He only spoke a couple of words of Polish, and refused to speak Russian. Forsyth had picked up a few phrases of Ukrainian from some of his fellow-workers when he was working the Moscow Metro, but his pronunciation was so bad that he couldn’t get Fox to understand them, so the two of them wandered about in a fog of mutual incomprehension, which seemed to suit Fox all right because he hardly took any notice of his lodger apart from putting huge greasy fried meals on the table at irregular hours of the day and night. Fox took his own meals in front of the entertainment set, and when he was finished he put his plate on the floor. He only seemed to do the washing-up at long intervals: there was always a stack of plates beside his chair, crusted with dried food and congealed grease.
The room Forsyth had been given was full of mismatched furniture: chairs, tables, a sofa, all piled haphazardly one on top of the other. Occasionally Fox would go out and return with another chair or a table and dump it on the stack. What this was all about, Forsyth could only guess, but he had managed to clear a kind of nest for himself amongst all the rubbish, on the floor under a table. He’d padded the floor with three or four big thick blankets, and used his rolled-up jacket as a pillow. Fox liked to keep the heating turned up to equatorial levels, which more or less did away with the need for sheets but subtly enhanced the general miasm of rotting food which filled the flat.
Unable to sleep at night, Forsyth lay on his back staring up at the underside of the tabletop, going over and over the events of that night in the Metro. He still couldn’t work out what had happened. One moment Crispin had been there, chiding him for just assuming he was involved in some kind of drug deal. The next moment, Crispin was gone and Forsyth was lying on the trackbed. Between those two memories, something pretty major had obviously taken place, but Forsyth had no idea what it might have been. He couldn’t even work out how long he’d been lying there insensible.
Nor could he force himself to remember how he’d finally managed to get out of the Metro, or how he had got as far as Mokotów. Or too many things. What he could remember, like that Russian-speaking voice, could only have been some kind of hallucination, there was no other way to explain it.
On the fourth day, the doorbell rang. The doorbell was broken; the only sound it made was a sort of dull dry clicking, but by now Forsyth was in such a state of hypersensitivity from hours wandering back and forth around the flat that when he heard the clicking he had to restrain himself from diving screaming out of the nearest window.
Instead, he settled for retreating into his room and curling up under the table, watching the door and resolving to sell his life dearly, leaving aside the fact that he probably wouldn’t ever know what he was selling it for.
The door opened, and an eye-hurtingly neat young Japanese man stepped into the doorway, as alien a presence in this messy flat as it was possible to be. He looked around the room for a moment. Then he spotted Forsyth under the table, and he bent down and smiled.
“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 ani
me, 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?”
“I’m all right.” Forsyth sat up and clasped his knees to his chest. “What the fucking hell has been going on, Leon?”
Leon looked around the bedroom for something to sit on, but the futon was the only furniture, so he sat on the rucksack, put his hands on his knees, and said, “Did Hiroshi tell you about the flat?”
Forsyth nodded.
“A gas explosion, according to the police.” Leon tipped his head to one side. “A not totally implausible explanation, considering the state of the water heater.”
“I kept telling you to fix that fucking thing,” Forsyth said.
“I bumped into Anatoli yesterday. You know, the Kings’ lead guitarist? He’d just got out of hospital. He said he thought it was something to do with the decorators.”
Forsyth thought about this. Then he said, “What decorators?”
Leon pointed a finger at Forsyth as if the Scotsman had just won a major prize in a game-show. “My point exactly!” he cried. “What decorators. The two workmen Anatoli saw letting themselves into the flat on the morning of the explosion with tins of paint and brushes and dust-sheets and all that stuff, that’s what decorators.”
Forsyth closed his eyes.
“Pretty fucking amateur,” Leon said, “since the only people they actually managed to kill were two Ukrainian musicians and old Mr and Mrs Dobrowolski downstairs.”
“Well,” Forsyth said. He opened his eyes and blinked at Leon. “We’re homeless then.”
“Oh no.” Leon shook his head. “You were homeless already.”
“If Crispin isn’t dead, I’ll kill him myself,” Forsyth said, getting up from the futon and going over to the wardrobe.
“Is it safe to talk in here?” said Leon.
“Probably.” Forsyth started to get dressed. Kwak-Kwak had had his clothes laundered during the night, but there was still an unidentified stain on the right knee of his jeans as a souvenir of his stay with Fox.
“I’ve been going over and over it in my head.” Leon shifted his weight, trying to make himself more comfortable on the rucksack. “Crispin gets involved in some mad scheme to sell... something to the Georgians on Babykiller’s behalf. Crispin hides the drive in the Metro, then has to leave because all work’s suspended. Then Crispin has to leave the country – you never told me why he did that.”
Forsyth shook his head. “Crispin never said. He was in a hurry, though. I remember that.”
Leon shrugged. “Five months later, Crispin comes back. You help him retrieve the drive. Crispin gets killed.”
Struggling within the depths of his sweater, Forsyth said, “We don’t know that. I didn’t see his body. I didn’t see what happened to him.”
“Okay, okay. Something happens to Crispin and he’s not there any more, is that better?”
“It’s more accurate.” Forsyth’s head popped through the neck of his sweater. “Although the daft wee sod probably is dead.”
Leon waved his hand to shut Forsyth up. “Probably. Yes. All right. So the day after Crispin disappears, a bunch of Georgians washes up in the Wisła, and two days after that our flat blows up.”
Forsyth found his boots in the bottom of the wardrobe and carried them back to the futon. He sat down and stuffed his foot into one of the boots.
“You didn’t actually see who else was down there with you, did you,” Leon said.
“It was the Georgians.” Forsyth put on his other boot and started to lace it up. “Who else could it have been?”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” Leon said. He took the hard drive from his pocket and held it up. “We’ve been working on the assumption that whoever it was wanted this, yes?”
“The Georgians,” Forsyth said. “Because they didn’t want to pay for it.”
“But why would they have to?” asked Leon. “There’s only a map of the Warsaw Metro on here, and they can get one of those anywhere.”
“It’s the complete civil engineering schematic, not the tourist map,” Forsyth said. “But yes, you’re right. It wouldn’t be hard to get hold of.”
“In which case,” Leon said, “either the Georgians were expecting something else to be on here – nuclear launch codes or something, say – and this harmless map was substituted for them, or this harmless map is not as harmless as it seems.”
Forsyth looked at the hard drive. “Why would it not be harmless?”
“Because,” said a voice behind Leon, “there are places where maps are uniquely powerful.” A man edged into view in the doorway. He had a young face but grey in his hair, and he walked with a cane.
Forsyth looked from him to Leon, then back again. Then back again. “Are there not enough people mixed up in this mess already?” he asked.
“It’s possible,” said the man with the cane, “that you have stumbled on something quite significant, and I would like to buy it from you.”
“You can take it, and good luck to you,” said Forsyth. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s not worth anything.”
Leon pulled a face.
“In addition,” the man with the cane continued, “I can offer you safe passage out of Poland and a new identity in any nation, polity or sovereign entity in Europe.”
“There now,” Leon said to Forsyth. “Now do we have your attention?”
6.
“HAVE YOU EVER,” asked Rudi, “tried to tie up some of your life’s loose ends?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Forsyth said. “Now and again.”
“A bit of advice. Don’t. Some loose ends are better off left untied. I tried that.”
From the tone of his voice, it seemed to Forsyth that his unlikely rescuer had found the exercise ill-advised at best.
“Did you know, for example, that the people who built Dresden-Neustadt were also involved in building the Line?” Rudi asked. “And that some of them – quite possibly all of them – are involved in building Stare Miasto station?” He thought about it. “Actually, they’ve been involved in the whole Metro project, right from the beginning. The joint-venture scheme the Polish government runs is quite unusual; I have a suspicion the funding structure wasn’t wholly their idea, but you can’t tell with governments here. It’s difficult to work out who the private investors are; they seem to come and go, individually or collectively, down the years.”
Forsyth shrugged. “They’re expensive projects; there can’t be that many organisations who can afford to do that.”
“Very true. The question I’ve been asking myself is why. Why are these very rich people sinking so much money into civil engineering projects? Has it ever occurred to you, for instance, to wonder why anyone would want to rebuild what was already a perfectly good Metro system?”
“It’s what happens with Metro systems. They always need upgrading and extending.”
“On this scale?”
“The Poles want the best Metro in the world. It’s like having the tallest building in the world; it gives you bragging rights.”
Rudi rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been looking at this all wrong,” he said. “It’s not about trains, it’s about tunnels.”
They were a long way from Warsaw, in a resort hotel just west of Sopot, a glowering Brutalist structure like a Mayan pyramid faced with hundreds of balconies, where one could, if one wrapped up warmly, stand and gaze out towards the Winter-whipped Baltic a kilometre or so away. The place was almost empty; the season was late and the Christmas and New Year guests wouldn’t be arriving for another month or so. Even after all these years, Forsyth couldn’t work out what would possess Poles to want to spend Christmas in a place like this.
“Your friend mentioned something about Russians,” Rudi mused, looking around the cavernous dining room on the hotel’s third floor. There was enough glass in the backward-s
loping floor-to-ceiling windows to cover a football pitch, but the view they looked out on was a vista of sand dunes and hardy grass and sleet; the weather was so bad today that the sea was barely visible.
“You mean the Georgians?”
“No. When you were in the Metro tunnels. He said you heard Russians.”
“I was scared out of my wits,” Forsyth told him. “I don’t know what I heard.”
Rudi smiled and leaned forward a little and put his elbows on the table on either side of his soup bowl. “But you do,” he said. “You do know what you heard, don’t you.”
Forsyth looked at him. “There was a train,” he said finally. “The ramp I was on led down to another platform. There were lots of people there, and there was a train.”
Rudi raised an eyebrow.
Forsyth sighed. “Before I became a Rep, I did a lot of work at Old Town Station,” he explained. “I know that place really well. And there isn’t a platform there. And even if there was, there was no power to run a train and the lights. It was as if...” He shook his head.
“It was as if you weren’t in Old Town Station any more,” Rudi suggested. “As if you weren’t in the Warsaw Metro at all.”
Forsyth looked blankly at him.
“Have you ever heard of Stendhal Syndrome?”
“What?”
Rudi looked up at the many hundreds of lights hanging far up on the dining room’s ceiling. “There are documented occurrences of people visiting the Uffizi in Florence and becoming... overwhelmed by the beauty of the place. Dizziness, fainting. Stendhal Syndrome.
“Anyway, there was a man – I never met him, but I know someone who did, which is how I know this particular story – who was interested in Stendhal Syndrome. He found examples of similar symptoms in other places – the Maine coast, parts of Cornwall – and he started to wonder if there was something about the topographical structure of these places that was making people unwell. Fortunately, he had access to a fabulous amount of computing power and quite a lot of time on his hands, and eventually he came to the conclusion that there are some places where the landscape is just the wrong shape, simply too intense for human perceptions.
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