The taxi dropped Morgan a little way from the entrance to Memento Park because the roads were so busy. It seemed that all of Budapest was gathering, or at least those who supported the nationalist cause. And what good Hungarian wouldn’t want to, she thought, as the red, white and green flags fluttered in the breeze. There were families holding hands and groups of young people laughing and drinking. It was a scene that resonated with pride, and Morgan certainly understood the attraction of nationalism. After all, who didn’t want to be proud of their own country?

She looked around for Berényi but the crowd was thick, moving through the park slowly, and there was no sign of him. Around the edges, Morgan could see groups of men with hard faces and fists that clenched plastic tumblers of beer. They wore the uniform of the civilian militia, officially dissolved by the Hungarian courts, but tolerated, and even encouraged, by many who supported their cause. The black uniform and caps evoked pictures that Morgan had seen in Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum, in Jerusalem. She knew that psychological research had shown that a uniform cloaked the individual in collective responsibility, and it was the best way to get people to obey authority figures and overcome their natural reticence to hurt others. She had read reports of the militia’s torch-lit marches around Roma communities, creating terror in the persecuted group and even causing some to be evacuated for fear of explosive violence. It wouldn’t take much to encourage this lot to attack the synagogue in revenge for the outrage of the Holy Right.

Morgan entered the gates and moved with the crowd into the park. It was a strange throwback to the Communist era, with huge statues of famous figures like Lenin, Marx and Engels as well as the boots of Stalin, all that remained of the dictator’s statue, torn down in the 1956 revolution. Nearby, the Liberation Army Soldier stood six meters tall, striding with fists raised towards the enemy, shouting for revolution. The park was meant to be a reminder of the fall of Communism, but Morgan felt it somehow glorified those dark days, its propaganda now serving a modern purpose.

The open plan park was designed in six circles surrounding a central seventh, with the Communist star in the very middle. A dais had been set up there, but the focus of the crowd was on a large stage near the back of the park where a band was playing folk rock. As Morgan slid through the throng, she could see that some of those massed in front of the band had their right arms raised in a Fascist salute. No one seemed to care, and again, Morgan felt that she was witnessing a flashback, or an alternate universe where the last seventy years had been but a dream.

Behind the band, large screens projected visions of Hungary’s greatness, images of propaganda that the Communist regime would have been proud to call their own. The handsome face of László Vay smiled while he greeted housewives and kissed babies, as strong men shook his hand and pledged allegiance. The video switched to footage of the militia marching underneath the banner of the Turul, the mythical bird, representing power, strength and nobility. Morgan noticed that many in the crowd watched the images even if they ignored the music, and the press were gathered around the edges, interviewing people. She had to get the footage of the labyrinth up onto that screen.

Weaving through the crowd, Morgan smiled up at the leering men so they would let her pass. Women eyed her suspiciously and Morgan suspected that any violence here would be equal opportunity. The smell of sweat and beer intensified as she made it to the front of the crowd, who were now swaying and singing along to what must be a popular song.

Peering into the shadows at the side of the stage, Morgan tried to see where the video was controlled. There was a guy hunched over a several laptops and a mixing desk, earphones on his head. Next to the technician, she spotted Hollo Berényi, compulsively looking at his watch, clearly expecting László to arrive for his big speech any moment. He pulled out his smartphone and dialed, appearing to be swearing silently as it failed to be answered. He must assume that László was still underground, but he would be more concerned soon enough.

Morgan noticed the lead singer glance to the side of the stage and Berényi made a gesture to carry on, keep playing. So László was already late, and that meant she didn’t have much time. If Berényi couldn’t fire up this crowd, he might take his militia and attack the synagogue anyway. Morgan thought of little Ilona, and of the old woman, screaming as she relived past horrors.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

“We’re out of the labyrinth,” Georg’s voice was halting as he tried to catch his breath. “We’ve dealt with the … package … and I’ve got Zoltan out and we’re at a local doctor’s. Where are you?”

“On location,” Morgan said briefly. “I should have something for you in the next ten minutes. Will you be able to monitor when the feed goes active even if I can’t call you?”

“Yes, if you can plug the USB in, I’ll get a ping on my phone and I can send the video. I’ll be waiting.”

Morgan considered her options. Berényi had seen her briefly on the boat but would he place her face on this day of chaos? She made her decision and ducked back out through the crowd towards the busy bar. She adjusted her clothes, pulling down her T-shirt to reveal a little more cleavage. Grabbing two beers, she headed back to the screen control desk, evading the attentions of several inebriated men along the way.

When she returned, Berényi had his back to her and was talking to three other men, their bulk barely covered by the tight-fitting black uniforms. A couple of them glanced at her as she approached and she raised the beers in fake inebriation, giving a cheeky smile before she bent to the man at the desk. After a second, they carried on their conversation, clearly thinking she was a groupie for the band, but Morgan knew that Berényi’s eyes could fall on her any minute. She hoped that Georg was ready to initiate whatever he needed to do if she managed to get the USB key into the computer, because she was on the edge of potential trouble here.

The technician turned at her approach and said something in Hungarian. His tone indicated that she shouldn’t be there, that he was busy, but Morgan saw his eyes take in her curves with barely concealed interest. He was fat and his skin was pockmarked, clearly not the most attractive member of the band’s team. Perhaps he would take any chance of attention. She stepped in close and gave him the beer, smiling and turning with her back to Berényi, shielding the view of the mixing desk and hiding her face.

“I love the music,” she said, mouthing the words, as the band segued into something more thrash metal than folk. “You must be so clever to work with the band.”

“Oh, English,” the man said, smiling in a way that made Morgan suspect that he had enjoyed the attentions of British groupies before. He patted his lap, pulling out the chair to make room for her. She swallowed her disgust and sat on his knee, using the chance to get a look at his setup. She felt a hot hand on her thigh as he indicated the computer system with pride.

“This … most important for band,” he said. She smiled and nodded, seemingly enthusiastic as he explained the setup in Hungarian, pleased to have someone share his passion. Morgan noticed a USB port on the side farthest from her, but she would need to stretch across him to plug it in. She felt his hand move up from her thigh, towards her breast, his breath hot on her neck.

Morgan fought the desire to get up and run, instead pressing forward into his hand. As he took the chance to feel her soft curves, she retrieved the USB key from her pocket. Palming it, she turned towards him, trying to glaze her eyes in a parody of drunken lust. She could hear the band winding up their song, the chorus on its third repetition. She bent her head, her lips meeting his and as he closed his eyes, she felt behind her for the USB port.

The man’s thick tongue plundered Morgan’s mouth, all sense of his job forgotten as he groped her breast with one hand and with the other pulled her firmly onto his stiffening crotch. Just one more second, Morgan thought, her body desperate to pull away as she tried to dock the USB key. She felt the click and she leaned away from the man, smiling coquettishly. He said something in Hungarian, no doubt some version of “let’s go somewhere more private later,” his hand never leaving her breast. Everything in Morgan screamed at her to use her Krav Maga close combat skills and get out of there, but she had to stay and make sure that the video was delivered.

She smiled again, nodding as if in agreement, glancing over his shoulder at the screen. Nothing had changed and the band played on, with the video of militant propaganda still playing in the background. Had something gone wrong?

“What are you doing here?” The voice was rough and heavily accented. Morgan felt a hand on her arm pull her away from the technician’s lap. She found herself staring into the dark eyes of Hollo Berényi, his black hair shining, like an oil slick hiding the lifeless depths beneath.

***

Thanks for reading!

There are 3 more books in the ARKANE series, so you can join Morgan Sierra on more adventures in Pentecost, Prophecy and Exodus.

The books are available in ebook format at Amazon stores and Kobo, as well as in print and audio through Amazon.

I also have a darker crime novel, Desecration, that opens with a murder in a medical specimen museum. Plus a short story series inspired by Dante’s Inferno, A Thousand Fiendish Angels.

You can find more info and sign up to be notified of new books at: JFPenn.com

or I’m on twitter @thecreativepenn

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