“My daughter was taken on a Saturday. I was in Bucharest Otopeni International at the time, waiting to board my flight out of Romania. Now the airport’s known as Henri Coanda, but back then it was called Otopeni. I had a brief layover in Frankfurt, but never bothered checking my phone. I didn’t learn a thing until I landed at Dulles.
“A friend met me as soon as I got off the plane in D.C. Told me Hailey was missing. I went weak in the knees. Almost fainted, saw white all around the edges of my vision. My friend got me some water, kept me moving. Drove me to Georgetown, to our house, that huge goddamn house, which was now surrounded by vehicles from the Metropolitan PD.
“Tasha, poor Tasha was a mess, her hair all frazzled, her eyes looking as though they’d been dipped in a pot of chlorine. There was snot all down her face, vomit on her chin. She couldn’t even stand on her own; one of the cops had to hold her to keep her on her feet.
“Tasha couldn’t really articulate what had happened. But she never once used the word missing, always taken. At first it made me think she knew more than she was telling the police, but as time went on, I started thinking the same thing. If Hailey had just wandered off she would have been found. Even if someone had found her dead, lying in the middle of the road, struck by a Metro bus, someone would have spotted her. But after a few hours, a day, two days, you know you’re not dealing with a lost child. How far can a six-year-old girl go on her own?
“Once we realized it was an abduction, we waited for the ransom call. You figure we live in a huge house, people think we have money. Maybe that’s why they grabbed her. You hope it’s why they grabbed her. For money. For money, not sex, not …
“Anyway, the ransom call never came. After a few days, you stop looking at the phone because the damn thing makes you sick just by keeping silent. By then, Tasha couldn’t leave the bed. Not even to go to the bathroom. I had to get her a bedpan from Walgreens. Her doctor put her on tranquilizers and sedatives. Painkillers and muscle relaxers, too, because the back of her neck was knotted into a gargantuan fist. She slept all the time. When she wasn’t sleeping she was dosing herself, dying to fall asleep again.
“One afternoon, a few weeks after Hailey went missing, she just didn’t wake up. She’d left a few pills in each bottle to hide what she’d really done. And whether the coroner fell for it, or her parents intervened, her death was ruled an accidental overdose, as opposed to what it really was—a suicide. Not that it mattered much how she died. She was dead. And I knew so was Hailey.
“There was never so much as a true lead, let alone a suspect. Our family and friends and neighbors all turned up clean. Whoever it was, it was a stranger abduction. Like Lindsay’s.”
I caught tears at the corners of Ana’s eyes, and I suddenly had a strong urge to reach across the table to comfort her, to assure her everything would be all right.
“Have you ever thought that maybe your daughter could still be alive?”
I felt my lower lip tremble.
“I lost hope that she was alive long ago, and I’d never want that hope back. Not in a million years. Not for one second. But I will forever be looking. In every shop, every café, every open home window in every city or town in every country on every continent. I can’t help myself. I want to know what happened to her and why. And I want to know who took her.”
I shook my head and swallowed hard as I thought about Ostermann knocking Dietrich Braun and Karl Finster out cold in the alley behind SO36 back in Kreuzberg.
“The violence I would do to that man, Ana, it can’t be put into words.”
Chapter 22
After dinner, Ana and I took a long, silent walk around Old Town. I was exhausted but knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. It was cold and there weren’t many people on the streets. We began our stroll on the outer belt, along the poorly lit Planty gardens, then moved in toward the main square. From the corner of my eye I’d caught a band of skinheads loitering near the Straszewski Obelisk and kept my guard up until we were safely back at the guesthouse on Tomasza.
Inside, I followed Ana up the stairs to our floor. We stopped at her door. I leaned in to kiss her good night on her cheek. Her face was round and soft, as smooth as an ice sculpture and just as cold; yet, the brief contact warmed me to the core.
She looked me in the eyes and said, “You may stay with me if you like.”
I was tempted. Beyond, really. But I gave thought to the next morning. For the past four days I’d been operating solely on instinct with little food and less sleep. My hunger, my exhaustion, my frustration—all my desires combined—seemed to fuel me. They kept me alert, on edge. There was a certain comfort in remaining uncomfortable. When there’s nothing to lose, it’s far easier, far more sensible, to put yourself at risk for the sake of someone else.
But what if I woke at dawn with a full stomach in a comfortable bed, my well-rested body pressed against Ana’s warm flesh? It could make me soft, diffident. It could cause me to hesitate in a situation that didn’t allow for hesitation. Could I pull a gun on Talik just hours later? Would I be able to kill if I had to?
I couldn’t chance it.
“Good night, Ana,” I said warmly.
“Good night, then, Simon.”
I was just in the next room over. As I removed my suit I heard Ana’s shower turn on. My face flushed even though the room was cool, so I pulled back the curtains and opened the window, breathed in the chill. I visited what had happened in Georgetown almost nightly in my sleep, but not often while I was awake. I pushed that house away whenever I could with whatever I could, usually my work. It was why my cases became such obsessions and probably why I was so successful at retrieving children like Jason Blanc, the boy in Bordeaux. Rarely did I visit Georgetown with my words; the retelling of the story was just too damn painful. And it wasn’t a pain I could simply drink away. It was a pain that burrowed its way into every bone, carved out a home in every organ. A pain that couldn’t be relieved with narcotics or removed surgically, a pain that would cease only with my death. In times like this, even all these years later, I could almost comprehend Tasha’s reasoning for leaving, even if I couldn’t condone it.
As I turned from the window, I heard footfalls out in the hall. Heavy steps, made by more than one set of feet. Nothing to concern yourself over in a large hotel. But this was a six-room guesthouse, and the desk clerk had said that the four rooms not occupied by Ana and me were vacant.
I stepped back into my pants and grabbed the Glock. Glanced at the door but there was no peephole. Next door, the shower was still running. I pressed my ear against the wall.
I didn’t need to. Clear as a bell, I heard a key turning in the lock to Ana’s room.
I made for my door, swung out into the hall with my gun raised. Just in time to see Ana’s door close, immediately followed by the click of the lock, the slide of the chain.
I raced back through my room to the window. Stuck my head out and measured the ledge. Barely enough room for my bare feet. I’d need to hold on, so I stuck the gun into the back of my pants. Shirtless, I climbed out onto the ledge in the cold. Looked down three stories and remembered how damn much I hated heights.
I moved as quick as I could along the ledge. Ana’s window was slightly ajar, which meant that it wasn’t locked. The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t see in but at least I couldn’t be seen. Overall, it was to my advantage; I knew that someone was in there, but that someone sure as hell didn’t know I was out here. I bent and raised the window, slowly so as not to make noise.
I heard the shower turn off and decided it was time to move.
I gripped the ledge just above the window, drew a breath, and swung my legs through first. I landed on my feet. Saw a thin skinhead with a blade spin around in surprise. I caught him hard in the temple with a right hook. The bathroom door swung open just as he crumpled. Ana stood in the doorway, dressed in a crisp white towel, and stared down at the fallen skinhead in shock.
Before I could say a word, a much larger s
kinhead came at us from the front of the room, swinging his knife like a sword. I turned and kicked at his knee and his large body blew by me like a bull blows by a matador. He shrieked in pain, his leg having snapped like a matchstick. Soon as he hit the floor, I stamped on the hand holding the knife and he dropped it.
I snatched the knife and gripped his bare head as he reached for his broken leg. As he cried out, I twisted his body, and held the blade to his throat. Over the next thirty seconds, his screams faded into whimpers.
Ana leaned over and recovered the skinny skinhead’s knife while he remained on the floor, apparently unconscious.
“I’m going to ask you two questions,” I said to the bull. “Lie about the first one and I’ll remove an ear. Lie about the second and I’ll cut your throat.”
He didn’t say anything, but I felt the warmth of tears rolling down my bare arm.
“First question,” I said. “Who hired you?”
“A l-lawyer,” he spit out with a thick Polish accent. “A lawyer named Dabrowski. He defended me on drug charges a few years ago.”
“Second question,” I said. “When and where are you supposed to meet Dabrowski to collect your money for the job you were about to do on us?”
“He p-paid … he paid us half up-front. The rest we were supposed to pick up outside Bunkier Sztuki at five A.M.”
I stared up at Ana. “Bunkier Sztuki?”
“Bunker of Art,” she said. “I know where it is.”
I nodded to her, then leaned in and whispered in the skinhead’s ear, “Congratulations, fat boy. You did good. For a minute there I was pretty damn sure you had eaten your last pierogi.”
Chapter 23
I filled the bull full of Ana’s Tylenol PM and waited till he fell asleep. The skinny one remained out cold. He’d wake with one hell of a headache, but at least both his legs were intact. The same couldn’t be said for the bull.
“Dabrowski will be watching the hotel,” I said, checking the skinheads for identification. “If he doesn’t see these bastards come out he won’t show at the rendezvous point. And he sure as hell won’t meet with Talik in a few hours.”
“I am sorry,” she said. “I blew our opportunity by bringing you to his flat.”
“Neither of us expected him to speak to Talik before the meeting,” I said, pocketing their driver’s licenses along with their knives and leaving the rest of their crap on the floor. “And we had no reason to think Talik knew I was in Poland.”
She shuddered. “I still do not understand why Mikolaj would have a child kidnapped. It makes no sense.”
“Ana, Dabrowski is nothing but a middleman, a broker. What he did, he did for money.” I took her gently by the shoulders. “Right now Dabrowski is the wall between Talik and whoever ordered Lindsay Sorkin taken.”
“You mean, even if you got to Talik in Berlin—”
“Even if I got him to talk, he would have only led me to Dabrowski. I’m sure of it. Talik and his nephew Alim Sari don’t know who’s on the other side of the wall, and they have no reason to want to find out.”
“So we must find Mikolaj,” she said. “That should not be so difficult. He will not leave his law practice, and I am sure he will not leave Poland.”
“You’re right, Ana. Finding him shouldn’t prove too difficult. But now that he knows that I’m here—that we’re here, working together—he’ll be gunning for us, just as he did tonight. Only he won’t continue to rely on amateurs like these two skinheads. Next time he comes at us, he’ll come with professionals. So the trick isn’t finding him. It’s staying alive until we do.”
“Then we must find him fast. How do we do that?”
“I don’t know,” I conceded.
“What do you mean you do not know?” There was that anger again. “You hunted fugitives, it was your job. How can you not know how to find one lawyer in Poland?”
“The U.S. Marshals don’t find fugitives in a day, Ana. And they have resources. Manpower. They hang up photos and offer rewards to the locals. They use phone taps. They have access to credit card transactions and cell phone activity. What do I have?”
“You have me,” she said. “Before credit cards and cell phones, what did they do, your marshals? How did they find fugitives?”
“By knowing who they were chasing,” I said.
“And I know Mikolaj. I know him very well. What do you need to know?”
“All right,” I said, pacing the length of the room, adrenaline from the confrontation still pumping. “Let’s start with his relatives. You said his parents live around here. Who else? Are there any restaurants or bars he frequents? What does he like to eat? What does he drink? What kind of a hotel would he stay at? Is he an outdoors man? Could he fend for himself in the wild? Besides skinheads, who else does he represent?”
Ana’s face went white. She bit hard on her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
“What is it?” I said.
“Gowno.”
“What is it, Ana?”
“It’s Mikolaj: he represents some very dangerous men, Simon. Members of the Pruszkow mob, the Polish mafia. Recently, Mikolaj tried the case of one of Poland’s most notorious gangsters—Kazmer Chudzik. Chudzik was acquitted. After the trial, Chudzik said in a statement to the press that Mikolaj Dabrowski was like a brother to him.”
“Christ,” I said.
I knew organized crime had increased in Poland in the late eighties and early nineties with the fall of communism and the rise of capitalism. The sea change in the country had also resulted in the diminishment of the power of the police, which allowed the Pruszkow mob and its offshoot, the Wołomin mafia, to thrive. Polish gangsters were known as much for their relentlessness as their ruthlessness. When given a job, their soldiers and assassins got the job done.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ana said suddenly. “I am so silly. I should have thought of this before. You need resources, manpower. You need police.”
I shook my head. “We can’t afford the attention, Ana. If the media catches wind, Dabrowski, Talik, Alim Sari, all of them will go to ground, and we’ll never find Lindsay.”
“Then you need police you can trust.”
I smirked. “Right, Ana. Happen to know some?”
“No,” she said. “But my brother, Marek, does.”
*
“Have you found the lawyer?” Davignon asked as soon as he answered his cell.
“I found him,” I said. “But then I lost him. He sent a pair of skinheads to my guesthouse to get rid of me.”
Davignon sighed deeply. “If the lawyer disappears…”
“I know,” I said. “But he won’t. I made friends with one of his associates, a smart lawyer named Anastazja. Her brother, Marek Staszak, is a politician in Warsaw. He’s alerted the policja to be on the lookout for Dabrowski, but to be discreet. Marek also put me in contact with a chief inspector who has his men working on credit card transactions, cell phone activity, and wiretaps. Dabrowski is a criminal lawyer; he’s not exactly loved by the Polish police.”
“What if the lawyer crosses the border into the Czech Republic or Slovakia or Ukraine?” Davignon asked.
“If Dabrowski tries, he’ll have a tough time at it. Our politician also contacted the Straz Graniczna.”
“The Polish Border Guard.”
“Right.” In the background I heard Lori Sorkin sobbing. “We’ll find him, Lieutenant,” I said. “And soon.”
Davignon lowered his voice. “For the mother’s sake, Simon, please do.”
Once I hung up with Davignon, I called Ostermann’s cell. On the third ring, Magda answered. From her voice, I knew right away that something was wrong.
“Hello, Magda,” I said. “Is Ostermann around?”
“No,” she said. “He is not.” She could barely contain her sobbing. “Kurt was arrested at Hauptbahnhof Station this morning. He has been questioned by the police all day.”
“What happened?” I said.
“I do not know. All
I know is that two men who appeared on the closed-circuit television for the time period he requested were found dead last night behind a nightclub in Kreuzberg. The police suspect it has something to do with the missing girl.”
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. After Talik and Alim took care of Sidika, they must have gone after Dietrich and Karl, either personally or, more likely, through one of their men. Ostermann’s knocking the Germans out cold must have done them in after all. He hadn’t pulled the trigger but he might very well be charged with their murders. Ostermann and I had been seen in the club. And if the Berlin police discovered the prostitutes Ostermann had hired, their testimony would all but seal his conviction. The girls had not only seen us, they had seen our guns.
“The media has arrived from Paris,” Magda said. “They have surrounded the train station and our office. It is just a matter of time before they find our home.”
“I’m sorry, Magda.”
“Sorry is not enough, Simon. You must return to Berlin and confess to killing those two men.”
Of course, I couldn’t tell Magda over the phone what had really happened, that Ostermann had roughed up the dead men but hadn’t killed them. It was quite possible that Ostermann’s cell was already tapped. The police would be listening in.
“Listen, Magda. As soon as I find Lindsay Sorkin, I’ll return to Berlin and help Ostermann in any way that I can, I promise.”
Her voice rose in anger. “Every time you step into our lives you bring nightmares, Simon. Kurt has a family now. You can no longer do this to him.”
“Magda, it isn’t what you think,” I said. “Now please answer one question. Did Ostermann tell you who he saw take the girl from the men’s room stall on the closed-circuit television?”
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 10
