Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(70)

Not that it was difficult to loathe Poland, sitting in the English Pub. The place was full of the usual career drinkers, a few sharp-suited young entrepreneurs, a couple of tourists who had taken a wrong turn or got on the wrong tram and were sitting wondering where they were and what the hell they were doing there. Over in a corner, a little group of Georgians, with wan, hard faces and huge moustaches, was drinking for free. Marek paid them a tenth of his monthly takings and as much free vodka as they could drink, in return for them not making his elbows bend in the wrong direction.

“Stop staring at them,” Ewa said. “They’ll come over.”

“I’m not staring.” Forsyth said, but he’d been watching the Georgians almost all night, because the only one of the little group without a moustache was Crispin.

“I hate that man,” said Ewa.

“Mm,” Forsyth replied. “Pardon?”

Ewa snorted. She downed her glass of Wyborowa in one swallow and glared at him. She had been glaring at him ever since he got back from Poznan. Ewa liked to be met at the station or the airport when she returned from her foreign trips.

“I already told you I was sorry,” Forsyth reminded her.

“Yes,” she said, unimpressed. “And stop watching that horrible man, or I will leave.”

Crispin was laughing and shouting, completely relaxed. He was pouring drinks, joining in jokes. Now he got up. One of the Georgians got up too. They hugged. They kissed. Crispin came over to Forsyth and Ewa’s table and pulled up one of the velour-covered stools.

“Hey, Ewa,” he said. “How they hanging?”

“I’m going home,” Ewa announced, standing up.

“Um,” said Forsyth.

Ewa looked down at him. “Well?”

Forsyth looked from Ewa to Crispin, back to Ewa. “I need to talk to Crispin.”

“Fine.” Ewa grabbed her shoulder bag and stormed out, shoving aside one particularly amorous drunk as she made her way to the door.

Crispin beamed beatifically and waggled his fingers at her. “’Bye, Ewa.”

“Thanks for that, Crispin,” Forsyth said. “Why couldn’t you have stayed over there with your mates, eh?”

Crispin looked over his shoulder. The Georgians were drinking and shouting again. “Good ol’ boys,” he said, almost nostalgically.

“Crispin, what do you want?”

“Been looking for you,” Crispin said, waving to the Georgians.

“I’ve been in Poznan.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Crispin turned to look at him, his expression suddenly serious. “Ever hear of Babykiller?”

Forsyth put his hand to his face and said, “Oh.”

“It’s his stash, man,” he heard Crispin say. “I put it down the hole last year. I have to get it back.”

Forsyth looked up, suddenly tired. “You decided to get involved with Babykiller?”

Crispin made a sour face. “I never expected the f*cking government to resign, man.”

“You should always expect the government to resign, Crispin.”

“Ah,” Crispin waved a hand dismissively, “I thought they were there another eight, ten months at least. I had the stuff, I stashed it, then the government went tits-up and we were pulled out of the hole. I never got the chance to bring it up.”

“Well, at least it’s safe,” Forsyth mused.

Crispin gave Forsyth his hard stare. It made him look vaguely myopic. “Will you help me or will I have to do it myself?”

“You’ll get yourself arrested.”

“So help me.”

Forsyth sighed. “How long do you have?”

“Tomorrow morning. Then I’m hamburger.”

“Well thanks for giving me so much time to get ready,” Forsyth said.

“But you’ll help, right?”

Forsyth looked at his watch. “Where is it?”





“JESPERSEN SAYS HE’LL have you arrested if you go near any of the sites,” Forsyth said, his breath wisping in the air in front of his lips.

“Fuck him,” Crispin muttered, each word a distinct little cloud of fog.

Behind them, somebody laughed drunkenly. Forsyth looked round, but the street was too badly-lit to make out who had made the noise.

“You’re some kind of f*cking nutcase to get involved with Babykiller, Crispin.”

Crispin grunted. “Not that you’re being judgemental or anything.”

During its various travails, Poland had always thrown up dark legends, and Babykiller was the latest and possibly greatest of them all. Shadowy, vague, seemingly unarrestable. Possibly one man, possibly a collective of underworld masterminds, possibly neither. One story said he was a Lapp, from up North of Rovaniemi. Older Poles, who had never trusted their leaders no matter who those leaders happened to be, contended that Babykiller was government-sponsored, but did not specify which government in particular. Crispin was the only person Forsyth had ever encountered who claimed to have had personal dealings with Poland’s demon mastermind.

“It was a dead drop,” Crispin muttered. “The stuff was left in a luggage locker at Centralna. I never met him. What, you think he’s stupid? You think I’m stupid?”