The Budapest Protocol (17 page)

The high-roofed Gothic church usually brought him a sense of tranquillity, and he loved to gaze at the delicate stained-glass scenes from the lives of the Apostles, but today they did nothing to calm his inner agitation. The site had served many religions: a Roman temple had first stood here, when Hungary was known as ‘Pannonia’, then one of the country’s first churches, turned into a mosque under the Ottomans – a
mihrab,
a prayer niche facing Mecca – survived, still inscribed with Arabic script, and now it was a place of Catholic worship.

There were half a dozen of them, sat in a semi-circle around the priest. A trio of earnest university students, a young girl who worked in a grocery shop and an elderly lady who lived nearby. The priest, Father Gabor Fischer, was a softly spoken giant with a neatly trimmed beard, and warm, kind eyes. A former Olympic javelin champion, he brewed his own powerful
szilva palinka
, plum brandy.

The priest looked at Vince, who was usually so attentive but now seemed lost in his reverie. “Perhaps Vince can help us with that one. Vince?”

“Help with what?” Vince jerked up, plucking at his tie as though it might answer for him.

“Well, my son, as an important man in the world of finance, I thought you might be able to give us some of your thoughts on a question that has bothered Christian thinkers of many centuries,” Father Fischer’s voice was affectionate as he regarded the young man’s confusion.

“Is it really easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven? Nowadays we see many rich people. That, they say, is the price of freedom. But how much does one have to give away, to become a person worthy of entering the Lord’s domain?”

“That is a difficult question, Father. I think, as much as one can, but still be able to live in comfort and support his family. It is a question of individual conscience,” said Vince.

“So many things are,” said the priest. “Every day I see an old lady going through the dustbins for food. I give her money. But how much should I give her? Enough for bread, enough for meat, or enough to go to a restaurant? I love restaurants. Should I give her the money I would spend there?”

The discussion carried on for a few more minutes, until Father Fischer closed the session with a brief prayer. Vince was almost out of the door, when the priest called him back.

“Vince, can you spare a couple of minutes?”

Father Fischer regarded the young man. He was a good lad, always willing to help out when an old person needed some shopping or an errand running. Tall and skinny, with untidy blond hair that flopped over his heavy black-rimmed glasses, he often seemed distracted, today even more than usual. But he knew that Vince had a probing mind and a strong moral sense.

“Come, sit down for a moment,” he said, leading the young man to a long wooden pew. “Is something bothering you, my son?”

Vince stared at the stained-glass window. Jesus fed a crowd with loaves and fishes. He was silent for several seconds. The priest waited patiently.

“Father, if you knew that things were happening at your workplace, which could, almost certainly will, eventually, lead to a lot of hardship for innocent people, would it be your duty to do something about it? Especially if you have to support someone else who relies on you for money to live. Because you might lose that job. Or is it better to just concentrate on your own responsibilities and forget about things you have seen or heard that were not meant for you?”

Father Fischer looked at him sympathetically. “I think we had better talk in my office.”

* * *

Alex jerked awake as the train stopped at the Slovak frontier. Both Hungary and Slovakia were part of the Schengen Zone, so in theory there were no border checks. An ancient Lada wheezed past, belching exhaust fumes. A young thin Romany woman, her face already lined and drawn, hawked cold drinks and snacks through the carriage windows. Alex bought two cans of cola and cheese sandwiches and gave one of each to Natasha. They unwrapped the food and began to eat.

The carriage door banged open.
“Passport!”
demanded a moon-faced border guard as he marched in with an unmuzzled Alsatian on a lead. His belt was loaded with handcuffs, a pistol in a leather holster, a truncheon and a can of pepper spray. Alex put his sandwich down and handed his passport over. The guard leafed through it carefully, slowly checking every page. He looked at the photo and at Alex several times. He punched the document’s number into a small handheld computer. After a few seconds the screen flashed.

“Alex, Alex,” the guard said into his radio. “A – l – e-x-a-n-d-e-r,” he said, slowly spelling out the letters, “F– a – r – k – a – s.
Ano, ano,
yes, yes.” The Alsatian growled.

The guard turned to Alex. “Open your bag.” He went through it methodically, unfolding Alex’s clothes, even opening his soap bag. “What is the purpose of your visit to Slovakia?”

“Holiday,” said Alex. Rule number one when lying, he thought: never over explain.

The guard shook his head. He kept Alex’s passport in his hand and walked across to Natasha. She was eating and reading
Magyar Tribün
. She glanced up, handed over her Hungarian passport and returned to her newspaper. The guard thumbed through it, reached for his handset and spelled out her name. A burst of crackly Slovak came over the radio. Natasha put her newspaper down as the guard stared at her. He looked her up and down as though she was the star offering at an Ottoman slave market. He began to unpack her clothes, carefully examining her salmon-pink silk knickers. He held her knickers up to the light, leering at Natasha and twirling her brassiere round on his finger.

“Just your colour. Why don’t you see if it fits?” she asked derisively.

“We’ll see how funny you are in ten minutes,” the guard said, smiling coldly. The dog barked, straining against its leash.

Alex stepped forward, his heart pounding.

* * *

He is sitting in a car with his interpreter, waiting at a checkpoint just behind the Croat border, not far from Banja Luka, epicentre of Serb ethnic cleansing. It is a sweltering summer’s day. A wave of Muslim refugees pours out of the city towards the barricades. He smells the cordite, hears the rattle of machine gunfire nearby. The refugees are nearly all women, some so old they can barely walk, and children. The women wear brightly coloured headscarves. They carry a few scattered belongings in plastic bags, babies in their arms. The children cry as they try to keep up. Where are the men? The womens’ stories are garbled, incoherent once they have crossed over to Croat-controlled territory. Names, places, times, all are jumbled up in a kaleidoscope of terror. But each tells of executions, husbands taken away at night. Of screams and pleading. Of neighbours who pointed their houses out to the Serb militiamen, neighbours they had invited to weddings and family celebrations.

He sees the Bosnian Serb soldier, drunk, staggering up to the procession of terrified humanity. The young woman is just a few steps from no-man’s land and sanctuary. Alex wills her to move forward, to go faster. The soldier grabs her arm, and pulls off her headscarf. She had covered herself to try and disguise her beauty. The soldier leers at her high cheekbones, and dark eyes. He laughs and grabs her long black hair. Her mother wails and sobs. Alex watches the young woman pray, her lips moving quickly, as the soldier drags her away, towards the woods.

* * *

“That’s enough,” said Alex.

He walked over and lifted the underwear from the border guard’s finger. The guard said nothing, too amazed to react. Alex picked up Natasha’s clothes and began to place them back in her bag. Natasha watched silently. The guard reached for his handcuffs and pepper spray.

Alex turned to him, speaking calmly. “This is an open border between two European Union member states. Free and unhindered travel is guaranteed by agreements signed by Slovakia. Either you arrest us, in which case you must inform our embassies – and we have notified people that we are crossing here, so enquiries will be made if we do not arrive – or you must let us travel on. It is up to you. If you continue this harassment and intimidation I will make an official complaint. I will notify the British and Hungarian embassies and the international media. And I will name you.”

He looked at the name patch on the guard’s uniform. “Mr Pucak.”

The border guard glared at Alex for several seconds, his hand hovering over the pepper spray. He grunted and handed their passports back.

“Enjoy your holiday,” he sneered, as he left the carriage.

Alex handed Natasha her brassiere. “Thanks,” she said, looking curiously at Alex, before folding it and putting it in her bag.

Alex sat down. He squeezed his eyes closed, his hands under his legs so she would not see them shaking.

Vince Szatmari walked over to the
Budapest News
office on Monday lunchtime. He had talked at length again with Father Fischer after Sunday Mass. The report he had found lying on a cistern in one of the toilets at the National Bank was stamped ‘Confidential’. Normally he would have handed it in to the receptionist. But when he saw the name ‘Ignac Akardy’ at the top of the document he read it. By the time he reached the end he was puzzled, and very worried. Akardy was Vince’s boss. Portly and pompous, with a taste for ostentatious gold watches, Akardy had twice dropped unsubtle hints to Vince about share buys, that in other countries might have led to charges of insider trading. Vince had not acted on them, but in both cases he noted that the prices leapt after a massive investment by a consortium of Swiss banks.

But that was not why he wanted to talk to the
Budapest News
. He didn’t trust the partisan Hungarian press but the foreign journalists seemed accurate and objective. Akardy had banned the newspaper from the office after its series on corruption in Hungarian banks. He walked up to the front door of the grand apartment building opposite Nyugati station. The newspaper’s office was on the fifth floor. What was it they called what he wanted to do in English? Blowing? Whistling and blowing? Whistle blowing, that was it. He pressed the buzzer by the entry-phone.

“Hallo, my name is Vince Szatmari and I want to blow a whistle.”

He groaned inside. Hungarians always announced themselves by their name. But this was not the time to broadcast his. He was anyway not that confident in English, and it sounded all wrong.

A female voice sounded through the speaker. “Are you looking for a sports shop? There’s one around the corner.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I want to blow a whistle, not buy one.”

“This is a newspaper office. We don’t sell whistles,” said the voice before breaking the connection. Vince turned on his heel in frustration.

* * *

Alex watched from the window as the train trundled into Kosice. “Dusan Hrkna: King of Slovakia” was crudely painted on the station wall in letters three metres high. Three burly men in leather jackets stood on the platform, walkie-talkies in hand. His telephone beeped twice and he looked at the screen: an empty text message from a blocked number. It beeped again: another blank screen. Alex quickly pulled the curtains closed and picked up his bag, gesturing for Natasha to follow him out of the compartment. They ran down the corridor to the end of the carriage, continuing through the cars to the end of the train. As soon as it stopped they climbed down and clambered over the railway lines until they came to a concrete embankment. Narrow, steep steps were cut into its side, leading to a busy highway, twenty metres above. A rusting fifty litre drum of motor oil stood at the top of the stairs. Alex turned round to see the three men running down the tracks towards them, shouting into their walkie-talkies.

“Go, quickly,” he told Natasha, following her as she ran up the stairs. She stumbled on the crumbling concrete but quickly righted herself. They stood at the top, catching their breath. Cars rushed by, weaving from lane to lane, drivers honking impatiently. Alex looked back. The three men were a hundred metres from the embankment. He scanned the motorway but there was no sign of a grey Volkswagen Golf.

Alex pointed at the oil drum. “Help me with this.” They pushed the container towards the top of the stairs. Alex levered off the lid with a fifty forint coin. The first pursuer sprinted up the embankment stairs. Natash held the drum while Alex tipped it forward. A tide of thick, filthy motor oil gushed down the steps, splashing over the man in the leather jacket, drenching his trousers and shoes. He cursed and toppled backwards, his walkie-talkie flying in the air. Alex lifted the drum higher and the last of the oil flowed out down the steps. He looked around again – where
was
she?

Natasha stood laughing. Two more security agents arrived at the foot of the stairs, staring at Alex and Natasha with fury. One tried to scrabble up the side of the embankment, away from the oil, but slipped back down. He pulled out a mobile telephone, punched the keyboard and barked angrily into the handset.

“When do you think your friend might get here?” Natasha asked brightly, as though enquiring about the time of the next bus.

A battered Volkswagen Golf pulled up, tyres skidding. Alex pulled the doors open, gesturing for Natasha to sit in the back, and jumped in next to the driver. Svetlana Todorova slammed the car into first gear and shot off into the traffic, triggering a chorus of outraged hooting. “So you got the messages. We put the oil there this morning. That is the only other way out of the station. Here, wipe your hands,” she said, passing Alex a box of tissues. “We heard that state security knew you were coming. Anyone asking about Novy Marek is added to a watch list.”

Svetlana was a bustling and energetic woman in her mid-thirties with large brown eyes. Long curly russet-coloured hair cascaded around a round, intelligent face. She wore a shapeless blue skirt, a brown baggy jumper and a black fake leather jacket. But somehow the mismatched ensemble only added to the impression that the deputy head of the Roma Rights Action Group was a woman who knew her own mind.