The Budapest Protocol, page 16
The welcoming aromas of roasting coffee, cakes and tobacco greeted him at the café. Peter Feher sat perusing a newspaper, a Munkas cigarette smouldering erratically in the ashtray by his coffee cup. The coffee machine hissed and wheezed in the corner, and Eva the waitress waved at him. Alex sat down and picked up Feher’s newspaper. A two-day old copy of the Daily Telegraph, open at the Court and Social page. Her Majesty the Queen was taking tea with the Prime Minister of Tonga, it announced.
Feher smiled, and gestured at Eva. She quickly brought two coffees, and glasses of brandy.
Feher smiled ruefully at Alex, and they clinked glasses. “To the memory of your grandfather,” said Feher. “I miss him every day,” he sighed.
Alex drank the brandy, enjoying its welcome glow. “So do I,” he said, smiling ruefully.
Feher folded the newspaper up. “I usually read the sports pages first, but there’s no cricket today. I went to Lords once. On a cultural delegation to Britain. What a game,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “You have cricket and ‘Court and Social’. We have this,” he added, handing Alex that day’s issue of Ébredjetek Magyarok!.
A two-page feature was headlined: “The Enemy Within: The Immigrant Menace Among Us.” Written by Balazs Noludi, it called for all asylum seekers and would-be immigrants, legal or illegal, to be immediately interred in strict-regime detention camps, to be built in isolated areas as soon as possible. Children would either be interred with their parents, or taken into care. Attila Hunkalffy was liberally quoted: “We can no longer allow our countries to be used as a back-door to Europe for potential criminals and terrorists such as the so-called Immigration Liberation Army.” There were supportive quotes from Frank Sanzlermann, the Croatian President Dragomir Zorvajk, Slovakia’s Dusan Hrkna and the recently elected Romanian President, Cornelius Malinanescu.
“I’ve been in Slovakia. I just got back,” said Alex, pointing at a photograph of Dusan Hrkna. “I went to meet some Gypsies. In Novy Marek. Something strange is happening there.”
“How did you get into Novy Marek? I read it had been sealed off.”
“It is.”
Feher looked hard at Alex. “And?”
“The Romany women I spoke to think they are being sterilised by Slovak health officials. They give the women injections after they have given birth. And then a course of pills.”
“I can believe that. How do they make them take the pills?”
“There is a special room at the welfare office where the women receive their social benefits. The money is only handed over after one of the officials watches them take them. They check the womens’ mouths afterwards to check that they don’t hide the tablets under their tongues, and have definitely swallowed them.”
Feher sipped his coffee. “Like children and their medicine. But rather gruesome in this case. If you can prove it, it will make a powerful article.”
“I hope so. If we don’t get closed down by the financial police. They are coming to raid us next week.”
“You too,” said Feher. “Some friends of mine are expecting a visit today.”
Alex nodded, his mind on Novy Marek. “The company that makes the pills is called Birkauchen Pharma. It’s strange. I couldn’t find anything about them on the internet, or on the newspaper databases. I called up the Sentinel’s medical correspondent and the business desk, and nobody had ever heard of them.”
Feher dropped his cigarette. “What did you say the name was?”
“Birkauchen. Birkauchen Pharma.”
“Josip Birkauchen was the chief of the drugs research branch of AF Weizen industries. He was an ethnic German from Croatia,” said Feher, picking up the smoking stub from the table and taking a long drag. “AF Weizen was Germany’s biggest chemicals conglomerate before the war, specialising in pharmaceuticals, dyes and disinfectants. After Hitler came to power they moved into pest-eradication products. All Jews, Gypsies, disabled and anti-Nazis falling into that category. Birkauchen and AF Weizen ran a special ‘medical research’ institute at Auschwitz. All its records mysteriously disappeared in 1945. So did he and everyone working for him. The Allies supposedly wanted to arrest them all for war crimes, but there was plenty of interest in its ‘research’ in Washington and Moscow. Some journalists kept trying to investigate but with all the evidence gone, they got nowhere.”
“Isn’t there some kind of historical connection between KZX and AF Weizen?” asked Alex. “Same headquarters in Munich, same interests in chemicals and pharmaceuticals before KZX expanded into industry?”
Feher laughed. “There’s nothing historic about it. KZX is AF Weizen. The Allies supposedly broke up AF Weizen after 1945. But that was just PR. AF Weizen continued business as usual, but was renamed and reconstituted as KZX. German industry was a necessary bulwark in the Cold War, don’t you know? Most of the managers who ran the slave labour camps simply went back to work, with the Allies’ blessing. KZX did a lot of business in Iraq, when Saddam was in power. You know what happened to the Kurds at Khalabja? Methods invented by AF Weizen. The commercial attaché at the German embassy used to work for KZX.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Alex.
“Most of it is public knowledge, if you know where to look, or are interested enough. I was supposed to be transferred to Birkauchen’s institute. Luckily the Russians arrived two days later,” said Feher, his hand shaking as he puffed on his cigarette. “Nobody ever came out of there alive.”
Alex leaned forward. “I’m very glad you came home safely. So was my grandfather. You were his best friend, you know.” He squeezed Feher’s hand and gave him an envelope. “Miklos’ postmortem results. They are very late. They arrived this morning.”
Feher unfolded the letter inside and slowly read it. “They cut you open and pretend they don’t know what killed you.” He exhaled slowly as he put the paper back down. “An open verdict.”
“It doesn’t tell us much,” said Alex. He slowly rubbed his fingertips together, remembering the feel of the glass crystals.
“It tells us that now they want the matter forgotten. I don’t think they realised how much publicity Miklos’ death would get, especially in the international press. A verdict of unlawful killing would trigger more news stories,” said Feher, sipping his coffee. “A suicide also. An open verdict, who knows? He was old, maybe his heart just gave out.”
“Because he crunched a cyanide capsule,” said Alex.
“Yes, I know. The question is, why? I think you have some of his effects.”
Alex looked at Feher. Was he talking about Miklos’ testimony?
“There were some things your grandfather would never speak of. That much I know. Also that there are many ways to hide information. Alex, you will have to excuse me, I have another appointment,” he said, summoning the waitress. “Eva, bring us the bill please.”
* * *
Alex sat at his desk, flicking through the new edition of the Budapest News. It was 8.00pm and the office was empty. The crisp winter day had ended with a thunderstorm. A driving wind lashed rain against the windows, rattling the glass, and jagged lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the city for a split-second as though someone was switching a giant lamp on and off. The printers had just dropped off an early bundle of papers, fresh from the presses. The front page proclaimed ‘Sanzlermann plans Europe-wide compulsory DNA tests.’ It was a brilliant scoop but he couldn’t concentrate on the story. His brain was a kaleidoscope, spinning with fragments of memories and images: his grandfather’s ghetto diary, Novy Marek, his conversations with Peter Feher, KZX.
But how to put the pieces together? By starting with what you know, he told himself: names and places, dates and times. Dates and times, he thought. Miklos had died the night that Sanzlermann had arrived. An image flashed into his mind and he sat bolt upright. The Gendarme captain at Kultura. Why had the Gendarmes carried out an identity check at the bar he was at, preventing him from leaving precisely when he was supposed to be at his grandfather’s? Alex stood up and walked over to the window. He stared out at Nyugati station, its intricate glass and iron façade now awash with water. An enormous boom erupted and he jumped reflexively, his heart suddenly thumping rapidly. Calm down, he told himself. This was just thunder. But what of the Gendarmes at Kultura? Was the raid another coincidence? Maybe, or just paranoia. Was it paranoid to think that the whole bar was checked as a cover, to stop him leaving? He remembered the Gendarme captain speaking on his mobile phone when Alex approached, looking at him, and saying “Yes, yes.” Was he saying, “Yes, yes,” Alex was still there?
He took out his notebook and drew a line down the middle of a page, writing Places on the left and Players on the right. The main players were obvious: Sanzlermann and Hunkalffy. But who was backing their campaigns behind the scenes? He wrote KZX and Volkstern, underlining both. Where was the money coming from? That was what he needed more information about: the role of the two conglomerates, especially if KZX was really AF Weizen reborn. Under places he wrote Munich, Novy Marek, Kosice, Budapest. He paused and scribbled Auschwitz? when his telephone rang.
“If you’ve got copies of the new edition, then the news is out, so I can put it on the wire,” David Jones demanded.
“How do you know that I have?” demanded Alex, laughing.
“Reuters knows everything. Especially when your delivery man is our receptionist’s brother-in-law.”
“Ok, here’s the deal. The website team come in at 4.00am. I’ve asked them to call me as soon as Natasha’s story and the interview transcript are up. That will be around 5.00am. I intend to be asleep then, so I’ll divert all calls to your number. Then you can put it on the wire. And what do I get for not extending this favour to AP and Bloomberg?”
“The chance to masquerade as the Panamanian ambassador again.” Every couple of months David took Alex out for an epic three bottle lunch on expenses, claiming Alex was a diplomat. “We’re running tomorrow?”
“You’re on,” said Alex, smiling as he hung up.
He switched on Hungarian television news. Twelve high court judges had been summarily sacked after it was discovered that they had all once held high-ranking positions in the Communist Party, Aniko Kovacs announced brightly. Investigations were underway to see if they had been guilty of human rights abuses during the former regime. If so, they could expect to be brought to trial. The new Financial Police had started their raids. The screen cut to a clip of Gendarmes kicking down the doors of “World Writers’ Review”, a small liberal literary publication. Two elderly men in crumpled suits were led away, looking frightened and bewildered, one with his glasses askew, the other holding a sheaf of papers.
“And now we go live to Novakpuszta, where our reporter has news of some disturbing events,” said Kovacs. A tall male journalist was interviewing a frightened old lady in a village in eastern Hungary. The woman plucked at her headscarf as she spoke: “There were lots of them, Israelis, shouting in Hebrew, taking photographs. They banged on my door and rang my bell. Shouting how they were coming back to get everything and that I should start packing. I didn’t know what to do.”
The reporter smiled encouragingly. “Are you sure they were Israelis?”
“Absolutely. They told me they were from Tel Aviv. Terrifying, it was,” the woman continued. “They were very aggressive. But these are our houses now and we are keeping them.”
That was bizarre, thought Alex, even by Hungarian state television’s standards. Why would Israelis care about Novakpuszta? Alex added Novakpuszta to his notebook, when there was a tentative knock on his door.
Natasha walked in, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, smiling. “You should be out partying.”
“I’m meeting Kitty later. I thought we should also celebrate together,” she said, pouring two glasses of red wine. She pulled up a chair and sat down. Alex thanked her, and tried not to stare as they clinked glasses. She looked even prettier than usual, and he realised that it was the first time he had seen her wearing make-up: subtle mascara and lip gloss.
“Your interview will be all over the world tomorrow,” said Alex, sipping his wine. “You’ll get a glamorous job offer and then you’ll leave us,” he joked.
“I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. Journalism is my vocation,” she said, laughing.
“It certainly is,” said Alex, as he switched the television off. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Last time you did, we nearly got arrested. But OK.”
“What drives you, Natasha? Lots of Hungarians hate the Roma. They would be pleased if they couldn’t have any more babies. Why do you care so much? And where did you learn Lovari?”
She swallowed hard. “That is personal.” She looked at Alex. “I’ve never told anyone this.”
Alex knew enough to stay silent.
“My parents couldn’t have any more children after me, so they adopted a Gypsy boy.” She smiled, but her voice was full of sadness. “His name was Anton. He was five when he came to live with us, a lovely child, bright, happy. It was the usual story. His parents split up, his mother thought he would be best off in a children’s home so she gave him up. She used to visit us sometimes. Anton did well at school. He wanted to be a teacher.”
She paused, looked at the ceiling and inhaled deeply. “One day we all went out for Sunday lunch. Anton was hit by a car. The driver didn’t stop. He died on the pavement. He was sixteen. I’m sorry Alex, it’s not much of a celebration is it?” she said, her eyes brimming. “They caught the driver. But he was an important man, much more important than Anton. Nothing happened to him. He didn’t even lose his licence.”
“Who was he?” asked Alex.
Natasha stared into her wine glass. “Attila Hunkalffy.”
THIRTEEN
Alex contemplated the length of Margaret Island and wondered again about the wisdom of agreeing to a lunchtime jog. The running path looped around for more than five kilometres. Flanked at one end by its namesake bridge, and at the other by the Arpad bridge, named for the Grand Prince of the Magyars, Margaret Island was Budapest’s loveliest park, filled with landscaped gardens, medieval ruins and pavement cafés. He and Zsofi had enjoyed several summer evenings here, curled up in a glade near the water tower with a blanket and a bottle of wine. But in winter it was less welcoming. The bicycles and pedal-carriages for hire during the summer were locked away. The paths that in warmer months were full of snogging teenagers were empty, the kiosks bolted shut. An icy wind blew in off the water, cutting through Alex’s sweatpants and track top. The river moved fast, a cold gunmetal grey.
David Jones was already stretching and doing knee bends, his skin-tight lycra oufit highlighting his athlete’s physique. “Hup, hup, let’s go,” he proclaimed, running on the spot, clapping his hands together.
“What about going for lunch instead,” said Alex. “It is lunchtime,” he added hopelessly.
David started padding down the path. Alex followed, and a gust of wind almost blew him sideways. He counted through the markers in his head: the canoe club, the children’s zoo, the ruins of St Margaret’s nunnery, the spa hotels and the Arpad bridge, that meant half a circuit. The zoo soon came into sight. The animals were relocated for the winter, but the pungent aroma remained. Alex took in a lungful of manure-scented air and forced himself forward. The trick was to think about something else, not how heavy his legs felt. Like Natasha’s revelation about the death of her adopted brother Anton. She had quickly composed herself but left soon afterwards. He supposed she was embarrassed, but was pleased she had confided something so personal. He ran faster and caught up with David.
“Natasha’s Sanzlermann interview was brilliant,” said David. “Compulsory DNA tests. These people are really crazy. Our story went out on the wire at dawn. London put an ‘urgent’ on it. Last time I looked, it had been picked up sixty-seven times, everywhere from Auckland to Alaska. We’re making the Budapest News famous around the world.”
“I think we are making you famous,” said Alex, jamming his hat down over his ears. “I didn’t see any Reuters reporters in the Hotel Savoy on Monday morning.” The news that Attila Hunkalffy was a hit and run driver he decided to keep to himself.
David grinned and pulled ahead. “Don’t worry, Your Excellency. The Panamanian ambassador is about to get the longest lunch of his life.”
Alex pushed himself on. Had someone put lead weights in his shoes? “We’re going to get raided by the financial police,” he panted.
“You too? They’ve promised us a visit as well. It’s not just your paper and Reuters, you know. Virtually every foreign news organisation is getting a visit from these guys. Except the correspondents for media owned by...”
“Let me guess. The Volkstern Corporation,” said Alex, a sheen of sweat forming as they came up to the Grand Hotel.
“Yes. And did you see the new law: directors and managers of companies defaulting on their tax, VAT or customs obligations are now personally liable for those debts, with the possibility of a five year prison sentence. What is the legal definition of a manager? Anyone would think they were trying to intimidate us.”
Alex’s calf muscles began to ache. It was getting harder to talk and run at the same time. They ran in silence for several minutes, past the hotels, until Arpad Bridge came into sight. It was a concrete monstrosity, flat and functional with six lanes of traffic. It had none of the grace of the Chain Bridge, or the Elizabeth Bridge. Fresh graffiti had been painted across its base: “Immigrants Out: Magyars Arise.” They turned left through the trees and headed down the other side of the island and up towards the water tower.
