The Budapest Protocol (3 page)

“Tonight we are celebrating,” Kiraly proclaimed.

“And why’s that?”

“Firstly, because it’s your birthday.”

Alex looked surprised. He didn’t feel like celebrating. He had not even told Zsofi.

“Don’t think I didn’t know. Happy Birthday, dear boy. And secondly, because I have just signed up the future President of Europe.”

Alex sat up straighter. “
Sanzlermann
?”

Kiraly nodded. “That’s right. Frank Sanzlermann. Presidential candidate for the European National Union, Austrian Foreign Minister, intellectual godfather of the drive for European unity, and devoted husband and father. He arrives tonight to start his election campaign. “

Alex looked doubtful. “That’s the same Sanzlermann who has called for all Gypsies to be fingerprinted?”

“Alex, every country needs to keep track of its citizens. The fingerprinting is part of a proposal for a Europe-wide census. These are dangerous times. There are bombs going off all over Europe. You’re a journalist, a born cynic. Herr Sanzlermann is a thinker, a writer, like you. You would have plenty to talk about. He has repeatedly stated his commitment to the values of European integration.” Kiraly tapped his fingers on the table top in time to the music. “This is rather good. What is this group called?”

“Roma Party. Maybe they could play at one of Sanzlermann’s rallies. That would show a real commitment to European integration. Can Gypsies still vote?” Alex asked, deadpan.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kiraly indignantly.

Alex sipped his
palinka
. He could not allow Kiraly to escape that easily. “Did you see that article in
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
about you?”
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
, which meant “Hungarians Awake”, was a new conservative newspaper that had just been launched by the Volkstern Corporation, a German media conglomerate with extensive holdings across eastern and central Europe. The papers’ editors saw communist conspiracies everywhere, but as ex-party members themselves they knew what to look for. Kiraly looked alarmed. Few things made him more nervous than press coverage that he could not control.

“I know it’s a dreadful rag, but they had dug up one of your old speeches,” Alex continued. “I quote from memory: ‘Under the guidance of the party leadership, and the implementation of Marxist-Leninist principles, we build the new socialist future.’ Or something like that.”

Kiraly spluttered into his drink. “My dear boy. We are none of us gifted with perfect foresight. That was a long time ago. Another world.”

“October 1989, actually. The wall came down two weeks later.”

“A low blow, Alex. Times change and we must move with them.”

“I’m sorry, Istvan, you are quite right,” said Alex, mock contrite. His nose twitched at the strong smell of burning rope wafting over from a nearby table. Two young women were passing a badly-rolled joint back and forth, giggling as scraps of tobacco mixed with marijuana spilled on to the table. They sat dreamily as the music suddenly speeded up, the violinist sawing at his instrument as though he was trying to cut it in half. The notes soared, plunged, capturing the whole open space. Conversations faded as the audience watched, entranced. The violinist played a long, drawn-out note, and bowed. The applause exploded, Kiraly too clapping enthusiastically.

The waitress brought their drinks, and the two men clinked glasses.

“Happy Birthday. And here’s to the new Europe,” exclaimed Kiraly.

“The New Europe,” echoed Alex. He looked at the entrance. “And here it is.”

A large black van pulled up outside the bar. Its windows were black, covered with a thick wire mesh, “Gendarmerie” painted on its sides. Hungary’s paramilitary national police force had been disbanded after the Second World War. But the government had just reconstituted it, with sweeping powers of arrest and detention for nebulous offences such as “disturbing citizens’ tranquillity” and “insulting national pride”. Local police forces reported to the Ministry of the Interior, but the Gendarmerie answered solely to the Prime Minister, Tibor Csintori, and the Interior Minister.

Csintori’s government described itself as “moderate conservative” but was under increasing pressure from the far-right Hungarian National Front. Every concession Csintori made only increased the National Front’s power and confidence. Even with the Gendarmerie, few believed Csintori, a middle-aged former dissident sociologist, would remain in office much longer. Across eastern Europe membership of the European Union had turned sour. Authoritarian nationalists had already taken power in Romania, Slovakia and Croatia. Poverty and unemployment were soaring as state-owned industries were sold off on the cheap. Rocketing inflation ate away at the value of wages and pensions.

Riots had erupted in impoverished eastern Hungary, and Budapest’s decaying inner city. A Romany family had been killed the previous week after someone had hurled half a dozen petrol bombs through their windows. The police force seemed ever more ineffectual, mired in a turf war with the Gendarmerie. A new far-right group, the Pannonia Brigade, whose members wore paramilitary-style uniforms, held rallies and marches every weekend across the country. The Brigade even policed these itself. There was a growing sense that the state was no longer in control of the country. The government only survived the Hungarian National Front’s vote of no-confidence by boosting the Gendarmerie’s budget by fifty per cent.

Alex watched two Gendarmes saunter in. They wore paramilitary khaki fatigues and narrow pointed caps, topped with a bright cockade of red, white and green feathers, Hungary’s national colours. Each was armed with a machine pistol and a long billy club. A Sam Browne leather belt stretched across their chests, studded with clip-on cans of CS gas. They ignored Ehud’s protests. Four more Gendarmes soon followed.

Kiraly’s lips pursed in distaste. He watched the two students nearby stub out their joint and empty the ashtray into a plastic bag. They walked quickly to the bathrooms. “I hope those toilets flush properly.” He paused, “And Miklos?”

“I’m a bit worried about him. He seems very distracted lately. He was insistent that I come over for a birthday drink to talk about ‘family things’. I just called him but he didn’t answer.”

“Don’t worry about Miklos. He’s probably visiting a lady friend,” said Istvan lightly. “And how is your prima ballerina?”

“Who told you about that?”

“Very little is confidential in this town, dear boy. Especially from me. A word to the wise, if I may. Mr Karoly Petcsardy. The lissom Zsofi’s husband.”

“I know who he is. They’re separated. She wants a divorce.”

“Does she?” Kiraly’s voice was sceptical.

“He has his own lovers,” said Alex, feeling a sudden stab of acid jealousy.

“Yes, he does. But Mr and Mrs Petcsardy are not divorced. Nor have any papers been filed, or lawyers hired. There is nothing like the appearance of a rival suitor to make a previously unappreciated woman suddenly worth fighting over. Frankly, Alex, I think you deserve better. She is very pretty, but this is a dead-end relationship.”

Alex finished his
palinka
. “Istvan, you are absolutely right.”

He knew Zsofi would never leave her husband and in his heart, he probably didn’t want her to. But how long was he going to keep running from any potential commitment? He put down his glass, watching the Gendarmes. They slowly checked the identity papers of everyone entering and leaving. Their commander stood nearby, smoking a cigarette as he watched approvingly. The party atmosphere quickly evaporated. A group of boisterous students heading towards the entrance fell silent, crossed the road and briskly walked by when they saw the Gendarmerie bus.

Kiraly called the waitress over and paid the bill. “Alex, I’m sorry, but I also have to meet someone at 9.00pm.” Alex reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Kiraly waved his money away. “Enjoy your birthday, Alex. And give my best to your grandfather.”

They shook hands as Kiraly departed, flashing his identity card at the Gendarmes, who made way for him. The Gendarmes spread out across the bar. Alex checked his watch. It was 8.45pm, and definitely time to go. He walked over to the entrance where a Gendarme blocked his way. He was well built, his head shaved under his cap, his face pitted with acne.

“Papers,” the Gendarme demanded, one hand resting on his billy club.

Alex reached into his back pocket and took out his press card. The Gendarme carefully read Alex’s name and held on to the card. “Go back and sit down,” he ordered Alex.

“Why? And I would like my press card back,” Alex said, not moving.

The Gendarme signalled to the commander. He was tall and dark complexioned, with thick black eyebrows. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it out on the ground and walked over. The Gendarme handed him Alex’s press card. The commander checked it and glanced at his watch.

“I need to be somewhere at 9.00pm,” said Alex, his voice insistent.

“Unfortunately, Mr Farkas, you will have to make your excuses.”

“Why?”

“It’s nothing personal. Just a random identity check. I am sure you are who you say are. But the regulations are that nobody is allowed in or out until we have finished. It will be no more than half an hour. Here is your press card,” he said, handing it back to Alex.

Alex bit his lip and returned to his chair, anger and anxiety curdling inside him. Any further protests, he knew, would earn him a trip inside the Gendarmerie van. He called his grandfather again. There was still no answer.

Frank Sanzlermann slowly sipped his single malt whisky as the executive jet crossed into Hungarian airspace. The aeroplane was fully fitted with a complete office including satellite telephones, a high-speed internet connection and an open line to party headquarters in Vienna.

He picked up a freshly printed copy of his new book, smiling with satisfaction as he leafed through its glossy pages. Before Sanzlermann had entered politics a decade ago he had taught Philosophy and History at the University of Vienna. ‘
From Charlemagne to Schengen: The Invincible Drive for European Unity’
was the culmination of his intellectual career, cementing his reputation as both a thinker and a politician.

Published in twelve languages, its twenty chapters, each densely footnoted, traced the development of the European ideal from the Holy Roman Empire to the Schengen Accords which had abolished border controls between member states. His basic argument was simple, accessible and endlessly repeated: the traditional concept of national sovereignty was an anachronism and the greatest cause of suffering in European history. The only remedy was the abolition of that sovereignty and the construction of a European super-state with common government, financial markets, laws and institutions. The book’s front cover was the same photograph as his campaign poster, showing Sanzlermann and his family, while the back was covered with numerous endorsements from European politicians, hailing Sanzlermann as an “Aristotle for the modern age” and “The leading intellectual of the 21st century.”

Sanzlermann’s writing on the necessity of the euro, that abolishing financial autonomy was a worthwhile sacrifice, as nations who shared a single currency would never go to war, had been especially acclaimed. He had just won that year’s Brussels Prize, 250,000 euros, for the greatest contribution to European unity. His arguments about the essentially Christian nature of European identity, and its Greco-Roman heritage – like his proposals for fingerprinting Roma – had triggered considerable controversy, angering many Muslims, Jews and those on the left, but his robust defence seemed to only strengthen his support. There was increasing talk of a Papal audience. After the recent Immigration Liberation Army bombing in Berlin most polls gave Sanzlermann at least an eight per cent lead over his main rival, Edith Leclerc, the French schoolteacher standing for the Social Democratic Alliance.

The plane banked slowly as the pilot announced preparations for landing at Budapest’s Ferihegy Airport. A young, handsome flight attendant walked down the aisle and offered Sanzlermann some more whisky. He shook his head, and pulled out a pen from his pocket.

“Klaus, isn’t it?” Sanzlermann asked, looking into his eyes.

The steward nodded. Sanzlermann signed his book and handed it to him. The steward thanked him, blushed and walked quickly to the back of the plane, holding the book and whisky against his chest. Sanzlermann smiled to himself, turned and looked out of the window. The plane flew over acres of concrete pre-fabricated apartment blocks, the drab “panel flats” that were built all over the former eastern Bloc, from Bulgaria to Berlin. The Danube was a black ribbon snaking through the city, its banks marked by orange streetlights. The same river that flowed through Sanzlermann’s home town of Linz, from where he had first been catapulted onto the national, then the international stage.

The European Union now had thirty members, including all the central European post-communist countries, Macedonia and Croatia. As Austrian Foreign Minister, Sanzlermann had played a pivotal role in expanding the union eastwards. The remaining former Yugoslav countries were scheduled to join within five years. The post of President of Europe would not be ceremonial. After intense lobbying by Germany and Austria, and hints from Switzerland that it may soon consider its own referendum on eventual membership, it was agreed that the President would be directly elected by universal franchise in each member state. The President would chair the finance, economics and foreign relations committees of the European Parliament, with veto rights over all new laws. The post would be an unprecedented hybrid of executive, legislative and ceremonial powers. That much was public information.

Behind the scenes, the future President’s potential for dealmaking and breaking, awarding contracts and peddling power and influence was almost unimaginable. Brussels had decided that voting would take place on a country-by-country basis, over a three-month period, to allow the candidates an opportunity to campaign across the continent. The eastern members were first on the trail, to show Brussels’ commitment to the new, expanded Europe. With Sanzlermann’s help Hungary had been chosen to open the voting, to the chagrin of its neighbours, on November 9, the anniversary of the opening of the Berlin Wall. November 9 was also the date of
Kristallnacht
, the Nazis’ 1938 pogrom against the Jews that marked the start of the Holocaust, although that anniversary received less attention.