‘Which are?’ asked Goran.
Anastasia said, ‘Firstly, we don’t know for sure that Balthazar is there. We don’t have any footage of Balthazar that clearly shows his face, only the police car on the track and going into the house. Even if he is there now they might take him somewhere else. It would cause a massive scandal if we launched an armed raid on the home of the country’s most powerful businessmen and got it wrong. We’ve only got one shot, and I’m not sure we can even use that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Goran.
‘Because it’s pretty clear that Karoly Bardossy has people on the inside of the police and we don’t know who they are. That was a genuine police car they used to take Balthazar on Wesselenyi Street. The plates might be fake, but it was a real vehicle. Whoever the fake cops were, they also had real uniforms. As soon the SWAT team starts planning, or they get the helicopter ready, someone could tell Karoly Bardossy and he can move Balthazar. It’s very remote up there. There are a lot of woodlands and there is no CCTV coverage.’
Goran had been watching the footage and listening to the conversation as he continued scribbling on the napkin. Now he leaned forward, moved the plate of snacks aside, and put the piece of paper in the centre of the table.
‘Here is plan,’ he said, showing a complicated illustration of arrows, targets and pathways. ‘I can call some guys. Very reliable. Two teams. Team A, two snipers in woods, shoot at security guys in cabin. Either they hide in cabin or they run out. If they hide, no problem. If they run out, Team A takes them down. Don’t worry, no need to kill them. Small-calibre bullet. Only leg or shoulder. Guys in house will rush out to see what is happening, come down to cabin. Team A deals with them as well. Meanwhile Team B goes into house, finds Balthazar, takes him out.’
He quickly slapped his hands against each other several times, rotating his palms from side to side. ‘Small teams. Quick in and out. Easy.’
Anastasia half smiled. ‘Nice idea, but that’s not going to work, Goran. We can’t turn Obuda into a warzone. No guys you know. No snipers.’
Goran looked disappointed. ‘But they are good guys. I trust them. I can promise. I know one sniper who could do this. Very good shot.’
‘I know him too, and yes, he is very good indeed.’ She gave him a look, shook her head. ‘But not this time.’
Goran shrugged, picked the napkin off the table and crumpled it into a ball. He grabbed a ropi stick and ate it in one go. ‘Your choice. Then how do we rescue Balthazar?’
Anastasia said, ‘Firstly we gather as much information as possible. Then we analyse it. Then we decide on our course of action.’
Gaspar looked at Fat Vik, shook his head, exhaled. ‘You gadjes. Gather. Analyse. Decide. So slow. Be a bit Gypsy. We get results much faster.’
Anastasia said, ‘You have a better idea?’
‘I do,’ said Gaspar. ‘Much better.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Mariahegyi Way, Obuda, 10.45 p.m.
‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Detective,’ said Karoly Bardossy, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘This is the easy way.’
Balthazar asked, ‘And the hard way?’
‘There is a cellar downstairs. You really don’t want to go there.’
Balthazar took in the scene around him, rapidly trying to work out his options. The two men were sitting on black leather armchairs in the lounge of the villa, a coffee table between them. A jug of water and glasses stood in the centre of the table, next to a crystal decanter of single-malt whisky.
Karoly had a large white A4 envelope in front of him. He wore a black Ralph Lauren polo shirt, cream linen trousers and soft brown-leather deck shoes. His face glowed with the semi-permatan of the very rich, his skin pink with health, his blue eyes clear. He looked relaxed, confident, a man in control of and at ease in his surroundings.
Balthazar could sense him assessing what he saw: a dishevelled Gypsy in scruffy jeans, scuffed boots, a sweatshirt and a leather jacket. Blood was seeping from a cut on his forehead. Just a few minutes ago Balthazar had still been semi-conscious and the knockout spray was still fogging his brain. Balthazar understood the power dynamics of an exchange between two people: the placing of the furniture, the body language, the expressions of dominance. Such exchanges usually took place in police interview rooms where Balthazar was in control. Karoly Bardossy’s apparent insouciance was all designed to show he was in control. That had to be disrupted.
‘Do you know how long you will get for abducting a police officer?’ said Balthazar. ‘Ten years, at least. You can be sure of that. And then there is all the other stuff. Bribery, using police vehicles, uniforms.’
Karoly shrugged, took a sip of his whisky. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. I didn’t abduct you. You were brought here semi-conscious by some unknown people. I gave you first aid, cleaned you up. A doctor will come and check you over and then you will be free to leave.’
‘If you didn’t abduct me, then why was I brought here? Let me go now.’
Karoly smiled, revealing a mouth full of expensive dentistry and unnaturally white teeth. ‘Let’s not waste any more of each other’s time, Detective. You will soon be free to leave. Once you have given me the information I require.’
Balthazar sat back for a moment and evaluated his captor once more. He was slim and fit-looking, but it was the trimness of a wealthy man who spent much time swimming or golfing. He could probably be overpowered quite easily.
But then what? The other man in the room, standing against the wall at the back of the salon, was a very different prospect. He was at least six feet tall, with close-cropped steel-grey hair. He was well muscled, looked very alert and had a military bearing. Balthazar had seen him before, he realised. This was the bodyguard who had stood by Karoly with the large umbrella at the Librarian’s funeral. And he was armed with a pistol in a side holster on his belt.
‘Which is what information, exactly?’ asked Balthazar.
‘We are about to get to that.’ Karoly paused. ‘You’re probably thinking that you could overpower me easily, then somehow escape. But you’ve also seen Porter behind you. He’s a crack shot with that pistol. Ex-British army. You won’t get very far. So that’s why I think we can safely keep this civilised.’
‘Like you kept it civilised with Geza Kovacs?’
Karoly kept his face impassive. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Who is Geza Kovacs?’
‘Someone who was working for you, coordinating the gun attack on Klauzal Square, but who messed up, allowed himself to be filmed on CCTV and to be recognised by me. Someone you had killed. That’s murder, at least twenty years inside.’
Karoly shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Detective, I really don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve never heard of this Geza Kovacs.’ He turned to his bodyguard. ‘Have you, Porter?’
‘No, boss. Name means nothing.’
Balthazar said nothing. For a powerful businessman Karoly Bardossy was a bad liar, or maybe the pressure was getting to him. His voice tightened, his posture was stiff and defensive and he glanced leftwards before he answered. Porter was much better, but then if he had killed Geza Kovacs he had much more to lose.
Balthazar looked around the room. The lounge was larger than his whole apartment, with massive glass doors that opened onto the terrace. In one corner was the largest flat-screen television he had ever seen, in another a drinks bar of chrome and black leather. There were several paintings on the wall – one of which looked like a Picasso, another two by French impressionists, he guessed. The floor was a parquet of black polished hardwood, much of it covered with expensive-looking Persian rugs. But amid all the luxury something was missing, he realised. Balthazar had read about Karoly Bardossy after his meeting at the state security offices with Vivi and Anastasia. He was a widower, with one son. But there were no family pictures at all: none of Karoly’s wife nor of his son.
In front of Balthazar on the table was a jug of water and some glasses. He looked at the water. His throat felt like it had been vacuumed and dry-cleaned and his head like there was an iron bar moving around inside.
Each time he moved in the chair, a dagger of pain shot up the right side of his back, although he was careful not to wince or let it show. He must have torn a muscle in the crash. No bones were broken and he had somehow managed to escape a concussion. But he had been thrown around in a high-impact collision, then drugged with something very powerful.
