Entanglement (35 page)

“Mafia.”

“Exactly. Probably the only one that can compare with the best Italian models. And that is your ‘they’. So if you’re thinking of getting at them in any way, back off right now. Think about it in the morning, and in the evening you’ll be crying over your daughter’s body. As you won’t be able to solve your case without that, put it on the shelf. Life’s too short.”

“What about you?”

“I’m one of a few people who deal with SB crimes; in fact even within that circle they think I’m a crazy fucking SB-hunter. No one supports me and my research is ignored. I’m not surprised. The Institute for National Remembrance is number one on the list of organizations infiltrated by ‘OdeSB’. Probably even more than - with all respect - the Prosecution Service. Of course, they know about everything I do, but they don’t regard me as a threat. Besides, I’m terminally ill - although it’s hard to see it now - I’ve got another two years, not more. I know a lot, but I realize I won’t publish it in my lifetime. Maybe one day, when they’ve all died out, some historian will make use of what I’ve put together.”

“You’re exaggerating,” said Szacki. “This isn’t Sicily. Surely we’re talking about a few fellows who rent an office under some cover in Warsaw and play at big, scary secret policemen there because they’ve got a few files out of the index. I’m going to do my job.”

Wenzel winced.

“Exaggerating? Correct me if I’m wrong, but did some special ‘C-bomb’ go off in 1989 that made all those fucking bastard Commie apparatchiks, thugs on Soviet leashes, SB agents, personal sources of information, secret collaborators and all that totalitarian rabble suddenly vanish into thin air? I’ll tell you
something: they’ll bribe you or frighten you. Maybe even today, as soon as they find out you’ve been talking to me. Just in case.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know the guys who’ve been here before you. All just as invincible. They all said I didn’t know them. I have never heard of any them or the cases they were conducting again. I don’t bear any grudges. It’s just life - when you’ve got a lot to gain or a lot to lose personally, it’s easy to change your mind.”

At work he started by making an appointment with Dr Jeremiasz Wróbel for the next day. A crazy idea had occurred to him for a trial experiment, but to conduct it, first he’d have to work out the details with the doctor. It was funny, but Wróbel, who had irritated him so much with his superior air and his schoolboy jokes during their conversation, had gone down in his memory as a likeable, trustworthy man. He’d be happy to meet him again.

Then he called Kuzniecow. For once the policeman picked up the phone, but he was as down in the mouth as usual.

“In theory a little, in practice a zero so big you could fit the entire turnover of Mayor Piskorski’s team inside in ten-zloty notes,” he replied, when asked about progress in his research into Telak’s past. The former mayor was notorious for his extravagant use of the city budget. “We found his pals from school, who only remembered that he was there. We found his pals from college, who remembered just the same. We found his pals from the Warsaw Graphics Company, where he ended up after college. Most of them didn’t remember him at all, just one foreman recalled that he was a quick learner and wanted to experiment with new technologies. Which in those days probably meant ink-jet printers, I’ve really got no idea.”

“Drop Telak,” said Szacki after a moment’s hesitation. “We won’t find anything there. It looks as if we’ve been digging in the past of people we shouldn’t.”

“Excellent.” Oleg didn’t hide his resentment. “But if you want us to look for someone else’s high-school pals now, find yourself another district police station for the job or ask City Police HQ to help you.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just small things. And they might be the last check-ups in this inquiry. Listen” - he broke off and looked around the room; he was mindful of Podolski’s and Wenzel’s stories - “or rather don’t, because this isn’t a conversation for the phone. We have to talk in person.”

“OK, I’ve got to go out for a bit anyway, I can drop in at Krucza Street.”

“No, that’s not a good idea. Let’s meet on the steps outside the Ministry of Agriculture. In fifteen minutes.”

Kuzniecow sighed theatrically, whispered “OK” in a depressed tone and hung up.

Szacki spent the next quarter of an hour noting down what Wenzel had told him and drawing up his own hypotheses. He wondered what exactly he wanted from Kuzniecow and how much he should actually tell him. Was he thinking like a paranoiac already? It looked like it. Of course he’d tell him everything and together they’d wonder how to proceed. After all, that’s what they always did. He tore a page from his notebook and divided it in two. On one half he wrote out the names of the people featured in the case, and on the other code words corresponding to people connected with the 1987 murder. Could they be linked in some way? Apart from most probably Telak, were there any common elements? Now he was convinced there was at least one. But he didn’t rule out the idea that this was a false trail. Or that the person linking the two stories would not be the one he was now thinking about. Fortunately he had an idea how to find out.

As usual, he was halfway out of the door when the phone rang.

“Is that Prosecutor Teodor Szacki?” asked an older man in a kindly tone. Szacki didn’t recognize the voice.

“Speaking. Who’s that?”

“I’m an old friend of Henryk Telak - we used to work together for the same firm. I think we should have a chat. I’ll be waiting for you in half an hour at the Italian restaurant on Żurawia Street, the one between Krucza and Bracka Streets. I hope you haven’t eaten yet - it would be my pleasure to invite you for lunch.”

Wenzel was right. Today already.

He ordered water and waited. He felt like a cup of coffee, but he’d already drunk two and that day the pressure - both atmospheric and otherwise - was high. Even so he wouldn’t deny himself a small espresso after the meal, so drinking extra coffee now would have been foolish. He knew that, but even so he was suffering. Funny how a minor habit can change into an obsession.

Prosecutor Teodor Szacki arrived punctually. In a suit the colour of diluted silver, standing straight, self-confident. Straight away, without looking around the room he came up to his table and sat down on the other side. He didn’t offer him his hand. He’d have made a good officer. The prosecutor did not speak, and he was silent too. Finally he decided to break the silence - he didn’t have quite enough time to play staring games all day.

“I don’t know if you’re familiar with this place, but a visit to the chef is more effective than waiting for the menu. You can take a look at what he’s doing, have a chat and make your choice. And above all assemble your own salad.”

Szacki nodded. They stood up. He - yet another habit that had changed into an obsession - took a bit of rocket and mozzarella, the prosecutor chose grilled artichokes and aubergine, romaine lettuce, and a few sun-dried tomatoes. For the main course - still without speaking to each other - they chose tortellini with ricotta and mushrooms and cannelloni stuffed with spinach in Gorgonzola sauce. Maybe only in Krakowska Avenue was the pasta better than here.

“Are you going to try and buy me, or frighten me?” asked Szacki once they were back at the table.

First point to the prosecutor. If he’d spent such a long time saying nothing because he was wondering how to open the conversation, it was worth it. He hadn’t expected a beginning like that. Now he’d have to pull back a bit, and that immediately put him in the worse position. The rocket seemed to taste more bitter than usual.

“I see you like to dress smartly,” he said, pointing to his suit.

“I prefer the word ‘elegantly’.”

He smiled.

“Elegance starts at ten thousand. You are smart.”

“So it’s the bribe. To tell the truth, for some time I’ve been curious to know how much you were going to offer me. So please spare yourself the introductions and name your price. We’ll see where we stand before they’ve brought the pasta.”

A second point. Either he was playing with him, or he really meant it about the money. Could it be quite so simple? He already knew so much about Prosecutor Szacki that he’d forgotten he was a badly paid civil servant, just as greedy for cash as all the rest. He felt disappointed, but indeed, they could get the whole matter settled before the pasta. He glanced at a man sitting a few tables away. The man nodded, letting him know the prosecutor wasn’t carrying a bug or any other recording device.

“Five hundred thousand. For fifty you can take your family
on a round-the-world trip. Or maybe you’d prefer to go with your lover - in fact I don’t know how your affair will develop following yesterday’s tender kiss. For the rest you can buy your daughter a small flat that can gain in value while it waits for her.”

Szacki wiped his mouth on his napkin.

“Are you going to knock something off that sum for the financial advice?” he jibed. “Or does your donation come with conditions about how I’m allowed to spend the money?”

A third point. He had said too much and got a slap on the wrist. High time to take control of the conversation.

“Five hundred thousand, and of course we’ll help you to substantiate the income on paper. It’s a serious offer, so please spare yourself the little jokes.”

“I’ll give you my answer a week on Thursday.”

Mistake.

“No, you’ll give me your answer now. This is not a conversation about a job, but the offer of an enormous bribe. You must make your decision without consulting your friends, wife, lover, parents or whoever else there is. You have until, let’s say, the end of our farewell espresso.”

Szacki nodded. The waiter brought the pasta and they got on with eating. They ordered another glass of water each; despite the air conditioning their shirts were sticking to their backs. The sky was black, and somewhere in the distance there was thunder and lightning, though still not a drop of rain had fallen.

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll be sorry. Mainly because you’re an excellent prosecutor and apparently a very likeable fellow, but you have accidentally touched upon a world you shouldn’t touch. I think you’d find the money useful, it’d make life easier. In any case, let’s look the truth in the eye - this case is going to end up on the shelf anyway.”

“In which case why don’t you just wait it out in peace?”

“To put it mildly, my priority is my own peace and that of my comrades. We do not feel threatened, please don’t flatter yourself. We’re just afraid that if you unwittingly stir things up, it’ll cost us more bother, more thousands, more deeds that - despite popular opinion - we have always regarded as a necessary evil.”

“So there is a threat. How shoddy.”

“I realize that better than you, please believe me. I respect you too greatly to tell you what we know about your family, friends, acquaintances, work colleagues, witnesses, suspects and so on. I just wouldn’t want you to get any mistaken belief about our weakness. Because guided by this belief, you might do something that couldn’t be called off, couldn’t be talked over at a table in a nice restaurant.”

Teodor Szacki didn’t answer; without a word he finished his course, and then asked:

“Aren’t you afraid I’m recording this conversation?”

He almost spat a delicious piece of tortellini back onto his plate. He’d been expecting just about anything, but not such puppy-dog impertinence, like something from a spy film made by a group of primary-school amateurs. He felt embarrassed by the need to answer.

“I know you’re not recording it. That’s obvious. The question is whether or not I am recording this conversation. Whether my colleague at the City Police Headquarters forensics lab won’t edit it so perfectly that his other colleague who’s going to analyse it on the instructions of the Regional Prosecutor won’t recognize that it’s a montage. And your colleagues on Krakowskie Przedmieście will rack their brains wondering how you could have had the cheek to try and extort a half-million bribe.”

“That’s a bluff.”

“In that case please inspect me.”

“Another bluff.”

He sighed and pushed away his empty plate. The sauce was so good he felt like wiping the plate with his fingers. Sheer poetry. He wondered if it wasn’t time for a show of strength. The waiter came up, from whom he ordered two small black coffees and a helping of tiramisu. Szacki didn’t want dessert. Another mistake; this way he showed he was afraid. In other words that they’d only have to squeeze him a bit more, and it’d all be over.

He looked around. Despite it being lunchtime, the restaurant was fairly empty; most of the customers were at tables outside, almost invisible from here. In their part of the room there were two businessmen in expensive but ugly suits, talking about something they could see on a laptop screen; a couple of thirty-year-olds having pizza, probably foreigners - when they raised their voices he recognized some English phrases; a chap on his own in a linen shirt, completely absorbed in reading the paper.

The waiter brought the coffee. He sprinkled two teaspoons of cane sugar into the little cup and stirred it thoroughly. The result was a syrupy drink the consistency of fudge that’s been left in a car on a very hot day. He took a small sip.

“A bluff, you say. Please listen carefully. Right now I could take out the gun I have on me and shoot you. Just like that. There would be a bit of a fuss about it, it would cause a bit of confusion - something in the press, a well-publicized inquiry. They’d say it was the Mafia, settling scores, that you’d trodden on someone’s corns. It’d turn out you weren’t as squeaky clean as everybody thought. A strange recording would turn up. Finally, upstairs they’d come to the conclusion that it may be better not to dig around in all that. Of course I would never do anything like that - it would be extreme stupidity. But in theory I could.”