Parliament building, thousands of people packed a vast cobblestoned square. Hundreds of red, white, and green Hungarian flags fluttered above the crowd. Deep-voiced, angry chants rippled through the square, echoing back and forth and growing ever louder.
“Hungary’s political opposition emerged from hiding today — taking to the capital city’s streets in numbers not seen since the elections in 1990 swept the old communist regime from power. In a move that clearly took the military government by surprise, more than twenty thousand demonstrators converged on Kossuth Lajos Square for a Labor Day rally demanding an end to martial law and a return to democratic rule.”
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the thin, white-haired man speaking from the Parliament building’s broad stone steps. Commandeered police sound trucks amplified his voice.
“In a stirring, twenty-minute-long address, Vladimir Kusin, leader of the outlawed Democratic Forum, called for the immediate restoration of civil rights, free and fair elections, and for an end to Hungary’s membership in the French- and German-dominated European Confederation.” The camera panned outward again, sweeping across a sea of shouting, cheering faces.
Another crowd shot — this time profoundly moving — showed thousands of men and women swaying from side to side as they sang their nation’s proud, melodic anthem.
“Although the entire hour-long rally took place in defiance of martial law regulations, the government’s security forces remained strangely passive. No officers tried to make any arrests.” The camera cut to small groups of policemen stationed at intervals around the growing crowd. Most looked uneasy or frightened. A few even seemed ashamed of their own uniforms. “Some went further than that.” The pictures showed many police officers joining the crowd in singing the anthem — some with tears streaming down their cheeks.
“Where Hungary’s rejuvenated political opposition goes from here is uncertain. But one thing does seem certain: its campaign to bring democracy back to this country is just beginning…”
They were meeting in Kusin’s third new apartment in three weeks. This one was small and cramped and smelled as though its tenants were often forced to dine on rotting fish.
Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky missed their previous host — an industrialist run out of business by a German chemicals firm. The man had actually had a separate conference room and a well-equipped office in his house.
Now they were back in a working-class flat in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. A single bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a small, sparsely furnished sitting room made up the whole place. The bathroom — shared by all tenants on the same floor — was down the hall. With living and working space at a premium, the couple that had loaned Kusin the apartment were away, staying with friends and family members.
Despite the inconvenience, the frequent moves were necessary. Staying mobile and staying inconspicuous were the opposition’s best defenses against Rehling’s EurCon agents and the Hungarian officials they’d corrupted.
Hradetsky stared at the shut bedroom door in unconcealed impatience. It was nearly dark outside. He’d arrived at the flat nearly an hour ago, only to find Kusin closeted with unnamed men he didn’t know. His police identity card would get him past any curfew checkpoints on the way back home, but he didn’t like the idea of making his movements so easy to trace. “So just how much longer is this ‘vital meeting’ going to take?”
Oskar Kiraly, Kusin’s security chief, smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It will last however long it lasts, Colonel. Kusin has his reasons.”
He didn’t volunteer any more information about the men meeting in the bedroom. Nor did Hradetsky really expect more. Rebels and outlaws who wanted to survive soon learned the value of compartmentalization. What he didn’t know couldn’t be torn out of him if Rehling or General Dozsa got their hands on him.
Kiraly offered him some coffee, strong and bitter, and they sat together at the kitchen table with two other members of the opposition’s inner circle. Kusin’s secretary perched on a nearby chair, tapping away on a humming laptop computer.
It was a familiar scene to Hradetsky, almost comforting. Certainly the comradeship he’d found with these men and women was something he’d missed since his abrupt demotion and transfer to Budapest. Since losing his command at Sopron, he’d also missed having a sense of purpose — something he now possessed in abundance.
He found the work invigorating. The chance to influence events on a national level acted like a tonic on him, washing away all the fatigue and frustration he’d felt piling up over the winter. He had always had a policeman’s contempt for politicians, but he was beginning to admit that this was a time when the only thing that really mattered was politics.
Kiraly looked at him over the edge of his coffee cup. “You know, Colonel, you’re still making problems for us.” He said it with mock seriousness.
“How so?”
“We’ve got twice as many new recruits as we can handle. And more are approaching us all the time.”
Hradetsky nodded. The first major rally he’d helped organize had been remarkably successful. More so than he had ever dared hope. The news of their defiance of the government’s edicts had spread like wildfire, passed by word of mouth, underground papers, and broadcasts over clandestine radio and TV networks based in the Polish, Czech, and Slovak republics. Since then spontaneous, unplanned protests had flared in Gyor, Debrecen, Pecs, and half a dozen other cities and towns. And in almost every case, the local police authorities had carefully looked the other way. The generals must know that their hold on power was shakier than it had ever been.
The bedroom door opened. Finally.
Hradetsky and the others rose to their feet as Kusin ushered his anonymous guests out. There were four of them. All of them were middle-aged, and all were trim and physically fit. The colonel’s eyes narrowed. Whoever these men were, they looked as uncomfortable and out of place in civilian clothes as he did. He suspected that when they walked they had a tendency to fall into step. They had to be soldiers.
After they were gone, Kusin returned to the kitchen. His eyes flashed with excitement, and years seemed to have dropped from his lined face. “My friends, the time has come for us to act, and to act decisively!”
Kiraly and Hradetsky exchanged puzzled glances. The security chief spoke for them all. “Sir?”
“The momentum lies with us. We must make use of it!” Kusin straightened to his full height. “The winter was a time of despair — a time when the generals had the edge. Our people were hungry. They were cold. They were afraid. They wanted food and security — whatever the price. But now it is spring. And in the spring our countrymen’s thoughts turn toward freedom!”
He looked at their stunned faces and smiled. “Don’t worry, my friends. I haven’t lost my mind. There is method in my madness.” His manner changed as he became businesslike, transforming himself from prophet to practical politician. “We must march again, in even larger numbers this time. In numbers that no one can ignore. And I want this city paralyzed by a general strike before we begin. This must be a march of those who have work as well as those who have none.”
Hradetsky shook his head. “We were lucky the last time. But organizing a mass strike and an even larger demonstration? It can’t be done.” He frowned. “Not covertly.”
“Exactly!” Kusin smiled at him. “Our plans should be public. The time. The place. Everything. I want maximum coverage by our friends in the world press.”
Kiraly nodded sagely, then added grimly, “Easy enough to arrange. But it will also be easy for EurCon and government security forces to provide their own form of full coverage.”
“Yes. This will be a test of strength,” Kusin agreed. “A gauntlet thrown down before the generals and their French and German masters.”
Hradetsky felt his fingers flex as though they were curling around the hilt of a saber. He fought to keep a cool head. The images conjured up by Kusin’s confident words were pleasing, but were they realistic? “Are we ready to throw down such a gauntlet?”
“I believe we are.” Kusin sounded certain. “The people are with us. The press is with us. And this government is weaker than we first imagined.” He smiled grimly. “Perhaps even weaker than it knows.”
“You’re sure about this?” Nicolas Desaix tapped the red-tagged Most Secret report in front of him. “This isn’t just a case of panic brought on by the sight of a few bearded fools with painted signs?”
“No, Minister.” Although Jacques Morin now headed both the French DGSE and the Confederation’s Interior Secretariat, he never forgot his place or his patron. “I believe the information is accurate.”
