The Budapest Protocol (38 page)

“Jozsef?” Natasha asked tentatively. “We met at the funeral. Alex’s funeral. I’m... I was his girlfriend, I suppose.”

He smiled shyly and tried not to stare. She looked more desirable than ever. She was wearing her Afghan coat, jeans and knee-high boots, with a wide scarf wrapped around her head. Sadness had etched a stark beauty on her face. Guilt and longing churned inside him. “
My
girlfriend,” he wanted to shout, and grab her by the hand, tell her everything, and flee from Budapest as far and as fast as possible. The funeral, at the Jewish cemetery, had been mercifully brief. Peter Feher, David Jones, Mubarak, Isabelle Balassy, Natasha, Kitty, Edina, Ronald Worthington and several other former
Budapest News
staffers had all attended. Ronald and David had delivered a rather touching eulogy. Alex had gone with Ehud, who had warned him it would be difficult and unsettling but was absolutely necessary. Alex had to believe he was Jozsef Zenta, for if he didn’t nobody else would. Shut down your emotions, instructed Ehud, as they walked in. He tried, but he had never imagined how hard it would be to watch his friends mourning his death when he was alive and well, and standing just a few yards away. And how wretched he would feel.

Ehud had insisted that he introduce himself to everybody as an old friend of Alex’s. The first one will be the most difficult, Ehud told him, and then it will be easier. Don’t worry, he murmured deadpan, everyone thinks you’re dead. Alex had practised speaking in a hoarse whisper, with a lisp, to disguise his voice, using lots of street slang. He said hallo to Kitty first, excusing himself with a long-winded explanation about his sore throat. Ehud was right. She and the other mourners were polite and friendly, but not overly interested in the chubby, nondescript man from Szeged. It worked, although when he shook hands with Natasha he felt himself blush bright red as he rambled on about his bad throat. She smiled kindly, which only made him feel worse. After the prayers Peter Feher had invited him to join everyone at the Margaret Patisserie, where he had arranged a private room. Alex declined. Peter had winked at him.

Alex said: “Yes, I remember, of course. You’re also a reporter.”

“It’s a big story today. What are you doing here?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m a waiter. I’m working in the hotel tonight,” he said hoarsely, gesturing at the Savoy.

Natasha blew a plume of smoke to one side. “You shouldn’t be working if you’re still sick.”

“I know, but I need the money.” Alex’s heart thumped even faster and he bit his lip. The best disguise, the most practised legend, he knew, was meagre defence against a woman’s intuition.

“Will you do something for me, Jozsef, when you have finished work?” Natasha asked.

He smiled uncertainly.

“Call me please. I’d love to know what happened inside, with all those important people.”

“Gladly. It was nice to see you again,” he said, walking off.

“Jozsef!” Natasha called.

He turned back, and looked at her questioningly. She handed him a card. “How can you call me if you don’t know my number? Here it is.”

* * *

Bandi watched the man in the light brown overcoat present his papers, pass through the two Gendarme checkpoints and walk towards the Savoy’s entrance. It looked like he was in. Time to go to work. Bandi’s toughest guys were waiting in a safe house, and dozens more were spread out in the streams of protestors converging on the Savoy from all directions. His team was far outnumbered by the Gendarmes, but would hopefully soon be leading something unstoppable: the crowd. Each of his boys carried a mobile telephone loaded with maps, GPS, still and video cameras. The handsets automatically mashed-up the photographs and video clips they uploaded with a street map. A button on the map marked each upload which, when clicked, opened it up. Information was everything when fighting for control of the streets. His teams could all report vital tactical developments to each other in real time.

The handsets were also linked to a live video feed from the city’s CCTV network. Everything ran through a secure satellite connection, linked to a central control room somewhere downtown. Quite who was controlling that he didn’t know. That information, a slim American in a blue button-down shirt, had told him, was “above his pay grade”. Bandi flicked rapidly through the camera locations: Kossuth Lajos Street, Free Press Street, the Elizabeth Bridge and both sides of Ferenciek Square all showed a steady flow of protestors heading towards the Savoy crossroads. His handset buzzed twice. The first was confirmation that his photographs had been successfully uploaded, the second that a ‘blogbeep’ had arrived. Blogbeeps were sent through a micro-blogging service that simultaneously uploaded messages of up to 150 characters to a linked group. It said: “Gendarmes reinforcing on Petofi Sandor,” a street that led onto Ferenciek Square. Bandi tapped out: “We are on,” and pressed send.

The telephone buzzed again. He opened the photograph website and clicked on a shot of two Gendarmerie vans on Petofi Sandor Street. Gendarmes milled around, dressed in full body armour, carrying heavy plastic shields. Bandi’s pictures of the crowds, the fences and the Gendarmerie checkpoints, the weakest link in their lines, were already uploaded. Another photograph appeared, of two dozen motorcyclists, sitting on their motorbikes, in a square not far from Kossuth Lajos Street. They were drinking and shouting at passersby. Good, thought Bandi, we’ve been waiting for you.

* * *

Alex walked into the Savoy’s entrance. So far, so good, Jozsef, he thought. Meeting Natasha had been as unexpected as it was unsettling. But he couldn’t allow himself to think about her now. The important thing was that he was inside. The Gendarmes had checked and double-checked his documents, but they had worked. The Savoy’s black and grey marble lobby, with its Art Nouveau lamps and deep leather armchairs, was usually crowded with guests and hotel staff. Tonight it was hushed and tense. The reception staff had been replaced by Volkstern Corporation security in black uniforms.

A guard holding a clipboard barred his way. “You are?” he demanded.

“Jozsef Zenta,” replied Alex, handing his papers over again. “I’m a waiter for the dinner. Last minute substitute, someone got sick. It’s all arranged with Istvan Nagy, the dining manager.”

“Empty your pockets and walk through this, slowly, then stand here,” said the security guard, ushering Alex through a metal detector as he looked at the papers. The machine whined as the guard checked Alex’s papers. Alex reached into his jacket.

“
No! Put your hands up!
” shouted the guard. More security staff appeared, looking at him menacingly. Alex began to sweat. “It’s just a few coins,” he said, breathing hard. The guard reached into his pocket and took out some small change.

The guard ran a handheld metal detector over Alex’s front and back, and up and down his arms and legs. It remained silent. He pulled out a small device, the size of a handheld radio, from his pocket. He waved the device over Alex. It stayed silent. Nodding, he thoroughly frisked Alex, checking every limb, his armpits and groin. His hands quickly skated over Alex’s stomach. He looked puzzled, and then began poking and kneading. Alex squirmed in protest. The guard’s fingers felt like gun barrels.

“Shirt off,” he grunted.

“Pardon?” asked Alex.

“Are you deaf? Take your shirt off.”

The guard looked at the tightly-strapped corset that was wrapped around the false stomach.

“I’ve got a hernia, you know. Do you want me to take this off as well?” asked Alex, indignantly, pointing at the corset. He looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to start serving in a few minutes. Or shall I tell them that I’ll be late?”

The guard handed his papers back and waved him on disdainfully. “OK fatso, get to work.”

* * *

Alex, Istvan Nagy and five other waiters lined up outside the entrance to the Presidential suite. Two more armed guards frisked them, before ushering them through another metal detector, and finally into the dining room. The Beidermeyer furniture had been waxed and polished. Dim light-bulbs glowed in the crystal chandelier. A table had been set for sixteen, with solid silver cutlery, crystal wine and water glasses and antique porcelain place settings. Berlin cabaret music from the 1930s played in the background. The air was already filling with cigar smoke. Alex helped the other waiters quickly set up the bar in the corner, and poured wine, schnapps and champagne into glasses. He stepped out and circulated with his tray of drinks.

The guests drifted in; fourteen men and two women. The youngest looked to be in his late forties, the oldest, a pensioner in a wheelchair. Hrkna was there, together with Malinanescu, Daintner, Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann. All as sleek as seals, thought Alex, shiny, prosperous and satisfied, as though the world was theirs by right. They talked in low voices, with the easy arrogance of those whose wishes are always met, and quickly. Dieter Klindern chatted animatedly with the President of the Volkstern Corporation, Sylvie Krieghaufner. Krieghaufner was a well-preserved blue-eyed ash-blonde of a certain age, dressed in a shimmering black silk dress. She was smoking a long, slim panatela. The skin above her cheekbones was drawn unnaturally tight, Alex noticed. Her forehead was virtually unlined and her lips too large for her narrow, bony face, which gave her a rather equine look.

Malinanescu walked over and introduced himself to Krieghaufner, bowing low and kissing her hand. Klindern looked on, with an expression of amused condescension. A petite, elderly lady stood slightly aside from the others, watching carefully as she sipped a glass of mineral water. She was dressed in an old-fashioned green tweed jacket and skirt, her hair wound tight in a bun.

Krieghaufner caught Alex observing them and nudged Klindern, muttering something that made him laugh. Both looked at Alex. He blushed and turned away. He tried unobtrusively to eavesdrop on the conversations as he circulated, without much success. Once he had served the drinks he could hardly stand there listening. He heard the words “Czigex”, and “the Gypsy problem,” but the two silver-haired men with loud voices were on the other side of the room. “Who would have thought the Jews would turn out to be such fighters,” another proclaimed. Otherwise it was scraps and snippets: names of Swiss banks, newspapers and television stations recently acquired and politicians now declared to be ‘good friends of ours’ prompting a quip from Sylvie Krieghaufner that “so they should be, they cost enough”.

For a man who might soon be President of Europe, Sanzlermann did not look very happy, Alex thought. And where was the much-vaunted chemistry between him and the Hungarian Prime Minister? The two men seemed to be doing everything to avoid each other, and could barely conceal their mutual distaste, sitting far apart, at opposite ends of the table. The talk moved on to ski resorts, European politics, the last U.S. Presidential election. The dinner passed quickly. Goose liver followed by beef tenderloin with roast potatoes, then dessert – pancakes with flaming brandy. Alex lit the hot spirit, as Nagy poured it over the line of plates before each was presented. The first tot of brandy ignited with a whoomp. He barely jumped back in time so that his fake moustache was not set on fire. The grey-haired lady ate little, and waved away dessert.

Alex looked up to see Reinhard Daintner watching him. Daintner worried him. Alex had met him two years ago, when he had interviewed Sanzlermann as a rising star of Austrian politics. He knew Daintner was extremely intelligent and those pale eyes caught everything. Did he remember him? Or even know? Of course not, Alex told himself. How could he? It was a ridiculous idea. Focus on the task at hand.

Once the plates were cleared, the waiters were dismissed. The doors were closed, and the waiters retreated to the hotel’s basement kitchen to construct a feast from food cooked but not served. They sat noisily helping themselves to the beef, goose liver and vegetables, pouring each other generous glasses from the half-drunk bottles of wine.

Istvan Nagy, a chubby, bald man, was clearly relieved that the dinner had gone smoothly. He wiped the sweat from his shiny forehead with a white napkin. “Have a glass of this,” he said, handing Alex a glass of twelve year old Cabernet Sauvignon.

Alex sipped disconsolately. The rich, velvety wine was vinegar on his tongue. Here he was, in the same building as the Directorate, even serving their food, and all he had discovered was that a Prime Minister, two current Presidents, and a probable future one were having dinner with some German industrialists and a Swiss lady. He pushed a piece of beef around his plate.

The telephone rang. Istvan Nagy nodded. “Yes, Mr Daintner. Of course,” he said. He looked at Alex. “Go up. They need someone to serve drinks. Daintner asked for you.”

All conversation stopped as Alex entered the room. A plasma screen showing an illuminated map of Europe covered half of one wall. Sylvie Krieghaufner stood by the display with a pointer.

“Is this such a good idea, Daintner?” asked Hunkalffy, pointing at Alex.

“With all due respect, Prime Minister, would you prefer to serve yourself, and the Directorate with drinks all night? We have a lot to discuss and we will be here for several hours. As long as we speak German he will not understand a word, other than ‘give me another’, or ‘bring me’.” Daintner turned to Alex. “
Nicht wahr?”

“
Bitte? Ich verstehe nicht
,” said Alex, looking worriedly at Daintner.

Daintner waved Alex away. Alex walked over to the bar, and began filling glasses. His skin tingled with anticipation. He was in. He was about to find out the Directorate’s plans. The question was, how would he get out? He couldn’t imagine that they would let him walk out of the front door. He could only hope that Ehud, Cassandra and the other ‘serious people’ involved had planned for that. Meanwhile,
be a waiter!
He removed dirty glasses, topped up half-full ones and replaced full ashtrays with empty ones.

Sylvie Krieghaufner resumed her presentation. “The growth of satellite television and the internet has allowed our control of public opinion to evolve far faster than we had anticipated. Acceptance of European integration, and the dissolution of sovereignty, have provided economic opportunities of which our predecessors could never have dreamt. Voters wish to believe they are making independent choices. And we wish them to believe that too. Especially as we control the Euro-sceptics. These expensive gentlemen for example,” she said, tapping the screen.