Reka walked back inside, suddenly feeling almost elated. Firstly, she called Eniko, asked her to come over immediately. Eniko agreed. Then Reka called Antal Kondor and outlined what she wanted him to do. Her request, he said, would take about half an hour to organise.
She sat back and waited, idly flicking through the channels before watching the state television evening news programme. Her government ratings had stabilised, the newsreader, a handsome former water polo player in his late twenties, announced. There was still a long way to victory in the coming elections, she knew, but it was a good sign.
She looked closer at the newsreader. She had met him once or twice at various government receptions for sportsmen and women. He had made it clear he found her attractive. Perhaps for her looks, or perhaps for her power – most likely a combination of both. For a moment she considered inviting him round later.
She wasn’t looking for intellectual conversations, but something more elemental. That would be one way, in her experience a very effective one, to release the stress and tension she felt. Perhaps in a few days, once she was through this crisis.
She checked her watch – twenty-eight minutes had passed since she had called Antal. At that moment, her doorbell rang.
She walked over to the video screen above the entry pad. Antal stood in front of the camera with a thumbs up then held four fingers up. Reka smiled, mouthed ‘thank you’ and walked back to the sofa. The four fingers meant that the number of the mobile telephone she was about to call ended in four. There were ten handsets in total, each with the same first ten digits in their numbers, which she had memorised. The video entry phone buzzed again – this time it was Eniko. Reka let her in, thanked her for coming over at short notice, took her coat and led her through the lounge.
There the two women sat down. Reka explained her plan and the backstory. It took several minutes.
Eniko listened carefully, asking a couple of questions along the way until Reka stopped speaking. She looked shocked at first, then thoughtful. ‘Your grandfather Tamas really did that?’
Reka nodded.
‘And how long have you known this?’
‘Ever since I can remember. It’s been a burden my whole life.’
Eniko exhaled sharply. ‘Sorry, but you don’t get the sympathy vote. At least your family survived.’
‘I know, and I’m not asking for sympathy. Or understanding. But I need you to work with me on this, and to know that I can rely on you.’
‘And do you have the paperwork to prove it? We will need evidence if you want to go public about your family’s secrets.’
‘Yes. I do.’
Eniko slowly shook her head. ‘First the video of you on Castle Hill, now this. Is there anything else I should know about, Prime Minister?’
Reka looked her in the eyes. ‘Actually, there is one more thing you need to know, and I promise you that you will, very soon. Meanwhile, if this is too much and you want to go, you are free to leave, of course. I trust you to keep what I have told you confidential. But please decide, Eniko, are you in or out?’
Eniko sat back for a few moments in silence. They both knew that she was not going anywhere. ‘OK, I’m in. But meanwhile, why release this now? What’s the rush?’
‘Because it’s time. Nothing stays secret forever.’
‘Maybe, but there will be severe consequences. It will be the end of Nationwide – or at least of your uncle’s business career. That will blow back on you. It’s your family story, which means it’s your story as well, especially if you knew about this all these years and did nothing. It may blow up the trade deal with the Israelis. You do know that?’
‘Of course. But it will be out there. And on our terms. What did you say yesterday? – we have to own the story. That worked very well. So will this. We will own this story.’
Reka walked over to the wine fridge and took out a bottle of Siller, a rosé so dark it was almost a light red. ‘Will you?’ she asked.
Eniko nodded. ‘Sure, but only a little, and only once you have made the call and she is on the way here.’
‘Agreed,’ said Reka as she walked across the room to a minimalist Scandinavian sideboard and extracted two wine glasses.
‘Prime Minister, are you sure…’ Eniko said, suddenly hesitant, ‘that this is not some kind of elaborate revenge on your uncle? I hope I am not speaking out of turn. But I know you two have fallen out.’
Reka smiled. ‘No, Eniko, of course I am not sure.’ She paused for a moment, turned serious. ‘Who knows? Maybe I am working out some childhood trauma. But that trauma is rooted in what my family did in 1944 and what my uncle covered up for decades. And that needs to be told. No more secrets.’
Eniko half-smiled. ‘What a story. Then let’s do it.’
Reka nodded then picked up her phone, entered a new number and pressed call. There was no answer at first.
Reka waited a few moments then called again.
This time she heard a female voice that said ‘Hello, who is this?’ in a very uncertain tone. That was understandable.
Reka started speaking, her voice calm and confident.
TWENTY-NINE
Rakoczi Square, 7.10 p.m.
Balthazar quickly read the text message as he stood in the bathroom, his palms wet with sweat, his heart still racing, then read it again.
MR CELEBRITY DETECTIVE…
Ilona.
Was this a genuine warning, or another of her mind games?
Decide.
The man he had come to see sat dead in the next room. His brains were splattered up the wall. He had been asking around about Balthazar, offering money to strangers for information.
The message was real. The only reason for Ilona to tell him to get out now was that more trouble really was on the way. How she knew that – and where he was – was something he would think about later.
The dead man on the other side of the wall had been killed within the last hour or two – there was no sign of rigor mortis. Whoever had shot him was probably a long way from Budapest by now, if not out of the country.
Rakoczi Square was very close to Ulloi Way and the road to the airport. For now, the first thing he needed to do was call the District VIII station for backup and the white suits, the forensics team who would seal the flat and look for prints and other evidence. Balthazar had already informed the local cops that he would be in the area and told them to possibly expect a call from him – but he did not want to give any more information about his mission in case it leaked.
He slipped his Glock back into his holster, took his phone from his pocket but his hands were sweaty and he fumbled. The handset fell to the ground, hitting the bathroom’s tiled floor with a sharp snapping sound.
Balthazar swore to himself and picked it up to see the small crack on the screen had turned into a much larger one. He tried quickly to dial the police headquarters but no numbers came up, no matter how many times he jabbed at the digital keypad. The phone was dead.
He slipped it back into his trouser pocket and quickly walked through the main room and into the kitchen. He picked up the bottle of cooking oil and exited the flat, closing the front door quietly behind him as he stepped out into the gloomy, unlit sixth-floor corridor.
The building had no lift. He could hear voices and two sets of rapid, distant footsteps getting steadily louder as the men came up the main staircase.
Balthazar unscrewed the light bulb hanging in the corridor and placed it in the side pocket of his leather jacket, then moved down to the entrance to the rear staircase. He opened one of the double doors, stepped through and closed it behind him, stepping out onto the landing – a small flat area.
He was in luck – the double door had two round handles, one on each. He took out a plasticuff from his leather jacket, looped it around the two handles, slid the end through the ratchet and pulled it tight. A few hard kicks would soon snap the plasticuff, but it would buy him some time.
The rear staircase was narrow and unlit, unused by the residents. A Bakelite handle poked out of an ancient light switch on the wall by the door.
Balthazar flicked it up and down several times. Nothing happened. He instinctively reached for his telephone to use the built-in torch until he remembered that it was broken. The voices were much louder now, almost on the other side of the door. A few seconds later the door shook as the men tried to force it open.
