Death of Europe E-Book

Laszlo Reti

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

Seitenzahl: 755

Beschreibung

It is 2050. Hungary has gone through another parliamentary election and the Prime Minister has his work cut out. There are now nearly a million Muslims in the country, and nearly half of them are of Arab origin. The number of Hungarians has fallen below eight million. In the Arabian Peninsula mathematical models have been used for half a century to plan the future. Nothing can happen without foresight. It is time for the Dynasty to act. Something is going on in the background, but no one can see all the pieces of the puzzle.

László Zsitvai, the newly appointed national security adviser is trying to steer the course so that everything works in his favour. Meanwhile, Mariann Siroki, a psychologist who has converted to Islam is putting forward a theory in Budapest that will fundamentally change the war on terror. But terrorists change tactics too, and she must find a second way. But in the actual theatre of the war on terror the streets are increasingly chaotic. Lieutenant Hamza is a police sniper. He does not work on principles and theories, but steps out into the harsh reality every day. And he has to pull the trigger.

The geopolitical dilemmas are part of a couple's daily life and they have to decide at the level of the ordinary man: what to do next? Should they bow to power? Can global politics be changed? Or must they simply save their own lives? Because perhaps there is no other way...

Leseprobe

Laszlo Reti

Death of Europe

Laszlo Reti – Death of Europe

Copyright © Laszlo Reti

First release: 2019

Contact:

www.retilaszlo.hu

[email protected]

Edited by

Laszlo Reti (2024)

Cover design

Laszlo Reti & AI

Electronic version

Laszlo Reti

Larkin Ltd.

ISBN: 978–615–6733–18–4

Laszlo Reti

DEATH OF EUROPE

2024

What was will be the same,

and what happened will happen again,

because there is nothing new under the sun.

(Ecclesiastes 1:9)

Political correctness: language, policy, behaviour, ideas, thinking that seeks to minimise offence to particular religious, ethnic, cultural or other communities. [...] Its use is somewhat controversial: to single out one statement as politically correct is to presuppose that other forms of expression are incorrect [...]

Source: wikipedia

Beslan, North Ossetia, 4 September 2004.

– There are children inside, General. So there will be many dead.

– I know.

– Is there any other solution?

Ivanov removed the binoculars from his eyes and looked at the General. He shrugged.

– Moscow says the stakes are higher here, Major, than the lives of a few children.

– Where?

– We are at war with a breakaway part of the country. We cannot show weakness.

– But this is not a weakness. We could go on negotiating and...

– The trial itself is the weakness, Ivanov. History has already taught us that.

– The great generals have also negotiated, sir.

– To buy time. Of course... Molotov negotiated, and? What were we doing with him? And then in '45, Koba stopped negotiating, and hit them. They always understand that. Or rather, they always get it.

– 'With respect, there are still hundreds of children inside,' Ivanov noted, and began to scan the windows of the school again.

– What does the robot show?

The Major led the newly arrived General to the screen on the desk.

– The camera was delivered two days ago, General. Through the ceiling.

They stared at the display.

The gym was packed with children. They were sitting and lying on the floor. Anyone lucky enough to get up against the wall could at least rest their backs. A few adults were bending over among them, probably teachers. Armed, bearded figures patrolled the entrance and the traps set up between the children, vigilantly scanning the crowd of children.

– The hostages are running out.

– What do you mean, Ivanov?

– Some children were stabbed yesterday and the day before yesterday.

– Why?

– We don't know. It was impossible to tell from the footage. One was about eight years old," the officer swallowed hard. – 'My son is about the same size, General.

– Don't get sentimental on me, Major. Someone else has a child. We still have a job to do.

– But we're just standing here like some kind of jerk.

– We do not give the orders. We just carry them out.

– 'We should have gone in when that animal ran into the little ones,' the Major nodded, his chin tightening. – They could never have rigged those mines. I don't know why the hell we're still waiting.

– Again, none of your business!

– No? Whose is it? Two girls were raped last night.

This finally threw Brigadier General Tyemnikov off his guard.

– Excuse me?

The Major pointed to the screen.

– They were taken out there. Probably to the storeroom, and from there to the yard. If you want, I can get the footage from around 2:00 in the morning...

– Not relevant. Continue!

– They were dragged out. There were two little girls. They must have been about fifteen or so.

– Have they been brought back?

– Not in the gym. I don't expect much good, sir.

– We know what happened after...

– Then all we could hear were screams and moans.

– Did the robot bring in a microphone?

Ivanov swallowed and straightened up.

– We heard the voices with our own ears, General. From the school.

– "There's nothing you can do, Ivanov," the officer in the camouflage suit stepped away from the table and picked up a pair of binoculars himself.

– What now, sir?

– We are waiting, Ivanov. We are waiting. As always.

– But what for?

The General looked at the screen. The school gym was packed with children.

– I wanted to go in the day before yesterday. When the teachers were shot out of the window into the street – the Major lowered his voice and punched his palm several times with his fist – I wanted to tear them to pieces, you see?

– So why didn't you? You'd be a hero by now, Major!

– By now, I'd be sitting in the Black Dolphin's military compound without a shoelace or a belt.

– There are only serial killers and cannibals. As far as I know, there's no military branch.

– Didn't you know? – grinned the Major bitterly. – Good for you.

Ivanov glanced dispassionately at the Vostok Kommandirsky strapped to his wrist. The five–pointed star was glowing red at number 12. It had been given to him by his father when he returned home, relatively intact, from Afghanistan. It was not an expensive piece of equipment, but it meant a lot to him. Since then, the commando commander had taken the watch with him everywhere he went. He felt it was time to return to the subject.

– What then, General?

– We are waiting for the order from Moscow. The President has interrupted the Turkish trip, in case you didn't know.

– And is he going to give orders for anything?

The General sighed.

– That will be decided afterwards, Ivanov. If it ends well, the President has given the order.

– And if it is wrong?

– Then I will. Or you will.

The Major shook his head and changed the subject.

– It is forty–eight hours, General, since the Chechens shot the male teachers. And in all that time, nothing good could have happened in there.

– You know that. Moscow has not yet decided.

– Until Moscow decides, children will die.

– Obviously you can't negotiate with terrorists, Major.

– Obviously we have to negotiate with the terrorists, General. There are children inside.

– You do not understand the essence of war. There are always children inside.

– I really do not understand this. How could they always be in there...

– There's always someone in there, Ivanov. Someone is always in the way. Someone's always in the line of fire. There's always someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that someone is someone else's child. Their age is completely irrelevant. What matters is that there are inappropriate people in the area of operation.

– People. Innocent people.

– 'Call it what you like,' the General growled, glancing at the phone on the table. It was the hotline. But he just wouldn't speak.

The Major cleared his throat.

– Aushev went in the day before yesterday.

– "So?" the General turned to him. "It was on the news. Even these bastards respect the former Ingush president. He even brought out two dozen children.

– And one more thing.

– "What?" hissed the General, stepping closer to Ivanov. Both of them glanced flatly at the uniformed operators working on the other side of the operations room, but they were busy with their tasks.

Ivanov lowered his voice.

– Aushev reportedly brought a message. On a videotape.

– Where did you hear that?

– The soldiers are talking again, General.

Tyemnikov licked the corners of his mouth, finally almost breathing the words.

– He handed it over to security. That's all you need to know.

– As far as I know, we are the security.

– You know who I mean.

– Intelligence has already failed, sir. "Here we are," he pointed around. – 'If they'd done their job, I'd be in Krasnodar scratching my balls and you'd be in Moscow taking a sauna with a big glass of vodka.

– This is not our business, Ivanov.

– What was on the tape that the terrorists sent out with Aushev?

– This is none of our business either.

– Sir, with all due respect, I'm about to send a squadron of my soldiers to that damn school, and I'd like to see as few children as possible killed! And you know what? I'd also like to see as many of my men come back in one piece when we take on the terrorists.

– You don't know if there will be an intrusion warrant.

Ivanov let the comment slide by his ear.

– What was on it?

Tyemnikov scratched his nose compulsively.

– I have not seen it.

– So who saw it?

– Aushev immediately handed it to the first suit who came along. They looked at it.

– And what did they say?

– That the tape is empty.

Ivanov's eyebrows shot up.

– What?!

– I was told by their local manager not to ask questions, and anyway, the tape was blank. There was nothing on it.

– And you believe that? That they'd take over a school with a thousand hostages and give the ex–President a blank tape to hand over to the outside world?

– Whatever I believe.

Ivanov nervously took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it.

– It stinks to me, General.

– Don't think, Ivanov. You are the edge of the axe. Not the hand that swings it.

– Do you know what it all looks like?

– Be quiet!

But the Major leaned closer and poked the burning cigarette between his fingers at the General's chest.

– I think someone here wants us to fucking...

The ground began to tremble, and a moment later the sound of an explosion came.

The first bang was followed by more bangs, then a second of silence. Then all hell broke loose. Ivanov threw the cigarette away.

– Which fuck gave the order to fire!? – he shouted, and turned out of the command centre with his rifle in his hand.

An icy sweat ran down Tyemnikov's face.

He stepped to the window and, putting down his binoculars, looked out over the street of Beslan. Across the street, the windows of the gymnasium were shattered by the explosion, the hall was ablaze, smoke billowed from the bare window frames.

Under one of the windows lay a child of about thirteen, with a window frame, stripped of its glass, lying crosswise on his chest. The wooden parts were burning with tiny flames, but the little girl did not move, her white belly was covered with a tiny t–shirt. The General could see clearly from here that the child was no longer alive.

Ivanov's men shot through the rubble towards the building, firing blindly at the windows and entrance of the school.

Tyemnikov could not believe his eyes when a T–72 turned the corner and pointed its barrel towards the school. The brigadier general opened his mouth to speak, but the tank's barrel burst into flames and the explosion of the shell caused the wall of the school to collapse in one place.

– Who ordered this?! – the General shouted at his aide–de–camp, but the latter only spread his arms helplessly.

– Who ordered the attack?! Who the hell ordered the...

His words were drowned out by long lines and single shots.

Ivanov reached the entrance of the school, fired a few shots and then stepped inside. The next moment, three shots hit him in the chest and he fell backwards onto the rubble.

Forty–six years later

1.

The secretary in the black suit walked ahead of the man with an air of importance. His movements alone showed that he was fully aware of his own values. Although Laszlo Zsitvai would have preferred to vote that the little prick was vastly overestimating himself. Anyway. Politics has always been full of such cobblers, and always will be. Big people need them. Then who gets to be a big man, who stays at their level, where they're still great at getting tickets to the games, booking tables at the best restaurants in town, or getting prostitutes into the residence without being noticed. The point is that their knowledge is important, though by no means indispensable. These people are interchangeable, but it's not so easy to get new ones.

But regardless of this, or perhaps because of this, this caste feels very important. And Zsitvai didn't think he should have to fix this little thirty–neck problem. Neither the place nor the time was right. Besides, his whole business and political career was about being careful not to leave enemies behind.

Because what for?

Why drag others through the mud?

Why humiliate them?

What if the wind changes?

Because it always turns.

Four years, eight years, twelve years, twenty years... it doesn't matter, but it turns.

Well, who benefits when you suddenly find a couple of dozen idiots on your doorstep – say, the day after a lost election – seeking revenge?

Zsitvai was not like that.

For the last thirty years, as long as he has been in the government's holding court, he has always made sure that if he had to break someone's career in two, they would not be angry with him. To be precise: don't be angry with him. Because such incidents are inevitable in this genre. There's no such thing as not bumping into someone or not stepping on someone's corns. Interests overlap all the time. Usually, several circles of power have their eye on the same factory, power station, hotel or piece of land. Or even the most basic treasure that still makes the world go round: women. A few big guns move in on the same lady, and trouble is brewing. Then it's a boxing match to see whose dick is longer – because things are fundamentally about nothing else, and nothing more. Everything else is just talk and obfuscation.

László Zsitvai had been through countless such rounds and was still one of the well–known grey eminences of the Budapest ring. He never became a front man because he was very careful not to take on a role that others might envy or, worse still, push him into the limelight. He was much more comfortable in the shadowy, opaque world of advisers and the obscure, opaque world of committees, boards of directors and boards of trustees. That was where he felt really at home.

And now he feared he would have to step out into the sunlight.

He turned back, and with a broad gesture to his left, pointed towards the French window overlooking the Danube.

– The Prime Minister is waiting on the terrace.

Zsitvai nodded and stepped out into the sunlight.

This time literally.

He squinted for a long moment before he caught sight of Tibor Varga. The Prime Minister was sitting at a glass table at the edge of the terrace, cast in a pleasant shadow by the white sun sail. The white building of the neighbouring Sándor Palace only intensified the light. Varga wore a blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, his light grey suit trousers had a sweat stain at the knees. He kicked his leather shoes under the table and massaged the soles of his feet through his sweaty socks.

– "Prime Minister," Zsitvai nodded and stopped two metres from the table.

– You don't mind, do you? – Varga grumbled, and without looking up he continued scratching his legs. In May, you know? It's May, and it's like the middle of July when we were teenagers. There's something to this global warming, isn't there?

– Well, Prime Minister, the...

– Stop this Prime Minister bullshit! We've known each other for forty–five years, Laci. How many times did you kick my ass in high school, huh? There's no need for protocol between us when we're alone.

When we are alone. Instead of answering, Zsitvai walked to the parapet and looked down on the city with a kindly look.

– Nice from here.

Varga got up and pushed a can of beer into the other man's hand, then stopped beside him and scratched his stomach, looking around himself.

– We have worked a lifetime for this.

– And now here it is.

– I owe a lot of that to you.

– And for our other friends," Zsitvai noted pragmatically.

– No one has helped me as much as you. And now you can ask for something.

There was silence, Zsitvai sipped his beer, then gestured broadly towards Pest.

– We are just six weeks after the elections. You formed a government a few days ago. Surely the most important thing now is that your loyalty is rewarded?

– No, not the most important, but now is the time.

– A politician who wants to give, not just receive?

– What is so surprising about this? You're in politics too, and you pay the bills yourself.

– Bills are usually settled when you leave the table.

– What do you mean?

– You called me here to throw me a bone and then cut me off? So you don't feel obligated?

Tibor Varga grinned and shook his head.

– What a bastard, calculating bastard you are! Is that what you think of me?

– "You know what I'm like," Zsitvai shrugged, "an opportunist and a realist.

– I think you're more of an existentialist, my friend. You've always cared about what goes into your bank account, not what's on your business card.

– That's the main reason why you never feared I'd break into your place.

– I am over sixty, and I still only dare to turn my back on half a dozen people. You are one of them. Because you're not after power, you're more interested in how many dollars end up in your wallet.

– I feel that you think the instructions for me are simple enough.

– It always has been, Laci. Even in high school. And then at the Academy... you stuck by me all the way.

– "And then at King's College," nodded Zsitvai, "I had to follow you, lest you do something stupid.

Varga went back to the table and sat down. He waited for his friend to join him. They sipped their beer.

– You only said no to me once.

The businessman put down the beer can and looked hard at the Prime Minister.

– I still got behind you, Tibor. You know that.

– But not blindly.

– If I did my business blindly, you wouldn't be here drinking, you'd still be teaching at some stupid university.

– "That's something," Varga nodded permissively. "But the Arabs!

– We never agreed on that. Nor today.

– I know. And that's why you're here now.

– Why?

– To say that time has vindicated you.

Zsitvai pulled his lips away.

– You don't need to apologise if that's why you called. This does not give me any satisfaction. I stood by you. You just didn't get it.

– I get it. But any way I look at it, I couldn't have done it without them. We couldn't have got here on our own – he spread his arms and gestured over the city. We're sitting on top of it.

– And what do you want to do now?

Varga gave a reluctant sigh.

– After taking the oath, I was allowed to look at the files of the secret services.

– It's not that simple, I guess.

– No. But who would say no?

He leaned forward and poked the table with his index finger.

– You were right about everything.

Zsitvai sighed.

– Fuck... I told you so many times and you never believed me! No free lunch, Tibor. Where did you think that money came from twelve years ago when you first ran for office? Where did the papers come from, where did the transfers come from? I told you then! I warned you then, if we went down this road, once they filed the bill

– I know. Now I know.

– You knew it then, hissed Zsitvai. "You just didn't want to accept it.

– But you didn't want the Arabs to...

– I didn't want to, but I was loyal to you. I didn't want to, but I did. Because of you. I watched and I went with you... I cleaned up after us for years, Tibor. I distinctly remember that after King's College, you said that scholarship was irrefutable. I warned you, but you never realised what the offer was about.

– What had not occurred to me?

– Why the two of us? Why did we get that scholarship?

– Because we were good.

– "That was a good joke," Zsitvai smiled coldly, "But you said it well. They thought so too. That we were good. The two of us. Not separately, but together. The guy with the heart and the brains to make it big one day, and the friend with the loyalty and the balls to help him do it, and to do whatever it takes.

Varga took a confused sip of his beer.

– Who said that? They?

– I said that.

– And that's why you went to the bay with me for those two years?

– Why else? I took care of my friend. Since you're doing something stupid.

The Prime Minister has decided to throw away the empty beer can.

– Then it's even more time to ask for something.

– "I don't ask for anything," the businessman turned to the Prime Minister, "I have everything, my investments are prospering. I've never aspired to any other kind of fame. There are hardly any photos of me in the newspapers. I'm not going to start my rise to prominence now. You know how I work. I'm a great motivator for one thing.

– With money.

– Exactly.

– Are you sure you don't want anything else?

– Sure.

– That's a pity... but then I'm asking you to do something, Laci.

– "Here you are," Zsitvai leaned back.

Finally, the roles are back. Varga tells them where they are and where they need to go, and he figures out the way.

– I want you to be my national security advisor.

Zsitvai laughed softly.

– There is no such position in the government.

– It is from today. And I thought of you.

– "Before I say no..." began Zsitvai, crossing his legs. – Why me?

– Because you need a position under which you can replace me.

The businessman suspected the wrong thing.

– Where should I replace you?

– In the negotiations I have with Naif.

Oh, not that, he thought, and was silent for a while. The situation was now clear to him.

– So the Arabs have submitted the bill," the businessman stated bluntly.

Varga sighed.

– It's convenient that you know the professor from the Arab University. Now you'll have to take over all my contacts. That will be your job.

– Are you still in regular contact with Naif? – Zsitvai's eyebrows shot up.

– This is no longer feasible from this position.

– That is, to mediate between the Arabs and the Hungarian government.

Varga held his hand out in front of him and waved it palm down.

– Not quite. You will report only to me. But you need an official position to do that, otherwise the press will sooner or later find out why you're coming to see me. We've had problems with this before, so let's prevent it. Before someone starts following you and finds out you've been flying east a lot. And there's a conspiracy theory going around. My national security advisor flies wherever he wants, and his travel is classified. That's, like, state secrets. No one will dare ask or write about it because the National Security Act will put him in jail. Do you understand? That's why I want you to broadcast it.

Zsitvai put his fingers together and thought silently for a minute before clearing his throat.

– What do they want? I mean Naif and those behind him.

– Broadly speaking, a takeover. They've been working on it for decades.

– The ruling family?

– A side prince. The whole Bay Area has learned a lot from the Hasogdzi affair. They no longer give direct orders. They will give orders from behind the scenes as to what should happen and why.

– What we're talking about here is bordering on treason, Tibor.

– It does not scrub. That's it.

– Why are you doing this?

– Because I can't do anything else.

– I rarely say this, but I don't understand you.

– I want to wash. I needed their support to get elected, but now I want to stand on my own two feet. It's the only way I can save the country, Laci. Thirty–five years ago, we needed that fence to keep us from becoming a gatehouse. Then a few years later, the wall was built. If it wasn't for the wall, Europe wouldn't exist today. Can't you see what's been going on here for forty years?

– I don't see how you want to save the country, and from whom exactly.

– If I'm on top and I give the orders...

– You will be a puppet. You just said I'm bringing you orders from Naif.

– Which we will implement as we see fit. So that it is good for the Hungarians. If someone else were sitting in this chair, they would probably not dare to manoeuvre, but would slavishly implement.

Varga looked hopefully into Zsitvai's eyes, but he could not read anything in them. Despite forty–five years of friendship, he had no idea what the other was thinking. Tired, he got up and walked around the table. The sixty–year–old prime minister dropped to one knee beside his friend and began to whisper in his ear from a distance of barely ten centimetres.

– I don't like what's going on in this country under the surface. Don't you understand?

– I always told you that, Tibor! Just remember! It started with the real estate agencies. Through a network of companies, Arab owners took over the biggest real estate companies. They then started buying them up in their own name, but with their own money. Large country estates, spa hotels, office buildings and apartment complexes in Budapest. Fish ponds and lots of land. All of which they owned in stages. How many times have I told you that we have something they don't? Water. That's what they need. Because after a while they will want to move, because they have to move. And there's peace, there's quiet, there's calm. Can't you see how many Arab businessmen have moved here in the last decades? How many schools for their children? How many mosques, how many prayer houses? That's what I've been telling you all these years!

– It's a process, Laci. It's colonialism. A takeover. It cannot be reversed, but...

– But what...?

– Perhaps it is manageable if you are a bottleneck person like me.

– What do you think the end goal is?

– So that the signboard would still say Hungary, but only they would sit on the board.

– So far, only their economic power has grown.

– Now they want to move into politics.

– No wonder. You know that there are almost 400,000 Arabs living in the country. There are also half a million of other Islamic faiths, maybe more.

– And now they want power. I want to prevent that. If we don't act, they'll make a puppet for themselves.

They just made one, Zsitvai thought, but preferred to remain silent.

– Will you help me?

– "Of course... as always," the adviser stood up from the table.

He was a thin, wiry man in his eighties, with neatly cut grey hair and thin–rimmed glasses that made his green eyes look a little distant as he gazed incredulously at the Prime Minister. He could not understand how his friend could be so naive. But Varga just kept going, looking into the distance as if he were imagining a brighter future.

– If I can keep things under control, maybe I can make things happen in a way that will give the Hungarians some breathing space. I want good, Laci, and there is no other way. Somehow, in this cycle, we have to get Arab influence to diminish. And you know best, the most effective way to disrupt any system is from within...

Bombastics... yeah.

– Look, Tibor...

– Will you help me?

– As I understand it, you've been seeing Naif for years and getting instructions. Orders that tell you exactly what I've always warned you not to do.

– It was the only way I could get here!

– Do you really think you can face this tsunami alone?

– I have to try. There are more and more Arabs in the administration, in the police, in the judiciary and now in Parliament. They are infiltrating, they are multiplying, and it is time for a political takeover under the grass. I want to put a stop to this. Do you understand?

– I see – nodded Zsitvai. I just can't believe it, he added to himself.

As he headed out of the palace, his head was still pounding from what Tibor Varga had thrown at it.

That goddamn, arrogant, stupid fuck...

Now you've dropped the ball. You think he's going to dictate?

These?

If he doesn't do what he's told, he's pushed aside like an extra. It took them thirty years to build a prime minister, but they won't hesitate if he doesn't dance to their tune. Zsitvai paused, biting the edge of his lip as he remembered something that seemed very likely.

Who knows how many more of these candidates they have in the house?

When the thousands of dollars in Bay Area scholarships were accepted some thirty years ago, everything was decided. But they weren't the only ones on that course at the time.

He was reminded of Péter Bacsó's 80–year–old film, and bitterly pulled his lips away.

"One day we will ask you for something, comrade Pelikan..."

How nothing has changed!

The die was cast, and far from now, thought the national security adviser.

It was about thirty years earlier.

2.

She stared out the window with a dreamy look. She should have concentrated, but she couldn't. She had no idea how long she had been staring at the trees blossoming at the edge of the City Park, listening to the birds chirping in the quieter breaks in the traffic.

She did not want to be here.

But she had no idea where she would rather be.

– Marianne?

When she left in the morning, she had never felt so lousy. She didn't understand. Maybe she had eaten something bad. She felt a little nauseous and had already been to the toilet three times today. She should sleep it off...

– Marianne? Are you listening to me?

The thin woman shuddered and turned to the woman sitting in the armchair opposite as if seeing her for the first time.

– Have you wandered off?

– "Sorry, Vera," Mariann Siroki smiled and got up from her seat, "Something's not right with me today.

– What's wrong with you?

– In the morning everything was fine, but now I started to feel nauseous.

– Are you pregnant?

Mariann turned nervously towards the woman in her late fifties.

– No, I'm not!

– How do you know that for sure? You've never been, if I remember correctly.

– I can't be now. I'm taking a pill.

Vera was visibly chilled by the information, and Mariann wanted to take back what she had just said. She picked up her tea from the windowsill and settled back in her armchair. They looked at each other for a while, then she dropped her spoon into her tea.

– Why are you looking at me like that?

– So, what do you think?

Mariann was stunned.

– I know I said we wanted to have a baby. That we're working on it.

– Yes, that's what you said. Several times.

– Things are changing.

Vera shook her head in disbelief.

– Or maybe they don't change at all.

When she received no reply, and only met Mariann's hostile, sullen gaze, she continued:

– For years I've been hearing you say that career is what's really important. You don't need children. Well, not yet. And then, as expected, your husband wanted you. And you gave in. That was less than six months ago. I remember it well.

Mariann shrugged.

– Why are you trying to back me into a corner?

– Feeling backed into a corner?

– Maybe not?! I've changed my mind – she hesitantly waved a few times, just in the air. – I have to write my thesis. You know it. And there's that big conference in Chicago in December. I've been invited to speak. I've been waiting for this opportunity for years.

– Not so long ago, you told me that you were going to be thirty–five this year and you were afraid...

– I'm running out of time! – Mariann snapped. – I know what I said! But I have to do this now. This will be the highlight of my work so far.

Vera sat quietly, just watching the younger psychologist.

– What now?", Mariann said.

– What did your husband say?

Mariann kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet under her, then sipped her tea. Vera nodded after a moment of silence.

– You know you can't do that to him.

– If you don't know, it doesn't hurt. Happy, waiting for the baby.

– Which is not coming because you're secretly taking medication.

– I will stop as soon as I have time, and then everything will be fine.

– You cannot cheat a husband with impunity.

– I don't lie to him. I'm just not gonna tell him that I've... postponed the baby project.

– What do you think you would do if you were him?

Again, a heavy silence fell over them. Mariann felt her stomach stir again, and acid began to move up her gullet. For a moment she thought she was going to vomit, but then the feeling passed. She washed the unpleasant taste down with some tea.

– I am not here, Vera, to talk about having children.

– This is true.

– Say it! What will it be? Am I fit?

– A psychologist? Of course. I'm going to recommend to the board that you be qualified and licensed for another three years. I'm sorry, but it's the law about periodic certification – she spread her arms. – We all hate it.

– Is it suitable? Just suitable?

– You know that the committee only awards an excellent rating every leap year. That doesn't mean anything. I've got a good one.

– I could do with an excellent one.

– You are a maximalist, Mariann. That's not always good.

– That's what's kept me going so far.

– Who are you trying to prove to?

The thin woman stood up from the armchair and pushed at her short, light brown hair. Her brown eyes flashed sadly at her mentor.

– Why do we always end up with my mother and father?

– Do we end up with them?

– When you accuse me of trying to prove something to someone, you always think of them.

– Why? Do you think I'm thinking about them?

– "A question for a question", Mariann sat down with a sigh of surrender.

– The drawer does not open towards you.

– I know, you're investigating now, not me. Excuse me – she hesitantly pointed to the cup. – Can I pour you another?

Vera just waved and Mariann helped herself to the thermos. A minute later, when she sat back behind the table with her steaming teacup and tucked her legs under her, she seemed much calmer.

– Good.

– What's good?

– Maybe that's what it is. I admit it. My mother and father were great in their own fields. What I do, they don't think much of. Psychology to them is just some smirking occultism.

– You may never get any praise from them, Mariann. Have you thought of that?

– Should I let them go?

– It is easier said than done. But it's a start if you think about it.

– You know very well that parental recognition is perhaps one of the most important experiences. It can derail people for life if it's missing.

– You miss it. So? Do you feel derailed?

– I haven't thought about that... – she sat back in her seat. I don't know... look... I'm standing here... I'm thirty–five years old. My husband is two years younger and wants a child. I can't give it to him. I'm nearing the top of my profession. Last week the university offered me a new position. And yet...

– Something is missing.

– I did not say that.

– So why are you here?

– For the investigation, Vera, what else?

– You know we could have done that remotely on the computer. The rules allow it.

– I am an old–school fan. I like the personal contact.

– Why are you really here?

There was silence again. Mariann was biting the edge of her mouth or sipping her tea.

– It's been a long time since we talked.

– But you didn't stop by to talk. You said you were here for the investigation.

– Come on! You know what I mean.

– Why can't you give the child to your husband?

– What?

– You said you couldn't give him the baby. What were you thinking?

– I did not say that.

Vera cocked her head and stared at the other woman without a word. After a while Mariann spread her hands.

– Good. I may have said.

– Well?

– I can't give it to him because... because I don't want a baby, Vera.

Again, the mentor chose silence. Mariann will tell you as much as she wants. And she will ask questions when the time comes. A slow tear started to fall down the slender woman's cheek. She did not wipe it away.

– I am so sorry...

– What?

– "I don't want a child," she said, and was visibly relieved. She wiped away her tears angrily and looked defiantly at Vera.

– Is that what you wanted to say?

– This. I don't want a baby.

– Why not?

She got up and started pacing the room.

– There are so many more valuable things to do with that time! Meanwhile, what are a lot of serious minds doing? Changing nappies, heating baby food and having idiotic conversations on the playground! I don't want that! My brain is simply meant for more than that! I'm not gonna waste my time with this crap!

She choked, and instead of continuing, she quickly drank her tea. She was disappointed to find her cup empty again.

– Why didn't you tell your husband?

– Because he would leave you.

– So what will you do?

– He acknowledges that the baby is not coming. Slowly. Over years.

– And then will he leave me?

– He is not like that.

– Why do you feel you have the right to decide for him?

Marianne was breathless. Vera continued quietly:

– Why didn't you tell him what you told me?

– He would really leave you. And I want to be with him.

– This may be a reason for silence. But you made him believe you weren't taking anything and that a baby was coming soon. You're lulling him into believing he's going to be a father.

– Because that's what he wanted!

– And if that's what he wanted?

– I couldn't fucking say no to him!

Mariann sobbed and sat down in the armchair, hunched over.

She fished a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket and began to wipe her eyes. Vera let her calm down at her own pace.

She knew Marianne Siroki well. Sixteen years ago, they met at the university, where Vera was then deputy head of department. Her field of expertise was the mysterious mass psychology, and Mariann, a gifted student, was also interested in this field. She first became her assistant, and soon after graduating she became an assistant professor. A year later, Mariann was assistant head of department and Vera head of department at another university. All the time Vera remained her mentor. That was the only thing that stopped them from being friends. They knew too much about each other for that. More than a friendship could bear.

Vera waited, and she needed to. The young psychologist was slow to calm down. Minutes passed before she looked up with reddened eyes and smiled.

– Thank you, Vera.

– What are you saying hello to?

– For bringing it out of me.

– What exactly do you mean?

– This way – she pointed around. – "That I'm bitching to you here. I've been bitching for years. How bored you must be! And all the time I could see what was wrong.

– And what is wrong?

– It's obvious, isn't it? My need to conform... Right?

– You are a professional. You know the answer.

– That's why I don't feel well. That's why I always feel lacking, and that's why I can never be happy about anything with all my heart. I achieve an achievement, but instead of enjoying the triumph, I'm already thinking about what to do next. And how my father would feel about that success. And then it depresses me because my dad can't praise anything I do.

– So the need to comply. Is that the reason for all this?

– That's why I can't say no.

– What do you mean, Mariann?

She sighed in agony and blew her nose.

– I can't say no. I want to please everyone. Because I have to give an answer to whatever question comes up. I cannot say that I don't know! That I can't! If the university asks me to do something? Of course I can! Does my husband want a baby? I'm going to say yes, and I don't even want him in the middle of my back.

– And it makes you feel bad.

– Not obvious enough?

– Is that why you changed your religion?

Mariann sighed.

– How many years have you wanted to ask this question?

– Or fifteen. How old were you when you converted?

– Twenty. And I think, yes, that was part of the reason. A lot of people converted at that time. It was fashionable. My boyfriend at the time was a Muslim. So I converted. Who cared? I don't practice the faith anyway. At least, I thought I did at the time.

– I understand you practice.

– There are many interesting and good things in the Koran. But somehow it just... comes at me in waves. Sometimes I don't pray for weeks, and then I pray five times every day.

– Isn't it rather that you wanted to annoy your father?

Mariann laughed.

– You may be close to the truth. Looking back, key moments in my life somehow always had something to do with my father. And sometimes my mother.

– What do you think is the reason for this?

– "It's in the textbooks," Mariann smiled without any mirth. I want to compensate for that with a constant need to conform.

Vera now felt she had to change gears a little before Mariann dived too deep.

– In many cases, the pressure to conform leads to positive things.

– Give me one!

– For example, it's how you moved up the university hierarchy.

– For example, I didn't have children when it was time.

– Do you still want a baby?

– I wanted to. Not anymore. Time has passed. Though perhaps the time was never right.

– But... can you have children? I mean...

– Medically? As far as I know, yes. But I don't have to.

– Have you ever been influenced by this in your work? The need to conform.

– I can only hope not.

– I don't quite understand, Mariann. Can you explain?

She tilted her head back and wiped the tears that had started to well up again from her eyes.

– I have never said no to any invitation. Whether it was therapy, teaching or research. Never. Not for anything.

– This is not yet a problem.

– But I gave answers every time. Or I led others to.

– We don't always know the answers.

– Well, that's just it. I knew it. Or at least I thought I did.

– And now, in hindsight, you have doubts.

– Yes. I'm not at all sure that I've always chosen the right solution. But every single damn time I felt I had to give an answer when I was asked! In fact! I have to give the answer, not someone else.

Vera paused again, only to look at her student.

– Why did you feel that?

– Because... I wanted recognition.

– Because you wanted recognition. I see. And did you get it?

– Meg. If something was expected of me and I delivered, and I always delivered, I got it!

– But now you can't live up to your husband.

– For the first time in my life, I don't want to.

– And what about your professional work?

– What does this have to do with it?

– You want to answer there too? To everyone, all the time? Still?

Mariann thought about it and bit her lip. Slowly, she nodded.

– I think so, yes...

– Why do you feel this way?

– Because now I've thought about who can ask me to do what at work. And I couldn't find anyone I'd say no to... do you think it's because of my dad and my mom?

Mariann looked up again, tears in her eyes, and looked at Vera pleadingly.

– I think the recognition of your father is the most important thing for you.

– Still?

– You can't help it. But you should think about something.

– Min?

– What will happen once you get this recognition from him.

– I simply will not believe him. I wouldn't be able to after all this time.

– I see. But then what will continue to drive you?

Mariann's mouth opened, but she could not speak. For minutes she just looked at herself. Then the nausea came again. This time she could no longer stop it. She ran to the bathroom, but the first portion of her stomach contents landed on the hallway stone.

3.

The armoured police car rolled slowly down Kazinczy Street. The light of the blue lantern, spinning boringly on top, painted the walls rhythmically over and over again. Drunks staggered along the pavement, banging trash cans, one small group shouting the British national anthem, misreading the words. The police ensign driving the car waved over the captain who was standing beside him.

– Shall we stop them?

– Why, Sanyi? Let them shout.

– It's almost midnight.

– And you live here? Why does that bother you? Is your boy waking up in Laurence?

The two policemen in the backseat smiled mischievously.

They took a good look at the British as they rolled past, but they just stared stupidly at the police in flak jackets and helmets, armed to the teeth. Gone are the days when they could show their middle fingers to the police with impunity, or even slap them on the car. Lieutenant Hamza remembered the low point, when seven or eight years earlier, such a group would have pissed on the side of a patrol car and there was little they could do. The public order offence for which they could have taken action was not worth the risk of being caught in the middle of a huge brawl fifteen seconds after getting out.

Then came the bombings, then came the deaths, then came despair.

And with it the need for effective law enforcement units. The transformation has been swift, and this time something that has never happened before has happened: the law has changed, not just expectations. The police had been boxing with their hands tied behind their backs, the then Home Secretary said, so now we are untying the strings.

And they untied it.

The Hungarians were among the last in Europe to adopt the procedural methods developed by the Israeli security services at the beginning of the century. Their essence was simple: first, to interrupt the terrorist act and then to eliminate the terrorist.

There is no call, no warning shot.

The protocol was to strike immediately. They were even taught how to break the terrorist's carotid artery with their teeth or how to dislocate their eyes without a weapon. The point was total and immediate incapacitation. At any cost.

In the early 2000s, this mentality was completely alien to European policing. Then, thirty years on, even liberals realised that a life–and–death struggle had been going on for decades.

If you don't kill, they kill you.

If you don't stop them, they will come in.

And once they're in, they take over, and from then on they dictate.

Is this what you want for your child? – asked the fundamental question in a campaign poster for the parliamentary elections in the early 1930s. A poster that has been on the wall of every police building ever since. There is no order, no central instruction, but people still put it up or stick it up with drawing pins.

The important thing is that they see it every day.

Because it is now a matter of everyday life.

The integration of the new self–defence methodology into the Hungarian system was surprisingly easy. The frustration of the personnel, which had been building up for decades because of the handcuffed hand mentioned by the Minister of the Interior, has finally been removed.

It ceased to exist, and in good Hungarian tradition, many people have fallen over the fence.

But this time the excesses were barely poked at. More important than anything else was meeting people's need for security, and that was done. At any cost, indeed. In Budapest, the attacks that used to be a daily occurrence were cancelled because the terrorists realised that retaliation here was immediate and final. Soon Hungary was once again considered one of the safest capitals on the continent. That's why the British returned, as did other nations in search of cheap drinks and prostitutes.

Hamza adjusted his sidearm and tightened the strap on his machine gun.

The captain turned back.

– How much longer are you staying with us?

– "Tomorrow is my last day of duty," said the lieutenant.

– And? Will you be happy there?

– I always wanted to do this, boss. I've loved shooting since I was a kid.

– There you will have to kill. You know that too?

– I know.

– Only because you're a virgin in this one, I assume.

– I don't use my gun unnecessarily.

– And who decides what is superfluous?

– So far, I have succeeded.

The captain nodded and turned forward again. He moved with some difficulty because of all the equipment, and it took him a while to settle down again.

The driver looked in the mirror and caught Hamza's gaze.

– How many years have you been with us?

– Eleven.

– It's long. And in eleven years... not once?

– For arms and legs. "That's what I believe," said the lieutenant simply.

– "With your knowledge you can do it," the captain took over again, "but we know very well that few people can.

– That's not my fault. But that's why I feel I'll find my place in the snipers.

– To save some bastards there or to blow their heads off?

Lieutenant Hamza bit his lower lip.

He has asked himself this question a few times. He didn't know the answer.

At least for now.

The captain stared out of the window. Slowly the houses of Wesselényi Street passed the car, and the synagogue of Dohány Street appeared on the left. The building was surrounded by X–shaped steel tank obstacles, just like the Omaha Beach fortifications on D–Day. It would have been impossible to get a truck full of explosives through them. At the base of the X's, the pavement was stained with rust in wide patches. The barriers had been there for at least a decade and a half. Sometimes they were replaced, but never painted over. You don't mess with that sort of thing.

The car slowly turned right and slid along Károly körút, then jumped onto the pavement at Madách tér and down into the car park. They stopped at the Asbóth Street intersection and parked on the side of the road.

After a moment of silence, the captain glanced back over his shoulder again.

– You have no idea what it feels like to kill a man.

– Is that why you're here as cops? – Hamza looked back.

– "No, of course not," the driver shook his head, and the captain next to him.

– Well, I've got away with it so far. I won't have much chance of that in the future. But if it's my turn to shoot...

– "Then we'll see if you can," the captain interjected, and sneered. "Until it happened to me, I didn't know if I could do it.

– But it happened, and you did what you had to do. "Just like Sanyi and the fresh meat next to me," Hamza looked at Antall, the other lieutenant crouched next to him.

The young officer flinched at being addressed. As three sets of eyes looked at him questioningly, he shrugged slowly.

– I'm not proud of it – and then, as he got no answer, he felt he had to tell me. It was a Christmas market. What could I do?

– That's a clear situation," nodded the captain, "And the lieutenant will meet the same kind of people in the snipers, right?

– I hope so, Hamza thought aloud, "Snipers are taken out when there's a situation. Something has already happened there. It's much clearer than on the street, patrolling. If I see a gun to someone's head in the binoculars, I won't hesitate. But to decide that on the street so that I can look in the mirror afterwards...

– Attention!" the captain snapped, pointing to the left.

They all banged their heads.

The old Opel van was parked on the edge of the pavement, less than thirty metres away. Two heavily stubbled, brown–skinned men were working around the van. They each loaded a gas cylinder into the van's cargo area, and one of them climbed in with a smaller can and a handful of wires.

– "Assassin," Antall said quietly.

– Fortunately, they are still in the assembly phase.

– But here, in the city centre? – Hamza stammered. – On the street?

– Can't believe your eyes? – the captain hissed, and snarled at the driver.

The armoured car swerved onto the Asbóth and squealed on its brakes behind the Opel.

Antall and the captain immediately jumped out of their seats and, pointing their machine guns forward, circled the car.

– Stop!

Hamza and the driver got out with some difficulty, but less than three seconds later they were kneeling in the car doors and securing the other two officers at gunpoint.

Only one Arab was visible. He was squatting in the cargo hold, fiddling around with the LPG cylinders, wires in hand. From here he could clearly see that the two bottles that had just been loaded were not all of them. At least seven or eight cylinders were already in the hold. Lieutenant Hamza could feel the adrenaline rushing through him and his stomach tightening.

Where is the other man?!

The captain pulled the radio strapped to his shoulder to his mouth.

– This is Downtown 22! Terrorist attack in progress at the corner of Asbóth and Madách. We have intervened, interruption in progress! Request backup.

– Roger, sending!" the radio crackled.

The young Arab squatting in the cargo hold was wearing a black T–shirt and jeans, his curly hair piled high on his head. His black eyes flashed with perplexed terror.

The captain had no intention of calling out, he wanted to fire immediately, but when he stepped to the side, the other gas canisters were visible from that angle. If he fired from here, they would have been blown away, as would the building next to them. He was forced to change tactics.

– Let me see your hands and get out of there!

The young man immediately threw his arms up in the air and began to clap his hands in Arabic as he staggered in a crouch towards the van door.

– That's it, come on, get out!

– Where is the other one? – Antall shouted.

– I can't see!

– Avoiding.

– I got your back!

Antall and the driver got up and walked to the front of the car from both sides, while the man in the back stepped out onto the tarmac.

– On the ground!" shouted Hamza, waving the barrel of his gun down. – Get down!

The Arab slowly got down on all fours.

The street was deserted in no time. People were used to disappearing at such times. Twenty–five years ago, they would have been using their mobile phones to video and stare. Now they know to take cover. The Paris attacks almost forty years earlier taught people that. Many died because they didn't believe what they were seeing was happening to them. And it is happening now. They wanted to record the act of terror so they could upload it to Instagram or Twitter and enjoy the likes of people they had never seen. Instead, they got bullets.

Now people are smarter.

Or they are just more afraid and more prepared. It doesn't matter in terms of the end result.

Response times were also reduced. Less than thirty seconds after the radio distress call was made, sirens were heard from two directions.

Hamza watched as the Arab guy fell to the ground and interlaced his fingers on the back of his head.

– That's it, he grumbled to himself, no bullshit. And then everyone will survive all this...

– Gun!

The shout came from the front of the van.

The lieutenant jerked his head and saw the other Arab man get out of the driver's seat, a large kitchen knife flashing in his hand.

Antall followed protocol.

He fired a short burst, and knocked down the Arab with the knife from less than four metres. The man collapsed to the ground, the knife falling from one hand and a package from the other onto the asphalt. Antall took two steps and secured the scene with two shots to the head. The man didn't move, a pool of dark red blood began to spread across the pavement.

At the sound of the shots, the young man, who was already lying down, looked up and glanced at his partner, startled. Suddenly he panicked and began to crawl.

A series of three bangs, amplified to an unbearable volume by the facades of the houses on the opposite side of the narrow street. The captain did not hesitate, and fired four shots into the man, who was already half upright, and immediately fell to the ground. The captain, with his gun at the ready, stepped forward and fired two shots at point–blank range at the Arab, who was no doubt already dead.

As required by the regulations in force for a few years...

Next to their car, two other police cars braked and within moments eight more officers were scanning the area over the barrels of their guns.

– Clear!