The Chosen Child

by Graham Masterton

  ‘I doubt if he’s coming,’ Matejko told him. ‘Somebody must have tipped him off by now.’

  ‘Do you know somewhere else to find him?’ Jarczyk retorted.

  ‘Sometimes he hangs around the Zebra, on Sobieskiego. That’s his unofficial office.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

  ‘Because you’re in charge of this operation, komisarz, not me.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning that Ruba’s confession doesn’t amount to solid evidence.’

  Jarczyk twisted around in his seat, his mouth full of sandwich, and jabbed his index finger at Matejko. ‘When it comes to evidence, Jerzy, your opinion doesn’t count. All you have to do is do your duty and do what you’re damn well told.’

  He told the driver, ‘Get on to Nadkomisarz Dembek. Ask him to send two officers around to the Zebra, to check if Roman Zboinski’s there. If he is, tell them to leave him well alone, but to get back to me immediately.’

  He looked back at Matejko and shook his head. ‘You could have compromised this entire fucking operation, do you know that?’

  Matejko turned his head away and said nothing. He didn’t want to end up on a disciplinary charge; or being suspended; especially now he and Helena had the new baby to look after. He knew that Jarczyk mistrusted him because he had worked so closely with Rej; and because he knew so much more about the Executioner case than he did; and because he had expected to take over the case when Rej was relieved.

  He was trying to be co-operative, but he wanted the Executioner caught, the real Executioner, and he knew that Jarczyk’s hunches were far too flimsy. Jarczyk had a reputation among his superiors for breaking cases within two or three days; sometimes in hours; but there was more than one officer at Wilcza Street who suspected that Jarczyk often arrested people not because they had committed any crime, but because they couldn’t prove that they hadn’t.

  ‘Rej would have taken a century to solve this case,’ said Jarczyk, as if he had been following Matejko’s train of thought.

  Still Matejko said nothing, but thought to himself: Rej wouldn’t have been wasting time sitting in this stifling car eating sandwiches. Rej would have been searching through the city, bar by bar, casino by casino, until he found the man he was looking for; who wouldn’t have been Zboinski.

  Another hour went by. Jarczyk leaned his head against the door pillar and started to snore. The driver whistled an irritating tune between his teeth. Over on the other side of the street, in a beige Polonez, another four officers were deeply asleep. Even from a distance, they looked like four police officers, deeply asleep. Matejko thought that this must be the most obvious stake-out ever. He didn’t know why Jarczyk didn’t set up a large sign announcing ‘Quiet! Police Stake-out in Progress!’ He checked his watch again, and wished that he could call Helena.

  It was almost 12:30 and the day was warm and glazed like an earthenware jug. There was only one cloud in the sky, in the shape of a duck. It was so warm that even Matejko was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. But it was then, while they were all dozing, that a black BMW with black-tinted windows rolled almost silently past St Mary Magdalene Church, with its onion domes, and parked outside the apartment block opposite.

  The doors of the BMW opened, and it was only because one of them reflected a flash of sunlight in Matejko’s eyes that he came abruptly to his senses.

  ‘Zboinski!’ he hissed, slapping Jarczyk on the shoulder. ‘Zboinski’s here!’

  ‘What?’ said Jarczyk, staring at him with unfocused eyes.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, look!’ Matejko urged him, and on the other side of Targowa they could see Roman Zboinski heaving himself out of the back seat of the BMW, huge and bulky, in a flapping black linen suit and a purple shirt. Three other men climbed out of the car, too – one in a faded green polo shirt, another in a Hard Rock T-shirt, and the third in a shapeless brown suit.

  Jarczyk snatched his transmitter from the top of the dash, knocking the remains of his salami roll into his lap, and screamed, ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  He pushed open the car door, wrenched his gun out of his shoulder holster, and started running across Solidarnosci shouting, ‘Police! Freeze! Put up your hands!’

  Matejko couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Christ, you never challenged an armed suspect on your own, especially on open ground, with no cover at all. The four officers in the beige Polonez had only just woken up, and the other two cars were out of sight. He could see Zboinski and his men turn around in surprise. He could see their driver ducking back into the BMW. He could see Jarczyk running wildly towards them with his gun in his hand, screaming at Zboinski like a madman. But he still couldn’t believe it

  He kicked open his door, dragged his automatic out of its holster, and ran after Jarczyk as fast as he could. A white car blared at him wildly, and he had to swerve sideways to avoid a clanking, thundering truck. But then there was nothing between him and the BMW but Jarczyk, waving his gun and shouting at the top of his voice.

  He saw the man in the shapeless brown suit lifting what looked like a cudgel from under his coat. He was running so fast that he didn’t realize exactly what it was until he had almost caught up with Jarczyk.

  ‘Witold!’ he shouted, and shoved Jarczyk’s shoulder with the palm of his hand, like a quarterback. Jarczyk staggered, almost lost his balance, and turned around with his face clenched with anger.

  A dull boom echoed around the intersection, echoing from the buildings and sending the pigeons flying from the onion domes of St Mary Magdalene. A puff of smoke hung above the BMW, in the windless air, reflected in its highly-waxed finish like a cloud in a lake.

  Matejko fell backward, his arms outspread, Christ crucified in front of Mary Magdalene, blood spraying in thousands of tiny droplets all over the roadway. His jaw was blown open in a wide, exaggerated scream, his brains sprayed out of the back of the head in a knightly plume. He collapsed with a loud, complicated thud, and then suddenly the afternoon was silent.

  Matejko lay staring at the sky. His last thought was: I’m late, Helena will kill me.

  The silence lasted only for a few seconds. Zboinski and his men tried to hustle themselves back into their BMW; but a police car came squittering around the corner and blocked it off. The four officers finally managed to climb out of their Polonez and approach the BMW with their guns drawn. Jarczyk pushed himself forward, too, holding his gun in both hands, American-style, his knees bent.

  ‘Out!’ he shrieked. ‘Get out of the fucking car!’

  There was a lengthy pause. Matejko lay bleeding in the road, but nobody looked at him. This was too exciting; this was too much like Gliniarz i Prokurator.

  Eventually, Zboinski climbed back out of the car with his hands raised half heartedly. He was followed by the man in the brown suit, who tossed his sawn-off shotgun into the road. The others followed, grinning with amusement.

  Jarczyk approached Zboinski, walking stiff-legged around the BMW, his eyes bulging with excitement. Zboinski, in his outsized linen suit, stood and watched him with terrible equanimity.

  ‘You bastard, you’re under arrest,’ said Jarczyk.

  ‘On a charge of what?’ asked Zboinski.

  ‘What the fuck do you think? Multiple homicide! You’re the Executioner!’

  Zboinski’s face slowly cracked open into a smile.

  ‘I’m the Executioner?’ He turned to his companion. ‘What a joke. I’m the Executioner.’

  ‘Just put up your hands! Right up! And keep them up!’

  ‘You’re making a bad mistake here, my friend,’ Zboinski told him. ‘First you attack me without any warning. Now you accuse me of serious crimes. You know who I am? I’m not one of your cheap toughs. I’m a businessman; an important businessman.’

  ‘You’ve just killed one of our officers,’ said Jarczyk.

  ‘Self-defence. What we were supposed to do, when men with guns came running towards us?’

  ‘We called out “armed police
”.’

  Zboinski, still smiling, shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. And even if you did, the traffic’s too loud.’

  Jarczyk came closer, and unhooked his handcuffs. ‘I want you to turn around and put your left arm behind your back. Wasilkowski! Did you call for an ambulance?’

  Zboinski said, ‘I won’t need the handcuffs. I’m a professional businessmen. If you want me to come with you to sort this matter out, then I will.’

  There was a long moment of high tension between them. Somehow Jarczyk began to feel that Zboinski was right, and that he had made a mistake. But it was too late now. He had made his arrest and Matejko was lying dead in the middle of the street. He was committed.

  Zboinski’s men were handcuffed and taken to the Polonez. Jarczyk escorted Zboinski to the Fiat and opened the door for him. Zboinski heaved himself into the back seat and gave Jarczyk a grin that he would have nightmares about.

  An ambulance arrived, its siren honking like a jackass. Jarczyk walked over to Matejko’s body and stood over it. The other officers looked at him and it was difficult for Jarczyk to read in their eyes what they were thinking; but he sensed that he wasn’t too welcome here, and he turned and went back to his car.

  ‘I’m sorry about your man,’ said Zboinski, with relish.

  ‘You will be,’ Jarczyk told him, and nodded to the driver to take them back to Wileza Street.

  *

  Sarah had showered and washed her hair and she was just making herself a cup of coffee when her front doorbell rang. She went through to the hallway and called, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben. I don’t want to talk to you right now.’

  ‘This is business. You have to.’

  ‘I have a day off and I don’t have to.’

  ‘But Gawlak’s agreed all the specs. In fact, he’s agreed to even less demanding specs, especially with the poured concrete. So soon as we can get Brzezicki back on the job, we can start catching up on our schedule.’

  Sarah said nothing, but waited. She knew that Gawlak’s first list of construction criteria had been far too high; and she had been prepared to argue with him over the stress that he expected the hotel’s main frame to be able to withstand. But she also knew that Senate’s quantity surveyors had cut building costs down to the bone. It was what they were good at, and many of Gawlak’s criticisms had been justified.

  On the other hand, if she could deliver the completed hotel on time, it would certainly enhance her career, and she might even be offered a vice-presidency back in New York. She had always wanted to build a landmark hotel in the United States, but if the Warsaw Senate ran over time, she would most probably end up in charge of the Baltic States, or Albania, or somewhere worse.

  She opened the door. Ben was standing outside in a smart tan coat with matching necktie and handkerchief, holding a huge bunch of orange roses and a bottle of champagne.

  ‘I also came to apologize. I acted like a total barbarian.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Sarah, bluntly. ‘You’d better come on in.’

  Ben laid the roses on the kitchen table and held up the bottle of champagne. ‘How about a toast to celebrate?’ Without waiting for a reply, he went searching through her cupboards until he found two tulip glasses. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. All we have to do now is persuade Brzezicki that there isn’t any devil.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And how do you propose to do that? No champagne for me, thanks.’

  Ben opened the bottle and poured out two glasses all the same. ‘It’s all superstition, this devil business. It’s all hocus-pocus. So how do you fight it? Not by being logical. You can’t fight insanity with logic. So what do you do? You give the poor suckers what they want. An exorcism. Bell, book and candle.’

  ‘You need a priest for an exorcism.’

  ‘All arranged. I found a priest in Mokotow who’s prepared to do it.’

  ‘For a fee, of course?’

  ‘What does that matter? The point is, Brzezicki gets his exorcism and we get back on schedule.’

  ‘It matters because Senate has a policy of not corrupting people who are financially vulnerable. Besides, what happens if the Executioner strikes again – even after your exorcism?’

  Ben handed her a glass of champagne, and lifted his own glass. ‘Come on, sweetheart, what are the odds of him killing in the same place three times over? Besides, I’ve arranged a little insurance. An armed security guard to keep an eye on the site until the sewers are fully repaired and the foundations have been poured. He’ll be dressed as a company site inspector.’

  ‘Well, well, you think of everything, don’t you?’ said Sarah. ‘But what happens if I don’t agree?’

  Ben looked perplexed. ‘Why shouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Can you imagine the adverse publicity this is going to attract? “Senate Hotels arranges exorcism for possessed hotel site”. It’s bad enough that we’re building the hotel where four people were murdered. That’s going to put off quite enough potential guests. But if we admit that there’s something spooky going on...’

  ‘Do you know something?’ said Ben, swallowing champagne. ‘You’re like all women. All you ever see is obstacles. No wonder women talk about a glass ceiling. But it isn’t men who stop them from rising to the top. It’s them, themselves. There is no glass ceiling, but women always want to believe that there’s something in the way – something preventing them from fulfilling their potential. Let’s put it this way: it wasn’t women who landed on the moon.’

  ‘That’s right. They were too busy doing something useful.’

  Ben came closer. ‘You’re creating obstacles now, between you and me. It seems like you want me but you don’t want to let yourself have me. It doesn’t have to be that way.’

  ‘What’s this? Your revised seduction technique? You hold a phony exorcism with a bribed priest so that you won’t have to report me back to New York, and then you want me to be so grateful that I throw myself back on the bed with my legs open?’

  ‘Damn it, Sarah, why do you have to make it sound so goddamned crude?’

  ‘Because it is. Because I used to love you; but I don’t love you any more; and the way that you keep harassing me and trying to bully me, I don’t think I even like you any more, either.’

  ‘I’m still holding the exorcism.’

  ‘Do what you like, Ben. Just leave me alone.’

  Ben shook his head as if Sarah were mentally deranged. ‘I’m not asking you for anything, Sarah. Just to recognize your own feelings.’

  He put down his glass, and then took her glass, too. He held her arms, and said, ‘I want you, baby. That’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘Ben –’ Sarah began, but without any warning he pressed himself forward and clamped his mouth over hers. She twisted her face away, and tried to wrench herself free, but Ben gripped her arms even more tightly, and swung her from side to side. He tried to kiss her again, but she kept her mouth tightly closed and stamped on his feet.

  ‘Ben, get off me!’

  His eyes were starey and mad. ‘Get off you? Get off you? Is that what you really want? Jesus, Sarah, I know what you really want. You’ve been dreaming about you and me ever since we broke up. We were always perfect, you and me. The perfect couple. And what the fuck were you doing, walking right out on me like that. I mean I was practically your husband.’

  He pushed Sarah with the flat of both hands, pushed her across the living-room, and pushed her backwards onto the huge, brocade-upholstered sofa. ‘You know what you need? You need to remember who took care of you, who taught you everything you know. They call you the Ayatollah because I taught you how to do business the hard way, didn’t I? I taught you when to bully and when to connive; when to refuse to compromise and when to give in. And now you’re turning around and saying that you don’t want me? I mean – what is this? Have you turned dyke or something?’

  Sarah tried to sit up, but Ben pushed her flat on her back again
.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded. ‘I came over here specially to see you again. I could be back in New York now, taking care of business, watching my back. But oh no, I came here to stick my neck out and protect little baby green-eyes. But what do I get? I get fucking permafrost, that’s what I get.’

  ‘Ben,’ said Sarah, ‘I simply don’t want you any more. Can’t you understand that?’

  He looked down at her for a long time with an expression like a broken mirror. Then, abruptly, he loosened his necktie, and threw it across the room. He took his coat off, too, and threw it onto the chair. He started to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Shit, Sarah, don’t you remember those nights on Lafayette Street?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She could feel her heart beating faster and faster. ‘But they’re gone now, Ben. They’re history.’

  ‘You’re calling me history? Is that it? You’re calling me history? Let me tell you something, sweetheart, I’m richer now than I ever was before. I’m richer, and I have more clout. I’m twice the man I used to be.’

  ‘You think so?’ asked Sarah. ‘So why don’t you attract me any more?’

  Ben stared down at her and she could almost hear the rumble of his anger rising, like a volcano about to erupt. He didn’t say anything, but he stripped off his shirt, and then he unbuckled his belt.

  ‘Ben,’ Sarah warned him, ‘don’t get any ideas. I’ll call the police if you do, and I mean it.’

  ‘Ideas? What fucking ideas? You think you’re so incredibly smart. You think you’re so incredibly together. You would have been nothing, if it hadn’t been for me.’

  He pulled off his Gucci loafers and dragged off his pants. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t high. But he was intoxicated with frustration and rage. He stood in front of her with his penis sticking up at an angle. It looked thinner than she remembered, with lots of wiry ginger hair around it, and a glans like a plum tomato. She thought it was extraordinary how erotic a man’s genitals were if you were in love with him, and how ridiculous they looked, if you weren’t.