The Budapest Protocol, page 20
“Because he worked at the National Bank, for Ignac Akardy, who has recently returned from a secondment at the Federal Monetary Authority in Munich. Akardy – who also once worked for KZX Industries – is in charge of privatisation now.”
“Akardy worked for KZX Industries. It makes sense,” said Feher, nodding to himself.
“It’s not just KZX,” Orczy interjected. “Swiss banks and German and Austrian companies are signing contracts to either purchase or take controlling interests in virtually every national industry, as well as the media. Hunkalffy is pushing this through. And look at that,” she said, waving her arm at a giant billboard recently erected on the edge of the park. “Magyars: Don’t support international finance capital! Invest in the Patriot Bond!” it announced.
“Fifteen per cent interest a year. How can they afford to pay that? And now Heinrich Vautker has been confirmed as the new President of the Federal Monetary Authority,” she continued.
“Heinrich Vautker. The Good German. Let’s rest for a minute,” Feher said, reaching inside his coat for a packet of Munkas cigarettes as he sat on a park bench.
“I wish you would give those up. What about Vautker?” said Cassandra, sitting next to him.
“I’m sorry darling. You’re quite right. I will stop soon. Vautker is one of the new generation of ‘green capitalists’,” he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “Former senior aid official, served as German Deputy Minister of Finance in the 1990s. Worked in Africa and South America on various development projects, funded by the banks. Saving the rainforests, giving out condoms. He makes a lot of noise about ‘social responsibility’ and using capital for ‘empowerment’, to help ‘build our common European home’. Tell me more about Vince Szatmari. Was he in on this, whatever it is?”
“We don’t think so. His record is totally clean. No convictions, no record of political agitation. He was a regular church goer. Even attended Bible study classes in his lunchtime.” She paused and steeled herself. “Daddy, I’ve got something else to tell you.”
Feher took her arm. “Yes, I know darling. But let’s go and watch the Frank and Attila show first,” said Peter, steering her towards the stage at Heroes’ Square.
SIXTEEN
The camera panned across Heroes’ Square as Alex sat on his bed watching the Sanzlermann election rally on state television. Hunkalffy was due to speak first. A ring of Gendarmes stood around the stage, dressed in riot uniform: full body armour, helmets with dark visors and knee high boots. They held long truncheons, heavier than the usual issue. The camera cut to a close-up of Hunkalffy standing on the podium. He stood silently, his head bowed, for several seconds. The speakers blared out the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the European anthem. The music stopped and he looked at the crowd. The camera zoomed in to show him holding a faded black and white portrait of a teenager in his best suit.
“This was my father. Jozsef Hunkalffy. This picture is all I have left,” Hunkalffy said, in a strong, determined voice. “I never knew him. He died before I was born. He fought in 1956 against the Soviet invaders. The communists arrested him. They tortured him, to make him reveal the names of his contacts. But my father would not break. Eventually they hanged him. The same AVO torturers whose sons and daughters now sit in Parliament as ‘Social Democrats’. The same AVO torturers whose friends and business partners in New York, and other cities far to the east of here, are buying up our land and our country.”
The crowd stirred, murmuring its approval. An elderly man in a shabby raincoat shouted ‘Down with the communists!”
“My mother died without ever being able to visit his grave,” Hunkalffy continued. “His body was taken away, and buried in an unknown plot. I once asked a former member of the AVO, a billionaire who now runs one of our biggest banks, where my father’s remains were. He told me that he is encased in concrete under the foundations of the Communist Party headquarters, now the headquarters of the Social Democrats.”
Hunkalffy paused and looked out at the crowd, from left to right. “He smiled when he told me that, this communist-turned-capitalist...”
The audience booed. A few demonstrators chanted “Death to the AVO”.
Hunkalffy held up his hand, and the crowd fell quiet. “And then he told me, that it was the ‘best place for him’.”
An angry murmur ran through the crowd.
“Thank you, my fellow Hungarians. Thank you,” said Hunkalffy. “There is no more AVO, and no more communists, they tell us. But their power lives on. Their networks still thrive. They seek to keep us under the dominance of international capital, instead of Moscow. But we did not surrender in 1848. We did not surrender in 1956. And we will not surrender now. These are great days in our country’s history, when one of our greatest friends will soon be the first President of Europe. Frank Sanzlermann is our best guarantee of independence.”
More applause followed, and some jeers. The camera zoomed in on the counter-demonstration: a couple of hundred peaceful protestors, standing silently with their placards, led by Krisztina Varga, the recently-sacked former Minister of Justice.
“They should have hanged you as well,” shouted a heavy-set unshaven man in a leather jacket in the middle of the main crowd. An angry murmur ripped through the audience as they turned to look. The man pushed a middle-aged lady in her shoulder, and she stumbled and fell. The camera panned back to show several knots of hard-faced men weaving in and out of the crowds, knocking and scattering people out of their way, shouting more abuse. A can of drink landed on the podium. Hunkalffy’s bodyguards looked agitated, and muttered into their lapel microphones. Alex sat up and stared at the violence. Who was throwing things? He could not imagine Krisztina Varga hurling missiles at her former cabinet colleague. The camera panned as pandemonium erupted and the men in leather jackets rampaged through the crowd.
Hunkalffy nervously glanced from left to right, and then down at his notes. He continued speaking. “A new dawn is breaking over Europe. When my friend, and our ally Frank Sanzlermann is President, Hungary will be in prime position to...”
A can bounced off his forehead. Hunkalffy stepped back, reeling in shock and surprise. He dropped the framed picture of his father. “My photograph,” he shouted. The camera zoomed in on the blood trickling down his face as he tried to pick up the pieces of the broken picture from the stage. His bodyguards quickly hustled him off the podium.
The Gendarmes waded into the audience, lashing out with their riots sticks and firing tear gas canisters. Feedback shrieked and howled across the podium speakers and pandemonium erupted. The men in leather jackets quickly disappeared. The crowd ran in every direction, screaming and coughing as the clouds of gas gusted over them. The Gendarmes charged into the small counter-demonstration by the Yugoslav embassy, although none of the protestors had taken part in the fracas. An elderly man wearing a beige trench coat held up his arms to try and protect himself from a Gendarme wielding a riot stick. A blonde woman screamed at the Gendarme, thrusting a card in his face. A truncheon came down on the elderly man’s shoulder. He slumped to the floor, his face contorted in pain. Alex sat up and looked closer at the television. The camera was far away but the elderly man’s face looked familiar. Alex stared at the scenes of chaos as the programme cut back to the studio.
* * *
Sanzlermann smiled at the waitress as she cleared away the remains of dinner. He was sitting at the table in his suite with Reinhard Daintner and Attila Hunkalffy, feeling pleasantly replete, after sautéed goose liver, roast duck and poppy seed cake, and most of a bottle of red wine. Sanzlermann looked at her name tag, pinned above an impressively curved bust, and watched her tidy the plates, glasses and cutlery onto the serving trolley. With her wavy brown hair, freckles and lively green eyes, Eva made a very pretty picture, he thought, his fingers gently stroking the raw, cracked skin of his left hand.
“Would the gentlemen like anything else?” Eva asked decorously, looking from Sanzlermann to Daintner and Hunkalffy, as she held the coffee pot.
Daintner and Hunkalffy shook their heads. “Not now, thank you Eva. Perhaps you could look in a couple of hours time. I usually enjoy a nightcap,” he said, lightly patting her bottom.
She smiled shyly. “Certainly, sir,” she replied, refilling their coffee cups. She smiled at Sanzlermann before she left, her hips swaying as she pushed the trolley towards the door.
“Frank, we do have business to conclude,” said Daintner, his voice brisk. “And whatever your plans are, I don’t intend to be here in a couple of hours.”
Sanzlermann sat up and lit a cigar. “And nor would I want you to be, Reinhard. But you are right. Let us finish our discussion. Attila?” he asked, turning to Hunkalffy, as the smoke trickled from his mouth.
The Hungarian Prime Minister sipped his coffee. “Stage one is going to plan. Csaba Zirta, our Interior Minister, is doing an excellent job. The Gendarmerie are steadily supplanting local police forces. The necessary legislation is sailing through Parliament, despite our lack of a majority. The forint is steadily losing value. Our private polls show that anti-Roma sentiment remains strong and is increasing. The Pannonia Brigade is proving profitably disruptive. But it is all happening very slowly. There is a danger of a sympathy backlash on the Roma question. And there are obstacles at the national security service. We are working on clearing those. But I am worried that we might lose momentum. I think we should seize the moment and move to stage two as soon as possible.”
“I tend to think that it would be a mistake to rush things now. What exactly do you have in mind?” asked Sanzlermann.
“The Reichstag Fire,” said Hunkalffy, clipping the end from a cigar.
“You want to burn down Parliament?”
Hunkalffy leaned forward, his voice enthusiastic, waving the unlit cigar. “Not exactly. But the Reichstag Fire gave Hitler the excuse to declare a state of emergency, suspend civil liberties and arrest political opponents. The delicious irony is, of course, that the Nazis almost certainly started the fire themselves. Marinus van der Lubbe was executed for an arson he did not commit. A similar outrage would help us move quickly to stage two. What do you think Reinhard?”
Daintner said: “It is possible. Carpe Diem. But where is our van der Lubbe?”
Hunkalffy looked at his watch. “In the hotel lobby, hopefully.”
The telephone rang. Hunkalffy picked up the handset. “Yes, send him up. Thank you.”
* * *
Alex stood on his balcony, enjoying the breeze blowing in off the river. The night air smelled fresh and sharp, with a watery tang. His jaw and stomach still hurt and his arm ached, but he was slowly feeling better, if only thanks to the powerful painkillers the doctor had prescribed. But what would have happened if Mubarak had not been there? If they, whoever ‘they’ were, the ones paying Yuri, had tried once, they would certainly try again. Alex looked down at the street. The elderly man who sold flowers on the corner was finally packing up his folding stool and plastic table. Two Romany boys pushed a shopping trolley along the pavement, a third standing inside, all laughing uproariously. He envied the youths their freedom and innocence. He envied them their parents, too. A now familiar longing surged through him. He had tried for some time to prepare himself for his grandfather’s death. Miklos was in his eighties, after all. But Alex had not expected to lose him like this. He missed him more than he had ever imagined possible.
Alex went back inside and switched on state television. A male newsreader announced that all demonstrations were banned until the end of the election campaign, in response to what he described as “the shameful events today, when hooligans, saboteurs and anti-national elements attempted to assassinate the Hungarian Prime Minister and caused the cancellation of the election rally of Mr Frank Sanzlermann.” The screen showed the fighting at the rally, and cut to a shot of Hunkalffy with blood streaming down his face. “It is still to be decided if pre-arranged election events will be permitted to take place,” the newsreader said.
Alex laughed out loud. Throwing a can of drink at the Prime Minister was hardly an assassination attempt. But the earlier footage of the Gendarme attack on the protestors outside the Yugoslav embassy still nagged at him. He thought he had seen Peter Feher, but why would he be there? And who was the blonde woman? He had tried to call Peter but could not get through. Aniko Kovacs appeared, sitting in a comfortable armchair, surrounded by three guests. She was now hosting her own chat show. The woman’s rise was unstoppable. Kovacs introduced the trio: Csaba Zirta, the Interior Minister; Balazs Noludi, the overweight, glum-faced editor of Magyarok Ébredjetek! and Krisztina Varga, the former Minister of Justice.
Varga spoke first. “I think we all understand what happened at Heroes’ Square today,” she said, her voice cold and determined. “One by one, this government is stripping away our basic rights and freedoms. The violence we saw today was a provocation, deliberately organised.”
Csaba Zirta began to protest when Noludi shouted: “Horseshit.” He leaned forward and pointed at Varga, his jowls wobbling. “You are the provocation. You and the traitors and those who would sell-out our nation, the liberals and cosmopolitans, the dirty agents of New York and Tel Aviv, of international finance capital,” he exclaimed, his voice shrill, his mouth flecked with spittle. “But we will not stand by as our homeland is turned into a bargain basement.”
Varga handed him a paper handkerchief. “Calm down, Balazs. We already are a bargain basement – for the Volkstern Corporation and KZX Industries.”
Noludi balled up the paper handkerchief and threw it in Varga’s face. Alex watched in amazement. Krisztina Varga was one of the most popular and respected politicians in the country. She had modernised the legal system and brought in new safeguards for human rights. Which were now being rapidly rescinded, so she knew what she was talking about. And now she was saying that the government had organised the violence. Why? The answer was another question – the oldest and most useful: who benefits? Then it quickly made sense. The government instigates riots so that it has an excuse to crackdown on violence and suspend civil liberties.
He picked up his telephone. No messages. He tried to call Natasha again. It still didn’t work. He looked at the handset’s screen. There were no bars where the signal indicator usually had four or five. That was strange. Strange and worrying, especially when he really needed to contact her.
He looked back at the television. Varga’s eyes blazed. “You always were a fool, Balazs Noludi. A useful idiot. You were a useful idiot for the communists and now you do the same job for Sanzlermann. They will chew you up and spit you out, once they have done with you,” she said, her voice contemptuous.
Kovacs looked around the studio, her face panicked. The screen went blank and cut to a commercial. A line of chorus girls, dressed in white, red and green, exhorted the audience to ‘be patriots and buy Patriot Bonds’ to a backdrop of 1930s nightclub music. The screen then cut to shots of Zagreb, Bucharest and Bratislava. “Coming soon to Croatia, Romania and Slovakia,” a deep male voice announced. “The investment of a lifetime.”
The doorbell rang. Alex walked over to the flat entrance and opened the door.
Natasha said: “You’re looking for me.”
* * *
Sanzlermann stood in the bathroom of his hotel suite, scrubbing his hands as hard as he could. The tap was open to its maximum and scalding water gushed over the black marble washbasin, splashing over the Italian tiled floor, filling the room with steam. He methodically worked the nailbrush up and down each finger, under the nails and across both sides of his palms. He rinsed his hands and stared at them. They were raw and red and he sighed with satisfaction. He looked longingly at the soap dispenser again, paused, but turned away.
He ran through the day in his mind as he dried himself on a thick white towel. Hunkalffy was a typical Hungarian, he thought. Passionate, impatient, always thinking in the short-term, and no sense for the bigger picture. Still, his idea of accelerating the programme had a certain élan. It needed some thought but probably could be done, with considerable benefits, if it worked. The weirdo Daintner was as enigmatic as ever. If he had any choice in the matter he would have sacked him months ago, if only because of his bizarre colouring. But it had been made clear that the Presidency of Europe was a package deal, and Daintner was an integral part of it. And the man did have brains, he had to admit.
Sanzlermann looked at his watch. Almost 11.00pm and it had been a long day. Hunkalffy and Daintner had finally left and taken the hideous Gypsy with them. Imagine, he thought, he had actually shaken his hand. It was all he could do not to rush to the bathroom and scrub himself clean there and then. He shivered at the feel of the dark, rough palm and his fingers on his. Perhaps he should wash his hands just once more, to make sure.
A memory flashed into his mind: he was eight years old at the children’s home in Carinthia. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and he was sitting in the waiting room, dressed in his best shirt and neatly-pressed shorts while the nuns ushered in his only visitor, the man he called “Oncle Klaus”. Sister Evangelina had called Frank’s name. He walked forward, hoping Oncle Klaus had brought him another toy or book when she screamed at him, pointing at a dirty mark on his shirt. He held out his hand, trying to stop it shaking. The ruler slammed into his palm, leaving a red weal that did not heal for days. Oncle Klaus had not returned for three weeks.
He smeared antiseptic ointment over his hands and walked through to the lounge, naked under his bathrobe. He poured himself a brandy, sat down on the sofa and picked up the hotel telephone. “Room service, please,” he asked, smiling with anticipation.
SEVENTEEN
Natasha stood in the doorway, staring at Alex’s bruised and scratched face and his bandaged arm. “What happened?”
“I was attacked, in the Rudas.”
“Why? Who did it? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. It was two thugs. They thought I had something they wanted. Do you want to talk about this here? Come in, please.” She hesitated. “It’s OK. I don’t bite,” said Alex.
