Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

Not only had the driver lit his smoke, but he’d also rolled two more, parking one behind each of his ears. Having opened the door for Krisztina, he got behind the wheel. “Endre Czövek is the name,” he said, turning his head, “I’m at your service, and I kiss your hand. Do you mind, ma’am, if I smoke?”

Krisztina gave a wave of the hand. “Go ahead, Czövek. Don’t be shy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Flashing his toothless grin her way, he added, “Where to?”

“To Mátyás Square,” replied Gordon. When they turned onto Rottenbiller Street, he leaned forward and informed both Czövek and Krisztina of his plan. “We don’t have time to try it out,” he finished. “We’ll have only one chance; we’ve got to act fast, and we’ve got to get out of there even faster.” Czövek nodded somberly as Krisztina prepared her camera. By now the taxi was on Fiumei Street, with the cemetery to their left, but—wheels screeching as he turned—the cabbie took a right instead, not once easing up on the Opel, even on the cobblestones of Nagyfuvaros Street. But with a block to go, he slowed, rolling quietly onto Mátyás Square. Gordon showed him the address, and Czövek parked across from the steps to the cellar, between a ramshackle truck and a cart. He cut the engine and pulled his cap down over his eyes. Krisztina meanwhile took a place up front and slid down in the seat. She rolled the window down all the way, set the camera on the frame, noting its position, then put the machine in her lap and waited. Gordon slipped into a building doorway and lit a cigarette.

But for the shouts of a couple of drunkards, the square was quiet and still. The weather was perfectly suited to their purpose: neither raining nor foggy on the square. Little by little, the lights behind the windows overlooking the square flickered off, the drunkards moved on, and the silent night was broken only by the cries of a cat in heat.

Around 1 A.M. the cellar door opened, then closed. Gordon hurried over to the taxi. “Like we discussed,” he said in a muffled voice. “You pay close attention, too, Krisztina. We’ll have only a couple of seconds. When I wave my hand, go for it.”

He didn’t have to wait long in the doorway. After a couple of minutes the cellar door opened once again, and out stepped a large, grubby-faced figure in a disheveled outfit. From under the brim of his hat, Gordon watched the people exiting the cellar one by one. Finally, there appeared Izsó Skublics, talking with a thin figure as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Gordon gestured toward Czövek, at which the driver started the engine. Krisztina set the camera in the car’s open window, and when the headlights came on, Krisztina began rapidly clicking one exposure after another.

Skublics froze. As did the man beside him. Gordon turned around, and with quick steps he headed toward Népszínház Street. Skublics moved toward the car, but Czövek had already shifted into gear, and with wheels screeching he drove away. Krisztina hardly had time to shut the door. She gripped the camera tight as Czövek, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, rumbled toward Népszínház Street. Gordon was waiting for them at the corner of Conti Street. The driver slowed down and Gordon jumped in. A few blocks later they turned onto the Grand Boulevard, where they continued at a slower pace in the direction of Lövölde Square.

It was past two in the morning by the time Krisztina emerged from the bathroom. Hanging on the clothesline were the freshly developed pictures. Her eyes were red from exhaustion, but Krisztina pointed with satisfaction behind herself. “Only two didn’t turn out. He’s clear as day on the rest. Buying that lens was worth it.”

Gordon stepped over to look up at the pictures. Skublics’s expression was one of terror, whereas that of the man beside him was rather one of fury: cold, cruel, overwhelming fury. “This character looks familiar,” he said, pointing to the other man. “I’ve seen him somewhere, but I can’t say where.”

“You can figure that out in the morning,” said Krisztina from bed. “Now come on, come to bed with me.”

Five

Now where did you take this? And when?” asked Kornél Kosik, looking up at Gordon. The political reporter was sitting at his desk, though it was Saturday. He had no choice: so much had happened during the week that he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of a rest. And so he’d been in the newsroom putting his notes in order when Gordon appeared. Kosik now shook his head in disbelief as he stared at the picture. “Do you know who that is?”

Gordon studied the picture once again. His wavy, greasy hair combed back, the man stared contemptuously into the lens with grayish burning eyes. This was a face that was hard to forget. And yet Gordon shook his head. “He somehow looks familiar. I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know where.”

Kosik ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He stuck a key into the one drawer on his desk that had a lock and pulled out a thin little book with a blue cover. Gordon tried reading the title, but it was covered by Kosik’s tobacco-stained fingers. Kosik flipped through the book, which was filled with photographs accompanied by a couple of lines of text here, entire paragraphs there. On finding what he was looking for, he took a sheet of paper, used it to cover the text, and showed Gordon the picture. “Is that him?”

“Yes,” said Gordon.

“In 1919, after the collapse of the Communist revolution here in Hungary,” Kosik began, “he was sought nationwide. Not only had he joined the Red Army, but he also edited the Commune newspaper. He managed to flee to Vienna and from there to Bratislava. He returned illegally in 1922 and was arrested in 1923, along with seventy of his comrades, and sentenced to fifteen years in jail. But then, in 1924, through a diplomatic agreement, he and forty-one others were extradited to the Soviet Union. Starting there, the whole affair is murky. All that’s certain is that he kept himself busy organizing Communist Party activities throughout Europe, and at some point became a member of the NKVD. You know what that is, right?”

“The Soviets’ internal security apparatus. Its secret police.”

“That’s about right,” said Kosik. “And he’s fought in the Spanish Civil War, too. On the nationalist side, it probably goes without saying. It’s not certain, but I’ve heard from various sources that he’s been seen in Catalonia. And now here, in Budapest. Why, we’ve got evidence, too.” Kosik tapped Gordon’s photograph with his pen.

“Will you tell me his name, at last?”

“Why do you want to know?” asked Kosik, leaning back in his chair.

Gordon sat on the corner of the desk and pondered his reply. “I’ve got a proposal,” he finally said.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll give you the picture along with the address where it was taken.”

“What do I get out of that?”

“Let’s just say I don’t keep the picture for myself,” said Gordon, “and let’s say I figured out some other way to get that name.”

“Understood. And agreed.”

“I have one more condition.”

“Condition?”

“Yes.”

“What would that be?”

“Wait till Monday morning. Don’t go looking for Schweinitzer until then.”

“Why do you think I’d go to the state security police?”

“Come now, Kornél. Come now.”

Kosik took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Monday will do. Besides, I figure he’s already on his way to Moscow, so it’s not as if they could catch him. His name is Gerő. Ernő Gerő.”

“That’s it. Gerő. What’s he doing here?” asked Gordon, looking Kosik in the eye.