Because of the furtive manner in which his journey progressed, it took him several weeks to reach the medieval town of Grudziadz, and by then his money had nearly run out. A basic plan had formed though, an idea that took no details into account. He would make for the Baltic seaport of Gdynia, avoiding nearby Gdansk, where too many merchants knew him. There he would bribe his way onto a boat. He didn't can where his passage took him, just so long as it was far away from this accursed country and its oppressively authoritarian government that constantly hindered entrepreneurs such as he The problem now was money. He had barely fifty zlotys left, and such a secret voyage would prove expensive.
Late at night Janusz went to the home of Wiktor Svandova, in Grudziadz, a particular businessman with whom he'd hat many dealings in the past.
But Janusz had not reckoned on Svandova's respect for (of fear of) the State. The business associate ordered Janusz from his home, threatening to call in the police if he didn't leave at once. The fugitive reasoned with Svandova, cajoled, pleaded, even wept before him; he only produced the short metal bar he carried inside his greatcoat when Svandova strode to his desk and reached for the telephone. The first blow struck the businessman across the left temple, but amazingly he was able to stagger to the door, with Janusz following and beating at the hack of his head and shoulders as he went. He threw open the door and even managed to scream out his wife's name before collapsing to his knees while his assailant continued to rain blows on him. At last, and to Janusz's great relief, Svandova pitched forward onto his face, blood from his broken head instantly flooding the hallway. Janusz ran from the house when the dead man's wife began screeching from the top of the stairway. He knew she had recognized him and he had it in mind to climb the stairs and silence her forever too; but other figures had appeared behind her, presumably Svandova's sons, and Janusz had no desire to battle it out with them.
He left the city, heading north once again, cursing his bad luck and his business associate's foolishness. He was now a fugitive for a far more serious crime, and every endeavor would be made by the police to capture him.
For nearly three months Janusz eluded them, the northern forests swallowing him up completely, bestowing upon him the invisibility he craved. But autumn was turning to winter, and even the extra clothing he had stolen to wear under his greatcoat could not prevent the chill reaching his bones. Food —the roots and nuts he found, the turnips, beetroots, and potatoes he dug from farmers' fields late at night, the small animals he occasionally was able to trap and kill—already scarce, was becoming even more so. Yet again Janusz became intimately acquainted with terrible hunger. When stealing from farms—odd items of clothing came from outside washing lines—he yearned to come across a pigpen, dreamed of reaching in and pulling out a piglet, just as his father had all those years ago. When he slept he dreamed of his family's least, when he had watched the roasting pig, making sure the meat wasn't burned black. He awoke many times with the delicious smell still in his nostrils, and before reality edged it away, a more subtle aroma would become dominant . . .
His heavy beard was matted and dirty, and Janusz may have appeared plump, but only layers of clothing created the illusion, for beneath them his flesh was hollowed between the bones, just as it had been in the years when Germans had occupied his country. He had plodded for two days through the snow-laden forest, sheltering where he could, cramming any foliage he could find into his mouth and chomping until it was mulched enough for him to digest. He even pulled piece! of bark from trees to gnaw on.
The policja had been waiting for him at the last farmhouse he had attempted to rob; he had remained in one area for too long, the stealing becoming more than just an annoyance to the locals. A trap had been set for him, and only blind panic had lent him the strength to outrun his pursuers. Now it was only stomach pains that drove him on.
Janusz saw the column of smoke rising above the treetops and stumbled off in that direction. He came upon a small, log house in a clearing. His weary legs barely got him to the front door. His fist made the faintest of sounds when he pounded on the wood.
The woodsman caught him as he fell inside and dragged him over to the fire. He called for his wife to warm some sok and bring it to the half-frozen man while he loosened the unfortunate's clothing. They were kind to this wretched wayfarer, even though suspicious, and they did their utmost to revive him. After a while, when he was able to sit at the table, and sip more of the warm brew, they tried to question him, but his replies were incoherent, his voice rambling. They soot realized the man was crazed with hunger and exhaustion. And the wife was uneasy at the way he kept staring at their twelve-year-old daughter who sat quietly in the corner watching everything with a wide-eyed expression on her plump little face, her skin pink and unblemished in the glow from the fire.
Janusz repaid their kindness by killing them all. He used his trusty metal bar to batter the man unconscious as he stooped to put another log on the fire, and a breadknife quickly grabbed from the table to cut all their throats.
When the two policjants who had been following his tracks through the forest burst in less than an hour later, he had already started to eat the woodsman's daughter.
In one respect Janusz was lucky. The officers were fresh enough in their careers not yet to have witnessed the worst of criminal brutality, nor were they old enough to comprehend the true barbarism of the Nazi occupation during the last World War. When they saw what had become of the woods-man and his wife, when they realized that what their quarrel was stuffing into his mouth was from the child's open belly, they were too shocked—too revolted—to move.
The madness in Janusz, further incited by the excitement of his deed, overcame the fatigue that was still with him; he threw the breadknife at one uniformed intruder and rushed screaming at the other. The vision of this wild man, his body puffed up by the layers of clothing he wore, mouth and beard daubed with blood, eyes huge and crazed, would have frozen the bravest of men, and the two policjants had thus far won no service awards for gallantry. Neither of them could help but cringe away.
One was pushed back against the wall while the other scrambled to retrieve his rifle, dropped when he had dodged the thrown knife. The thief they had tracked so many miles was through the door and out in the snow again, scurrying back into the trees as a single shot was fired at him. The bullet chipped the top of his right collarbone but, despite the agonizing jolt, he did not stop running. Nightfall helped cloak his escape.
Soon the gunshots behind him grew fainter, and Janusz was both laughing and weeping as he scrambled up a slope. He toppled over the ridge and rolled down the other side, giggling and crying out as he went. He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, spread-eagled on his back, half-buried in snow and his chest heaving with exertion.
He stayed that way for some time, his breathing gradually slowing as he listened for his pursuers. Their voices came from high above him and soon drifted away again, the darkness now concealing the trail of disturbed snow he had left behind. He had lost them. He had got away. He giggled once more and licked his lips, the taste still strong on his tongue.
Janusz waited a little while longer before rising to his knees.
He was instantly blinded by dazzling white light.
Russian tanks were strategically positioned in many sectors of Poland, never obtrusively, but usually in areas where their threat could be felt rather than continually observed. The soldiers who manned them were highly disciplined and never mingled with the community; but they were always on standby, ready to move against insurgence at a moment's notice. Perpetually bored by their low-profile assignment, the tank crews were eager for any distraction that might come their way. They had observed the dark figure tumbling down the hillside and patiently waited for it to move again once it reached the bottom. When it did, they switched on their tank lights as one.
Janusz screamed in terror. He stumbled away, not caring in which direction he ran, his only thought to be out of that intense glare
as quickly as possible. The two policjants, alerted by the abrupt flaring of light, turned back.
Never had Janusz felt so naked, so visible. There was nothing he could see, nothing but blinding light, and he felt like a specimen exposed on a scientist's slab. He crashed into a tree, tasted his own blood rushing into his mouth. He staggered away, hands to his face. Then onward, refusing to allow pain to stop him, too afraid to let it.
He was hurtling downward again, over and over, this slope much steeper than the previous one. He shrieked when his damaged shoulder struck something solid. He was no longer falling, the surface flat and hard beneath him.
Janusz sobbed with self-pity. He was lost now. He no longer had the strength to run. They had him and they would punish him for the wicked things he had done.
He raised his head. The lights had found him. They were coming close, exposing him in the roadway as if he were some helpless animal, broken-limbed and prey to anything that should come along. Janusz tried to shield his eyes against the blaze, but there was no strength left in his arms.
The light was almost upon him. He waited in despair.
But now the bright beams were passing him, shining beyond. He blinked and it took an eternity for his eyes to discern the big black car that had drawn up alongside his prone body. The engine was still quietly running and nothing happened for a while. Then a rear door opened.
"Mogę cię zrobić niewidzialnym, Janusz," a soft voice said from within. "I can make you invisible."
(And in a way, Kline did make him invisible.)
24
CORA'S ANGUISH
"Why jackals, for God's sake? There are plenty of other breeds that make better guard dogs." Halloran had craned his neck around to look through the black limousine's rear window, half-expecting to see shadowy shapes back on the roadway.
Palusinski shrugged, then gave a short laugh, his eyes becoming small behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wore. "Perhaps Felix cares for the underdog." He laughed again, enjoying his joke.
Halloran faced the front. "I've never heard of trained jackals before."
"All animals can be trained, mój kolega. As can all men."
"I thought they were nocturnal, yet I saw one roaming in daylight yesterday."
"They prefer night hunting, but even inherent habits can be changed. The dogs obey their master."
"Kline?"
"Ah no." Palusinski's foot gently touched the brake pedal as they gathered speed on the hill. The lights of Neath were like a beacon against the leaden slopes behind. "Even an old dog such as I has learned some new tricks over the past two days. Your driving instructor teaches well."
"Let's hope you never have to use those techniques."
The older man nodded. "I am informed that you yourself had to do so yesterday."
Halloran made no comment. "How long have you been employed by Felix Kline, Mr. Palusinski?" he asked instead.
"Please, you may call me Janusz. Rest assured, I bear you no ill will for your rough treatment of me two nights ago. I appreciate that you were merely pointing out the weakness of our defense. And there was no pain at the time, only an aching of the neck muscles afterward. A skillful blow, sir, if I may say so."
"Pity your partner can't forgive as easily."
"Monk? An animal. A beast. It would be prudent to watch yourself with that one. Now, as to your question, I'm sure your company has access to the files on all of us. You must know how long I have been in Felix's employ."
"Those files are pretty vague. They give no account of length of service."
"I see. And you are curious, naturally." The car pulled up behind the silver Mercedes at the front of the house. "Felix brought me from Poland some years ago," Palusinski said as he switched off the engine. "Fourteen or fifteen years ago, I think."
Halloran was startled and about to question the Pole further, but Palusinski was already getting out of the car. "Wait," he said, and the bald-headed man bent down to look back inside. "How old is Kline?" Halloran asked.
Palusinski smiled, his eyes narrowing behind the spectacles. "Felix is older than you would imagine, sir." Then he was gone, walking around the front of the car toward the house.
Halloran quietly tapped on the door and waited. He was tired, and that was from more than just the lateness of the hour. There was a tension about this house that had little to do with any kidnap threat. Yet the day before there had been a stillness in Neath, a brooding heaviness that dragged at the spirit. That had now given way to a peculiar atmosphere of instability, and he could almost feel a charge in the air, as if the building itself had been roused by the visitors like some slumbering monolith disturbed into a tensed wariness. He pushed the fanciful idea aside. A house was a house, bricks and mortar, timber and glass. The events of the day and the unpredictability of his client were having an adverse effect on him. That Dieter Stuhr was still missing—Mather had phoned Halloran an hour before to inform him of this—added to his general unease for, as the Shield Organizer, the German was at the hub of an ongoing operation. Nothing seemed right about this particular assignment.
He raised a hand to tap on the door again but stopped when he heard the lock click from the inside. Cora looked out at him.
"I wondered if you were okay," he said, then added: "You weren't at dinner."
Her hair was damp around her face as if she'd just stepped from the bath or shower. "I wasn't hungry," she told him.
"Nor was anyone else. I ate alone." He was silent for a moment, waiting for some response from her. When none came, he said, "Can we talk?"
Hesitation, then: "I'm sorry, I'm acting like a stranger to you." She opened the door wide and stood aside so that he could enter, their roles reversed from the previous night.
He rested a hand against the door frame. "I didn't know . . ."
"Come in, Liam. Please."
He entered the room and saw that it was bigger and more comfortable than his own. One half contained a small sofa and armchair, a coffee table in between, an antique writing bureau by the wall; the other side was occupied by a four-poster bed, bedside cabinet, and dressing table, and a wardrobe of cavernous proportions. An open door led off and he assumed this was to an en suite bathroom. The curtains at the windows were drawn closed, which seemed unnecessary considering Neath's remote location.
Cora shut the door behind him and went to a table. "Can I offer you a drink?" she asked, adjusting the belt of the white bathrobe she wore. "Oh no, I forgot. You're always on duty, aren't you? I suppose you won't be surprised if I have one." She poured herself some wine from a bottle on the table and settled back in the sofa, drawing her legs up under her.
"Why the antagonism, Cora? After last night—•" He stopped when she bowed her head as if the words had stung her.
"Have I disillusioned you?" There was scorn in her voice. "I drink too much, I make love in an odd fashion, I'm subservient to a man who's half-mad, half-genius. I can imagine what you think of me."
Halloran sat next to her, their bodies touching. "The only thing I can't figure out is what you really drink."
Cora had to smile. "Whatever happens to be on offer," she replied with only a hint of sullenness. She sipped the wine and he noticed the bottle level was down to the last quarter. "Did I shock you last night?" Cora asked, looking into her glass.
"Sure," he answered.
She looked up sharply.
"I'd be a liar if I said I didn't enjoy it, though," Halloran added.
"He made me do it."
"What?"
"He made me go to your room." She reached for the bottle and topped up her wineglass, even though it was still half-full. "Felix told me to go to you last night."
Halloran was stunned. "I don't understand."
"He ordered me to seduce you. I don't know why. Perhaps he was testing you in some way. Or testing me. Perhaps he got some kind of kick out of it, finding another way to degrade me, turn me into a whore."
"Why should he want to do that?"
"Felix enjoys corrupting people. But it's too soon for you to have realized that."
"Cora, this doesn't make sense."
"You already know there's no sense to any of this, Liam. Why persist in looking for it? I'm sorry if I've bruised your ego, but the truth is I was merely obeying instructions last night." Her hand was shaking and she quickly drank to prevent the wine spilling over. She glanced at him and was surprised to find him smiling still, but this time that coldness was there, the glint of cruelness that somehow was constantly lurking beneath his surface manner.
"Maybe Kline wanted me kept busy," he said.
She caught her breath. He was right. For reasons of her own—reasons that were unclear even to herself—Cora had wanted to hurt Liam, to break through that aura of sureness. But there was more to it than that. She had wanted him, had wanted him to make love to her, had gone to him willingly as if . . . Cora struggled to crystallize the thought . . . as if he might be her . . . savior? Redeemer? Oh God, what a fool she was. Even then, when he had been inside her, it wasn't enough. She'd needed something more, much more. And they'd had to make love a different way so that she could achieve her own satisfaction. Felix had reduced her to that, made her a creature of sensations rather than emotions. And she'd despised Liam for this also, for she had allowed him to see her for what she was. Tonight she had tried to hurt him, but he had turned it around. It was she who had been humiliated further.