At Oktogon she turned right down Kiraly Street. Before the war, Kiraly Street had been the bustling heart of the city’s downtown Jewish quarter, Budapest’s version of London’s East End or New York’s Lower East Side, filled with kosher butchers, grocery and general goods shops. After the Nazis invaded in March 1944, it marked the edge of the Jewish ghetto. Now it was hipster central.
They drove past a run-down two-storey apartment house, the once-proud Habsburg yellow of its facade turned brown from decades of dirt and exhaust fumes. The ground floor was now an organic wine bar, with a blackboard outside detailing its special of the day – a red from Moldova. Next door two young women stood hand in hand pointing at the window display of a vintage clothes shop that took up the ground floor of an elegant art nouveau block of flats.
Anastasia turned left from Kiraly Street onto Csanyi Street. Here gentrification had not yet spilled over and the road narrowed and darkened. The buildings were lower, their grimy facades crumbling and dilapidated. Csanyi Street ended at the corner of Klauzal Square, where she would turn left onto Dob Street and park in front of Javitas.
‘Almost home,’ said Anastasia as she turned the blue light and the siren off.
She slowed down when she saw that there were four cars backed up at the end of the street. A policeman stood on the corner of Klauzal Square, checking each vehicle, then directing it to drive through the square and not turn left onto Dob Street.
Balthazar frowned. What was this about? There wasn’t usually a traffic control here. And why couldn’t the cars turn left onto Dob Street? Something had happened, he guessed, and nothing good. He could call in to ask, but he and Anastasia would see for themselves in a few seconds.
Anastasia glanced at Balthazar. ‘I don’t know either, but we’ll find out very soon.’
The policeman waved the last of the cars in front of them through, glanced at the blue light on the Opel and walked over. Anastasia stopped the vehicle on the corner of Dob Street. Balthazar wound down the window, holding his police identity card in his hand. The policeman was young, he saw, hardly out of his teens. He glanced at the card, then looked at Balthazar. ‘How can I help?’
‘What happened?’ asked Balthazar. ‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘Someone attacked the trendy café. But no injuries.’
‘Thanks. That’s where we are going,’ said Balthazar.
The policeman nodded and stepped aside. Anastasia turned left and pulled up in front of Javitas. An ambulance and a fire engine were parked outside the café. Thick grey smoke poured from the inside. She and Balthazar looked at each other, jumped out of the car, and ran over to the entrance.
Vivi sat on a chair by a table outside, her pale face streaked with dirt and smoke.
THIRTEEN
Reka Bardossy’s office, Parliament, 2.45 p.m.
Eniko sat back, watching Reka as she viewed the video clip until the end, then pressed the stop button on Eniko’s laptop. She gave Eniko a wan smile, then glanced at Akos Feher. ‘Well, it took a while, but we knew it would surface eventually.’
Eniko looked at Akos, then at Reka. ‘So you both know about this?’
Reka looked embarrassed. ‘I’ve got a copy. I’ve had one for ages, ever since the footage was taken.’
‘How? Who gave it to you?’
‘The Librarian.’
Eniko’s mouth twisted in distaste.
The Librarian was the name of a former high-ranking communist official, the keeper of the elite’s secrets. Eniko had heard rumours that he even used to have his own office in parliament, where he would collate the recordings he made from the bugs in ministerial offices – including that of the prime minister. She had seen him once in parliament, a shambling figure from another era, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, a shower of dandruff on his shoulders, his skin flaking from psoriasis. He had stared at her intently, looking her up and down, assessing her, his brown eyes like lasers behind his thick glasses, before walking off. There was nothing sexual in his gaze, but something far more chilling.
‘Why did he do that?’ asked Eniko.
Reka laughed. ‘Do I really have to answer that, Eniko? Information is power. Information was his currency. He wanted me to know that he had it, and could release it at any time.’
Eniko said, ‘But he’s dead.’
Reka said, ‘I know. I’m going to his memorial service tomorrow. And no, you don’t have to come. But let’s focus on today. When is this going live?’
Eniko glanced at her watch, ‘At 4.30 p.m. But firstly, I have some questions.’
She turned to Akos. ‘Have you got a copy, or did you just see an early preview?’
Akos shrugged. ‘I was there.’
‘Where?’
‘On Castle Hill last year. I saw the whole thing.’
Eniko’s eyes widened. This story was more and more incredible. ‘Was anyone else there?’
Reka leaned forward, put her hand on Eniko’s knee. Her voice was steady and she looked her press secretary in the eyes. ‘Not at that stage, Eniko, no. Just Akos. But we need to deal with this. Now. We can worry about the backstory later.’
Eniko nodded. Her boss was right. ‘So this is real? It’s not a deepfake or concocted somehow?’
Reka nodded. ‘Yes, Eniko, it’s real.’
‘Give me a moment here. I’m still processing this. A man tried to strangle you to death. You killed him instead.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Where’s the body?’
Reka shrugged. ‘Disposed of. Does it matter?’
Eniko thought quickly. ‘Yes, actually. Killing someone in self-defence is not a crime. We might be able to get away with that. Everyone likes a fighter and a winner. The problem is your cover-up afterwards. Illegally disposing of a body, tampering with evidence, that’s two crimes already – carried out with clear intent.’
Reka glanced at Akos. He half-scowled, then nodded. ‘Eniko is right.’
Eniko said, ‘I know. What was it, by the way, that thing you stuck in his neck?’
‘The heel of my Louboutin shoe. The hundred-millimetre version.’
Eniko closed her eyes, cataloguing the emotions running through her: incredulity, dread, but most of all, anger. How could she, as the prime minister’s press secretary, not know about this?
Akos leaned forward, his tight shirt straining at his chest. His narrow face was creased with anxiety and his hair, already spiky, seemed to point in even more directions than usual. He asked, ‘Are you sure that 555.hu are going to run this? How do you know?’
Eniko nodded. ‘Sure I’m sure. I was tipped off.’
‘By who?’ asked Reka.
‘It doesn’t matter who. Someone I trust. Someone I used to work with. This is happening. And the clock is ticking.’
Akos asked, ‘Why? Why did this person tell you?’
‘To give us time to prepare a statement. This person owes me,’ said Eniko, correcting herself before she gave away her source’s gender. ‘They will get into a lot of trouble if that comes out.’
