‘No, Kriszta. I am wide awake. I was just thinking about’ – she quickly changed track, slipping into the role of the frustrated reporter that Kriszta would expect – ‘my Nationwide investigation. When will it run? There’s a lot more to write about. We could do a three-parter. I think it would get picked up by the foreign press as well. Everyone is interested in Karoly Bardossy.’
The two women did not get on. An unmarried, thin brunette in her forties, Kriszta had formerly worked at the state news agency. She wore formal business clothes, elaborate make-up and heavy scent, and looked completely out of place among the hipsters and bohemians that made up the rest of the staff. ‘It’s with the lawyers, as you know. They still are going through your source notes and fact checks.’
Zsuzsa told herself to focus. Kriszta obviously had no idea that Zsuzsa now knew the real reason why her story was being held over. She needed to act like she was still ignorant of what was actually happening. Zsuzsa’s voice was indignant. ‘Still? I already gave them all that. They have had the material for days. How long do they need? Everything is correct and accurate. This is getting ridiculous.’
Kriszta raised a heavily mascaraed eyebrow. Her voice was terse. ‘Lawyers go at their own pace. I will tell you what the next stage is.’
‘The next stage is to publish the story,’ said Zsuzsa.
Kriszta looked down at Zsuzsa. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Before Kriszta’s arrival, Zsuzsa had been tasked by her colleagues with finding out more about her. She had compiled a list of several articles Kriszta had written for the state news agency. They were mostly anodyne reports about the arrival of visiting dignitaries, usually from repressive former Soviet states, or new trade agreements signed with them. The worst, or best, was a hagiography of the president of Turkmenistan, who had renamed the days of the week according to his fancy.
Zsuzsa had also compiled Kriszta’s top ten most obsequious lines, which had been greatly enjoyed by the staff. The document had been printed out in several copies and circulated by hand, so as not to leave a data trail, but at moments like this Zsuzsa sensed that Kriszta somehow knew it was her handiwork. Maybe the top ten had not been such a smart idea.
Kriszta continued talking. ‘Meanwhile, I have some very exciting news for you. It’s straight from Roland.’
‘Do tell,’ said Zsuzsa, trying not to roll her eyes. She had already learned that Roland’s idea of exciting was quite different to hers.
Kriszta leaned forward, the light of triumph in her eyes. ‘You are being seconded to the business desk for a while. They are working on a new directory of the top hundred companies in Hungary. It’s a huge project. The new owners are very keen.’
Zsuzsa’s face fell. A business directory. Checking names and addresses. This was work for interns. ‘Why me? I am not a business reporter.’
Kriszta smiled. ‘But you are, Zsuzsa. You did so well with your Nationwide story.’
‘If I did so well with it, why aren’t you running it?’
‘We will, Zsuzsika. When we and your story are ready. Meanwhile, think of the new plan as part of your career development.’
Zsuzsa glared at Kriszta. ‘I’ll try. When do I have to start?’
‘Now would be a good time.’ Kriszta glanced at the remains of the chocolate muffin. ‘But you can finish your snack first.’
Zsuzsa watched Kriszta walk across the office to Roland’s room. Thank you, Kriszta, she almost felt like saying. Now I know what to do.
SEVEN
Margaret Island, 12.30 p.m.
Sandor Takacs shook his head. ‘No. It’s not your beat, Tazi. You are a detective in the murder squad. There is no dead body. No one’s been murdered.’
‘We don’t know that, boss. He’s disappeared. I think he has been kidnapped. I called the Jewish Museum. He has not been in since Tuesday. There is no sign of him at all, anywhere. They are really worried. There’s no record of him flying out of the airport. Isn’t that enough?’
The commander of the Budapest murder squad was wrapped in a winter police-issue jacket, with a Soviet-style padded hat jammed on his head. He pulled down the ear flaps before he spoke, tied them together under his chin. ‘Enough for a criminal case, yes. Which will be passed to the missing-persons team. Maybe he took a train to Vienna or Bucharest, who knows where.’
He watched a barge slowly progress towards the island, laden with coal. ‘Or a boat. Speaking of cases, you still have several remaining unsolved. How are you doing with Imi bacsi?’
Imi bacsi, owner of several nightclubs, had been found floating face-down in the Danube with his hands tied behind his back, a large hole where his nose used to be and most of the back of his head missing. His body had washed into an inlet in the far south of the city, near an abandoned factory.
Imi bacsi had been a well-known figure in the world of Budapest organised crime, with plenty of enemies. He had recently been seen entertaining several Russian businessmen in a private room at one of the city’s most expensive restaurants. CCTV footage had just appeared, showing a top-of-the-range Mercedes parked nearby at a jetty in the early hours, not far from where the body was found a couple of hours later.
‘I’ve traced the car,’ said Balthazar. ‘It was hired at Budapest Airport that afternoon.’
‘Good. Who was driving?’
‘A Chechen, apparently, travelling on a Russian passport. He flew out of Budapest the next morning on the dawn plane to Moscow.’
‘A Chechen hitman. Poor Imi bacsi. You checked the passport?’
‘Of course. It’s genuine – government issue, but issued to a fake name.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked the airport for some screen grabs of him at passport control and sent them to Interpol. His first name is Aslan, his surnames change all the time. He’s wanted by six countries.’
‘Make that seven. Meanwhile, do svidaniya, Aslan.’
‘And goodbye to our case too,’ said Balthazar. They both knew there was very little that could be done now. The information would be reported to Interpol, and to the police’s liaison in the Moscow force. Even if he was located somewhere in Moscow or Russia, Aslan many-names was highly unlikely to be arrested.
‘I’ll pass it upstairs. Meanwhile, there’s the paperwork, Tazi. I’ll need to see your report.’
‘Sure. And once that is done, I can focus on Elad Harrari.’
The two men were sitting on a bench at the very end of Margaret Island, a few yards from the spot where the two sides of the riverbank narrowed and met in a point. In front, a wide expanse of water rushed towards them, before splitting down the sides of the island, south toward Serbia and the deep Balkans. Behind them stretched the Arpad Bridge, a brutalist concrete ribbon, by far the unloveliest of the constructions spanning the river.
The wind gusted hard, bringing a light sleet, and Balthazar shivered inside his coat. ‘Can’t we meet in your office, boss? I’m freezing here.’
Margaret Island was just over two kilometres long. Encircled by a running track, the green space was home to extensive parkland, the remains of a medieval nunnery, two thermal hotels (one of which had once been home for a while to Carlos the Jackal), a children’s zoo, and a water tower. In the spring, summer and autumn the island was one of Budapest’s prime attractions, jammed with locals and tourists alike, enjoying the verdant scenery and the pleasant breeze. In the winter it was almost deserted, unprotected against the freezing weather. A few determined joggers still ran around the track, their breath pluming white in the winter air. But even the hardiest, most inquisitive visitor did not venture to the spot that Sandor had chosen to meet with Balthazar.
‘We can, usually. But you wanted to talk about this Israeli business.’
Balthazar frowned. ‘And?’
Sandor raised his right index finger and spiralled it upwards. The gesture meant that someone was listening.
‘How do you know?’
Sandor patted Balthazar’s leg. ‘I just do, Tazi.’
Balthazar nodded. The news that Sandor’s office was bugged wasn’t entirely a surprise. Rumours were swirling around the police headquarters that his boss would soon be retiring, to make room for his much younger deputy, Bela Szilagyi. Bela was adding more and more tiles to his roof – slang for protection – including several senior officials in the Ministry of the Interior. Bela’s portfolio, Balthazar had heard, would soon be expanded to include liaison with the state security service. That would mark the beginning of the end of Sandor’s career.
Short and tubby, with shrewd brown eyes and thinning grey hair, Sandor was a devoted family man, still married to his childhood sweetheart. Sunday lunches were an institution in Hungary, and Sandor never missed one, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. ‘Don’t worry about me. Everyone needs to know when their time is up. I’ve had a good run, Tazi. I’ll get a decent pension. Very decent, actually. Several security companies have already been in touch to talk about consultancies. I’ll be sixty soon. I want to enjoy the rest of my time, and my family.’
He reached inside his shoulder bag and took out a small metal thermos flask. He slid the white plastic cup off the top, unscrewed the cap, poured a pink liquid into the cup, steam rising from the surface, and handed it to Balthazar.
‘That will warm you up,’ said Sandor as he reached inside the bag for another cup and poured himself a drink. ‘Winter fruit tea, Takacs-modra.’
Balthazar smiled as he accepted the ‘Takacs-style’ drink. He knew what that probably meant. The first sip confirmed it – a rich mix of peach-and-apricot tea overlaid with alcoholic fumes. Sandor was justly proud of his home-distilled palinka, Hungary’s powerful fruit brandy. ‘Is it your palinka?’
