Balthazar still stood with his hand outstretched. ‘It will, you’re right. But I need to get a head start. And it’s connected to someone close to me. But if you feel you can’t get involved, I quite understand…’

Vivi hesitated for a moment, then reached forward and took the stick. ‘OK. I believe you. I’ll help.’ She looked down at the memory stick. ‘I’ll put it in the sandbox.’

Balthazar looked around, confused for a moment. There was no sand in the room as far as he could see. ‘The what?’

Vivi reached across for the IBM ThinkPad, placed it by her keyboard and powered it up. ‘This is the sandbox. It’s never been connected to the internet and never will be. It’s so obsolete it needs a card to connect to a Wi-Fi network. I filled the slot with epoxy glue just to make sure. I also glued up the cable connections so it can never be connected to a server.’ She patted the lid approvingly, suddenly more animated than he had ever seen her. ‘It’s as safe as a computer can be. The hard drive is partitioned and runs on Linux, which is the safest operating system. Nobody writes viruses for Linux. Even if there is a virus on your memory stick it will only infect one part of the hard drive. The rest is safe. They call it a sandbox because you can play around there, with dangerous toys.’

Balthazar nodded slowly, as though he understood, although he was mystified by much of what Vivi was saying. Linux? His knowledge of computers was minimal at best. He could use a keyboard and a browser, run a basic Google search. He kept missing WhatsApp messages from his son, Alex, even though Alex had shown him how to set the notifications. ‘Sure, sounds great.’

Balthazar watched the screen light up and Vivi pressed numerous buttons. A window appeared on the screen, with a flashing cursor at the top-left corner, and a line of code started spilling rightwards. It looked like nothing he had ever seen. Vivi inserted the USB drive. At that moment the door opened and Mishi walked in, carrying two cups of coffee, and handed one to each. ‘A Samu for you, Detective, and today’s special for you, Vivi.’

They both thanked Mishi and he left quickly. Balthazar sat back and drank his coffee while Vivi worked. He looked at Vivi as her long fingers, each tipped with glossy black nail varnish, moved across her keyboard. What did he know about her? Could he trust her? He didn’t really have a choice. He didn’t know anyone else in this world and he certainly could not take the memory stick to the police headquarters. Balthazar remembered Eniko telling him once that Vivi was a mystery, and never socialised with the reporters, even though they several times invited her for drinks after work. Nobody knew if she had a boyfriend or a girlfriend. She was very smart, that was clear. Perhaps she was just shy and even a bit lonely. He looked around the room. It wasn’t much of a life, sitting here on your own all day without a window, even if the money was good.

Vivi’s pale face was set in concentration as her fingers danced across the keyboard. Lines of code flowed back and forth, symbols appeared and disappeared. The coffee was perfect: thick, lukewarm and slightly bitter. He missed Samu and their conversations, he realised. The area around the square was changing more rapidly than ever, as though forty years of stasis and decrepitude under communism had suddenly erupted into an insatiable hunger for everything new and western and shiny. Mishi at least had made a great effort to keep the spirit of his grandfather’s shop and incorporate its heritage. Which was why Javitas was Balthazar’s go-to coffee bar – and also because it was underneath his flat.

The taste of the coffee was the taste of his childhood and teenage years. For a moment he was back at the kitchen table in the family flat on Jozsef Street, on the other side of the Grand Boulevard, in the heart of District VIII, explaining to his father, Laci, why he wanted to be a policeman, seeing the expression on his face, watching his incredulity turn to anger. Laci had expected him to leave school at sixteen. As the eldest son he would eventually succeed him in running the family business, running several topless bars and brothels. Laci, like many of his generation, had left school at fourteen. What was good enough for him was good enough for his sons, he exclaimed repeatedly.

But Marta, Balthazar’s mother, had been determined that at least one of her sons would go out into the world and make his fortune legitimately. A short stint without cooked meals or other marriage benefits had quickly persuaded Laci to let his wife have her way. Balthazar was the first – and still the only – person in his family to go to university. Laci had even agreed that Balthazar could take a postgraduate degree at CEU. And when Balthazar had married Sarah Weiss, a Jewish student from New York, he and the whole family had attended the wedding, even though she was a gadje, a non-Gypsy.

But a policeman? In the family? His first-born son?

No. Never.

Balthazar’s childhood home was just a fifteen-minute walk away, on the other side of the Grand Boulevard.

But it was out of reach. Laci had ostracised him, and forbidden any member of the family to have contact with Balthazar. That had not lasted very long. Balthazar was in touch with his siblings, his brothers Gaspar and Melchior, his sister, Flora, and his mother, Marta. Gaspar, the second son, now ran the family businesses, while Melchior was a musician, and spent much time travelling on the international festival circuit. Flora ran a small art gallery on Brody Sandor Street, on the fancy end of District VIII. But the unspoken accommodation was that while Balthazar could meet his relatives away from home, as long as they did not talk about it, he would not return to the family home. Jozsef Street was very near, but very far.

After a few minutes Vivi turned back to Balthazar, interrupting his reverie. ‘It’s encrypted, like you said, to a high level. I should be able to break it but it will take a while.’

Balthazar nodded. ‘OK. How long do you think?’

‘Maybe an hour, maybe a day. I can leave some programs running. What was the second thing?’

‘Can you get into the Budapest city CCTV system?’

She smiled. ‘That’s not grey, Detective, that’s illegal.’

‘I know. I didn’t ask you to do it – just if you could.’

Vivi laughed. ‘Sure, but we both know what’s coming down the line. To answer your question, yes, I could. The security is rubbish. Why?’

‘Let’s see what’s on the memory stick. Then we’ll know what to do next.’

SIX

Offices of 555.hu, 9.30 a.m.

Zsuzsa sat back in her ergonomically designed leather chair and pressed two buttons on the arm. A cushion gently pressed against her back as she slowly reclined. The sensation was enjoyable but tinged with a frisson of regret as she began to realise that she would not be sitting in this chair for much longer.

She had several options as far as she could see. Option one: she could ignore what she had discovered and carry on as normal, enjoying her salary and the comfortable office, the coffee machine and muffins, and let her investigation drift off into the holding file. That was not going to happen. Option two: she could confront Roland about what she had discovered. Which would get her sacked, immediately. That could also possibly involve the police down the line.

She took a bite of the chocolate muffin. It was rich and dense, thick with chunks of high-grade chocolate and definitely one of the best she had ever tasted. But in a way, Karoly Bardossy, Roland and the lawyers had done her a major favour. Nowhere in their correspondence did they say she had made a mistake, or misunderstood anything. Her investigation, she now knew, was accurate and correct. The smart move was option three: she would leave, and take her story with her. Nobody knew that she had downloaded the files – at least not yet and so far there was no reason for anyone to suspect anything.

And, neither Roland nor anybody else knew that she also had a copy of the video file of Reka. That footage, assuming it was genuine, was explosive, even by Hungarian standards – like something from a Jason Bourne film. Zsuzsa had never seen anything like it. The Word document that Zsuzsa had also download detailed Roland and Kriszta’s plans: the video footage was to be kept confidential until 4.30 p.m. that afternoon when it would be uploaded onto the 555.hu website. Roland himself would write the accompanying article, calling for Reka’s immediate resignation and a police investigation – both of which would probably follow quite quickly.

Part of Zsuzsa thought that she should let 555.hu run the clip. The material should clearly be in the public domain. But several doubts nagged at her. Firstly, it was clear that 555.hu had now been captured by a political interest group. Any important editorial decision – her Nationwide investigation, the footage of Reka Bardossy – was being taken not to serve the interest of the public but to further those of the owners. Zsuzsa wanted no part of that. She was a journalist, not a political operative. Secondly, she wanted revenge for being played, but one taken cold, not in the heat of her anger. She looked at her watch. It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet – she had some time to decide.

Zsuzsa idly checked her email, scrolled through the news coverage about the election and the forthcoming visit of Alon Farkas. That reminded her. Two days earlier she had met a young Israel historian at Retro-kert, the best known of Budapest’s ruin pubs on Kazinczy Street, in the heart of the old Jewish district. What was his name? Eli, Alan something with an L. Alon? She shook her head, that was the prime minister. Elad, that was it. Elad H-something. He was a good-looking guy.

They had talked about his work at the Jewish Museum, where he was researching the history of several companies that had once had Jewish owners and how the companies were blocking him and refusing to give him access to their archives. This was a story, she knew. Then Elad had told her that of all the big firms he was investigating, Nationwide was proving the most obstructive. Not only would they not allow him access to their archives, they would not meet him or even reply to his emails. They had even threatened him with legal action, just for asking questions. All of which pointed, Zsuzsa and Elad agreed, to a cover-up.

Zsuzsa had told Elad a little about her investigation into Nationwide but nothing of substance. His interest was in the events of 1944 and 1945 and the fate of the companies, and their assets, that had eventually been absorbed into Nationwide, not its current activities, but still there was some overlap. They had exchanged numbers and agreed that Zsuzsa would contact him to arrange a proper interview. Once the work conversation was out of the way she realised that she was enjoying his company. They talked about their childhoods and schooldays, hers in her home village in the east of Hungary, his in an upmarket suburb north of Tel Aviv called Ramat Hasharon. He had even taught her a little Hebrew. Shalom, of course, she knew. But she could also remember boker tov, good morning, and erev tov, good evening. By the end of the evening she realised that she would like to see him again.

Zsuzsa picked up her private mobile and called Elad. The number was unobtainable, a recorded voice told her. That was strange. She had called Elad immediately after exchanging numbers to make sure she had the right one. She did. She looked up the number of his workplace and called the switchboard.

‘Good morning, this is the Jewish Museum. How can I help you?’ said a friendly female voice.

Zsuzsa said, ‘Good morning. Can I speak to Elad Harrari please?’

The female voice changed tone immediately. ‘One moment, please.’

A few seconds later a male voice with a noticeable accent sounded. ‘Who is this?’ He spoke in English, his voice sharp and interrogatory. The word who, Zsuzsa noted, was pronounced ‘ooh?’, without a W. This came out as ‘zis’. It was the same accent that Elad had.

‘My name is Zsuzsa Barcsy. I am a reporter with 555.hu.’

For several seconds there was no reply, only muffled sounds. The mysterious man had put his hand over the mouthpiece, Zsuzsa guessed.

‘Why do you want to talk to Elad?’ the man eventually asked, his voice wary.

She decided to push back a bit. ‘Why do you want to know? Who are you?’

‘Dr Harrari is unavailable at the moment. I am dealing with his affairs. What is your business with him?’

Zsuzsa frowned. Something wasn’t right here. ‘We had agreed to arrange an interview about his work. When will Dr Harrari be available? And I did not catch your name.’

‘He will call you back.’

Zsuzsa asked once more to whom she was speaking, but the line went dead. She put her handset down and pulled another piece off the muffin. This was very strange. Where was he, and what was the big mystery? She called Elad’s number again: the same message that the number was unavailable.

Now what? She needed to think this through. Zsuzsa picked up one of her business cards, flexing it between her fingers as she pondered her next move. The material was thick, the letters raised and glossy. This was her first job but she had enjoyed a meteoric rise. Her ascent had several causes and she was self-aware enough to know why.

Yes, she was a talented reporter, a tenacious digger, with an innate, natural news sense but she had also hit a lucky streak, and every reporter needed luck as well as talent and tenacity. Her friend and former colleague, Eniko Szalay, now the prime minister’s spokeswoman, had mentored her and shown her the ropes. Eniko had also given her a game-changing leaving present: the biggest story Hungary had seen for years, the refugee crisis of the previous summer and autumn, including her notes, half-finished stories and contacts. Several of Zsuzsa’s stories had been picked up by the international media. She had been interviewed on the BBC and CNN, helped out the Economist correspondent with some research and interviews. Perhaps one of them could give her a job – it was becoming clear that she could not stay much longer at 555.hu.

Zsuzsa was a pretty young woman, with pale skin, large blue eyes, auburn hair and an engaging smile. It was easy, she realised, to get people to talk to her, which was half the job of a journalist and a skill that was not taught on her course. Women seemed to naturally trust her. Most men she spoke to had another agenda, she knew, which made them much easier to manipulate. She was surprised at how quickly she was learning to use her looks to get the information she wanted – especially since she had changed her style from the loose, baggy clothes she had worn as a student to more form-fitting, smarter outfits. But her people skills were no use if her stories were not being printed – and they had not stopped her being played by Karoly Bardossy.

A gust of strong perfume wafted up her nose and she sensed movement by her desk. ‘Zsuzsi, I know the new chairs are wonderfully comfortable, but you aren’t napping on the job, are you?’ asked Kriszta Matyas.

Zsuzsi was the diminutive of Zsuzsa. It was used by her family and friends but was irritating and patronising in a work context. Still, Zsuzsa thought, it could be worse. At least she is not calling me Zsuzsika, dear little Zsuzsi, any more.