Entanglement. Part 24

"Father Jerzy Popieuszko."

"Exactly." The shocking murder of the priest by the secret police was world famous.

"Are you trying to say Sosnowski was murdered by the secret police? Why?"

Wenzel shrugged.

"Either to subdue his parents, or they made a mistake. Things like that did happen. I'll tell you briefly whose corns you've trodden on, so you know what we're talking about. I'm sure you've got a rough idea of their operational chart - Department III for the opposition, Department IV for the Church, subject surveillance, moulding personal sources of information, central card index, filing system and so on?"

Szacki said he did.

"People think it was a sort of militia bureaucracy, and that all those SB-men, like the lieutenant played by Kowalewski in Monitored Conversations were just dim-witted functionaries who gathered non-essential information. Incidentally, I can't stand Bareja. And I don't like Chciski for Conversations either," he said, referring to the film-makers who had sent up the Communist era.

"Because?"

"Because it's all lies. Lies that are nice and convenient for those sons of b.i.t.c.hes. And that will continue to be for all time. Lies that make people believe Communist Poland was this wacky country, where life may not have been easy, but at least it was funny and we all had a jolly good time."

"Wasn't it a bit like that?" Personally Szacki adored Bareja's films.

The historian sighed and looked at him as if planning to throw him out.

"Ask Kamil Sosnowski. Do you really think he was the only victim? Why doesn't anyone b.l.o.o.d.y well want to understand what the People's Republic of Poland was really like? It was a totalitarian system relying on the repression and persecution of its citizens, using all sorts of means, where those with the most to say - however pathetic it sounded - belonged to the apparatus of terror, in other words the omnipresent services, keeping an eye on almost everybody and ready to react at any moment. f.u.c.k it all," - Wenzel was plainly furious - "can't you see that they want you to keep believing in films like Teddy Bear and Brunet Will Call? It's not surprising. There's nothing there about prisons, accidents and disappearances. There's no Division III, no blackmail or traitors. There's no Department 'D'."

"I'm sorry," said Szacki humbly. "I was seventeen in 1989."

"And I was eighteen. So what? Does that let you off knowing history? Allow you to reduce your childhood and your parents' lives to a silly satire full of jokes about sausages? Congratulations. Go and buy a pound of frankfurters and put them on Jacek Kuro's grave. Let him have a laugh." The late Solidarity leader had spent plenty of time in prison for his brave stance against the Communist regime.

"I'm extremely sorry," muttered Szacki, "but I don't work at the Inst.i.tute for National Remembrance. I don't find out about secret-police crimes every day. And if I come to find out, instead of receiving information I get f.u.c.ked. If you want me to leave, just tell me. If you don't, then explain what you know. But leave the rest of it out."

Wenzel frowned and ruffled his hair.

"'D', or disinformation and disintegration. It was the most well-camouflaged structure within the Ministry of Internal Affairs - they called themselves 'a conspiracy within a conspiracy'. It existed both centrally and regionally, as section 'D'. Those were the guys who did the dirty work. Their activities involved spreading rumours, setting the opposition against each other and slander. Blackmail, kidnapping, beating people up, also murder. I know you've never heard of it, but their existence is logical. Can you believe in an apparatus of terror that stops at just gathering reports and statements from its collaborators? Well, quite."

Teodor Szacki had never thought about it. Bah, he'd never heard of anyone who would consider it. But he had to admit it all sounded credible. He asked what the SB hitmen - who in spite of everything must surely have come into play as a last resort - could want of a young student.

"As I've already said: his parents or a mistake. What did his parents do?"

"That's strange too," muttered Szacki. "I have no idea. It was an intelligentsia family, they may have been lawyers or doctors. I haven't managed to find them yet, they've vanished. I do have some fanciful suspicions, but most probably they took the younger daughter and went abroad with her. That's the best thing they could have done in the circ.u.mstances."

"Surely. In any case you have to know that the people working for the Reds weren't cretins. An open attack, as in the case of Father Popieuszko, meant a scandal, a trial, a storm in the West. But if someone's mother were suddenly murdered during a robbery - that's how Aniela Piesiewicz died, the mother of the Solidarity lawyer - well, accidents can happen. If someone's child went missing or had an unfortunate accident, someone's wife got killed in a fire at their flat - what bad luck. But the people who were meant to interpret the message certainly understood it. Do you know when Krzysztof Piesiewicz's mother was murdered?"

"Well?"

"On the twenty-second of July, the anniversary of the official founding of the Polish People's Republic. Do you think that's a coincidence? Some aspects of these murders - such as the way someone was tied up, or an important date - were like the Red killers' signature. When did they kill this Sosnowski of yours?"

"The seventeenth of September."

"Well, exactly - the Soviet invasion. Any more questions?"

Szacki felt his mouth go dry. He asked for a gla.s.s of water.

"Twice you've repeated that it couldn't be a coincidence. Did that really used to happen?"

"Yes. Unfortunately. Don't forget, the officers didn't go 'on the job'. Sometimes common criminals were hired through various intermediaries so they wouldn't dirty their own hands. And a thug's a thug. He could have read the address wrong, or got the flats mixed up, or the officers identified the case wrongly and sent him where they shouldn't. We have doc.u.mented examples of such cases. Shocking. All the more shocking considering the fact that the people fighting, and their families too, knew they were taking a risk. And the others had nothing to do with it - they just led nice, peaceful lives. But it also means that in the totalitarian era no one could live in peace. And that abandoning the fight, sticking your head in the sand did not justify or protect you."

Teodor Szacki was mentally arranging the information he had gained. He could suppose Sosnowski had been murdered by the SB. Maybe because of his parents' activities, which he had no idea about. The date of his murder was lucky for Telak. Why? Was he somehow mixed up in the murder? Or maybe he had profited from that death? The prosecutor asked Wenzel about that.

"Where did this Telak work?"

"He was the director of a printing firm with the musical name of Polgrafex. Quite a prosperous company - we found out he put aside a large sum and was insured for not much less."

Wenzel started to laugh.

"Do you know who owns Polgrafex?"

Szacki said no.

"Polish Gambling Enterprises. They may be known to you for having a virtual monopoly on running casinos in Poland. Or for the fact that no prosecutor or tax inspector is capable of getting at their a.r.s.es. Or for the fact that they're riddled with former functionaries. If you've been wondering whether Telak was mixed up in the Communist secret services, you can stop. He must have been. The question is, was he also mixed up in the boy's murder. And if that's why he's now been murdered. But I can't help you there. I can try to check if he was an SB agent in the 1980s, but if he worked in 'D' I'm sure it'll all have been beautifully cleaned up."

"Destroyed?"

"You're joking - things like that are never destroyed. They're lying in a safe in some villa in Konstancin." The smart suburb had a reputation as home to the richest profiteers from the old regime.

Szacki asked if he could smoke. He could, but outside. He went onto a narrow balcony. It was muggy and there was absolutely no wind, so everything seemed sticky. The sky was filling with inky clouds, and he hoped there would be a proper storm at last. Everyone was longing for it. He felt calm now. With every thought, the next piece jumped into place, and two colours were already complete in his Rubik's cube. Truth to tell, lots of the joined-together pieces were his a.s.sumptions, not circ.u.mstantial evidence, not to mention hard proof and facts, but even so he felt as if this case wasn't going to be shelved, marked "perpetrator unknown". There was something else he had to ask Wenzel.

"They've been asking about me already," he said when he returned to the sofa.

Wenzel smacked his lips.

"That was foreseeable. I think they'll have had their eye on you ever since they found out you'd be conducting the inquiry. Now they want to get close, so they can strike like lightning if anything happens."

"How much do they know?"

"Best to suppose they know everything. Even if you're wrong, it's insignificant."

Szacki nodded. Christ Almighty, he still couldn't believe it was really happening.

"Who are 'they'?" he asked.

"Good question. I know a lot about them, but it's still not much. Have you read The Odessa File by Frederick Forsyth?"

He said yes.

"So you know that 'Odessa' was a society of former SS officers, who after the war set up a secret organization in support of their former comrades-in-arms. Money, jobs, business, help with hiding, laying false trails, new ident.i.ties, sometimes rubbing out people who guessed too much. Or people who were too keen on exposing the truth. And although I know many people might find this a.n.a.logy dramatic, we've got our own, let's call it 'OdeSB' too. Maybe even far better functioning than 'Odessa'. Our officers didn't have to run away to Argentina, they've never really been hunted, and various timid inquiries have been nipped in the bud. We didn't even manage to lock up the people who gave the orders for Popieuszko's murder, not to mention the hundreds - who knows, if not thousands - of lesser cases. Just think: a superbly organized network, lots of information including dirt on almost everyone, files pulled out at the right moment, big money - both from the pre-war past and from the jump to state owners.h.i.+p when the Communists took over, as well as sixteen years of successfully run business activity since 1989. You know what word is used to define that sort of organization."

"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 f.u.c.king SB-hunter. No one supports me and my research is ignored. I'm not surprised. The Inst.i.tute 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 f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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."

II.

At work he started by making an appointment with Dr Jeremiasz Wrobel 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 Wrobel, 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 urawia 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.

III.

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 a.s.semble 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."