The Budapest Protocol Read Online Free PDF

seems to have things under control,” Sanzlermann replied, reluctantly ceasing his delectable self-torment.
    Daintner said: “There are half a dozen television crew waiting for you on the tarmac when we land, including CNN and the BBC. Do you want to give a quick press conference?”
    Sanzlermann shook his head. “No, not tonight. They will be broadcasting live and we cannot control the questions or the setting. Let them wait until the rally and the press conference on the weekend.”
    Daintner agreed. “You are right. Just a brisk wave hallo, and then straight to the hotel. Have you decided what to do with the Brussels Prize money?”
    Sanzlermann swirled his whisky around his glass. “How is the Roma fingerprinting proposal playing out?” he asked.
    Daintner reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file. He quickly leafed through the pages until he found a long list of tables. “Among socio-economic groups E, D and C2, very well, especially in the post-communist states. But it is not so supported among groups C1, B and A, notably among those with higher education, and in western Europe. Leclerc is seen as having more social compassion. The repeated slurs against you and claims of racism are gaining some traction.” Daintner paused and licked his lips. “Some counter ammunition would be useful.”
    Sanzlermann traced his fingers over his raw left hand. “That’s why we are launching the European National Union Foundation for Roma Education with the Brussels prize money. Speak to our friends, they will contribute at least as much again. Scholarships, grants to local schools, you know what to do.”
    Daintner scribbled rapidly in his notebook. “Excellent.”
    *  *  *
    Alex looked at his watch: 9.30pm. He had been sitting there for more than half an hour, phoning his grandfather every five minutes. There was still no answer. The Gendarmes were moving from table to table at a snail’s pace, ignoring the increasingly vocal protests of the crowd. All Kultura’s back entrances were also blocked. There was no other way out. The anger and tension rose up inside him. He walked over to the commander to demand that he be allowed out.
    The commander was talking on his mobile telephone. He looked at Alex and turned away. “Yes, yes,” he said, nodding, and hung up. Alex prepared to protest when he spoke. “Good news, Mr Farkas. We have completed our identity checks. You and everyone else are free to go.”
    Alex controlled his fury and sprinted up Kiraly Street, skidding on the wet pavement. He barely missed crashing into two Chasidic Jews, oblivious to the world in animated discussion, and stopped at 43 Dob Street, on the corner of Klauzal Square. The heavy wooden door was open. The building had once been magnificent, with a huge hallway that stretched back several metres and a wide curved marble staircase adorned with plaster figures. But decades of neglect had exacted a high toll. The stair edges were crumbling, the walls were coated with grime and dirt. The entrance was dark. Alex felt his way along the wall until he found the light-switch. He pressed it several times. Nothing. He bounded up the stairs as fast as he could to the third floor. Alex knocked on the door, a great wooden slab with a brass lion’s head knocker. Silence.
    Miklos Farkas had lived in the same flat since 1945. After the ghetto was liberated, he studied medicine, but when the communists took over Hungary in 1948 he refused to join the party. He was expelled from university, decreed a “class enemy” because of his family background. He scraped a living as a journalist, writing about culture, while his wife Ruth worked as a French teacher. During the 1956 revolution Miklos broadcast on the rebels’ radio station, for which he received a ten year sentence. He served five and was released in an amnesty in 1961. Miklos and Ruth had one son, Edward, Alex’s father who had defected to England on a student exchange trip in the 1960s, a