*
He was half way across the lobby when Roman Zboinski appeared, surrounded by police officers and bodyguards. The lobby echoed with footsteps; but nobody spoke. Zboinski wore a grey Hugo Boss jacket slung over his shoulder, a black shirt, and flappy black trousers. He looked tired and angry; as if his boulder-like face had been beaten overnight with a quarry hammer.
Nadkomisarz Dembek flanked him on one side; his lawyer on the other. They marched towards the revolving doors at a steady, relentless pace, but Rej stepped out and stood right in front of Zboinski, so that he was forced to stop.
‘What’s this?’ Zboinski demanded. ‘You told me I was free to go. What’s this shit doing?’
Rej said, ‘This shit is reminding you that you may escape the police, but that you’ll never escape what’s coming to you.’
‘Some kind of threat, is it?’ Zboinski growled. ‘Get him out of my way.’
‘Take it from me, Roman,’ said Rej, ‘I’ll never get out of your way. I’m going to haunt you, right up until the day you die.’
‘I want to complain!’ Zboinski shouted. ‘I’m free, yes? I’m innocent, yes? Tell this asshole to get out of my way!’
Two officers moved towards him, but Rej stopped them both with a stare that equalled Sarah’s notorious ray. He stepped right up to Zboinski and stabbed him in the chest with his finger.
‘You listen to me, you fucker. I know who you are, and I know what you’ve done. I’m going to get you one day, when you’re least expecting it. So if I were you, I’d spend the rest of my life being frightened.’
‘Of you?’ Zboinski retorted. ‘Let me tell you something about you, little old white-haired man; the day that I’m frightened of you, I’ll kill myself, for being such a chicken-shit.’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Rej.
Nadkomisarz Dembek came forward and said, ‘Come on, Stefan, this is all over now. We made a mistake, that’s all. Mr Zboinski is free to leave.’
‘He shot Matejko,’ said Rej. He made no attempt to move out of the way.
‘How could I shoot?’ Zboinski protested. ‘I didn’t even have a gun!’
‘You told your bodyguard to shoot him. That’s the same fucking thing.’
‘I said nothing! This is insane! I said nothing!’
Rej seized hold of Zboinski’s lapels and pulled him until their noses were only inches apart. It didn’t matter to Rej that Zboinski was so much taller than he was: he was fire, he was justice, he was gliny and prokurator, both.
‘I’m going to make you one solemn promise,’ said Rej; right in Zboinski’s ear, so that nobody else could hear him. ‘One day soon, I’m going to kill you, or have you killed; and you won’t know when to expect it. But I will. What Antoni Dlubak suffered, that’s going to be nothing, compared to what happens to you. Baling hooks? I’m going to tear you to fucking pieces.’
‘You’re insane,’ said Zboinski. He turned, in feigned amazement, to Nadkomisarz Dembek. ‘This man’s insane! Does he still work here? I can’t believe it!’
‘He’s, um, on suspension,’ said Dembek; and gave Rej a convulsive jerk of his neck, trying to indicate that he should stand aside.
Rej massaged his knuckles, as if he were considering whether to punch Zboinski or not. Zboinski glared at him, and kept on glaring at him, until he was jostled away.
At that moment, the revolving doors revolved, and the press came pushing in, manhandling their cameras and their microphones. Rej stepped away. He had delivered his promise to Roman Zboinski and he meant to keep it. He smiled at Zboinski; but the expression that Zboinski gave him in return was like a death mask. Rej couldn’t help smiling even more broadly. He had always thought that there was no greater compliment than to make your worst enemy scowl.
Anna Pronaszka was one of the first television reporters into the lobby. She caught sight of Rej as he turned to leave, and she lifted her microphone.
‘Komisarz Rej – ?’ she began. But in some mysterious way she knew that he had been proved right, and that she had been proved wrong, and she lowered her microphone and watched him leave without saying a word. All she could think of asking him now was who cut his hair so ineptly; and where he had bought such a loud and terrible shirt.
*
Rej went back home, opened the refrigerator, and looked for something to eat. All he could find were a few slices of salami, a withered apple and a yellowing segment of farmer’s cheese. He decided against eating, and poured himself a beer. He went out onto the balcony, and sat down. The day was hot and dazzling, and the shadows had been filled in with Indian ink. The sound of children playing on the scrubby grass below reminded him of seagulls mewing on the Baltic coast, one summer, long ago, when his mother had taken him for a week’s vacation. He didn’t know where his father was: his father with his big iron-grey moustache, shaped like the cow catcher on an old-fashioned locomotive.
He hadn’t sat there for more than a few minutes when the phone rang, and he had to go inside to answer it.
‘Stefan? It’s Sarah. Something’s happened.’
‘What? You sound terrible.’
‘Marek saw a man going down into the sewers – on Koszykowa I think it was. He called Clayton and the two of them followed him.’ She suddenly stopped, and sobbed, and said, ‘Clayton’s been killed.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Clayton’s been killed, Stefan; and it was the Executioner. Marek’s sure of it.’
‘I can’t believe it. When did this happen?’
In bits and pieces, Sarah managed to tell him what Marek had told her. Then she said, ‘Marek saw the Executioner, he saw it with his own eyes. It came so close to him that it almost caught him. It was the same creature I saw in my dream, in Czerwinsk. It was exactly the same. The tiny white face, like a little doll; the big black cape.’
For the first time in his life, Rej heard somebody say something completely preposterous, and thought to himself, You’re right, I believe you. He believed now that the Executioner was something far more demonic than Roman Zboinski could ever aspire to; something far more terrible and far more vengeful; and that it was still hurrying through the sewers, street by street, avenue by avenue, smelling out victims like some mindless bloodhound.
‘I presume that Marek hasn’t told the police yet,’ said Rej. ‘I was round at the station only about a half hour ago, and nobody said anything about it then.’
‘Poor kid – he’s scared they’re going to think that he did it.’
Rej said, ‘Well – up until today, I would have told him to go ahead and report it, and not to worry. But something very odd is going on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that Roman Zboinski is going to be released this afternoon; no charge. Apparently there was a mix-up at forensics, and he couldn’t have killed anybody, not even Antoni Dlubak. Not only that, the bastard who shot Jerzy is probably going to walk free, too. It suddenly turns out that he killed him in self-defence.’
‘Stefan, what’s going on?’
‘Somebody’s been spending a great deal of money to persuade certain people to change their minds about Roman Zboinski; and those that weren’t interested in money were offered something even more persuasive – like having their ears cut off.’
Sarah was silent for a long time, and then she said, ‘You sound like you know who it is.’
‘I’m sure I know who it is. It’s just a question of proving it.’
‘You’re talking about Ben, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Rej. ‘I’m talking about Ben. Why do you think he arranged this exorcism? He knew right from the beginning that Jarczyk wouldn’t be able to charge Zboinski with being the Executioner, or even of killing Antoni Dlubak. And he knew because he was going to make goddamned sure that nobody came up with any evidence, or any witness statements, or any proof whatsoever. My guess is that your Ben has been making a steady fortune out of laundering Zboinski’s money, and he’s not going to
let anybody mess up a steady earner like that. Especially not you.’
‘He really wants to destroy me, doesn’t he?’ said Sarah. ‘“That Lewandowicz bitch.”’
‘Well, yes. That’s the way I read it. He’s going to hold his exorcism, and get Brzezicki and his men back to work, and you’ll end up looking like the dithering female who couldn’t get the job done. Senate will sack you, or demote you; and your Ben will carry on running his money-laundering racket, and probably dozens more rackets, too – all in the glorious name of Western enterprise.’
‘You’re sounding like a communist,’ said Sarah.
‘I am a communist. But I’m a police officer first of all.’
‘Just like Clayton,’ said Sarah. ‘He was eccentric. He believed in spirits, and things beyond. But he was a cop, too, wasn’t he?’
‘Are you all right?’ Rej asked her.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but I can manage. I have to manage.’
He paused for a moment, and then he said, ‘Listen, you should be very careful with Ben Saunders.’
‘I’m always careful with Ben Saunders.’
‘I know. But be particularly careful. Has Vistula Kredytowy sent you your statements yet?’
‘They promised to, but they didn’t. I’m going around there later.’
‘Can we meet? I need to talk to Marek. I thought you might like to come along, too.’
‘Yes, I would. Let me call him, and arrange a rendezvous.’
‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ Rej repeated.
‘Come on, Stefan. I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.’
There was a pause, and then Rej said, with a hint of regret in his voice, ‘Yes. Of course you can. I shouldn’t have doubted it.’
She walked briskly into the office and opened her briefcase. Irena came hurrying in after her, looking flustered. ‘Ben says he wants to see you.’
‘That’s good. I want to see him. Tell him to come on up, would you?’
Irena said, ‘I don’t think he’s in the mood for that.’
Sarah hung up her tailored linen coat and sat down at her desk. ‘I don’t care what kind of a mood he’s in. If he wants to see me, he knows where I am.’
Irena said, ‘I’ll try.’ Then, ‘Are those bruises on your face?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah told her. ‘They’re bruises.’
‘Ben has bruises, too. And a plaster on his nose.’
‘Precisely. And that’s why he has to come and see me.’
‘All right,’ Irena nodded. She retreated to the door, and was just about to go out when she turned and said, ‘How was your weekend?’
Sarah looked up and said, ‘Frightening. How was yours?’
She sorted through all her mail and all her papers. There was no sign of the promised bank statements from Vistula Kredytowy; although there was a long fax from Senate New York demanding to know why construction hadn’t yet started, and a letter from Mr Gawlak with a long list of questions about piles and stress and staircase dimensions. She was still reading it when her office door opened and Ben walked in, wearing shirtsleeves and Donald Duck braces, carrying a thick mille-feuille of computer printouts.
‘Well, well,’ he said, dropping the printouts onto Sarah’s desk, and dropping himself in a chair. Irena was right: he had two black eyes, a swollen red bruise on his cheek, and a plaster across the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m surprised you had the balls to come back in.’
‘Ditto,’ said Sarah, without looking up.
Ben said, ‘You know what your trouble is? You think you’re a businesswoman; but the fact is that you’re not very good at business, and you’ re not very good at being a woman, either.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Sarah, leaning back in her chair. ‘I’m too honest when it comes to money; and I’m too discriminating when it comes to men.’
‘There are the bank statements you wanted,’ Ben told her. ‘I want you to know that you caused us considerable embarrassment with Vistula Kredytowy. They’re supposed to be our partners in this project; and we should treat them with courtesy and respect. Instead of that, you practically tell them to their faces that they’re criminals.’
Sarah looked at the sheaf of printouts as if Ben had dropped a box of week-old haddock on her desk. ‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest discrepancy in any of those statements. I bet they all balance-out exactly, credit for credit, loss for loss. I bet that none of them mentions shiploads of stolen BMWs, offloaded at Gdansk. I bet none of them accounts for convoys of Mercedes, driven through the Czech border; or top-of-the-range Toyotas, driven in from Berlin. I bet I could search through these statements for the rest of my life, but I’d never find any evidence of what you’re up to.’
Ben said, ‘You’re demented. You know that? You’re completely demented. Not only that, you’re totally incompetent. As soon as I’ve got Brzezicki back to work, I’m going to have you kicked out of Eastern Europe so fast your eyes are going to water.’
‘So when are you holding this exorcism of yours?’
Ben jabbed a finger at her. ‘Don’t you mock me, Sarah. All I’m doing is what you should have done right from the very start. If your work force believe that they’re plagued by a devil, you give them a religious ritual. It’s the only way to make them see sense.’
‘And what happens if your police force believe that they’ve caught a murderer? Do you give them money, in the hope that they’re going to see sense?’
Ben stood up, and looked around Sarah’s office. ‘You’d better enjoy yourself here today, Sarah, because this is the last day you’re going to be sitting here acting like you’re the Queen of Warsaw. By the way, where did you go over the weekend? New York were screaming for their weekly report and I couldn’t contact you anywhere.’
‘I went to the country, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Not with that scruffy detective?’
‘Yes, with that scruffy detective. And that scruffy detective is protective and graceful and twice the man that you’ll ever be.’
Ben curled his lip in what he must have imagined was a look of pity. ‘Gone native, huh? I don’t think New York will take very kindly to that, either. “Senate executives are expected to maintain cordial but detached personal relationships with the inhabitants of the countries in which they are employed. Senate executives represent Senate International and as such should be models of decorum.” That’s what the rules say. Not very decorous, is it, humping Warsaw’s answer to Columbo? Anyway –’ he added, checking his wristwatch – ‘that’s all pretty academic now, isn’t it? Are you going to come to the exorcism tonight? Eleven o’clock. I’m sure you don’t want to miss all the fun.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Sarah tightly.
‘Good. And bring your Polack policeman, too. There’s nothing like going out with a bang.’
He went, leaving the door open. Her eyes filled with tears. Not because Ben had enraged her, he hadn’t, she was too contemptuous of him for that. They were tears for Clayton which she hadn’t wanted to let out until Ben had gone, in case he thought that he had really hurt her.
She spent two hours going through the bank printouts, and as she suspected they were in immaculate order. In fact they were so perfectly balanced that they couldn’t have been real. There was no sign of any large sums of money coming from unexplained sources; no sign of suspiciously heavy losses; no write-offs; no mysterious expenses. Whoever had doctored the accounts had expertly removed all trace of Roman Zboinski’s money as if it had never existed.
Sarah left the office and took a taxi to Vistula Kredytowy, carrying the printouts with her. She went up the steps, and across the marble-floored reception area, with its bronze statue of a mermaid holding a sword in one hand and a balance in the other. The receptionist called out, ‘Madam! Madam, can I help you?’ but she ignored him and walked right through to the corridor at the back, and into Piotr Gogiel’s office.
He was talking to a customer on t
he phone, but she threw the printouts on to his blotter, and said, ‘Are you responsible for this?’
Piotr Gogiel said a hurried goodbye and put down the receiver. ‘I don’t understand what you mean. This is your bank statement, that’s all.’
‘Is this what Antoni Dlubak died for? This treachery?’
‘Please – it’s nothing to do with treachery, Ms Leonard. It’s – the way that the statement came out.’
‘Did Ben pay you off, too? Is that it? Or did he threaten to cripple you for life?’
Piotr Gogiel said nothing, but sat behind his desk looking miserably at the printouts, swallowing and swallowing as if he had a biscuit-crumb stuck in his throat. Sarah leaned forward on his desk and stared him directly in the face. He kept trying to look back at her, but he couldn’t.
‘I’m going to find out who did this,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m not going to rest until I do. And when I do, the worst torture that Roman Zboinski is capable of handing out will seem like a friendly scratch on the back compared with the pain that I’m going to inflict. And that’s a promise.’
Piotr Gogiel said, ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I can say.’
‘Oh, you’re sorry. Well, I suppose that’s a start. Now where’s that greaseball Studnicki?’
‘He had to go to Brussels... some kind of financial meeting.’
‘All right. But when he gets back, you can tell him what I just said to you.’
Piotr Gogiel stood up and walked with her to the door. He was perspiring with heat and embarrassment. ‘I want you to know... I didn’t want things to happen this way. But sometimes you don’t have a choice.’
‘Mr Gogiel, you always have a choice. One is marked “wrong” and the other is marked “right”.’
‘It isn’t as easy as that, Ms Leonard. I have a wife, and a family. I have people who depend on me.’
‘I thought I could depend on you. But never mind. It’s your decision, isn’t it?’
She left the bank, her shoes rapping on the floor. Piotr Gogiel watched her leave, glumly mopping his face with his handkerchief.
The Chosen Child Page 32
