Where the Devil Can't Go (18 page)

In the far corner, sat a bald man in his sixties, drinking a glass of lemon tea. He was dressed in a freshly ironed open-necked shirt and a windcheater type jacket: the uniform of a working class Polish man of a certain age. He stood up to meet them, and clasping the priest in a hug, kissed him on both cheeks. He stood almost a head shorter than Janusz, but had the solid, compact build of a man with a lifetime of physical labour behind him. He hesitated, then held out a hand to Janusz in the English manner.

“Konstanty Nowak.” Janusz shook it, making no effort to conceal his reluctance.

“Would you both like some tea?” asked Nowak. One of the lads in the kitchen was so kind as to make me a pot.”

“Not for me, Konstanty,” said the priest. “I must get back to the reception – I want to talk to Monsignor Zielinski.”

“Quite right, Piotr. And make sure you get a fat cheque out of Dubrowy, he can afford it.”

Janusz recognised the name from the papers – Dubrowy had made millions, billions even, from telecoms back home.

Father Pietruzki, who had regained a little of his composure, laid a hesitant hand on Janusz’s shoulder. “Come and find me after your chat?” he said. He got a half-nod in response.

Janusz guessed Nowak’s age to be around sixty-five. His head was as smooth as a hen’s egg, with the telltale bluish shadow that betrayed daily shaving. These days, many men preferred total baldness to the tonsured look of a medieval monk. He resisted the narcissistic urge to run a hand over his own head of hair: still thick, thanks be to God, if greying fast.

Nowak invited Janusz to sit, and once again offered tea, which he declined. Pouring himself a cup from a white china teapot, he asked: “What did you think of the reception? Father Pietruzki certainly manages to get some fancy types along to these fundraising dos, doesn’t he?” The guy’s accent had the rough edge of those who hailed from Poland’s eastern fringes.

“I didn’t come for the
szampan
and canapés,” said Janusz, sticking his chin out. “A girl is dead because of this job Father Pietruzki got me into, and now I find out I don’t even know who I was working for. What the fuck is all this about?”

He was aware that such bluntness, especially toward a man of Nowak’s age, was rank bad manners, but he didn’t care – Justyna’s death and the lies he had been told gave him the right to be impolite.

Nowak appeared not to take offence. “I can see that you are a man who doesn’t – how do the English put it? – ‘
mince his words
’,” he took a gulp of his tea and his clear hazel gaze met Janusz’s eyes.

“I am an old friend of Edward Zamorski,” he said.

Janusz sat in stunned silence.
Zamorski
? Mother of a whore!

“Edward Zamorski the
presidential candidate
?”

Nowak gave a single nod, his expression sombre.

“What the hell does Zamorski have to do with a runaway waitress in London?” asked Janusz with a disbelieving gesture.

“It’s a long story.” Tipping his head sideways, Nowak set his glass of tea back in its saucer. “But it’s probably helpful if I explain, first of all, how Edward and I know each other.”

Janusz shrugged.

“We met on a train in 1972, on our way to new jobs at the Nowa Huta steel works,” said Nowak.

Janusz knew Huta – a sprawling industrial city built from scratch on the edge of Krakow, and named ‘The New Steel Mill’ with typical Communist flair.

“Tens of thousands of lucky peasants like me and Edward got drafted in.” Nowak’s tone was one of cynical amusement. “You can imagine the sales pitch – flats for all, holidays on the Black Sea, a workers’ paradise. All the usual Soviet garbage.” He waved a weary hand.

The harsh clatter of plates being thrown into a dishwasher reached them from the kitchen next door.

“Anyway,” Nowak continued. “It was a crazy place for a steel plant – no coal, no iron ore for hundreds of miles. The whole thing was just a
Kommie
tactic.”

Janusz shifted in his chair. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with Weronika.”

“Young people are always in a hurry,” said Nowak in a tone of gentle reproof. “Please permit me to tell you the story in my own way”.

Janusz leaned back and folded his arms.

Nowak took a sip of tea. “The
Kommies
thought that bringing in a couple of hundred thousand thick-headed proles would keep all those dangerous Krakow intellectuals in check.” He chuckled. “As we know, it didn’t quite work out like that.”

Janusz couldn’t help but grin. By the time he’d arrived in Krakow to study physics, Huta had become a hotbed of resistance second only to the Gdansk shipyards, and a smouldering coal in the lap of the regime.

“I often wonder what happened to the civil servant who dreamt up Huta,” Nowak said, pouring tea into his glass. “He probably got a nine millimetre bullet from a Makarov in the back of the head for that bright idea.”

“So that’s where Zamorski got involved with
Solidarnosc
?” asked Janusz, interested in spite of himself.

The older man nodded. “We were workers’ representatives, taking grievances to management, organising strikes and sit-ins, generally making trouble for the bastards.” He smiled at the memory. “You know Father Piotr was there, too, for a while?”

Janusz shook his head.

“He was quite the firebrand,” said Nowak, eyes twinkling. “During one strike he even held a mass inside the steelworks – which drove the
Kommies
mad, of course.”

Janusz tried, without success, to find a position on his hard chair that would ease the pressure on his throbbing rib. “And now – you’re something in
Partia Renasans
?” – his tone more respectful now he knew the guy’s history. “An adviser to Zamorski, maybe?”

Nowak opened his eyes in mock horror. “Mother of God, no. I did my time on the barricades in the old days, even saw the inside of a few cells at Montepulich. But after Walesa got elected,” he shrugged, “I decided I’d had enough of politics. I just wanted to get on with my life.”

Janusz found himself nodding. “What have you been doing for the last twenty years?” he asked.

“I set up a small construction business, refurbishing flats – in Huta, as it happens. After a few years, I’d made all the money I could ever need, enough for a little fishing boat and a place in Krakow.” He smiled. “Now I’m retired I can play the
dyletant:
I go fishing with old friends like Edward, do a little charity work, try to keep out of trouble.”

He drained his glass of tea and met Janusz’s gaze. “So that’s how I know Edward.”

Janusz folded his arms. “OK. So you’re telling me that when Pani Tosik hired me to look for Weronika, I was really working for Edward Zamorski?” He tried to keep his voice level.

Nowak raised a hand, let it fall. “Please understand, I was just as much in the dark as you are, until Edward called me yesterday.” Looking suddenly old, he worked the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers, “He told me about this...mess he’d got himself into and asked me to help.” He shrugged his shoulders. “He’s a dear friend so, of course, I said yes.”

Janusz thought of Oskar, who he had extracted from various scrapes over the years.

“When Father Pietruzki recommended you for the job, it seems Edward insisted on keeping his name out of it,” Nowak went on. “But then this terrible business with the girl, Justyna, changed everything. After Edward took me into his confidence, Father Pietruzki and I talked, and we managed to persuade him that you should be told about the situation.”

Janusz felt another flare of anger – and hurt – at the way the priest had put his support for Zamorski and the Renaissance Party above their friendship.

“Since I was already in London on charity business, Edward asked me to talk to you,” said Nowak. “So here we both are.” He scanned Janusz’s face, perhaps still undecided as to whether he could be trusted with Zamorski’s great secret.

“I’ll bet you’re a smoking man,” he said suddenly, a mischievous grin animating his face.

Janusz shrugged, “
Naturalnie
, but you know it’s forbidden inside?”

Waving the objection away, Nowak stood up and went over to a nearby window. “Who will ever know?” he hissed in a stage whisper as he opened it.

They pushed their chairs closer to the window. Nowak pulled out a battered packet of
Mocne
, a brand of ultra-cheap cigarettes Janusz hadn’t seen since he left Poland. The innocent directness of the brand name –
Mocne
meant Strong – had always amused him.

“Even the greatest of heroes has a secret, some foolish weakness or other. Usually – no,
always
– to do with sex.” His eyes met Janusz’s and they shared a wry grin.

Janusz lit Nowak’s cigarette, then his own cigar, and there was a companionable silence as each man savoured the first glorious lungful.

“This Adamski has been blackmailing Edward about a... private affair, a matter of the heart,” said Nowak, his voice becoming serious. “He is threatening to sell the story to a newspaper just before the election.”

Janusz recoiled. Blackmail was a distasteful crime, a cowardly, hole-in-the-corner business. But blackmailing the president to be? That took some balls. Zamorski had certainly never struck him as a playboy type – he was a family man, married for thirty years, children... every inch the upright – hostile commentators might even say up
tight
– citizen. He wasn’t a secret
homoseksual
, surely to God? At one time the newspapers here had been filled with such revelations about politicians, but this was England, after all: their boarding schools bred queers like mushrooms in a damp cupboard.

Janusz waited for Nowak to go on, to reveal Zamorski’s secret, but the stocky figure had fallen silent, his expression brooding behind a curl of smoke. Was that all he was going to be told – a few hints about sexual misbehaviour?

“Listen,” said Janusz. “Zamorski obviously wants me to carry on looking for Adamski, or I wouldn’t be here, so I’ve got a right to know what this big secret is.”

But Nowak was in no hurry. “Blackmail is one thing, but after what happened to this other girl, Edward is worried that Adamski is a
psychopata
,” he said with the air of someone thinking aloud, “He’s convinced he might kill Weronika – and I think he might be right.” He looked at Janusz, frowning.

Janusz was struggling to keep up. Adamski had a motive for killing Justyna, because she gave away his address, but Nowak was talking as though Weronika, too, was in danger.

“Is all this business something to do with Adamski dealing drugs?” he asked. “Did he maybe sell Zamorski some
kokaina
?”

Nowak chuckled. “Adamski might be a drug pusher, but I can tell you, the most I ever saw Edward indulge in was a little too much
Zubruwka
.”

Janusz stubbed out his cigar, “I’m a busy
man
,” he said. “I don’t have all afternoon to play Twenty Questions,” and setting his hands flat on the table, made to stand. Nowak reached out, and laying a hand on his forearm propelled him with gentle pressure back into his seat. Then, pinching out his cigarette with a decisive gesture, he pulled his chair so close to Janusz that their knees almost touched.

“When Edward asked me to meet you today I made it clear that if I decided you could be trusted, you should be told everything,” he said. “He wasn’t happy about it, but I told him he was being foolish. How could you retrieve what Adamski is using to blackmail Edward if you don’t know what you are looking for?”

He tapped Janusz on the knee. “But first, you’ll have to put up with a bit more history from an old man.

“Edward is a few years younger than me so I suppose I looked out for him back at Huta, tried to make sure he didn’t go too far and get himself disappeared. But in 1980, when everything kicked off, the union leadership heard about this gift he had, his ability to inspire people, and pretty soon they had him speaking at all sorts of events.” Janusz recalled Zamorski’s speech at the rally in Gdansk at the height of the uprising – his quiet charisma, the way his words could stir the emotions.

“I went along to watch him speak once, in the
Rynek
in Krakow,” said Nowak, “and from that moment, I knew politics was going to be his life.”

According to Nowak, before Zamorski turned thirty he had become practically a full-time activist for the movement, travelling all over Poland, giving speeches calling for democracy at union meetings and demos.

“Edward was in his element,” said Nowak, with a smile. “OK, it was life out of a suitcase, and you’d think it could get lonely once the crowds had gone home, but he used to say that in all his years of travelling, he never spent the night alone by choice”. He looked at Janusz and raised an eyebrow, torn between amusement and disapproval.

“You might not be old enough to remember, but those big
Solidarnosc
names, they were like rock stars,” he went on, all his former reticence gone. “Edward would get up and do the big rousing speech and by the time he’d finished he said the ladies would practically be throwing their underwear at him.”

So this was the great secret
? thought Janusz.
Edward’s gift for speaking got him laid a lot in the days before he grew a paunch?
He frowned.

“Zamorski’s supporters, they might be conservative,” he said. “But they’re not going to turn their back on him just because he was a ladies’ man thirty years ago.”

“No, no, of course not,” said Nowak. He picked up his pack of cigarettes. “But there was one particular lady who he met at a rally in Poznan, in 1989 – one of the last before Jaruzelski threw in the towel. A very beautiful blonde, apparently, if a little wild.” He sighed at the glorious imprudence of youth. “Anyway, they go back to the room where he was staying, they do what comes naturally to young people, and the next day he’s off on the train to his next destination.”

He passed a hand from the nape of his neck up over his shaven head; they were sitting so close that Janusz could hear the crackle of the bristles. “When you are young, it is easy to think that actions have no consequences, but a few months later, he discovered that the girl was what the English call ‘
economical with the truth
’.” Smiling at the phrase, he lit his cigarette from Janusz’s proffered lighter. “She was not, as she had told Edward, eighteen years old – but had, in truth, just turned
fifteen
.”