The Mazovia Legacy (24 page)

It was 2:30 in the morning when he woke up, cursing his weakness. He got up stiffly, his ribs aching unbelievably, and splashed water on his face. For some reason he expected the phone to ring. He expected it to be Hilferty, with news of some sort, with a wise remark and a sign that all was well, or word that Natalia had already been found. But the phone stayed silent. This was going to be Delaney's problem to solve alone.

He absolutely ruled out calling the police. They would be no better able than he to trace a generic delivery van in this city, and he did not want to spend hours in some overbright police station at this stage in any case. He knew he had to take action but found he could not, despite all his years of experience in dangerous places and breaking situations, think of what to do next.

“If they had wanted to kill us, they would have done it right there,” he said aloud again and again as he paced the room. “If they had wanted to kill just me and not her, they could have done that too. So they want us both alive. For a while.”

He knew that this was possibly even worse. He knew that this meant they wanted to ask Natalia questions, and if they were Polish agents they would know how to get answers. If they were indeed Polish agents. He did not allow himself to think that the Vatican would use such tactics or that they would move so fast against them even if they did, but he knew that this was not impossible. Nothing was impossible. Every foul, ugly, dangerous thing was suddenly very possible. His imagination was threatening to run wild. The anxiety was as intense as any he had ever felt. The panic stirred in the shadows. It came close, very close, again.

Delaney began to realize, however, that he simply had no choice in this. He would simply have to wait, for how long no one could say, until there was a sign. If they killed her, they would come for him as well, soon enough. If she was alive, they would still likely come for him because they would want to know how much he knew. Or to negotiate some deal. So he reluctantly admitted to himself that he would have to endure the agony of a wait. In Canada, when you are lost in the woods, they tell you to stay put until someone comes for you.

He repeated his calming mantra: “If they had wanted to kill us, they would have done it right there. If they had wanted to kill just me and not her, they could have done that too. So they want us both alive. They want us both alive.”

The door between his room and Natalia's was not locked. He walked into the quiet, womansmelling dimness. Natalia's bottle of mineral water was on her night table. Her small suitcase was loosely closed on its stand at the end of the too-large bed. On the desk he saw her Commonplace book. He could not resist the temptation of opening it and looking inside. He would not read it. He would just look inside.

The pages were covered with neat handwriting and dated entries, but also with arrows, diagrams, small sketches, symbols. On some pages were more elaborate sketches done in what looked like coloured pencil. Geometric patterns, mainly, or what looked like stars and planets: dreamscapes. He saw his name in a couple of entries. It leapt out at him as one's own name often does in unfamiliar texts. But this made him slam the book shut, ashamed at violating Natalia's little psychic sanctuary. He would let her tell him herself why his name was in there. He would not steal such knowledge from her. Not now.

*

For Natalia, at first it was like a dream. But then it became very undreamlike as she became aware of what was happening and why. The men had been incredibly rough with her. She was thrown headlong into the back of the grimy van and she hit her head on the metal hump of the left-rear tire well. As she tried to get up, the side door slid shut with a terrific bang and she fell again as the van lurched off with a squeal of tires on the cobblestones. She was stunned by the two falls and dizzy, and simply lay for a moment on the rocking floor of the van as it careened around streets she could not see and would not recognize anyway. It smelled intensely of motor oil and tire rubber and grime.

Eventually she sat up. She could see two men in the small seats up front, talking intently to each other in Polish. One was gesturing to the driver, giving him directions. They were both smoking strong cigarettes. When the van had slowed a little and the driver was apparently clear on where he was going, the mustachioed navigator looked back and spoke to her in Polish.

“Not dead? Good.” He pushed the driver's shoulder and they both laughed throatily at this witty remark.

They were almost a matched pair: identical black leather jackets; similar badly cut thick black hair, with a sheen of oils or hair creams; large rings on fingers, garish gold watches. In their thirties, both of them. Both muscular, aggressive, and dangerous. The walrus moustache on one of the faces was the only thing that really set them apart.

“Your boyfriend is probably not dead either, lucky for him,” the moustache said. “I'm sure he is tougher than that. He can take a little beating now and again, can't he?” The two men laughed again.

Anxiety release,
Natalia thought.

She decided she would not speak to them at all or answer any of their inane questions. She sat bracing herself on the floor of the van, holding onto the tire wells to remain upright as the vehicle swayed. She could not identify exactly what feelings she had. She was afraid, but not truly afraid, not panicked yet. Shaken, aching, waiting to see what came next. Then she might become truly afraid. She sat staring at the floor of the van, wondering if Francis was all right and what he might do next. The odd sense began to develop that somehow she had experienced all of this before, perhaps in a dream. She allowed that feeling to envelop her, to see what intuition or insight it might provide in this crisis. But no insight came.

The van roared and rattled its way through Rome streets for about twenty minutes, according to Natalia's watch, which she could only just read in the dimness. As she was beginning to feel chilled and very sore, the van slowed and pulled into a sort of covered archway. She could see only parts of the scene outside through the windshield. But the sound changed and it was clear they were now in the courtyard of a tall building, an apartment possibly. Only a small light burned somewhere.

They did not blindfold her or make any attempt to stop her from seeing where she was. It could have been the interior courtyard in any large and rundown apartment building almost anywhere in Europe. It was late. Clearly, not many people would be around to see her get out, and if they did they would see nothing mysterious. Two men and a woman climbing out of a small vehicle in a European city. Still, her captors warned her against making a scene.

“Now we go upstairs, correct? We go upstairs like we are friends, correct?” Moustache said, switching to English for some reason. “No silly, OK?”

“OK,” she said.

The driver came around to open the sliding door. He grinned toothily at her as she moved to get out. Her pants and sweater were askew and dirty, but not torn. She could not see her handbag at first, but then Moustache reached in and pulled it out from a dim corner of the van. She must have held onto it instinctively, as women do.
The rosary is inside,
she thought. Good luck charm.

“We look later, yes?” Moustache said as he slung the bag on his shoulder. “Dirty secrets maybe?” More laughter.

There were steep stairs; a series of flights went up around a dark square stairwell. The staircase was wide and worn. They stopped climbing on the fifth floor, all of them panting from the ascent. On this floor, as on the others, there were two sets of double doors. Two apartments, or possibly two small lofts or warehouse spaces on each floor. The driver fumbled with keys and then pushed her, unnecessarily rough, through the doorway into an old shabbily furnished apartment. Plates and empty beer bottles sat on tables. Newspapers were strewn around the place. She saw two handguns and a long gun, what she thought might be a shotgun, sitting on an armchair. Moustache decided this was where she must be, so he moved the guns and motioned for her to sit.

“Sit, OK? Be quiet.”

Driver locked the doors and put his own gun down beside the others. Moustache took off his leather jacket. Natalia saw he was wearing a shoulder holster with another gun. Still she did not feel truly afraid. This surprised her. Her captors moved into another room and had a conference in Polish there for a moment. Then Driver dialled a number on the telephone in the main room and said to someone, in Polish: “It's done.”

He hung up. Both men lit cigarettes and grinned foolishly at her.

“Welcome to our humble home,” Moustache said, his shoulders rising and falling slightly with laughter. Still apparently unable to resist his own wit. “Our humble little home.” Natalia sat quietly, saying nothing.

“Do you know us?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“What do you mean? How would I know you?” Natalia said.

“Do you know us, woman? You know where we are from?”

“Poland,” she said, now becoming a little more afraid.
They will try to trip me up, and then be aggressive with me when I make mistakes,
she thought.
They are this type
.

“Of course, Poland. Of course. We do not have to be psychiatrists to know this when Polish words are spoken, do we?” Moustache said. Driver smoked quietly, squinting at her. “No,” Natalia said.

“Do you know us?”

“You mean who you work for?”

“Yes, yes. Who we work for.”

“No.”

“We think you must, dear woman. Who?”

“I don't know.”

“Who?”

“The Polish government? The secret service?” The men both howled with laughter.

“The secret service? What a clever name. We are secrets from the secret service.” Laughter, coughing through smoke.

“Here is who we are, dear woman,” Moustache said. “Not who we work for, but who we are. Who we work for is not so important to you tonight. You see? We are your enemies. That's all. We need to know something that you know, and we will know it. It doesn't matter to you who we work for because you will tell us anyway. And then maybe you can go home. Maybe.”

Moustache spoke very quietly to Driver in Polish so that Natalia couldn't hear. Driver nodded and left the room. They were starting to frighten her badly now.

“Are you in secret service too, dear woman?” Moustache asked her, as he lit another cigarette.

“No, I'm not.”

“We know that. We know that. Do you think we would not know that already?” Natalia said nothing.

“I have just asked you something,” he said.

“I don't know what you would know about me,” she said.

“You don't.”

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you sure about?”

Natalia realized the aggression would come soon. With a personality like this there could be very few correct answers.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said.

“You don't.”

“No. I'm sorry.”

He liked that. He liked women to be sorry, Natalia suspected. Her apology was like a small treat thrown to a dog. He enjoyed it privately for a moment. Then he called out to his partner: “Feliks!”

Moustache grinned at her as Feliks came down the long hallway from another room.

“We must have a witness, correct? Feliks likes to witness these things.”

Again there was a low whispered conversation in Polish.

“We will start this right away, because we do not have time to frig around, like Americans say,” Moustache said.

Feliks moved his head and shoulders around in small circles, as if his muscles were stiff. Moustache walked over to where Natalia sat in the overstuffed old armchair and pushed his knees up against hers as he stood over her.

“There is something we would like to know, dear woman, and you will tell us about it tonight. Then, after you have told us, your boyfriend will come here and we will get him to tell us too. Then we will see which story we like best.” Now Natalia was afraid.

“In our business of work, we have to find out many little things, always little things people know and do not wish to tell. It happens so often. I am good at this work. Feliks too, but I am better. Correct, Feliks?”

Feliks nodded, but said nothing.

“Why am I better than Feliks at this work, dear woman? Why?”

“I couldn't say.” Natalia wanted now to be very careful in her phrasing of anything, as one must be when dealing with psychotic personalities.

“Why couldn't you say, dear woman? Why wouldn't you say?”

“I don't know why you are better.”

“Here is why I am better. It is exactly because Feliks asks people questions and then, after a while, he hurts them and asks them some more and then eventually they tell him. But I myself like to make clear to people first what it is that is happening, and then they cannot be unclear. You see? Make things clear first, and then ask questions next, after that? You see?”