The Paper War

I wasn’t used to running, especially not for my life. The night air burned in my lungs like they’d collapse. This was not a coincidence. I stayed in the shadows to catch my breath. I reached into my bag to make sure I hadn’t lost it in the escape. Relief flooded over me as my hand found what it was looking for. Creeping to the edge of the alley I checked for any sign of the car that had been pursuing me. I’d never been chased by a car before and I definitely had never been shot at; all these new experiences. My mind wandered back to the man who’d slipped into my Budapest apartment that morning, the chaos in the square outside my window. What had I done? Or rather, what had I agreed to? The street was silent now, but the roar of engines and bullets echoed in my memory. I hope this is worth it, I thought. My sneakers moved noiselessly across the cobblestones. Staying out in the open on this deserted stretch was out of the question. The train station was close, and in a few hours, I’d be in Zagreb. Then, maybe this would be over. I was never going to help anyone again, I vowed. That was a lie and I knew it. Somehow, I always managed to be knee-deep in someone else’s mess. It was time this bleeding heart bled out. Wasn’t it? I tried to convince myself, but that was only fear talking.

I pictured his face in my mind, his bald head, those eyes. He had no choice but to trust me, and ultimately, I couldn’t refuse. Had I signed my own death warrant? He had powerful enemies. Looking over my shoulder I saw only the lonely street. I would have felt safer on a street littered with partygoers, but not a lot safer. My pulse still thundered in my ears as I moved forward avoiding the light from the streetlamps. Being surrounded by people seemed like the safest option. The night was unusually cold and jogging through it was exhilarating until I tumbled forward. Fear coursed through me. I’d been tripped. I’m not that clumsy. Staggering to my feet I caught sight of a shadow not far behind. Oh God! I breathed, head spinning, but still trying to run. This shadow behind me might be an innocent bystander, but he might be one of them. I couldn’t take any chances. I didn’t know how to fight. The only hope of escape was to stay out of reach. How had they found me so quickly? Had he been apprehended? Stumbling forward and wiping my forehead I could hear the footsteps keeping pace with mine. Those footsteps were definitely following me. How was I going to lose him? The train station was just minutes away now. Keep going Mari! I whispered to myself. You aren’t going to die in Budapest. You will not be another dead traveler statistic. I tried to convince myself. It was much more likely I was going to die in Zagreb the way things were going. I was in full sprint by this time, chest burning and head pounding. Turning a corner, I was no longer aware of my pursuer. The street was brighter. People were at sidewalk cafes. Now I had witnesses. I slowed to a walk trying to control my breathing.

Something jabbed my side. “Jó estét,” a voice said calmly, ominously.

“Jó estét,” I answered. I knew embarrassingly little Hungarian for having lived there 6 months and my accent was even more embarrassing. Everyone was kind enough to appreciate my attempt, but I struggled with languages and my pronunciation was even worse. No one had ever held a gun to my ribs before, but this was a day for firsts, apparently. My mouth dried up with fear. This was my film noir moment. What would Humphrey Bogart do, shoot his way out? Not an option, I didn’t have a gun. What would Lauren Bacall do? I couldn’t think. Get rescued by the hero? I didn’t have a hero either. Without a gun or a hero, I only had my wits, and I wasn’t sure how far they’d carry me. This wasn’t a story; this was real life. I had no guarantee of another episode.

“You are going to listen very carefully,” the man said in an uncomfortably smooth voice. I looked at him for the first time. He wasn’t Hungarian, or at least his accent wasn’t. Maybe Italian? I wondered. He gripped my arm tightly.

“I know what Bertorello gave you. If you are a smart girl, you will give it to me and this can all be over.” I looked around without speaking. How was I going to get out of this one? The entrance to the train station was in sight. I wiped my head again trying to calculate how long it would take to get there and if I could outrun my assailant. Why was I sweating so much? Then I noticed it. My hand was red. It wasn’t sweat, it was blood. I was bleeding. My mind began to race. I must have cut my head when I fell.

“I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I don’t know anyone named Bertorello and it’s time for you to shove off, friend.” I said with a surprisingly brave sneer. His eyes narrowed as his grip on my arm tightened.

“I want that book Miss Logan.” He reached for my bag. My brain began to work again. Wiping my hand across my forehead and smearing my blood on his face I started screaming.

“Help! Help! This man’s been shot! He’s bleeding!” He let go of me as people began to notice. I kept screaming like someone had stolen my child. I dashed away from the gathering crowd congratulating myself on a fine performance. I should look into acting if I survive this.

Running again, I didn’t dare look back. I swung through the door of the station. Showing my e-ticket to a sleepy woman behind a glass pane, I only got slightly stuck in the turnstile. My entire body ached. I was going to take up running. I didn’t want to be caught out of shape if this ever happened again. The train station looked more like an opera house. It was glorious and ornate. Walking as calmly as possible and breathing very heavily, I tried to stay out of sight. There was only a handful of people on the platform. Where was this train? I checked my phone. Two minutes. I would be on the train in two minutes. It felt like two hours by the time the train arrived. No mysterious man ran out to the platform as we puffed away, nor was there a frantic chase through the train cars. I just boarded and took a seat alone in my compartment. I pushed my disappointed aside. This uneventful train ride seemed anti-climactic. Regardless, I was sure there would be some PTSD to work through after today. I opened my bag and peeked inside. There it was.

The little black book and my wad of ten thousand euros stared back at me. I thought of the promise of ten thousand more upon delivery, and debated asking for danger pay, but then reconsidered. Don’t get greedy. Bertorello’s face came back to mind. It felt like ages since I’d met him, but in reality, it had only been a few hours since he’d broken into my flat near Kossuth Square. While washing dishes that morning I’d seen a man running through the crowds below pursued by police little did I know that scene was about to change my life. Moments later, he slipped through my front door. When the authorities knocked asking for him, I’d denied having seen anyone. He was a whistle blower of celebrity status. One of the good guys. His discoveries had shaken Western society to its core. Hated by some, I had nothing but admiration for this man who had put his life on the line to save thousands. A slew of guilty politicians and other public figures had been jailed because of his findings. Those not yet exposed were out to silence him and I had all their names and proof of involvement inscribed in this little black book. It was common knowledge that he didn’t use any technology. Bertorello was ‘old school’. “The only thing that can’t be hacked is paper,” was his mantra. In this virtual world he represented the vestiges of a beautiful by-gone era. He clung to tradition and to uncompromised principles. An era of carefully trained cursive writing, high quality paper, and ink that left the indelible mark of a documented idea. With the twenty thousand euros I’d be able to take a break from working and devote myself to my PhD, provided I didn’t die. Listening to Bertorello’s instructions I’d have been less willing to involve myself had I not followed his exploits so closely. Desperate resolve glinted in his eyes as he handed me the money and the notebook. The secrets of this black book would be silenced forever if he was apprehended.

“I will meet you at a Hotel in Zagreb, the Arcotel Allegra, by Friday at the latest. It’s near the main square. If I don’t make it, you will ask for a guest by the name of Ponceau. He will help you. You will give him this book. Remember, Arcotel Allegra and Ponceau.” Then he left. It was Wednesday night now. His words rang in my ears. Oddly enough, I’d stayed at the Arcotel years ago, and new exactly where it was. In a few hours this notebook would be in the right hands.

The metallic train voice jolted me awake as it announced our arrival in Zagreb in several languages. I’d arrived and wasn’t dead yet. Still tense, I made my way through the morning sun in the Ban Jelacic Square toward the Arcotel Allegra. Eating the most delicious meat filled pastry known to humanity, I paused to consider the Ban Jelacic monument. He was on a horse poised for battle; sword drawn. The statue reminded me of the Bronze Horseman and of Bertorello. I thought of the battles we fought now, the battle he fought. Fights no longer on horses but in courtrooms or dark Hungarian streets or Croatian hotels. Destruction and new life in an ever-changing world.

Unsure of my next step, I decided to do some shopping and reserve a hotel room. Like a normal person, whose life is in danger. “Welcome to Arcotel Allegra, Miss Logan,” said the front desk agent after checking me in. I noticed a man looking at me. Here we go again, I thought. My adrenaline started pumping. I walked into the bar away from where he was lurking. He followed.

“Miss Logan?” he asked intently.

“Rakia, please.” I said, ignoring him and taking a seat at the bar.

“So early in the morning?” He asked with a smirk.

“Tell me, is there a better time?” I replied, finally acknowledging him.

“I’ll have one too,” he said to the bartender placing a few bills too many on the counter.

“Miss Logan,” he said again, lighting a cigarette. “I’m Ponceau.” Shocked, I looked directly at him.

“Where is Bertorello?” I hissed.

“He will be joining us for lunch shortly. You’ve arrived at the right time. I can’t wait to hear about your journey here. We may need some… new associates.” He smiled tucking a gaudy cigarette case back into his pocket.

“Maybe we need to discuss some danger pay in that case,” I said, interested. He laughed and handed me another little black book with a thick envelope tucked into its pages.

“Bertorello also likes Rakia before lunch.” He ordered a third glass and we waited.