A picture flashed up of a good-looking, well dressed young man. “Meet Janos Horvath. A salesman, in his mid-twenties, with typical interests: girls, travel, partying, clothes and cars. The cookie records his internet habits. It co-ordinates that information with our internet service providers and kzxcompanies to provide personally targeted advertising. Kzxsearch also allows us to monitor his political activities, should he regularly visit, for example, so-called human rights or civil liberties organisations.”

  Klindern tapped the screen. Hungarian language advertisements, for singles holidays, cars, glamour magazines and designer clothes, each personally addressed to Janos Horvath, appeared down the right hand column. “Our initial trials have shown that personalised advertising is surprisingly effective. The mere use of someone’s name breaks through the angst and loneliness of modern life. The user feels wanted, if only by advertisers.”

  “So now we are in the social work business. Very touching,” said Schmidt sardonically. “And why will anyone use kzxsearch, rather than Yahoo or Google?”

  Klindern smirked. “Because we will offer free, high-speed internet accounts on our internet service providers to anyone carrying out a minimum number of searches a month through kzxsearch. As well as recording every web site visited, the ISPs will store every email sent. The cost of this offer will comfortably be covered by the profits the Directorate’s subsidiary companies will make from additional sales from the targeted advertising. We predict that in two years sixty-five per cent of internet users will sign up for a kzxsearch account. That is stage two.”

  A faint glimmer of a smile formed on Schmidt’s mouth. “Impressive, Herr Klindern. You are thinking ahead. We appreciate that. What is stage three?”

  Klindern inclined his head. “Thank you. You may be aware that computing is increasingly moving away from personal machines to the ‘cloud’. Cloud computing means two things: data banks and programmes that can be operated remotely. It’s the same principle as web-based email, but with word processing and spreadsheets and so on. Soon you will be able to do all your work from any computer. Actual machines are physically vulnerable. They can be stolen or break down. Even a spilt cup of coffee can be disastrous. Without back-up data is lost forever. The cloud has no such vulnerabilities. It can be accessed from anywhere, by personal computers, of course, but also by mobile telephones, PDAs, even internet-enabled watches. The physical personal computer will soon be redundant.”

  Schmidt scribbled rapidly in her notebook, before looking up. “And how will you take control of the this ‘cloud’?”

  Klindern sipped his cognac. “We will build our own. It follows automatically from stage two and kzxsearch: all data on internet users will be held centrally on our servers. We are writing new software programmes for email, word-processing, spreadsheets and so on that our subscribers will be obliged to use, which will give us full access to all their data. Memory storage technology is racing ahead. Our software developers are also working on new data mining programmes. Control of the cloud will give us a full social, political, medical and financial profile of every European Union citizen. We will know what they are writing to their boss, to their lover, how they are making money, what they are eating and drinking, what they are thinking.” His voice rose with excitement: “We will not only know what they want, we will be able to decide it for them. This is the Directorate’s vision: cyberspace – the ultimate lebensraum.”

  Klindern opened his mouth to continue when the sound of screeching tyres and crunching metal sounded through the room.

  * * *

  Natasha was interviewing an elderly male protestor in a shabby suit when she heard the low rumble of motorbike engines sounding louder and louder. She quickly thanked the man, ran down Kossuth Lajos Street and sprinted up a side alley, holding her notebook. She was right. The bikers were a hundred metres away, roaring down the narrow road. Their leader, a fat man in black leather, with a long, greasy beard, was riding a low-rider vintage Harley Davidson, with chopper handle bars. A large Arrow Cross banner trailed from the bike’s makeshift flagpole.

  The Gendarmes were moving the fence at the top of the side street aside, to let the bikers through, when a plastic bag burst fifty yards in front of them. A puddle of treacly motor oil rapidly spread across the road, spattering the pavement and the bottom of Natasha’s jeans. She looked up. A teenage Romany boy was grinning from the top floor window of the apartment block behind her. He gestured for her to move into the doorway. She stepped back. Oil bombs rained down, covering the street and pavements with a thick, greasy slick.

  Motor oil, again. A memory flashed into her mind: she and Alex tipping a barrel of oil down the staircase at Kosice station. A sharp pang of longing twisted inside her. The Harley Davidson juddered as its rider tried to stop, breaking her reverie. The back wheel slid sideways. The front wheel hit the slick, instantly slaloming from left to right. The rider swore furiously as he fought for control. The oil won. The machine toppled sideways with a thunderous crunch. It scraped along the ground, its rider trapped underneath, screaming and cursing, the Arrow Cross flag entangling itself in the bike’s rear wheel.

  The biker behind him was riding a sports BMW. He braked hard but it was too late. His wheel touched the slick and he went down flailing. The BMW flew out in front of him and smashed through the gap in the Gendarmes’ fence, it wheels spinning as it skidded across Kossuth Lajos Street. A second wave of oil bombs burst along the street, carefully spaced every few metres. One after another the bikers crashed into each other, all losing control as they hit the oil. In less than a minute half the column was down, at least twelve riders dazed or unconscious, their machines careering across the road. The riders at the rear turned round and roared off. A tough looking man on the other side of Kossuth Lajos Street picked up the BMW. He sat on the bike, revved the engine and ripped off the tattered Arrow Cross banners. The crowd cheered.

  Natasha stared at the chaos, scribbling in her notebook: the toppled motorbikes, their engines screaming and whining; the shredded Arrow Cross flag; the oil-shiny street; the dazed bikers staggering back and forth, their leathers ripped and filthy; the Romany boys taunting them from the windows. She thought it was one of the finest sights she had ever seen. She took out her mobile telephone and began taking pictures of the chaos. She didn’t see the man walk up behind her. She only struggled briefly as he forced the pad against her mouth.

  * * *

  Klindern walked over to the window that overlooked the narrow alley where the bikers were crashing into each other. He stared at the pandemonium five floors down and turned to Hunkalffy, his voice tight with anger. “Prime Minister, please explain what is happening in your capital?”

  “A group of provocateurs, the so-called Hungarian Freedom Movement, called a demonstration for this evening,” Hunkalffy explained, looking around the table for support. Hrkna swirled the wine around his glass, examining its light and colour, Malinanescu studied his fingernails. Sanzlermann seemed transfixed by the display on the plasma screen.

  Klindern beckoned Hunkalffy to the window and pointed at the crashed and broken motorbikes below. “What, exactly, is this?”

  Hunkalffy paled. “You instructed me to ease the restrictions that we put in place following the bombing. I did as you said.”

  “I did not expect an outbreak of anarchy,” Klindern shouted. “Get out, and take control.”

  The room was silent as Hunkalffy left. Klindern returned to his seat. He paused and took a sip from his cognac. “My apologies. We have talked of the future. But let me take you back to our first meeting here at the Hotel Savoy,” he said, acknowledging the man in the wheelchair, who smiled in return. “The founders of the Directorate draw up a four-track strategy: the takeover of political parties and governments; the manipulation of the media; the control of national economies; and, crucially, the police and security services.”

  Klindern touched the plasma screen with the light-stick. The map of Europe reappeared. Croatia, Hungary, Slovakia and Romania glowed gently. “We have concentrated on these four countries, as our historical allies. Tragically, Dragomir Zorvajk cannot be here with us tonight,” he continued, giving Sanzlermann a barbed look. “The Czech Republic and Poland have so far proved less eager to welcome our investments than their neighbours. But we plan a steady expansion once we have consolidated our hold on the centre. I will not now review all of our holdings, as it would take us well into tomorrow, if not the day after. Suffice to say that in each of our four key countries, in terms of controlling economic assets, political parties, and security services, we have made similar progress.”

  Reinhard Daintner entered, holding a pile of DVDs. He passed one to Klindern. A tiny camera was taped to each box. “Daintner has compiled the full extent of the Directorate’s holdings on this disc,” said Klindern, opening a box and holding the DVD between his thumb and forefinger. “It can only be used with the camera supplied. Once the disc is loaded into your computer and the camera is attached, it launches a retinal recognition programme. Each disc is numbered and specially programmed. Nobody else will be able to access your information. For your eyes only, as James Bond might say,” he said, triggering polite laughs around the table.

  Klindern continued. “And now, the man who, more than any other, has kept our ideals alive. SS Colonel Friedrich Vautker.”

  He gestured at Alex to bring over the elderly man in the wheelchair. Alex stared down at his pink bald head, and his liver-spotted hands as he wheeled him to the front of the table. He considered tipping the wheelchair over and sticking a steak-knife into his chest. He might even succeed, and live for perhaps another five or ten seconds.

  Vautker waved Alex away. “In winter 1944, I had dinner in this hotel. The Russian savages were advancing across the continent. But every long dark night must surely be followed by a bright new dawn. Together with our friends in Switzerland, we laid our plans,” he said, nodding at Schmidt. “Which have now come to fruition. Our greatest triumph is the introduction of the euro. We once believed war ensured financial hegemony. But now we know that peace offers the best chance for economic domination. Peace, then the erosion, and abolition, of national economic sovereignty, to be replaced by the rule of the Federal Monetary Authority. Safe in the hands of my son, Heinrich Vautker,” he said, pausing as the applause rippled around the room.

  “This weekend we begin our consolidation of our control of the European Union, when Frank Sanzlermann wins the first round of the Presidential election,” he said, gesturing at Sanzlermann, who smiled wanly. “The techniques we have honed here will then be implemented across the continent. The ‘Patriot Bond’ will draw in millions of euros. When the bond fails to pay the promised interest, its collapse will be blamed on ‘international speculators’ and the forces of ‘finance capital’. I advise you to stay away from synagogues at that time,” he said, to laughter. “There will be little opposition, while Europe’s attention is focused on the Immigration Liberation Army. Speaking of which, let me introduce our special guest. Daintner,” he said, gesturing at the door, and snapping his fingers.

  Daintner rose to open the door. A tall, dark-skinned, hawkfaced man strode in. He was dressed in an Italian silk suit and had a soldier’s bearing. He looked up and down the table, smiled, and bowed to the audience. There was silence for a few seconds before a ripple of recognition passed through the room. Sanzlermann sat staring wide-eyed. Cornelius Malinanescu blinked rapidly. Dusan Hrkna stood up, waving his fist and swearing.

  Vautker’s voice was soothing. “Sit down, please, Mr Hrkna. I understand your anger. But sometimes the bigger picture needs to be kept obscure until the right moment. May I present the man known as ‘Hasan Al-Ajnabi’, leader of the Immigration Liberation Army. Mr Al-Ajnabi is a founder member of the Directorate. We have many allies in the Middle East, keen to protect their countries from the power of finance capital, and its lackeys in Washington.”

  Vautker gestured at Alex. “A large whisky for Mr Al-Ajnabi,” he ordered. Alex tried not to stare. The ILA was run by the Directorate. The Directorate was starting a race war. Brilliant, in its way. Hunkalffy returned to the room as Alex handed Ajnabi his drink.

  Klindern asked: “Are the forces of anarchy under control yet, Prime Minister?”

  Hunkalffy glared at him. “So far, yes. The motorcyclists crash was a one-off incident. Of course, if you wish to completely disperse the crowd, we could implement the Tiananmen option. But that would not look very good on You Tube, would it?” he said, sarcastically.

  Klindern’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Attila’s little joke,” he said brightly.

  Vautker tapped his false arm on the table. It made a dull knocking sound. “Gentlemen, please. Let us not squabble on this historic night. I will briefly outline our current situation. Some of our work remains unfinished. The Jews have survived, even prospered. Our project in Iraq was destroyed by the American blunderers, still under the control of the Jewish lobby. But our funding for Israeli universities, Jewish community centres, even Holocaust memorials,” he sputtered, “has proved a most useful camouflage and brought us much intelligence. And if the Jews are – temporarily at least – out of reach, the other race-mixers are not.”

  He grasped the pointer and banged the plasma screen. A Gypsy settlement appeared. Barefoot children scampered in the dirt, mothers hung out washing on lines stretched between dilapidated wooden houses. “Observe, please, the filth and squalor. But soon Europe will be cleansed. Thanks to my personal initiative. The Poraymus Project. The world’s first racially-profiled genetically engineered drug. The Gypsy infertility pill. Our pilot project in eastern Slovakia has already brought excellent results. Once launched across Europe, we estimate that within five years the entire Gypsy race will start to decline dramatically in numbers, before eventually dying out,” he said, to applause. “You will find details on Herr Daintner’s DVD.”

  Hunkalffy stood up. “No. This is too much.” He trembled as he spoke, his hands gripping the table edge.

  He thought about the Gypsy boy every day. It was an accident, just a terrible accident.

  The applause stopped. Klindern asked: “Is there a problem, Attila?”

  The boy and the girl were standing with their mother on the street corner. The girl was beautiful; slim and elegant, like a fashion model.

  Hunkalffy swallowed hard: “A firm hand, tough laws, yes. The Gypsies are prone to criminality. They are wild, antisocial.”

  He drove closer to the kerb, just to take a better look at her, but his telephone rang.

  “They must be brought under control. But to wipe them out? No, I cannot agree,” Hunkalffy said, his voice growing in strength and confidence.

  The phone kept ringing. He reached down and scrabbled for his handset.

  “He cannot agree,” said Klindern, faux-amazed. “Then what did you think we were doing in Slovakia, Attila? Running a trial of a fertility drug?” he said, triggering more laughter.

  “I didn’t know.” Hunkalffy paused and looked around the room. “I am Hungarian, Prime Minister of this country.”

  The car’s front wheel hit the pavement and bounced forward.

  Hunkalffy stood straighter. “And I am part Gypsy. My grandmother was a Romany.”

  The girl jumped out of the way but the car ploughed into the boy and his mother. They flew up over the bonnet, into the windscreen.

  Klindern looked concerned. “Attila, sit down,” he said, his voice conciliatory. “It’s been a long day. But it’s almost over. Relax. Have another drink.”

  Hunkalffy shook his head, staring straight ahead.

  The glass shattered. The car spun out of control and crashed into a lamp post.

  Klindern reached under the table. He pulled out a pistol with a long, narrow silencer.

  Hunkalffy stood transfixed.

  He reversed back into the road. The boy and his mother lay on the pavement.

  Hunkalffy looked at the silencer. Klindern pointed the gun at him.

  He panicked and drove away, tyres screeching.

  Klindern fired three times, the silenced pistol snapping like a children’s cap gun.

  Hunkalffy slammed backwards against the wall, his shirt flooding crimson.

  He wanted to visit them in hospital, to say he was sorry, to try and make amends.

  The blood bubbled up in Hunkalffy’s mouth, running down his jaw. He tried to wipe his face.

  They lay so still on the pavement. He was so sorry.

  He shuddered, and died.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bandi nervously lit another cigarette, took a long drag and crushed it out on the roof. He could read a crowd like others read a newspaper and the numbers weren’t there yet. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. A biting wind was blowing in from the river, bringing a freezing, driving rain. He picked up his telephone and flicked through the video feed links. He looked at the demonstrators: the exhilaration was fading, the energy dissipating. Some of the protestors were already drifting off. The stallholders selling drinks and snacks were packing up. Several journalists had retreated back to their vans and cars.

  He looked closer as he saw several familiar faces walking down Kossuth Lajos Street. He zoomed in. Yes, it was her – the woman who had recruited him at the Falk Miksa Street office, the good looking, well-dressed blonde, wearing a fur coat. She was with two men. One was elderly, and the other...could it be? He zoomed in tighter. He was right, she was holding hands with the Arab guy who had given him his soft loan, 50,000 euros in cash. The Arab was talking to the pretty English redhead Bandi had met once at the Security Service headquarters. But two spies, an old guy and a money-changer weren’t enough.