The Budapest Protocol (40 page)

Klindern continued. “And now, the man who, more than any other, has kept our ideals alive. SS Colonel Friedrich Vautker.”

He gestured at Alex to bring over the elderly man in the wheelchair. Alex stared down at his pink bald head, and his liver-spotted hands as he wheeled him to the front of the table. He considered tipping the wheelchair over and sticking a steak-knife into his chest. He might even succeed, and live for perhaps another five or ten seconds.

Vautker waved Alex away. “In winter 1944, I had dinner in this hotel. The Russian savages were advancing across the continent. But every long dark night must surely be followed by a bright new dawn. Together with our friends in Switzerland, we laid our plans,” he said, nodding at Schmidt. “Which have now come to fruition. Our greatest triumph is the introduction of the euro. We once believed war ensured financial hegemony. But now we know that peace offers the best chance for economic domination. Peace, then the erosion, and abolition, of national economic sovereignty, to be replaced by the rule of the Federal Monetary Authority. Safe in the hands of my son, Heinrich Vautker,” he said, pausing as the applause rippled around the room.

“This weekend we begin our consolidation of our control of the European Union, when Frank Sanzlermann wins the first round of the Presidential election,” he said, gesturing at Sanzlermann, who smiled wanly. “The techniques we have honed here will then be implemented across the continent. The ‘Patriot Bond’ will draw in millions of euros. When the bond fails to pay the promised interest, its collapse will be blamed on ‘international speculators’ and the forces of ‘finance capital’. I advise you to stay away from synagogues at that time,” he said, to laughter. “There will be little opposition, while Europe’s attention is focused on the Immigration Liberation Army. Speaking of which, let me introduce our special guest. Daintner,” he said, gesturing at the door, and snapping his fingers.

Daintner rose to open the door. A tall, dark-skinned, hawkfaced man strode in. He was dressed in an Italian silk suit and had a soldier’s bearing. He looked up and down the table, smiled, and bowed to the audience. There was silence for a few seconds before a ripple of recognition passed through the room. Sanzlermann sat staring wide-eyed. Cornelius Malinanescu blinked rapidly. Dusan Hrkna stood up, waving his fist and swearing.

Vautker’s voice was soothing. “Sit down, please, Mr Hrkna. I understand your anger. But sometimes the bigger picture needs to be kept obscure until the right moment. May I present the man known as ‘Hasan Al-Ajnabi’, leader of the Immigration Liberation Army. Mr Al-Ajnabi is a founder member of the Directorate. We have many allies in the Middle East, keen to protect their countries from the power of finance capital, and its lackeys in Washington.”

Vautker gestured at Alex. “A large whisky for Mr Al-Ajnabi,” he ordered. Alex tried not to stare. The ILA was run by the Directorate. The Directorate was starting a race war. Brilliant, in its way. Hunkalffy returned to the room as Alex handed Ajnabi his drink.

Klindern asked: “Are the forces of anarchy under control yet, Prime Minister?”

Hunkalffy glared at him. “So far, yes. The motorcyclists crash was a one-off incident. Of course, if you wish to completely disperse the crowd, we could implement the Tiananmen option. But that would not look very good on You Tube, would it?” he said, sarcastically.

Klindern’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Attila’s little joke,” he said brightly.

Vautker tapped his false arm on the table. It made a dull knocking sound. “Gentlemen, please. Let us not squabble on this historic night. I will briefly outline our current situation. Some of our work remains unfinished. The Jews have survived, even prospered. Our project in Iraq was destroyed by the American blunderers, still under the control of the Jewish lobby. But our funding for Israeli universities, Jewish community centres, even Holocaust memorials,” he sputtered, “has proved a most useful camouflage and brought us much intelligence. And if the Jews are – temporarily at least – out of reach, the other race-mixers are not.”

He grasped the pointer and banged the plasma screen. A Gypsy settlement appeared. Barefoot children scampered in the dirt, mothers hung out washing on lines stretched between dilapidated wooden houses. “Observe, please, the filth and squalor. But soon Europe will be cleansed. Thanks to my personal initiative. The Poraymus Project. The world’s first racially-profiled genetically engineered drug. The Gypsy infertility pill. Our pilot project in eastern Slovakia has already brought excellent results. Once launched across Europe, we estimate that within five years the entire Gypsy race will start to decline dramatically in numbers, before eventually dying out,” he said, to applause. “You will find details on Herr Daintner’s DVD.”

Hunkalffy stood up. “No. This is too much.” He trembled as he spoke, his hands gripping the table edge.

He thought about the Gypsy boy every day. It was an accident, just a terrible accident.

The applause stopped. Klindern asked: “Is there a problem, Attila?”

The boy and the girl were standing with their mother on the street corner. The girl was beautiful; slim and elegant, like a fashion model.

Hunkalffy swallowed hard: “A firm hand, tough laws, yes. The Gypsies are prone to criminality. They are wild, antisocial.”

He drove closer to the kerb, just to take a better look at her,
but his telephone rang.

“They must be brought under control. But to wipe them out? No, I cannot agree,” Hunkalffy said, his voice growing in strength and confidence.

The phone kept ringing. He reached down and scrabbled for his handset.

“He cannot agree,” said Klindern, faux-amazed. “Then what did you think we were doing in Slovakia, Attila? Running a trial of a fertility drug?” he said, triggering more laughter.

“I didn’t know.” Hunkalffy paused and looked around the room. “I am Hungarian, Prime Minister of this country.”

The car’s front wheel hit the pavement and bounced forward.

Hunkalffy stood straighter. “And I am part Gypsy. My grandmother was a Romany.”

The girl jumped out of the way but the car ploughed into the boy and his mother. They flew up over the bonnet, into the windscreen.

Klindern looked concerned. “Attila, sit down,” he said, his voice conciliatory. “It’s been a long day. But it’s almost over. Relax. Have another drink.”

Hunkalffy shook his head, staring straight ahead.

The glass shattered. The car spun out of control and crashed into a lamp post.

Klindern reached under the table. He pulled out a pistol with a long, narrow silencer.

Hunkalffy stood transfixed.

He reversed back into the road. The boy and his mother lay on the pavement.

Hunkalffy looked at the silencer. Klindern pointed the gun at him.

He panicked and drove away, tyres screeching.

Klindern fired three times, the silenced pistol snapping like a children’s cap gun.

Hunkalffy slammed backwards against the wall, his shirt flooding crimson.

He wanted to visit them in hospital, to say he was sorry, to try and make amends.

The blood bubbled up in Hunkalffy’s mouth, running down his jaw. He tried to wipe his face.

They lay so still on the pavement. He was so sorry.

He shuddered, and died.

Bandi nervously lit another cigarette, took a long drag and crushed it out on the roof. He could read a crowd like others read a newspaper and the numbers weren’t there yet. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. A biting wind was blowing in from the river, bringing a freezing, driving rain. He picked up his telephone and flicked through the video feed links. He looked at the demonstrators: the exhilaration was fading, the energy dissipating. Some of the protestors were already drifting off. The stallholders selling drinks and snacks were packing up. Several journalists had retreated back to their vans and cars.

He looked closer as he saw several familiar faces walking down Kossuth Lajos Street. He zoomed in. Yes, it was her – the woman who had recruited him at the Falk Miksa Street office, the good looking, well-dressed blonde, wearing a fur coat. She was with two men. One was elderly, and the other...could it be? He zoomed in tighter. He was right, she was holding hands with the Arab guy who had given him his soft loan, 50,000 euros in cash. The Arab was talking to the pretty English redhead Bandi had met once at the Security Service headquarters. But two spies, an old guy and a money-changer weren’t enough.

His telephone rang. An American voice said: “Your call, buddy.”

Bandi replied: “Ten minutes.”

The American said: “Two. Or we shut this thing down.”

Bandi said: “Five.” He ran back into the building and sprinted down the stairs.

* * *

Klindern pointed the pistol at Alex. “It’s over. Come here.”

Alex’s heart pounded as he walked across the room, trying to remember the moves Ehud had taught him. He quickly looked around as he walked over to Klindern. No help, obviously, but would they intervene? Sanzlermann’s hand shook as he poured a large cognac. Hrkna looked unconcerned and lit a cigar. Krieghaufner and Schmidt observed him with amused interest, as though they were watching the premiere of a much acclaimed new play. Al-Ajnabi’s eyes glowed with hate.

Klindern ripped off the fake moustache. “Alex Farkas. Not so dead after all, it seems.” He held the moustache up to the light. “Did you really think that this,” he sneered, “would fool us?”

Alex shrugged, inching towards Klindern.

“Poor Attila. One Gypsy less, at least,” Klindern said, keeping the pistol trained on him.

“He died bravely,” said Alex, moving closer.

Klindern laughed cynically. “Dying bravely. The Hungarian national sport.” He flicked the fake moustache onto Hunkalffy’s body, watching it land in a pool of blood.

Alex grabbed the pistol.

He yanked it to the right and forced it upwards hard and fast. He twisted Klindern’s hand backward, pushing as high as he could.

The first bullet hit the chandelier, sending shards of crystal flying around the room. The guests dived onto the floor, Malinanescu barging Schmidt aside as he scrabbled under the table. The gun fired again and again, the bullets smashing into the chandelier and the ceiling. Glass and plaster dust rained down. Klindern fought hard for control, punching Alex repeatedly in his chest and stomach. A glancing blow caught Alex on the side of his head. The pain fuelled his fury. He wrenched the pistol sideways with all his strength.

Klindern’s fingers snapped.

He let go of the gun and staggered backwards. Alex slid forward and kicked him rapidly and repeatedly in the groin. Klindern threw up and collapsed, writhing on the floor in a puddle of his half-digested dinner. The reek of vomit and cordite fumes filled the room. Alex grabbed Klindern’s right arm. He turned it around, elbow facing down, and slammed it over his knee. It broke with a sound like a twig snapping. Klindern turned white and fainted.

Alex jumped up, covering the room with the pistol. Only Al-Ajnabi still sat at the table, drinking his whisky.

Vautker rolled his wheelchair towards Alex. “Finally, you fight.”

Alex pointed the gun at Vautker.

“
Bitte
, shoot,” said Vautker. “The magazine holds eight bullets. Three for Herr Hunkalffy, and five in the wall and ceiling. Of course, I may have miscounted.”

Alex pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. It clicked on an empty chamber.

* * *

The men looked up as Bandi walked into the cramped apartment, their faces full of anticipation. They laughingly called themselves ‘The Dirty Dozen’, although Bandi thought of them as twelve Trojan Horses. After sixteen hours of waiting the room stank of bodies and sweat. Its stale air was thick with cigarette smoke, the floor carpeted with junk food wrappers and crushed drink cans. A television flickered in the corner, a naked woman writhing on its screen. The flat was located on the third floor of an apartment block on Kossuth Lajos Street facing the Savoy. Its entrance was blocked off by the first line of security fences. The plan was for Bandi’s guys to break out and take down the two lines of fences, while the protestors, urged on by his men on the other side, smashed through the Gendarmes’ cordons. They would all then meet up in the middle.

Bandi walked over and pulled out the television plug. The screen went black.

He said: “Party time.”

* * *

Two security guards frogmarched Alex out of the dining room, his feet scraping along the floor, his wrists handcuffed together. He squirmed as one pressed the muzzle of a pistol into his spine. The lift travelled down into the hotel storage room. The revelry of the other waiters was clearly audible through an open door, just ten yards away. The security guard pressed the pistol barrel harder into his back. “Don’t even think about it,” he hissed.

They pushed him into a large windowless room and stood holding him. The door opened. Daintner pushed Vautker forward in his wheelchair.

Vautker pointed a Luger pistol at Alex. “This one is loaded.” He laughed, a dry cackling sound. “The only question was how long we would allow your pathetic charade to continue. How poignant. Just as he uncovers the dastardly conspiracy, the heroic reporter is tragically killed.”

He nodded at the security guards. One gripped Alex’s arms, his fingers digging into his wound. The other ripped Alex’s shirt open, sending the buttons flying.

“Take it off,” Vautker snapped, gesturing at Alex’s corset. The guards ripped it off leaving the false stomach sagging pathetically on its straps. Vautker wheeled himself up to Alex and slowly dug the barrel of the Luger into his wounded arm. “Who are you working for?” he asked softly.

“Me. There’s only me,” said Alex, wincing from the pressure of the pistol.

Vautker wheeled himself backwards and ripped the bandage from Alex’s arm. He grabbed his pistol by the barrel, and slammed the butt into the wound. It burst open and blood ran down Alex’s arm. The pain was excruciating.