The Budapest Protocol [antikvár]

PROLOGUEBudapest, November 1944Only 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 mezuzah, 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.