Eniko knew that her moment of glory was passing. She had taken the job of press secretary knowing that crises were certain to erupt down the line. Now she was in the epicentre of one, a crisis which if mishandled would bring Reka’s career crashing down, and hers too in its wake. But if her plan worked, she could name her own terms. Eniko was wearing her favourite business outfit today, a black trouser suit that had been hand-made for her by a tailor in District VII, a grey satin blouse and black ankle boots. Somehow the clothes gave her energy. She knew she looked sharp, competent, professional – because she was all of those things. She felt Reka’s and Akos’s eyes on her, waiting for her reply. OK, guys, she thought, smiling inside, just a little bit longer. Eniko glanced down at her ankle boot, enjoying the soft feel of the leather and the sharp cut of the Cuban heel for a moment, then back up at Reka and Akos. They were both staring at her now, their anxiety clearly turning to annoyance.
Reka glared at Eniko, tapped her watch.
Eniko smiled. ‘OK. I’m in. There is only one way to deal with this. We need to own this story. Then we can control it.’
Reka said, ‘Great. How?’
Eniko leaned forward as she spoke. ‘This is what we are going to do.’
FOURTEEN
555.hu newsroom, 3.45 p.m.
Zsuzsa was sitting at her desk, idly reading the latest opinion poll that showed the government’s support sliding even further, wondering when to hand in her resignation and what Eniko planned to do with the video footage of Reka, when her phone buzzed to indicate an incoming text message.
Just as she picked up her handset, she saw that half the newsroom was also scrabbling for their mobiles. Anxiety knotted her stomach. Had the publishers, or perhaps Roland himself, discovered that someone had been inside his computer, and sent out a message to everyone? Maybe the building was going to be locked down while they searched for the hacker. She glanced at the door, half expecting to see security guards stomp into the newsroom, heading for her desk. But when she looked down at her screen, she felt relief. The message wasn’t from Roland, or the publishers, or anyone she knew.
The sender was the National Emergency Messaging Centre. What was this about? The NEMC was supposed to deal with disasters like floods or earthquakes. It had the ability to message every mobile telephone in the country at once. Maybe an enormous blizzard was expected. Then Zsuzsa read the message:
Kedves honfitarsak, dear compatriots. I regret to inform you that our Hungarian republic is under attack from hostile forces. In response I have declared a state of national emergency. But we stand firm and we will never surrender. I will be speaking in a national broadcast at 4 p.m. on all television channels and on the internet at kormany.hu.
Eljen Magyarorszag, long live Hungary!
Vedjuk meg a mi koztarsasagunkat, defend our republic!
Reka Bardossy, prime minister.
Zsuzsa glanced at her watch. Four o’clock was in two minutes’ time – and, she realised, thirty minutes before 555.hu was due to go live with the video of Reka killing her assailant on Castle Hill. This ‘attack from hostile forces’ was obviously connected to 555.hu’s plan to release the footage.
She sat back for a moment, processing what she had just read. Reka was about to launch some kind of pre-emptive strike, which was, when Zsuzsa thought about it, the only smart play here. Eniko had, in effect, solved Zsuzsa’s dilemma about when to resign. Her career at the website was over, that much was clear. Whatever was coming down the line would trigger an immediate internal investigation at 555.hu to find out how the prime minister knew about the video clip. It would take a while, but the data trail would inevitably lead to Zsuzsa. Only Roland’s computer had the video, Zsuzsa was sure.
There would be a record of Roland’s log-on on his office computer, twenty minutes before he arrived in the office. So if Roland had not been present when someone was logged in as him, who was in the office? Roland would remember that Zsuzsa was the only other journalist in the newsroom and that he had made them both a cappuccino. Maybe the little scene by the coffee machine had not been such a smart idea, after all. If she had stuck to finding out what had happened to her Nationwide investigation and not downloaded Reka’s video file, she could probably have got away with it.
But hey, she was a journalist. It was her job to be nosy. In any case, it did not matter now. What was done, was done. The question was, what was she going to do about it? For now, she needed to gather her stuff and get out. Zsuzsa opened her web browser to kormany.hu and started gathering her phones, her most recent notebooks, her most useful contacts’ business cards and slowly placed them inside her leather backpack.
The flat-screen television on the other side of the newsroom went dark for a moment, losing its feeds from the international news organisations, then only one channel showed: Hungarian state television. Someone turned the volume up so the sound carried across the room.
Zsuzsa looked across at Roland’s office, tension rising in her stomach. The blinds were up. He and Kriszta Matyas were staring at the television in his room. The whole newsroom had fallen silent, the first time she had ever seen it so quiet.
Reka appeared on the television screen, right on time. She was soberly dressed in a light-blue blouse and navy jacket with a small Hungarian flag badge pinned to her left lapel. Her eyes were clear and her voice steady and well modulated as she began to speak. She thanked everyone for tuning in, and interrupting their work day or their personal business, but this was indeed a moment of national emergency, with the Hungarian republic under attack from a hostile force. She paused, stretching out the moment just long enough while every viewer mentally begged for more information, then carried on speaking:
Many of you won’t have heard of the term ‘deepfake’. Why would you have? We Hungarians are an honest people. But not everyone is honest or interested in the truth. Nowadays computer technology and software is so sophisticated that it can conjure up video footage of a person and use their face and voice and so make it appear that a real person has said things they have never said, or done things they have never done. A deepfake is a piece of video that looks completely authentic, but it is not. It is computer-generated. It is completely artificial. It is a lie.
She paused after the word ‘lie’, looking straight at the camera, before saying again, ‘A lie’, then continuing.
I regret to inform you, kedves honfitarsak, dear compatriots, that such a piece of artificial, computer-generated footage is in the possession of one of our best-known news organisations.
Zsuzsa watched her colleagues turn and stare at each other, realisation slowly dawning. Was this it? Was this What The Fuck Are They Up To? The secret project? Several of the journalists turned to look at Roland’s office, where he stood completely still, his arms now crossed against his chest. Reka continued speaking:
This news organisation – which I will not name, to save it from the righteous anger of our fellow Hungarians – plans to release this fake footage of me apparently carrying out a violent, illegal act, at 4.30 p.m. It is possible that the editors of this organisation believe the footage that they have to be genuine, that they have a genuine news story. In this case, why have they not contacted me or my press office for a comment?
This is standard practice, even for this news organisation, which is well known for its unorthodox approach to journalism. They have not, because they know that this so-called footage is not genuine. It supposedly shows me committing an act which I have never committed, in a place that I have never been to.
It is a highly sophisticated example of a deepfake. In other words, it is a lie. Their plan, by releasing this footage, is to bring down my government. They are not journalists. They are activists. And yes, my government may yet fall – not now, but later this month, when you, the Hungarian people and voters, decide. Not because of a news organisation peddling falsehoods. Thank you.
Zsuzsa watched in wonder, her eyes wide. It was a smart move, the smartest she had ever seen from a government. In fact it was brilliant, a checkmate of stellar proportions. Roland and Kriszta had been totally outmanoeuvred. They could not release the footage now and anyway there was no point.
Reka – and Eniko – had completely taken control of the story. The clip would inevitably leak – perhaps even from the government press office – to show that it existed. The footage, she knew, was genuine. The prime minister of Hungary really had killed someone trying to murder her by sticking the broken heel of her stiletto shoe in the side of his neck. But the story had been framed as a lie and that is how most of the population would remember it. Initial perceptions counted more than anything. Roland, she knew, would be furious. He would call in the tech guys to see who had accessed the video file.
Zsuzsa scanned the newsroom as she prepared to make her exit. There was no sight of Kriszta, but the atmosphere in the newsroom was electric as the reporters swapped opinions about the footage.
This story was about to explode, and 555.hu’s newsroom would be ground zero. It was a smart move by Reka not to name 555.hu – especially as her press secretary used to work there. But Zsuzsa was sure that Eniko would carefully leak the name of her old employer.
The media pile-on, Zsuzsa knew, would start immediately, and it would get nasty, possibly even personal. Zsuzsa had already seen during the refugee crisis how Roland and Kriszta were under pressure: they melted like a bar of chocolate in the heat. They would be furious, scared and then they would lash out, especially when they realised that Zsuzsa was somehow connected to the leak of their greatest scoop.
Zsuzsa needed to leave, ASAP, with her stuff, but without drawing attention to herself. But what journalist walked out of a newsroom when it was clear that a massive story was breaking? She looked around the office.
The main door was on the other side of the newsroom, past the reporters’ desks and Kriszta’s workstation from where she watched her underlings. That was too many desks and too many people. But behind Zsuzsa’s workplace, just a few yards away, was the fire exit. The door was alarmed and opening it would set off a loud siren. But maybe that might help. She nervously took another bite of the remains of the chocolate muffin by her keyboard, checked her desk, then swept the newsroom once more from one side to another. Everyone was either reading Reka’s message, showing it to each other or chattering on their phones.
Gyorgy, Kriszta’s deputy, walked over to Zsuzsa’s desk and sat on the edge. Gyorgy was a serious reporter, a refugee from the country’s main independent centrist newspaper which had recently been closed down. He just about managed to conceal his disdain for his boss. Somewhat overweight, in his late twenties, Gyorgy had recently cultivated a goatee beard, but it remained a straggly effort. He had twice asked Zsuzsa out, but while she enjoyed his company, she did not find him physically attractive. The beard did not help.
‘Big story,’ he said, as he swung his legs back and forth.
‘Very,’ said Zsuzsa, hoping that her eagerness to get out did not show. ‘Is it us? Do we have the footage?’
Gyorgy gestured at Roland’s office, where the blinds were now down. ‘Maybe. Something’s up. Even if it’s not, we need to report this. Why aren’t Roland and Kriszta out here directing our coverage?’
‘Good question,’ said Zsuzsa. She looked down at her Instagram feed. Twitter had not really taken off in Hungary but the new social media platform had been an instant hit. Several of the most popular pop stars and models in Hungary were linking to Reka’s broadcast, with a blizzard of hashtags #saynotodeepfakes, #dontbelievethehype #istandwithReka #istandwithhungary and more in a similar vein.
