The Budapest Protocol, page 23
Alex knocked on the black door. A metal flap slid back and two blue eyes peered out.
“Hallo, dear. What can I do for you?” asked a camp male voice.
“I’ve come to meet some friends,” said Alex.
“Lucky them. You’d better come in.”
The door opened and he stepped inside. The gym-toned doorman had dyed blond hair and was dressed in a skin-tight white nylon t-shirt and black leather trousers. He looked Alex up and down and smiled. “Welcome aboard. That’s a thousand forints, including your first drink.”
Alex handed over the money and stepped into a perfect reproduction of a 1920s Parisian brothel. The walls were dark red, with matching drapes running from floor to ceiling. Even the light-bulbs were red. Low chairs were arranged around coffee tables. Edith Piaf crooned smokily in the background. Two middle-aged men dressed in businesses suits sat cosily in the corner over a flickering candle. They held hands and giggled as they poured each other generous slugs of red wine. A crop-haired woman in an army vest and combat trousers sat alone at the bar, eating cocktail cherries, and drinking pink champagne. Several private rooms led off from the bar area, and a staircase stretched into the basement. Alex reached for a door handle.
The doorman took his hand away. “I don’t think you want to go in there. Not on a first visit. Are you looking for someone? It’s mostly regulars up here, so have a check downstairs. Or you can always buy me a drink,” he said, winking.
Alex looked at his watch: 10.15pm. “Thanks, but I’m meeting someone,” he said, and walked down the perilously narrow iron staircase into the packed cellar. A wave of heat, cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes hit him. Couples of every gender combination gyrated on a tiny dance-floor in the corner, while a 1970s disco ball shot beams of coloured light back and forth across the walls and over the ceiling. Barry White thundered across the room.
Alex weaved through the crowd, until he spotted Kitty at a corner table, a few metres from the small stage. She waved him over, as she put a fresh bottle of champagne into an ice-bucket. She was wrapped in a black latex mini-dress and held hands with a slender, waif-like youth. A candle on the table illuminated a face of enchanting beauty: slanting eyes that shimmered like a cats’, high and delicate cheekbones and bee-stung lips, all crowned with spiky, auburn hair.
Kitty and Alex kissed hallo, and she poured him a glass of champagne. Alex held out his hand to the youth, who smiled beguilingly.
Kitty smiled sweetly. “This is Esmeralda. She’s from Barcelona. She’s my Spanish teacher.”
Alex tried, and failed, not to stare. “Esmeralda, a pleasure to meet you.” Her hand was cool and dry. Esmerelda smiled graciously and inclined her head, her green eyes holding his as she stroked Kitty’s hand. Something brushed against his knee under the table.
He turned towards Kitty, flustered. “I didn’t know, I mean, that you were, er...”
“Learning Spanish?” she cut in, laughing. “I just started. Hola! Alex, you’re so sweet. Didn’t you guess by now? It’s fun to have all those advertising executives chasing me. But I like girls.” Kitty leaned over and breathed in his ear. “She likes both,” she said, waving at Esmerelda.
The pressure grew against Alex’s knee. Esmeralda looked at him, put her arm around Kitty and whispered in her ear.
“No, no. We can’t. He’s my friend,” said Kitty, playfully pushing her away.
“We can’t what?” asked Alex.
“She’s making rude suggestions,” said Kitty.
Alex smiled. “Such as?” Esmeralda winked at him.
“I think you have got quite enough on your plate,” said Kitty sternly.
“What do you mean?” he asked, taking a large swallow of the champagne.
“If you want to invite a girl out for dinner, then try not to let her see you kissing someone else,” she said, her voice barbed.
Alex blushed. “It was a goodbye kiss. On the cheek. We were breaking up. It’s finished. She’s gone to live in Vienna.” With her husband, he almost added.
“How finished?” asked Kitty, arching her eyebrows.
“Finished, finito, over and done,” he said, decisively.
“So finished that she turns up at your flat at midnight with flowers. It looks like the evening was just starting. At least part two. Why don’t you just fit a revolving door? You need to improve your timing. It’s best to get the first one out of the building before the second arrives.”
“Is that why you invited me here tonight, Kitty? To give me a hard time?”
“You deserve it.” Her face softened. “A bit. You know I love you both dearly. And I believe you. But I have to consider everyone’s best interests.”
Barry White faded out, as the Weather Girls proclaimed that it was raining men. The dance floor erupted in a mass of heaving bodies as the disco ball spun even faster. Alex poured some more champagne and leaned back in his chair.
“Which are?” asked Alex.
“Trust me and be patient. It will all work out in the end. Now let’s watch the show.”
A burst of Madonna’s Like A Virgin, a blaze of spotlights, and a six foot tall transsexual encased in a stars and stripes satin bustier under a peroxide wig paraded on stage to wild cheers.
“I hope that song’s not dedicated to me,” she exclaimed to roars of laughter. She launched into a high-kicking voice-over medley of Madonna classics while perfectly-muscled young male dancers gyrated back and forth across the stage. “Thank you, darlings. How lovely to know that there’s still a place for us, in this awful wicked, universe!” she proclaimed, shooing the dancers off-stage, taking a bow to rapturous applause.
“Are we awful?” she asked the crowd, as she strode back and forth.
A mumbled yes.
“Are we awful?” louder now, determined to get the right answer.
“Yes!”
“Are we dreadful sinners, debauched and depraved?”
“We are, we are!” the audience roared.
“Not too loud now, my darlings, or maybe,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “the Gendarmes will come and pay us a visit.”
A crescendo of boos, jeers and catcalls. She stepped back, hitched her dress up and adjusted her breasts. “And now, it’s dedication time.” She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Ildiko. It’s your birthday. And have we got a present for you!”
Shrieks and squealed protests erupted from the other side of the stage. A hugely embarrassed young woman, in her Saturday night best, her cheeks glowing red, was pushed onto the stage. The singer launched into a husky version of Happy Birthday, à la Marilyn Monroe, dedicated to the birthday girl. By the end of the song she was gyrating merrily with one of the male dancers. Ildiko climbed down to loud cheers. The doorman appeared and began emptying the ashtray at their table. “Enjoying the show?” he asked Alex.
Kitty motioned for him to sit down. “Laci, have a drink with us.”
“Yes, fabulous. I didn’t know about this place,” said Alex, making a space.
“We like to keep it that way. Discreet. Especially at the moment. I like the male dancers best,” said Laci, taking a sip of champagne and gesturing at the stage. “They do private shows.”
“Not my taste, really, but thanks.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Laci. “You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Kitty told me.”
“Yes.”
“You would be surprised at some of the people who book our boys.”
“Like who?”
“People who shout the loudest about family values, for example.”
Alex sat up straight. He listened carefully as Laci whispered in his ear.
NINETEEN
Alex woke from a deep sleep, blinked, looked round in confusion and grabbed his watch. It was 1.00pm. He had crashed out in his clothes on the sofa in front of the television. The rumble in his stomach was a reminder that he had not eaten properly for days. His arm throbbed as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. The television was still on and he turned up the volume. He was due to meet Natasha in two hours outside the Yugoslav embassy, on Andrassy Avenue. Edith Leclerc’s rally was scheduled to start at 3.30pm, in the nearby City Park, just behind nearby Heroes’ Square. There was time enough to eat something, shower and get dressed.
The BBC newsreader announced that the European Parliament was sitting in an emergency session after six bombs had exploded inside Châtelet metro station, Paris’s main transport hub, at the height of the rush hour. The bombs had been timed to explode sequentially as the panicked crowd fled from tunnel to tunnel. More than two hundred had been killed, and many hundreds more injured. The tunnels had compressed and funnelled the shockwaves, causing appalling injuries to those caught inside. The entrance halls had collapsed and hundreds were still trapped in the wreckage. The authorities had tried to evacuate the area but were unable to control the panicking crowds. Dozens more had been killed in the ensuing stampede. Right-wing parties were demanding the immediate internment of all asylum seekers, and that they should be returned by force to their country of origin, and the re-introduction of the death penalty. Riots had erupted across Paris, as mobs attacked mosques and Islamic cultural centres with firebombs. A national state of emergency had been declared and all major cities placed under curfew.
The screen showed rescue workers in bulky white suits with respirator units, clambering onto station entrances which were now piles of rubble. Newspapers and scraps of clothes blew in the wind, and sirens wailed. Dazed and bloodied survivors staggered out, crying and sobbing. All roads out of Paris were blocked. An aerial shot showed cars jammed nose-to-tail on the Périphérique, covering every lane and the hard shoulder. The Immigration Liberation Army had claimed responsibility. The screen showed Hasan Al-Ajnabi, the ILA leader, standing in front of a map of Europe. A crossed swords emblem marked the site of each attack so far, Rome, Berlin, Vienna and Paris. “One capital at a time. Many more to go. Nowhere is safe. The ILA has only just begun its work,” said Ajnabi, his black eyes gleaming above his sharp, hawk-shaped face. The President of France had reconvened the government in Avignon.
The news bulletin moved to Strasbourg.
“Will the election for Europe’s first President continue after today’s outrage in Paris?” the reporter asked the spokeswoman for the European Parliament, an earnest Dutch woman.
“Of course,” she replied briskly. “European integration is far too deep-rooted to be derailed by a small group of extremists.”
Alex showered quickly, dressed and made himself an omelette. The news from Paris was horrific. But the ILA was more than a “small group of extremists”. Its attacks were planned and coordinated with increasing precision. The reprisals would spin out of control, almost as if somebody wanted to start a race war. He switched on state radio while the eggs sizzled. First more details of the bombs in Paris, then domestic political news. In the interests of freedom of speech, the announcer said, Prime Minister Hunkalffy had passed an executive order rescinding the ban on the so-called symbols of tyranny: the communist red star and the Arrow Cross emblem.
Alex listened closely as he ate. Al-Ajnabi had his crossed swords, now Hunkalffy had his Arrow Cross flag. Banners, badges and emblems, these were the brandings of fear and terror, every one meticulously chosen. Hunkalffy too was sending a message, however cleverly cloaked in the simultaneous legalisation of the red star. And finally, the announcer said, the Pannonia Brigade was calling for more members to assist in its new duties as an auxiliary police force. The Brigade would be working closely with the Gendarmerie.
He dressed, locked his flat and walked down Karoly Boulevard to Deak Square. Gendarmes stood outside the Great Synagogue on Dohany Street, turning away visitors. The synagogue, Europe’s largest, had recently been restored with great fanfare. A hand-written sign said it was closed for “technical reasons”. He took the yellow line metro to Heroes’ Square, still processing the morning’s news as the small wooden carriages creaked and rattled along the wide, shallow tunnel. The cars were covered with advertisements for the Patriot Bond or pictures of Sanzlermann. Many of the passengers were young, heading to Leclerc’s rally. A smiling teenage girl handed him a campaign leaflet and Leclerc badge. The carnival atmosphere evaporated as the metro pulled into Heroes’ Square station. Gendarmes and Pannonia Brigade squads lined the platform. Several brandished Arrow Cross flags. Others pointed video cameras at the passengers as they stepped from the train.
The cameramen openly focused on those wearing badges or holding banners supporting Edith Leclerc. A middle-aged man with straggly grey hair and tortoiseshell glasses held his hand over the lens when the camera-man approached. “Dirty fascists,” he shouted. Two Gendarmes immediately dragged him away. He protested and tried to wriggle free. Alex watched as a Gendarme swiftly tapped him on the crown. He collapsed, a thin rivulet of blood trickling down his head. The Gendarmes moved forward, banging their truncheons against their riot shields. The passengers looked nervously at each other, and filed silently out of the station. Alex’s hands began to sweat as a familiar tension gnawed in his stomach.
The Muslim prisoners are lined up against the wall. They do not look like soldiers, just young and middle-aged men, dressed in jeans or sports suits. Some are still in their teens. They stare at Alex, their eyes burning and pleading, desperately hoping that his presence can somehow save their lives. The Serb commander struts up and down, his massive paunch distending his black combat fatigues. He pulls off his ski-mask. An almost tangible fear ripples through the prisoners. He is notorious, a poet-turned-killer, a sycophant first of Tito, now of ultra-nationalism.
He walks up to an elderly man and presses the pistol against his head. “Where is your Allah now, Turk?” he demands. The Muslim begins to pray, “La-illah illa Allah, wa Muhammad rasul Allah, there is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the prophet of Allah.” The poet-killer presses the trigger and the Muslim’s head explodes. He flies back against the wall, leaving a crimson smear as he slides to the floor. “Ooops, my trigger finger slipped,” says the commander, laughing out loud. The prisoners on either side of the dead man shake uncontrollably.
The paramilitaries pass a bottle of plum brandy from hand-to-hand, as they laugh and joke. The hot summer air fills with the smell of human waste. The bottle is passed to him. He takes a swig. The drink sears his throat and he coughs. A paramilitary slaps him on the back, laughing. A bus arrives. The men are herded on board at gunpoint. “See, reporter, how humane we Serbs are with our prisoners,” the commander says to Alex, his deep-set eyes dull and unfocused. “We even provide transport for them. Don’t follow us.”
Alex had waited, hiding in the remains of a burnt-out house. The shooting had started about half an hour later, the crackle of the guns echoing across the valley, mingled with screams and cries. First the long fusillades of machine gun fire, the screams and pleas, then the snap of single pistol shots. He hid in the house until dusk, and walked through the forests to the field. The men and boys lay scattered like broken rag dolls.
This is how it starts, thought Alex, as he stared at the Gendarmes and the Pannonia Brigade. Setting neighbour against neighbour, first with words and uniforms, then with knives and guns. Or newer, more scientific, methods. The images flashed through his head: the burning packet of Czigex in Novy Marek; Sanzlermann’s election posters; corpses in the Bosnian field; his grandfather dead, his ghetto diary. Miklos, he now knew, was the first victim, Vince Szatmari, the second. He had stood by and watched in Bosnia. He would not stand by now.
Natasha was waiting outside the Yugoslav Embassy as a police helicopter clattered overhead. Even in jeans and a long out of fashion Afghan coat she still looked like a model, Alex thought ruefully. He really had the worst timing in the world. Kissing Zsofi’s cheek on Margaret Bridge when Natasha ran by and then, just as it looked like she might still be interested, there was Zsofi again – knocking on his door at midnight. Never mind, he told himself determinedly, there were more important issues at stake.
“Did you see the Nazis at the station?” she asked.
He nodded. “They got what they wanted. So far.”
They crossed Dozsa Gyorgy Street and walked through Heroes’ Square. Natasha handed Alex a USB stick. “Here are your files from your office computer. Back them up please. And the Trojan Horse is delivering. Gabriella opened the email this morning at 8.20am. Her computer is connected to Klindern’s. There is a key-stroke logger built in to the Trojan Horse, which recorded their passwords and sent them back to me. I’ve got them all.”
“That’s brilliant. Where are they?” asked Alex as he put the USB stick in his pocket.
“In here,” Natasha said, tapping her head. “But if you want to get into the KZX computer we will need to move fast. We should try tonight as they are bound to find the Trojan Horse eventually, and that will trigger a security alert. They will change all the passwords. We need a safe place. Not your apartment or Kitty’s. Unless you have other plans.”
“No. I don’t. I’ll find somewhere,” said Alex, as they walked into the park.
Metal fences ringed the rally area. Police checkpoints at three entrance points controlled entry and exit. A queue stretched back several hundred metres. “Peace, tolerance and diversity,” proclaimed the backdrop banner over the large wooden stage. The centre-piece was a giant photograph of Edith Leclerc flanked on both sides by a montage of multi-cultural Europe: children of every shade of white, brown and black played together, while a multi-national orchestra posed with instruments. A ring of Gendarmes surrounded the stage.
“Come on, we’re not waiting in line,” Alex said and led her to the centre checkpoint. Police and Gendarmes carefully checked identity cards, writing down every person’s name and identity number. Any questions about the intrusive checks were met with a curt reply about ‘security procedures’ and ‘terrorism alert’. Anyone protesting was arrested. Many were turned away. Others left the entrance queue once they saw the checks. A Pannonia Brigade cameramen steadily swept his camera up and down the line. Alex and Natasha walked to the front.
