Ambulances converged from all directions. He felt his hearing fade in and out. Sodden scraps of paper flags floated down the gutter. He almost walked into a young woman with short dark hair laying face down on the grass. “Natasha,” he cried as he turned her over. He sagged with relief and shame when he saw a round, pale face. He turned his face upwards to the rain and staggered across the grass towards the Parliament’s entrance. He swayed on his feet and his legs turned to rubber. The world wobbled and turned black.

  * * *

  Dieter Klindern leant back in his armchair in Sanzlermann’s suite and smoothed down the sleeve of his black silk Nehru jacket. The chairman of KZX Industries was a trim, handsome man in his early sixties, with close-cropped steel grey hair and pale blue eyes. He wore half-moon glasses above a long nose, thin, colourless lips and small, neat teeth. The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the cheerless winter dusk. A silver coffee pot and a tray of cakes sat untouched nearby. Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann sat in front of him, on two hard-back chairs, like errant schoolboys caught cheating in an examination. The two men glared at each other. Reinhard Daintner sat a few metres away, silently watching. Klindern could barely control his anger.

  “A bomb. How imaginative,” he sneered.

  Hunkalffy opened his mouth to speak. Klindern cut him off. “Please do not interrupt me, Prime Minister. I prefer to finish my sentences myself.” Hunkalffy lowered his head.

  Klindern continued: “And do not misunderstand me. I am hardly concerned about the loss of life a few hours ago. If you wish to arrange the deaths of your own citizens that is your own affair. What does concern me is that your little freelance operation, which as you well know should have been cleared with the Directorate, may now place more than seventy years of work in jeopardy,” continued Klindern, his voice rising as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug and cups arranged on the table next to him.

  Klindern let the silence stretch out, and banged the jug down hard on the table when he had finished pouring. Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann jumped as the cups and saucers rattled in protest. “And you couldn’t even get the timing right. Dragomir Zorvajk is in hospital, with a stomach full of shrapnel. A big child, too distracted by your ridiculous exhibition to leave in time. Unlikely to be with us for much longer, the doctors say.”

  He walked over to Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann. “Because of your bungling, our whole southern flank is threatened.”

  Hunkalffy sat silently. Klindern circled around him. “Do you have any idea what you have done? The destruction of Yugoslavia was one of the Directorate’s greatest achievements. It took decades of work, of careful planning. We spent millions, hundreds of millions, used up diplomatic favours and political capital from Washington to the Vatican to achieve a centuries-old dream: an independent Croatia, Christian, Catholic, cleansed of its Serbs. A permanently grateful client-state, with a coastline full of warm-water ports. Our launch pad into the Balkans, our drang nach süd to the Mediterranean, even Africa. At the helm, Dragomir Zorvajk, young, handsome, a sports hero, veteran of the homeland war. Untouchable, adored by all, a leader who could never be questioned. Thanks to you, now flat on his back in a Hungarian hospital, his stomach shredded, and unlikely to make it through the night.”

  Klindern paused and stirred his coffee. He jabbed his finger at Hunkalffy. “You, of all people, should know that there are enough ways to manipulate an election. Almost as imaginative as setting Edith Leclerc’s stage on fire, and blaming it on an ‘arson attack’. And this ridiculous ‘Pannonia Brigade’. The whole world is laughing at your storm troopers, beaten back by Gypsy housewives. Aaach. Plus, this absurd campaign against the foreign press by your media lackeys. You merely make heroes out of these diletanttes. What were you thinking? Do you ever think? We made you, Hunkalffy...” said Klindern. He paused silently for several seconds. “There are already several within our organisation calling for severe sanctions to be taken against you.”

  “But, I mean, the bomb was his idea as well,” Hunkalffy said, pointing at Sanzlermann. “A big bang outside Parliament, a few days before the election, would give us the perfect cover to ensure the right result. We have even arrested the ILA’s supposed leader in Budapest. There could be no better alibi for the biggest crackdown since the collapse of communism. Your own words, Frank,” said Hunkalffy, turning to Sanzlermann.

  Sanzlermann turned to Hunkalffy indignantly. “You little shit.”

  Klindern banged his fist on the table. “Idiots! You know nothing about the ILA.” The two men fell silent. Daintner walked over to the DVD player under a wide-screen television.

  “Track one, please,” said Klindern. Daintner pressed the remote control.

  The player whirred for a few seconds. The screen filled with a pin-sharp image. Moans and sighs echoed around the room. Sanzlermann was leaning back against the sink in the toilet cubicle of his executive jet, one hand pressing hard against the closed door. His eyes were closed in pleasure. A male steward knelt in front of him, his head rising and falling. Klindern watched the figures moving on the television screen with an expression of cultivated distaste, as though he had found a fly under one of his fingernails.

  Sanzlermann paled and sat silently. Hunkalffy smirked.

  “That is bad enough,” said Klindern. “But this is far worse. Track two, please.”

  Daintner pressed another button on the remote control. The screen showed Sanzlermann engaged in energetic sexual congress with a full figured young woman of remarkable gymnastic ability in his bedroom at the hotel suite. They slid around the bed, switching positions, flipping each other over from side to side with practised ease. But it was clear that while her body was engaged, her mind was not. She was scanning the room even as she moaned and writhed under him. Klindern gestured to Daintner, and the screen froze.

  “At least that one is a woman,” said Hunkalffy, grinning.

  “Shut up!” snapped Klindern. “Do you know what a honeytrap is, Frank?”

  “When one side uses a sexually attractive woman to ensnare a target, either for purposes of blackmail or to extract information,” he said miserably.

  Klindern said: “You are positively dripping in the stuff.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Alex opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly as his surroundings slowly came into focus. He was lying on his back between crisp white sheets in a narrow iron hospital bed. An air-conditioner hummed in the background. The room was dark, cool, and smelled of antiseptic. His left arm had been bathed and bandaged with a fresh dressing. He carefully moved his head from side to side. A jolt of pain shot through his face, as though a steel bar was implanted through the bridge of his nose. His skin felt like he had been thoroughly sandpapered and his left side ached, from his shoulders to his toes. A single window showed a nighttime pavement, and occasional glimpses of car tyres, ankles and shoes.

  Cassandra Orczy sat on a chair by his bed, watching the television news with the sound turned off. He struggled to sit up but she gently pushed him back down against the sheets.

  “You have to rest for several days, the doctor said. You’re suffering from mild concussion, bruising, grazes and they took a lot of glass out of your skin. But you’ll live.”

  He lay back on the hard pillow. “Where is she?”

  “You should be proud of yourself. You and ten other foreign journalists have been declared persona non grata in Hungary. You are all to be arrested and then expelled as a punishment for ‘damaging the reputation of the government’. But you aren’t going anywhere for a while.”

  Alex gripped the bedstead. The metal felt cold against his hands. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Is she dead?”

  “No, she’s not dead. She’s fine,” Cassandra said, her voice exasperated. “She was late, and by the time she left for Parliament Square the bomb had already gone off.”

  “Thank God,” he said, sagging back as the relief coursed through him. “When can I see her?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, dear Alex, you’re dead,” she said, smiling sweetly, as she leaned forward to smooth down his sheets.

  “I don’t feel very dead.”

  “That’s what it says in the newspapers, so it must be true. You were killed in the bombing today.” She handed him an eight page emergency edition of Magyar Tribün, published that evening. A short news story on page three said that his remains had been identified.

  “Four paragraphs. Is that all? And no picture,” said Alex, indignantly.

  Cassandra pulled the chair closer to his bed, her blue-green eyes unblinking. “This isn’t a game, Alex. You want to infiltrate the Directorate. So your best alibi is that you are dead. Here’s the proof,” she said, tapping the newspaper. “It’s up to you. You’re in a safe house but you are not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you want. But you won’t get any help from us getting into the Savoy. In fact, we just might tell them that you’re coming.”

  She looked older, he thought. She was pale, her hair had lost its lustre and there were new lines on her face. He said: “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me. This operation has started now, Alex. Some very serious people are involved, not just in Budapest. People whose time you don’t waste. I had to persuade them that you could do this. So make your mind up. Are you in or out?”

  He stared at the pattern of cracks in the ceiling. He saw a spider, perhaps an octopus. Her hands pulled him closer as they moved together, their legs entwined, her breasts sliding across his chest, their skin slippery with sweat, her tongue against his. Natasha thought he was dead. She was mourning him and he was here, alive. A wave of guilt burst through him. He raised his fingers to his nose and inhaled. Hospital soap. The antiseptic smell suddenly overwhelmed him. He saw the bodies outside Parliament, in the field in Bosnia, the broken limbs, the bloody clothes, the sightless eyes. He was injured. He was lucky to be alive. His heart pounded and his breathing turned ragged.

  Cassandra looked at him, alarmed. “You’ve gone white. I’ll get the doctor. You’re in shock.”

  He shook his head and forced himself to breathe slowly and calmly. “It’s OK, I’ll be fine. Really. It’s just a reaction. Just give me a little time.” She handed him a box of tissues and left the room. He cried silently for several minutes, the tears draining the torment from his system, and lay back, exhausted. She returned with tea and a tray of sandwiches.

  Alex accepted a cup. It was hot, sweet and very reviving. “Thanks. I’m in. But at least tell me where she is.”

  “Safe in the countryside with her mother. We have someone watching them.”

  He moved on the bed, trying to get comfortable. “How did I get here?”

  “Isabelle Balassy brought you. She found you on the grass, put you in her car and talked her way through the checkpoints. She said her car was sovereign British territory. She also had a pistol in her glove compartment, which may have helped. I told you to lay still,” she said, moving the pillows to support him as he sat up. She turned up the television volume. “Satellite stations aren’t working at the moment. ‘Technical difficulties’, supposedly. Internet providers are down as well. Hungarian state television is broadcasting continuous news. The Immigration Liberation Army has claimed responsibility. But no sign yet of Hasan Al-Ajnabi’s usual video tape.”

  Aniko Kovacs wore a black jacket, and black blouse with a red, white and green neck scarf. The Hungarian, Croatian, Romanian and Slovak flags hung in front of her desk. She read the news in a low, sombre tone. “The death toll in today’s terrorist attack has now risen to forty-eight, with another ninety-seven injured, many critically, including Croatian President Dragomir Zorvajk. Responsibility has been claimed by the Immigration Liberation Army.” The screen showed Hunkalffy standing on the wrecked Parliament entrance looking grim and determined, Frank Sanzlermann at his side. Dusan Hrkna and Cornelius Malinanescu stood at a respectful distance, hands behind their backs. Smoke still drifted from Parliament and the charred remains of cars.

  Kovacs continued: “Prime Minister Hunkalffy has declared a temporary state of emergency to ensure that Sunday’s Presidential election takes place in conditions of peace and security. The following restrictions are in force with immediate effect. All public gatherings of more than four people are banned; a curfew is in force between midnight and 6.00am. A period of ‘campaign silence’ is also imposed to prevent the further inflammation of national passions.” A piece of paper was slid across her desk. She read: “We have just learnt all citizens are required to take part in Sunday’s election. For reasons of security citizens will be required to show their completed ballot papers to a Gendarmerie officer, who will then stamp it, and their identity cards, before the paper is placed in a secure box.”

  The camera cut to Sanzlermann standing outside Parliament. “We stand foursquare behind our friend and ally Attila Hunkalffy, at this time of national tragedy. We extend our deepest sympathies to Hungary at this time of national mourning. This terrorist atrocity will be avenged.” Malinanescu strutted forward and opened his mouth to speak, but was replaced by a shot of Edith Leclerc, standing outside the Hotel Bristol.

  A scrum of reporters surrounded her, shouting questions. “I condemn utterly this cowardly attack,” she declared. “But I cannot continue to campaign under these conditions. I do not withdraw my candidacy, but I have no option but to return to Paris. I will not legitimise these restrictions on basic freedoms by remaining here. As terrible as this bomb attack was, I do not believe there is any need for a state of emergency, curfew or so-called ‘campaign silence’. Democracy should be strong enough...” she said as the screen went blank.

  Aniko Kovacs suddenly appeared, looking from left to right. She touched her earpiece. “Dear viewers, our apologies for our technical difficulties. We now go live to the arrest of the ILA leader in Budapest.”

  The screen showed a terrified Mihaly Lataki being dragged into a van by two Gendarmes.

  * * *

  Klindern looked at Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann with distaste. “Reinhard, track number three please,” he said, gesturing at the DVD player.

  Daintner pressed the remote control. A young woman with long, wavy, light brown hair walked into the headquarters of the State Security Service on Falk Miksa Street. Daintner said: “Here is your Eva. If that is her real name, which I doubt. Current whereabouts unknown.”

  Sanzlermann sat with his head in his hands.

  “First the flight attendant. Now this,” said Klindern, his voice cold. “As far as our recordings show, you told her something about Sunday’s meeting. But there is too much background music. So why don’t you tell me?”

  Sanzlermann muttered. “Nothing, I promise, nothing.”

  “Tell me what you said, or you will have cause to regret it.”

  “That there will be an important dinner here on Sunday night, with VIPs from all over the world, to watch the election results. Half the staff know. It’s hardly secret.”

  “I told him she was trouble, but he wouldn’t listen. He can’t stop following his prick. All the way to the State Security Service,” said Hunkalffy, triggering a look of hate from Sanzlermann.

  Klindern turned to Hunkalffy, his eyes glittering, his sun-tan now glowing with anger. “And what are you following, Prime Minister?”

  Hunkalffy looked startled. Sanzlermann sat up straighter and smiled warily.

  “This hotel episode is probably manageable. Even if the video footage was somehow leaked we could blame the stress of the campaign, hold a tearful press conference, have Dagmar pledge her love. It might even boost our support in the end. Mea culpa, human frailty, a man under terrible pressure, etc,” said Klindern. “But this, this display... Reinhard, track four please.”

  The screen showed Hunkalffy sitting naked on a leather armchair in the Prime Minister’s office, in front of a coffee table. Empty champagne bottles were strewn across the floor and liquid slopped over the table edge. Hunkalffy leaned forward and loudly sniffed up a line of cocaine off an antique mirror, before sliding it across the table to two naked women, one blonde, the other brunette. He handed the blonde a 500 euro note. She rolled the banknote into a thin tube and snorted up the drug, while the brunette watched hungrily. Her eyes wide with excitement, the blonde walked over and sat on Hunkalffy’s lap. He opened a fresh bottle of champagne and tipped it over her breasts. She writhed with pleasure. The brunette quickly snorted up the last line of cocaine and walked over to Hunkalffy. He guided her head to the blonde’s chest.

  Klindern chopped his hand through the air. “Thank you, Reinhard. That’s enough.”

  Daintner ejected the DVD and handed it to Klindern. Hunkalffy sat rigid, his face beetroot, his hands gripping the side of the chair. Daintner’s mobile rang and he turned away to take the call.

  “Do you think we aren’t watching you?” demanded Klindern. “That we don’t know what you do in your office? In your office. What a fool you are. Cocaine and whores.”

  Daintner hung up, walked over to Klindern and whispered in his ear.

  “Damn!” Klindern exclaimed, thumping the coffee tray so hard the liquid sloshed over the table. “Zorvajk has just died. You pair of idiots.”

  Sanzlermann scratched furiously at his raw red hand. Hunkalffy stared sullenly at Klindern.

  “Sadly, we still need you both. For now. But any more blunders,” Klindern said, holding the DVD, “and this disc will finish you both. Your marriages, careers, everything. Imagine how many hits this would get on an internet video-sharing site.”

  Hunkalffy stood up, his face dark with fury. “Then do it.”

  “What?” demanded Klindern, amazed. “What did you say?”

  Hunkalffy walked across the room to Klindern. “I said, do it. Post it all on the internet. And then what? One, I will deny it, and say it is a smear, manufactured by Leclerc’s supporters using computer tricks. And you will have to support me,” he shouted, his boiling anger barely controlled. “Two, Sanzlermann’s campaign will certainly be damaged. But where will that leave you and your friends, Herr Klindern? Weakened. Very weakened. Voting is just a few days away. There is no time to find a replacement candidate or move the election to another country. We are your only options. My private life is my own affair. My lovers are my business. If you choose to make them public, then be prepared to take the consequences.”