‘How?’ asked Gaspar. ‘How will we find him?’ He poured himself a shot of Goran’s slivovitz and knocked it back in one, then lit a cigarette from a gold lighter with a diamond embedded on the side. He took a deep drag then started coughing.
Fat Vik passed Gaspar a glass of water. He drank most of it in one go, took another drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray in front of him, which was already half full.
Goran rested his arm on Gaspar’s. ‘I don’t know yet, but we will.’ He paused and looked at Gaspar and Fat Vik. ‘Do you want to eat?’
‘Eat? How can I eat when my brother has just been kidnapped by gunmen?’ he answered, his voice rising.
Goran said, ‘Because we need to be calm, and to think. We won’t find him any faster if we sit here shouting at each other.’
Fat Vik nodded. ‘He’s right, boss. We are all worried sick and angry but we need to be smart here.’
Fat Vik was the only person outside the Kovacs family who could disagree with Gaspar in public. That was because he counted as family. He had grown up with Balthazar, Gaspar and their siblings, in a tiny one-room flat next door to them. His mother was a prostitute and a drug addict. She did not know who her son’s father was and Fat Vik had never tried to find out. At the age of six he had discovered his mother passed out from an overdose and run next door to the Kovacs family to call for help.
Fat Vik’s childhood had been spent in and out of children’s homes while his mother occasionally managed to go clean and find work as a supermarket cashier. One day he came home and found her pimp had beaten her unconscious. Vik found him laughing and drinking in a nearby bar. Soon afterwards the pimp was dead; Vik was arrested for manslaughter and sent to prison for five years. He had worked for Gaspar ever since.
Gaspar nodded. ‘OK. You’re right. It’s hard to think properly on an empty stomach.’ He looked around the room for a moment, a different kind of anxiety flitting across his face. He had never eaten at Goran’s place and only patronised a couple of restaurants where the owners always prepared the same dish for him: a large, rare steak topped with goose liver. ‘Give the menu to Vik. He’ll choose for me. He knows restaurants better than me.’
Goran instantly understood. ‘There’s no menu, Gaspar. Cevapcici or pljeskavica. Chips, ajvar, salad.’
Gaspar looked relieved. ‘OK, cevapcici, ten.’
Goran looked at Fat Vik, who asked for the same and then at Marika. She looked down at the table, momentarily embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.’
‘Like mini-sausages, you’ll love them,’ said Goran, kindly. ‘If you don’t, we’ll make you something else and these two will eat them.’
At that moment an elderly man walked out and into the main dining area. Dr Gyorgy Lorand was stooped with thick grey hair and old-fashioned square glasses. His white coat was smeared with blood. ‘Your friend is very lucky. He has severe bruising to his cheekbone but somehow it’s not fractured. He tells me he turned away at the moment of impact. Impressive timing. I’ve stitched up the cut, so it should stop bleeding. But he does have a mild concussion. If you have his best interests at heart, he should be in hospital under observation,’ he said pointedly, looking at Goran.
‘What does Memed say?’ asked Goran.
‘No hospital.’
‘Can you look after him, Doctor?’
He nodded. ‘I suppose so. I’ve patched up much worse. Someone needs to check on him every hour. If he worsens, becomes unconscious, vomits or stops making sense, that could mean a brain injury, so no more arguments. Hospital. Agreed? I will be back tomorrow. But you must call an ambulance if he deteriorates. I have your word on that?’
‘Agreed,’ said Goran. He reached inside his trousers for his wallet.
The doctor shook his head wearily. ‘Not now. We’ll settle up later.’ He gave Goran a pointed look. ‘Check on him every hour. Call me if you need me.’
The three of them watched the doctor leave. Marika looked at Fat Vik questioningly, then at Gaspar. ‘Do I have to go back out tonight?’
Gaspar shook his head, his jowls wobbling. ‘No, no, not tonight. Take a couple of days off.’
He reached inside his tracksuit trouser pocket and pulled out a Louis Vuitton wallet with a thick wad of 10,000 and 20,000-forint notes inside. He peeled off several, and handed them to Marika. ‘Here’s 100,000. Go home once you have eaten and buy yourself something nice. Send some to your parents. I’ll call you in a day or two.’
Marika looked at the money, her eyes wide with amazement.
Gaspar turned to Goran, his voice apologetic. ‘Sorry, brat. I lost it a bit earlier. But how are we going to find him? And then we have to rescue him.’
Goran said, ‘Don’t worry. I have a plan.’
The door opened. The three men and Marika turned to see who was coming in.
Goran said, ‘And here they are.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Grand Boulevard, 8.50 p.m.
‘It’s jammed solid from here, boss,’ said the Mercedes driver, glancing at the Waze map on his mobile. The screen showed a thick red line from the Grand Boulevard to Nyugati Station and beyond. ‘I’m going to make a sharp left at Wesselenyi, cut across the tramlines, cut through the seventh district, then zip along the embankment to the Arpad Bridge, then cross the river there.’
The tall gunman grunted a yes. ‘Just get us there as quickly as you can.’
Balthazar silently absorbed this information. Wherever they were headed, they were already making slow progress, inching along the Grand Boulevard in heavy traffic. The car turned onto Wesselenyi Street and moved slowly into District VII.
Doubtless their ultimate destination was a fancy villa in the Buda hills, where most of the city’s rich elite – legitimate or otherwise – lived. But this was potentially good news if they were going through his neighbourhood. Now that Memed was out of the picture Balthazar had no intentions of going anywhere for a ‘guided discussion’.
He knew every inch of his own part of town: the narrow alleyways that cut between the streets, the hidden courtyards and desolate open spaces waiting to be redeveloped. It would be much easier to lose them there, amid the crowded bars and ruin pubs than in the sparsely populated far suburbs.
Wesselenyi Street was one of the district’s main arteries, but this part was a narrow, one-way thoroughfare that ended at the Great Synagogue where it met Dohany Street. Cars were parked nose to tail on the left-hand side and at ninety degrees to the pavement on the right.
He needed some space for his plan to work – and a decent speed. The Mercedes drove past the artisan bakeries, hipster bars, bicycle repair shops and cafés, slowing to cross Klauzal Street. Balthazar shut his eyes for a moment, tried to ignore the pain in his side and his front. His flat was just a minute or two’s drive away, but was far out of reach.
The gunmen had strapped him in with a seatbelt – which suited him perfectly. Neither of them had used theirs.
After Klauzal Street the road widened and the Mercedes speeded up as it headed towards Dohany Street. He glanced at the speedometer – the road was clear and the car was touching forty kilometres an hour – then glanced again at the headrest. It was an old-fashioned restraint, with the pad mounted on two thin metal poles.
He looked outside. The pavements were deserted.
