‘You will be arrested on suspicion of murder.’ Pisti let go of Balthazar’s arm, moved closer and to the side, his breath warm on Balthazar’s ear as he spoke even more softly. ‘This is me now, not the police, with some friendly advice. Don’t come into the station tomorrow. Don’t go to police headquarters, either.’
He stepped back, resumed his official voice. ‘Are we clear now, Detective Kovacs?’
Balthazar nodded. ‘Completely.’
THIRTY
Hollan Erno Street, 7.40 p.m.
Zsuzsa stared at the ancient Nokia handset lying in the centre of her coffee table.
It shook as it rang, skittering as though it were alive, but eventually the noise ended, without her picking it up. The handset had just arrived by motorcycle courier. The courier had come to her front door, asked Zsuzsa her name and when she said it, had thrust a small padded envelope into her hand, said, ‘This is for you’, wished her a pleasant evening and left.
The telephone had started ringing a few minutes after she unpacked it. She had been so taken aback by the delivery she had not thought to ask the courier to wait while she opened the envelope, and ask him any of the questions that were now buzzing around her mind.
Who had sent her this museum piece and why, and what was this about? Perhaps this was an elaborate threat. She might even be in danger, she thought, various half-formed scenarios flitting around her mind. She had been lurking at the scene of a shooting, had been observed by the police, asked questions of a suspicious neighbour. Who knew what was really going on in this country?
Zsuzsa picked up the handset and checked the call list. There was one listed, from an unknown number. She looked at the contacts list: it was empty.
She put the Nokia back down on the table, feeling unsettled, and stared at the framed 1970s Hungarian Railways travel poster on the facing wall. It showed a tranquil, blue Lake Balaton under a yellow summer sun. Holidays, warm weather, perhaps some male company, all that seemed like another world at the moment.
The most immediate question was how she was going to pay her rent. Roland Horvath had called her an hour or so ago, and this time she picked up. He told her not to come back in and that she would be soon in receipt of a letter from the publishers’ lawyers, with several detailed questions about her action and movements over the previous few days. She would receive the bare legal minimum of redundancy, which meant, in effect, nothing. All the former employees of 555.hu who had survived the purge had been re-employed by a new company, only formed a few weeks ago, so her previous record of service counted for nothing.
Still, she had made it to the capital, found a place to live and she was a working journalist. She was young, smart and good at her job. She would get through this. Zsuzsa looked around her small studio flat, liking what she saw. The main room served as both bedroom and lounge. One part had been converted to a galley kitchen and another walled off as a bathroom with a stand-up shower. This was the first place she had rented in her own name, where she could live and decorate as she liked.
The flat was sparsely furnished, with a sofa and bed from Ikea and an art deco-style coffee table she had found on the street in last year’s lomtalanitas, or throwing-out day. The armchair she had bought at a nearby antique shop. The best part was the wide balcony that looked over the pedestrianised street.
She heard the sound of a mobile ringtone and looked down suddenly at the Nokia. The ringing was in a nearby flat, she realised.
She felt jittery, looked back down at the Nokia, unsure if she wanted it to ring again or not. Meanwhile, rent. She had enough in the bank to keep going for a couple of months, but that was all. Decent jobs in Hungary’s shrinking media landscape were scarce, properly paid ones even rarer. She could, she supposed, take her Nationwide story to newsline.hu. But newsline.hu was running crowdfunding appeals to pay for its staff and premises, so that was no financial solution.
Lately she had been thinking about writing for one of the big western newspapers, like The Times or The Guardian. The Times’ correspondent had recently moved to Berlin, so they needed someone in Budapest. But the first thing the editors would ask is what stories she had to offer. What she had on Nationwide would be huge news in Hungary, but was a bit local for the international press. Although the Bardossy family connection did give the story a decent lift. Or maybe she needed a different, bigger story. A decent interview with Reka would be very sellable, she knew. And Eniko had promised her one, once all this was over – whatever this was.
She glanced at her watch. She had no other plans for the evening other than watching the evening news and looking through the notes she had downloaded about her Nationwide story from her former editor’s computer. Maybe there was something buried there, something she had not noticed yet that could boost the story.
Or maybe this strange phone could get a her a coveted stringer’s position with one of the big foreign papers. For a moment she smiled to herself. A minute ago the Nokia was a potential threat. Now it might be the catalyst of a new career. Whatever the mobile represented, whoever had sent it needed to call again so she could find out.
A minute later the ringtone sounded.
Zsuzsa took the call.
A female voice said, ‘I wish you a good evening, I am Reka Bardossy, the prime minister. I hope I am not bothering you. There is something I would like to talk to you about.’
Zsuzsa took the telephone away from her ear, held it in front of her and stared at the handset. What was this? The prime minister? Was this a prank? Or Roland’s revenge? Or some kind of threat?
Zsuzsa said, ‘Is this a joke? Who is this?’
‘No, it is not a joke. Not at all. This is a matter of the utmost seriousness. This is the prime minister of Hungary. My name is Reka Bardossy.’
Maybe this really was the prime minister. It certainly sounded like her. Zsuzsa said, ‘I know the name of the prime minister. But how do I know that you are really her?’
‘Because I just sent you the dark-blue Nokia which we are now speaking on.’ Zsuzsa took the phone from her ear and glanced at it. It was a Nokia and it was definitely dark blue.
Reka continued speaking. ‘But still, I understand you want more proof. Let me hand you to Eniko.’
A familiar voice greeted Zsuzsa.
Zsuzsa asked, ‘Eni, is that you? What’s all this about?’
‘Yes it’s me. Really.’ Eniko paused for a moment. ‘Zsuzsi, we have a story for you. You’ve already done half the work. We can give you the rest. It’s massive. The missing part which goes right back to the war and the Holocaust. And you will be able to sell it to the western newspapers you wanted to write for. I can guarantee that.’
Eniko would not lie to her, Zsuzsa knew. Zsuzsa felt that quickening, a subtle excitement, an alertness of the senses, that every reporter lives for. ‘I’m listening. Tell me more.’
‘Not now. I’ll hand you back to Reka.’
Reka said, ‘I can’t speak on the phone. Eniko has already said too much.’
‘OK. I believe it’s you. But what do you want from me?’
‘Your time, your energy and your expertise. And your trust.’
Zsuzsa’s heartbeat speeded up. This was real. And maybe it would be the start of a new opportunity for her. Her dad had always told her in times of disappointment that when one door closes, another one opens. Perhaps this was it. ‘So what happens next?’
Reka said, ‘This. You pack a bag with several days’ worth of clothes and toiletries. Bring your laptop. Take the battery out of your phone. Bring the Nokia. My security chief will come and pick you up. You will be staying with me. It’s not secure for you to work on this in your flat. But you will be safe here.’
Zsuzsa frowned for a moment. The prime minister wanted her to move in for a few days, because she was going to give her a story that would put her in danger. ‘Can I think about it? This is quite a lot to process.’
‘Sure. You have five minutes,’ said Reka. ‘That’s four and a half more than you need. In or out. You decide. I will call you back.’
