The Budapest Protocol (8 page)

“So when are we going running?” asked David. He was a marathon runner, whose idea of a quick jog was three laps of Margaret Island, a total of sixteen kilometres. Alex often tagged along, usually retreating after one lap.

“When ever you like. One lunchtime next week?”

“Sure. I’ll call you.” His telephone bleeped with another incoming call. He looked at the screen: Zsofi. “Gotta go,” he said to David, and pressed the answer button.

Zsofi spoke: “Dearest Alex, can you forgive me? I so wanted to be with you today.”

Relief and annoyance competed. Still he smiled, despite himself.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Standing outside your flat. Your doorbell’s broken. Are you going to let me in?”

He opened the door. She strode inside and handed him a large bouquet of yellow roses.

“Darling,” she said, as she took off her coat, and hugged him. “I’m so sorry about Miklos. I know how close you were. But I can’t stay long. I’m taking the dawn train to Vienna tomorrow. I’m auditioning at the state Opera House for Juliet.”

“Congratulations.” He willed himself not to ask if Karoly was going too. Zsofi nuzzled his ear. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She responded eagerly, her tongue darting into his mouth.

Alex sat back. “I thought you couldn’t stay long,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said, running her hand up his thigh.

He sipped his wine and took her hand off his leg. “Zsofi, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think this is what I need right now, sharing you with someone else.”

“Is that an ultimatum? You know the rules. We agreed: no questions, no demands, no breakfasts. You know my situation is very complicated. We always have fun together don’t we?”

“Yes. We do.” But on days like these, he thought, when you didn’t feel like ‘fun’, what else was there between them?

She sensed the change in his mood. They sat silently for several minutes, and she held his hand. “I’m sorry, I just thought you might need some tender loving care.”

“It’s OK, really,” said Alex.

Zsofi picked up the book of Radnoti poems and recited in a clear, musical voice.

“That’s my favourite, ‘Whistle with the Wind’,” he said.

She smiled at him. “And the best line is?”

“Oh, I love you,” said Alex.

“Well, then.” Zsofi kissed him chastely on both cheeks and walked to the door. “I’ll phone you tomorrow from Vienna.”

His landline rang as Alex sat down. “Zsofi? Is that you? Did you forget something?”

Silence. “Hallo,
Jó estét
, good evening,” Alex said. He clicked the receiver on and off. A hum of static, and a crackle. He pressed the handset closer to his ear. A familiar tune sounded. He slammed the receiver down, his hand shaking, a Hungarian version of “Happy Birthday” echoing in his ears.

Cassandra Orczy looked at her watch: 2.30pm. Her appointment was at 2.00pm, and she had been sitting on an antique chair in a wood-panelled corridor in Parliament for thirty-five minutes. What a way to spend Saturday afternoon, she thought, although in truth her diary was not exactly bursting with social invitations. Still, she had heard that Prime Minister Hunkalffy had already kept the American ambassador, a close personal friend of the U.S President, dangling for forty-six minutes that morning, so Cassandra was in good company. At least the ambassador probably got a cup of coffee.

She picked up that day’s issue of
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
from a nearby table. The front page proclaimed: “National Salvation: Hunkalffy Takes Power.” The usual toxic mix, she thought and put the newspaper down. She took out the new edition of
Grazia
magazine from her handbag, keeping one eye on Hunkalffy’s door as she flicked through the paparazzi shots. One of his flunkies walked by, giving her a disdainful glance. Hunkalffy’s camp loathed the security service as a nest of communists. But she was still at work. It had immediately been made clear to Hunkalffy that any attempt at a wholesale purge would result in the release of information currently held in the pages of his own file in the basement registry. So the balance of forces in Hungarian power politics was maintained, for the moment at least.

“He will see you now,” said a gangly youth, ushering her into a room bigger than most Budapest apartments.

Attila Hunkalffy stood at the window, looking out over the Danube, his trademark ponytail of long black hair resting on his shoulders. He stood close to a tall, athletic-looking man. They both turned round as Orczy entered the room.

Hunkalffy bade her a cursory good afternoon. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt, without a tie. His dark eyes and olive skin exerted a hypnotic power, like a panther in a cage. He looked like an Italian film star, she thought. A fine black down covered the back of his hands. Frank Sanzlermann was dressed for the weekend in jeans and a light blue designer polo shirt that set off his sun-tan. He made himself comfortable on a nearby leather sofa and poured himself a brandy from a crystal decanter. He offered the drink to Hunkalffy. Hunkalffy shook his head, and sat down behind his desk.

“I’ll speak English, so Herr Sanzlermann can understand us. Now this memo, Miss Orczy, about the supposed ‘threats’ to our pharmaceutical industry and media,” said Hunkalffy.

Cassandra sat upright. “Prime Minister, I must protest. Herr Sanzlermann does not have clearance, and he is also a foreign national. These are matters of national security. As an experienced statesman himself, I am sure he will understand,” she said in English, her voice emollient as she turned towards him.

Hunkalffy shook his head. “Herr Sanzlermann is an old and trusted friend. We see eye to eye on many, even most issues.”

“I am sure you do. Nonetheless, I repeat these are classified matters. I must ask that Herr Sanzlermann leave the room.”

“You were not so fussy about foreign nationals when you were a student in Moscow, studying under the KGB at the Dzerzhinsky Institute,” sneered Hunkalffy.

“I was sent to Moscow by the Hungarian security service. I served, and continue to serve my country. You didn’t complain twenty years ago when my predecessors smuggled you over the border into Romania after Ceausescu announced that all Hungarian villages in Transylvania were to be turned into concrete agro-complexes. We took you in, dodged the
Securitate
, brought you out, and then introduced you to our contacts in the west. You even met Prince Charles. All of which established your reputation as a valiant fighter against communism. I am sure you agree, Prime Minister, we are all patriots in our own ways.”

Hunkalffy remained silent, although his eyes glittered.

Still angry at the implication she was a traitor, she plunged on, unable to stop herself. She examined a mother of pearl button in her blouse as she spoke. “Your uncle was a veteran member of the party in your home town of Gyor, was he not? He joined in 1957. I believe he even once stood for a post on the Party’s Central Committee.”

Sanzlermann listened to the exchange with growing interest, gently stroking his left hand. “Really, Attila, I didn’t know that your relatives were communists.”

Hunkalffy forced his face into a smile. “Ach, every family has its black sheep. Frank, let us meet later. As you see I have things to arrange.”

“That was perhaps not very wise of you, Miss Orczy,” said Hunkalffy, switching back to Hungarian after Sanzlermann had left. “But not as much of a mistake as this report of yours that arrived on my desk last night.”

Hunkalffy leafed through the pages stamped “Secret”. “Are you seriously suggesting that KZX Industries and the Volkstern Corporation represent a threat to our national interests?”

“Yes, Prime Minister, that is exactly what I am saying. We believe that under cover of the economic liberalisation that followed our accession to the European Union, neighbouring countries, especially Germany and Austria, are attempting to take control of our drugs manufacturers, and our print and broadcast media. You will see that we have found evidence of telephone and email intercepts, as well as surveillance by operatives of unknown origin.”

Hunkalffy sat back, picked up a pencil and chewed its end. “Miss Orczy. Please, look at a map. We are a small country, we need foreign capital. Germany and Austria are our neighbours, our historic friends. The European Union has brought peace and security here, for the first time in our history. The borders are open. People can say whatever they like, travel wherever they like. There are no more tanks in the street, no more torturers in the basements. Nobody knocks on our doors in the middle of the night any more. Do you miss that? I don’t. Or perhaps you would prefer your friends in Moscow to buy up the country.”

“And what friends are they?” she demanded.

Hunkalffy sat back. He put her memo aside, and opened a drawer. He took out several photographs, and placed them face down in front of him on the wide antique table. He turned over the first and handed it to her. She was driving a red open-top two-seater sports car.

“Mazda RX-7. Sporty, fast, compact, easy to park,” he said.

She nodded. His eyes drew her in. “And?”

“A present, wasn’t it?” he asked.

She blushed. “It’s not a crime for a woman to receive a gift.”

“No, it is not. We have not yet lost our politesse. Women are honoured and respected. Treated with courtesy, given flowers on their birthday and their saints’ days. But what if this car was less of a gift than an exchange, for something equally valuable,” he said, passing her the second photograph. “Such as information.”

A well-groomed man in his early forties, with a wide Slavic face, smiled ironically at the camera.

“Your classmate at Moscow University,” said Hunkalffy. “Formerly regional director of a Soviet oil company. Now chairman of a new Moscow firm, which last year took a significant minority stake in the Hungarian state oil company. After several rival bidders dropped out at the last moment. A week later Miss Cassandra Orczy was driving her new Mazda RX-7 down Andrassy Avenue. The state oil company, you will agree, is one of our
most
important national assets.”

“That deal was completely transparent and above board,” she replied, her voice agitated. “Everything was public. Parliament raised no objections.”

“No, it did not. Hungarians are realists, first of all. Russia supplies most of our oil and gas. But I’m still interested in your car. Considering your salary you live very well. You drive a sports car, and have no mortgages on your flat, or your other properties, do you?” Hunkalffy asked.

Cassandra looked away.

Hunkalffy picked up the framed photograph on his desk. It was an old-fashioned formal portrait of a young man in his best suit. He turned the picture round so that she could see it. He looked like a younger version of Hunkalffy, with shorter hair. “Do you know who this is?”

Cassandra shook her head.

“You mentioned my uncle, so I’ll tell you more of my family history. This is my father, Jozsef Hunkalffy. When he was seventeen, he was a street fighter in the 1956 revolution. His first and only girlfriend, my mother, tried to make him to flee to the west. He refused. The AVO arrested him soon after. He was sentenced to be hanged, but the sentence was postponed,” Hunkalffy continued, still holding the photograph. “They told him in prison that his girlfriend was pregnant, but refused to let her visit. One day my mother received a letter saying she had permission, as it was his eighteenth birthday. She was overjoyed. When she arrived they told her my father had been hanged that morning. Just half an hour earlier. They let her see his body. It was still warm. So she had her visit. She was pregnant with me.” His hand shook as he put the picture down.

Hunkalffy took a sip of brandy, and turned over the last photograph: a double-winged ochre-coloured Art Nouveau villa on the shore of Lake Balaton, set in landscaped gardens.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, picking up the picture. “Built in 1885. After 1948, the holiday home of the steel workers. Twenty rooms, with views of the lake, a swimming pool and an orchard of cherry and peach trees. Do you know who originally owned the villa?”

Cassandra shook her head.

“Because I am sure, Miss Orczy, that you are basically a moral person. And you would not wish to personally profit from the horrors of the Nazi era. Would you?”

“No, of course not,” said Cassandra warily.

“Did you ever think to ask who originally owned this lovely property?”

“No,” she said, the sinking feeling in her stomach growing heavier by the minute.

“The villa was built for the Farkas family. Most of them perished in the Holocaust. Its rightful owner was Miklos Farkas. He is now dead, so his grandson Alex should receive the keys.” Hunkalffy put the photograph down and pulled out some papers from a file. “But sadly, that seems unlikely. The steel workers union sold it in October 1989 to a company in the Bahamas, for the equivalent of $5,000. It is now worth at least fifty times that, probably 100 times. You travel to the Bahamas regularly, don’t you, Miss Orczy?”

She looked down at the floor, her face burning red.

Hunkalffy picked up the photograph of the villa. “So don’t lecture me on the correct disposal of strategic national assets. We are in charge now.” Hunkalffy gathered the papers on his desk, as she stood up to leave.

* * *

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Alex, can we meet for a coffee this afternoon at the Hungry Postman? I know it’s Saturday, but I want to talk to you about something.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

OK. Let’s say 3.00pm.

The Hungry Postman was a small café near the
Budapest News
office, located in the pedestrian underpass that led to Nyugati Station and the Great Boulevard. Alex had walked past the café many times but had never stepped inside. He breathed in the familiar smell of dirt, kebabs and urine and stopped to give 500 forints, about two euros, to a homeless woman who sat nearby selling yesterday’s newspapers. She gave him a beatific smile and tucked the money under the three overcoats she was wearing.