the water leaked into the casing. Zoltan looked at his watch, reckoning that there would be just over two minutes remaining.
He stood for a moment looking out over the city, his anger welling up, for he would defend this country he loved to the death. He was a Jew but he was also Hungarian, like he was a son and a brother. A man could be many things, and one aspect did not define him. He would not deny any part of himself to conform to some crazy definition of who was considered a ‘real’ Hungarian. So he would fight those who tried to divide this glorious city. Zoltan clenched his fists as the time ticked into its final seconds and then he waited, holding his breath.
But nothing came, only the bellowing horns of the boats below, and the hum of the traffic across the bridge. Zoltan exhaled in a long rush as the seconds continued to tick by. He watched the boat that Morgan was on dock at the Vigadó tér pier and turned, heading for the pylon and the tricky climb down. He felt relief flood his body that they had managed to stop at least one of the plans laid for this chaotic day.
Just as Zoltan started his descent, he heard a muffled explosion. His head jerked towards where he had thrown the bomb, but there was nothing there. No plume of water, no ruined boats. The sound had come from the East and he looked in that direction, suddenly seeing a plume of smoke rising above the skyline as the police sirens began to sound.
***
A short distance down Vigadó tér, Zoltan could see the final passengers emerging from the tourist boat. He ran hard towards the pier, pounding the street like he wanted to thump the terrorists who had set off the bomb. Had the bridge just been a decoy? Or was it meant to be a symbolic attack, drawing attention while innocents were targeted at the same time? Zoltan felt a surge of frustrated anger that he channeled into a burst of speed. How dare these people attack his country, his culture, which had already suffered so much?
He slowed on the approach to the ferry pier and stood getting his breath back, waiting for Morgan to disembark. Tourists gabbled away in various languages, some pointing to the plume of smoke evident in the sky to the East. Some were taking photos with a frisson of excitement at being so close to something significant, as if they were somehow immune to the vagaries of attack. Zoltan shook his head, for they didn’t realize how arbitrary terror had now become. They should be thanking God that it wasn’t their city at the mercy of madmen.
Morgan walked briskly up the metal walkway, having finally extricated herself from the interrogation of the boat’s captain. Her face was serious, her eyes fixed on the dark smoky clouds blooming in the sky. As she drew closer, Zoltan noticed the slash of violet in her right eye, almost a burn across the cobalt blue. Her dark curls were tied back and she moved with economy, the grace of a woman who knew how to fight, and how to dance. Who was she really, Zoltan wondered. He had heard of ARKANE, the name mentioned in a whisper when the Jewish elders met to discuss evacuation plans. He knew that the group had an academic side, well represented at conferences, but it was this secret militant arena that he was interested in. Because Dr Morgan Sierra was clearly not just an academic. He hadn’t seen her jump, but he didn’t know if he could have done the same thing.
“It was the Raven, and the bastard got away,” Morgan said, as she joined Zoltan at street level. “I’m sorry.”
Zoltan shook his head, dismissing her concern.
“You jumped from the bridge to go after him. I don’t think anyone could fault your dedication. What were you thinking?”
Morgan gazed back towards the water.
“I thought I saw the bodies in the Danube, floating there in the water, calling for justice. Those who died today, as well as the ones from seventy years ago.” She paused, looking into the eddies of the
He stood for a moment looking out over the city, his anger welling up, for he would defend this country he loved to the death. He was a Jew but he was also Hungarian, like he was a son and a brother. A man could be many things, and one aspect did not define him. He would not deny any part of himself to conform to some crazy definition of who was considered a ‘real’ Hungarian. So he would fight those who tried to divide this glorious city. Zoltan clenched his fists as the time ticked into its final seconds and then he waited, holding his breath.
But nothing came, only the bellowing horns of the boats below, and the hum of the traffic across the bridge. Zoltan exhaled in a long rush as the seconds continued to tick by. He watched the boat that Morgan was on dock at the Vigadó tér pier and turned, heading for the pylon and the tricky climb down. He felt relief flood his body that they had managed to stop at least one of the plans laid for this chaotic day.
Just as Zoltan started his descent, he heard a muffled explosion. His head jerked towards where he had thrown the bomb, but there was nothing there. No plume of water, no ruined boats. The sound had come from the East and he looked in that direction, suddenly seeing a plume of smoke rising above the skyline as the police sirens began to sound.
***
A short distance down Vigadó tér, Zoltan could see the final passengers emerging from the tourist boat. He ran hard towards the pier, pounding the street like he wanted to thump the terrorists who had set off the bomb. Had the bridge just been a decoy? Or was it meant to be a symbolic attack, drawing attention while innocents were targeted at the same time? Zoltan felt a surge of frustrated anger that he channeled into a burst of speed. How dare these people attack his country, his culture, which had already suffered so much?
He slowed on the approach to the ferry pier and stood getting his breath back, waiting for Morgan to disembark. Tourists gabbled away in various languages, some pointing to the plume of smoke evident in the sky to the East. Some were taking photos with a frisson of excitement at being so close to something significant, as if they were somehow immune to the vagaries of attack. Zoltan shook his head, for they didn’t realize how arbitrary terror had now become. They should be thanking God that it wasn’t their city at the mercy of madmen.
Morgan walked briskly up the metal walkway, having finally extricated herself from the interrogation of the boat’s captain. Her face was serious, her eyes fixed on the dark smoky clouds blooming in the sky. As she drew closer, Zoltan noticed the slash of violet in her right eye, almost a burn across the cobalt blue. Her dark curls were tied back and she moved with economy, the grace of a woman who knew how to fight, and how to dance. Who was she really, Zoltan wondered. He had heard of ARKANE, the name mentioned in a whisper when the Jewish elders met to discuss evacuation plans. He knew that the group had an academic side, well represented at conferences, but it was this secret militant arena that he was interested in. Because Dr Morgan Sierra was clearly not just an academic. He hadn’t seen her jump, but he didn’t know if he could have done the same thing.
“It was the Raven, and the bastard got away,” Morgan said, as she joined Zoltan at street level. “I’m sorry.”
Zoltan shook his head, dismissing her concern.
“You jumped from the bridge to go after him. I don’t think anyone could fault your dedication. What were you thinking?”
Morgan gazed back towards the water.
“I thought I saw the bodies in the Danube, floating there in the water, calling for justice. Those who died today, as well as the ones from seventy years ago.” She paused, looking into the eddies of the
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