Desaix grimaced. The rising tide of Hungarian resistance to their own military government and to French and German influence there had taken him by surprise. His attention had been focused almost exclusively on the growing dispute with Poland, the Czech and Slovak republics, Britain, and the United States. A few petty protests in one small country had seemed utterly insignificant when compared to the larger, more serious game being played out in the North Sea and along Germany’s eastern border. He was starting to regret not paying heed to Hungary sooner. The trouble there should have been nipped in the bud — not allowed to spread virtually unchecked.
Of course, he thought, this is all part of the same struggle. The Poles and their neighbors are stirring up trouble for us in Hungary to hit back for the energy embargo. It was something like a flea trying to bite an elephant, but even a fleabite could be annoying if left untended.
Like this. Desaix paged through the report, glancing briefly at its headings and conclusions. Hungary’s police force was falling apart. Although no police units had yet openly sided with the opposition, illegal demonstrations were allowed to go untamed. And raids launched against reported “safe houses” or outlawed printing presses netted little. Opposition sympathizers inside the force saw to that.
Even worse, there were persistent rumors of growing dissatisfaction in the army — especially among junior officers and in the ranks. Hungary’s rulers were becoming increasingly nervy. He frowned as one particular piece of information caught his eye. Some of the generals were moving their money out of Budapest banks and into Swiss safe havens. The cowards! And the fools! If he could find that out, so could the rebels. Knowing that some of the junta were already preparing for possible flight would only make this Kusin and his fellows that much bolder.
Desaix flipped the report shut and pushed it away. “So now these hotheaded scum are planning an even bigger demonstration?”
Morin nodded. Worry lines furrowed his high pale forehead. “Kusin and their other leaders have called for a general strike, a protest march through Budapest, and another mass rally — all starting on the sixteenth.”
“A shrewd maneuver,” Desaix conceded. By openly declaring its intentions, the opposition was challenging the military regime to a fight the generals could easily lose. Allowing the threatened strike and rally to go ahead would only encourage more trouble. But using unreliable Hungarian police units in an attempt to crush the protest might be disastrous — especially if it failed.
He swiveled his chair to look out across Paris. Army helicopters clattered low over rooftops and monuments, flying slowly over the city on patrol. Despite months of relative calm, the capital was still under limited martial law.
French troops guarded every major intersection, and a dusk-to-dawn curfew kept all but essential people off the streets. The City of Lights was a dark, frightening place at night. In the daytime sullen groups of unemployed, some French and some foreign, clashed, or demonstrated, or raided some luckless shop owner for food. Most citizens had enough to eat, barely, and a job, but unemployment was far too high and growing. More and more angry people were being added to the near-explosive idle population.
What the economy needed could not be provided. Tariffs and other restrictions had crippled the trade and commerce Europe depended on for prosperity. The French and German economies, the strongest in Europe, had shrunk last year, and would shrink even faster this year. And now the Eastern Europeans and their U.S. and British backers were thwarting the French- and German-led effort to build a unified, self-sufficient continental market.
Desaix scowled. He and his colleagues on the French Republic’s Emergency Committee still found it easier to govern their unruly countrymen with the aid of the army’s “big stick.” Seeing the patrolling helicopters was an unwelcome reminder of just how tenuous all his recent achievements really were.
France held the dominant position in this new European Confederation, but the Confederation itself was still a relatively weak and fragile instrument. For all their governments’ promises that joining EurCon would bring them peace and prosperity, few people in the smaller member states were reconciled to their loss of sovereignty. If Hungary’s pro-Confederation regime collapsed, it could easily drag other friendly governments down with it.
Desaix shook his head angrily. He would not risk that. He spun away from the window. “Very well, Morin, listen closely. If the Hungarians cannot put an end to this nonsense on their own, then we must help them. Clear?”
“Yes, Minister.” Morin nodded again. “Do you want Special Commissioner Rehling to handle the matter?”
“No.” Desaix slapped his hand down on the desk. “Not the Germans. They’re too soft. Too prissy about following proper procedure. Rehling has had his chance and he’s muffed it.”
He rapped the desktop. “I want someone tougher — more ruthless. Someone willing to take risks to get results. Somebody who won’t shirk from a little ‘wet’ work, if that proves necessary. You understand?”
“Perhaps Major Duroc…?”
Desaix smiled slowly and unpleasantly. “Yes. Paul Duroc. He would be the perfect choice.”
The door to Bela Silvanus’ office was half-open when Hradetsky knocked on it. The short, pudgy bureaucrat looked up irritably from his work, then smiled wearily when he recognized his caller. He motioned the colonel inside.
Hradetsky shut the door behind him. “I got your note. What’s up?”
“Nothing good.” Silvanus lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and nodded toward the chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
Curious, Hradetsky sat down. Although the other man had never asked him where all the documents he’d been feeding him were going, Silvanus had to know he had contacts in the resistance. Discretion had always been one of the administrator’s most prized traits.
Silvanus spoke quietly, earnestly. “There’s trouble brewing, my friend. Trouble I think you need to know about.”
“What kind — personal or professional?” Hradetsky grinned tightly. Were Dozsa and his toadies finally catching on to him?
“The EurCon kind. Connected to this upcoming demonstration I keep hearing about.”
Hradetsky sat back in his chair. He’d been wondering when Rehling would step in to play a more active part in the ministry’s somewhat disjointed preparations for the May 16 rally. General Dozsa and the other high-ranking officials were in a dither, moving riot control troops in from outlying cities almost as fast as they could find transport for them. But the colonel found the attitudes of those below the upper echelons extremely interesting. Heartened by the reappearance of a viable political opposition, fellow officers who had once seemed prepared to go alone with EurCon were increasingly willing to show their true feelings. And men who had once shunned him in the corridors now went out of their way to shake his hand.
He spread his hands. “So what have you got?”
Silvanus shrugged. “Bits and pieces, and none of them reassuring, I fear.” He stubbed his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been kept busy running errands the last few days — playing travel agent for our lords and masters.”
Hradetsky waited patiently for him to come to the point. Silvanus had a pleasant voice, but sometimes he liked to listen to himself talk just a bit too much.
“Most of my work has come in making arrangements for several groups of special visitors to our fair city. Airport pickups, rental cars, and hotel reservations. That sort of thing. Curious thing about these men, though: they’re all young and they’re all flying direct from Paris. I’ve also been ordered to issue them special identity cards and weapons permits. Interesting, eh?”
“How many?”
“Around fifty.”
Hradetsky pondered that. Fifty Frenchmen, even fifty security agents, didn’t sound like much of an invasion. Still, they could cause a lot of trouble by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He frowned. “Who commands; them? The German?”
Silvanus shook his head. “Rehling isn’t in charge. This Interior Secretariat of theirs is flying in someone special. A Frenchman. A man named Duroc. You know him, I think?”
Hradetsky nodded grimly. “I know him.” Hie felt cold. First Sopron, now here in Budapest. And everywhere this Duroc went he seemed to bring death with him. Maybe EurCon was getting ready to take the gloves off. If so, he would have to warn Kusin and the others — tonight, if possible.
He rose to go. “My thanks, Bela. You’ve done me a great service. I’m only sorry I have no way to repay
