‘So what happens next?’ asked Balthazar, still training the Glock 34 on the taller gunman. The other man, he saw, had quickly walked over to the Mercedes, which had reversed down the alley and was now parked nearby with its front facing towards Nemet Street.
The tall gunman said, ‘Next is you are going to lower that gun and hand it back to my colleague, as well as your weapon and your mobile phone.’
‘And what if I don’t?’
‘Then I will shoot your friend in the back. At the same time you will shoot me. Then my friend will shoot you. And everything will get very complicated.’
Balthazar glanced sideways. The wiry gunman was back in his two-handed stance, pointing a Glock at Balthazar again, with a look on his face that said he would be only too happy to use it. He must have picked up another weapon from the car.
The taller gunman continued talking. ‘So you see, you will be dead, I will be dead and your friend here probably will be too, or at least crippled for life.’ He paused. ‘All because you refused to come for a little chat.’
He stepped forward. ‘Look, I don’t want to shoot you, Detective. Or your friend. I don’t want to shoot anyone. It draws so much attention. It causes enormous hassle, especially if a cop is involved. But I will if I have to. So what do you say? Just come for a chat, then you can go home later. Eva neni will feed you some of her famous turos palacsintas. How is she, by the way? She must get lonely at night, an elderly lady living on her own. You’re very important to her.’
‘Is that the best you can do, threatening an old lady?’
The tall gunman shrugged. ‘Who is threatening anybody? It’s just an observation.’ His tone changed, became harder. ‘Now, Detective, much as I am enjoying our conversation, we really need to get a move on. Hand over both weapons to my colleague – yours and ours – and your phone. Give him the one in your hand, and he will remove the other pistol and your phone.’
Balthazar did not believe the gunman for a moment. Whoever had sent these men wanted to know what Balthazar knew. The likelihood of him simply taking a taxi home later was more than remote. For the moment, though, he had little choice. But he could take as much control as possible.
The tall gunman gestured at his partner. He walked over to Balthazar, who handed him back his pistol.
The wiry gunman stood at Balthazar’s side, so close he could smell his odour of stale sweat and cigarettes. Balthazar braced himself for what was surely coming, after he had humiliated him in front of his boss. The man’s fist slammed into Balthazar’s side, under his ribcage, into his kidney. Bolts of pain shot through his back. Nausea rose in his throat and the street began to spin. He forced himself not to cry out but for a moment he thought he might collapse.
The gunman stepped back, raised his fist for another punch. The second gunman shouted, ‘Stop. We need him able to speak.’
The tall gunman looked at Balthazar, his weapon still trained on him. ‘All you need to do is follow orders, Detective. Then you will save yourself a whole lot of pain. Now don’t move, especially not suddenly, tell us where your phone is and put your hands out and forward.’
‘Inside my jacket. Left-hand side,’ said Balthazar, trying to stop his legs from shaking.
The wiry gunman reached inside Balthazar’s jacket and took out his iPhone, then reached for his shoulder holster and removed his Glock.
‘Hands out,’ said the wiry gunman. ‘Unless you want one in the other kidney.’
Balthazar did as he asked. The gunman placed Balthazar’s phone and pistol inside one pocket of his jacket and removed a roll of duct tape from another.
Balthazar smiled inside when he saw what the gunman planned to use to restrain him. Duct tape, he had read recently in an international police report, was now the most popular method of restraint in an abduction. But it wasn’t nearly as secure as most kidnappers believed.
Balthazar knew what was coming next – he would be put inside the car and taken to whoever wanted to speak to him. There seemed little doubt that the same people kidnapping him were connected to the death of Geza Kovacs, and the shooting on Klauzal Square. There seemed little means of avoiding getting into the vehicle. But as long as he wasn’t put into the boot, he still had options. Unfortunately that probably meant taking another punch.
The sound of a mobile telephone ringing echoed across the street. The taller gunman reached inside his jacket and took out his phone with his left hand. He looked at the screen and took the call, his gun still trained on Balthazar.
The wiry gunman looked at Balthazar, his face twisted in contempt.
‘I hope they are paying you well,’ said Balthazar.
‘Shut it, dirty Gypsy. How the fuck did you ever get to be a cop anyway?’
‘They were short-staffed. Once this is all over I’ll arrest you, you can be sure of that. You’ll get ten years for kidnapping a cop. At least. Your employers won’t care. What are they paying you for this evening’s fun? Half a million forints? A million? They’ll dump you like a sack of shit.’
Balthazar glanced at the taller gunman, who was still speaking on his mobile phone. He was absorbed in the conversation and not listening.
Balthazar glanced at Memed. He was still lying the floor, but seemed to be coming round. ‘Actually, you’ll get much more than ten years. You left your DNA all over the flat across the square where you killed Geza Kovacs.’
The gunman looked at him. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t kill anyone. Who’s Geza Kovacs?’
‘Someone working for the same people as you. Someone with a large hole in his chest, another in his head and his brains all over the wall. Maybe your friends planted it. But you’ll be going down for murder as well.’
Balthazar had no idea whether any of this was true, but it was certainly angering the gunman. He looked across at the taller gunman, who was finishing his conversation. Balthazar held out his hands. The wiry gunman wound the duct tape around his lower wrists. ‘Geza had lots of friends,’ Balthazar said. ‘Plenty of them are in prison. I’m sure they will be pleased to meet you. You can be their kocsog.’
The wiry gunman said nothing. He tore the end of the duct tape and closed the binding. Once it was fastened he stepped sideways and slammed his fist into Balthazar’s stomach. Balthazar stumbled forward, pain and nausea exploding inside him. For a moment he could taste the cevapcici and palinka again, the greasy meat and alcohol sliding back up his throat. He took deep, panting breaths, somehow managed not to vomit.
The Mercedes moved nearer and the car boot popped open. The second gunman finished his call. ‘Get in,’ he said to Balthazar.
‘Your boss won’t have a much of a conversation if you put me in there.’
‘Why not?’
‘You saw what just happened. Your friend here has punched me in the kidney and the stomach. I’ll puke. There’s no air in there. And I will be tied up lying on my side, so when I puke I will then choke on my own vomit. So your boss won’t be able to have any kind of conversation with me, guided or not.’
‘And if you go in the back of the car?’
Balthazar glanced at Memed. His eyes were open and he nodded subtly. Memed was alive and just needed to get to Goran’s nearby restaurant. He could leave him. Balthazar said, ‘I’ll manage. Just keep the window open.’
The second gunman gestured at his colleague. ‘You first, get in. He’ll sit between us.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Nemet Street, 8.40 p.m.
Marika watched through a hole in the construction site fence, her heart thumping and her eyes wide, as the blue Mercedes sped down the road and turned left on Rakoczi Square.
She peeked around the edge of the barrier, double-checked that the men and the car had all gone, then rushed across to the middle of the alley to where Memed was trying to sit up, blood streaming from the side of his head. He had turned pale and was shivering.
Marika knelt by his side and scrabbled for her mobile phone in the pocket of her coat, almost dropped it in her nervousness. ‘Sit down, stay where you are. I’ll call an ambulance.’
Memed shook his head. ‘No, no ambulance. No hospital. Just help me get back to the restaurant.’
‘But you are hurt. You need help.’ She pulled out a packet of tissues. ‘I always wanted to be a nurse,’ she said as she started wiping blood from the side of his head. ‘I enrolled at nursing college, you know, but I had to leave after a few months. I had to look after my family. I’m still in the helping business, it’s just a different sort…’ she said, gabbling after what she had just witnessed.
Memed tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he crumpled back to the ground.
Marika put her hand on his shoulder, pressed down gently for a moment. ‘Just a wait a minute. They’ve gone now and they won’t come back. I’ve seen enough fights. Either you will be able to get up in a little while, or not. If you can, we’ll go back to the restaurant. If not, I’m definitely calling an ambulance. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ He sat up again and managed to crab-walk across the road onto the pavement and sit with his back to the wall. Marika handed him some more tissues.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Memed, wiping the side of his head. ‘I’ll be OK.’
A moment later a large blue Maserati coupe cruised slowly down Nemet Street. It passed the entrance to Nemet Alley, went another ten yards or so, then suddenly reversed to the corner and turned into the alley.
