Origin
Page 61
Before the bus could pull away, however, the man in the jeans and baseball cap sprinted up behind the bus and narrowly managed to climb aboard.
Köves went rigid, but the man walked past him without a glance and took a seat in the back. In the reflection of the windshield, the rabbi could see that the man had returned to his smartphone, apparently engrossed in some sort of video game.
Don’t be paranoid, Yehuda, he chided himself. He has no interest in you.
When the bus arrived at the Dohány Street stop, Köves gazed longingly at the spires of the synagogue only a few blocks away, and yet he could not bring himself to leave the safety of the crowded bus.
If I get out, and the man follows me …
Köves remained in his seat, deciding he was probably safer in a crowd. I can just ride the bus for a while and catch my breath, he thought, although he now wished he had used the toilet before fleeing his home so abruptly.
It was only moments later, as the bus pulled away from Dohány Street, that Rabbi Köves realized the terrible flaw in his plan.
It’s Saturday night, and the passengers are all kids.
Köves now realized that everyone on this bus would almost certainly get off in the exact same place—one stop away, in the heart of Budapest’s Jewish quarter.
After World War II, this neighborhood had been left in ruins, but the decaying structures were now the hub of one of Europe’s most vibrant bar scenes—the famous “ruin bars”—trendy nightclubs housed in dilapidated buildings. On weekends, throngs of students and tourists gathered here to party in the bombed-out skeletons of graffiti-covered warehouses and old mansions, now retooled with the latest sound systems, colorful lighting, and eclectic art.
Sure enough, when the bus screeched to its next stop, all of the students piled out together. The man in the cap remained seated in the back, still engrossed in his phone. Instinct told Köves to get out as fast as he could, and so he clambered to his feet, hurried down the aisle, and descended into the crowd of students on the street.
The bus revved up to pull away, but then suddenly halted, its door hissing open to release one final passenger—the man in the baseball cap. Köves felt his pulse skyrocket once again, and yet the man did not glance even once at Köves. Instead, he turned his back to the crowd and walked briskly in the other direction, placing a phone call as he went.
Stop imagining things, Köves told himself, trying to breathe calmly.
The bus departed and the pack of students immediately began moving down the street toward the bars. For safety, Rabbi Köves would stay with them as long as possible, eventually making a sharp left and walking back toward the synagogue.
It’s only a few blocks, he told himself, ignoring the heaviness of his legs and the increasing pressure in his bladder.
The ruin bars were packed, their boisterous clientele spilling out into the streets. All around Köves, the sounds of electronic music throbbed, and the tang of beer permeated the air, mixing with the sweet fumes of Sopianae cigarettes and Kürtskalács chimney cakes.
As he neared the corner, Köves still had the eerie sense he was being watched. He slowed down and stole one more glance behind him. Thankfully, the man in the jeans and baseball cap was nowhere to be seen.
In a darkened entryway, the crouched silhouette remained motionless for ten long seconds before carefully peering out of the shadows toward the corner.
Nice try, old man, he thought, knowing he had ducked out of sight just in time.
The man double-checked the syringe in his pocket. Then he stepped from the shadows, adjusted his baseball cap, and hurried after his mark.
CHAPTER 41
GUARDIA COMMANDER DIEGO Garza sprinted back up toward the residential apartments, still clutching Mónica Martín’s computer tablet.
The tablet contained a recording of a phone call—a conversation between a Hungarian rabbi named Yehuda Köves and some kind of online whistle-blower—and the shocking contents of the recording had left Commander Garza precious few options.
Whether or not Valdespino was actually behind the murderous conspiracy alleged by this whistle-blower, Garza knew that when the recording went public, Valdespino’s reputation would be forever destroyed.
I must warn the prince and insulate him from the fallout.
Valdespino must be removed from the palace before this story breaks.
In politics, perception was everything—and the information mongers, justly or not, were about to throw Valdespino under the bus. Clearly, the crown prince could not be seen anywhere near the bishop tonight.
PR coordinator Mónica Martín had strongly advised Garza to have the prince make a statement immediately, or risk looking complicit.
She’s right, Garza knew. We have to get Julián on television. Now.
Garza reached the top of the stairs and moved breathlessly along the corridor toward Julián’s apartment, glancing down at the tablet in his hand.
In addition to the image of the Francoist tattoo and the recording of the rabbi’s phone call, the impending ConspiracyNet data-dump was apparently going to include a third and final revelation—something that Martín warned would be the most inflammatory of all.
A data constellation, she had called it—describing what amounted to a collection of seemingly random and disparate data points or factoids that conspiracy theorists were encouraged to analyze and connect in meaningful ways to create possible “constellations.”
They’re no better than Zodiac nuts! he fumed. Fabricating animal shapes out of the random arrangements of stars!
Unfortunately, the ConspiracyNet data points that were displayed on the tablet in Garza’s hand appeared to have been especially formulated to coalesce into a single constellation, and from the palace’s viewpoint, it was not a pretty one.
Köves went rigid, but the man walked past him without a glance and took a seat in the back. In the reflection of the windshield, the rabbi could see that the man had returned to his smartphone, apparently engrossed in some sort of video game.
Don’t be paranoid, Yehuda, he chided himself. He has no interest in you.
When the bus arrived at the Dohány Street stop, Köves gazed longingly at the spires of the synagogue only a few blocks away, and yet he could not bring himself to leave the safety of the crowded bus.
If I get out, and the man follows me …
Köves remained in his seat, deciding he was probably safer in a crowd. I can just ride the bus for a while and catch my breath, he thought, although he now wished he had used the toilet before fleeing his home so abruptly.
It was only moments later, as the bus pulled away from Dohány Street, that Rabbi Köves realized the terrible flaw in his plan.
It’s Saturday night, and the passengers are all kids.
Köves now realized that everyone on this bus would almost certainly get off in the exact same place—one stop away, in the heart of Budapest’s Jewish quarter.
After World War II, this neighborhood had been left in ruins, but the decaying structures were now the hub of one of Europe’s most vibrant bar scenes—the famous “ruin bars”—trendy nightclubs housed in dilapidated buildings. On weekends, throngs of students and tourists gathered here to party in the bombed-out skeletons of graffiti-covered warehouses and old mansions, now retooled with the latest sound systems, colorful lighting, and eclectic art.
Sure enough, when the bus screeched to its next stop, all of the students piled out together. The man in the cap remained seated in the back, still engrossed in his phone. Instinct told Köves to get out as fast as he could, and so he clambered to his feet, hurried down the aisle, and descended into the crowd of students on the street.
The bus revved up to pull away, but then suddenly halted, its door hissing open to release one final passenger—the man in the baseball cap. Köves felt his pulse skyrocket once again, and yet the man did not glance even once at Köves. Instead, he turned his back to the crowd and walked briskly in the other direction, placing a phone call as he went.
Stop imagining things, Köves told himself, trying to breathe calmly.
The bus departed and the pack of students immediately began moving down the street toward the bars. For safety, Rabbi Köves would stay with them as long as possible, eventually making a sharp left and walking back toward the synagogue.
It’s only a few blocks, he told himself, ignoring the heaviness of his legs and the increasing pressure in his bladder.
The ruin bars were packed, their boisterous clientele spilling out into the streets. All around Köves, the sounds of electronic music throbbed, and the tang of beer permeated the air, mixing with the sweet fumes of Sopianae cigarettes and Kürtskalács chimney cakes.
As he neared the corner, Köves still had the eerie sense he was being watched. He slowed down and stole one more glance behind him. Thankfully, the man in the jeans and baseball cap was nowhere to be seen.
In a darkened entryway, the crouched silhouette remained motionless for ten long seconds before carefully peering out of the shadows toward the corner.
Nice try, old man, he thought, knowing he had ducked out of sight just in time.
The man double-checked the syringe in his pocket. Then he stepped from the shadows, adjusted his baseball cap, and hurried after his mark.
CHAPTER 41
GUARDIA COMMANDER DIEGO Garza sprinted back up toward the residential apartments, still clutching Mónica Martín’s computer tablet.
The tablet contained a recording of a phone call—a conversation between a Hungarian rabbi named Yehuda Köves and some kind of online whistle-blower—and the shocking contents of the recording had left Commander Garza precious few options.
Whether or not Valdespino was actually behind the murderous conspiracy alleged by this whistle-blower, Garza knew that when the recording went public, Valdespino’s reputation would be forever destroyed.
I must warn the prince and insulate him from the fallout.
Valdespino must be removed from the palace before this story breaks.
In politics, perception was everything—and the information mongers, justly or not, were about to throw Valdespino under the bus. Clearly, the crown prince could not be seen anywhere near the bishop tonight.
PR coordinator Mónica Martín had strongly advised Garza to have the prince make a statement immediately, or risk looking complicit.
She’s right, Garza knew. We have to get Julián on television. Now.
Garza reached the top of the stairs and moved breathlessly along the corridor toward Julián’s apartment, glancing down at the tablet in his hand.
In addition to the image of the Francoist tattoo and the recording of the rabbi’s phone call, the impending ConspiracyNet data-dump was apparently going to include a third and final revelation—something that Martín warned would be the most inflammatory of all.
A data constellation, she had called it—describing what amounted to a collection of seemingly random and disparate data points or factoids that conspiracy theorists were encouraged to analyze and connect in meaningful ways to create possible “constellations.”
They’re no better than Zodiac nuts! he fumed. Fabricating animal shapes out of the random arrangements of stars!
Unfortunately, the ConspiracyNet data points that were displayed on the tablet in Garza’s hand appeared to have been especially formulated to coalesce into a single constellation, and from the palace’s viewpoint, it was not a pretty one.
