The Budapest Protocol (28 page)

Once Germany was rehabilitated, these front companies set up subsidiaries in Germany itself. The new German companies started buying up more and more firms, steadily increasing their economic power, and so the old-new empire was born. Or rather, reborn. Special attention was paid to the media, to set the political agenda, and influence economic policy. Politicians and opinion formers across Europe were bought up en masse, encouraged to support and propagate the idea of ‘European Unity’, and free trade, with no barriers. Sceptics and opponents were dismissed as ‘dinosaurs’ or – black irony – ‘nationalists’. As Walter Funk had predicted in 1942, “common endeavour” and “economic freedom” will be the new Europe’s watchwords, in a continent-wide free trade zone. The organising body, co-ordinating the political, financial and economic plan, was called the ‘Directorate’.

With the base established in Germany and Austria, the next stage was to take over Europe’s economies. The financial power of the Directorate gave it great influence, especially as the world economy became more globalised. Millions of marks, dollars or euros could be moved with the touch of a button. But a major obstacle remained: each European country still had economic autonomy, through controlling its own currency and its national bank’s ability to set interest rates. The answer: remove that autonomy and impose a single currency unit, under the control of a single financial institution. The key is the Federal Monetary Authority. The establishment of the FMA, and its growing economic and political power is perhaps the most remarkable achievement of the Directorate so far.

The FMA will soon control the economies of twenty-eight countries, once the eastern and central European nations join the euro-zone. Once in, each member state must surrender the ability to set its own interest rates. Interest rates will instead be decided by the bank’s President and his cronies. Sovereign nations will lose all power to decide their own economic policies, and so will become vassals of the FMA. Only a few politicians, in Britain and Scandinavia, have spoken out against the power of the FMA. But such is the Directorate’s power over the media that they are mocked and marginalised.

All this is in line with Walter Funk’s plans, for Europe’s national economies to be first “brought under control”, their internal worth then “stabilised” and their external value, meaning their worth against the dollar or other currencies, “standardised”. What is that, if not a prophecy of a unitary currency, now called the euro? Over the decades I have watched the Directorate steadily increase its power and influence. The plan, written in 1944, was recorded in a document. I saw a copy of it and read it through several times, one night when I was working at the Savoy. Aladar Nagy had obtained it. I can recount here what I remember, but I don’t know where the actual document is, or even if it survived. The Directorate’s most powerful members are the Volkstern Corporation and KZX Industries. Frank Sanzlermann’s election campaign, as you doubtless know, is almost entirely funded and organised by KZX and the Volkstern Corporation.

Now I almost hear you asking, my dear grandson, ‘Why didn’t you just tell me this?’ Well, in a way, I am. I had planned to, preferably in person, but I was waiting for the right moment. But a lifetime of reading the runes still steers me towards subterfuge. (And perhaps it’s not so bad to make you work a little!) I could, I suppose, have left this testimony with a lawyer or a friend, but I did not want to entrust it to intermediaries. I wondered often if my suspicions were merely the paranoid beliefs of an old man who lived through too much. I could, I knew, convince you of a pattern, but not more. After so many years, perhaps the Directorate had become flabby, its members concerned only to have a comfortable life and a new BMW.

And then I remembered the name of the man who spoke at the November 9 dinner so long ago in 1944: Friedrich Vautker. Whose son, Heinrich, has been appointed President of the Federal Monetary Authority. That, my beloved grandson, is what I wanted to tell you. Heinrich Vautker’s appointment is the signal for the Directorate to begin its final takeover. I fear they have somehow discovered that I was present at that fateful evening in 1944. My telephone clicks and buzzes. Some ancestral sixth sense warns me of danger. So be careful, my dear Alex. If they come for me, I will take my own life, rather than reveal to them what I want to tell you. I still have the pills I bought so many years ago in the ghetto. I hope I will finally be reunited with your grandmother. I have been thinking for a while now that perhaps the time has come. Nothing has ever filled the void her death has left in my life. Forgive me if you can.

Live well, my dear boy, and I hope you find happiness. You know that I love you like a son, especially after the tragic death of your parents, and always will. Wherever I am going I will be looking down on you. One last thing – I remember seeing a very pretty girl in your office, when you took me there on a visit. She had a Russian name, I recall. If an old man can give you a bit of advice, she was looking at you in a certain way... your loving grandfather, Miklos.

Alex sat with the papers in his hand until the sun rose, the tears streaming down his face.

The doctor was holding an X-ray up to the light when Alex walked into Peter Feher’s hospital room. “I will leave you now, Mr Feher. You’ll live. Nothing is broken, although you have suffered some nasty bruising to the bone. Your heart is in reasonable condition, blood pressure a little high, and I strongly suggest that you immediately stop smoking those,” she said, gesturing at a packet of
Munkas
, next to Feher’s belongings on the table. “You must rest, and eat properly. Your daughter should bring you food, as it would be more nutritious than the hospital’s meals.”

Alex had finally got through to Peter Feher and discovered that he was in hospital. He had brought flowers and a container of soup from a nearby café. It was just as he had thought. He had seen them together on television. The blonde woman was sitting by Peter Feher’s bed, holding his hand. He knew the old man had an eye for the ladies, but he was old enough to be her father.

“Alex, this is my daughter, Cassandra,” said Peter.

She stood up to shake hands. “Mr Farkas. I’ve heard a lot about you. I am very pleased to meet you. I am sorry for your loss.”

Alex looked back and forth in confusion. He
was
her father.

Feher gestured at Alex to sit down. “And why shouldn’t I have a daughter? You look like you should be here not me. What happened?”

“I got into a fight. I’m fine. Really. Why didn’t you tell me you had a daughter?”

Feher pretended not to hear and ate his soup. He dozed off and Alex and Cassandra went out to the corridor. They sat down in a corner on two rickety plastic chairs, by a coffee machine. The smell of disinfectant mixed with stale cigarette smoke. A metal ashtray, perched precariously on a metal stalk, overflowed with cigarette butts. The ambulance had brought Feher to the nearest hospital, in the heart of the Eighth district. It was a grubby building with an underlit entrance. The floors were lined with cracked linoleum and the walls a bilious shade of green. Patients and visitors alike wore cheap acrylic jumpers and stone-washed denim, or sports suits.

Alex dropped some coins into the coffee machine. It gurgled, spat, and eventually dispensed two cups of murky brown water. He handed one to Cassandra.

“Thanks. I’m sorry about your job. I liked your newspaper.” She was surprised to find herself blushing as she thought of the Farkas family summer villa at Lake Balaton.

“How do you know I lost my job?” asked Alex, his voice puzzled. He had not told Peter yet.

She wrote a mobile number on the back of a business card and handed it to him.

Alex looked down at her job title and back at Cassandra. “You’re a spy.”

She smiled enigmatically. “The Volkstern Corporation and KZX’s activities are a matter of national security. As is your grandfather’s death.”

“How?” asked Alex, putting her card in his wallet.

“We don’t believe the country’s most famous dissident was killed in a random burglary.”

“Neither do I. So who killed him?” asked Alex.

“We don’t know. We’re trying to find out.”

“My mobile phone keeps breaking down. Is that you?”

Cassandra shook her head and pulled her chair forward. “Alex, there has already been one death in your family. We don’t want any more. You are of interest to several organisations. So buy yourself a pay-as-you-go mobile,
not
registered in your name. Better, have someone buy several for you, with cash. Throw them away every few days, and burn the SIM cards.”

“Thanks for the advice. Cassandra, it’s great to meet you, but...” Alex said.

“What do I want?” she replied, finishing the sentence for him. “Our interests coincide. Maybe we can trade information. We know about your trip to Slovakia. You found out more in one day than we have been able to for weeks.”

“Thanks. And in return?” he asked, grimacing at the bitter coffee.

She paused. “The men in leather jackets, starting fights at the rally, you saw them?”

“The television news kept switching back from Krisztina Varga and the demonstrators to the violence. A not very subtle attempt to link them together.”

“Yes. Hunkalffy hates Varga. He thinks she is a traitor. Those men were nothing to do with Varga,” she said, dragging deeply on her cigarette.

“And who are they?”

“They work for the Security Service. The Actions Directorate, department V. It’s a rogue operation.”

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

We need to talk. Can you be at the usual place at 3.00pm?

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

OK.

Natasha was staring out of the window at a corner table. He sat down in front of her. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. She did not stand up to kiss him hallo.

Sani, the proprietor, appeared. “Coffee?” he asked.

Alex nodded.

“
Meleg szendvics
?”

They both declined. Sani headed back to the counter. The coffee machine soon made a loud gargling noise. Natasha lit a cigarette, and took rapid, shallow puffs.

“You were right last night, about being in danger. I should have listened and gone back immediately,” she said, describing the burglary, the ambulance and the police.

“I’m really sorry, Natasha.”

“Why do British people keep saying they are sorry? It’s not your fault.”

“I got you into this,” he replied, feeling guilty.

“No, Alex. I got myself into this. I just didn’t realise that it might involve my mother.”

“Why is she in a wheelchair?”

“She was with Anton when Hunkalffy ran him over. She broke her back. She can’t walk. And please don’t say you are sorry. At least she is still alive.”

“Where is she now?” asked Alex.

“She’s gone to stay with her sister in the countryside. She’s safe there.”

“And you?”

“I’m sleeping at Kitty’s,” she said, as Sani brought two coffees.

She looked pale and vulnerable, he thought. He resisted a strong urge to reach out across the table and hold her hand. He was feeling quite vulnerable himself. His head was still full of Miklos’ secret testimony:
“I think perhaps it is time.”
He remembered his grandfather as a wry and lively character with a courtly charm – gossiping with Peter Feher, laughing at the idiocies of politicians, pouring himself a glass of red wine, flirting genteelly with his lady friends. Alex had not realised the depths of his inner mourning.
Forgive me if you can
. He bit his lip.

A sallow-faced, balding man wandered in. He had a hang-dog expression, and wore a cheap fake leather jacket. He took a good look around the empty café as he smoothed back his thinning black hair. He sat one table away from Alex and Natasha. Alex looked at her as if to ask if she knew him. She shook her head, and caught Sani’s eye. She flicked some imaginary ash away from the table cloth.

Sani walked up to the man. “That table’s reserved.”

“Fine. I’ll sit somewhere else,” he said, getting up to move.

“No you won’t. They are all reserved.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded indignantly. “This dump’s completely empty. There’s not another customer in sight.”

“We’re closed, for a private party,” said Sani, walking to the rear of the café. He opened a door to reveal a small back room wreathed in smoke. Several tough looking men sat around a Formica table, slapping cards down, shouting in Hungarian, and knocking back shots of
palinka
. The conversation stopped suddenly. “Is there a problem, Sani?” asked one.

“I don’t know,” he said, nodding at hangdog. “Is there?”

He glared at Sani and left.

Alex looked admiringly at Natasha. “Impressive.”

“I told you. He looks after me,” she said. “
Köszönöm
,” she mouthed at Sani. The trace of a smile flickered across his craggy face as he polished the counter.

“I played the other track,” said Alex.

“What’s on it?” she asked, alert now.

He sipped his coffee. She had a right to know. She was in as deep as he was, now.

“Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann are discussing the death of my grandfather. I think they organised it. Do you really want to hear this?” he asked, quietly.

Natasha looked shaken. “Yes.”

“They also discuss possibly ‘taking care’ of me. And the ‘Roma Reduction Programme’, based on a genetically engineered, racially profiled drug called Czigex, now being piloted in the Novy Marek area, to stop Gypsies having children, before being put into use across Slovakia, and who knows where else. You were right.”

She leaned forward. “Czigex. The plastic packet we found in Teresa’s house. That fat man took it from us. Why would Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann kill your grandfather?”

Alex considered his answer. “If I tell you, you will think I’m crazy.”