“Know where to find him?” Marek said.
The witness was a convict-turned-informant named Piotr Denys and he was employed by a construction company based in Warsaw. Marek called the company and was told that Denys could be found at a renovation project in the vicinity of Lodz, a large city eighty-four miles southwest of our location. It was a hell of a long ride that would eat up at least another two hours, but we had no choice. We mounted the BMW and drove off.
When we arrived, we discovered that the address was an old Catholic church undergoing massive reconstruction. The beauty of the ancient exterior was evident even with two stories of scaffolding obscuring our view. On one side of the church stood a mammoth excavator, its bucket lifting heavy pipes from the earth. On the other side, a cemetery overgrown with grass and weeds remained untouched, undoubtedly out of respect for the long-dead who resided there.
I parked the bike across the street and Marek and I moved swiftly toward the site.
“This church is at least seven centuries old,” Marek said.
Having spent most of my life in the United States, its oldest structures built no earlier than the seventeenth century, it always amazed me to see edifices built during the Middle Ages. At times it felt almost as though the Old World existed in an alternate universe.
At the edge of the site stood a fence, its gate open, a foreman standing at its maw. He adjusted his hard hat, held up a hand, and spoke directly to Marek in Polish. When Marek responded, I caught the name Piotr Denys and watched the foreman nod his head. He then barked something to another man, who appeared moments later with a pair of well-worn orange hard hats. The foreman handed the hard hats to us, and we placed them on our heads.
We walked past other workers without a word, the foreman as our personal escort.
I turned to Marek as we stepped over the threshold into the church. “Kind, isn’t he?”
“He’s a working man,” Marek said. “These are the men I fight for, the working poor and middle class.”
Inside, the church looked as though it had been rocked by an explosion. Large chunks of cement—what I assumed was the old foundation—lay haphazardly over an earthen floor. We stepped cautiously three feet above it all on shaky wooden planks, connected to one another in the shape of a tic-tac-toe board. Hoses from a compressor and cords from a generator snaked through two of the ornate stained-glass windows, the hum of the outdoor machinery flowing upward, echoing against the vaulted ceiling. As we walked, my gaze settled on a colossal out-of-place crucifix situated on the rear wall, and remained on the oversize cross until we reached a group of men, their pale skin slick with soot and sweat.
The foreman motioned one of the men aside and introduced him to Marek as Piotr Denys.
Denys was a rough-looking fellow, short and stocky, rock-hard arms colored with plenty of ink. His head rested directly on his broad shoulders, exhibiting no sign of a neck. He regarded us suspiciously as we led him away from the group.
Marek spoke a few words with him, then turned to me and said, “He doesn’t speak English.”
“No worries,” I said. “Just ask him where Chudzik might hold an important meeting. One he’d value as particularly private.”
Marek translated. As Denys spoke, the politician’s face grew red.
“Pan Denys wants to know what’s in it for him if he talks,” Marek said. “Shall I tell him his bones will remain intact?”
“No, no,” I said, staggered at how much Marek reminded me of his sister. “We don’t have time for that.” I reached into my pocket and plucked out a wad of euros, handed them to Marek. “Here. Negotiate instead.”
Marek peeled off several bills, held them tight in his fist as he repeated the question to Denys. Denys leaned in and quietly supplied an answer.
Marek said, “Chudzik owns a lake house in eastern Pomerania near the Gulf of Gdansk. Every private meeting Denys had with him was held there.”
“Ask him about security,” I said.
A few moments later Marek said, “The lake house is set off from its neighbors. Lots of land surrounding it. Pan Denys suggests that if we are hoping to gain the element of surprise, we go at night. Otherwise, we’ll be spotted a mile away.”
“All right, then,” I said. “If you’re satisfied.”
Marek handed him the bills and Denys quickly stalked off.
“I am confident he is telling the truth,” Marek said to me.
“That’s all well and good,” I told him. “But what if he sells the information back to Chudzik and we step right into an ambush?”
“Doubtful,” Marek said.
“Oh?”
“Denys told me that if we are successful at killing Chudzik, he will pay us five times what I just handed him.”
“Is that so?”
Marek nodded. “He testified against one of the most dangerous men in Poland. Unless Chudzik is dead, Piotr Denys will be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his natural life.”
Chapter 30
Marek proved he had even more in common with his sister by insisting he accompany me to Chudzik’s lake house in Pomerania. I didn’t put up much of a fight. I anticipated that, after what had happened in the warehouse in Pruszkow, Chudzik would be prepared with even more men, and they’d be looking for me, specifically. Undoubtedly, I would require a distraction at some point in time. The operation was dodgy to say the least. Normally, under such circumstances, you can finally rely on the police. But not now, not here in Poland. There was no way to know which cops were connected to Chief Inspector Gasowski—or to the network that had recruited him—and which were clean. And there was certainly no time to find out.
By the time we reached Gdansk, it was night, so the cover of darkness was a given. One of the few advantages we could count on. The layout of the great house, however, would present a distinct disadvantage. Though it was secluded, nestled among towering trees, the house rested high on a hill, making it impossible to gain higher ground. In addition, the roof was as flat as ancient cultures once thought the world. The perfect watching post. On the roof stood four men, one in each corner, looking out over the grounds.
There was really only a single approach, from the west. On the east side of the house lay a large deck, perched over a six-hundred-foot drop into a canyon. Directly behind the house lay a body of water. In the front of the house, two more men stood guard in front of a garage, large rifles hanging from their shoulders. These men didn’t look like gangsters. Chudzik had hired professional security. This wouldn’t be anything like stepping into a single room and threatening three men used to sitting on their fat asses, drinking coffee.
“I see six of them,” I said to Marek, lowering the field glasses he’d been gifted by a Polish soldier, one of the original two hundred who had joined the United States, the UK, and Australia in the 2003 invasion of Iraq.
“What’s the plan?”
“To eliminate them,” I said. “Quietly.”
Each of the men wore a walkie-talkie on his belt, so the two downstairs had to be taken out together or at least out of each other’s sight. If they were able to communicate a problem to the men upstairs, it would make things decidedly more difficult.
“Do you want me to create a diversion?” Marek said.
I shook my head. “There are too many of them,” I said. “Any diversion would only put the remaining men on high alert. But I think an opportunity is about to present itself.”
We watched as one of the guards on the ground tapped a box of cigarettes. As he did, he began walking down the long gravel driveway away from the house. If he stayed on course, he’d be out of his partner’s line of vision in less than a minute.
“Wait here,” I told Marek.
Quickly and quietly, I moved through the trees to intercept the smoker. He stood only ten feet from the woods as he dug into his pocket, presumably for a lighter. From where I stood, it looked like a cheap yellow Bic, and he had trouble getting it started. He flicked the flint wheel aga
in and again, but no flame presented itself. He turned and started back up the driveway.
I had only a few seconds to catch him before his partner would be able to see him again. Boots on gravel would give me away in a heartbeat, so I kicked them off and shot toward him quick as I could in socks.
He was about to round the corner when I caught up with him. From behind, I wrapped my right arm around his neck, making sure the crook of my elbow was positioned directly over the midline. Assisting with my free hand, I pinched my arm together, successfully compressing the carotid arteries and jugular veins on both sides of his neck. This would cut off the blood flow to his head and render him unconscious without the risk of strangling him. He struggled for mere seconds before his body went limp. I waited until I was certain he was out cold, then laid his body gently on the ground and dragged it back toward the woods and out of sight.
One down. The second should be easier.
Now I had something to lure the gunman away. I removed the walkie-talkie from the unconscious man’s belt. Motioned to Marek to join me.
As Marek crept to me I slipped back into my boots. When he reached me, I handed him the walkie-talkie.
“When I’m in position,” I said, “I want you to switch this on, but don’t say anything into it.”
Marek nodded. “Make like the guard switched it on accidentally?”
“Exactly.” I pointed to the garage. “I’ll be in position once you see me flush up against the garage, smoking a cigarette.”
I took the Bic off the unconscious guard and shook it. There was plenty of lighter fluid left in it. The guard must have been having trouble with the wind, which was picking up and turning wicked.
Cigarette hanging from my lips I made for the garage, careful to stay out of the downstairs guard’s line of sight. When I reached the garage, I leaned my back against it, cupped my hands, and tried the lighter. Lit the cigarette on the first try.
I nodded to Marek, who turned on the walkie-talkie. I heard the wind blowing through it from the other guard’s handheld. He shouted something in exasperation, then I heard his footfalls on the gravel, coming toward me. I blew smoke out the side of my mouth, hoping he’d catch sight of it.
When his footsteps were just a few yards away, I took a deep breath and braced myself. I tossed the cigarette in exchange for my Glock.
The guard rounded the corner. His eyes went wide when he saw the gun aimed point-blank at his forehead. I held my finger to my lips and he complied.
“Understand English?” I said.
He offered up a barely perceptible nod.
“Good,” I told him. “If you make a sound, it’ll be the last thing you hear.” I pointed to Marek’s position. “Now, let’s you and I go for a stroll over there where we can chat a bit.”
Chapter 31
“Who’s inside the house?” I said, once I had the guard under the cover of trees.
I had to act quickly in case someone poked his head outside and saw that the two downstairs guards were missing. And I wasn’t sure if either of these men was supposed to check in. I could ask, but he could lie, and there would be no way I’d know it. Not until it was too late.
“The boss,” the guard said. “He is inside.”
“Kazmer Chudzik?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?” I said.
“His lawyer.” The guard swallowed hard as he stared at his partner’s body a few feet away. The guards were dressed warmly, and thus he couldn’t see the rise and fall of his partner’s chest. There was no way for this guard to know that the other was still breathing. In any event, he was taking no chances, and that was good for our purposes. “And two Turkish men,” he said. “One is old, the other is young. I think maybe they are father and son.”
Marek grabbed the guard by the lapels of his jacket. “How about a woman? Her name is Ana. Have you seen her?”
“No,” the guard said, breathing heavily. “But earlier someone arrived and pulled straight into the garage. They removed something large from the trunk. It could have been a person, I don’t know.”
My stomach instantly sank into my pelvis. I couldn’t move.
Meanwhile, Marek’s eyes caught fire. “This person was dead?”
“I assumed so, yes. But I didn’t see—”
Marek grabbed the guard by the throat and squeezed.
I nearly fell to my knees, thought I might hyperventilate.
“Easy, Marek,” I finally said, my voice cracking. “I have a few more questions, then we’ll head inside and find her.”
Grudgingly, Marek released the guard’s throat.
I gathered myself and said, “Aside from the four men on the roof and you and your friend over there on the ground, are there any more guards inside or outside the house?”
The guard shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Because if I find out you’re lying, I’m going to come back here and break your neck. But only after I cut off your fingers and toes one by one by one.”
“I swear it,” he said. “Chudzik hired only six of us. But he has two of his own men. And they have many weapons inside. Pistols, shotguns, knives, everything you can imagine.”
I carefully lowered myself onto my haunches and asked him to describe the layout of the interior of the house and where the weapons could be found. Where Chudzik and his lawyer and the two Turks and Ana might be. He answered as best he could, and I listened as best I could, but I could hardly concentrate.
I needed to snap out of this fog and the only way to do that was to convince myself that Ana was still alive. Alive and in danger and in need of my help.
“All right, then,” I said, rising off my haunches and stepping behind the guard. My muscles were sore and tired but my mind suddenly felt as though it had just been struck with an electric charge.
“Please don’t,” he said. “Don’t kill me. I have children.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, placing my arm around his neck, same as I had done for his friend. “I’m just going to put you to sleep for a bit.”
*
There was no way to deal with the men on the roof without alerting the men inside. I handed Marek the guard’s rifle.
“Know how to use this thing?” I said.
Marek nodded. “I am not a big fan of guns, but our father, he was a hunter. He taught Ana and me how to shoot when we were children.”
“All right,” I said. “Today that knowledge comes in handy.” I handed Marek one of the two walkie-talkies and pointed to the single guard visible on the roof from our vantage point. “I want you to shoot that guy in the leg on my signal.”
“What about the other three?”
“If they truly are professionals, they’re not going to come to their fallen comrade’s aid, so you may not get a shot at them. If you do, take it. Always in the leg; try not to do any serious damage. But the more you drop, the fewer I’ll have to deal with inside the house.”
“When do I follow you in?” Marek said.
“You don’t. You’re far more valuable outside. I’ll keep the walkie on me. If I need you, you’ll hear from me. Otherwise, maintain your position. Keep out of sight.” I pointed to the windows. “If you see a target through the glass, take it out. But make sure it’s not me or Ana. And remember, even if it’s one of Chudzik’s men, try to simply wing them. I’m going to need someone alive at the end of all this to pump for information.”
Marek placed a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Please, Simon,” he said. “Find my sister, and bring her out unharmed.”
I nodded.
“But if Ana is dead,” he added, “please keep alive the son of a bitch who killed her. I will need some time alone with him.”
Marek’s words struck me like a rock between the eyes. Hearing the possibility uttered a second time gave it too much power and I immediately wanted to rewind time so that I could return the words to his throat. If Ana was de
ad, it was my fault. I’d known the risk of taking her with me when I first met her at the law office. I’d thought then that involving her was probably a mistake.
I took a deep breath, tried to conceal my renewed worry in front of her brother.
“All right,” I said.
*
The men on the roof were looking out into the distance, so entering the house wouldn’t be much of a bother. It was once I got inside that my problems would start.
I bolted up the drive, keeping low, my Glock already in hand. I pressed up against the garage as I’d done before. I was about to round the corner to find an appropriate window when I spotted a side door into the garage. I tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked so I gave it a go.
The garage was dark and windowless, but I made out three vehicles, all fairly new and pricey. One Jag and two Mercedes. On the far end, I saw a door that would presumably lead into the house.
I hurried to it, my heart racing. I tried not to think about all that was at stake. Ana. A little girl. Their families. My head was garbled with sentiment. I knew I needed to clear it or else I would be putting myself and everyone else at risk.
I felt overwhelmed with hatred. Emotions wouldn’t help me inside this house. Only clear thought. Logic. Reason. All else would serve only to hinder my efforts.
But there wasn’t time to run an analysis. I tried the knob. This door was locked. I removed the walkie from my belt, put it to my mouth, held the button, and said, “Now, Marek.”
I stepped back, drew in a deep breath, and lifted my right leg. Soon as I heard the shot, I aimed my foot just below the knob and kicked.
The door flew open.
I stepped inside and raised my Glock.
Chapter 32
The garage opened into a foyer. I turned left, heard movement from two rooms over. If the guard’s description of the interior was correct, the commotion was coming from the living room. I kept low, darted behind an island in the kitchen. Allowed myself a peek and spotted a heavy man running toward me, his weapon raised. I planted myself and fired into his chest. The shot took him down.
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 13
