One Day In Budapest. A Thriller.

Chapter 3

Zoltan pulled Morgan back against the wall as a glass bottle exploded on the ground in front of them.
“Our community has been preparing for this day,” he said. “We knew it would come. We just need to get inside the synagogue and we’ll be safe there.”
“What about the other people in this area?” Morgan asked, worried for the community.
“They will have locked their doors and pulled down their shutters as soon as the news came out this morning,” Zoltan said. “Now we must run across the front to the entrance. Stay close to me.”
Morgan smiled at his chivalry, and together they ran the few meters across the front of the synagogue. Bottles and cans were hurled over the fence, and the screaming of the crowd tore the air around them. Morgan could smell rubbish and the stink of feces as offensive projectiles burst on the ground. The doors of the synagogue opened as they approached and then shut firmly behind them. The shouting became a dull roar, but still, Morgan thought with a shudder, the sound of an angry mob intent on violence was enough to make even a veteran soldier afraid.
Zoltan strode into the nave, where a small group of people huddled, some already swaying in prayer. He had a compelling air of authority, clearly ex-military, although he was younger than most of those present. While he gave instructions to those within, Morgan’s heart rate began to calm and she became more aware of her surroundings.

The synagogue was immense and fashioned almost like a Christian basilica, with a mix of Byzantine and Gothic elements. Richly colored frescoes of geometric shapes were picked out in gold and red, dominating the ceiling, and tall arches framed the upper balconies. The Torah ark was surrounded by a towering white structure topped with a crown and, unusually for a synagogue, an organ continued the design upwards. It was a beautiful space, strangely decorative for a Jewish place of worship but, Morgan thought to herself, the people here had tried their best to fit in, even with their architecture.
Morgan watched Zoltan as he organized the group, offering words of comfort along with his authority. One old woman sat to the side on a bench, her face expressionless, lips unmoving, staring into the distance. In the blankness of her eyes, Morgan saw that she had been through this experience before, that she was reliving some earlier terror. 

She caught Zoltan’s eye and moved to join him, speaking in a hushed tone so as not to alarm those present.
“We have to get out of here,” she said. “We need to find the Holy Right and return it to the Basilica, because if this continues into the night, I fear for these people.”
Zoltan’s eyes were hard. “And who are you, Morgan Sierra, to be of any use to me in this place?”
Morgan met his gaze without flinching. “I know you must have a way out, and you need a partner who can operate in the field. You have to leave your security guards on duty here to protect these people and I can be useful, so put me to work.” She paused, laying her hand on his arm. “This is what I do, Zoltan. I find religious objects and I fight bad guys.”
A glimmer of humor shone in his eyes. “And today, Budapest harbors these bad guys?”
Morgan nodded. “Do you have weapons here?”
Zoltan hesitated, looking back at the group. They were mainly academics and older people who volunteered at the synagogue. Morgan saw Anna comforting one woman, rocking her in her arms and stroking her hair as Ilona sat close by, eyes wide with fear.
He shook his head slowly, and Morgan saw resignation in his eyes.
“Follow me.”

In one corner of the synagogue was an ornate screen. Zoltan stepped behind it and tapped into a keypad on the wall. The heavy door clicked and he pushed it open to reveal a smaller courtyard outside protected by high walls but still open to the sky. A large metal storage container loomed in the shadows. 
“This area is just outside the holy ground of the synagogue,” Zoltan explained. “But we keep the store close just in case.”
He tapped in another code and pulled open the door, gesturing for Morgan to enter. There were several racks of guns, old but clean, and clearly well serviced. Morgan picked up a Glock 17 handgun.
“Austrian,” Zoltan said. “Military issue.”
“Thinking about it, I’m not sure that we should take weapons,” Morgan said. “We need to stay out of sight as much as possible. If we get stopped, carrying guns will get us arrested, which won’t help anyone here.”
“Agreed,” Zoltan said, picking up a tire iron from a pile of tools, hefting its weight in his hand. “This will have to do.” He put it into a backpack with a couple of torches and some other basic equipment. “Our only chance to stop a riot tonight is to find the Hand.” He picked up a protective vest. “But will you wear this, just in case? It’s a spare.”

Morgan nodded, reaching for it. Zoltan stripped off his own jacket and shirt, revealing a trim, muscled torso clad in a tight, white t-shirt, a criss-cross of white scars emerging from his right sleeve and continuing down his arm. Morgan watched for a second, resisting the urge to touch him, before pulling off her own coat and sweater, feeling the tension in her muscles. It felt good to move, the adrenalin pulsing through her. She claimed to be an academic, but this life of action suited her. By his eyes on her toned body, it was clear Zoltan thought so too. Their eyes met, danger sparking an attraction, then Zoltan broke the gaze as he zipped up the small backpack and they stepped from the lock-up.
“There’s a tunnel we can use to get out of here,” he said, re-entering the code to secure the container. “It emerges a few streets away in the basement of a bar where we have friends.”
A wailing scream came from the main synagogue and Zoltan dashed back inside. Morgan followed after him to find that the old woman who had sat in catatonic silence had broken down in hysterical weeping.
“We must go now,” Zoltan said, his face stony, fists clenched. “I will not allow my people to go through this again.”

He led Morgan to a corridor that ran behind the aron ha-kodesh, the Holy Ark that held the Torah scrolls, and then into a small square room lined with books.
“Now we go down,” Zoltan said, pulling aside a rug that concealed a trapdoor. He tugged it up revealing a dark and narrow hole. Morgan’s thoughts flashed to the mass grave outside, the bodies of those starved to death lowered into pits like this. Zoltan stepped down onto the ladder and then passed her up a head torch. “It’s not too far. My men have orders to bring the others this way if the synagogue wall is breached, but I fear that the elderly would struggle to escape down here.”
He disappeared into the hole and Morgan watched him descend. She took a deep breath and followed him, climbing down about six feet. Zoltan was waiting at the bottom in a low tunnel, and as soon as Morgan’s feet touched the ground, he set off into the darkness, the light from his head torch illuminating dank earth reinforced with wooden planks. With barely enough room to stand upright, Morgan had to bend to walk quickly behind him.

It must have been built after the Ghetto, Morgan thought, as back then these blocks would have been surrounded by a high fence and stone wall. No food had been allowed in, and rubbish, waste and dead bodies had lain on the streets unable to be collected. She walked faster, specters of the past chasing her through the dark tunnel, the bony fingers of the dead crying out for justice while the living wailed in the synagogue behind her. She felt claustrophobic, as if the very earth wanted to crush her. There was a light touch on her cheek and she let out a little noise of alarm.
“Are you OK?” Zoltan’s whisper came back and he shone his torch at her feet.
Morgan touched her face, wiping away a crumbling flake of earth.
“Yes, sorry, just a bit jumpy.”
“Only a little further.” He turned and they walked on until they reached another ladder, which Zoltan quickly climbed, pushing open the hatch above. Light flooded down into the pit as Zoltan reached down to help Morgan up. They emerged into a beer cellar in the basement of a local pub, with metal barrels piled up in one corner, the smell of hops in the air.
“We need to find out more about the ultra right-wing Nationalist groups,” Zoltan said. “The relic theft is not the work of Jewish groups, but of a faction trying to stir up violence for their own agenda. With the elections only a few days away, there are those who would benefit greatly from a backlash against the Jews and a resurgence of Hungarian nationalism. I know someone who can help us … but you’re not going to like where he works.”

***
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.

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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.

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