Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(81)

“Forsyth-san,” said Kwak-Kwak. “Konichi-wa.”





“ONE HAS TO wonder why you did not come to us straight away,” said Kwak-Kwak.

“Leon was making all the decisions,” Forsyth muttered, scrunching himself up in the Nissan’s passenger seat and trying to compress his body below the level of the window.

Kwak-Kwak nodded. “An interesting chap, your flatmate. He tells me he is a director.”

“Political film-maker.”

“Very interesting.” Kwak-Kwak made a right-turn. “He claims to have an impressive collection of anime. Would this be true?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“He said he would show me when the present situation was resolved.” Kwak-Kwak’s accent was purest Oxbridge, but he talked like nobody else Forsyth had ever met. “He showed some wisdom in approaching us.”

“Leon’s good at wisdom,” Forsyth said, watching from his scrunched-up position as the streetlights sailed by overhead. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” said Kwak-Kwak, “until we can decide what to do with you.”

“Leon said I was somewhere safe.”

The Japanese laughed. “Safe? In Praga? Please.”

“What’s been happening?”

“Mister Jespersen is very keen to get in touch with you. The police also are very keen to get in touch with you because there was an explosion in your flat two nights ago.”

“What?” Forsyth almost sat up in the seat, but remembered he was supposed to be trying to hide.

“Your downstairs neighbours were killed, unfortunately. As were a number of individuals in the flat next door. Ukrainian nationals.”

“The Enzyme Kings.” Shit, shit. “What about Leon?”

“Leon was not at home at the time. We’re not at all certain where Leon is at the moment, although it seems unlikely that he was a casualty.”

Kwak-Kwak was, of course, far too polite to ask what the hell was going on. Forsyth sighed. “Has anybody been talking about Crispin?”

Kwak-Kwak overtook a couple of parked cars and shook his head. “Is Crispin back?”

“He was,” Forsyth said miserably.

“None of my boys has seen him, and no one seems to be talking about him.”

“Kwak-Kwak?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you helping me?”

“You appear to have encountered a situation which is beyond your ability to resolve,” Kwak-Kwak said, as if it was obvious.

Forsyth thought about that. And, yes, it was obvious. He’d encountered a situation which was beyond his ability to resolve. It was obvious to anybody with half a brain cell. He closed his eyes.

“Almost home now,” said Kwak-Kwak.

“Kwak-Kwak?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“No need.”





KWAK-KWAK AND THE workers he represented lived in a walled enclave not too far from the centre of town, next door to what had once been the British Embassy. It was, to all intents and purposes, a polity, sovereign territory guarded by strong silent men with the odd missing finger and torsos that were solid panels of tattooing. Nobody had ever tried to break into the Japanese enclave. Not twice, anyway.

Forsyth woke feeling calm and refreshed and – more importantly – clean. His new room, compared with Fox’s flat, was as aseptic as the hotel room in 2001 and considerably less cluttered. There was a futon in the middle of the spotless white floor, tatami mats, and a soft white light hanging from the centre of the ceiling. The walls were paper screens mounted on wooden lathing, and some of them slid aside to reveal cupboards, the en suite bathroom, the doorway.

He lay on the futon for some time, luxuriating in the touch of the cotton sheets and the faint smell of peach-blossom in the air, feeling properly safe for the first time in days.

There was a discreet knock, and after a suitable interval part of the wall slid to one side and Kwak-Kwak was standing there wearing work-boots and neat, clean orange overalls. In his hand was a hard-hat with KAWASAKI spray-stencilled on the front.

“Work?” Forsyth said, sitting up and automatically thinking that he should contact some of the tunnel men he represented if work was going on somewhere in the city. Then he remembered that he was probably never ever going to be able to do that again.

“A safety check only,” said Kwak-Kwak. “I have to certify the safety equipment at Mokotów Station before my men can work down there.”

Forsyth lay back on the bed, thinking of his conversation with Jespersen earlier in the week. It felt like a thousand years ago. He still couldn’t remember how he had got past the security gates at Mokotów. He sighed.

“You have a visitor,” Kwak-Kwak said, and moved to one side to let Leon step into the doorway. Leon was carrying a huge overfilled ex-Army rucksack and wearing one of the shapeless patchwork leather hats Forsyth was always seeing on older Poles. They looked at each other and nodded hello.

“I must go,” Kwak-Kwak said. To Leon he said, “We will speak later about your anime, Grzybowski-san.”

“Any time you’re ready, Hiroshi,” Leon said. When Kwak-Kwak had gone, Leon said, “I haven’t the heart to tell him all my discs went up with the flat.” He looked at Forsyth. “So. How are you?”