The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(9)

“Tell me how you found this place?”

“A bit of luck, actually. But sometimes that’s all you have.”

He caught the message. Don’t ask too many questions.

His gaze raked the room and he noticed an array of framed pictures on a table. One caught his eye. He walked over and studied the image of a man dressed in a uniform. A major in the Polish army, with the insignia of the SB, the Security Service, on his shirt. He recognized the nondescript face, with razor-cut hair and manicured mustache, the same man from Mokotów Prison.

Aleksy Dilecki.

He’d neither seen nor heard anything of the man in decades.

World War II destroyed Poland, everything bombed and gutted to oblivion with no resources and little manpower left to rebuild. The Soviets promised a rebirth and many believed them. But by the late 1970s, the lies were evident and the country’s patience had come to an end. By then everyone worked long hours, found little food in stores, and was constantly cold from a lack of coal and clothing, including coats. They were spied on all the time, fed propaganda, their children brainwashed. The threat of force never ended. Nor had hunger, with the government even dictating how much a person could eat through ration cards. We all have equal stomachs. That’s what many had echoed. And when people were hungry, when their children were hungry, they would do anything to calm the pain.

And they did.

He liked what Orwell wrote.

All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.

That had been Aleksy Dilecki.

Politicians and police were always favored. They received more rations. They shopped at special stores. They lived in better housing, with more privileges. They even had a name. Nomenklatura, a Soviet term for the list of government jobs always waiting to be filled. People were selected not on merit, but solely on loyalty to the regime. They became an informal ruling class unto themselves. The Red Bourgeoisie. Corruption and cruelty were constant means to their ends.

And he was staring at one of the participants.

He remembered what was said, all those years ago, in Mokotów Prison.

Who knows? One day you might be a big somebody.

He shook his head at the irony, and liked the fact that Dilecki was dead.

“Do you know him?” Zima asked.

He’d only briefed one person on the relevant history, and it wasn’t Zima. So he ignored the inquiry and said, “Show me what you found.”

And he replaced the photo on the table.

He followed Zima into a small storage room, the space cluttered with remnants of a family’s past. He saw the two rusted filing cabinets.

“They’re filled with documents,” Zima said. “Reports, correspondence, memoranda. All from the late 1970s to 1990. Scattered dates and incidents. No real pattern to anything. Dilecki worked for the Security Service a long time. He would have been privy to many secrets. Apparently, he removed some of those when the communists fell.”

So much had been lost during that chaotic period after the Soviet Union collapsed and Poland reemerged. Today few cared about the past. Everyone was just glad it was over. The future seemed to be all that mattered. But such shortsightedness was a mistake.

Because history mattered.

“Has anyone examined those files?” he asked.

“Only me. And my review was quick and cursory. Just enough to determine that it might be what you are looking for.”

He was curious. “How do you know I’m looking for anything?”

“I don’t. I’m merely assuming, based on what I know so far.”

He should inquire about the extent of what this man knew. But not now. “Have everything in those two cabinets loaded into the trunk of the car I came in.”

Zima nodded his understanding.

“Did Dilecki’s widow sell any of the documents?” he asked.

“No. Their son did. We have him in custody.”

That was new information.

“We arrested him a few hours ago.” Zima motioned and he followed him back to the parlor. A blue nylon duffel bag lay on the sofa. Zima unzipped the top to reveal stacks of zlotys. “Half a million. We recovered it from the son’s house.”

Now it all began to make sense. The parents were good, loyal communists, the son not so much. Decades had passed. The father was gone, the mother aging. Two file cabinets might hold the key to changing everything, especially when some of those documents mentioned the name Janusz Czajkowski. All you had to do was find a buyer.

“Has the son admitted to anything?”

Zima nodded. “He made a deal with a man named Vic DiGenti, who is a known associate of Jonty Olivier.”

“You say that name as if you know him.”

“We do. He peddles information. Somewhat reliable, too. Our in telligence services have used him on occasion. The mother was totally unaware of what the son did. She only found out last evening, when he offered her some of the money. She was not happy. They had a bitter fight, just a few hours before we arrested him.”

“Show me the rest,” he said.

Zima led him out the back door to a small corrugated-roof barn. Trees and shrubs shielded the structure from the nearby highway. Its door hung open and he entered. A weak electric lantern dissolved the shadows. Not much there. A few tools, a wheelbarrow, an old rusted car, and a woman, hanging from the rafters, her arms limp at her side, the neck angled over in death.