LeBor The Budapest Protocol

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-84659-194-5
Verlag: Telegram Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 344 Seiten

Nazi-occupied Budapest, Winter 1944. The Russians are smashing through the German lines. Miklos Farkas breaks out of the Jewish ghetto to find food - at the Nazis' headquarters. There he is handed a stolen copy of The Budapest Protocol, detailing the Nazis' post-war plans. Miklos knows it must stay hidden forever if he is to stay alive. Present day Budapest. As the European Union launches the election campaign for the first President of Europe, Miklos Farkas is brutally murdered. His journalist grandson Alex buries his grief to track down the killers. He soon unravels a chilling conspiracy rooted in the dying days of the Third Reich, one that will ensure Nazi economic domination of Europe - and a plan for a new Gypsy Holocaust. The hunt is on for The Budapest Protocol. Alex is soon drawn deeper into a deadly web of intrigue and power play, a game played for the highest stakes: the very future of Europe. The Budapest Protocol is a journey into Europe's hidden heart of darkness.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lebor, Adam

Leseproben

PROLOGUE

Budapest, November 1944

Only the lucky were buried.

Miklos Farkas stepped over the woman’s frozen corpse and opened her suitcase, still held tight in her hand. It was empty. He walked quickly along Karoly Boulevard, his thin coat pulled around him. The survival instinct had long replaced any vestigial shame at foraging among the dead. The pavement was coated with ice and the snow fell hard, the wind slashing at his face. He smelt smoke and cordite, tasted the brick dust of pulverised apartment blocks. A dead horse lay splayed across the road. The ghetto gate at Dohany Street was a hundred yards behind him. He was seven minutes walk from his destination, the SS headquarters at the Hotel Savoy.

The gunmen stepped out of the darkness, smiling greedily when they saw Miklos. There were two: one was tall and thin, with a pointed nose and droopy moustache. A silver , the door ornament on a Jewish house, was pinned to his jacket. The other was short and red-faced, hopping nervously from foot to foot. They wore army caps and greatcoats, their armbands emblazoned with a four pointed cross. Their boots were wrapped in layers of yellow parchment, the ink of the Hebrew letters running into the snow.

The tall gunman slammed his rifle into Miklos’ stomach. He gasped and staggered forward, stumbling on the icy pavement. He righted himself and raised his right hand, his heart pounding. “Courage, brother,” he said, using the Arrow Cross greeting. “I didn’t see you there.” He handed him his documents, willing his hands not to shake.

The short man walked around Miklos. He looked him up and down, prodding him with his pistol. “Brother? I don’t think so. Looks like a Jew to me,” he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, like an excited schoolboy.

“Me? A Jew? You’re joking. If anyone looks like a Jew, I think it’s you. Shoot me if you want,” said Miklos scornfully. He spat on the ground. “But you’ll have the SS to answer to.”

“The SS?” sneered the tall gunman. “We’ll see about that. This is Hungary, not Germany.” He jammed the rifle barrel under Miklos’ chin, pushing upwards into the soft flesh around his throat. Miklos grunted in pain as his head was forced back.

“Head back, up, up, that’s good. Papers here say you are Miklos Kovacs. One point eighty-five metres tall, light brown hair, blue eyes,” he continued, peering at Miklos. He glanced down at the documents. “Special dispensation from German staff headquarters to be out after curfew because of your war-work at the Hotel Savoy. Nice. But not nice enough, Miklos Kuhn,” he said, pushing the rifle barrel harder.

“My name is Miklos Kovacs. You can see there, it’s clearly written,” Miklos said, trying to swallow as the barrel pressed into his throat.

“Kuhn, Cohen, whatever. Let’s see who you really are. Say your prayers, Kuhn-Cohen,” he said, taking away the rifle barrel. For the Germans, killing Jews was business. For the Arrow Cross, their Hungarian Nazi allies, it was a pleasure, one ever more frenzied as the Russians steadily advanced.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven,” Miklos coughed, a loose, hacking rattle, and continued. “Hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses...”

“Finish it,” the gunman growled. A shell exploded near the river, its boom rattling nearby windows. “And quickly.”

Miklos recited fluently until the end, “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.” He crossed himself decisively.

The tall gunman lowered his rifle and twirled his moustache as he looked at Miklos. “Not bad. Not bad at all. But anyone can learn a prayer. Drop them.”

“Yeah, you can’t learn that,” squealed the short trooper.

“Are you crazy? It’ll freeze and fall off,” Miklos protested.

The tall gunman slammed his rifle butt hard into his chest. “Don’t – argue – with – me,” he said, slowly and deliberately.

Miklos reeled from the blow. He stumbled back against the wall and slipped on a patch of ice. He fell onto the pavement, his cheek hitting the ground. They yanked him up by his arms so that he was kneeling. The short trooper twisted Miklos’ arm behind his back and forced his head down, laughing as he forced his pistol into Miklos’ neck.

“Whose turn is it?” he asked.

“I can’t remember,” said the tall gunman. “I think I did the last one. Or did you?”

Miklos shivered violently as a trickle of ice-cold water ran down his back. He tried to conjure up an image of his wife, Ruth, but all he could see was the grey, icy pavement. A cold fury surged through him. . He tried to twist away from the pistol barrel but the gunman jerked his arm up higher. Knives of pain shot down his back. The tall gunman pointed his rifle at Miklos’ head. He braced himself, closed his eyes and bit his lip, his breath coming in short ragged pants.

“Do yourself a favour, Kuhn. Keep still, and we’ll be done here nice and fast. Otherwise it’s going to get very messy,” the short gunman said, as he again twisted the gun barrel into Miklos’ neck.

A Grosser Mercedes, sleek and black, drove towards them, two Nazi flags fluttering over its headlights. The car stopped suddenly by the pavement, sliding on the icy road, and the door flew open. An SS officer in full dress uniform jumped out. His adjutant emerged from the other side, machine-pistol at the ready, and stood facing the Hungarians.

“! Put your guns down,” the SS officer ordered.

The Hungarians lowered their weapons and stepped back. Miklos stood up slowly, his hands in the air. The German marched over. The tall gunman gestured at Miklos, smiling nervously. “Please, be our guest. A Jew.”

The SS officer took his Luger from his holster and pointed it at the two Arrow Cross men. The crack of the bullet echoed across the streets as it gouged a large hole in the wall beside them. The gunmen jumped back, shock and fear on their faces. The SS officer fired twice more into the ground, a bullet in front of each. The short gunman shook with terror, a yellow puddle forming in the snow next to his leg.

Miklos dropped his hands and wiped his mouth, tasting blood as he stared at the German. He was tall and pale, his hair so blond it was almost white, with sharp features and intelligent blue eyes. His left sleeve was empty, pinned to his tunic. Friedrich Vautker was the youngest Colonel in the Waffen SS. War had accelerated his promotion. He nodded at Miklos. Miklos nodded back warily, his heart still thumping.

“This man works for us. Is that clear, you Hungarian jackasses?” Vautker snapped at the Arrow Cross men. “You stink of drink. No wonder the Russians are at the gate.”

Vautker put his pistol back in his holster. He yanked off the silver from the tall gunman’s coat, tearing the cloth. A military truck rumbled by. Two rows of German soldiers sat facing each other, wrapped in their winter greatcoats, headed for the front. The driver slowed as he approached, looked briefly at the scene, and stopped.

“Any trouble here?” he asked, gunning his motor. The engine juddered, trying to fire cleanly on the watery petrol. Several German soldiers turned to stare.

“Not now, no,” said Vautker. “Where are you headed?”

“The eastern sector. The Reds are pounding us. HQ says we are stretched too thin there.”

Vautker flicked his hand at the Arrow Cross men. “Take them. For the first front-line.”

The Hungarians tried to protest. Six burly troopers jumped down and pushed them on board. The lorry lurched off, the short Arrow Cross man mewling like a kitten.

The SS officer weighed the silver in his hand and handed it to Miklos. “Have it, Herr . It should fetch something. Now get in the car.”

* * *

Miklos’ arms ached under the weight of the silver tray laden with champagne glasses. His head hurt, his neck throbbed and his knees pulsed with pain but he tried to focus on his work. The dinner was served in the Savoy’s cellar. Heavy black drapes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Candles sputtered, dripping wax onto the tablecloths. A pianist played snatches of Frank Lehar’s , Hitler’s favourite operetta. A couple of dozen people were gathered in the chilly room. Some wore black SS uniforms, or army grey, but many seemed to be civilians. A handful of women shivered in cocktail dresses. Two men in suits stood on the edge of the group. Both waved away the offer of champagne. They spoke with Zurich accents, Miklos noticed.

Miklos stopped in front of a famous Budapest actress, a redhead in a blue-silk dress. She looked at Miklos quizzically, drank a glass of champagne in two gulps and immediately grabbed another, her blue eyes glazed and unfocused.

The Savoy’s headwaiter beckoned Miklos over as the other waiters brought food from the kitchen. Aladar Nagy had been the Farkas family butler, in charge of their city residence, a fifteen room villa at the top of Andrassy Avenue. He was a short, chubby man, with a round face and lively brown eyes.

“She ought to remember you. I served her dinner at your house often enough,” he muttered.

Miklos smiled grimly. “Yes. When we had a house.”

The Farkas family villa had been appropriated by the Germans in March, the day after they invaded. Nagy was sacked but quickly found new work at the Hotel Savoy, where he arranged for Miklos to work as a waiter. This gave Miklos access...