identity away.
“Identity card,” the policeman ordered Natasha. “Who is he?”
“He’s British. We met at a bar tonight. He doesn’t speak any Hungarian,” said Natasha as she handed over her card. The policeman turned it over, checking her face against the photograph.
“You met at a bar tonight and you’re kissing him already,” he grunted.
“Passport,” the policeman demanded of Alex. Natasha caught Alex’s eye. He shook his head imperceptibly. Now they had a problem. If he showed the policeman an ID, and he saw that he had the same family name as Miklos, he would radio into headquarters for instructions. He would certainly ask Alex to open his bag and order him to empty his pockets. They could make a run for it but how far would they get?
Alex shrugged and showed his empty hands. The policeman stared at him, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“This is a problem. A very big problem,” said the policeman. “You must come with me. You too,” he added, looking at Natasha. But he did not move towards the car, where his partner sat reading a tabloid newspaper.
Natasha smiled at the policeman. “Perhaps we could sort things out here, sir.”
The cop shook his head. “It is a very serious problem. This is a crime scene, he is a foreigner and he does not have any papers.”
“Surely we can
arrange
things here?” persisted Natasha.
“What kind of arrangement were you thinking of?”
“This kind,” said Natasha. She reached inside her handbag and took out a 10,000 forint note.
The policeman shook his head and put the money in his pocket. “This is a very big problem.”
She handed over another 10,000 forint note. The policeman took it, but still shook his head.
“How big is this problem exactly, do you think?” asked Natasha.
“Fifty thousand forints big.”
“Thirty.”
“Forty. And quickly,” the policeman grunted, holding out his hand.
Natasha reached into Alex’s jeans and took out his wallet. She opened it up and removed two 10,000 forint notes, handing them to the policeman, who swiftly pocketed them.
“Wait here. And don’t try any funny business,” he ordered.
He clomped up the stairs to the top floor, his heavy boots echoing through the entry hall. Alex looked at her in amazement, bursting with questions, but she put her fingers on her lips. Back in his war correspondent days, he and his colleagues judged their fellow journalists with the SUF test. SUF stood for Steady Under Fire, someone who could be trusted not to freak out in extreme circumstances. Not everybody passed, but Natasha was certainly SUF. He had chosen the right accomplice. She had forged the police seals, taken his word that it was worth committing a crime to get into his grandfather’s flat and was handling the policeman superbly.
The policeman reappeared. He walked over to the car and told his partner that there was nothing happening here. The flat was closed and sealed, there was nobody around except these two lovebirds, he grumbled, and it was nearly 2.00am, almost the end of their shift. He radioed into headquarters that everything seemed to be in order.
“Go on,” he said, waving at Alex and Natasha. “Get out of here. Fucking foreigners.”
Alex’s heart was pounding from adrenalin and nervous tension as they walked down the side of the square towards Groove. Natasha looked calm and unconcerned.
“You did brilliantly. How did you know he would take a bribe?” asked Alex.
“Cops always work in pairs. If you get stopped and the other one moves away out of sight, or doesn’t come forward it means they are open to be bribed. Plausible deniability. The other cop didn’t see anything, because he wasn’t there. The one who pockets the money gets sixty per cent and the other forty per cent.”
“That would make a great article. A guide to bribing Budapest police officers,” replied Alex enthusiastically.
“Yes, it would. But Alex, I must apologise to you,” said Natasha
“Identity card,” the policeman ordered Natasha. “Who is he?”
“He’s British. We met at a bar tonight. He doesn’t speak any Hungarian,” said Natasha as she handed over her card. The policeman turned it over, checking her face against the photograph.
“You met at a bar tonight and you’re kissing him already,” he grunted.
“Passport,” the policeman demanded of Alex. Natasha caught Alex’s eye. He shook his head imperceptibly. Now they had a problem. If he showed the policeman an ID, and he saw that he had the same family name as Miklos, he would radio into headquarters for instructions. He would certainly ask Alex to open his bag and order him to empty his pockets. They could make a run for it but how far would they get?
Alex shrugged and showed his empty hands. The policeman stared at him, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“This is a problem. A very big problem,” said the policeman. “You must come with me. You too,” he added, looking at Natasha. But he did not move towards the car, where his partner sat reading a tabloid newspaper.
Natasha smiled at the policeman. “Perhaps we could sort things out here, sir.”
The cop shook his head. “It is a very serious problem. This is a crime scene, he is a foreigner and he does not have any papers.”
“Surely we can
arrange
things here?” persisted Natasha.
“What kind of arrangement were you thinking of?”
“This kind,” said Natasha. She reached inside her handbag and took out a 10,000 forint note.
The policeman shook his head and put the money in his pocket. “This is a very big problem.”
She handed over another 10,000 forint note. The policeman took it, but still shook his head.
“How big is this problem exactly, do you think?” asked Natasha.
“Fifty thousand forints big.”
“Thirty.”
“Forty. And quickly,” the policeman grunted, holding out his hand.
Natasha reached into Alex’s jeans and took out his wallet. She opened it up and removed two 10,000 forint notes, handing them to the policeman, who swiftly pocketed them.
“Wait here. And don’t try any funny business,” he ordered.
He clomped up the stairs to the top floor, his heavy boots echoing through the entry hall. Alex looked at her in amazement, bursting with questions, but she put her fingers on her lips. Back in his war correspondent days, he and his colleagues judged their fellow journalists with the SUF test. SUF stood for Steady Under Fire, someone who could be trusted not to freak out in extreme circumstances. Not everybody passed, but Natasha was certainly SUF. He had chosen the right accomplice. She had forged the police seals, taken his word that it was worth committing a crime to get into his grandfather’s flat and was handling the policeman superbly.
The policeman reappeared. He walked over to the car and told his partner that there was nothing happening here. The flat was closed and sealed, there was nobody around except these two lovebirds, he grumbled, and it was nearly 2.00am, almost the end of their shift. He radioed into headquarters that everything seemed to be in order.
“Go on,” he said, waving at Alex and Natasha. “Get out of here. Fucking foreigners.”
Alex’s heart was pounding from adrenalin and nervous tension as they walked down the side of the square towards Groove. Natasha looked calm and unconcerned.
“You did brilliantly. How did you know he would take a bribe?” asked Alex.
“Cops always work in pairs. If you get stopped and the other one moves away out of sight, or doesn’t come forward it means they are open to be bribed. Plausible deniability. The other cop didn’t see anything, because he wasn’t there. The one who pockets the money gets sixty per cent and the other forty per cent.”
“That would make a great article. A guide to bribing Budapest police officers,” replied Alex enthusiastically.
“Yes, it would. But Alex, I must apologise to you,” said Natasha
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