Where the Devil Can't Go (42 page)

Nowak smiled. “We’ve done our homework,” he said, and started to count off on his fingers. “Within five years, we will have completed a comprehensive motorway network and two new hub airports; in ten years we will have regenerated three zones of low-employment: the Kashubian Lakeland, the Bialystok Forest, and the foothills of the Tatras, which will host three new cities dedicated to leisure and tourism.”

Janusz visualised the wild beauty of the national parks Nowak listed: for their ‘regeneration’ to produce jobs on such a scale it clearly wasn’t eco-tourism he had in mind – more like Dubai in the heart of Europe.

“I can’t see the EU shelling out for all that,” he said sceptically.

“Between you and me, we’re not keen on the current
obsession
with Europe,” said Nowak. “‘Human rights’ for rapists, ‘health and safety’, ‘working time directives...’” He paused, his eyes merry. “The bureaucrats have taken over the asylum, no?” Then, pouring himself another shot, which Janusz declined, he leaned over and tapped him on the leg.

“The EU pen pushers won’t find out till it’s far too late to object, but the bulk of the investment will come from influential friends a good deal to the East of Brussels.”

Janusz gazed at him, trying to take in the words.

“The Russians?”

Nowak nodded.

“You want Poland to cosy up to the bastards who
invaded
us and made our lives a misery for forty years?” asked Janusz.

Nowak pulled a tolerant smile. “You know, for a relatively young man, you are remarkably conservative. But the younger generation doesn’t have all your baggage – they don’t have a problem with Russia.” He waved a finger at Janusz. “Russia is awash with oil and gas profits – and all that cash needs a home. Poland is on the doorstep and a very attractive investment, if the young people can be brought home.”

Janusz pictured with horror the class that ruled Russia – the old KGB types, and the gangster-oligarchs they had illegally enriched – and considered the journalists and government critics who, two decades after Communism had fallen, still had a mysterious habit of dying young. Then he remembered something. “But your father
died
in a Russian camp after the war!”

Nowak took a sip of
wodka.
“Stalin saved Europe,” he said matter-of-factly. “After the war, he had to be ruthless,
especially
with the Poles. You must admit, we’ve never been strong on discipline.” His clear eyes met Janusz’s gaze. “I’m afraid I came to realise, when I grew up, that my father’s nationalism was nothing more than childish self-indulgence.”

“You were a
Solidarnosc
organiser, in Huta!” Janusz protested. “You and Zamorski led strikes against the
Kommies
!” He tried to remember everything Nowak had told him, how he and Zamorski had met on a train in the Seventies heading to jobs at the steel mill, how they’d both become activists, how close they were...

Nowak had his head tipped on one side, as though waiting for the penny to drop.

“It was you who recruited Zamorski for the SB, wasn’t it,” said Janusz at last. “You were probably already working for the SB when you took the train to Huta.”

Nowak raised his glass to congratulate Janusz’s deductions.

“You were Agent Byk. A
Kommunista
.”

“Not guilty to the last charge,” said Nowak with a laugh. “Ideology never interested me. I’m an unrepentant pragmatist.”

“So was it
pragmatic
to supply innocent children for that dirty
chuj
to abuse?”

Nowak pursed his lips. “Sometimes you needed a strong stomach, back then, to stop the country from destroying itself. Nobody wanted an invasion – least of all Comrade Brezhnev. But think how many more innocents would have suffered and died if we’d allowed the troublemakers to provoke the Soviets beyond endurance.”

“And no doubt you take the same view of this scum who likes to hurt women,” said Janusz chopping an angry hand in the direction of Radomil, who was sitting on the stack of flight cases, cleaning his nails with a penknife. “Murder, rape, I suppose that’s all just breaking eggs to make omelettes, in your book, right?”

Nowak looked at Radomil, “I wasn’t aware that there had been any unnecessary impropriety,” he frowned. “I disapprove of that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure Justyna will be relieved to hear it,” snarled Janusz.

Nowak’s face darkened. “You really are a boy scout aren’t you? You hardly knew the girl, and as for Weronika, you’ve never even met her, yet you behave as though they’re family. It’s all about you, really, isn’t it?” He gave a derisive snort. “At least it made you easy to handle – when you threw the towel in, all I had to do was get Radomil to impersonate Adamski and rough you up, and suddenly it’s a matter of
personal honour
.”

He stared at Janusz, his eyes hard as boiled sweets now. “I have a theory about you, my friend,” he said, nodding to himself. “This holier-than-thou attitude – it’s all the product of a guilty conscience.” Janusz held his gaze for what seemed like an age, then dropped it.

Of course, Nowak would have checked up on him. Hundreds of thousands of SB files were made public after the revolution and he’d certainly know his way round them.

Nowak had adopted an understanding expression. “You know better than most that all of us make compromises in life. If you hadn’t given up your friends, you’d have ended up in prison. It would have destroyed your future.”

Janusz gripped the arms of his chair, seized by a fit of vertigo. It had been two days after his seventeenth birthday when the
milicja
had caught him spray-painting
Solidarnosc
graffiti, and taken him to Montepulich Prison. In the cells, before they started interrogating him, the one in charge had assured him that he
would
reveal his friends’ names, the ones who’d got away, or he’d leave the place zipped into a body bag.

The three of them had beaten him, stripped him, posed him like Mr Universe, taunted his skinny body, his fearshrivelled
kutas
, and in a final act of humiliation – the memory of which he had, by an act of will, suppressed all these years – one of them had pissed on him. After four or five hours of that, yes, he had talked, and gratefully. His three friends were brought in, but they got off with a caution. It was only many months later that he discovered the incident had cost one of the boy’s fathers, a civil servant, his job.

Janusz looked Nowak in the face. “Going to prison wouldn’t have destroyed my future, but betraying my friends did,” he said. It was a statement of plain truth. Had it not been for the guilt he carried around, he would never have insisted on going to the Gdansk demo with Iza, he would have left before it got dangerous, and Iza would still be alive.

Puzzlement creased the skin round Nowak’s eyes, but Janusz wasn’t about to explain himself.

Janusz visualised the back-door invasion of Russian gangsters and oligarchs that Nowak had planned for Poland. With so much money invested, how long would it be before there were new laws to curtail the press, and constitutional ‘reforms’ handed President Zamorski ever-greater power? Remembering how Nowak had greedily scanned the SB documents, he realised something.

“Zamorski’s the ideal president for you and your friends, isn’t he?” he said. “Not
in spite
of being a child abuser and traitor, but
because
of it.”

Zamorski got up and walked over to the window.

“You wanted the SB documents in order to have complete control over him. In case he ever gets second thoughts about your plan to concrete over the national parks and sell the country to the Russians.”

When Nowak finally turned back to Janusz, his expression appeared cheerful again.

“It’s a shame I can’t persuade you to see my point of view – perhaps you’ll come round to it when you see Poland’s GDP go through the roof in five years’ time.” Then, seeing Janusz’s confusion, he burst out laughing.

“My apologies! I forgot for a moment that you’ve cast yourself as James Bond and me as the evil villain, so of course you thought that you wouldn’t be leaving my lair alive.”

Setting his empty glass on the table he leaned against its edge, arms folded. “Whatever you think of me, I actually have no desire to increase the body count unnecessarily. Anyway, I have a little insurance policy to ensure you don’t try to cause any trouble in high places.”

Janusz felt a strange mixture of feelings envelop him: a wave of relief that relaxed a hundred tensed muscles throughout his body, shot through with a thrill of fear at the mention of an ‘insurance policy’.

“You are no doubt aware that Radomil has become a TV celebrity in this country, which has curtailed his pharmaceutical activities, and means he is forced to move on,” he nodded over to Radomil, who was fingering his ragged ear solicitously. “I’m sure you’ve already worked out that he was the one who commissioned your friend for that ... export job last week.”

Janusz nodded, wondering what was coming.

But Nowak paused and checked his watch: “Excuse me, I just realised I’m running late. Radomil, will you please bring the girl for Pan Kiszka?”

Nowak turned back to Janusz. “I’m afraid that the body you and your friend repatriated to Poland was not actually Olek Kamarewski, who lies forever in the foundations of an East End apartment block, but some unfortunate lowlife who displeased Radomil.” He put an imaginary gun under his chin and pulled the trigger, pulling a grimace at the thought of such brutality.

Bastards.
He and Oskar had helped to dispose of a murder victim, their 1600 kilometre journey filmed and documented on databases at four European borders.

“So if I cause any trouble, you tip off the police, the body gets exhumed and Oskar and I get charged with murder,” said Janusz flatly.

Just then Radomil came back in the room, half-carrying, half-walking a slender zombie-like figure – Weronika, her wrists bound before her with plastic ties. As they got closer to the window, Janusz could see her mouth was reddened, swollen, her eyes above those angled cheekbones were half-shut and unfocussed and judging by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her breathing was fast and shallow.
Kurwa mac!
What had that fucking crazy done to her?

Nowak picked up the jacket he’d left on the table and slipped it on. The stocky little bald man in his cheap blue windcheater looked for all the world like one of the old retired guys you saw fishing off the harbour wall in Gdansk, thought Janusz. Nowak nodded to Radomil. “I’ll leave you to finish up here,” he said in a businesslike tone. “But don’t hang around too long.” He waved a hand at Janusz, “You can leave Pan Kiszka to untie the girl.” Radomil nodded.

“Goodbye, Janusz,” said Nowak. “I am sorry we had to meet in such circumstances.” He turned and with a cheery wave over his head, he was gone.

Radomil was still holding Weronika upright against his body, one thick arm around her, beneath her breasts, her long pale hair brushing his forearm intimately. He hefted her upright and, using his free hand, beckoned casually to Janusz. But before he could get to his feet, Radomil jerked his chin out once, and Janusz felt a muscular arm lock itself round his throat.
Mother of God!
He dug his fingers into the forearm crushing his windpipe, and flung his bottom half around in a bid to free himself, sending the chair skidding from side to side. The Ukrainian cursed in his ear, but managed to maintain his grip. As Janusz fought for breath, he was aware of the distant whine of the lift motor as Nowak descended to ground level, followed, a few seconds later, by the clank of the lift gate, then silence.

Radomil grinned: the dog’s master had departed. Keeping his eyes fixed on the struggling figure of Janusz, he picked Weronika up and hoisted her effortlessly onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift – Janusz heard a small gasp as she exhaled – and strode out onto the balcony. He could barely move his head but by straining right, he could just see what was happening. Radomil paused and, looking back at Janusz, tipped Weronika over the rail like a bag of cement.

At that moment, Janusz’s entire perception seemed to shift, so that colours became intense, saturated... and every noise sounded loud and jarring, like he was locked inside one of those hip hop promos. Despite his struggle for breath, his brain became hyper-alert, too, and as he heard the splash four storeys below, which boomed like a distant explosion, he was conscious of a clock starting up in his head. She would have taken a big breath in, reflexively, at the shock of finding herself airborne, he calculated, which gave her two, probably three minutes before she started to drown, if she didn’t panic and exhale on entering the water, that is. He couldn’t see her being able to keep her head much above water – not with her wrists bound. As the clock’s big digital display started its inexorable downward tick – 178, 177, 176 seconds, he felt an almost imperceptible lessening of the pressure on his throat as the Ukrainian shifted, trying to get a better grip, and drew a lungful of breath, felt the oxygen reaching his muscles.

The struggle must have edged his chair a few inches closer to the cutting table, because now he felt one of his lashing feet hit one of its solid oak legs. In an instant he had the flats of both size tens up on the table’s lip and, with a grunt, thrust with all his strength, propelling the chair backwards on its castors with explosive force. He was rewarded by the sudden disappearance of the weight crushing his throat, and a jarring, discordant crash as the Ukrainian smashed into the windows behind.
167 seconds.

As he hurled himself through the open door he caught a glimpse of Radomil’s face, twisted with surprise, whipping round from the balcony rail. Janusz shoulder-charged him, knocking the fucker off balance, followed up with a roundhouse punch that landed right in the middle of his face. He went down and Janusz dropped his whole weight on top of him, producing a satisfying sound – the meaty snap of a rib breaking that was not his own. Feeling Radomil’s right hand scrabbling beneath him, he lifted himself enough to slam an elbow down on the fucker’s wrist, sending the gun skittering noisily off to the balcony’s far end. He smashed Radomil’s head onto the ironwork balcony floor once, twice, three times, till the eyelids drooped, then, with 147 seconds showing on his mental clock, decided he didn’t have time to finish the task, however enjoyable.