‘Your move, Tazi,’ said Attila. ‘Three of us, and one of you. I would consider de-escalation, if I were you. We don’t want a shooting match, do we? And think of all the paperwork afterwards.’
Balthazar looked down Nemet Street.
A police car had parked nearby, its siren sounding and blue light flashing. He could see a driver in the front seat. The black SUV, the two armed men and the unfolding scene would all be clearly visible to him. The siren stopped, the blue light went out. Why weren’t the police intervening?
Balthazar waited for several long moments.
There was no movement inside the police car. The driver switched the engine off, sat back and watched.
Attila smiled. ‘They’re not coming, Tazi.’
Balthazar holstered his weapon.
The two men in T-shirts walked up the stairs to the Serbs, helping them up.
Attila slapped his arm lightly. ‘That’s better. We don’t want any accidents, do we? Don’t worry, Tazi, they will be fine. And they will soon be out of your hair, en route to Belgrade.’
Balthazar damped down his anger. Why weren’t the cops coming to help? Although he was already starting to understand the answer. ‘And Geza Kovacs, dead upstairs?’
Attila looked surprised. ‘Geza? Dead? That’s nothing to do with us. Really. Nobody is supposed to be dead.’
‘Well, he is.’
‘That’s a shame. He was a good guy. Meanwhile, I need to take care of these two jokers. They were supposed to bring you in for questioning, but I never thought that was very likely. Still, I thought I would drop by and check, just in case.’ He smiled. ‘Lucky I did, eh? See, Tazi, I still have your back.’
‘Attila, what the fuck is going on?’
Attila walked nearer to Balthazar, and spoke quietly in his ear. ‘Nationwide, Tazi, that’s what’s going on.’ He looked at Balthazar as he stepped back. ‘I told you to be careful. Where are their guns?’
Balthazar gestured under the curve of the staircase. Attila walked over and quickly located the two Glocks on the floor in the corner.
He picked them up and nodded at Balthazar as he walked straight to the SUV. ‘And a disarm as well. Nice work, Tazi. Remember, my offer still stands.’
Balthazar watched as the men in T-shirts guided the two Serbs into the back of the black SUV, their hands still bound in front of them. He exhaled hard, ignored the anger he felt. There was nothing to be done. The tall man glared at Balthazar, his face smeared with dirt and oil, spitting insults in Serbian. Attila got in the front seat and the vehicle pulled away.
Half a minute or so later, once Attila’s vehicle had disappeared from view, the police car started moving down Nemet Street. It stopped on the next corner, by Rakoczi Square. There were three people inside, he could see: two forensics officers dressed in white suits and the driver, an overweight man in his fifties, who was still talking on his radio.
The driver looked familiar as he levered himself out of the car. His name was Istvan Sandor, aka Pisti bacsi. Pisti was the custody sergeant at the District VIII station. It was many years since he had been seen on the streets, not least because his substantial pot belly made it difficult for him to run after or chase any a suspect. Back in his days as a beat cop Balthazar had sent so many local criminals to him that Pisti had asked him to slow down a bit as the system could not cope.
Pisti had worked at the local station for almost twenty-five years and nobody knew District VIII like he did. Pisti had been a helpful mentor to Balthazar and had several times slapped down other officers for off-colour remarks about Gypsies. This may have been because Pisti was friendly with Balthazar’s brother Gaspar. The two men often dined together at one of Budapest’s high-end restaurants, although Balthazar had been careful to never enquire precisely how that relationship worked.
So why, Balthazar wondered, was Pisti away from his cosy office on a freezing, filthy night like this? Unless Pisti had asked for a transfer to the street, which was unlikely, the answer, Balthazar realised as Pisti approached, was not likely to be good news. Pisti wheezed as he stood still for a moment, his winter jacket straining at the zip.
Balthazar said, ‘You saw what happened. Two guys shot at me. Attila Ungar took them away. In plain sight. Where were you? Why didn’t you do something?’
Pisti shrugged. ‘We got here too late. Sorry.’
‘No you didn’t. You were parked at the end of the road, watching the show. Who’s running law enforcement here? Us or Attila?’
Pisti took Balthazar’s arm in his right hand as he spoke. ‘Nyugi, Tazi, nyugi. Take it easy and listen to me for a moment.’
Balthazar stopped talking, feeling Pisti’s hand on his bicep, staring at him with his red-rimmed eyes. Something bad was coming, Balthazar could sense it.
Pisti said, ‘The bosses want you in at midday tomorrow. Someone will call you soon with a formal request.’
‘Why?’
Pisti looked up at the top floor of the building, his hand still resting on Balthazar’s arm, then back at Balthazar. ‘There’s a dead man in there, Tazi. They’ve got footage of you on Klauzal Square, walking towards Geza Kovacs. You were one of the last people to have any interaction with him. You called in earlier saying you were in the area and that you might be calling us in later. Now he turns up dead. How does that look?’
‘Like I anticipated a crime might be committed and warned the local police station so it could deal with it?’ Balthazar paused for a moment. He had not called the killing in – his phone was broken. ‘How do you know that he’s dead, anyway?’
Pisti blustered. ‘It doesn’t matter. We just know. Look, I believe you, Tazi. But there are other ways to look at this.’
‘Do they think I killed them? Because I didn’t.’
Pisti said, ‘I have no idea what they think. But these are strange times, Tazi. I’ve got your back, as much as I can, that’s why I am here, instead of sitting in my nice warm office. But not everyone is your friend. Bring a lawyer with you when you come in tomorrow.’
Balthazar started with surprise. ‘A lawyer? What for? Do they want to charge me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Am I in danger?’
‘Two Serbian gunmen have already opened fire on you. What do you think? That was a warning.’
Pisti squeezed Balthazar’s arm harder, spoke sotto voce. ‘Drop this Israeli business and there will be no problem tomorrow. This missing historian will turn up sooner or later. The brass wanted you brought in at dawn with a raid and everything. I pulled in a favour to get you midday under your own steam. You can decide overnight. If you don’t come in…’ he said, his voice trailing away.
‘If I don’t, then what?’
