The Budapest Protocol (23 page)

* * *

Alex walked into Ronald’s office to find him sitting in the dark staring into space. His hands were folded, resting on his capacious stomach, a crumpled handkerchief on his desk in front of him. Ferrari, his loyal red setter, was lying beside him, looking up expectantly at his master. Alex switched the lights on and walked straight to Ronald’s desk. He picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label perched on top of
Magyar Gasztronómia
magazine.

“
Ow
, that hurts old chap,” Ronald exclaimed, his eyes red and watery. He whisked the handkerchief off the table and loudly blew his nose. “Heavy night last night,” he added quickly.

Alex poured two large measures of whisky into a pair of coffee mugs. He handed one to Ronald.

“Here’s to gyms and health clubs,” said Alex, as they clinked mugs.

“What exactly
is
a health club, do you think?”

“The very opposite of the four course lunches and dinners you eat at Gundel.”

“Lettuce leaves, shreds of carrot and a glass of mineral water, you mean,” said Ronald, gloomily.

“Worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Very much worse. You have to work for it. Exercise on machines, running and rowing. Ronald, you’re not actually going to...”

“Of course not, old chap,” said Ronald quietly, sipping the whisky. “They’ve offered me six months money to go quietly.”

“And if you don’t go quietly?”

“Smith was pleased to tell me about the new
Sentinel
– Volkstern corporate security department, whose regional office is opening in Budapest next week. On constant alert to deal with any ‘difficulties’. First contract to provide close protection to the extra campaign staff arriving for... well, I think you can guess who.”

“That’s a good story.”

“Which is why you won’t see it in our paper,” said Ronald, pouring them both a fresh slug of whisky. He sighed. “Of course it’s not our paper anymore. And you?”

“I’ve been sacked.” Alex did some rapid mental calculations. As he was seconded from London, he was paid a western salary. He had enough in his bank account to pay his bills for at least six months.

Ronald said dolefully: “I’m really sorry, Alex. It was on the cards as soon as Smith arrived. If we had just known about the negotiations with the Volkstern Corporation then we could have been better prepared. The thing about that bastard,” said Ronald, letting Ferrari lick a spilled drop of whisky from his finger, “is that he’s such a miserable sod. He never enjoys anything, except buggering things up for everyone else. So it’s back to Blighty for us, eh Ferrari? And I think he’s got my mug,” he said, rubbing the dog’s neck.

Alex was lost in thought. The new corporate security division would certainly go through his computer at work. His notes from Novy Marek and the digging he had done into KZX were on his laptop at home. But there were numerous files, emails and contact numbers he wanted to get from his computer.

“Can I borrow your terminal?” he asked Ronald.

“Sure,” said Ronald, clearing some space by the keyboard.

Alex sat down at his desk. He logged onto his computer and typed in his password. The screen flashed up: “Access Denied.” He tried twice more, and both times was refused. The screen warned that the account was locked down and any further attempts to access it would trigger a response from the corporate security department.

“That bastard,” exclaimed Alex angrily. “He’s shut me out of my computer.”

The telephone rang and Ronald waved his hand at Alex to answer it.

“I greet you, and I wish you a good morning,” said a deep voice, in well-modulated formal Hungarian. “I am Father Gabor Fischer. I would like to speak to Mr Ron-ald Wor-thin-gton,” he said, emphasising every syllable as though he was reading out loud a name that been transcribed into Hungarian.

“He is here, but he doesn’t speak Hungarian. May I help you? I am Alex Farkas, one of his journalistic colleagues.
Mélyik ügyrol szeretné beszélni
, about which matter would you like to speak?” said Alex, switching to Hungarian.

“Oh, yes. Vince mentioned your name as well. He always enjoyed reading your stories.”

“Enjoyed?”

“I am very sorry to be the bearer of tragic news, Mr Farkas, and also to your colleague Mr Worthington. Vince is dead. He was killed in a car accident last night.”

* * *

Alex bumped into Natasha on the building’s grand marble staircase, on his way to Father Fischer’s church. Ronald was already packing up his office. He was shocked and upset to hear of Vince’s death. They agreed that Alex should go to see the priest. Natasha was on her way out. She looked pale, he thought. Had she been crying?

“I suppose this is goodbye, Alex. We won’t meet any more. I’ve resigned,” Natasha said.

Alex’s stomach lurched.

“What are you talking about? I know there have been a lot of upheavals. But you can’t leave. You just had an international scoop.”

“Yes, I know. Smith rewarded me with a new job. Typing up the cinema listings. So much for my career as a reporter.”

They stepped outside onto the street. She looked around and began to head into Nyugati underpass, not waiting for Alex. He caught up with her as she walked past the Hungry Postman. It was almost empty, as usual.

“Natasha, can you please just stop rushing around for a minute. I want to talk to you. I can’t do that if I have to chase you halfway across Pest.”

She stood still, watching him. Ask, he thought, and then at least you will know, one way or the other. He heard his voice, as though someone else was forming the words: “Why don’t we have dinner tonight. We can discuss things properly. We could go to...”

“No, Alex.” She looked away from him. “I can’t have dinner with you.”

No. But what did he expect? He saw her jogging on Margaret Island, the surprise, perhaps something more, in her eyes, how she blinked twice, just as he kissed Zsofi’s cheek.

Natasha twisted her hair in her fingers. “I need to be on my own for a while. I don’t want to have dinner with anybody. This morning I had a career and a good job. I worked hard and did my best. Now I’m unemployed.”

Alex tried again. “Look, Natasha, I wanted to explain. The other day when you saw me on Margaret Island. It wasn’t what you think. She’s an old friend. We’re not together.”

Natasha crossed her arms tightly. “I don’t think
anything
. It’s none of my business what you do, or who you do it with.”

“Natasha, don’t go like this. Look, let’s have a coffee at the Hungry Postman. We’re almost outside the front door,” he said, almost pleading.

She stepped away from him. “Do what you want, Alex. I don’t care. I have to go.” Her voice was tight and controlled.

Alex flushed red. To his surprise, he felt near to tears. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. It was a misunderstanding. There’s been too many upheavals today. I wish you every success in the future.” He proffered his hand to shake.

She shook his hand. Her lip twisted sideways as he quickly let go of her palm.

“
Djakujem
, Alex,” she said, a catch in her voice.

He watched her walk off into the underpass. Trams and traffic roared by. She reached into her handbag, took out a tissue and blew her nose. He hailed a taxi. As the car pulled over to the side of the road, he saw her running back in his direction, waving. He was just about to get in.

“Alex,” she said, her face flushed as she caught her breath.

He smiled. She had changed her mind.

“I’m sorry. I forgot to give you this. It’s the recorder, with the Sanzlermann interview.”

He stopped smiling and said nothing.

“I think there’s something wrong with it. It doesn’t work properly. I can’t access the tracks. I had to use my notes to write up the interview,” she continued.

There was a curious look in her eyes, thought Alex. And who cared if a digital recorder worked or not. “I think we already said goodbye,” he said.

Natasha turned away and walked into the underpass. He didn’t look back as he got in the car. The driver weaved through the lunchtime traffic like Ayrton Senna, lurching from left to right, tires squealing in protest. There was, he discovered, no satisfaction at all in having the last word.

* * *

The church was cool and dark. Alex sat on one of the wooden benches, shined over the years by generations of worshippers. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He missed his grandfather. Miklos and Ruth had loved only each other and had been married for fifty years. Alex envied them that enduring love. He doubted he would find it here. Perhaps he should go back to London. What would Miklos advise? To stay until his business in Budapest was finished, Alex was sure, and every journalistic instinct he had told him that Vince Szatmari’s death was no accident.

He leant back to take in the Gothic roof that soared towards the heavens, and the way the soft winter light diffused through the coloured-glass. He breathed in a pleasant smell of brick and leather. A few motes of dust floated in a beam of winter sunshine. What these walls had witnessed. Weddings and confirmations, funerals and memorials. There was a sense of peace, that life continued in its inexorable rhythm. An old lady sitting at the end of the pew smiled at him. She was from the countryside, dressed in a traditional embroidered Transylvanian skirt, with a headscarf tied neatly over her swept back grey hair. She had the clearest eyes he had ever seen, and weathered skin glowing with vitality. She offered him a shiny apple, which he accepted with a formal thank you. The windows were breathtaking, each one a work of art, an intricate tableaux of apostles and Biblical prophets. He saw a giant of a man approaching, with salt and pepper hair, and a neatly trimmed beard.

“Mr Farkas? I am Gabor Fischer. Thank you for coming. Let us go to my office.”

It was a small room, the walls lined with glass-fronted bookshelves. Alex saw the cabinets contained several volumes about liberation theology, the doctrine that the Church must struggle against physical oppression as well as save souls. A small sofa was covered with several brightly coloured cushions and wraps. There was a pleasant smell of ground coffee, and a hint of something rich and fruity. A large photograph on the wall showed a younger version of the priest, in an athlete’s leotard, standing on the medal winners’ dias at the Moscow Olympics with a triumphant smile on his broad face.

The priest beckoned Alex inside. “Sit down, please. May I offer you something? Coffee? Something stronger? I brew my own
palinka
, from plums. You are familiar with
palinka
?” he asked, smiling.

“A black coffee and a glass of your home-made would be wonderful,” said Alex, turning to look at the Moscow Olympics picture.

“I won the gold for the javelin,” said the priest as he prepared the drinks, a nostalgic smile on his broad, handsome face.

They clinked glasses. The clear spirit worked its magic quickly. It was smooth and clean, with a tangy aftertaste of fruit. Alex licked his lips in appreciation.

“How does it compare to Serbia and Bosnia?” asked Father Fischer.

“Excellent.” He picked up his coffee and drank. “Thanks. It’s a long time since I had a real Balkan breakfast.”

“I know. I used to read your articles,” said Father Fischer. He shook his head, wearily. “Vince’s death is a tragedy. His mother is devastated. The police said it was a hit and run. He’d been working late and was walking home across the Elizabeth Bridge, just a few metres from here. A car took the bend too fast, spun out of control, came up on the pavement and hit him at full speed, before driving off. He was killed instantly. They haven’t caught the driver.”

“Father, can I ask you a blunt question?”

The priest nodded.

“Do you think that Vince was murdered?”

Father Fischer leaned back in his chair, and picked up one of the cushions, coloured bright blue, green and red.

“I was in El Salvador. Twenty years ago. In the communist times. I knew your grandfather. My condolences on his death. We met several times. There were many things we agreed about. Long before Marx and Lenin, Jesus was fighting for social justice. We cannot just care for people’s souls, when they live in misery and poverty. As Jesus went out among the poor, so did I. I was despatched to a small village in the jungle, some distance from San Salvador. We set up a weaving cooperative, a health programme, and taught the villagers to read and write. These are some of the products that the cooperative made. That was twenty years ago. The colours still haven’t faded,” he said, patting the cushion.

“The village got organised. They elected a mayor, Joaquin, a natural organiser. There was talk of a trade union, a school. And then there was an accident. A car hit Joaquin, while he was walking home at night. He was killed. A few days later the army came and shot half a dozen men at random, for ‘aiding the guerrillas’. I was smuggled out, into Nicaragua, and eventually I made my way back here.”

Alex sat back, trying to imagine this sturdy Hungarian priest tramping through the jungle with left-wing guerrillas. It was surprisingly easy.

“I pray for the soul of Vince Szatmari,” the priest said. “I encouraged him to see you. Now he is dead. I encouraged the villagers in El Salvador to learn to read and write. Now most of them are dead and their village is destroyed. Perhaps the Muslims are right. Everything is recorded somewhere, and is God’s will.”

Alex finished his coffee and put the cup down. “Who wished to destroy Vince Szatmari?”

The priest looked hard at Alex, as if assessing him. “Vince told me he had found a document at the bank. It outlined the procedures for granting tenders in the new privatisations. Certain firms were to be favoured, others ignored. Everything had been arranged in advance. Billions of euros were at stake. Then he found the list of companies. Every firm was either part of, or connected to, two giant German media and industrial corporations buying up eastern Europe.”

“Which two?” asked Alex, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice.

“I think you know that. Use the information wisely. It has already cost one life.”