually enjoyed the lunchtime bible study class, at the St Korona church, not far from the Hungarian National Bank, where he worked in the state privatisation department. It was tricky trying to juggle spiritual values and success. He admitted that he also wanted a comfortable life and why shouldn’t he? An only child, he had studied hard for his degree in economics, supported himself through college and sent money home to his mother, alone and widowed in their home village. He was certainly proud of his job, but Bible study was a reminder that material success was not everything.