For a while, the Grey-Haired Man had considered killing them. It wouldn’t have been particularly dangerous for him, as the trail would only lead to one of his people. The cassation appeal, however, complicated matters. The media would cotton on that the case was about something much more than the murder of two people in Mokotów. So they had to find a less drastic solution.
Magdalena Chyłka’s telephone was tapped. That was how he knew that right after the encounter with his people, she had phoned her sister. For half an hour she had complained that some thugs had attacked her husband on his way home from Lidl.
It wasn’t the most discreet way of telling people that they should know their place, and Chyłka and her trainee received the message loud and clear. The jokes were over.
The next day, the Grey-Haired Man was sitting in his Japanese garden, thinking about how he would soon taste the final victory. Seated next to him was Maciej Roske, a bottle of Clos Apalta, a dry wine made from the Carménère grape, open between them. As he drank, the subtle plum flavours began to irritate him. The producer had assured him that the wine’s fine tannins would suppress them.
Meanwhile, Roske was drinking very reluctantly. He couldn’t believe this bottle of battery acid had cost over four hundred zlotys.
‘Is that it then?’ asked the doctor, placing his glass on a small wicker table.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You threatened them . . . and that’s it?’
‘It depends on what they do. If they’ve finally realised that the cake’s not worth the candle, I don’t think I need to bother with them anymore.’
‘They won’t drop the case.’
‘I never expected them to,’ replied the Grey-Haired Man. ‘It would arouse suspicion in all the wrong places, and would probably alert the law enforcement agencies.’
‘So you’re hoping they’ll deliberately lose the case in court?’
‘They’ll most probably lose it anyway.’
‘So why go to all this trouble?’
‘I want to be certain that this will all end well.’
‘And do you think they’ll let it?’
‘Yes. They’ll lay down their arms the moment they realise the threat to their loved ones is real. If they haven’t already.’
The host broke off in midsentence because he noticed a bodyguard running towards the Japanese garden. It wasn’t normal for anyone to disturb his peace in this way. He rose from his wicker chair. Roske did the same.
‘Boss!’ yelled the bodyguard. ‘Pigs!’
The Grey-Haired Man looked at him in disbelief. There was no way the police, or any other investigative agency could have even picked up his trail, let alone tracked him all the way here.
‘It’s a raid, boss!’ said the bodyguard.
The host immediately thought about the previous day’s guests, but ruled out any connection. They had been blindfolded, they had changed cars and the off-road vehicle had weaved its labyrinthine way down local lanes and byways to make sure the lawyers would not be able to memorise the route. This was standard procedure, and so far, it had never failed.
‘How did this happen?’ asked Roske, his voice shaking. The bodyguard was unable to answer.
‘Four police cars,’ he said, barely able to catch his breath. ‘They’re at the entrance gate.’
The Grey-Haired Man headed in the direction indicated. He noticed several policemen, all clearly looking vexed. Gradually, he began to calm down. This was a coincidence, nothing more; no one could have found any clues leading to his home. He had always taken all the necessary precautions, used intermediaries and paid the right people. If one of his henchmen was arrested, the Grey-Haired Man looked after his family and made sure that the hapless henchman was looked after in prison by a warder, also paid off by him. There was no one who would have spilled the beans.
Yet now there were several police cars outside his entrance gate. He thought maybe one of his men had committed some offence and they had followed him; if so, no problem: he would offer a sacrifice to the god of blue lights, and there would be peace again.
But the blood drained from his face when behind the last police car, he saw a black BMW X5 with scratched paintwork.