Chyłka and Oryński looked at the Grey-Haired Man with some satisfaction. As he approached the entrance gate, he looked as if he was about to collapse from shock. Truth be told, he deserved a far worse death.
They had thrown them out of the off-road vehicle near the Vistula, somewhere between Bielany and Żoliborz. Even before they shook the dirt off their clothes, both had promised themselves and each other that they would not let the matter rest.
Once they had managed to wriggle their hands free from the bindings, Chyłka reached for her telephone. She handed it to Kordian, as if she wanted to show him something. He looked at the display: Eiffel Tower wallpaper. It took him a while to spot the Endomondo icon.
Almost every fitness enthusiast knew about the Endomondo app. It counted your calories, measured your heart rate, organised your workouts and monitored your progress. It also tracked your walking, running or cycling routes via GPS.
He had no idea when she had switched the app on, or how much she had managed to track. Before he could check, Joanna snatched the phone from him. Oryński noticed a characteristic expression on her face: she was exhausted, but there was a flash of triumph in her eyes.
When she handed the phone to him again, he noted that she had set the program for cycling, although the speed sometimes reached 120 kilometres an hour, which would have made training redundant. The route was very precisely marked, from El Popo to a point somewhere in the River Narew basin to the north of Warsaw, with a different route leading back to the capital. It meant that Joanna must have switched the app on just before they left the restaurant, probably when she went to the ladies. The route ended at a point on a path that ran under General Stefan Grot Rowecki Bridge.
Chyłka brushed the earth off her clothes and phoned McVay. The bodyguard they had left at the restaurant arrived no more than a dozen or so minutes later.
Now, as they were sitting in the X5 outside the home of the Grey-Haired Man, Oryński felt on top of the world.
‘Chyłka.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not happy.’
‘What?’ muttered Joanna.
‘I can’t say I’m relishing this.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Zordon?’
He looked at her and frowned. ‘It’d be a gross understatement. I feel like the scourge of God, like the angel of death,’ he said. ‘Like the sword of Damocles that has just slashed the throat of the Grey-Haired Man, Like . . .’
Chyłka glared at him, so he fell silent.
They watched the police officers, who looked like crazed predators baying for blood.
Kordian and Joanna had had no difficulty arranging for the police to come here. Joanna had devised a plan that guaranteed they would. First, she had asked McVay to phone any prosecutors he knew who might be interested in their case. None of them were particularly inclined to talk about grey-haired gangsters operating to the north of Warsaw, until one of the Englishman’s old acquaintances confirmed that ‘a son-of-a-bitch of that description could be of great interest to the district prosecutor’s office in Ostrołęka’. She knew very little about it, other than that he was wanted for a number of offences but there was not enough concrete evidence to convict him. He was also suspected of being involved in an organised crime gang, which did not surprise the two lawyers in the least.
Next, Chyłka and Oryński filed a report with the police, and then it was only a matter of bringing in the prosecutor’s office. Their report mentioned criminal threats, persistent harassment, intimidation and physical coercion involving use of violence. Taking all these into account, the Grey-Haired Man could face seven years in prison – which bore no relation to what he really deserved.
For the moment, however, all that mattered was to get him handcuffed and into a police car.
Sitting in the BMW, the two lawyers exchanged glances then simultaneously opened the doors. They saw the man in question, with his bodyguards, walking confidently towards the gate. He would probably pretend to be shaken, shocked and disgusted that the police were at his front door.
To some extent, this wasn’t surprising. It was certainly unexpected: to get the police cars to come to this estate close to the confluence of the Bug and Narew rivers had required calling in a raft of past favours, and involved tactical methods which could be perceived as manipulation. Not everything was done in good faith. This was part of Chyłka’s plan, which, if you asked her, was ‘bloody good’.
If the police officers didn’t foul up, everyone would be happy. Everyone except the Grey-Haired Man.
‘Can you see his face?’ asked Oryński when he had got out of the car. He didn’t close the door but rested one arm on it and the other on the car roof.
‘I’d rather not look,’ replied Joanna. ‘Once you look into the eyes of the devil, you’ll never be the same.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m joking, come on,’ she said, closing the door. She walked over to the gate, which remained firmly shut. Clearly the Grey-Haired Man intended to talk to the police from behind a metal barrier. He stopped just in front of it and put his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like a troubled homeowner looking for an officer in charge to whom he could complain. He looked at the gathering of people and waited.
Oryński could not see his face clearly from behind the metal grating, but he imagined a theatrical grimace of disapproval. He imagined the Grey-Haired Man had a convict’s face, a habitual criminal who had done time more than once.
‘Are you coming?’ asked Joanna, looking at her companion leaning on the car. ‘Or are you going to hang there like bird shit on a cornice?’
‘I’m coming,’ he replied, then shut the door and headed towards the gate.
One of the policemen stepped forward, and the Grey-Haired Man focused all his attention on him.
Outwardly, their arguments had seemed strong, but in reality, the lawyers had no concrete evidence. Langer had been roughed up by fellow prisoners in the exercise yard, Kormak only suspected that he was being followed, and Chyłka’s brother-in-law was unable to identify any of his attackers.
The police had nothing much to go on, although they weren’t aware of it yet.
‘Good morning,’ said the officer as he approached the gate.
The badge on his chest and the markings on the epaulettes told the Grey-Haired Man that he was dealing with Staff Warrant Officer Szczerbiński.
‘I don’t understand this intrusion,’ said the Grey-Haired Man before the police officer could introduce himself. ‘I do not understand the purpose, the reason, or what you could possibly wish to gain from this. Is this Poland or Bangladesh? Do you have a—’
‘Warrant?’ asked the warrant officer, pulling out a document signed by a public prosecutor. ‘We are authorised to search these premises and secure any items for the purpose of collecting evidence in ongoing proceedings.’ The warrant officer handed the piece of paper to the Grey-Haired Man, who pored over the text. ‘We are authorised to carry out this search with or without your consent. A report will be made and a list of items confiscated will be given to you after the event. This will also tell you where and how to make a complaint should you wish to do so.’
The officer recited this in a single breath, while the Grey-Haired Man rued his decision to drink wine with a doctor rather than a lawyer.
‘Who ordered this?’
‘The order was issued by the Head of Police and signed by the prosecutor.’
Oryński was standing close enough to hear this exchange. He still couldn’t see the expression on the Grey-Haired Man’s face, but suspected he had turned pale. If he was the criminal they suspected he was, there would be plenty of items on the premises that would be like a red rag to a bull for the prosecution service.
And that was what they were counting on, and why they had dragged all these police officers here. They had no evidence, but they intended to acquire some.
The gangster sighed melodramatically, then folded the paper and looked up.
‘It appears that your superior is doing this as a favour to someone,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I know those people,’ said the Grey-Haired Man, pointing to the two lawyers from Żelazny & McVay. ‘I had a disagreement with them because of their modus operandi. They represent some truly reprehensible characters. Once they defended someone who famously told the most perfidious untruths about me. I tried to settle the dispute amicably, out of court, but that woman wouldn’t relent.’ He pointed his finger at Joanna, and drew breath to indicate that he had more to say. ‘Recently I learned that these people are defending Piotr Langer. The murderer who took the lives of two young people in an exceptionally brutal fashion and defiled their bodies . . .’
‘Please open the gate,’ interrupted the policemen.
‘I also know that these two are planning to frame me, to set me up in some sort of game they’re playing,’ continued the Grey-Haired Man. ‘I didn’t realise at the time what it was all about, because after all, that monster Langer has been sentenced and is in prison. However, when I heard that they were planning to manipulate the next stage of the legal proceedings, I knew that I would be the main reason they give for filing a cassation appeal.’
‘I’m going to ask you once more before I take action,’ warned Szczerbiński. ‘You have read the search warrant which authorises us to enter your premises. Please open the gate.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the Grey-Haired Man, and paused. He gave the impression that it had only just dawned on him how serious the situation was. He nodded to Gorzym, who pulled a small remote control out of his pocket and pressed the middle button. The gate swayed and began to slide apart.
Kordian had imagined they would go in all guns blazing; the bodyguards would give way and the police would pour like locusts into the Grey-Haired Man’s estate, pistols in hand, ready to shoot. But the reality was somewhat different: they entered quietly and calmly.
Nonetheless, it was enjoyable to watch. Szczerbiński’s team set about comprehensively searching the property, while the warrant officer was stopped by the Grey-Haired Man, who stood in his way and had no intention of letting him pass until he had answered all his niggling questions.
‘Are you allowed to intrude on law-abiding citizens for no reason?’ he began.
‘You’re holding the reason in your hand,’ answered Szczerbiński. He held out his hand for the warrant, and the Grey-Haired Man obediently gave it back to him.
‘That’s not a reason,’ he protested. ‘That’s the effect. I want to know the cause.’
‘You know very well,’ replied the warrant officer.
Now that the Grey-Haired Man had let them in, Szczerbiński had no intention of keeping up the pretence. Admittedly, they could have got in without the owner’s permission, but that could have given them any number of problems: there were decidedly more bodyguards than policemen. The warrant officer nodded to the host and tried to move on, but the host grabbed him by the wrist.
Szczerbiński automatically reached for his holster. Inside it was an old P-64, more like a peashooter than a lethal weapon. Recently, faulty endcaps had resulted in a nationwide recall of police service Walther pistols and instead officers were issued with old P-64s, which had previously been used by the communist militia.
Still, it was good to have anything in the holster, it gave a sense of security. Szczerbiński knew full well he was dealing with organised crime. A massive mansion off the beaten track, in the middle of nowhere, bodyguards dressed in suits and an owner who modelled himself on Tony Soprano. There was probably at least one corpse buried in that garden.
‘Let go of my wrist,’ said Szczerbiński calmly.
‘Sorry,’ said the host, and did as he was told, raising his hands in apology. One of the other police officers saw what was happening, but when he was sure that Szczerbiński was in no immediate danger, continued searching.
‘Am I under suspicion? Are you carrying out an investigation?’
‘It’s procedure,’ replied the warrant officer. ‘You can get all the details from the police station. They’ll be happy to talk to you and listen to what you have to say. I am here only to search for and secure evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’
The policeman handed the Grey-Haired Man the warrant again. Then he walked past him and headed towards the house, instructing everyone else to stay outside.
The Grey-Haired Man swore angrily under his breath, looking at the two lawyers standing just behind the gate. A stupid slip-up somewhere on the way had allowed them to locate his residence. But how had they done it? And who had slipped up? Everything was secure at his end. Besides, even if they had managed to locate him, how did they get the police on their side? None of the evidence linked the Grey-Haired Man with any crime. There were no grounds for the police to visit at all, let alone with a search warrant. The Grey-Haired Man looked at Gorzym. It must have been him. But while there were many things you could say about Gorzym, he was not reckless. He knew very well that a mistake could cost him his life.
He stopped his musings and beckoned the two lawyers to come closer. ‘Come in!’ he called. ‘You know the way.’
Kordian scrutinised the gangster’s face. He expected to see a face marked by sin and transgression, but the Grey-Haired Man looked like a pretty average fifty-year-old, notable only for his dense, but evenly trimmed, beard.
Seeing that the lawyers had no intention of moving, the host headed towards them. On the way he glanced over his shoulder at the policemen, with an expression of pity.
He stopped a metre away from Chyłka and Oryński, and began to applaud quietly.
‘Bravo, bravo, bravissimo,’ he said. ‘How did you pull it off?’
‘You’ll find out in court, slime ball,’ said Joanna, and took a step towards him.
‘I’m only going to the public section in court to see the fiasco your pseudo legal exploits have unleashed,’ he replied. ‘I suppose one of your partners cashed in some favours, hence the police. But we all know you have nothing on me.’
‘Keep your pearls of wisdom to yourself,’ advised Chyłka.
The host smiled. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So it was Gorzym, after all. Camera?’
‘Yes, not far from the Palace of Culture and Science,’ said Oryński. ‘It recorded your orangutan sitting down next to me on the bench, and taking the cassation appeal documents away.’
‘I doubt very much that he would threaten you in public. There’s nothing on those recordings.’
‘You’re right, there’s nothing to show that I was physically threatened,’ conceded Kordian. ‘But that doesn’t matter. Your lawyer will argue that I handed over the cassation appeal papers voluntarily, but the hospital documents will provide evidence that I was intimidated.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It would be nonsense if not for the fact that Chyłka and I were kidnapped,’ replied Oryński. ‘You’re about to get your comeuppance.’
He looked into his eyes, but saw only indifference.
‘Really?’ asked the Grey-Haired Man. ‘And what about the evidence?’
He didn’t get an answer to his question because suddenly everyone’s attention was drawn to a Ford transit van that had pulled up nearby. From it emerged several people who looked like fitters, technicians or plumbers.
‘Our specialist team,’ said Joanna with a smile. ‘Apparently, after examining our wet clothes, they can determine whether the water came from your pond. Collecting samples will only take a little while.’
‘What is the m—’
The Grey-Haired Man broke off, feeling his heart race, and the skin beginning to burn all over his body. This was bad. First Gorzym, now this. And if they managed to join all the dots, the problems it would cause him were quite significant. Admittedly, all the evidence was circumstantial, but all in all, the not inconsiderable human resources available to Żelazny & McVay would make full use of it.
‘Are we off?’ said Joanna.
Kordian looked at her as if he needed to give the matter serious thought, and then nodded. They waved carelessly to the Grey-Haired Man and got into the X5. It was a wonderful feeling, seeing the expression on his face. He stood in the gateway, gazing at the car, still with his hands behind his back. He looked defeated, though only for a moment. Once the initial shock passed, his fighting spirit would return with a vengeance.
‘Do you think anything will come of it?’ asked Oryński as Joanna was reversing on to the dirt road. ‘Will they find anything?’
‘No,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘They will search and search, and then people will gather to say that valuable police resources are being wasted tilting at windmills.’
‘That much I know.’
‘So why are you asking?’
‘I mean the less formal part of our undertaking,’ said Kordian, as Chyłka stopped the car on the country lane at the edge of the forest. She sounded the horn twice. From behind the trees came the figure of a man, who opened the back door and jumped into the car.
‘Ah, now that’s a completely different kettle of fish,’ replied Joanna with satisfaction.
‘What’s a different kettle of fish?’ asked Kormak, placing the rucksack on the seat beside him.