I didn’t have an answer to that. Didn’t feel I needed one, either. Hypothetical questions were for lawyers and storytellers, not for people like me. These men hadn’t taken Hailey, and we had no business killing them. Period. No business busting their skulls, either.
“It’s done,” I said finally. “Let’s leave it alone.”
We continued walking. A few minutes later, Ostermann came to a halt and motioned across the street.
“There,” he said. “That’s the address for Alim.”
According to Dietrich, Alim’s apartment took up the left half of the second floor. From our vantage point, it appeared the entire floor was dark. We crossed the street.
As we walked up the steps to his building, a middle-aged Turkish woman was stepping outside with a black plastic garbage bag filled to the hilt but apparently not very heavy. She held the door for us.
“Excuse me,” Ostermann said to her. “Do you know Alim Sari?”
She hesitated. “Are you the police?”
“Of course not,” he said. “We’re customers of his.”
She didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t look like she much cared, either. “Yes, I know him. Second floor.” She started down the concrete stairs.
“How about his uncle?” I said. “Do you know his uncle Talik?”
“I have met him once,” she said. “He is staying with Alim these past few days.”
I thanked her, but she was already on her way.
“That’s convenient,” Ostermann said once she’d left.
We entered the old building and walked quietly up the stairs to the second floor.
“Let’s find a way in without damaging the door,” I said.
Ostermann tried the handle. “It’s unlocked.” He didn’t look too happy about it.
We both drew our weapons.
“On drei,” he said before opening the door. “Eins, zwei … drei!”
We moved in, aiming our pistols in the darkness. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the pounding of my heart. Then Ostermann found a switch and the flat was illuminated. The place looked as though it had been hit by a tornado.
“They’ve gone already,” I said, training my weapon on the bedroom door. I kicked it open as Ostermann examined the other end of the flat.
“Christ,” I said, a sizable lump forming in my throat.
I took a tentative step forward and squinted, hoping my eyes had deceived me. But no. Facedown on the queen-size bed lay a naked body, the head and pillow covered in blood.
“What is it?” Ostermann called out.
I heard his footsteps approaching the bedroom.
“It’s a corpse,” I said.
He stood in the doorframe, a sick look on his face. “Is it Alim?”
I moved up close to the bed and knelt beside it, careful not to get blood on my suit. I surveyed the features of the dead man’s face.
“No,” I said. “It’s not Alim. It’s his friend Sidika.”
*
Our search of the flat yielded nothing of use. Alim Sari and his uncle Talik had left in haste but had been thorough. Not a scrap of paper or business card, no train or flight schedules, not a single road map. Nothing to provide us any hint of where they were heading. Or, more important, where the girl had been taken. We had hit a wall.
“I am sorry, Simon,” Ostermann said, once we’d gone over every square foot of the apartment.
Hands on my hips, I stared at each of the four walls, tempted to tear them down. Since they were bare, the electrical sockets stood out. As I paced the length of the living room, I noticed a phone jack. I pointed at it.
“Did you see any phone?” I said.
“Just an ancient thing with a cord wrapped around it in the closet of the second bedroom,” Ostermann said.
“Get it, would you?”
Ostermann brought the phone to me and I unwrapped the cord, plugged it into the jack. I ran a finger along the receiver for dust but it was fairly clean. Which meant it had been used recently. I swallowed hard and put the receiver to my ear.
“Is there a dial tone?” Ostermann said.
I nodded, studied the handset. “This word here,” I said, pointing to a button. “What does it mean?”
“Mute.”
“And this one?”
“Redial.”
I punched the Redial button. As the phone dialed, I handed the receiver to Ostermann.
“Here,” I said. “I won’t understand if someone picks up in German.”
Ostermann listened. After a full minute he set the receiver back on its base.
“Well?” I asked.
“It’s a law office,” he said, pulling his Android from his pocket. “But it’s not German. It’s Polish.”
His thumb worked the buttons as he entered the name of the firm in his browser.
“Have you found it?” I said after a minute.
“Yes, Simon, I’ve found it.”
“Well, where is it located?”
He looked up at me.
“It’s in Warsaw,” he said.
Chapter 17
“How far is it from here to Warsaw?” I asked.
Ostermann shrugged. “Not far. Just over five hundred kilometers.”
We were seated in the rear of a taxi on our way back to Tiergarten. A flurry of snow fell from the sky.
“I’m going to take the motorcycle,” I said. “I’ll jump on the autobahn. Should make it in less than six hours. I’ll get there shortly after nine A.M. and head straight for the lawyer’s office.”
“You understand, Simon, that I cannot go with you. After last night, I must stay and protect Magda and Jakob.”
“I understand,” I said.
He leaned back against the torn vinyl seat. “Perhaps we will go on a holiday of our own for a while. Magda is always asking me to take her to Portugal.”
I thought of poor little Madeleine McCann. Of my daughter, Hailey. Of Lindsay Sorkin.
“I would like you to do me a favor once I leave,” I said.
“Of course, Simon.”
“Go to Hauptbahnhof Station and visit the men’s room that’s under repair. In the lower basement, near the Karlstadt. Check the third stall, all the stalls, the trash, everything. Then head to security and ask to see the CCTV tapes from yesterday morning, but do it quietly. Be discreet. On the tapes, look for Dietrich and Karl and the little girl. See who took her once they left the men’s room, if you can. If you find anything, call me straightaway.”
“Of course, Simon.”
I took out my BlackBerry and called Davignon’s cell phone, expecting to leave a message. But he picked up on the first ring. It didn’t sound as though I had woken him.
“Simon,” he said urgently, “are you still in Berlin?”
“For the time being,” I told him.
“Any news on the girl?”
“I found Dietrich and Karl,” I said.
“Are they in custody?”
“No,” I said.
“They got away?”
“I don’t have time to explain, Lieutenant. But I did reach them and they led me to a Turk named Talik and his nephew Alim Sari. They’re involved in the heroin trade here in Germany. Part of the Turkish mob.”
“Can you get to them?” Davignon said.
“I was too late. They’re gone. But I think I’ve drawn a bead on them. Their last phone call was to a lawyer’s office in Warsaw. That’s where I’m headed.”
“Simon, that sounds like a fool’s errand. You do not know if that is where they went. Perhaps they remained in Germany.”
“No,” I said, “I was getting too close. They fled. If you can do so quietly, alert Interpol. I’d like to keep them off the trains and on the ground if I can.”
“How about you? How will you get to Warsaw?”
“I’m taking the motorcycle. With any luck, I’ll pass them on the road.”
Davignon remained silent for a moment, then said, “I am staying in the Sor
kins’ new hotel suite, in case the kidnappers call. I promised Lori Sorkin that I would wake her if you phoned. She would like to speak to you.”
“I’d rather not, Lieutenant. Not until I have the girl.”
“Please, Simon. Hearing your voice will reassure her.”
I hesitated. “All right,” I said. “Go fetch her.”
While I waited, I turned to Ostermann. “Am I leaving you holding the bag again?”
Ostermann shook his head. “No, I think we can agree that tonight was all my doing. If there is any heat, I will deal with it.”
Before I could say another word, Lori Sorkin’s sleepy voice came on the line. “Simon?”
“This is Simon.”
Hearing her voice, I felt like I was speaking to Tasha all over again. Felt as though I were just returning home from Bucharest having captured Dumitru Antonescu, who would eventually be acquitted after a federal trial back in the States.
“Lieutenant Davignon says you’re on your way to Poland.”
“That’s right.”
She followed a long silence with, “I don’t know what I’ll do without her, Simon.”
I took a deep breath. “That’s not something you’re going to have to worry about, Lori. Because I’m going to bring Lindsay back to Paris.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, breaking down. “How, Simon? How are you going to get her back?”
I thought about Ostermann pushing the barrel of his handgun into Karl’s mouth.
“By doing whatever it takes, Lori. Whatever it takes.”
*
The taxi dropped us around the corner from Ostermann’s office building, in case the police still had the place under surveillance. I had parked the BMW in the lot less than twenty-four hours earlier, though I felt as if I had been in Berlin a month.
Once Ostermann assured me it was clear, we walked across the lot toward my bike.
“Thank you,” I said to him.
“It was my pleasure, Simon. Just please, do me one favor, as well.”
“What is it?”
“If you find Alim, when you find Alim, do not kill him.” He paused. “Please. Leave that for me.”
I said nothing.
Ostermann said, “You have my mobile number, Simon? If I can be of any further assistance, do not hesitate to call me.”
“Of course.”
We stopped at my bike. It was a beautiful machine.
Ostermann said, “You all right to drive?”
“I got plenty of sleep at the Ritz while you were spending quality time with Reese Witherspoon.”
He smiled. “I hope like hell that you find that little girl, Simon. I hope you find her and bring her home.”
“Oh, I’ll find her,” I said, climbing onto the motorcycle. “I’ll find her.” I placed the helmet on my head and opened the visor. “I just hope it’s not too late when I do.”
Part Two
THE LAWYERS OF WARSAW
Chapter 18
The lawyer’s name was Mikolaj Dabrowski. His office was located in the city center, not far from Warsaw University. I arrived shortly after ten A.M., checked on the suits I’d stuffed into the side and top storage cases on the bike—not bad, considering—and made for the entrance.
The building was modern. Just entering, one might think the building was located in New York or Los Angeles. There was nothing Old World about it.
At the security desk, I gave my real name and told them I was a prospective client. There was no fuss at all. Security here was far more lax than at Ostermann’s office in Berlin. I was given a sticker to put on my lapel and told to head straight up to the ninth floor.
“Dzien dobry,” I said to the receptionist when I stepped through the double glass doors and into the office. “I am here to see Pan Dabrowski.”
The receptionist smiled with a tilt of her head. “I am afraid Pan Dabrowski is not in today. Perhaps another lawyer can assist you?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” I said, trying not to deflate in front of her. I gave her my name.
“Please, have a seat, Pan Fisk. It will be only a few minutes.”
I sat and tried to busy myself with the morning’s copy of the Warsaw Business Journal. I didn’t understand a word the paper said, of course, but I wanted to hide my wilting head. I was exhausted from the morning’s drive. And I hadn’t slept since yesterday afternoon in Berlin.
As I sat there, waiting for some lawyer who wasn’t Dabrowski, I wondered what the hell the young Simon Fisk had been thinking when he decided to go into law enforcement. I didn’t remember ever making the decision, but at some point I must have. Maybe it was to piss off my father, who had all but insisted I follow in his footsteps and become a doctor. Maybe it was to prove something to him. Maybe it was to prove something to myself. What that was, I’d never known. What I did know was that if I hadn’t been a U.S. Marshal, I would never have gone to Romania, and my daughter, Hailey, might still be alive. She was taken on a Saturday. If I’d been home, I would have been there to protect her. In fact, we wouldn’t have been living in D.C. in the first place. If I’d gone to medical school after American University, I probably would have moved back to New England, and Tasha would have come with me. We were that in love. And, of course, if Hailey hadn’t been taken, Tasha would still be alive. We would be Dr. and Mrs. Fisk of Boston, Massachusetts, or Narragansett, Rhode Island, or …
“Pan Fisk?”
I lowered the paper and saw two of the brightest green eyes in existence.
“Yes. Simon,” I said.
“Pleased to meet you, Simon. My name is Anastazja Staszak, and I am Mikolaj Dabrowski’s associate. Shall we move to the conference room?”
“Of course,” I said, setting the paper down and pushing myself out of the chair.
I followed her, my eyes locked on the back of her head, her curly red-brown hair. She smelled of fresh strawberries, the genuine deal, nothing fake, nothing too chemical or sweet. And when we entered the conference room, I saw why. A bowl of fresh strawberries sat in the middle of the long rectangular table.
“Please,” she said with a thick, appealing accent, “have a seat.”
I was hungry. I must have been staring at the strawberries.
“Please,” she said, pulling the bowl to us. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” I bit into one; it was the best damn strawberry I’d ever tasted.
“So,” she said, “have you been charged with a crime?”
“A crime? You’re a criminal lawyer?”
“Yes, of course. You did not know this? We are a small firm. Only three lawyers. We handle only criminal matters.”
I finished off the first strawberry and took another.
“Where’s Dabrowski?” I said.
“Pan Dabrowski is not in today. Was he expecting you?”
“Will he be back later in the day?”
She smiled uncomfortably. “I am sorry. But I do not know what this is about. Do you have personal business with Pan Dabrowski?”
“I don’t know yet if it’s personal.” I stuffed another strawberry into my mouth. “I just know that I need to see him as soon as possible.”
“Are you British?”
“I’m American.”
“You do not sound American.”
“I get that a lot,” I said. “Especially in America.”
She nodded amicably. “If you are in need of a criminal lawyer, Pan Fisk, I am happy to help you, if only until Pan Dabrowski returns. But if you need to speak with him personally, I am afraid you will have to wait. He is not expected back until next week.”
“I can’t wait that long. Where is he?”
“I am afraid I am not at liberty—”
“Is he in the country?” I said.
“What is this in regards to?”
“One of his clients.”
“You are a witness?”
“You could say that. But I’m not here to supply information, I’m here to obtain
it.”
“Surely, Pan Fisk, you realize that a lawyer cannot divulge information about his client.”
“He can if his client is involved in the commission of a major crime.”
She froze for a moment. “May I ask which client you are referring to?”
“A man named Talik. Possibly his nephew Alim Sari.”
“I have never heard of either of these men.”
“They’re Turks living in Germany. One of them called here recently.”
She said, “If they are Mikolaj’s clients, I would not know. He is the head of the firm. He does not share information about his clients with us unless he requires our assistance.”
“But the names would be in your office database, correct?”
“It does not matter,” she said. “I would not be able to access them if they were. And even if I could, I would not dare.”
“Look, Miss Staszak—”
“You may call me Ana.”
“All right, Ana, let me level with you. Ordinarily, at this point, I’d thank you for your time and stand up and leave. I would wait until your office closed. Then I’d break in, poke through your files, take what I need. But you seem like the sort I can reason with, and frankly, I can’t afford the extra eight to ten hours. I’m running out of time as it is.”
“Pan Fisk—”
“Simon. Call me Simon.”
“Okay, Simon. I have no idea what you are speaking about, but you are frightening me. I would like you to leave now, or else I will have to call security.”
Ana began to stand. I gently took hold of her wrist and lowered her back into the chair.
“Please, Ana, hear me out. If at the end of my explanation you want no part of this, I promise you, I will leave.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then settled in her seat, crossed her long, lithe legs. “You have five minutes, Simon.”
“That’s three more than I need,” I said, leaning toward her. “No doubt you have heard the name Lindsay Sorkin over the past few days.”
“Relentlessly,” she said. “The American girl who went missing in Paris.”
“Abducted,” I corrected her. “She didn’t go missing. She was taken from her parents’ hotel room in the middle of the night while they slept.”
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 8