A Blind Eye: Book 1 in the Adam Kaminski Mystery Series (8 page)

H
e let
the curtain drop back into place, hiding the view of the journalist and the police officer leaving the grounds together. Nothing to worry about yet, he tried to convince himself.

Yet.

There was no point in taking chances, though.

Stepping back to his desk to pick up the phone, he shivered, though his office was warm and comfortable. He paused with the phone in his hand. How had it come to this?

But he knew the answer. He could picture the very moment when he had realized he was no longer in control of the situation. Or of his life.

When he thought of it, he could still hear the peal of the church bells. To this day, the bells still scared him.

He had joined a group of fellow university students heading out to the five o’clock mass, so many years ago. He blended in with the noisy cluster scurrying across the grounds of Warsaw University toward the seventeenth-century cathedral that beckoned just beyond the campus border.

This had become a regular routine for him. As they passed through the arch that marked the main entrance to the campus, he let himself fall behind. Slowing his pace until he no longer walked within view of the group, he made a sharp right turn.

The rest of the students rushed forward to hopes of salvation. He headed in the opposite direction, almost jogging as he moved deeper into the darkening alley. He kept his eyes peeled for witnesses, turning occasionally to look behind him.

No one followed. He picked up his pace.

A few minutes’ walk past gray stone buildings brought him to a small storefront. Like other buildings he had passed, its walls were plastered with Soviet propaganda. They were simply a facade. Torn remnants of Solidarity signs still remained, words visible under the propaganda. The bulk of the rebellious signs had been torn down by the police, but at this point in the movement, even martial law hadn’t stopped the signs from reappearing.

Grimy windows exposed little of the building’s interior, though the smell of cooked cabbage permeated the air around it. The door of the establishment opened to release a customer. Waiting only for the cloud of smoke that escaped with the patron to subside, the student stepped inside.

Wading through air thick with smoke and dill-scented steam, he crossed the room and slid into a vacant seat. Wilenek looked up from his tea.

Dark eyes stared out from below cropped hair. A faint scar knitted the skin across one cheek and a crooked nose hinted at a violent past. Wilenek’s eyes seemed ageless, though the student knew the man was only a few years older than him.

Wilenek’s expression was as still as ever, giving nothing away, but he knew enough to be nervous. He shifted in his chair. Wilenek nodded and grunted out a few words.

Though brief, Wilenek’s words scared him into speaking, opening the floodgates of his memory, his observations. Wilenek lit a cigarette as he nodded, listening to the torrent of words. After twenty minutes of talking, Wilenek put up a hand. At the signal, he stopped talking.

In a fluid movement, Wilenek stood. Crossing the table on his way to the food counter, Wilenek patted him on the shoulder. It could have been the gesture of an older brother. The student cringed and ducked his head. Wilenek grunted again as he walked on. The man was short and stocky, but he was youthful and moved with the stealth and grace of a lion. Or a hunter.

On his return, Wilenek dropped an envelope onto the table as he put down his tray laden with soup, bread and kielbasa.

The student glanced up, then swept the envelope off the table and tucked it into his coat pocket. Keeping his hand on his pocket, he asked the question that had been burning within him for days. “What will you do with this information?”

The other man barely glanced up from his soup. “That’s none of your concern.” Wilenek’s accent was thick, Russian.

The student leaned forward, prepared to stand, but held his chair. “I’ve heard the rumors. People getting hurt because of this. Jakub was taken during the night, and no one’s heard from him. I didn’t bargain for that.”

Now the other man looked directly at him, and he shifted back in his seat. Wilenek spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

“That’s none of your concern.”

He had made his decision then. The side of angels or the side of devils.

He feared Wilenek — feared the man, feared what he stood for, who he worked with. He knew that lining up on the side of Wilenek and his kind would be a choice he could never back away from.

But he feared even more what would happen to him if he walked away from this connection. Away from the secret police. Away from the financial support they were guaranteeing him. Away from the thrill of power he felt when he shared a confidence, shared secret knowledge.

The thought of what would happen to his life if he gave it up, slinked back into anonymity, scared him almost as much as the man sitting across from him. If he had to choose between protecting his own life and helping others, so be it. It wasn’t really a choice at all.

He would do whatever he had to do to protect himself and his interests.

He said no more to Wilenek, simply nodded. Grabbing his satchel, he stumbled out of the dining room, back into the now fully dark street. Turning to his left, he headed toward the campus where the evening mass was drawing to a close.

Up on the crowded main street, he’d tucked his head into his collar and blended into the crowd of students streaming through the cold night, the sound of church bells reminding him of what waited for him once this life had ended.

P
edestrians bundled
against the chill
of the evening brushed past them, moving quickly to reach the warmth of their next destination. Businessmen and students rushed home after a long day’s work. Women, some still in their business suits, stopped in at narrow markets lined with shelves of canned goods, boxed juices and root vegetables to pick up a last few items for the evening’s meal.

At this time of the afternoon, the sun was too low in the sky to provide sufficient light, and street lamps lit the wide sidewalks of the
Aleje
.

Adam and Łukasz picked up their pace as they walked and talked, blending into the moving crowd. Only a few blocks away from the
Sejm
, they walked north up
Aleje Ujazdowksie
, passing quickly out of the diplomatic quarter toward the elegant shops on
Ulica Nowy Świat
and the historic Old Town Square.

As they walked, they talked of nothing more significant than the stores they were passing, how the weather had been recently, and stories Adam and Łukasz remembered about their grandfathers’ time together in Poland. Adam pulled a few funny tales from his memory, stories he’d overheard his father telling his friends.

Łukasz smiled at the memories, though his own stories carried a hint of sadness, even regret, that Adam couldn’t understand.

Adam waited patiently, knowing Łukasz would talk to him when he was ready. It wasn’t until they had been walking for over twenty minutes that Łukasz’s voice deepened and his words slowed.

“It was no accident, Adam.” He glanced in Adam’s direction.

Adam nodded, but kept his eyes on the facade of the National Museum across the street to their right. Its walls seemed to glow golden behind the high fence that surrounded it, giant carved statues of Soviet-era heroes standing guard from niches in the walls.

“When you were attacked, you mean?” he finally responded.

“Yes. I am sure of it.”

“Does that mean you remember more now?”

Łukasz inhaled sharply. “No!”

He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was once again low and calm. “I still cannot remember the attack. I was attacked, of that I am sure. And I know why.”

The two men paused their conversation as they crossed the busy
Aleje Jerozolimskie
, sidestepping cars whose drivers preferred not to follow the suggestions of the traffic lights. Large, boxy Mercedes hogged the roads. Tiny Fiats swerved by, looking as if they could bounce off the pedestrians without causing any harm.

The orange stones used to construct the grand buildings that lined the street carried over into the fabric of the sidewalk, merging everything into a blur of orange below brown wool and fur-wrapped people.

“I was working on a story, you see,” Łukasz continued, but Adam could tell he was struggling with the words. “About my daughter. She was killed.”

Adam turned his attention from the street and looked at Łukasz. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“I do not know for sure. But I am sure she was killed.” Łukasz turned his face away from Adam as he spoke. “They say it was suicide. It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. Basia would not have killed herself. I know this.”

Adam nodded, remembering the image of the body floating in the river. The loss of a young life to the currents of the Wisła river. “I’m so sorry, Łukasz. I read about her death in the papers. I wasn’t sure until now she was your daughter. That’s a terrible thing to go through. But what does it have to do with the story you’re writing?”

Łukasz looked at Adam in surprise. “I intend to find out who killed her and expose him. To write the truth the police refuse to see.”

“Łukasz,” Adam cautioned, “you should let the police do their job. I’ve had some experience with journalists trying to get involved in police work, and it never turns out well.”

“Hah.” Łukasz looked cynical. “Yes, the police. Your colleagues, I understand. You must understand that the police here are doing nothing. They do not care to investigate.”

Adam took a deep breath, brushed his hand across his eyes, attempting to keep control of his memory. It didn’t work.

Handfuls of dirt landed on a coffin in Adam’s mind, his view of the Warsaw street blocked by the image of a woman kneeling on the ground, her face twisted in grief. He was overcome again by his own feeling of helplessness as he watched, knowing he had been responsible for providing protection. For keeping those children safe. And that he had failed.

“I don’t believe that.” The denial sounded weak, even to him. He took another breath, inhaling the smell of diesel fumes, the scent of perfume as a woman crossed his path. He felt his hands relax, his clenched fists opening.

Too engrossed in his own grief, Łukasz hadn’t noticed Adam’s silence. He put his hand out and patted Łukasz’s shoulder, the contact bringing him fully back to the present. “They wouldn’t simply ignore it.”

“They are. In fact, they believe they must.” Łukasz paused before continuing, his internal struggle deepening the lines already encircling his eyes and mouth. “It was made to look like suicide, as I said. It was done very well. The police, they believe what they see. They have no reason to investigate further. But I know… I know.”

“Why do you think she was killed?”

“My little Basia.” Łukasz smiled at his memories. “She was so young, so full of life. She had just started a new position — in her last year of university — and she had such dreams for it. Dreams she would share with me. She wanted to be president of Poland one day! But she was happy starting where she was. She was very lucky to get a position as staff for Minister Novosad. Well, not lucky perhaps, she earned that position. She worked very hard for it.”

“She worked at the
Sejm
, in Minister Novosad’s office? I met with him just this afternoon with my group.” Adam pictured the grave, composed gentleman they had met earlier. “Do you think something at her job is what got her killed?”

Łukasz shrugged. “I think it’s possible. But I do not know. I know that I had been pursuing that line of inquiry when I was attacked. I just can’t remember exactly what I was working on, what I had found. And all of my notes, they were destroyed that same night.”

“What do you mean? At your office?” Adam tucked his hands into his pockets as the fading light encouraged the cold night air.

“No, from my home. Someone broke into my apartment that night. They took my computer, even my backup drives. I reported the theft to the police, but what can they do? They took a report. And my notes… they were all gone.”

“Do you always keep your notes at home, and does anyone else know where you keep them?” Adam asked, the policeman in him coming through.

“No, you see, this was different,” Łukasz explained, stepping around a group of students gathering on the sidewalk. “I typically keep my notes in the office of the newspaper where I work. It is safer there, at least I thought so. But as I was working on this story, gathering information from the archives, from informants, from my contacts involved in the government, my editor… well, I didn’t trust him.”

“Why not?” Adam pressed, “What did he do, exactly?”

“It seems so innocuous, you may not believe me.”

“Try me, you’d be surprised what I believe.”

“He assigned me other stories. High-profile stories, stories that would sell and do well for me. He even offered me a promotion, to assistant editor.”

“Uh-huh… I can see why that doesn’t build a good case for accusing him of stopping you.”

“No. But I was sure of it. He had never offered me these things before. And he knew very well what I was working on. He was trying to stop me from writing this story. I am sure. So I started taking my work home with me. I was afraid to leave any of my notes in the offices where he would have access to them. That night, they were stolen.”

The men stopped in front of a store window just as the first flakes of snow started to fall. Elegant leather bags, belts and purses were laid out in the window, brightly lit from inside. A woman in a long fur coat passed them as she entered the store and Adam could hear the clerk greet her by name as the door closed.

“So what about your story? You must have been close to the truth. Somebody was willing to break into your apartment, to physically attack you, to prevent you from writing it. What did you find out?”

“Not as much as I think my attackers believe,” Łukasz said sadly, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “I was tracing a trail of corruption within the legislature. That’s as much as I can remember. I know I started by investigating the people who worked most closely with Basia, then spread out further. Following the network. Following the power… and the money.”

They were still examining the fine leather goods in the window when the fur-robed woman left the store, once again brushing past them, this time carrying a large paper bag.

“It was the money that finally told me something, I remember that. The money.” Łukasz paused. “But what? And who? And why was my sweet Basia killed?” Łukasz’s voice cracked and he paused.

“Maybe she found something,” Adam suggested. “Maybe she planned to expose the criminal. To go to the police.”

“Yes, Basia would do that,” Łukasz agreed. “If she found any evidence of corruption, I am sure.”

Adam shivered as a few flakes of snow found their way under his collar. Łukasz glanced at him then turned to continue their walk. Warm lights glimmered on the sidewalk ahead of them, and when a heavy wooden door to their left opened, Adam caught the rich, sweet scent of beetroot and dill, along with the more familiar smell of grilled steak. A handsome couple stepped out of the restaurant. Glancing in, Adam saw that thick velvet curtains were pulled closed beyond the door, ensuring the winter’s chill wouldn’t enter the restaurant along with the customers.

Only a few yards farther along the sidewalk, a glass-fronted store bore the sign of a
Bar Mleczny
, or milk bar. Łukasz smiled sadly.

“Basia took me out to eat here, to the
Baru Mlecznego
,” he explained. “When she first got her job. She couldn’t afford the fancy restaurants in this area, but the
Bar Mleczny
was always affordable. Anyone who needs it can always get a warm meal of traditional Polish food here.”

Adam glanced in as they passed. The place was mostly empty. A few plastic tables were occupied by elderly gentlemen, widowers perhaps seeking a warm meal they didn’t have to cook themselves. A pair of students lined up at the bar ordering their food, served to them on plastic trays they could carry to a nearby table.

Milk bars were a holdover from the previous era and they were slowly disappearing. Supported through government subsidies, these bars managed to serve kielbasa, sauerkraut, barszcz at minimal prices. The same foods being served in the expensive restaurant up the street, Adam was sure, but at a fraction of the cost. And without the decor and service.

The location of this milk bar seemed odd, tucked away between five-star restaurants and high-end stores. Perhaps this was where they were most needed, by those who could least afford the cost of living in this neighborhood. Pensioners, students, and young men and women just starting out on their careers. Like Basia.

Adam turned his attention back to his companion. “I hope you understand, Łukasz, there are great risks involved in what you’re doing. I know you need to find out who killed Basia. But exposing the corrupt and the criminal means putting yourself in danger. Someone who has killed once is more likely to kill again. Hell, he already left you for dead once.”

“That was his mistake, then, not to finish the job. I must find whoever killed my daughter. I have no choice. I am alone now, you understand.” Łukasz looked at Adam as he explained. “Basia’s mother, my wife, died a few years ago. Natural causes, I assure you.” Łukasz spoke over Adam’s condolences. “But she is gone. Now Basia is gone.” He paused, shaking his head. “I must find the man responsible.”

“If it’s corruption that you’re following, tell me, how common is that in your system? I’m sorry,” Adam explained as Łukasz raised his eyebrows, “I don’t mean anything by that. You know how politics are. In the States, there are politicians who are willing to sell their vote and that isn’t even considered corruption anymore. There are others who are caught with thousands of dollars in their freezers… What is Poland like right now?”

“Ah yes, there is corruption, no question. There are men and women who see capitalism as an opportunity to make some easy money. There are leaders who have held on from the previous regime and who will do anything to keep their power, including bending some rules. There are some who have ties to Russia and the mafia there. They are involved not just in corruption, but in violent criminal activity. Yes, it is all around us.”

Adam thought about this, then asked, “And what about lustration? I’ve heard a little bit about it. Has that caused problems? Would that lead anyone to murder?”

“Only the honest man,” Łukasz chuckled. “For those who are honest, lustration means admitting your past, admitting your mistakes perhaps. But once it is admitted, there is no punishment. So nothing to kill for. For those who are dishonest, well, they can lie about their past. They can cover it up so easily. Records from the previous regime are not easy to access. They are considered classified. So if someone has lied, chances are he or she will face no penalty for that. So no reason to kill, you see.”

“You never know what will drive a person to murder. Sometimes the cause is big, maybe even just. Saving a loved one, for example. Or seeking revenge.” Adam looked at Łukasz out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve known people who killed for fifty dollars. Or less.” He laughed gently under his breath, more a sharp exhale than anything else. “People never fail to surprise me.”

Łukasz glanced at his watch, then turned to Adam. “It is getting late and we have been talking for some time. Your group will be missing you. You have been most kind, walking with me and listening to my story. And now I have a further favor to ask of you.”

“Of course,” Adam responded quickly, “what do you need?”