Kristof Solyom’s finger hovered over the screen of his mobile phone. The number 112 was on display, which would put him through to the police. He was still hesitating because once he made the call, he would certainly lose his job.
Kristof had sat in the security cabin on the path to the Bardossy villa for ten hours a day for three months. He was immensely bored most of the time. But the work paid three times the salary of his previous position as a nightclub bouncer and there were no drunks or druggies to deal with. Porter, his boss, had made it clear that all he needed to do was open the barrier across the road when necessary, keep his eyes open for any potential intruders and keep his mouth shut.
Usually, that wasn’t a problem. The regular deliveries were food from a gourmet grocery chain, small packages from a motorcyclist that Kristof knew was a runner for Budapest’s high-end coke dealer and girls from an upmarket brothel on the other side of Buda. He was fine with that; whoever the boss wanted to screw, whatever he put up his nose was his business.
But he wasn’t so fine with what he had seen tonight. The police car looked like a real police car, the men inside wearing police uniforms looked genuine, but what were they doing here?
Kristof had followed protocol when the cop car pulled up. He had stepped outside to see what was going on. There were three cops inside the car, one driving in the front and two in the back with someone between them.
The prisoner – and he must have been a prisoner – looked completely out of it, his head lolling forward and blood seeping from a cut on his head. He looked familiar, Kristof realised. He was pretty sure it was that Gypsy cop, the famous one who took down the terrorist last year and stopped that plot to gas everyone on Kossuth Square. What the fuck was he doing here? He looked really bad. And why wasn’t he in the car when it drove back out?
The more he thought about it, the more he realised there was something wrong here, very wrong, and whatever the boss was paying it was not enough to go down for this. Kristof was just about to press the call button when a new set of headlights appeared on the CCTV screen showing the feed from the path up to the cabin.
A few seconds later the lights were shining into the cabin, on full beam. Now what? He stood up and stepped outside, held his right hand over his face to shield his eyes from the light and squinted into the night.
There was a large blue Maserati coupe about ten metres away. Kristof recognised that car, he realised. He liked cars, was saving up for one, had a good memory for people and their vehicles. There were not a lot of Maseratis in Budapest. This one looked familiar, just like the Maserati that belonged to the fat brothel owner that came to the house sometimes.
But what the hell was he doing here? No girls were expected tonight. Something really wasn’t right.
Kristof waved his hand up and down, palm out, still squinting. The headlights dipped. A woman got out and started walking towards him. She was attractive enough, slim, long hair. Looked sophisticated, though, not the usual tarty type. What was this about? Maybe the boss was going upmarket, or wanted someone to talk to afterwards as well.
Kristof walked forward, wished her a good evening. She reciprocated, showed him an open wallet with some kind of ID inside.
He looked closer, closed his eyes for a moment. Fuck. State security. He really should have called the police.
‘Your ID, please,’ said Anastasia.
Kristof scrabbled for his wallet in his back pocket. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. He showed his ID card to her. She took his wallet, looked down at his ID card. ‘Do you have a weapon on you or in the cabin? Anything I should know about?’
Kristof shook his head. ‘No. Nothing.’
‘Anyone else here? Are you changing shifts, waiting for a replacement?’
‘No. Just me. I’m here till six in the morning.’
‘Good. You are going to help us, Mr Solyom, aren’t you? You saw the car that passed through here earlier. So no nonsense, no ridiculous stories. Then you might escape a prison sentence for aiding and abetting the abduction, torture and detention of a serving police officer.’
Kristof felt sick with fear. He really was in deep shit. He nodded as enthusiastically as he could. ‘Sure. Whatever you need.’
Fat Vik and Gaspar got out of the car and walked towards Kristof. His eyes opened wider. They looked familiar. He was right. It was the Gypsy pimp and his sidekick. What the fuck was going on here?
Gaspar walked up to Kristof, stood a few inches from him. He could smell cigarettes, stale sweat, alcohol. Gaspar prodded Kristof in the chest, his stubby finger smashing into his ribs. ‘Where is he?’
Kristof said, ‘Inside.’
Gaspar jabbed his chest again, his finger like iron. ‘Who else is in there?’
‘The boss, and Porter, his bodyguard. He’s British, ex-military. He’s armed.’
Anastasia took Gaspar’s hand. ‘Enough. He’s helping us.’ She looked at Kristof. ‘So there’s only you, and you control the main entrance to the house from here? There’re no more security people inside?’
‘That’s right. The boss doesn’t like company. There’s a short road from here to the wall around the house and one entrance, and this is the only road in.’
‘Good. Open the door, call Porter and tell him we are coming.’
‘What if the boss says no, doesn’t want to let you in?’
Gaspar smiled, his gold teeth glinting in the harsh light. He held an envelope in his right hand, and slapped it back and forth against his left palm. ‘Tell him we have some really nice souvenirs of his time in the VIP suite. The one with the purple carpet and the mirror on the ceiling. He’ll definitely want to see them.’
*
A couple of minutes later Gaspar, Fat Vik and Anastasia were standing in the entrance lobby of the house. It was a wide, open-plan area, surrounded by glass walls, with a marble staircase at the back. A modernist sculpture, a twisted construction of black metal, stood on a plinth by the wall. The space was without a speck of dust, smelled of furniture polish and had all the warmth of a designer show home.
Porter stood in front of them, his arms crossed against his chest, his pistol in his holster. ‘It’s almost midnight. I have no idea what you are talking about. There is nobody here. You are trespassing. What do you want? Mr Bardossy has not requested any company tonight.’
He looked at Anastasia, asked, ‘I know these two, but who the fuck are you, anyway?’
Anastasia flashed her ID for a moment before she spoke. ‘State security. Place your weapon on the floor and slide it over to me.’
Porter’s hand hovered over his Beretta. He looked at Anastasia for a moment as if deciding what to do.
In that second she reached for her Makarov and it was in her hand, pointing at him. ‘I told you, Mr Porter. Place your weapon on the floor and slide it over to me.’
This time he obeyed. Anastasia kept her eye on him and her Makarov trained on his chest as she knelt down and picked up Porter’s gun.
She handed it to Fat Vik. ‘Hold this but take the magazine out.’
Anastasia said, ‘We know all about you, Mr Porter. George Porter. Born 7 March 1976 in Manchester. Father unknown, mother a nurse. Enrolled in Salford University to study engineering, dropped out after two years after a fight in a nightclub which left a teenage boy in a wheelchair. Police failed to secure a conviction. Joined the army. Served in Northern Ireland in an undercover unit, in Sierra Leone, Bosnia and Kosovo. Reached the rank of captain, won several inter-service pistol shooting competitions. Expert marksman. Left the army, again under mysterious circumstances. Allegations of sexual assault, case never proven.’
