Budapest Boulevard E-Book

Laszlo Reti

• Herausgeber: Laszlo Reti
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 640

Beschreibung

Hungary, at the beginning of the next decade. The government is preparing for elections, but they are becoming very uncomfortable with the new counter-terrorism unit, set up at a cost of billions of euros, but not doing anything of substance. But then an assassination attempt shakes Budapest, which has been living its peaceful days. The police gather strength and go after the terrorists.

Meanwhile, the head of one of the district police stations, Péter Básti, who has been recruited from the countryside, is struggling with everyday life. The lazy detectives, the lack of money and the constant, self-serving checks by the top management are slowly eating away at his nerves. In this situation, it is just icing on the cake that his brother is also involved in a serious case. The Lieutenant Colonel has to play tactics to stay a policeman, but he can't leave his brother in the lurch. He starts his own investigation to see if he can lend a helping hand to his brother. The threads are winding up, and it's no longer clear who's on which side.

Budapest has been in terror since the terrorist attack, the city is going mad, and there are bomb hoaxes all over the place.

How does a former police officer end up on the side of crime?

Why is an Iraqi student being murdered?

And most importantly, will there be another bombing?

László Réti's eleventh novel is more than just a crime thriller: it is both a political thriller and a social history.

Leseprobe

Laszlo Reti

Budapest Boulevard

 

Magyarország. A kormány a választásokra kĂ©szĂĽl, ám kezd számukra roppant kellemetlennĂ© válni a milliárdos költsĂ©ggel felállĂtott, de Ă©rdemi tevĂ©kenysĂ©get nem vĂ©gzĹ‘ Ăşj terrorelhárĂtĂł egysĂ©g. Ekkor azonban merĂ©nylet rázza meg a bĂ©kĂ©s napjait Ă©lĹ‘ Budapestet. A rendĹ‘rsĂ©g erĹ‘re kap, Ă©s a terroristák után veti magát.

Az egyik kerĂĽleti rendĹ‘rkapitányság vezetĹ‘je, a vidĂ©krĹ‘l felkerĂĽlt Básti PĂ©ter ezalatt a mindennapokkal kĂĽzd. A lusta nyomozĂłk, a pĂ©nzhiány, a felsĹ‘ vezetĂ©s állandĂł, öncĂ©lĂş ellenĹ‘rzĂ©sei lassan felĹ‘rölik az idegeit. Ebben a helyzetben már csak hab a tortán, hogy a testvĂ©re is belekeveredik egy sĂşlyos ĂĽgybe. Az alezredesnek taktikáznia kell, hogy rendĹ‘r maradhasson, de az öccsĂ©t se hagyja sorsára a bajban. Saját szakállára nyomozni kezd, hátha azzal segĂtĹ‘ kezet nyĂşjthat a testvĂ©rĂ©nek. A szálak egyre feljebb vezetnek, Ă©s már az sem biztos, ki melyik oldalon áll.

Budapest retteg a terrorcselekmény óta, a város lassan megőrül, egymást érik a téves bombariadók.

Vajon hogyan kerül egy volt rendőrtiszt a bűn oldalára?

Mit akar Magyarországon a szlovák alvilág egyik szervezett csapata?

Miért ölnek meg egy iraki egyetemistát?

És a legfontosabb: lesz-e újabb merénylet?

László Réti

Budapest Boulevard

Copyright © László Réti

First release: 2018

Contact the author:

[email protected]

Edited by

László Réti (2024)

Cover design

László Réti and AI

Electronic version

László Réti

Larkin Ltd.

ISBN: 978-615-6733-12-2

Laszlo Reti

BUDAPEST BOULEVARD

The characters in the novel are all fictional characters.

Possible contact with real persons similarity is purely coincidental.

Some elements of the story are based on real events.

But you wouldn't believe what they are anyway...

Prologue

- Fuck you... if I write this, you'll be killed. Even here, in Hungary!

- Not you?

- I will get a Golden Pen for the fact-finding article. Then they kill me.

- I don't think it would be that sharp...

- Don't you think?! Well, I do, damn it! You work in a place where paranoia is a prerequisite, and now I have to prove to you that you're holding a kitchen knife to your own throat? You even pull the blade!

- So you don't want to bring it down?

- That's not the point! I don't want to get killed!

- This is Hungary. They don't kill people for that here.

- No? And János Fenyő? Or Pristás?... Boros?

- That was different.

- Change the fuck! They were in someone's way and that's how it ended. If you go through with it, you'll be in the way. Is that what you want?

- I can't just shut up! I have to do something about it!

- Why not go to your bosses? Wouldn't the straight road be shorter now? If you could just put aside your usual persecution complex for once?

- Hah! And I'm naive?! You think I wouldn't start with that?

- So, you're past that.

- Not yet. You know what I've had so far, if I've brought something new? They listened. Then they looked out of their heads for a while. And then, as if nothing had happened, they asked me how I was doing with the statistics? Because statistics are very important. Ostrich politics. The thing is, they're clinging to their seats. What makes it any different now?

- Shit... Okay... let's say I write it. What do you expect? What do you expect from the release?

- I trust in the power of the public.

- The power of publicity? What the fuck is that?! Publicity and its power?!

- You are the journalist and you ask me that?

- Because I know what I'm asking!

- If you don't believe in the power of publicity, why are you a journalist?

- Honestly? On the one hand, to make a living. On the other hand, my press pass gets me into celebrity parties, and sometimes I get to bang some of the girls you can only dream about. I guess that's all... yeah. That's it. That's why I'm a journalist.

- You are unbelievable!

- You are incredible! After twenty years of this, you still talk like a child! The power of publicity?! Cuh!

- I think there is such a thing. So much has been leaked since the regime change...

- It's true! But that was about thirty-five years ago. So, what happened to them?

- What do you mean, what happened to them?

- Think about it! Just one example: remember the shaggy bearded farmer who spilled the beans about the earthquake?

- Well... I can't remember his name, but I remember his face. I do! What happened to the case?

- Don't you remember?

- No.

- That's it! If you don't remember the conclusion of the case, only the outbreak of the scandal, what do you think happened to it?

- Hm... but for example Zuschlag was arrested!

- That's right! Give me another example!

- Now all of a sudden...

- Okay, I understand. I'll tell you something else! Remember that poor tax guy who went to the press with the VAT fraud?

- Of course I remember.

- And what happened to him?

- I don't know.

- You don't know. Because nothing happened. Because this case, like the others, has slowly fallen asleep. In the end, the only one whose life was ruined was the one who thought he'd show it! He's the one who's going to do the dirty laundry! These idiots didn't know the basic truth. Nothing ever happens in this country. There's a fucking good saying for that, by the way. A swallow doesn't make a summer.

- This is not the place.

- Then I'll translate, my friend. That means don't beat yourself up! Shut the fuck up and never... you understand? Never think you can change the world on your own. This is Eastern Europe. With all its advantages, all its disadvantages. Everyone here is beholden to everyone. Today I scratch your itch, tomorrow you scratch mine. That's all.

- In short: shut up.

- As a friend, I can't suggest anything else.

- And what about investigative journalism?

- Oh, stop laughing!!! Don't assume that that sad-faced Olga Kálmán is going to turn in some arrogant politician who is stupid enough to think that he can't be asked a tricky question. This is the East, as I said.

- But then what should I do with my information?!

- If you listen to me, nothing! Shut up and keep quiet. Then maybe they'll forget about you and you can get on with your shitty little life.

- But that's exactly what I don't want! I don't want it to go on like this! So that they can do it again and again!

- What the fuck are you? Some fucking Grail knight?

- Let's think instead! What if I were to find your political rival?

- As far as I know, you are not allowed to be political.

- As I understand it, the press is not the solution, and neither is exposing yourself to your political opponents.

- You got it right. Neither is a good solution.

- So what can I do? You probably already know that I know. I'm afraid you might be right, and he'll do what you implied. He'll make me disappear.

- Is the threat real?

- What have we been talking about for an hour!? What do you think my life means after all this?

- This is, let's say, a valid point... Then there's only one thing you can do.

- What?

- Prevent it!

- I do not understand you.

- It's simple. If you don't want him to kill you, then you kill him.

Eight months earlier

1.

The white Ford Transit had been parked in the woods for hours. The hood was dripping with mist, dew dripping down the glass. There was nothing special about the van, nothing conspicuous. Not a sticker, not a sign. Nothing that anyone could remember afterwards. It was just one of the countless minibuses that ran up and down Slovakia. The car braked at dawn on a forest road near Eperjes, then slid off the tarmac and onto a potholed track through the trees. Wet mud from the reversing process glistened around the fender.

It has been hours since you arrived.

The bluish smoke of cigarettes drifted out from behind the lowered windows, mingling with the light mist floating in the April woods. The surrounding pine trees were still dripping with water from the night's rain.

Inside the car, the five men listened in silence as the drops drummed softly on the Ford's record player.

The people at the wheel and in the passenger seat were as alike as two eggs. Both were muscular, lean men over a hundred and eighty centimetres tall, with short-cropped hair and cold blue eyes. They were already in their early thirties, and perhaps only the slight difference in the cobwebs of wrinkles on their faces gave them a hint of something to distinguish them. On each of their hands, between the thumb and forefinger, there was a tiny but suggestive prison tattoo.

The twins have done everything together for as long as they can remember.

Even the tattoo.

There was only one time when they were not near each other. Then Jacek was released two years earlier than his younger brother, who was eight minutes younger. The difference was that on the terrible night when the elderly couple were attacked at the age of seventeen, Jacek was mostly threatening. Martin, on the other hand, beat the eighty-three-year-old man to death with an iron pipe because he refused to show them where their pension was kept.

As they were still juveniles, Martin Straka received ten years and Jacek eight. They were released on parole after six and four years respectively. Human life is no more expensive in Slovakia than elsewhere, where the law allows murderers to hide behind their youth.

They spent their time in prison doing something useful.

They have earned themselves some serious prestige at the cost of a few in-fighting. Soon everyone within the walls knew that the two Straka were not to be trifled with. They retaliated for every insult, and didn't look to see who they were hitting. Sometimes Jacek was badly beaten twice by a prisoner with a stronger physique - but the boy hit him a third time. And then he got the better of him. These types of people are feared even in the closed world of prison. Another time it was Martin who attacked his 200-pound cellmate without thinking because he laughed at him over something small. He was bleeding everywhere, but he still attacked. Finally he took his opponent to the floor. When the guards came in, they were both licking their wounds. Of course they said nothing had happened; they had fallen, that's where the injuries were.

The respect thus earned slowly made Jacek a leader.

And Martin was always there for him.

Ede Horvath, who was a hundred and twenty kilos and was beaten to a pulp at the time, joined the Straka after his release. Now he was sitting in the back of the Transit, where two others were squeezed in. Peter Toth and Darijo Ujlaky joined the trio years later, in Dunaszerdahely.

Toth rolled down the window and threw the cigarette butt out into the woods. The cigarette burn hissed out in the wet grass.

Jacek looked nervously in the mirror.

- What the hell are you doing?

- What would I do?

- Throwing out your cigarettes, you idiot?

- What the hell is wrong with you now?

- That's fucking leaving a trail! Ever heard of DNA? I don't want the cops in the woods looking for something.

- Yeah... what do I do now?

- Fucking easy! Get out, find it, put it in your pocket! Now!

It could not be resisted. Toth grumbled as he climbed out of the back seat, picked up the cigarette and put it in his pocket.

- Are you happy now? - she looked at Jacek.

- Do I slap you in the face? Get out on the road and look around.

- Where to go?

- Go up to the top of the hill and hide above the hairpin bend. It's almost time.

- Okay, I'm coming.

- And fucking call me from there!

- All right!

Toth slammed the door of the Transit and disappeared into the damp undergrowth.

Ten minutes later, the radio on Jacek's belt went off.

- I'm over the bend.

- Top! - Jacek yells into the transmitter. - Tell me in time!

- Okay.

The four men beat on in the car in tense silence. On each of their laps lay a short-barreled Scorpio submachine gun, their heads covered with ski masks, the facepiece of which was for the moment placed on their foreheads. Martin was sweating profusely, which did not escape Jacek's notice.

- You're scared, huh?

- I'm just hot.

- I see. Of course. Gay.

- Leave me hanging!

The elder Straka was about to reply, but the radio suddenly went off.

- The car is here!

- Okay! - Jacek snapped. - Get out! Get out! Get out!

The van door was ripped open and the four men jumped out onto the wet forest road. They were immediately soaked to the knees by undergrowth, but they didn't care about the inconvenience. They rushed out onto the road and took up positions on either side of the asphalt strip. The foliage collapsed like a tunnel over the narrow forest road.

Two minutes later, a spotlight shone on the foggy pavement and the dark blue armoured car appeared around the bend. The old Mercedes marched heavily up the hill. Behind it, a thick plume of black smoke billowed out as the driver shifted back into second gear and accelerated.

Jacek waited until the car was within fifty metres, then he gave the signal and they all jumped out of cover.

Jacek and Martin moved to the middle of the road and pointed their guns at the approaching Mercedes.

- "That's what I meant when I said it was a very stupid idea," Martin hissed at his brother. He'll run us over.

- "You don't know anything," said his brother, and stood unmoved in the middle of the road.

The Mercedes slowed down and then stopped in front of the two men. Horvath and Ujlaky went around the armoured car on both sides. Jacek smiled at the driver, who nodded slowly towards him. The driver, who had been staring in shock at the gunmen, now suddenly looked at the driver sitting next to him and then grabbed him around the waist. The driver cried out.

- No!!!

But the guard did not stop. He drew his pistol from the holster hanging on his belt. It wasn't easy, the space was tight, the driver was fat and the brains of the gun were stuck in the waistband of his trousers. But the driver was not idle, and did the same. They simultaneously caught each other's gun-holding right hand with their left, and engaged in a savage scuffle in the cover of the armoured glass.

- Oh, fuck! - Jacek exclaimed, and started to pull the door of the armoured car. The effort proved futile, the iron latch held firmly. It had been designed precisely to guard against such situations. He gave up the effort and watched the struggle helplessly.

The driver started to lose. The driver proved to be stronger and slowly but surely began to press his colleague's head into the upholstery of the driver's side door. Unable to intervene, the four men in ski masks watched the death struggle inside, while one and then another glanced helplessly at Jacek Straka, who was the leader.

The leader's face became more and more contorted.

The shot rang out unexpectedly, and was suddenly followed by two more bangs. The windscreen of the armoured car was covered in blood and bone splinters. The Straka's were staggering backwards.

The car door was thrown open and the driver fell out onto the tarmac.

Straka pointed his gun forward and looked into the passenger compartment. The driver lay dead, pinned between the seat and the dashboard. The driver stood up panting and looked gloomily at Jacek.

- I was surprised by this bastard.

- You almost fucked up, Jakub!" accused the undercover man, screaming at Straka.

- Don't bullshit me! It's okay!

- There was no mention of a corpse!

- "Whatever," the driver shrugged. - In fact... come to think of it, it's better for me. He would have pushed me up anyway.

- We didn't count one dead body, you idiot!

- Stay, Jacek! Redesign it! You were always good at that.

Straka threw a huge slap at the security guard and then shouted at him.

- Kiss! Let me think!

The man ran around the armoured car, then looked at the Transporter waiting in the woods. The forest road was covered with muddy footprints. Not a minute passed before he came to a decision.

- Open the back!

The driver nodded and got to the back of the car.

- Coming up.

- How much is in it?

- I don't know exactly. But it's about a quarter of a million.

- We expected more than that!

- That's it. I don't decide how much is put in.

- Fuck you!

The back door of the car opened and the driver pulled over. Straka saw three not very large bags of money on the floor of the car, attached to the side wall with boards. Panting, Toth arrived from the observation post and looked into the hold.

- Well, that's not much.

- And we even have a dead body," Horvath noted.

- I'm sorry.

- I can erase it with him," Straka grumbled, then turned to Ujlaky. - Put the money in the Transit!

Ujlaky and Horvath asked no more questions. They picked up the bags and ran towards the minibus. Straka slammed the back door of the Mercedes and looked at the driver.

- Take a seat and follow us!

The man did not object.

The five men jumped into the Transit, which then shot off the forest road. Glancing in the mirror, Straka saw the armoured car coming obediently behind them.

- And now? - Martin asked.

- I don't have time to tell you. Just do as I say.

- As always, brother.

Straka pointed ahead.

- Turn left there!

Martin braked and steered the Ford onto a narrow concrete road. Branches dangling from the side windows scraped softly.

- How far should I go?

- There, in front, there's a place! Stop there.

The road widened and they came to a concrete clearing. The carriage made a sharp turn and came to a halt with its nose to the road they had come from. The Mercedes also turned heavily into the road and stopped beside them. They all got out.

- What kind of place is this? - asked the armoured car driver.

- There used to be a cattle ranch here at the edge of the forest. 'They used to herd the cows onto the trucks on that ramp,' Straka pointed to the high, cracked concrete ramp. - Let's set the money truck on fire.

- Why?

- To leave no trace, Jakub! You can't be that stupid!

Toth had already brought a well-prepared can of petrol and sprayed it around the side of the Mercedes. He poured the remaining two litres into the cabin and then threw in the marmonade can. A lighter flashed in Ujlaky's hand and the car disappeared in a flash of yellow.

- Get out!" gave Straka the order, and all six climbed into the Transit.

A minute later, the Ford was back on the forest road. The sound of an explosion reached them in the distance.

- The fire reached the tank.

- What now? - asked the security guard who sat in the back between Horvath and Ujlaky.

- We distribute the money," said Straka. - Then for a while, everyone goes where he sees fit. We split up.

- Well, what about me, Jacek? - asked the guard. - The police will be looking for me.

- You're just thinking about that now? You never thought about it before?

- I have to leave the country.

- You will leave him," nodded Straka, and tapped his brother's arm. - Turn here!

They came to a dirt road, which they trudged along for another half a kilometre. Farm buildings loomed in the distance.

- Where are we going? - asked the security guard.

- To me - said Ujlaky.

- We're changing. We can't go any further in ski masks and military fatigues.

The Transit turned into an enclosed courtyard surrounded by barns and stables, then stopped. They climbed out of the car. The sickening smell of pig droppings was everywhere. Grunts could be heard from the surrounding buildings.

- What's next? - asked the man in the bloody uniform of the security company.

He turned to Jacek.

- I'm doing what you said. I'm improvising. And you're a problem, buddy.

- Why?

- The car was low on juice, and you even killed your partner. And you don't have a plan B for what you're gonna do now.

- What else could I do?

- I don't know, but I don't care. The real problem is that the cops will be looking for you twice as hard because of the body. You...

- And you too! - the guard snapped at Jacek.

- Not us.

Martin was just waiting for it. He raised his Scorpio and fired three shots at the security guard at close range. The man fell to the ground, thundering. Martin looked at his brother.

- Or is that not how you wanted it?

- De. Jacek walked over to the body on the ground and shot him in the head before looking at his brother.

Martin just grinned.

- He's the only one who connected us to the money truck, bro. The guy got into the Transit in that concrete parking lot, no tire tracks, no shoe prints. Looks like he robbed his partner there.

- The cops will only be looking for him," the older brother nodded. - It's not the first time a security guard has run off with the money he's been entrusted with.

- Only this time it killed his partner.

- So it disappeared without a trace.

- We thought one and the same.

- As always.

Horvath cleared his throat.

- It's okay that the other corpse will be charged to this pondro, but what do we do with his corpse?

Straka looked at the property owner, Ujlaky, who nodded towards the barn.

- There's a powerful branch chipper in there. Let's get this guy through. It'll look like ground beef. We'll give it to the pigs. They'll eat it in 20 minutes, and I'll use the high pressure to clean out the shredder.

- It's gonna be a dirty job, Darijo.

- Yes, but the guy will never be found again. We'll drink a brandy and burn our clothes.

- And we distribute the money.

- Get to work!

Ujlaky and Toth picked up the corpse and started to carry it towards the barn. Straka looked at his brother.

- That's why I like this guy. He doesn't ask questions, he just solves them.

Martin looked defiantly at his brother.

- And you can do it?

- What?

- To finally have a job with a good dairy. Because it's your responsibility!

Jacek Straka stared coldly at his brother.

But he didn't argue with her.

2.

The young man looked like enough to make a citizen in his own right. Under his baggy, baggy linen trousers he wore an unadorned moccasin, and of course he hadn't even worn socks. Under his brown, camouflage military jacket, he wore a simple athletic jersey. His face was framed by a thick, unruly beard, and his hair was in a dreadlocked bun down his middle back.

Zsigmond Zente was convinced that if he considered himself a journalist working for leading internet portals, he could safely be seen as extreme - no reporter would dare to dismiss him on that basis alone. And, as a consequence, he regularly abused this quality. If a spokesman or press secretary looked at him with a disdainful expression, he was already in a losing position. Zente could immediately sense when people were not taking him seriously, and he knew neither God nor man.

He had a reputation for being an unprincipled player, but he preferred to call himself a refiner, adding that the end really did justify the means. Except, of course, when someone applied that principle to him. He has stabbed several female reporters in the back, taking advantage of the fact that they were still under the influence of his initial consternation at his appearance. In fact, in a university rector's office or in a ministry, he has made a truly striking spectacle. However, he has never felt the need to dress in a more conservative outfit for the sake of the location or the subject of the report. Nevertheless, in several articles over the years, he has expressed his dismay at the refusal of the prime minister, the president of the republic and other public figures to give him interviews. But almost everyone but him understood this.

His friends have advised him on more than one occasion that, as one of the country's best-regarded political journalists, he might do well to look a little like his subjects. Zsigmond Zente, of course, was beside himself, not even realising that his friends were far from trying to persuade him to wear a suit and tie, but just wanted to see him in a decent pair of jeans, a shirt and a decent pair of canvas shoes. And, of course, the blessed work of a hairdresser - but Zente didn't want to hear about it.

He was thinking about these things now, as he stood waiting at the reception desk, clutching the backpack slung over his shoulder. It was an unusual appearance in the ministry, and was avoided by officials on their way out and arriving guests alike. I smell like a stinker, thought Zente, who considered his own eccentricity more than a little out of keeping with social conventions. Many had told him that this desire to be different would make him neither better nor better, but he thought the opposite.

- "I need to check the backpack," grumbled one of the two security guards standing next to the receptionist.

- It's just my laptop.

- Could you open it, please?

- "Why?", Zente asked back defiantly, and in his head he had already started to write the first lines of his sharply worded article.

- "Because that's the rule," a smooth young man with a plain manner, the exact opposite of the journalist, stepped up. His tall, slender figure was perfectly taut in a combination of white shirt and dark blue suit, topped with a red tie.

András Tahi, press officer of the State Secretary, offered his hand to the journalist with a broad but cold smile.

- Welcome, Sigismund!

- Have you been sent to me, Andrew?

- "I came on my own," the press officer smiled. - Somehow I had a feeling that you weren't just going to come to us without any frills. I thought maybe a little help here wouldn't hurt.

The journalist felt the wind was being taken out of his sails, so he scanned Tahiti, looking for a catch. The press secretary's slightly softer movements made Zente think of Tahi being gay every time they met. She couldn't stand homosexuals, but since this didn't fit in at all with the liberal journalist's self-image, she always tried to remain neutral towards the press officer.

- I think I can get in on my own. The guard's just being a pain.

- The guard is doing his job. And he's doing it well. As you know, we're on orange alert.

- Orange?

- Terror threat, Sigismund.

- Who came up with this nonsense again?

- Unfortunately, I cannot share all the inside information, but please understand that we have not raised the alert level to orange in good humour. We would also prefer to rest at home, but the world is not such a place where we can do that at any time.

- And the orange alert makes the guard want to check my bag?

- No. You should definitely check your bag. Just like you have to unpack your metal objects and go through a metal detector gate.

- I am a journalist...

- That does not exempt you from the rules. They wouldn't let you through the airport, would they? - Tahi opened her arms and glanced at her watch. - We should hurry. We're on a tight schedule.

- Look, I don't think that...

- They will not let you in without an inspection. I'm sorry.

The dreadlocked man understood that he had lost this battle. He angrily threw his backpack on the tape, and for no other reason than that he did not take out his laptop. The tape therefore stopped in front of the guard, who looked questioningly at Tahi, but she stealthily waved no with her eyes.

No need to tease me further, said the look. Just understand your place.

The tape whirred on and the backpack slid into the X-ray machine. Zente unloaded the pens, cell phone, change into a basket and dumped everything back into his pockets on the other side of the metal detector gate.

Tahi was waiting on the other side, smiling.

- Here it is. It wasn't hard, was it?

- What if I write that a journalist is being harassed like this?

- Nothing. Our voters will say we are doing a good job. And the few who are on your side, no matter what we do, it can only be bad.

- In my party? - the journalist stopped.

- You know that, Sigismund.

- Can you explain?

- That's the way it is nowadays. You can write whatever you want about us, about how we do our job, how many terrorists we catch, it doesn't really matter. Anyone who wants to believe that we are making mistakes, that we are amateurs, that we are wasting taxpayers' money, it makes no difference what you write. Because it does not change their minds.

- And if I write good things about you? - Zente grinned defiantly.

- Then they'll say you've already been paid off.

Zente's mouth dropped open a little. He had originally intended to counter Tahi's statement, but he didn't get the answer he thought he would. Instead, he got an honest one. Something he believed in subconsciously, but never dared to face.

In Eastern Europe, it makes no difference what the facts are.

Facts alone are not enough to change people's worldviews or the opinions they have formed in their prejudiced thinking by completely ignoring facts they don't like. The facts just get in the way.

That's what I think, so there you go - millions of people live their lives like this every day.

Tahi immediately took advantage of the moment's hesitation and continued her sermon as she made her way up the stairs. Zente followed obsessively.

- I see that you have already thought about it.

- You don't even assume that I write well about you?

- No. Even a fair piece of writing would be a serious surprise, Sigismund. And if by chance you were to make a positive statement, it would immediately make me suspicious.

- Shouldn't a pressman be smoother?

- And would that make a difference to you?

- No.

- Well then? I know your work, Sigismund. And I have an opinion of him.

- Perhaps you will share it with me?

- Of course. You're the type that the internet has produced. The milieu is that you can facelessly, anonymously hurt anyone who does anything.

Zente nodded.

- I know how you will continue. I've heard it so many times! I am someone who lives out the frustration of my own failed and fundamentally unsuccessful life by attacking everything and everyone, whether there is a reason or not. The one who looks for the bad in everything. Right?

- I did not say.

- I am a journalist. My job is to show people the reality.

- Or what you think it is.

- Would I lie in my articles?

- "I don't know," said the press secretary frankly, "At best, you just don't care about the facts. The worst case is that he is deliberately manipulating.

- A journalist's job is to shed light.

The press secretary stopped in front of a wide double door and looked Zente in the eye once more.

- Zsigmond, you are not a journalist. You are a newspaper writer. It's not the same.

He went in and motioned for Zente to follow him. The dreadlocked man was seething with rage. He had not even reached the real subject of the interview before he was defeated. He'd fought cocky guys like this all his life - but he'd always come up against them hand-to-hand. And what's more, he was the one who generated the penalty of several demerits by looking and acting the way he did.

Tahi stopped in the middle of the wide office and looked at the man sitting behind the desk.

- Mr Secretary of State, Mr Zente has arrived.

- Thank you, Andrew.

- Shall I stay, sir?

- Yes. Sit down over there," the Secretary of State motioned to the upholstered bench in front of the window.

Tahi politely bowed and sat down quietly on the bench.

Zsigmond Zente entered the office, and stopped on the carpet where the press secretary had just been standing. He heard the door close behind him with a soft click. Although he tried to make himself look like a man who was making a big bet on the pomp and circumstance of his position, in reality, deep down, he had always been a simple boy whose parents worked in a factory and whose only holiday in his life had been to Rakvere - and not very often. The guy who lived out his rebellion by getting silly tattoos and growing his hair to his waist.

But here, rebellion was not enough.

The huge office, the panoramic view of the Chain Bridge and Castle Hill, the carved crystal glasses, the Persian carpet and the mahogany furniture were all alien to him. He never learned to deal with this environment without anxiety. He was a stranger here, and he dared not admit to himself that he was already anxious.

And being anxious, he attacked.

They were driven by the same mechanism that once drove the workers of the communist revolutions: they understood only that they worked, but they did not get rich. They could not grasp anything beyond that. Zente was a modern representative of this understanding. He hated everything and everyone who was more than him. And of course he was envious. Of course, he refused to admit this even to himself, but it wouldn't have taken much for an experienced psychologist to convince him that he was compensating for his own sense of inferiority by constantly fighting against everything that represented order.

Against everything that he subconsciously feels is more than him.

As have many of his colleagues who have been educated by the internet, giving the talentless the space to abuse others without face or name.

Zsigmond Zente, however, sometimes really got into it. In such cases, he pursued a case that might one day have a real social benefit, and not just end in the shattered lives of a few persecuted people. He sincerely believed that his visit today was the next step in his work for such a cause.

The dreadlocked journalist looked at the Secretary of State, whom he knew well, although they had never met. She had read everything that had been published about him in recent years and had spoken to dozens of colleagues and acquaintances over the past week to prepare for the interview. He knew he wouldn't get another shot. The Secretary of State did not like him, and made no secret of it.

The fifty-six-year-old politician Tibor Kenesei was sitting behind his desk. He threw his jacket on the back of his chair, not even bothering to put it on for the journalist. His white shirt collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened, his shirt sleeve rolled up - the Secretary of State was at work. And of course his appearance also suggested that he had no regard for his guest.

Zente was not unaware of this, but because of his origins it did not affect him as deeply as if he had come from an intellectual or other privileged family. He understood, but was not interested in the negative gesture. He just filed it away.

Kenesei was an old biker in the world of politics, but he never took it higher than the position of Secretary of State. He had been a prosperous businessman for three decades, with interests in a wide range of fields from entertainment to hospitality to refrigeration. He used politics to build relationships and relationships to build his fortune.

There was nothing special about it, everybody did it. It wasn't even an Eastern European or purely Hungarian phenomenon, it was general. It didn't matter if you worked in Brussels, or in one of the committees of the Chinese Communist Party, or in the Congress in Washington. That is how the world works. Even if ninety-six per cent of the electorate refuse to believe it, or rather to acknowledge it. They are the ones who still vote for something because they are making an emotional decision. Or, better still, they believe that their candidate will act for the common good.

But you said! - why should they believe otherwise?

The remaining four per cent are opportunists. Born cynics and existential voters. But at least they have some sense.

Kenesei has been State Secretary for less than two years. From the very beginning, he wanted to develop the then new State Secretariat into a ministry. The future ministry was his idea, his dream. He had lobbied the prime minister for years and now it looked like he would finally get it after the elections. In public administration, a new ministry is not necessarily needed because it is really needed, but sometimes because it is what someone's heart desires.

This was Kenesei's wish.

The Department of Homeland Security.

And that's why Zsigmond Zente was here.

Kenesei pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Zente sat down and crossed his legs comfortably. He threw his backpack next to his chair. He was determined not to be the first to speak. He wanted to preserve at least that much of his dignity when his hosts had let him know, through the full range of non-verbal communication, that they didn't think he was worth anything and didn't expect a fair article from him. Instead, he sat back and took a good look at Kenesai.

The politician was not very tall, his torso was stocky and his head shone bald. When his hair started to fall out, he decided to shave his skull. Around his lips was a thin beard, and his brown eyes were deep-set in their sockets. He studied the journalist, then glanced at his watch.

- I don't have much time.

- I was surprised to see you, Mr Secretary of State.

- It was not my idea, I can tell you that.

- Have you been told to do so?

- What do you care?

- Finally, I got the answer to my question. Who can instruct a Secretary of State, can they?

- You think you're so smart? - Kenesei smiled a little. - Never mind. What do you want from me, Zente?

The journalist fished a tape recorder out of his pocket.

- May I?

- No. Take notes.

The man pulled his mouth away, then pulled out a notebook and a pen instead.

- I have several questions.

- Then get started.

- After the elections, if you win...

- We win.

- So, if you win, you will create the Ministry of Terrorism. Why is this necessary, Minister?

- I am not a minister.

- But it will be. That's your wicker, isn't it?

The old song again, Kenesei sighed to himself.

- The country's defence against terror justifies it, Mr Zente. As you know, we have been under serious migratory pressure since 2015. Cells of various organisations and lone wolf fanatics are using Hungary as a base in many cases...

- "Yes," the journalist interjected, "this has been said many times since the debate on the creation of the ministry started, and then again in the period afterwards, when the opposition understood that they would create this unnecessary institution anyway.

The Secretary of State smiled and raised his index finger.

- See, that's exactly it, Zente!

- What?

- That's why we don't like you. Because it's incorrect. You say it's an unnecessary institution. You are prejudiced. You already have an opinion, but you play the impartial journalist who asks questions because... what's the word? People have a right to know? You usually say something like that, don't you?

- That's right. However, I am surprised that you are so vocal in your dislike of me.

- You know that without it. Why play games?

- What if I write how you talk to me?

- Who would believe it?

- Readers.

- Your readers would also believe you if you wrote that I slapped you and kicked you out of my office...

- Is this what you are doing?

- ...but the readers I care about wouldn't believe you even if I did slap you. So nothing changes," he said, with a wry smile. - You can write what you want.

- So what do you hope to get out of this interview, Mr Secretary of State?

- That it will end very quickly.

Zente sighed. He finally understood that there was really no point in pulling Kenesei's moustache, because it wasn't going to get him out of his doldrums.

- So I come back to my original question. Why did we need this ministry and why did we need a budget of tens of billions of euros?

- There is a lot of pressure at the borders and the ministry can manage this more effectively. As can the detection of terrorist cells in hiding.

- The Counter-Terrorism Centre set up by the previous government was designed to do just that, was it not?

- We are restructuring the system a little, Mr Zente.

- What role was the TEK intended to play?

- Training. The experience they have gained will be put to good use in the training of new TVM commandos. This training has been going on for months now, and the core of the new unit is already operational.

- So you are training a new team from scratch when you already have a trained one?

- Not from scratch. The people were selected from the police force, where they have already distinguished themselves. The current training is purely in specific areas.

- When will they be available?

- They already are.

Zente scratched his nose.

- I still do not understand the justification for setting up a new police unit. They are doing the same thing as the TEK. Over the last six months, there have been successive disputes about the overlapping competences of police forces.

- This is part of a reorganisation process. It will crystallise.

- Can we know more about this?

- We will of course publish it in due course.

- Why not now?

- It would not be right for staff to learn about the changes from the press.

- This has happened so many times, Mr Secretary of State, that...

- That is why we do not want to make this mistake again.

Zsigmond Zente turned a page in his notebook.

- Many people say that the whole Ministry of Defence is nothing but your private army. It's all in your heart.

- This is nonsense.

- You previously wrote a study on the threat of terrorism and then spent years lobbying for a new ministry.

- There's no secret about it. The paper is public, as are my views and my work over the years.

- So you don't deny that TVM is really nothing more than your own playground?

Kenesei's face tightened for the first time.

- Do you really think that the Parliament will decide to create a ministry at the cost of tens of billions of euros simply because it does not consider it justified?

- According to the news, you do not trust the counter-terrorism organisation set up in the previous era, and that is why you are creating a new one. The old ones are used until the new ones are trained and then they are let go. So far, the past few months have not proved the TVM's raison d'être.

- Where?

- TEK prevented three terrorist attacks, TVM none.

- This only proves that the threat is real. Would you like the state to be unable to protect its citizens?

- The current system can protect them.

- That's not what I meant.

- Look, Mr Zente. It's always up to the current government to protect the people. I remember well that you were against the creation of the TEK some fifteen years ago. I don't understand why you're in favour of them now. This is how we will protect citizens from now on. It is as simple as that.

- And what about those reports that the money is going into the party coffers?

Kenesei looked at the journalist with a wooden face, and thought how much he would like to punch him in the nose with a stick.

- You are the only ones spreading this. Of course, that's not what's happening at all, and even you can't provide any evidence to refute it.

- Well," the journalist put his fingers up, "it is rumoured that the TVM will have a budget of ninety-seven billion forints.

- The budget is also included in the draft. Public data.

- TVM's purchases are allegedly overpriced...

- I don't think so.

- ...and the winners will only get access to the tender budget if they return thirty percent to the party coffers.

- Of course. Why not put it in my pocket? - Kenesei asked dryly.

- Is it going into your pocket? - Zente snapped.

Kenesei, however, gestured towards the door.

- You are not asking questions, you are making accusations. Enough of this! Please leave.

- "Just one more question," Zente stood up without argument, having expected to be thrown out much earlier.

- Yes?

- I really mean it. Why was the TVM necessary? When the counter-terrorism system has worked well for years...

- Have you seen Woody Allen's Annie Hall?

- What does this have to do with it? - Zente staggers.

- There's a part in it where Woody Allen finds the pins he used to wear among his old memories: Le Nixon!, Le Carter!, Le Reagan!

- I don't understand what this has to do with anything.

- No matter who's in power, you're only interested in the bickering. You can't tell me how things should be done, you can only tell whoever is in government not to do it. That doesn't move the world forward. Goodbye! - said the Secretary of State, pulling a document across his desk in front of him.

Tahi led Zenté towards the exit.

When the door closed behind the uninvited guest, the mobile phone rang. Kenesei paled as he saw the caller's name on the screen.

- Prime Minister?

- Tibor? Come over to my place, please!

- When?

- Now, if possible.

- I'll be there in 20 minutes.

Kenesei hung up the phone and called the secretary for the driver to come out.

He tightened his tie, picked up his jacket and rubbed the toe of his shoe across the back of his calf. He was unable to get out of this boorish habit. He got into the habit as a novice contractor, when he was inspecting his construction site twenty-seven years earlier and the dust got on his shoes. Only back then he wore jeans bought from Tesco, not Armani suits like today.

In seven minutes, the black Audi whisked him from his office to Kossuth Square, where he quickly passed through security and was allowed to enter the lobby of the Prime Minister's parliamentary office. The secretary looked up.

- Good afternoon, Mr Secretary of State! The Prime Minister is waiting! Please go in.

Kenesei could not decide whether this was good or bad.

Sometimes praise, sometimes put-downs - you could never tell what was coming from the Prime Minister's tone and reactions.

The leader of the country stood in front of the window, looking out over the Danube. He did not turn around when he heard the door open and then close.

- I'm home.

- Come on, Tibor, come on!

The Secretary of State walked up to the Prime Minister and stopped beside him. The Prime Minister, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, looked at him slowly.

- How did it go with Zente?

- A little stupid prick. I shook him off.

- Was there anything interesting?

- No. I should never have met him.

- "But I had to," the head of government said emphatically. Sometimes you have to give room to idiots like this. To relieve the tension.

- I would have paid for it.

- "You wouldn't have paid it," the Prime Minister shook his head. You would have beaten him up instead. That's not a bad way to do it, but we're not so far East that it's acceptable.

- So much so in the East that they would kill them.

- We are not there yet.

- There are counter-examples.

- Which I do not wish to... reproduce... What exactly did Zente want?

- He asked about the creation of the TVM.

- Why is it necessary?

- Exactly. I said the usual blah-blah, which I've already said in Parliament more than once.

- Do you understand?

- No. He was just spouting his own nonsense. Your readers have already decided that there is no need for this ministry. I expected nothing less from him.

- "Me neither," the Prime Minister murmured, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. - Did he mention funding?

- Yes. That ninety-seven billion is a real eye-opener for your comrades.

- I'm more concerned that you haven't done anything in six months, Tibor.

Kenesei felt his neck begin to redden.

- We do our best...

- Three terrorist plots were discovered and defused by the previous team. None of you.

- Soon...

- "It's hard to defend you like this, Tibor," the Prime Minister opened his arms. Officially, you don't exist yet, but everyone knows that you have already been formed. Troops are being trained, recruitment is under way, and the administration is being set up behind the scenes. The fact that you are for the time being a Directorate of Terrorism and not a Ministry of Terrorism is just a detail.

- So we will be up and running from the moment of creation.

- Okay. But we're not waiting any longer. But step out on the stage. Get to work! Start getting results!

- Prime Minister, you know that the main reason...

- I know, Tibor, I know. But there is more. The resources are used too slowly for you if you are not operating at full speed. Speed up your purchases! So far you're... you're not adding what you need to... you know what I mean?

Kenesei swallowed.

- I see.

- And do something with your people! I don't want the impotence of a future ministry that I intend to create to be a major election issue.

- "Understood", repeated the startled Secretary of State.

- I want results. Catch terrorists, Tibor, or we really don't need you. And fill the coffers!

There was a nod in response.

- I can't hear you.

- Yes, Prime Minister, I will.

The head of government looked him over, then waved his chin.

- Then go and do as I say!

3.

He sat in the back seat of his black office Skoda, staring at his own reflection in the side window as the city flashed by outside.

By the age of thirty-eight, Peter Básti was almost completely grey. The fact itself did not bother him at all. He always thought that a man's hair was not bad for a man. And he had already regretted the time spent combing his hair. Accordingly, he had his comforter trimmed to a spike, so that he would have no trouble with that.

The car was heading towards the police headquarters in Teve Street on the wide boulevard, where early evening traffic was flowing. Básti was wearing a dark blue uniform, his tasseled cap resting on his knee. The uniform occasionally flickered with the glint of streetlamps on the lieutenant colonel's rank insignia.

He was nervous.

In civilian life they would have said he was going to a casting, but in police circles they would have said he was being called in. He knew that he could not stay in the Veszprém nest for much longer, he knew that sooner or later that day would come. When he would be asked to do something. And if he said no, he would bury himself.

An experienced police officer with good skills has two paths in the organisation.

Either upwards or outwards.

If he doesn't accept the next step up, he can pretty much expect them to start looking for the knot in the poke around him. Then if they find it, he'll have to go, if they don't, he'll get tired of the constant, unfounded harassment. So you don't really have a choice once you've been called from upstairs.

Básti has learned his lesson well: there are some organisations where it is not good to stand out.

The police, for example, are exactly like that.

Every smart captain knows that you should not be in the top three and in the bottom ten. The last ones are thrown out, and the first ones are typically not assumed to have work behind the results, but statistical fraud. And who needs internal audits? Especially as the mandate letter handed over when the investigation is ordered is usually accompanied by the conclusion. Peter Temar knew this very well in his day.

So the smarter ones keep quiet, and if one year goes too well, they put on the brakes. This usually starts towards the end of September. Then you can see where the unit will end up by the end of the year. If it's too good, then from October onwards, the public operations, the patrols, and the forced release of untaken holidays start - the main thing is that the detectives don't do what they're supposed to do. So cases are delayed, deadlines are extended, and undesirable results from one year are carried over to the next. And who cares about that at the moment, right? It's good to be able to plan a week ahead in these schedules, not a year...

Básti knew the system well, he exploited its flaws, he knew why he was doing what he was doing.

So he also knew that this day would come one day. And on this evening in late May, he was sure it would happen - whether he wanted it to or not. He'd been in one place for too long, and had kept his captaincy in the top third of the national list for too long.

Awkwardly careful to avoid the podium - but doing a good job.

The principle was to do it the way Bubka had corrected the world record for the high jump. At the time, the Ukrainian received a special bonus from his sponsor for each world record, so he would improve the world record every centimetre and pick up the bonus each time. He could have jumped ten centimetres higher, but why would he do that?

Básti did the same: he always wanted to beat the previous year's result.

Not by much, just by a tiny percentage.

Those who improved on the previous year were not even bothered. After all, that was the expectation. Just don't improve too much, because that's immediately suspicious. There must be something fishy about that. As was often the case, of course, but that was the sport of opportunists in this community. Those who gutted a police station in two years, made a huge improvement in the statistics and were immediately promoted for it, moving up the ranks. And of course, the station collapsed the following year, because it was not possible to increase the huge numbers. The holidays that were stuck had to be given out, and people asked for transfers because of the overload. And the successors of these child prodigies usually fell into what their predecessors had left behind.

Básti did not like opportunists, but he learned to live with them.

Be on good terms with them, but don't let them get too close.

In any case, within a few years, they became great people. You never knew if the guy you kicked the dust with today might be on top of you tomorrow. Bastian therefore tried to make sure that he didn't leave behind too many hurt people and enemies. The opportunists, on the other hand, were not the least bit interested in this, because if they hoped to gain an advantage from it, they would stab anyone in the back without question. There was no 100 per cent protection against them.

Just such an opportunist was sitting next to Básti in the back seat of the Skoda.

The chief of police of Budapest rubbed his chin wearily as he listened to the report of the officer on duty on his mobile phone.

Éva Fehérvári was an old biker, she had been a commander for many years, but she was less than a year older than Bástin. They knew each other only superficially. They had no serious relationship before, although they were separated by only one year at the Police College. Then, a week earlier, Básti received a mysterious phone call from his secretary. The General wanted to see him. They met several times in the following days. Fehérvári was soft. Then he made up his mind.

And Bastian was here now.

In fancy dress, shaved, with freshly washed hair, shiny shoes - and deep embarrassment. He didn't mean to, but it's going to happen. He was comfortable in his place and didn't like the hustle and bustle of the capital. He was used to working with good investigators and helpful managers, and the results would come. Of course, there was always a bit of a sting from above, but the good community had so far pushed him through that. He didn't just go to work because he loved it, he went to work because he got to work with good people.

And that would end today - he knew that for sure.

The Chief Executive ended the call and put the phone away.

- "They're idiots," he growled under his breath.