made that impossible. You couldn’t capture people you couldn’t find.
Duroc sneered at the sight of the massive, ragtag mob coming down the street. Numbers meant nothing. He had sufficient strength in hand to crush this demonstration, and more important, the minds behind it. Any fool could use force to break up a rally. The key was to move so quickly and so violently that those you hit were left stunned, unable to defend themselves or strike back. But he had bigger plans. His orders from Paris were clear: His superiors wanted him to do more than just temporarily restore order to Budapest’s streets. They wanted him to smash Hungary’s political opposition once and for all.
Well, he thought, that should be simple enough. Kusin and the others on his list were positioned close to the front — out in the open and out of hiding at last. That was brave, but foolish. They would be easy pickings.
Still, years of experience had taught him to plan for the unexpected. That was why he’d stationed Michel Woerner and five men armed with automatic weapons in the building’s central stairwell. They would provide security against any unwelcome intruders if things went wrong.
He leaned closer to the window to get a better view.
The first rows of marching morons were almost in the noose he’d fashioned. Kusin and his followers were just moving into Kodaly Circle — a major intersection surrounded by ornately decorated buildings whose facades curved to follow the circle. The other streets feeding into the circle were a maze of businesses, small hotels, and apartment blocks.
Small knots of tough-looking men loitered near the intersection. They weren’t hiding, but they kept to the corners and to the early morning shadows. Although they were dressed in plain, workingmen’s clothes, no one could possibly mistake them for civilians. They were too quiet, too disciplined.
Beyond them, out of sight, were trucks and armored cars full of riot police. Once his men had the king and other important pieces in hand, the Hungarians could clear the board of the pawns. With their leaders gone, the mob out there would run like sheep — not roar like lions.
Duroc watched the approaching crowd draw nearer, noting the individuals in it but not really seeing them as people. They were simply obstacles he had to overcome to complete this mission. Three stories below, the line of Hungarian flags crossed into the circle. Now. He turned to his radioman. “Proceed with Phase One.”
Hradetsky swore suddenly as the men he’d been watching suspiciously sprang into action. Long-handled nightsticks and blackjacks came out from under windbreakers and long coats as thirty to forty of them formed into three squad-sized wedges and charged. Others hung back, apparently armed with short-barreled grenade launchers. Without waiting for further orders, they aimed and fired.
He whirled to shout a warning. Too late.
Tear gas grenades whirred overhead and exploded in the crowds further back — bursting in puffs of white, choking smoke. Panic spread backward along the avenue as the CS gas drifted east on the wind. Marchers stumbled and fell, overcome by acrid fumes that left them retching on the ground or crawling away with tears streaming down their faces. In seconds, Hradetsky, Kusin, Kiraly, and several hundred others at the front of the march were isolated — cut off from their supporters by a rising wall of tear gas.
Nightsticks rose and fell as the first wave of plainclothes security agents smashed into the flag bearers at the front. Men spun away from the melee, clutching bloodied faces, fractured ribs, and broken arms and legs. Torn Hungarian flags fluttered to the pavement. Shouts, curses, and guttural snarls echoed above the fray — some in Hungarian, others in French.
The first Frenchmen broke past, breathing hard as they sprinted toward Kusin. Two of Kiraly’s marshals tried to tackle them and went down — clubbed brutally to the ground. Bastards!
Hradetsky moved to intercept Duroc’s men, sensing others running with him.
One of the Frenchmen saw him coming. Hradetsky dodged a quick, flickering jab from a nightstick, grabbed the agent’s outstretched arm, and whirled, pulling the man off his feet. As the Frenchman’s head slammed into the pavement, the colonel kicked him hard in the ribs and turned away, looking for a new opponent.
Kodaly Circle had turned into a battlefield. Bodies sprawled on the street, some moving and others unmoving. Blunt-nosed Csepel lorries appeared at the far end of the intersection, crammed with helmeted riot police.
Hradetsky caught a glimpse of Kusin’s white hair through a tangle of struggling, swearing men and headed that way. He could see Kiraly pulling the older man back, trying to shield him from blows raining down on all sides.
A taller, heavier Frenchman blocked his path, teeth bared in sharp defiance and blood-slick stick at the ready.
The colonel ducked under the man’s first vicious swing, struck at his exposed stomach, missed, and backed away. They circled, each looking for an opening.
Duroc looked sourly at the melee developing below him. He’d underestimated the ability of the Hungarians to defend themselves, and now he was running out of time. Bands of enraged protesters were already streaming back down the avenue to the intersection, braving the tear gas to close with his struggling plainclothesmen.
Damn it, where were Kusin and his top lieutenants? With the opposition’s leaders in custody, his men could pull back, clearing the field for the riot squads already deploying in several of the surrounding streets. Without them, he had nothing.
“Major! Captain Miklos wants permission to advance!”
Duroc spun away from the window, his face dark with anger. “No! Tell him to wait!”
He remembered Miklos. The young, black-haired captain was one of the Hungarian police officers under his command for this operation. He was also a man the French security agent viewed with some suspicion — one with several black marks in his dossier for allegedly criticizing both the government and the new Confederation. Confronted by Vladimir Kusin’s unexpected ability to mobilize the people, the generals were being forced to rely on even their most unreliable officers.
Duroc scowled. He had the uncomfortable sensation that events were sliding beyond his control.
Down in the street, Hradetsky blocked a wild swing with his left forearm and got inside the tall Frenchman’s reach. Ignoring the pain rocketing all the way up to his shoulder, he rabbit-punched the security agent in the throat. The big man dropped to his knees, choking on a broken larynx.
Now what? He looked wildly around, trying to spot Kusin or Kiraly. He doubted it would do any good to shout for them. Not in a confused mess like this. More and more protesters were flooding into Kodaly Circle, intent on getting to grips with the men who had turned a peaceful march into a bloody free-for-all. With their comrades locked in a confused melee, the Frenchmen armed with tear gas launchers had stopped firing and joined the fight.
“Colonel!”
Hradetsky half turned toward the yell, just in time to see Oskar Kiraly knocked off his feet by several club- wielding men. My God. He took a step in that direction and felt the back of his head explode.
The agony drove him down to his hands and knees as the security agent who had hit him from behind struck again, this time slamming the nightstick into his side. His awareness danced away toward a world of darkness and shrieking pain. Dimly, through half-closed eyes, he saw his attacker tackled by one of Kiraly’s marshals. Five or six protesters crowded in, jostling each other as they kicked and pummeled the Frenchman senseless. Some of them were policemen wearing opposition armbands.
Still groggy, Hradetsky pushed himself up off the pavement, fighting to stop the world spinning around him. Each breath stabbed his side as sharp as any dagger. A broken rib, or maybe just badly bruised, he thought clinically — amazed at the mind’s ability to stay detached under stress.
“They have Kusin!” The panicked, sorrowing cry tore through both his pain and his adrenaline-enforced calm. He opened his eyes wide.
Those few Frenchmen still able to walk or ran were falling back. But they weren’t alone. They had a small number of captives with them. Most were opposition leaders who had been wearing the placards proclaiming their status as wanted men. Two plainclothes agents were dragging the lean, white-haired opposition leader between them. Kusin’s head lolled, rolling from side to side, as his captors hurried away, staggering under their burden. He was either dead or unconscious.
Hradetsky’s long-suppressed rage exploded, burning white-hot. He stood up straight, balancing precariously on wobbly legs for a moment. First one breath and then another cleaned the worst of the pain out of his lungs. He started running toward the retreating French. Others followed him.
