The Fox of '56

Deception Lurks in the War-Torn Streets of Budapest

In 1956 as Hungarians mount their revolution against the Soviets, CIA agent Henry Caldwell is sent to Budapest to monitor activities. But when he sees Katalin, the love of his love who disappeared four years ago, he’s confused. Through the war-torn streets, Henry finds himself in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse where trust is scarce and survival uncertain.

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Chapter 12

“That’s a helluva greeting,” I said to Kat.

She pointed the gun at my chest as she glanced over the railing of the apartment landing. “All right. Inside.”

She pushed me into the tidy apartment with a narrow kitchen, sparsely appointed living room, and bedroom. Sitting on the antique sofa in the living room was the man I assumed to be her father. I extended my hand. “Dr. Vadas?”

His suspicious eyes belied a kind and round face offset by bushy eyebrows and a shock of white hair. When he stood to shake my hand, he stooped at about five-foot-five. “Yes. And you are?”

Kat interrupted. “Father, this is Henry Caldwell. A journalist friend of mine.”

“A friend?” I said.

“Darling. Must you always greet friends with a gun in your hand?”

She sheepishly pocketed her pistol.

“Come sit, Mr. Caldwell.” He passed me a glass. “Here join me in some palinka.” He poured what I soon learned was apricot brandy.

Kat spoke almost in a whisper. “Why are you here, Henry?”

“I understand your father is in danger?”

“That’s crazy. Where did you get that idea?”

“Your friend, the priest, Kormany. Is it true the Soviets plan to kidnap Dr. Vadas?”

“Who knew mathematical formulas could be so popular?” he said. “Here, let’s finish this bottle as he emptied the golden brandy into our glasses.

Kat was not so nonchalant as her father. “Henry. This really is not your concern. You should leave now.”

Dr. Vadas leaned back into the sofa. “Darling. Please. Let the man finish his drink in peace.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Forgive my daughter. She means well, but I believe this uprising has everyone’s shoelaces tied in knots.”

“Kat. Let me help you. If you want to—”

She cut me off. “Henry, please. Everything is under control.”

“Kat. You can’t trust the Soviets. Once they get whatever it is your father has created, they will kill him and you, too. I can’t let that—”

A severe punish of knocks jolted us. “Open up by order of the Hungarian State Protection Authority,” a voice boomed from the other side of the door.

Kat whispered, “Father. Quick. We have to move.” With no further words, the two of them tiptoed to the bedroom where Kat released a secret staircase from the ceiling. “C’mon,” she waved to me.

I followed them up into a low attic. We ran hunched over across exposed beams to the far end of the building. Another wooden staircase led us outside to a landing and a zigzag metal staircase that took us down to street level. Kat grabbed my hand. “This way.”

But her father scooted in the opposite direction and disappeared in the shadows.

“Kat. Your father.”

“Shut up. He’s fine.”

Above us, voices shouted. “Stop. You are under arrest.” Heavy footsteps descended the stairs.

I ran after Kat through a maze of alleys until we ended up in a poorly lit tunnel leading to the next metro station. The zap of bullets overhead pinged and chipped at the concrete. Kat returned fire.

We exited the short tunnel and came to a narrow cobblestone street in the city’s Castle District. I had heard of the 13th century castles but had not yet visited, nor visited under the threat of gunfire. “Kat, where are we going?”

She didn’t answer and kept running past stone walls. One gaslight lamp lit our way before we entered more darkness and more stairs down into a labyrinth of caves. I had to trust Kat at this point, for I had no clue as to where we were headed, nor could I see. The chilly underground maze of rooms gave us temporary cover. Footsteps of the dreaded AVH, the Hungarian State Protection Authority, were not far behind us.

My friend Zsolt had schooled me on the notorious secret police force and how their brutality was one of the leading causes of the uprising. At the end of World War II when Soviets imposed communist rule over Hungary, the AVH was created to out traitors of the new regime using tactics of torture, imprisonment, and propaganda. I knew Hungarians feared them and had no doubt that if they caught up with us, we’d face a similar fate. I recalled Zsolt saying, “This is our homeland and our life. We will fight for it, against the tyranny of communism and fight to the very end.”

I was beginning to truly appreciate the plight of the Hungarians. It was one thing to stand on the sidelines and report on the fighting, on the death and destruction occurring in the streets. It was quite another thing to be pursued by authorities shooting at you without regard to the sanctity of life. I decided then that should I survive the night with Kat; I would pursue the purchase of a gun. After all, what kind of spy am I if I don’t own a gun?

Kat and I kept moving from room to room in the dark caves stepping light as cats in prey of a mouse so as not to be heard. An hour later, we exited the caves on the far side of the castle district. Kat strode toward to bicycles locked with chains to a fence barely visible from the street. She deftly unlocked them. “Let’s go.”

To say I was confused and amazed at her tenacity and wile in escaping the authorities would be an understatement. I pedaled hard to catch up with her. “You kept these bikes there?”

“Shut up and ride.”

We crossed another bridge and I recognized Csepel Island, a thirty-mile-long extension of land in the middle of the Danube River. The communists controlled this region of factories but when the uprising broke open, it was the laborers—the men of Csepel—who backed up the writers, philosophers, and students who started the uprising.

Kat stopped and I pulled up next to her. A large Soviet tank loomed ahead of us. It’s big engine rumbling in the dim lighted street. “Now what?” I said.

“Wait.”

A gasoline truck rolled up to our right. The driver leaped out of his cab, unfurled a large hose, and doused the tank with a long stream of gasoline. Another man hurled a Molotov cocktail at the tank and it burst into flame. The Soviets inside scrambled out of the hatch and were shot dead.

The truck driver tipped his hat to Kat. She blew him a kiss in return.

“What was that?” I said.

“That was my cousin, Laci. He just saved our lives.”

We rode on past factory buildings and stopped at a stone building where she opened a side door and walked her bicycle downstairs to a large cellar. To my surprise, her father was there to greet us with open arms and a giggle. I got the quick impression they had performed this bit of subterfuge and escape before. And this, I soon learned, was his secret laboratory, the reason for everyone’s interests in Dr. Vadas and his research to improve nuclear bomb fission.

His laboratory was not what I expected. I guess I expected to see test tubes and boiling water in beakers, maybe a small-scale nuclear reactor with steel doors and heated pipes. But this was unlike that. A massive chalkboard with numerous calculations spread across the green board took up one wall. A large desk held scattered papers and books spilled off shelves onto the floor. The laboratory looked more like a classroom than a place experimenting with nuclear energy.

Kat said, “Have a seat. We have a lot to talk about.”