The Budapest Protocol (4 page)

He checked himself in the back of the seat vanity mirror: ski-slope tan, a firm chin, well-trimmed light brown hair streaked with grey, blue eyes, cool and assessing. The years on the piste had preserved his looks. Satisfied with what he saw, he steadily scratched the back of his left hand, closing his eyes with pleasure as his nails dug into the flaking skin. The plane began its descent. Sanzlermann’s Chief Political Adviser returned to his adjacent seat as the seatbelt lights came on. Reinhard Daintner was a thin man in a grey suit, somewhere in early middle age – Sanzlermann had never been able to find out the details – a near-albino, with snow white blond hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, above very light grey eyes. He had the unnerving habit of licking his lips like a lizard contemplating a particularly juicy insect.

“Back to Budapest again. How many times is it now?” asked Daintner, as he buckled up.

“I’ve lost count. It will be good to see Attila again. He seems to have things under control,” Sanzlermann replied, reluctantly ceasing his delectable self-torment.

Daintner said: “There are half a dozen television crew waiting for you on the tarmac when we land, including CNN and the BBC. Do you want to give a quick press conference?”

Sanzlermann shook his head. “No, not tonight. They will be broadcasting live and we cannot control the questions or the setting. Let them wait until the rally and the press conference on the weekend.”

Daintner agreed. “You are right. Just a brisk wave hallo, and then straight to the hotel. Have you decided what to do with the Brussels Prize money?”

Sanzlermann swirled his whisky around his glass. “How is the Roma fingerprinting proposal playing out?” he asked.

Daintner reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file. He quickly leafed through the pages until he found a long list of tables. “Among socio-economic groups E, D and C2, very well, especially in the post-communist states. But it is not so supported among groups C1, B and A, notably among those with higher education, and in western Europe. Leclerc is seen as having more social compassion. The repeated slurs against you and claims of racism are gaining some traction.” Daintner paused and licked his lips. “Some counter ammunition would be useful.”

Sanzlermann traced his fingers over his raw left hand. “That’s why we are launching the European National Union Foundation for Roma Education with the Brussels prize money. Speak to our friends, they will contribute at least as much again. Scholarships, grants to local schools, you know what to do.”

Daintner scribbled rapidly in his notebook. “Excellent.”

*  *  *

Alex looked at his watch: 9.30pm. He had been sitting there for more than half an hour, phoning his grandfather every five minutes. There was still no answer. The Gendarmes were moving from table to table at a snail’s pace, ignoring the increasingly vocal protests of the crowd. All Kultura’s back entrances were also blocked. There was no other way out. The anger and tension rose up inside him. He walked over to the commander to demand that he be allowed out.

The commander was talking on his mobile telephone. He looked at Alex and turned away. “Yes, yes,” he said, nodding, and hung up. Alex prepared to protest when he spoke. “Good news, Mr Farkas. We have completed our identity checks. You and everyone else are free to go.”

Alex controlled his fury and sprinted up Kiraly Street, skidding on the wet pavement. He barely missed crashing into two Chasidic Jews, oblivious to the world in animated discussion, and stopped at 43 Dob Street, on the corner of Klauzal Square. The heavy wooden door was open. The building had once been magnificent, with a huge hallway that stretched back several metres and a wide curved marble staircase adorned with plaster figures. But decades of neglect had exacted a high toll. The stair edges were crumbling, the walls were coated with grime and dirt. The entrance was dark. Alex felt his way along the wall until he found the light-switch. He pressed it several times. Nothing. He bounded up the stairs as fast as he could to the third floor. Alex knocked on the door, a great wooden slab with a brass lion’s head knocker. Silence.

Miklos Farkas had lived in the same flat since 1945. After the ghetto was liberated, he studied medicine, but when the communists took over Hungary in 1948 he refused to join the party. He was expelled from university, decreed a “class enemy” because of his family background. He scraped a living as a journalist, writing about culture, while his wife Ruth worked as a French teacher. During the 1956 revolution Miklos broadcast on the rebels’ radio station, for which he received a ten year sentence. He served five and was released in an amnesty in 1961. Miklos and Ruth had one son, Edward, Alex’s father who had defected to England on a student exchange trip in the 1960s, a decision they had encouraged, despite its personal cost. During the 1980s Miklos joined the dissidents’ movement, editing their samizdat publications, and liaising with western human rights activists. He was arrested and imprisoned for several months, and only released after repeated international protests. Once Hungary became a democracy the Liberal party asked Miklos to stand for Parliament, but he refused. Ruth had died a decade ago.

Alex knocked on the door again. Still no movement inside. His heart thumped from the exertion, his anxiety turning to fear. A door across the hallway opened a fraction. Alex glimpsed a mess of grey hair, two bright blue eyes and the arm of a pink nylon housecoat belonging to Erzsebet, Miklos’ neighbour and keeper of his spare keys.

“No answer?” she asked, emerging from behind her door, stuffed with enough locks and iron bars to keep out a division of the Red Army, should the Russians ever return to Budapest. “I saw him yesterday morning. He seemed fine. He said you were coming today.” She waddled out onto the landing, a barrel on legs, perturbed that something was disrupting the peace of her realm.

Alex pounded on the door, repeatedly. Silence. Where was Miklos’ dog, Berta, a lumbering crossbreed who doted on her master, and galloped to the door as soon as the bell rang? Perhaps Miklos had forgotten that Alex was coming, and had taken Berta for a walk. There was one way to find out. The twisting sensation in his stomach became more intense.

“You can get into the flat can’t you, Erzsebet?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. It’s my responsibility to look after the building. There might be a flood, or a fire. I have a set of keys for every flat in case something happens,” she replied, puffing up with the weight of her duties.

“That’s fine. Why don’t you get them? Maybe Miklos is ill, or has fallen over. Have you heard anything funny? Did you see anyone strange?”

“Some music last night. But that’s nothing unusual. I thought it was probably just those people downstairs who have just moved in. Foreigners, I think. They’re always having parties, you should see the mess they leave, bottles and cigarettes everywhere, all over the staircase, on the landing. I don’t know where they think they are living, like Gypsies they are, always making chaos. Who knows the kind of people they are bringing into the building...”

Alex took a deep breath before he spoke, interrupting her flow, which once started was always difficult to staunch. “Erzsebet, please get the keys.”

She rushed inside and shouted at her husband to fetch the keys. She returned and handed them to Alex, expecting to come in with him. Alex motioned for her to wait outside.

The flat was dark and still and his heart began to pound. He called out for his grandfather several times, but there was no reply. His stomach churned. Alex inched along the dark hall. He felt along the wall for the switch. The flat filled with light as he entered the lounge.

Miklos was slumped on the ancient green sofa. His blue eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling and his hands gripped the arms of the sofa. He looked surprised and his white hair was dishevelled. Above his head, the word “AVO” had been painted on the wall in red paint.
Allami Vedelmi Osztaly
, the State Security Department, the brutal communist era secret service. Berta lay dead in the entrance to the room. Drips of paint had trickled down the wall. In front of Miklos’ bare feet sat a pig’s head on a plate, eyes staring blankly across the floor. The room was wrecked, bookshelves toppled over, books strewn across the floor, furniture overturned, vases smashed, pictures askew, drawers opened and tipped on the floor. A record revolved on a turntable, the needle clicking with each revolution.

Alex rushed to his grandfather. He touched the side of his neck. The skin was still warm. There was no pulse. Iron bands snapped around his chest. He could not breathe and began to hyperventilate. The pressure built inside until it burst. He lashed out with his foot, kicking the pig’s head off the plate. It flew across the room, hit the wall and bounced back, rolling at his feet. Two glassy eyes stared up at him. Alex kicked the pig’s head again, and it landed in a corner.

He inhaled steadily through his nose and told himself to keep calm as he carefully straightened Miklos’ twisted hands. He closed Miklos’ eyes, and stroked his hair, smoothing it back into position. His fingers slid down the old man’s cheeks, scraping against something sharp. He leaned forward, looking closer, and switched the nearby reading lamp on, shining the light straight onto Miklos. A strange blueish tinge to his face and lips.

Alex looked again at his hand. Tiny fragments of glass stuck to his fingertips. He bent down and sniffed his grandfather’s mouth. A faint odour of bitter almonds. A window rattled and he jumped up. He looked around for something to use in self-defence and grabbed a large glass paperweight. His hands were sweaty and he almost dropped it as he went to check the other rooms. The bathroom, bedroom and kitchen were all empty, but one of the kitchen windows was open, rattling in the breeze. He closed the window and opened the kitchen cupboards: each was crammed with cans of meat, tinned vegetables and bottles of preserves, carefully arranged four lines deep. There was more than enough to feed a family for a month. The memory of ghetto privation never faded. Three large loaves of fresh bread sat on the kitchen table, far more than Miklos could eat before it went stale, together with six cartons of cigarettes.

Alex returned to the lounge. The repeating click of the revolving record sounded loud in the quiet of the room. He picked up the turntable arm from the record: a Hungarian singer from the 1960s singing “Happy Birthday”, a favourite song from his childhood. He sat next to his grandfather, holding the gloves to his nose as the music filled the room. He tried to compose himself but his hands shook. A ball of grief and pain welled up inside him before it exploded. It felt like someone had pulled his insides out. The tears ran down his face as he sobbed for several minutes. He kissed his grandfather’s cheek, stroked his hair, and went outside.

Erzsebet was still waiting on the landing. She looked aghast at his tear-stained face and dishevelled appearance. She moved toward the door, but Alex held his hand up, and shook his head as he called the police on his mobile telephone. Erzsebet pushed past him and into the flat. Her screams echoed through the building.

Cassandra Orczy poured her first cup of green tea of the day and bit delicately into a crescent-shaped pastry stuffed with ground walnuts. It was 8.30am and the State Security Service headquarters on Falk Miksa Street was already filling up, the officers and secretaries pouring in. The communist era office block was five minutes walk from the Danube and Parliament Square, in the heart of the city’s historic centre, but was one of the ugliest buildings in Budapest. Six stories of unadorned concrete loomed over the wide, tree-lined street, but there was no need for the repository of Hungary’s murkiest secrets to look attractive. As chief of the Threat Assessment and Analysis Department, Orczy had her own spacious office, with a view of the river, furnished with Art Deco pieces from the nearby antique shops.

She brushed the crumbs from the pile of files on her desk. Each had a small white label in the top right hand corner. The top two were marked: Farkas, Miklos and Farkas, Alexander. The dossiers contained transcripts of telephone taps, snatched photographs, biographies, bank statements, work histories, medical records, the everyday details that make up a life. Miklos’ file was four times as thick as Alex’s. Orczy had ordered the records up from the registry as soon as she woke and heard the radio reports of Miklos’ death. Her job was to assess potential threats to national security for the government, and recommend appropriate action. The violent death last night of Hungary’s most famous dissident definitely came under her purview.

A wary, determined career-woman in her mid forties, Cassandra lived alone with a cat in a spacious Secessionist-era apartment overlooking Parliament. She was petite but curvaceous, her over indulgence in fine food and wine concealed by French and Italian designer outfits. With her well-coiffured dark blond hair and blue-green eyes, she liked to think she looked like a young Catherine Deneuve, and was an avid reader of celebrity and Hollywood gossip magazines. But work was a deadly serious matter. Whether choosing which business suit to wear, or deliberating on matters of state security, her decisions were taken slowly and carefully. Which was one reason why she had steadily risen up the ladder of the security service, and her tea, flown in by diplomatic bag from the Hungarian embassy in Tokyo, was now served in a blue cup of fine Zsolnay porcelain. Others made do with the white. The gold-rimmed porcelain, she thought, was in sight, but still out of reach.

The Farkas files lay on top of a detailed report on the economic activities of two major German investors: KZX Industries and the Volkstern Corporation. KZX, Germany’s largest industrial conglomerate, had already taken over Hungary’s food processing industry and now was rapidly buying up much of the Hungarian pharmaceutical sector, a key part of the country’s economy. The Volkstern Corporation, a media group that owned hundreds of newspapers, magazines and radio stations across eastern Europe, had purchased half a dozen regional private television stations in Hungary, which it wanted to turn into a new national channel. It had just launched a new national cell phone network, Magyar Mobile. Cassandra planned to recommend that the government block any further investments from KZX and the Volkstern Corporation, arguing that they were buying up so much of the economy and media that their activities were a threat to Hungary’s national interests, even sovereignty. But this morning KZX and the Volkstern Corporation would have to wait.