Reka had once been to the Knesset, the Israeli parliament building in Jerusalem. It looked like a fancier version of a local government headquarters in a medium-sized Hungarian city, she had thought at the time, a very workaday building. Most visitors to the Hungarian parliament were impressed, if not awed, by its grandeur: the spectacular entrance hall, the long, gilded corridors, the vaulted ceilings, wood-panelled rooms, the priceless works of art, the sense of history.

Just a few minutes earlier Reka had watched as Ilona had walked into Reka’s office. She had stopped at the door, slowly looked around as though she was planning to redecorate the room, nodded approvingly before she sat down. Where did it come from, this supreme self-confidence? She wondered if Ilona ever doubted herself, had a bad hair day? Not in public, she guessed. Another part of her was slightly envious at the way Ilona carried her sky-blue trouser suit and the wave of long black curls that fell down her back.

Reka glanced up and down the table. There were four of them in the room: Reka and Akos Feher, her chief of staff, Ilona and Anastasia Ferenczy, from the Hungarian state security service. She glanced through the windows as Ilona continued talking. On a sunny day the windows gave panoramic views over the Danube and the Royal Castle on the Buda side. Today the river was wreathed in a thick mist, as grey as the sky overhead. She could barely make out the arch of the Chain Bridge, a few minutes’ walk away, let alone see across into Buda. The weather had been like this for days, and each time she thought the sun might break through, it retreated again.

Ilona glanced at Reka as if reading her thoughts. She finished her briefing, brushed her hair back needlessly and fixed Reka with her luminous brown eyes. ‘Any questions, Prime Minister?’

Reka knew she was attractive. A blue-eyed blond in her mid-thirties with a model’s poise, she turned heads wherever she went. She was an experienced politician who had survived numerous crises, both personal and political. But she was still slightly in awe of Ilona’s supreme self-confidence. Yes, Reka wanted to say, How and when did you take over my office? Instead she smiled and shook her head. ‘No, none at all. Everything is under control.’

Reka put the briefing note down and slowly stretched out her fingers along the table, as though confirming possession. The dark hardwood felt cool and solid under her hand, a welcome stability in febrile times. This was her workspace, her inner sanctum, a large corner office in the heart of the neo-Gothic extravaganza that was the Hungarian parliament. She glanced around the table. Ilona had put on quite a show, and as a woman in public life Reka could admire her confidence, but now she needed to take back control. She glanced at Ilona, who was now leaning back in her chair and looking indulgently at Reka, as if giving her permission to speak.

Reka forced herself to stop smiling in return. Instead she tried to sound as prime ministerial as possible as she thanked Ilona for her comprehensive briefing and her team’s cooperation with the Hungarian authorities. Last autumn Reka had been the toast of the country, after she had worked with Balthazar Kovacs to prevent a terrorist plot by her predecessor and former lover, Pal Dezeffy, to release a cloud of poison gas across Kossuth Square, in front of the parliament. Dezeffy was dead now, drowned after he fell in the Danube. So too were Reka’s plans for a massive funding programme from the Gulf to modernise Hungary’s rickety infrastructure and creaking health system after the Qatari investors pulled out. Which was one reason why she desperately needed this visit to be a success.

Reka glanced at the bright, modern watercolour on the facing wall. It was a painting of the Chain Bridge arching over the Danube at dusk. She had recently cleared out all the heavy, old-fashioned furniture and gilt-framed paintings of bearded luminaries of Hungarian history – there were no women – and refurnished the room with modern artworks by young Hungarian painters and photographers and new furniture produced by local designers. Small sculptures now stood on the mantel of the room’s marble fireplaces. The thick, brown, upholstered padding on the back of the door, protection against eavesdropping, however, was still in place.

Hungarians had once won more than a dozen Nobel prizes, and it was time to reclaim that inventiveness, she had told the country in a television broadcast the previous week. This was a new era in Hungarian history, when the country would no longer battle modernity, but instead welcome it. Like other small nations with clever, talented populations. Like Israel, for example.

She remembered the reports she had recently read from the Hungarian ambassador in Tel Aviv. Many Israeli politicians – as well as the prime minister – had Hungarian ancestry. Like their Hungarian counterparts they spent most of their time fighting each other and handing out non-jobs to friends and allies. But somehow the country still managed to flourish. Unlike hers at the moment. But that was about to change.

‘Does anyone else have anything to raise with our Israeli colleague?’ Reka asked.

Anastasia Ferenczy nodded. ‘Just to backtrack for a moment. As some of you know, I was stationed undercover last autumn at Keleti Station during the migrant crisis. Mahmoud Hejazi, the international terrorist known as the Gardener, travelled through the station on false papers. He was arrested by Balthazar Kovacs.’

‘I’ve seen that, Anastasia. The clip is on the internet. Impressive work by Officer Kovacs,’ said Ilona. Balthazar had arrested Hejazi among a crowd of refugees as they trekked from Keleti Station through Budapest, before heading to the Austrian border. Hejazi had fought back viciously, even taken a woman hostage with a knife before Balthazar took him down to the ground. A moment after he had handcuffed Hejazi, the Syrian terrorist had been killed, shot from underneath Balthazar by a single sniper round, fired from a long distance.

Ilona asked, ‘By the way, did you find the sniper yet? Or the weapon? We all know that a lone gunman offers the greatest threat. Downtown Budapest and the area around the synagogue are very densely built up. There are plenty of apartment windows overlooking the cemetery and the synagogue.’

Anastasia replied, ‘We have everything covered, Miss Mizrachi. On the ground and in the air. The security plan has been agreed with your colleagues. We will be deploying snipers on key roofs in the downtown area as well as helicopters. As you know, we are experienced in hosting high-profile foreign leaders. The visits of the Russian and Chinese presidents passed without incident.’ She glanced down at the schedule. ‘The meet-and-greet at the cemetery. The elderly people Prime Minister Farkas will be meeting, you have also pre-vetted and checked them to your satisfaction?’

Ilona smiled. ‘Yes, of course. We do not see any danger from Holocaust survivors.’ She turned back to Anastasia. ‘You were about to tell us about the sniper who shot Hejazi.’

Actually, that was the last thing on my mind, Anastasia wanted to reply, but did not. She shifted in her seat for a moment. She normally dressed in jeans and T-shirts, but today she was wearing a white blouse and black wool business skirt, so new it was still stiff and scratchy. The outfit would go straight back on a hanger once she returned to her office at the state security service headquarters, a short walk away on Falk Miksa Street.

Anastasia saw that Ilona was watching her carefully now as she waited for her answer. Did she know something? Quite possibly. Israeli intelligence had long arms and a vast, efficient network of contacts and assets. It almost certainly extended to her headquarters on nearby Falk Miksa Street. The truth was that the gunman had never gone missing, although Anastasia wasn’t going to share that information at this table. Anastasia – and those who needed to know – were well aware of his location: a Balkan restaurant on the corner of Rakoczi Square in District VIII, a restaurant that had been extensively renovated and refurnished after the owner had recently received a substantial sum of cash – part for an assignment cleanly executed, and part in exchange for surrendering his Dragunov rifle.

‘We are still looking for the gunman. But we do have the weapon,’ Anastasia said, careful to hold Ilona’s gaze as she answered. ‘And we have rolled up Hejazi’s network and contacts here. They are all either deported or in custody.’

Ilona nodded. ‘Good.’

Descended from a long line of Transylvanian aristocrats, Anastasia was in her mid-thirties but looked younger, with dark-blond hair, a smooth unlined face and strong features. She had large, clear green eyes, a straight nose and a full mouth – not classically pretty but certainly striking. ‘But we are in Budapest. We know central and eastern Europe. Our Arab community here has been here for decades, since before the change of system. They do not want any trouble, and they certainly do not want any disruption to their lives and businesses. In fact they were very helpful in taking down Hejazi’s contacts. Your strength is in the Middle East. My question is, have your people picked up any chatter about Prime Minister Farkas and his visit here since we last met a couple of days ago?’

Ilona said, ‘No, nothing. We are monitoring all the usual channels. We will let you know if we hear anything.’

Reka looked around the table. ‘Then I think we are done for now. Thank you, Ilona.’

Ilona stood up and Reka and her chief of staff walked her to the door, where they shook hands again. Once Ilona had left, Reka turned and gestured to Anastasia and Akos to move across to the corner alcove where four armchairs were gathered around a coffee table.

Reka sat back, stretched her legs out, ran her hand through her hair and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Four days to go. Then we’re done.’ She glanced at Akos. ‘Tell me, is it too early for palinka?’

Palinka, or fruit schnapps, preferably home-distilled, was the Hungarians’ great cure-all. Akos considered the question before he answered. ‘If we were in the countryside, campaigning for votes, then not. In fact it would be rude to refuse if offered.’ He sat back for a moment, shook his head. ‘But here, now, probably it is. In any case we need to talk about the election campaign this morning, Prime Minister,’ said Akos Feher. ‘The numbers are not looking great.’

Reka was the first woman prime minister of Hungary. Like its neighbours, Hungary had been frozen in time for the forty-odd years in which it had languished under communism until the change of system in 1990. The great social revolutions that had reshaped Europe: the rise of feminism, gay rights, the student upheavals of 1968, had passed the Soviet bloc by. Central and eastern Europe were still deeply conservative societies. Even now, there were few women in public life, apart from sports stars and television presenters and only a handful of women MPs. The upside was a strong family orientation with an everyday respect for elders and a formal politeness and courtesy. The downside was that women politicians were mocked, even in parliament, with sexist jibes that were unthinkable in the west. The internet was awash with memes caricaturing Reka. One showed her in a kitchen, surrounded by smoking pans and a cooker on fire. Others were far cruder.

Reka said, ‘There is still everything to play for. We have almost a month. Farkas’s visit will help, assuming it all goes well.’ Hungary was a small country with a strong sense of national identity and pride. It was important to be taken seriously on the international stage, for Budapest to host high-profile international visitors – all of which could translate into votes for the current prime minister.

Akos nodded. ‘Of course, Prime Minister. And it will.’

Akos had just turned twenty-nine but looked younger. He was skinny, with spiky light-blond hair and a taste for tight navy suits. He had been working for Reka for about six months and his appointment had triggered furious envy among the older generation of apparatchiks who would normally expect to gain his position. His past with Reka had been short but intense. They were both the repository of each other’s darkest secrets. But over the months their initial threats and attempts at blackmail had faded, evolving instead into a mutual trust and respect. Any destruction, they both understood, would be mutually assured.

Reka continued talking. ‘Anyway, that’s party politics, Akos, not government business.’ The distinction, she knew, was a novel one in Hungary, and one she had blurred herself often enough when it suited her. But this time it was clear, and she did not want Anastasia to leave yet. ‘And we don’t want to make Anastasia feel uncomfortable. Let’s have breakfast instead. And let Eniko in.’

Eniko Szalay was Reka’s spokeswoman and press secretary. Farkas’s visit was already garnering plenty of attention from the international press. Major international television networks were sending crews, the Budapest-based foreign press corps was demanding access, and there would also be a contingent of Israeli journalists travelling with him on the plane.

Just as Reka was about to call for Eniko, the double door to the room opened and she walked in. It was instantly clear that something was wrong. Eniko nodded briskly at everyone, but her face was rigid with tension and her mouth closed tight. At that exact moment Anastasia’s phone rang. She stood up, excused herself, walked across to the corner of the office and took the call.

Eniko watched her go, then glanced at the others, sitting in their chairs, looking at her expectantly. ‘We have bad news,’ said Eniko.

‘Which is?’ asked Reka.

Anastasia walked back to the group, her telephone in her hand. ‘An Israeli has gone missing.’

THREE

Dob Street, 8 a.m.

Balthazar walked briskly up to the front door of Eva neni’s second flat, as she followed behind him. The apartment was situated at the far end of the corridor. Its location meant that unfortunately the door was in easy view of the other flats.

A voice in his head told him that this course of action was a mistake. Neither he nor Eva neni knew what had happened to Elad, or what might have taken place in his flat. Balthazar was entering a potential crime scene, with no protection except a pair of latex gloves from the supply he kept at home. A neighbour might witness him entering the flat and if the police really descended on the building that would come out, potentially dropping him in a lot of trouble. Eva neni owned the flat so there would already be traces of her DNA. But he had never been inside the place before. He could easily contaminate it with DNA, or accidentally leave fingerprints, which could even make him a suspect.

If he really thought Elad had gone missing, he should call in the local cops from the District VII station. Each of Budapest’s twenty-three districts had its own force. There were special city-wide squads at the Budapest police headquarters for serious crimes like murder, armed robbery and fraud. Balthazar was a detective in the Budapest police murder squad. There was no evidence of a murder, and, he hoped, there would not be. The District VII cops would send a team over and then open a missing-person case. That would involve calling in a forensics team and an investigator. They would seal the flat and launch a manhunt. That would be the correct procedure, the voice in his head said.

He ignored it.

There was movement at the other end of the corridor, a brief opening of a door, a glimpse of a head before the door closed. He sighed inside. Feri bacsi, Uncle Feri.

When Balthazar had first moved into the building many of the neighbours had been, at best, wary. Gypsies were often not very popular in Hungary and neither were cops. His being both had initially garnered a very cool response. Eva neni had been the only one to welcome him. But over the years, as Balthazar became a fixture in the place, and had used his connections to smooth out potential problems for a couple of neighbouring families with wayward teenage children – Klauzal Square was a popular place for teenagers to gather in the summer, drink beer and smoke dope – he had become accepted. Even more so, now that he was something of a celebrity. Accepted by everyone, except Feri bacsi.

Feri bacsi’s full name was Ferenc Balogh. A former full-time official in the Communist Party, he had lost his job in 1990 at the change of system and never found another. He did not bother to disguise his distaste for Balthazar and could frequently be heard muttering about how the building had been turned into a ‘Cigany-haz’, a Gypsy-house, which was an insult. Nor was he a great fan of Eva neni, but he knew enough not to make that plain. Unfortunately Feri bacsi lived at the other end of the corridor and his front door gave him a clear view along the passageway.

The plan was that Balthazar and Eva neni would both go inside the flat, but Balthazar would just stand with his back to the closed front door. He needed to see the place for himself, and get a sense of it, but she would move around inside, searching for any clues or hints as to what might have happened.

Eva neni took out her key but just as she was about to put it into the lock, she dropped it. The key was on a ring with numerous others, including several large ones for the cellar and courtyard. She was nervous, Balthazar saw. The keys hit the floor with a loud crash. Balthazar saw movement at the far end of the corridor, a door open quickly, then close. Feri bacsi, again. There was nothing to be done about it.

Balthazar nodded encouragingly at Eva neni and she picked up her key again and opened the door. She turned to Balthazar, about to mouth an apology, but he put an index finger over his mouth. She nodded, and silently went inside. Balthazar quickly followed her inside and closed the door behind him.

The first thing he noticed was how tidy the place was. It was a small one-room flat, with a combined bedroom and lounge, a galley kitchen and shower room leading off the main room. An old-fashioned sofa bed took up part of the main wall. Opposite, on the other side of the room, stood a plain wooden chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe, while a small table and chair stood in the far corner. The walls were pale yellow and the narrow parquet slats, the same size and pattern as those in his flat, were faded and worn. The windows, like those in his flat, were the originals, in ancient wooden frames that let the cold seep in.

Balthazar watched as Eva neni walked around, peering under the table, checking the bed and looking in the corners.