fast-flowing river. “Did you find anything up there on the arch?”
“There was a bomb, but I threw it in the Danube before it timed out. It was encased in plastic, tamper-proof.” He gestured upwards to the smoke dissipating in the sky above. “But seeing that, I suspect it was a decoy anyway.”
Morgan nodded.
“They were playing the local news on the boat. The bomb was at the Széchenyi Baths. Twelve dead.” She paused. “It was during an antenatal class, so there were pregnant women amongst the casualties.”
Zoltan clenched his fists, willing his rage to a simmer, but there was nothing he could do to help those people now. He and Morgan had to focus on what must surely come next.
“There was an anonymous call to the TV station,” continued Morgan. “The bombing has been claimed by a previously unknown Jewish group, in retribution for the Danube murders.”
Zoltan snorted, shaking his head. “As if it could have been organized so quickly. They’ve set this up so well. Whoever is behind this must have been planning it for months.”
“That guy from Eröszak is calling on the government to boycott Jewish businesses until the perpetrators are brought to justice. Of course, he’s not advocating violence officially but his supporters are calling for a march tonight, in solidarity with the victims.” Morgan put her hand on Zoltan’s arm, her voice urgent. “We need to find the Holy Right, it’s the only way to stop a bloodbath after dark.”
Zoltan gazed across the water at the Palace, a dominant presence that loomed above the city. On the edge of the battlements, he could just make out the giant statue of the Turul, the divine messenger bird of Magyar origin. In the myths of the beginning, it had perched on the top of the Tree of Life, along with the spirits of unborn children in the shape of birds. It was a symbol of power, strength and nobility, a bird of prey with a beak that could rip the hearts from the chests of men, sacrificed on its blood-spattered altar.
As he considered the symbol, trying to discern a pattern in the chaos, Zoltan thought about Castle Hill itself. It was the centre of the nation, a symbol of the might of Hungary as it had once been and how some wanted it to be again. While Pest was the realm of the past, the Ghetto, the Basilica and a Parliament that had become too left wing for many, Buda was the proud fortress of might, the dominion of the future. Surely a nationalist cause would want that symbol to be at the heart of their strategy, and something niggled at the back of Zoltan’s mind about the tunnels beneath the hill.
He took out his mobile and dialed Georg, who answered quickly.
“I need you to go back on the right-wing chat boards,” Zoltan said. “Can you see what you can find from 2011?”
While he waited for Georg to search, Zoltan turned back to Morgan.
“There’s an ancient labyrinth beneath Castle Hill. It was shut down a few years ago under suspicious circumstances, around the time when Eröszak was on the rise.”
His attention returned to the phone. “Great, we’ll check it out.”
Zoltan pointed to Castle Hill. “Let’s head up there, it’s the only lead I can think of right now.”
He led the way up the wide boulevard away from the ferry port. Stopping in front of a giant billboard advertising the elections, Zoltan looked up into the face of László Vay. His scar contorted as his mouth twisted with anger.
“This man knows nothing of honor, and he will do anything to further his pursuit of power. None of what has happened today is beyond him, for he wants to win this election, and I think he aims to waltz in on the back of a nationalist uprising. I knew him once, you know, we were friends … but then one day I discovered the true man behind that perfect smile.”
As Zoltan spoke, he remembered that dark day in Bosnia, when his friendship with Vay was obliterated.
***
Srebenica,
“There was a bomb, but I threw it in the Danube before it timed out. It was encased in plastic, tamper-proof.” He gestured upwards to the smoke dissipating in the sky above. “But seeing that, I suspect it was a decoy anyway.”
Morgan nodded.
“They were playing the local news on the boat. The bomb was at the Széchenyi Baths. Twelve dead.” She paused. “It was during an antenatal class, so there were pregnant women amongst the casualties.”
Zoltan clenched his fists, willing his rage to a simmer, but there was nothing he could do to help those people now. He and Morgan had to focus on what must surely come next.
“There was an anonymous call to the TV station,” continued Morgan. “The bombing has been claimed by a previously unknown Jewish group, in retribution for the Danube murders.”
Zoltan snorted, shaking his head. “As if it could have been organized so quickly. They’ve set this up so well. Whoever is behind this must have been planning it for months.”
“That guy from Eröszak is calling on the government to boycott Jewish businesses until the perpetrators are brought to justice. Of course, he’s not advocating violence officially but his supporters are calling for a march tonight, in solidarity with the victims.” Morgan put her hand on Zoltan’s arm, her voice urgent. “We need to find the Holy Right, it’s the only way to stop a bloodbath after dark.”
Zoltan gazed across the water at the Palace, a dominant presence that loomed above the city. On the edge of the battlements, he could just make out the giant statue of the Turul, the divine messenger bird of Magyar origin. In the myths of the beginning, it had perched on the top of the Tree of Life, along with the spirits of unborn children in the shape of birds. It was a symbol of power, strength and nobility, a bird of prey with a beak that could rip the hearts from the chests of men, sacrificed on its blood-spattered altar.
As he considered the symbol, trying to discern a pattern in the chaos, Zoltan thought about Castle Hill itself. It was the centre of the nation, a symbol of the might of Hungary as it had once been and how some wanted it to be again. While Pest was the realm of the past, the Ghetto, the Basilica and a Parliament that had become too left wing for many, Buda was the proud fortress of might, the dominion of the future. Surely a nationalist cause would want that symbol to be at the heart of their strategy, and something niggled at the back of Zoltan’s mind about the tunnels beneath the hill.
He took out his mobile and dialed Georg, who answered quickly.
“I need you to go back on the right-wing chat boards,” Zoltan said. “Can you see what you can find from 2011?”
While he waited for Georg to search, Zoltan turned back to Morgan.
“There’s an ancient labyrinth beneath Castle Hill. It was shut down a few years ago under suspicious circumstances, around the time when Eröszak was on the rise.”
His attention returned to the phone. “Great, we’ll check it out.”
Zoltan pointed to Castle Hill. “Let’s head up there, it’s the only lead I can think of right now.”
He led the way up the wide boulevard away from the ferry port. Stopping in front of a giant billboard advertising the elections, Zoltan looked up into the face of László Vay. His scar contorted as his mouth twisted with anger.
“This man knows nothing of honor, and he will do anything to further his pursuit of power. None of what has happened today is beyond him, for he wants to win this election, and I think he aims to waltz in on the back of a nationalist uprising. I knew him once, you know, we were friends … but then one day I discovered the true man behind that perfect smile.”
As Zoltan spoke, he remembered that dark day in Bosnia, when his friendship with Vay was obliterated.
***
Srebenica,
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