A Blind Eye: Book 1 in the Adam Kaminski Mystery Series (27 page)

W
ith a satisfied
grunt
, his editor handed the article back to Łukasz. “Okay. Now it’s okay.”

Łukasz grabbed it and ran out of the office, not even waiting to thank him. It had taken him hours, precious hours, to get the man’s approval, and he was ready to tear somebody’s head off.

He had written the article quickly, drawing heavily from the records Adam had stolen from the national archives. Saved, not stolen, Łukasz reminded himself. Saved, not stolen. He filled in more blanks with the information unearthed in the hospital records and the newspaper archives, drawing connections between Malak’s past as an informer and his present involvement with Wilenek, formerly of the secret police.

His editor was not so open-minded about it. “We cannot publish anything we cannot verify. Publicly. Period.” He tossed the first draft back at Łukasz with a snort. “What is this? Gossip, stolen records? We would be sued, and we would lose. No, we can’t publish this. Not about Tomek Malak.”

His final words were the only part of that rebuff that rang true for Łukasz. He knew his editor had taken risks before, published news that had only been verified through anonymous sources, relied on “gossip” as he now called it.

Not when writing about Tomek Malak. And that was the rub. The man was powerful. He was also well-liked. Any paper publishing such accusations about him would have to have solid, verified and verifiable sources. Łukasz had stolen medical records, borrowed archival records that he wasn’t even supposed to have.

So he watered it down. He left in only the bare facts that were supported by the written records, nothing more, then went back to his editor.

And again it was rejected. “Find a source,” his editor said. “Find someone who can back up what you’re saying.”

“The source is dead,” Łukasz responded through gritted teeth. “The source was my daughter, and Malak had her killed because she found out the truth.”

His editor looked up from his massive desk, a sheaf of papers in each hand. “I’m sorry, Łukasz. I really am.” He put the papers down. “I know you want to expose this guy. I need a story I can stand behind. You know that. You would know that if you weren’t letting your emotions get the better of you.” He looked at Łukasz, tired, unshaven, still wearing bandages from his recent accident. “You shouldn’t be the man writing this story, Łukasz. Give your notes to Michał. He’s a good man, a good journalist. He’ll write the story the way it should be written. He’ll get justice.”

“Not a chance,” Łukasz growled as he left the office yet again.

His editor watched him storm down the hall back to his own office and shook his head.

Thirty minutes later, Łukasz was back. “This is it. You can publish this. These.”

The editor held his hand out and Łukasz handed him one sheet. It listed the exact records that had been saved from the national archives, records that were almost destroyed. It quoted the records verbatim, listing dates and times that Tomek Malak was described as having met with Stefan Wilenek, a member of the secret police. The story added no further details, simply laid out the facts that could be researched. And that could be plumbed at length by other papers, other journalists, other politicians.

The editor nodded and handed it back to Łukasz. “This will work. You took out all mention of the murders.”

Łukasz said nothing, but handed over a second piece of paper.

The editor glanced at it. This one made no mention of Tomek Malak. It reported the findings from the stabbing on
Aleje Jerozolimskie
, findings that could be verified by medical records. It reproduced details from previous investigations, details easily available in the newspaper archives, details that drew links between the recent stabbing and past cases. Cases in which a former secret police agent, Stefan Wilenek, had been considered a suspect, but never convicted. It reported that the previous suspect, Adam Kaminski, was no longer considered a suspect by the police, who were now focusing their efforts on finding Wilenek.

It wasn’t the exposé Łukasz wanted to write, but it might be enough, he hoped. At least it gave fodder to Malak’s political opponents, enough that he would never succeed in a run for the presidency. Enough to raise questions about his past that could be difficult for him to answer. Enough to put pressure on the police to find Wilenek and determine if there really was a link between Malak and Wilenek. Enough. It would have to do.

The editor grunted and handed the sheets back to Łukasz. “Okay. Now it’s okay.”

Łukasz grabbed them and ran for the copy room. There was still time to make this morning’s paper edition as well as get them online.

A
dam watched
the river flowing by as he walked slowly along the brick path that lined the water’s edge. The water moved quickly, a green-brown swirling mass that had been flowing here since before Warsaw was built. This river had seen wars won and lost, dreams built and savaged. It had seen love and it had seen death.

An American jogged past and waved at Adam, perhaps recognizing a fellow American. Adam waved in response, then tucked his hand back into his pocket.

He had been wandering for over an hour, running thoughts over and over again in his mind. Sylvia hadn’t known, he reminded himself. She knew about Malak’s corruption, but not about his past. She had forgiven him his mistakes, without realizing he was making them all over again, just in a different way.

And she cared about Malak. He couldn’t hold that against her. She had listened to what Adam had told her, then had gone to see the man himself. Which is exactly what Adam needed to do. He needed Malak to clear his name, once and for all.

Turning to walk up a street that ran uphill back to the Old Town Square, Adam slipped on the damp pavement, just catching himself against a rough stone wall. He shivered at the thought of slipping into that cold, dark river. He thought of Basia and how her last moments must have been. Prayed to God she had never regained consciousness.

He passed a small store, recessed into one of the larger buildings and selling cigarettes, milk and chocolates. His eye fell on a newspaper piled against the door. The front page article had Łukasz’s byline.

Adam stooped to grab a copy of the paper, staring at it until his head ached. Much of it he couldn’t read, but he could understand the basics. The article had been written by Łukasz, and it was about Tomek Malak. That much was clear.

Adam tossed the paper back on the pile, ignoring the angry call from the shopkeeper, and switched directions. He turned toward
Ulica Wilcza
.

E
veryone
in the room was glaring except for Adam. And they were all glaring at him.

Adam smiled his most diplomatic smile and offered a small shrug. “It was just simple police work, that’s all. You would have gotten there eventually yourselves.” If you weren’t blinded by your own prejudices and ambitions, he thought to himself, looking around the unfriendly faces.

Warsaw’s Chief of Police, Janek Matuś, had come in from home and invited Officer Szczepański to join the hurriedly called meeting as a translator. Szczepański was not happy about this, not happy to have to admit that Adam had come to him first, seeking help, but that Szczepański had turned him away.

Szczepański translated Adam’s comment, but Adam wondered what else he had added in of his own thoughts, as Matuś frowned and glared at Adam again.

Sam Newman was smiling, the only one of the group. “This is good news, gentlemen, as surprising as it is.” He slapped the newspaper that lay on the table in front of them, causing Szczepański to start. “This reporter has done significant work, a good investigation. I don’t think we can doubt that this man” — Sam leaned forward to read the name from the paper — “Wilenek… Wilenek is the man you are looking for. Not Mr. Kaminski.”

Sam’s words made it clear how pleased he was that an American had been cleared of any wrongdoing. But something in his eyes, behind the smile and the grateful words, conveyed to Adam his great displeasure that Adam had ignored his warning.

Whatever Malak’s crimes, he had been helping the US government, Adam was sure. A man like that would have found a way to make it profitable. Looking for an easy payoff, he had probably been happy to sell information to anyone willing to pay for it. Some people never change.

Adam smiled happily back at Sam. “Thank you, Sam,” he said out loud, “for your support.”

“How can we pursue this Wilenek without also compromising the legacy of Tomek Malak?” Matuś’ bushy eyebrows were knotted together over worried eyes. “He said he was innocent, his dying declaration. That is what the people will believe. They loved Malak and everything he stood for.”

Malak had almost made it to the hospital, but not quite. He had died in the ambulance, declared dead on arrival by the doctors anxiously waiting for him. Before he had breathed his last, he had also made his last confession. And his last lie.

The police officer who had traveled with him, noting everything he had said, once more glanced through his notebook. “He was very clear, sir.” Szczepański translated for Adam’s benefit, still looking unhappy about his role, “Wilenek attacked Malak. Stabbed him. Malak didn’t know why, he assumed Wilenek was crazy.”

Matuś harrumphed. “Crazy, yes. But smart. He killed for money, we cannot doubt this. Which means someone paid him.” He looked one more time at Adam. “And you are telling us that Malak was that man. That Malak paid Wilenek. To hide his past.”

“His past is public information now, sir, you can read about it yourself in the files from the secret police,” Adam pointed out. “I’m only saying what everyone will soon know.”

“To kill a man — that is a big step,
Pan
Kaminski. If we start to investigate Malak’s involvement, the people will rise up. They will not let us blacken his memory like that.”

“Perhaps you will not need to dig too deeply,” Sam suggested, looking at Adam. “Perhaps it will be enough to expose his past, his role as an informant. Let the people make their own decision.”

Matuś stood and starting buttoning his coat. “We will find Wilenek. That, I promise you. We will find this killer, and we will deal with him as he deserves. And perhaps the truth will come out.” He stopped and leaned over the table, looking Adam right in the eye.

“We will do what we have to do, sir, to bring this killer to justice. And the man who hired him. But make no mistake, this will not be easy. Malak did so much for Warsaw. For Poland. I am not happy about this,
Pan
Kaminski.”

“When the truth comes out, sir, things will change. Łukasz has already published some of it, but more will come out. About the people he hurt, the people he turned on. Once that is out, the people will change their opinion. Public opinion is fickle, if nothing else.”

Matuś glared at him one more time. Nodding to Sam Newman and Szczepański, he left the room.

G
olden stones
,
cold steel and warm red bricks caught the late afternoon light, a glowing panorama of historic buildings and modern structures arching into the distance. The view from the Łazienkowski Bridge was breathtaking. It was a place Adam wouldn’t have come to without good reason and he was grateful for the opportunity to experience it.

This was a city of hope, a city looking toward the future. A city built by people bolstered by their past.

He expressed his appreciation for Warsaw’s beauty to Łukasz, who nodded. “Basia felt the same way, you know?” He looked out over the city skyline from where they stood, halfway across the Wisła river. “She loved this country, but she also loved this city and everything it stands for.”

Tears flowed freely down Łukasz’s cheeks, and Adam turned away to give him some privacy. He looked down at the black waters swirling below them, tightening his grip on the railing as he did so.

Both men carried lilies, the flower of sadness, the flower of death. The scent Adam could never escape.

Adam waited quietly until his companion had composed himself. He spoke again. “Basia sounds like she was an exceptional young woman, Łukasz. I wish I could have met her.”

“I, too, cousin.” He smiled. “I think she would have liked you. You have much in common. Your curiosity, your strength, your determination.”

“She got those from you, I’m fairly certain.” Adam put his arm around his cousin’s shoulder. “And she lives on through you. Through your memory. And your actions.”

Łukasz nodded again, then shut his eyes.

“To Basia,” he said quietly, dropping the single flower toward the water.

Adam watched as it fluttered gently toward the tumultuous surface before he let go of his own. “To Basia.”

The flowers landed on the water, twirled for a few moments, caught in the eddies that flowed along the surface of the water, then slowly sank, pulled down into the deeper currents.

“I have to leave tomorrow, cousin.” Adam finally spoke. “I’m going home, back to Philadelphia.”

Łukasz looked at him. “I am glad you were here, Adam. I thank you. And Basia thanks you, I know she does.”

Adam smiled. “You’ll be okay, cousin. I’m sure you will. You’ve made quite a name for yourself with this story — again. What will you do now?”

Łukasz shrugged. “Who knows? Keep writing, I assume. There are others, you know, like Malak. Others who have lied about their past, who have tried to profit off the suffering of others. I have been contacted by some publishers who would like me to write a book about Basia and her death.”

“Would you do that? Would you want to revisit it?”

Łukasz looked out over the water, taking a deep breath of the crisp winter air, heavy with the sweet smell of the birch trees and winter grasses growing along the banks. He smiled. “You know, I think I would. I think I would relish the opportunity to help expose more men like Malak.”

He turned to Adam. “And you, what does your future hold?”

Adam shrugged. “Back home. Back to work. And maybe…” Adam bit his lip. “Maybe I need to learn a little bit more about my own past. About my great-grandfather.”

“Do not be upset over those letters, cousin. As
Pani
Stanko said, they are just one perspective. The perspective I have been told since I was young, that is true.” He frowned and dipped his head. “But nothing about the past is certain. You have learned that while you were here, if nothing else.”

Adam smiled. Patted Łukasz on the shoulder. “Thank you for that reminder, cousin. You’re right, of course. I need to learn more before passing judgment. Before accepting anyone else’s version of the past.”

“Hmm…” Łukasz looked from Adam to the slowly darkening city, then back to Adam. “Then you have some more work ahead of you.”

Adam looked down at the river, watching the water fighting against itself, currents circling currents, never ending. Never stopping. He looked back at Łukasz. “What we’ve done here, it will help me. It will make me stronger. Make me a better cop. I’m sure of that. I know I make some bad choices sometimes… but not this time.” He looked at Łukasz. “I won’t forget you, cousin. We’ll stay in touch.”

“Of course we will, of course. But now,” he said, pulling his shoulders straighter, “now I am going to visit Basia. To tend to the flowers on her grave. Will you join me, cousin?” He turned to Adam.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Łukasz. Please know I will be thinking about Basia. I won’t forget her either. Will you forgive me for not joining you?”

Łukasz laughed. “Of course, cousin. I understand. I imagine you have plans tonight to see a different young woman?”

Adam smiled. “Good guess.”

“And we shall see what your future really holds for you.” Łukasz smiled as the two men turned to walk back along the bridge toward the center of Warsaw.

B
lue velvet curtains
curled around a track on the ceiling, trailing down to the floor, closing off the front door from the rest of the restaurant and blocking out the cold night outside.

Inside, a bright fire danced in a brick alcove on the side. Well-worn wooden tables filled the space with quiet conversations and the scent of garlic and butter.

A candle flickered gently on the table between them as Adam and Sylvia leaned toward each other. They were tucked into a corner of the restaurant, each sitting with their back to a wall, their hands touching over the corner of the table between them. A carved wooden panel rose gracefully to Sylvia’s left, cutting them off from the rest of the room, creating a private enclave for a quiet conversation.

Adam shifted to pick up his wine goblet, swirling the blood-red liquid and inhaling the bittersweet promises that rose as vapors from its surface. “I’m sorry that Malak hurt you, Sylvia, that he lied to you. I know how much you cared about him.”

Sylvia nodded and raised her eyebrows as if to agree with Adam, but made no sound beyond a soft sigh.

The coming days and weeks, perhaps months and years, would be difficult for Sylvia. She had tied her future to Malak’s, counting on him to lead the way. And now that career was lost to her.

She looked up at him over the tendrils of smoke rising from the candle. “I am sad for what Tomek did to me, but I am just as sad about what Poland has lost.” She smiled and shrugged. “He was a great leader, Adam. I know you don’t want to believe that, but he had good ideas. He had ways to make Warsaw richer, more successful, stronger. This would have been good for Warsaw and it would have been good for Poland. Don’t you see that?”

Adam shook his head. “All I see is that he was a thief, a liar and a killer, Sylvia.”

She frowned and opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed her lips tightly. After a moment she asked, “Have you found your absolution, Adam? Does stopping Tomek help you fight your own demons?”

Adam didn’t respond to her question. “How do you still see the good in him, Sylvia? I don’t understand. He was a killer. An informant…” Adam’s voice trailed off, his expression lost.

“Yes.” Sylvia nodded. “I see that now, too. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to believe it. Not about Tomek.”

A waiter came to clear away their dinner plates, and they paused in their conversation. When they had both declined dessert or coffee, Sylvia turned back to Adam.

“It’s not just the loss of this one man, though, you must understand.” Sylvia spoke urgently. “It is the loss of trust. Who can we count on now, when even our great leaders cannot be trusted to have Poland’s best interest at heart?”

“Malak was never a great leader, Sylvia.” Adam took her hand again. “Just an actor. And he had us all fooled.”

Sylvia frowned deeply, lines creasing her forehead and wrapping around her mouth. Adam knew she was fighting to keep the tears away and felt his heart breaking for her.

“He fooled me most of all.” Her voice was harsh, accusatory. She closed her eyes while she spoke. “How could I not have seen this, Adam? How could I not have seen him for what he was?”

“You knew he was a criminal, Sylvia, you told me yourself.”

She opened her eyes, the candlelight reflecting off the tears gathering in her perfect blue eyes. “Yes, a criminal, perhaps. But small crimes. Crimes that could hardly even count as corruption. And to what end? To bring lucrative business to Warsaw. To encourage new educational opportunities, new sources of renewable energy. These were not crimes. No, not what I knew.” Sylvia shook her head.

“They were crimes, Sylvia. You thought you knew all his crimes, so when you saw him lie, or suspected he had a secret, you assumed you knew what that secret was. So you turned a blind eye to it. You assumed you knew him, but you didn’t, did you?”

“I did not know him.” Sylvia’s voice was a whisper now. “You must believe me, Adam.” She took his hand and squeezed it between both of hers. “You must believe me.”

Adam looked at her and could see the worry in her eyes, her fears for the future and her need to have him believe her. “I do, Sylvia. I believe you.”

She smiled then, and Adam’s spirits lifted. It was as if their candle had grown brighter and the nearby fire merrier.

He put his other hand on top of hers, felt again the thrill of her touch. “I believe you.”

T
he plane’s
engines roared
,
warming up as the crew prepared for takeoff. Adam leaned forward slightly in his seat, peering around the henna-red curls of the woman to his left. She turned to smile at him, but his attention was on the tarmac outside the plane. And the clouds looming above.

The cloud cover looked heavy but white, the fluffy appearance of snow-laden clouds that was becoming more familiar to Adam now. Weather forecasters had assured their audience that morning the snow would come later in the day. Adam felt a little nervous taking off into what could be a serious storm and tried to draw comfort from the fact they would be in the air, high above the clouds before the first snow came.

In eight hours, he would be back in Philly. Back at home.

Noticing the red-headed woman still smiling at him, Adam smiled and nodded. Then he turned to the aisle seat on his right.

Sylvia looked up at him, a smile in her pale blue eyes. “Don’t be nervous,” she said to Adam, seeing the worry in his expression. “We will be fine. We will make it to Philadelphia without problems.”

He smiled back, drawing comfort from her confidence. What would his family say when he showed up back in Philly with Sylvia? His grandparents would be thrilled, he knew. They had told him enough times that he should find and marry a beautiful Polish girl.

And what would Pete think? Adam smiled to himself as he pictured Pete’s expression.

He glanced back out the window. The sun was fully up now, though the colors of the morning light still lingered in the shimmering clouds. As he watched, the clouds seemed to float down toward them. He knew it was just the plane leaving Warsaw.