The Chosen Child Read online

  When they reached the fourth floor, they left the elevator and walked along a narrow corridor until they came to a reinforced steel door with a spyhole in it. The man grinned at Dlubak and knocked three times. There was an ostentatious unlocking of locks and banging back of bolts, and then the door swung open.

  ‘After you,’ the man told Dlubak.

  Dlubak stepped into a large, almost-empty apartment that smelled strongly of burned cooking-fat. All the floors were covered in cheap, rucked-up carpet in a nasty shade of tan. He passed the open doors of three bedrooms in which blankets were nailed up at the windows, and the bedding was nothing more than sour-smelling mattresses. In one of the bedrooms, a bare-breasted woman was sitting on a frayed basketwork chair, her hair dyed violently black, her toenails painted crimson, trying to light a cigarette. There was a huge bruise across her back, as if somebody had hit her with a chair leg.

  In the living-room, the principal piece of furniture was a massive Toshiba television, badly tuned, with the sound turned down. Sitting in front of it, in a bulky armchair, was a huge man, dressed all in black. He was talking on the telephone, but his eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the television screen. Another man in jeans and a polo shirt was standing close beside him, cleaning his fingernails with a small screwdriver. A third man sat cross-legged on the carpet. He was naked to the waist and his upper body was covered with tattoos. Demons, mermaids, star-signs, and butterflies.

  ‘He’s here,’ said the man who had brought Dlubak. The large man in the armchair didn’t take his eyes away from the television, but said, ‘Good.’

  Two or three minutes went past. Nobody moved. Nobody said anything. At last Dlubak cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m late for a meeting, back at the bank. Do you think we could sort this out, whatever it is, and let me get back to work?’

  There was another long pause. But then the large man slowly turned his head and stared at Dlubak as if he had trodden something disgusting into his rucked-up tan carpet.

  ‘You have an appointment this afternoon, so I understand?’

  ‘That’s right. In fact, I should have been back at the bank five minutes ago.’

  ‘Who were you meeting, Mr Dlubak? Can you tell me that?’

  ‘The police, if you must know. One officer from the Wyzdial Zabojstw, the homicide squad; and another from the Wyzdial Przestepstw Gopodarezych, the fraud squad.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said the large man, in a voice like gravel being churned over in a cement mixer. ‘The homicide squad and the fraud squad. You must have some pretty big secrets to let out.’

  Dlubak didn’t know what to say. He glanced back at the man who had brought him here, but the man only winked and smiled, as if this was all some tremendous joke.

  The large man heaved himself out of his armchair and stood over Dlubak like a building that blots out the sun. ‘Do you know who I am? I am Roman Zboinski. Do you know what my father did for a living? He used to work on a farm, digging potatoes and picking cherries and rearing pigs. He almost starved. Do you know what I did for a living? I used to unload frozen meat in a warehouse in Gdansk. Can you imagine what a life that was? We unloaded whole sides of beef, and yet were paid so little that we couldn’t even afford to buy a piece of tripe. Then what happened? Everything changed, and we had the chance to make big money. Now we take cars from people who are so rich that they don’t care what they lose; and we sell them to people who are so rich that they don’t care what they pay. The people who have lost their cars get new ones, through insurance; the people who want new cars get the cars that they want; and I make a profit. This is social justice, not a crime.’

  Dlubak flustered, ‘Of course it’s a crime. If you didn’t think it was a crime, why did you go to so much trouble to launder your money through Vistula Kredytowy? Why are you angry now? If it’s not a crime, you won’t mind me telling the police about it, will you?’

  Zboinski looked even more building-like than ever. ‘You are the only person who knows, right?’

  ‘Not any more. My colleague Piotr Gogiel, for instance. I’ve already told him; and I’ll be telling a few more people, too. Once everybody knows, you won’t be able to touch me.’

  ‘Senate International won’t be very pleased with you.’

  ‘Of course they will! They don’t want their bank accounts used by gangsters.’

  Zboinski turned his back for a moment. He cracked his knuckles inside his leather gloves; and his nostrils began to stretch open.

  ‘You still have a chance, Mr Dlubak. Even an idiot like you should know that. If you refuse to talk to the police, and you refuse to testify in a court of law, then there is nothing that anybody can do about it, not one blamed thing.’

  ‘I’ll have to show them all of Senate’s accounts. And once you know what you’re looking for, all of this money-laundering is obvious. It was obvious to me.’

  Zboinski lowered his head and thought for a moment. Although Dlubak couldn’t see his face, the tattooed man was looking up at him, and he mimicked Zboinski’s expressions like a mirror. Rage, followed by decision, followed by malicious pleasure.

  Dlubak found these echoed expressions even more alarming, because they were performed with such accuracy, and such malevolence.

  ‘You want me to say nothing?’ he asked.

  Zboinski didn’t reply.

  ‘You want me to pretend that none of those payments went in and none of those payments went out?’

  Still Zboinski didn’t turn around. Still he didn’t speak. On the huge blurry screen of the television, Goofy was running and running up a grain-elevator, pursued by angry chickens.

  Dlubak saw no signal from Zboinski to his henchmen, but the next thing he knew, the man who had kidnapped him from the Saxon Gardens had taken hold of his right arm, and pressed the muzzle of his automatic behind his right ear. It was very knobbly, and it hurt. The man in the jeans and the T-shirt put away his screwdriver and took hold of Dlubak’s other arm. God, they all smelled of recently-soured sweat, these men, and Dlubak was so fastidious.

  Zboinski approached him and glared into his face as if he could dissolve him with sheer rage.

  ‘There’s nothing I detest more than honesty. Honesty! The only people who embrace honesty are the stupid fuckers who have failed at cheating!’

  Dlubak’s larynx hurt so much that he could hardly swallow. What was he supposed to do? If he promised Zboinski that he would never say anything to the fraud squad and the homicide squad, he would be lying, because it was his duty to Vistula Kredytowy and Senate International to tell them everything he knew. Not only that, his pride was involved. His status, as a good accountant.

  And if he let Zboinski get away with laundering the profits from stolen cars, where was it going to end? What was the point of capitalism if it had no morals? It wasn’t capitalism any longer, it was anarchy.

  Dlubak was frightened, but he knew what he believed in.

  Zboinski said, ‘Go back to your office, talk to the gliny, and tell them you made a mistake.’

  The tattooed man laughed, and said, ‘Tell them you were high. Why not?’

  ‘No,’ said Dlubak.

  ‘No?’ said Zboinski. ‘Did I hear you say no? This is serious, you know, not a game.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  Zboinski went over to the opposite wall, and then abruptly changed direction and went over to the window. He was obviously agitated, and that alarmed Dlubak even more. But in a situation in which there appeared to be no rules, he had to stick to what he knew was right.

  ‘You see that church?’ Zboinski demanded, pointing to the five onion domes. ‘The Metropolitan Orthodox church of St Mary Magdalene. St Mary Magdalene, who sold herself, but was still blessed by Christ! I love that church! Have you ever been inside it? It has two tiers, and two iconstases, and polychromes and icons! She sold herself, don’t you understand, but she was still beloved by Christ!’

  Dlubak stared at him. He was so frightened that he had slowly
wet himself, and a wide dark stain was spreading down the left leg of his beige summer trousers.

  Zboinski came up close. ‘You’re not going to change your mind, are you? Not without some extra persuasion.’

  From nowhere, in his right hand, he produced a large baling-hook. He held it up close to Dlubak’s face. He said, ‘Do you know what damage these can do? More than you even want to think about.’

  ‘I can’t tell a lie,’ Dlubak panted. He didn’t know whether he felt hot or cold.

  ‘You want this in your eye?’ Zboinski grated. He lifted the point so that it was less than an inch from Dlubak’s wincing eyeball. His eyelids fluttered so wildly that he almost felt as if he were flirting.

  ‘No,’ said Zboinski. ‘You wouldn’t want this in your eye, would you?’

  He nodded to his men, and without warning they kicked his legs from under him and toppled him onto the carpet. Winded, Dlubak tried to twist himself over, but the tattooed man knelt on one wrist and the man in the jeans knelt on the other, while the man from the Saxon Gardens held his ankles. Dlubak gasped and struggled like a beached porpoise, but they were all too strong for him.

  Zboinski leaned over him, holding up the baling-hook. ‘I never lose my temper,’ he said. ‘That’s because I don’t ask for much. I want friendship from my friends, submission from my women, and loyalty from the people who work for me. From everybody else, all I ask is live and let live.’

  He reached down with his left hand, found the zipper of Dlubak’s pants, and tugged it down in three distinctive jerks. ‘You’ve pissed yourself,’ he said, in a very matter-of-fact way, as if he expected that from men who tried to betray him. ‘You’re wet.’

  All the same, he twisted open Dlubak’s underpants and produced his shrinking penis. It was so small and wrinkled that he could barely manage to grasp it between finger and thumb: but he did, and stretched it upward so that Dlubak gasped, the same gasp as a man jumping into a cold swimming pool.

  ‘Now,’ said Zboinski, ‘I want you to tell me everything you know about my money.’

  Dlubak wildly shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about your money! I don’t even know who you are!’

  ‘I told you, Roman Zboinski. The Hook, they call me, and now you know why. You were going to talk to the police, yes? To the homicide squad and the fraud squad, and you were going to tell them all about me, weren’t you? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were going to frame me for that Kaminski murder.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Dlubak panted. His face was crimson and he could scarcely breathe.

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Zboinski. ‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Let’s see if I can jog your memory.’

  With that – and with no hesitation at all – Zboinski forced the point of his baling-hook deep into the opening of Dlubak’s penis, twisted it around, and pulled it upward as hard as he could. Dlubak let out a falsetto shriek, and tried to wrench himself free, but the other men were far too strong for him. His penis was stretched out like a burst plum on the end of a string.

  ‘I’ll tell, I’ll tell!’ Dlubak screamed.

  ‘Are you sure? I’m just beginning to enjoy myself.’

  ‘I’ll tell! For God’s sake, I’ll tell!’

  Zboinski gave one last twist of his hook and then let Dlubak free. Dlubak rolled over onto his side, his hands clutched between his legs, sobbing deep asthmatic sobs.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Zboinski. ‘Let’s get down to business. How about some vodka, Mr Dlubak? Business is always more pleasant with a little vodka, don’t you think?’

  9

  When Sarah left her apartment just after 9:30 the following morning, she was surprised to find Komisarz Rej waiting for her in the large, mosaic-tiled vestibule. Outside, it was raining, and the day was unseasonably dark. Rej had obviously been waiting for some time, because the vestibule was filled with smoke and there were three crushed cigarette butts around his feet.

  ‘Good morning, comrade,’ she teased him. ‘I thought you were off the case.’

  ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘But that hasn’t stopped me from being curious.’

  ‘What are you curious about now?’

  ‘I’m curious that my deputy went to Vistula Kredytowy yesterday afternoon to interview one of the people concerned with Senate’s accounts; and that this person didn’t show up for the interview, and still hasn’t shown up.’

  Sarah gave him a long, steady look, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t like the implications of this.

  ‘The person’s name was Antoni Dlubak,’ said Rej. ‘He was last seen at 12:45 or thereabouts, leaving the bank with a packet of sandwiches. He didn’t return to his apartment last night and so far this morning he hasn’t turned up for work.’

  ‘Maybe he’s sick.’

  ‘People who are sick usually stay at home.’

  ‘Maybe he had an accident.’

  ‘He hasn’t been admitted to any Warsaw hospital.’

  ‘Well, how should I know what’s happened to him?’

  Rej gave her a shrug and a smile. ‘I told you, Ms Leonard. I’m just curious.’

  Sarah glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, komisarz. I’m running late already.’

  She pushed her way through the revolving doors onto the street. There was very little wind but the clouds were low and the rain was coming down in a fine, persistent drizzle. Sarah put up her umbrella and started to walk towards the Central Station and the Marriott Hotel. Traffic drove noisily up and down Jerozolimskie Avenue, taxis with windscreen wipers flapping, red-and-white buses with steamed-up windows.

  Rej caught up with her, his collar turned up. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m not trying to suggest that anybody in your company had anything to do with Dlubak’s disappearance, but he’s the second person connected with Senate to go missing in a week.’

  ‘You don’t know for sure that he’s dead.’

  ‘I don’t know that he’s alive, either. And it’s the only connection I’ve got.’

  Sarah stopped. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you if you help me. I’ve brought in a police detective from Chicago, an old friend of my father’s, to try to find the Executioner.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do? You couldn’t catch him, could you? And what have you got to complain about? You’re not supposed to be handling the case any more.’

  Rej raked his hand through his wiry white hair. ‘Do you know something, Ms Leonard? You have the capacity for making me feel about fifteen years old.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself. You look more like fifty. Now – do you want to come and talk to this detective or not? His name’s Clayton Marsh and according to my father he’s one of the best there is.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to lose, do I?’

  They walked the rest of the way to the Marriott. Sarah didn’t offer to share her umbrella with him: she was wearing her new black Armani suit and she didn’t want to get it wet. Rej had to hunch his shoulders and clasp his upturned lapels close to his throat, and occasionally duck his head to one side to avoid being jabbed by her umbrella spokes.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ Sarah asked him.

  ‘Officially I’m supposed to be sitting at home contemplating my navel. But they’ve put a guy called Witold Jarczyk on the case, and he’s about as much use as a bloodhound with a blocked-up nose. It’s all politics in the police these days... even worse than it used to be. I used to think that politics didn’t matter, that the only important thing was catching criminals. When everything changed, I was outmanoeuvred.’

  ‘You don’t regret the changes, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some things are better. But cheeseburgers don’t make a revolution. You have to change people’s hearts... and that can take a whole generation.’

  They reached the Marriott and went inside. Rej brushed drizzle off his coat and wiped his face with a greyish handkerc
hief. Clayton was waiting for them in the cocktail bar, drinking coffee. He was dressed in a brown leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots. He stood up and gave Sarah a hug, and then gave Rej the hardest handshake that he had ever experienced in his life.

  ‘I brought Komisarz Rej along with me,’ Sarah explained. ‘He tells me that somebody from the Vistula Kredytowy bank has gone missing... the man they were supposed to be interviewing about the money-laundering.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rej. ‘Maybe he’ll show up, safe and well. But if he doesn’t... well, there could be some connection.’

  Clayton said, ‘I’ll tell you what interests me, my friend, much more than this bank-fraud business, and that is the strength of this Executioner character. I’ve been reading the papers, and you said yourself when he whopped that finger off you that he was travelling so fast along that sewer pipe that you were lucky to get out of there alive... even though your colleagues were pulling you with a rope. Now, who can travel at any speed along a narrow pipe like that unless they have phenomenal training and phenomenal strength? And look at that poor Zborowska girl... he dragged her whole arm through a mail-slot? Not to mention those German labourers he turned into short ribs.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Sarah.

  Clayton laid a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, but I think this is one of the most important lines of investigation. I don’t think we’re going to establish a connection between any of these murder victims by trying to find out why they were killed. First of all we have to find out what killed them.’

  ‘You don’t think it was a man?’ asked Rej.

  ‘I’m not saying that. Maybe it was a man and maybe it wasn’t a man. If it was a man, I’d sure like to know what kind of a man he is; and if he isn’t, then I’d sure like to know what kind of a creature he is.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean by “creature”? All of the victims had their heads cut off with a large metal blade... a creature wouldn’t use a knife.’

  Clayton turned to Sarah. ‘Your man Brzezicki thinks that it’s a devil, doesn’t he?’