Free The Budapest Protocol by Adam LeBor

enthusiastically as he spoke. “Yes, the Gypsy question is certainly very difficult,” she said, as the screen switched to stock footage of Romany children playing barefoot in a village street and a woman in a bright floral headscarf begging on the Great Boulevard. Aniko turned to the camera. “Something certainly needs to be done about Hungary’s biggest social problem, and many people believe Istvan Matonhely has the best answer.”
    Alex’s mobile telephone rang. “Can you believe this?” an indignant Welsh voice demanded. “Is this a news report or a recruitment advertisement?”
    “Both, I think,” said Alex, laughing. David Jones, Reuters Budapest bureau chief, was Alex’s drinking partner. A veteran reporter with curly red hair and sharp blue eyes, David managed to retain a dry wit, even under fire in Bosnia, where they had first met. They had worked together in war-zones around the world, until Jones’ wife had threatened him with divorce and he had finally asked for a quieter posting. “Thanks for your letter, David. It’s a long time since someone bothered to write to me with a pen and paper,” Alex continued. The Reuters journalist had written Alex a hand-written note, expressing his condolences at Miklos’ death.
    “You’re welcome. Some things aren’t for email. Anyway – Aniko is a dangerous little minx. She’ll do anything to get information for Balazs Noludi. I’d love to listen to their pillow talk.”
    “Pillow talk?” asked Alex, looking askance at the telephone.
    “You are out of the loop, aren’t you? Hungarian TV’s star reporter is the girlfriend of the editor of
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
And now their friends are in power and have the whole country to play with.”
    “How are they going to hold a government together, when they only have 185 out of 400 seats? They could get voted down at any moment,” said Alex.
    “Think... Csaba Zirta.”
    “I see a short fat man with a big moustache who boasts that he has never been abroad. And?”
    “Zirta is now a member of Hunkalffy’s party, and has been Interior Minister for six months. That’s six long, leisurely months to take out each MP’s file, and read all about sticky fingers in European Union pies; long-legged secretaries flown to Strasbourg and Brussels for the weekend on business-class tickets at public expense; not to mention the secret portfolios of shares and government bonds secreted away in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands.”
    “He’s going to blackmail them,” said Alex.
    David sighed down the line. “Bingo. Pour yourself another drink. And I owe you one for the heads-up on the Hunkalffy-Sanzlermann poster story. We beat Bloomberg and Associated Press by more than half an hour.” Alex had called David as soon as Natasha had filed her stories to let him know they were going up on the website and emailed him the scan of the poster.
    “So when are we going running?” asked David. He was a marathon runner, whose idea of a quick jog was three laps of Margaret Island, a total of sixteen kilometres. Alex often tagged along, usually retreating after one lap.
    “When ever you like. One lunchtime next week?”
    “Sure. I’ll call you.” His telephone bleeped with another incoming call. He looked at the screen: Zsofi. “Gotta go,” he said to David, and pressed the answer button.
    Zsofi spoke: “Dearest Alex, can you forgive me? I so wanted to be with you today.”
    Relief and annoyance competed. Still he smiled, despite himself.
    “Where are you?” he asked.
    “Standing outside your flat. Your doorbell’s broken. Are you going to let me in?”
    He opened the door. She strode inside and handed him a large bouquet of yellow roses.
    “Darling,” she said, as she took off her coat, and hugged him. “I’m so sorry about Miklos. I know how close you were. But I can’t stay long. I’m taking the dawn train to Vienna tomorrow. I’m auditioning at the state Opera House for Juliet.”
    “Congratulations.”