The Budapest Protocol, page 6
The orthodox cross is daubed on the white wall of the kitchen, a Cyrillic letter ‘S’ in each corner. The letters are an acronym: ‘Only Unity Can Save the Serbs,’ the slogan for Greater Serbia. The whole family is dead: grandmother, grandfather and their daughter where they sat. The old man had thrown himself across his womenfolk in a vain attempt to protect them. The young woman’s husband lies outside, twisted in the dirt, still holding his green prayer beads. Blood seeps from his head. A chicken pecks the ground near his corpse. The little girl is hiding in the barn. Alex covers her eyes as he leads her to the car. She says nothing on the journey into Sarajevo. Even when a bullet pings off the car roof, she just rocks back and forth.
Alex gulped some more wine and switched the television on. The newsreader on CNN announced that a German bank had proposed several senior executives as candidates for the next President of the Federal Monetary Authority. The bank’s press officer stood outside its headquarters. “Our bank is one of the motors of European unity. We believe our personnel can contribute so much more to European financial stability and continent-wide economic integration,” she proclaimed, before being ushered into a Mercedes.
Alex switched to Hungarian television news. A red-faced, male middle-aged newsreader wearing a black armband was speaking. “The Hungarian Parliament has just voted to form a new government.” Alex sat up straight and turned up the volume. The newsreader continued: “Attila Hunkalffy, President of the Hungarian National Front, will be Prime Minister of a minority government, in coalition with the Hungarian People’s Party, of the late Prime Minister Tibor Csintori. Despite the fact that almost half of the People’s Party MPs announced that they will refuse to serve under him, Mr Hunkalffy said he was confident that he would be able to form a cabinet. Opposition Social Democrat and Free Liberal MPs condemned the parliamentary announcement as ‘a stealth coup’, and walked out of the chamber. Interior Minister and National Front MP Csaba Zirta, who served as Interior Minister under Tibor Csintori, will remain in his post, Prime Minister Hunkalffy has already announced.”
The broadcast switched to Parliament where Attila Hunkalffy was standing on the steps of the sprawling neo-Gothic building, dressed in his trademark leather jacket, flanked by two stone lions, several bodyguards and a clutch of aides holding Hungarian flags, and the blue European Union flag, with its twelve yellow stars. “The death of Tibor Csintori was a national tragedy. But I am honoured to have been chosen to lead my country at this vital time, when the eyes of all Europe are upon us, in the coming election for European President,” intoned Hunkalffy.
The newsreader continued, “We’ll be returning to that story as we receive more information. Also today, does Hungary need a new self-defence force to defend its national values? We have an exclusive interview with Istvan Matonhely, the leader of the controversial Pannonia Brigade.”
The screen showed a small village, where Matonhely and several dozen followers stood under a large Hungarian flag, waving placards demanding “No More Gypsy Crime” and “Send the Roma to Work”. A line of police on the other side of the street held back twenty or so Gypsies, who were shouting abuse at Matonhely and his followers. The Pannonia Brigade wore the traditional Hussars’ uniform of black brocaded jacket and riding trousers. Behind the Pannonia Brigade dozens of bikers wearing black leather and German army helmets roared up and down the village main street.
“Please tell us what the Pannonia Brigade stands for, Mr Matonhely, and why it’s needed,” asked the reporter, respectfully. Aniko Kovacs was state television’s star reporter, a pretty blonde from a village on the Ukranian border, who made no secret of her nationalist leanings.
Matonhely, a thin man in his early thirties, was a former Liberal MP. He was dressed in a well cut black suit, a white shirt with a cutaway collar and a striped silk tie in red, white and green. His black hair was neatly styled and he looked like a successful banker. He leaned forward, his voice calm and reasonable. “Pannonia was the ancient name for Hungary. We want a return to those proud Magyar traditions, not the mess we have now. We aren’t against all Gypsies, only those who commit crimes and live off our taxes. We stand for common values, shared by everybody: work, family, discipline and respect for our culture and heritage. I go to work every day. So should the Roma.”
Aniko nodded enthusiastically as he spoke. “Yes, the Gypsy question is certainly very difficult,” she said, as the screen switched to stock footage of Romany children playing barefoot in a village street and a woman in a bright floral headscarf begging on the Great Boulevard. Aniko turned to the camera. “Something certainly needs to be done about Hungary’s biggest social problem, and many people believe Istvan Matonhely has the best answer.”
Alex’s mobile telephone rang. “Can you believe this?” an indignant Welsh voice demanded. “Is this a news report or a recruitment advertisement?”
“Both, I think,” said Alex, laughing. David Jones, Reuters Budapest bureau chief, was Alex’s drinking partner. A veteran reporter with curly red hair and sharp blue eyes, David managed to retain a dry wit, even under fire in Bosnia, where they had first met. They had worked together in war-zones around the world, until Jones’ wife had threatened him with divorce and he had finally asked for a quieter posting. “Thanks for your letter, David. It’s a long time since someone bothered to write to me with a pen and paper,” Alex continued. The Reuters journalist had written Alex a hand-written note, expressing his condolences at Miklos’ death.
“You’re welcome. Some things aren’t for email. Anyway – Aniko is a dangerous little minx. She’ll do anything to get information for Balazs Noludi. I’d love to listen to their pillow talk.”
“Pillow talk?” asked Alex, looking askance at the telephone.
“You are out of the loop, aren’t you? Hungarian TV’s star reporter is the girlfriend of the editor of Ébredjetek Magyarok! And now their friends are in power and have the whole country to play with.”
“How are they going to hold a government together, when they only have 185 out of 400 seats? They could get voted down at any moment,” said Alex.
“Think... Csaba Zirta.”
“I see a short fat man with a big moustache who boasts that he has never been abroad. And?”
“Zirta is now a member of Hunkalffy’s party, and has been Interior Minister for six months. That’s six long, leisurely months to take out each MP’s file, and read all about sticky fingers in European Union pies; long-legged secretaries flown to Strasbourg and Brussels for the weekend on business-class tickets at public expense; not to mention the secret portfolios of shares and government bonds secreted away in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands.”
“He’s going to blackmail them,” said Alex.
David sighed down the line. “Bingo. Pour yourself another drink. And I owe you one for the heads-up on the Hunkalffy-Sanzlermann poster story. We beat Bloomberg and Associated Press by more than half an hour.” Alex had called David as soon as Natasha had filed her stories to let him know they were going up on the website and emailed him the scan of the poster.
“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.
FIVE
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?”
