The Budapest Protocol (14 page)

“Did you flirt with him?”

“Of course not,” said Natasha indignantly. “That’s not professional.”

“Professional means getting the interview. It’s a man’s world out there, Natasha. You need to use everything you’ve got. And you’ve got a lot. I’m sure Alex thinks so. Let’s call him and ask,” she said, tapping out some numbers on her new handset, smiling mischievously.

“Stop it. We’re colleagues, and that’s all.” Natasha took her press pack from her bag and put it down on Kitty’s desk. Natasha moved over to check her email at Kitty’s terminal. There was one email in her inbox, from Alex, thanking her for the
Magyar Tribün
article. It included the text of her email to Alex. Nothing from Gabor. Maybe he was finally getting the message.

“Only colleagues?” asked Kitty. “So why are you blushing?” She turned towards the screen.

“I’m not. And that’s private,” said Natasha.

“Not while you’re using my computer. Hmm, very businesslike, but he did write back to you immediately. That’s a good sign.” Kitty scrolled down and continued reading. “An ‘encounter’. When was that? Tell me everything.” She turned to look at Natasha, grinning. “Encounters are
much
more interesting than sending each other boring articles from
Magyar Tribün
.”

“It was work. And it’s an interesting article,” said Natasha, taking a gulp of wine.

“Who cares? I don’t know why you are making life so difficult for yourself. He’s not bad looking, he’s intelligent, charming when he wants to be. And he’s keen on you, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the special attention your articles get,” she said, laughing.

Natasha gathered her things and started for the door, her face set like stone.

“Natasha, wait,” said Kitty, her voice rising in exasperation. “You can’t keep yourself locked away for the rest of your life, just because of Gabor. It’s been six months. Why are you punishing yourself like this? There’s a whole new world out there.”

Natasha stopped at the door, turned and sat down again. She lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “I keep remembering opening the front door and hearing the noises from the bedroom.”

Kitty poured her some more wine. “Did you go in?”

“Yes. I wish I hadn’t. He was with my best friend. I’ve known her since I was ten. Gabor and I had been together for five years. We were engaged. I would have been married by now. I moved straight back to my mother’s.”

“Then you had a narrow escape. He’d be doing the same now and it would be much worse.” Kitty clinked her wine glass against Natasha’s. “Here’s to new ‘encounters’.”

Natasha smiled cautiously and drank her wine. Maybe Kitty was right, she thought. She wasn’t a nun. Her career was on track but her personal life was a disaster. At university her fellow students, the gilded-youth of the
Uj-gazdagok
, the new rich, spent their days and nights partying and sleeping with each other. At the end of each academic year they left 50,000 forints in their examination papers. Natasha had worked her way through college as a waitress in the pubs near the university, sometimes serving her classmates, who delighted in leaving her ten forint tips. In her spare time she had read English books out loud to hear the rhythm of the language, copied articles out of British newspapers to see how each story was put together, and taped BBC television programmes to perfect her pronunciation.

Unlike most of her classmates, she had never even been to Britain. But she had won the prize for English when she graduated, scoring the highest grades the university had ever awarded. Her fellow graduates now worked for banks and public relations companies, earning three or four times her salary. Natasha hadn’t been to a proper restaurant since Gabor took her out on her birthday, last year. She couldn’t remember when she had last bought new clothes. She told herself that she didn’t care. She gave almost all of her salary to her widowed mother Irina. Her father, Professor Pal Hatvani, a world renowned authority on Pushkin, had taught at Budapest University for two decades but was sacked after the change of system. He was not interested in politics, and was hurt and bemused that his knowledge was suddenly judged worthless because there was a new government. Irina and Natasha found him one afternoon, sitting in his favourite armchair, his last cigarette smoking in the ashtray.

The door opened and Natasha turned to see a lean young woman with alert blue eyes and a wild mop of frizzy brown hair bustling in, two cameras draped around her neck. She held a sheaf of photographs in one hand, a mobile telephone clamped to her ear in the other.

“Yes, we’ll be there. Try and ensure the models turn up on time with the right clothes this time will you?” Edina Draskovitz put her phone down and handed Kitty the photographs. Natasha offered her the wine, but she shook her head.

“The shots for your advertising supplement on the Budapest fashion industry,” she said, her smoke-cured voice deep and husky. “One more designer to go, then I’m done. Hopefully onto something a bit more challenging.”

Natasha looked Edina up and down. She was wearing baggy green army trousers, a fisherman’s waistcoat and grey t-shirt. She might dress like a soldier but she was certainly a live wire. A couple of trips to the hairdresser, some decent make-up to highlight her bone structure and she would look very presentable. The photographs were very good indeed, and Edina had a fine eye for lighting and detail.

Kitty’s telephone rang. “
Istvan
. Lovely to hear from you. I’m just hearing all about your rally. Of course, we must have lunch,” she said, rolling her eyes at Natasha. “Istvan Kiraly,” she silently mouthed. Natasha nodded. “Yes, she’s here,” said Kitty, handing the phone over.

Natasha perked up instantly as she spoke to Kiraly. “He does? When? Tomorrow? Tomorrow is fine, ten o’clock at the Hotel Savoy.”

She hung up and turned to Kitty. “I’ve got an interview with Sanzlermann.”

“A real story,” interjected Edina. “You will need pictures. Call back and tell them you’re bringing me as well,” she demanded, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke through her nostrils.

“Sorry, Edina. They only use their own campaign photographs,” said Natasha, without pausing for breath. “But I’ll ask again tomorrow, once I get there, and I’ll call you if need be.”

Edina looked doubtful as she left. “Ok. My phone will be switched on.”

Kitty waited until the door was closed. “You are a dreadful liar. He wouldn’t care if you brought a female photographer,” she said, sounding amused. “He’d probably enjoy the attention. Poor Edina. Why are you trying to sabotage her career?”

“I’m not trying to sabotage anything. I just don’t want to be distracted from my interview, that’s all. She’ll use up all the time, getting him to pose.” She examined a glossy calendar on the wall. It showed two young women in leopard skin bikinis draped over a red sports car.

“What’s this? A gift from a male admirer? Very sexist for a modern career woman.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s quite entertaining,” said Kitty. “Maybe we should get Edina one of those bikinis. She’s skinny enough, she would look quite good.”

“Why do you think she always wears those army clothes?” asked Natasha.

“She’s a woman in a tough profession. She has to show she is as good a photographer as any man. You two should team up.”

Natasha looked doubtful. “Maybe. She and Alex always have lots to talk about.”

“Edina lived in London for years. She knows Britain. They can discuss the Queen, how to make cups of tea. Why don’t you call Alex on your new phone, tell him about your big interview. Perhaps you can arrange another ‘encounter’,” said Kitty, smiling wickedly.

“Very funny,” said Natasha, gathering her belongings and her press pack. “Now I really am going. Thanks for the wine and the phone. See you tomorrow. I’ve got a
very
important interview to prepare.”

“Wait,” said Kitty, “You forgot your USB stick, it’s fallen out,” but Natasha was already out of the door. Kitty inserted it into her computer, and clicked on a video file. Frank Sanzlermann appeared, outlining his vision of the new Europe. She yawned and moved to close the file, when her telephone rang again.

Kosice (SNSA) – There are repeated reports here among Romany women in the villages outside Kosice that they cannot have children. The problem is worst in the settlement of Novy Marek and its surrounds. Within the last two months, six Romany women have complained to their doctors, and appeared at hospitals, demanding to know why they are no longer conceiving. Romany women traditionally have up to six or more children.

“At first we thought that this was just coincidence,” said local health official, Dr Veronika Husakova. “But non-Roma report normal levels of fertility. It is very mysterious, as when we examine the Romany women they have no gynaecological abnormalities.”

Alex searched for the print out of the Slovak news agency report on his desk but it had disappeared into the pile of Monday’s newspapers. The story was trickling out and they needed to move quickly. Natasha had already sent him her briefing about Novy Marek, cc-d to the editor, Ronald Worthington, and the news of her interview with Sanzlermann. Quite a scoop, but fifteen minutes meant four or five questions at the most. Alex had agreed with Natasha’s suggestions that she focus on the Roma and xenophobia. He looked at his watch. It was 10.05am. The interview should have started by now. There was still no sign of Zsofi, who presumably was still in Vienna. Alex had sent her a text message, but there was no reply, or even a signal that it had been received. It was time, he knew, to implement his decision.

Kitty Kovacs stopped by his desk as he finally fished out the report. “Don’t worry, she’ll be in later,” she whispered in his ear, winking as she walked off.

“Who?” Alex asked, as innocently as he could.

He walked through to the editor’s office. It made his desk look positively tidy. Polish, Czech, Slovak, Hungarian and Romanian newspapers were heaped across the floor. A stack of invoices on a filing cupboard were held in place by a can of beer. A sack of pet food rested next to a case of wine and a cricket bat. The office had its own peculiar smell, a gamey but not unpleasant cocktail of coffee, alcohol and dog. Ronald Worthington sat with his feet up perusing the company’s latest book:
High Living in Hungary
. He ran a relaxed regime. An easy-going but astute Fleet Street veteran approaching retirement, he had been despatched by the
Sentinel
to knock the paper into shape. With his bald shiny head, substantial girth, stentorian voice and baggy suits, he resembled a modern-day Sydney Greenstreet. Apart from newspapers, cricket and restaurants, Ronald’s main interest was his loyal red setter, Ferrari.

“Alex, old chap. Have some coffee. There’s a pot of Jamaican Blue Mountain on the go,” he said, gesturing at a glass jug hissing gently in the corner. Ferrari looked up before returning to sleep in his favourite corner.

Alex poured himself a cup and picked up a ten day old copy of
Mlada Front Dnes
, the Czech daily. The pneumatic new Miss Czech Republic looked out from the front page. “You can’t speak Czech,” he said mock-accusingly.

“That picture’s worth at least a thousand words. And look at this,” he said, proudly holding up the thick glossy book. The cover showed a fat jolly chef in full whites, in a steamy kitchen, happily slurping soup from a large ladle. Two good humoured small blue eyes beamed out from a shiny, pudgy face.

“I didn’t know you moonlighted as a model,” said Alex.

“Now you do. So, to work. We’ve got a busy news week. There’s Natasha’s Sanzlermann interview, and now she’s uncovered these murky goings on in eastern Slovakia. It’s all very impressive. We’re lucky that I spotted her journalistic potential.”

“Really? I thought it was my idea to promote her. You said she should stay on the reception desk as she was so decorative,” said Alex, as he handed Ronald the SNSA story.

Ronald speed read the report. The jolly fat man was replaced by a thoughtful professional. His pudgy fingers moved swiftly over his keyboard and he turned his screen towards Alex.

Budapest (Reuters) – KZX Industries, Germany’s biggest pharmaceutical company, has been fined 10,000 euros for distributing out of date drugs in eastern Slovakia.

The scandal emerged after five members of the same Romany family from the eastern Slovak village of Novy Marek died after being prescribed medicines that were at least three years past their use-by date and completely unsuitable for their illnesses.

Liberal and Socialist members of the European Parliament have introduced a motion protesting against the small size of the fine.

“That was a year ago. Nobody’s ever heard of this place, and now it is in the news again,” said Ronald. He walked over to a map of eastern Europe on the wall. “Right in the very back of beyond,” he said, pointing at a tiny speck in eastern Slovakia, by the Polish and Ukrainian borders. Ronald returned to his desk and typed in
www.slovakiatriumphant.com
on his internet browser. The homepage offered streaming video with Czech, Polish, Hungarian or English subtitles. He clicked on English. The computer screen filled with the doughy face of the new Slovak Prime Minister, Dusan Hrkna. A bulky former Olympic boxer gone to seed, Hrkna had enjoyed a meteoric rise through the ranks of the Slovak Patriotic League. He had won a landslide election victory, despite repeated scandals over party officials giving voters beer emblazoned with the SNU symbol. Hrkna was speaking at a public meeting, pounding the podium while the audience roared its approval. English subtitles flowed across the bottom of the screen: “The Roma understand one thing,” he proclaimed. The screen showed him slowly forming his fingers into a fist and punching the air. The crowd roared its approval.

Ronald paused the video and chewed a pencil. “Slovakia: the Prime Minister you can see for yourself, German pharmaceutical companies are dumping drugs there and Gypsies can’t have kids. Pack your overnight bag. Take Natasha, she understands Slovak. And we’ll need some photographs of the families in Novy Marek. See if Edina is free.”