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.’
Reka ran her hand through her hair. ‘Not as much as we are going to be in. It would be much nicer if they just deleted it. Any chance of that?’
Eniko shook her head. ‘No, Prime Minister. None at all. It’s an amazing story. And you can be sure it will be picked up by all the international media. Anyway, it’s out now. If they don’t run it, someone else will.’
Her voice grew tighter. ‘But before we talk about what to do about it, I have some questions.’ She paused. ‘As you might expect.’
Reka nodded, said nothing.
The three of them were sitting in the corner of Reka’s office, on the new leather armchairs. A small table, designed by a young Hungarian artisan carpenter, stood in front. A basket of pogacsas, the small savoury scones that were an essential accompaniment to every Hungarian business meeting, stood on the table, next to baskets of fruit, bottles of mineral water and a coffee jug.
Eniko glared first at Reka, then Akos. Her nostrils flared as she controlled her breathing and beat back her growing anger. Eniko knew she had their attention, could feel the power in the room flowing to her. It would not last, she knew, and she must not lose her temper, but she would make the most of this moment. She reached for a pogacsa and bit into the salty pastry, chewed and swallowed.
Reka said, ‘Go ahead.’
Eniko drew out the moment for a few seconds more, then started talking. ‘Firstly, Prime Minister, how long have you had this?’
Reka thought for a moment. She had been given the clip by the man known as the Librarian in the middle of the refugee crisis last September. She counted off the months. ‘About four months.’
‘Where is the footage from?’
