The only other person he could see was a man who looked to be in his thirties sitting smoking on the far side of the open space. He sat back at ease, his legs stretched out in front as he played with his mobile telephone. Balthazar started walking towards him. Perhaps the man had seen something, had witnessed the smoke bomb attacks. It was worth asking. He wasn’t that tall, Balthazar saw, but he was well built with a pale face and a nose that had clearly once been broken. He wore jeans, a grey woollen hat, a black parka and an expensive pair of light-brown lace-up winter walking boots.
The two men’s eyes met for a second. The man then looked away, apparently uninterested in Balthazar’s presence.
Something about this guy.
But what? His look had been too unconcerned, Balthazar realised. Most people, when they saw a well-built man of obvious Gypsy extraction in a leather jacket walk towards them were not exactly fearful but were at least focused and alert. The man on the bench was neither. He did not move at all, just sat there looking super-relaxed. In fact he looked like he was almost smiling.
Balthazar stopped walking, kept looking at the man on the bench. Had they had met before? Why was this guy giving off such a strong ‘fuck you’ vibe? Then Balthazar realised. His heart speeded up. For a second he was back on Pap Janos Square, not far from Keleti Station, on a sweltering summer’s day in early September 2015 at the height of the refugee crisis.
He had been standing by the half-demolished headquarters of the Socialist Party, looking for the body of a murdered Syrian refugee when a black Gendarmerie van pulled up nearby. The six gendarmes had walked forward and positioned themselves around him: two squads of two on either side, and another standing behind him, all with their right hands hovering over their pepper spray and handcuffs. The commander had stood in front, his baton in his hand. Balthazar had not moved.
After a few moments the commander had slid his baton back into the holder on his belt and took off his sunglasses. ‘Hallo, Tazi,’ he said. The commander was Attila Ungar, Balthazar’s former partner.
The man in the woollen hat sitting on the nearby bench was one of the six gendarmes who had surrounded him, Balthazar realised. He had a good memory for faces, especially when he thought he was about to be beaten up.
In the end he had not been hit, and had avoided arrest by calling in for assistance using a police emergency code. After Reka Bardossy had dissolved the gendarmes, some of their members, once vetted, had joined the riot squad of the Budapest police. Others had melted away into the underworld or, like Attila Ungar, had set up security companies.
So who was this guy working for? Was he connected to the attack on Javitas? Perhaps his presence was a coincidence. It wasn’t a crime, after all, to sit at ease in Klauzal Square park on a freezing winter afternoon. But it was quite unusual. Somewhere in the distance an engine noise sounded, echoing down the now-empty streets.
Balthazar started to walk over to the man but then he saw that he had something in his hand. At first he thought it was a mobile telephone, but then he saw the aerial poking out of the top. It was a walkie-talkie. The man smiled at Balthazar and raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. The engine noise grew louder. It was sharper and harsher than a car.
Balthazar’s heart started pounding. He turned on his heel and sprinted back through the park, drawing his Glock as he ran. The engine noise now echoed across the square. The motorcyclist was now visible on the other side of the fence, rushing towards Vivi and Anastasia, getting larger by the second.
The motorbike was red, the rider and passenger both wearing silver helmets with tinted visors. The passenger was carrying an Uzi sub-machine gun.
Balthazar was halfway through the park, yelling ‘Get down, get down’, when he saw Anastasia launch herself onto Vivi. The two women crashed to the floor.
Anastasia crawled forward, pushing Vivi, showing her how to crouch down and shelter behind the bonnet of her car. She instantly understood and made herself as small as possible.
Balthazar sprinted towards Anastasia and Vivi, his Glock in his hand. He stood still for a moment and dropped into a shooting stance.
Time slowed down as he watched the motorcyclist approach Javitas.
There was movement, Balthazar saw, inside the café. At this range it was almost impossible to hit a moving target with a pistol. If he missed the gunman, the bullets would go through the glass front of the café and could hit the people inside.
He lowered his weapon, ran forward again.
The motorcyclist slowed as they reached the Opel.
The gunman aimed the stubby gun at the rear windscreen, flicking quickly from left to right as he opened fire, the staccato sound of the bullets tearing through the air before they hit the glass.
After a couple of seconds the shooting stopped.
The motorcycle roared down Dob Street.
Balthazar reached the corner of Klauzal Square and Dob Street, aimed his Glock at the back of the motorcycle passenger as the motorcycle roared off towards the Grand Boulevard, distance growing rapidly by the second.
Now he had a clear line of fire.
Until two children ran out of a grocery store into the middle of the road to see what all the excitement was about. Balthazar turned around, his Glock still in his hand, to see if there were any more gunmen, or the threat was over. There were no more attackers.
Balthazar holstered his weapon, glanced at the Opel’s rear windscreen. A line of holes was stitched across the glass. Large cracks reached from the top to the base, but it had not shattered. The bulletproof glass had held.
He looked at the pavement. It was covered in grey slush, streaked with dirt, dotted with cigarette ends. But there were no pools of red, or crimson streaks.
Balthazar shouted, ‘Vivi, Anastasia, you can come out. He’s gone.’
The two women slowly stood up. Both were unscathed. Balthazar exhaled hard with relief.
Anastasia said, ‘We’re fine. Did you hit them?’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘I didn’t open fire. There were people behind you in the café. By the time I got here they were halfway to the boulevard. Then some kids appeared.’
Anastasia walked around to the rear of the vehicle, pressed down on the windscreen. It gave way but did not break. She patted the bonnet, checked the two cars parked on either side. Neither was damaged.
Balthazar asked, ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
She smiled. ‘I’m fine. If they wanted to hit us they would have.’
Vivi said, ‘Wasn’t that exciting? I’ve never been shot at before.’ She turned to Anastasia. ‘Tell me more about this job.’
SIXTEEN
Dob Street, Friday, 9.30 a.m.
Zsuzsa slowly walked down Dob Street on the opposite side of the road to Javitas, observing her surrounds, without, she hoped, being noticed. Two policemen, one tall, the other short and tubby, stood nearby smoking, desultorily watching over the crime scene. The sky was the colour of gunmetal, the sun invisible, and the freezing wind cut through her coat, chilling her face and neck.
Two cars were parked in front of Javitas, but there was a space between them. They must have taken away the one that was shot up, she thought. The area in front of the café was sealed off by black-and-yellow crime scene tape stretching between small poles mounted on stands. The few pedestrians walking down Dob Street towards the Grand Boulevard had to navigate a path around the police tape by stepping into the road.
