She shook her head. ‘Not at all. But Karoly Bardossy will be.’

His mobile rang and he looked down. ‘It’s Vivi.’

He took the call, listened for several moments as she spoke. ‘OK. No, don’t tell me now. Not on the phone. We’re on our way. We should be there in a few minutes.’ He turned to Anastasia. ‘She has something for us.’

Anastasia nodded, reached inside the secure cupboard and took out her pistol and holster.

Balthazar glanced at her weapon, a Makarov, an old-fashioned Soviet-era pistol. He patted his own, a Glock 17 in a holster on his belt. ‘You don’t want something a bit more modern?’

Anastasia shook her head. ‘It’s never let me down.’

He watched as she slipped on a shoulder holster and placed the weapon inside. Her movements were deft and fluid, and he watched her breasts rise and fall as she breathed in and out.

Her eyes caught his observing her and a flicker of a smile played on her lips.

‘Come on, Detective, let’s see what the story is.’

ELEVEN

Café Extra, Kossuth Square, 2.30 p.m.

Eniko Szalay sat back as the video clip ended, her mind working furiously.

This was a catastrophe in the making. It meant the end of Reka’s government. The end of Reka’s political career – and the end of Eniko’s as well, certain to be one among many destroyed by the extensive collateral damage.

She sipped her coffee to buy herself a few moments. ‘Is that it? Is there more?’

Zsuzsa shook her head as she closed the lid of her laptop. ‘No. That’s everything. I brought you a copy.’ She handed Eniko a memory stick. ‘It’s on here.’

The two women were sitting in the far corner of the upstairs room of Café Extra. Located on the corner of Kossuth Square, with a view of parliament just a hundred yards away, it was a popular haunt of politicians and journalists. But the upstairs room, with its hard dark-red bench seats and utilitarian furniture, was usually deserted, as it was today.

Eniko took the stick, quickly put it into her jacket pocket. ‘Thanks,’ she said, her voice tight with tension. ‘Are you writing this? Do you want a comment? Is that why we are meeting?’

Zsuzsa smiled, shook her head. ‘No, no and no. I’m not writing it, Eni. I don’t want a comment. And that’s not why we are meeting. I’m here as your friend. Please believe me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, giving you a copy of the video. I would be calling you from the office, coordinating with the website designer.’

Eniko nodded, even smiled at the irony. She had helped hone Zsuzsa into a dogged reporter. Now Zsuzsa had a video clip that could bring down the government, and take her with it.

Eniko brushed her bobbed hair away from her face. ‘So why are we meeting? Why are you sharing this with me? You’re a journalist. Your employer has an explosive video clip of the prime minister that will end her career, probably see her arrested soon after. Why are you telling the prime minister’s press secretary what’s coming… when exactly?’

Zsuzsa blinked. This was not quite the reaction she had expected. ‘It’s going live in just under two hours. You’ve helped me a lot, Eni. I thought I would return the favour.’

Eniko’s demeanour softened a little. ‘That’s all?’

Zsuzsa nodded. ‘Yes.’ More or less, she was about to add, but stopped herself. There was no need for her to tell Eniko how she had been played by Karoly Bardossy’s team.

Eniko smiled. ‘Thank you, Zsuzsa. I really appreciate this, but be honest with me. What do you want in return?’

‘In a few days, once we are through all of this and the Israeli prime minister is on his way home, I want an exclusive interview with Reka.’ Then Zsuzsa would grill Reka about Nationwide, her uncle’s company, but there was no need to tell Eniko that now. Zsuzsa’s voice turned serious and direct. ‘That means, Eniko, that Reka does not talk to anyone else for the next few days. No interviews with other media, print, web or broadcast. Only me, when we agree on a time.’

Eniko gave Zsuzsa an appraising look. That was exactly the right move. Zsuzsa had turned into quite an operator.

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

Eniko smiled. ‘Sure. It’s a deal.’ She hesitated for a moment, then decided. ‘Speaking of Israelis… there’s something else you could look into.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Zsuzsa. She waited for Eniko to speak, the familiar tightening in her chest signalling that a tip-off was coming.

Eniko gave her a sharp look. ‘Whatever you find out, you share with me. A full day before you go live on the website. Agreed?’

‘I’ll give you four hours.’

Eniko laughed. ‘Then I won’t give you anything. Twelve.’

‘Eight. But not overnight.’

‘Done,’ said Eniko. The two women shook hands. ‘Elad Harrari. Do you know who he is?’

Zsuzsa said, ‘Yes. He’s an Israeli historian. We met at Retro-kert. Why?’

‘You did not hear this from me.’

‘Of course not.’

‘He’s gone missing. I think he has been kidnapped. The Israelis are going nuts. They are threatening to cancel the prime minister’s visit if we don’t find him.’

Zsuzsa stared at Eniko, the questions – and answers – tumbling through her mind. That explained why Elad’s number was unobtainable, why he wasn’t at work, and the mysterious rude man she had spoken to.

Eniko could see that Zsuzsa was about to start demanding more information and quickly cut her off. ‘That’s it, Zsuzsa. Really. Thanks again for the video. I need to go back to work now.’

Eniko glanced at her watch, took out her phone and called a number. ‘Kati, tell Akos and Reka that I need to see them both. Yes, I know it’s their daily briefing time. I will be there in five minutes. Yes, of course it’s important. It’s a national emergency.’

TWELVE

Grand Boulevard, 2.30 p.m.

Five minutes after they left the headquarters of the state security service, Balthazar and Anastasia were stuck on the corner of Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Way, waiting to turn right onto the Grand Boulevard. The traffic jam was solid and stationary.

Just over fifty yards away, on the other side of the tram-lines and the boulevard, Nyugati Station stood in front of them. Built by Eiffel’s studio, its facade was an elegant construction of glass and blue-painted steel. Several of the panes of glass had been shattered by rocks in a recent protest and were still not repaired, Balthazar could see. Two long yellow trams on both sides of the 4/6 line stood at the stop in front of the station, neither of them moving. In normal times the drive from Falk Miksa Street to Dob Street should take less than fifteen minutes – a straight run once they hit the boulevard until they turned right – but these times were not quite normal.

The mood was febrile and had been worsening for several weeks. The refugee crisis the previous autumn, the collapse of Europe’s borders, the botched attempt by Pal Dezeffy to organise a terrorist attack on Kossuth Square, the failure of the Qatari investment package; all of these had sapped support for Reka’s ruling Social Democrats. The party stood at just twenty-three per cent in the polls.

Balthazar had seen the most recent police statistics: petty crime was rising and so were violent attacks in a normally safe and peaceful city. Domestic violence was growing. There was an epidemic of shoplifting as more people lost their jobs and stole food to feed their families. Support was steadily growing for a new neo-communist grouping, the Workers’ Alliance, while the far-right National Renewal Movement was moving into double figures. Wildcat demonstrations were springing up across the city, apparently spontaneous but to Balthazar it seemed clear that someone was organising the mobs. The growing sense of lawlessness was eating away at the government’s authority.

‘Should we park and jump on a tram?’ asked Anastasia, one hand on the steering wheel, as she peered ahead. ‘This is not moving at all.’

‘Those trams aren’t moving either,’ said Balthazar.