Priceless

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  He sighed. Soon he’d be able to leave this dumpy country, this ugly town that stank of fried food, and these hideous mountains. And above all this godforsaken hotel.

  He cast another glance at the bent support and smiled at the notion that this whole drama had come full circle—here it began, and here it would end. How amusing.

  Nevertheless, he could hardly believe he was here again.

  3

  He could hardly believe he was here again.

  Usually, when he got out at the station in Zakopane, Anatol had a nice warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, prompted by the sight of the beautiful mountains on the horizon. They were always different. Hidden behind a curtain of rain or fog, bathed in sunlight, or covered in snow. And sometimes they were ominous black shapes against the night sky. Every time they promised adventure in a different way.

  Today he felt nothing but a void. He wasn’t thinking about the weather or the mountains or the people he’d saved here. He was thinking about the people who’d been killed. He was thinking about everyone who’d died because of him in the twenty years he’d spent in the army. Ten years on active service, mostly on missions. How many times had he carried out an order that ended in death? How many times had he issued a similar order? When had he stopped wondering whether or not choosing the lesser of two evils was really a moral choice when someone was bound to die as a result?

  He didn’t even glance at the mountains. He escorted everyone to a cab and told the driver to take them to the lower cableway station.

  At this time of year, in these conditions and this amount of snow, the place would usually be buzzing with skiers, snowboarders, and tourists, eager to ride up the mountain. There’d be minibuses parked one after another, sleds moving nonstop, hawkers selling funny hats and souvenir alpenstocks, and sheep’s milk cheeses and steaks flying off the portable barbecues.

  Now the place felt stagnant. The closed cableway building was dark and deserted, with red-and-white plastic tape stretched across the gates, its tattered ends fluttering. Even the electronic board showing the temperature above and below, which usually worked around the clock all year, had been switched off—the ultimate proof this place was dead. Nobody knew if or when the cableway would start moving again.

  The four of them passed the station building, crossed below the cables, and set off uphill along a path that led between two walls of snow-covered spruce trees where the white powder occasionally showered down from the trees, creating a cloud of icy dust that shone in the sunlight. They passed the Albertine Convent hidden among the trees, then turned down a narrower path, which led them along the edge of the valley toward the hotel.

  It was a perfect, fairy-tale day in the mountains. And Major Anatol Gmitruk would certainly have drunk in this day with every fiber of his being if not for the agonizing feeling of impending death.

  Let it just be over and done with, he thought. If we find something here, or not, let it finally be over.

  “Anatol, I wanted to ask you something.” They were very close to the hotel when Karol came up to him, panting from the uphill march. “Who is Sylwia?”

  Anatol stopped. “Sorry?”

  “If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine. But I remember you reacted strangely when we heard her on the radio, talking about her cancer, and I keep wondering why. I’m sorry if I’m being nosy.”

  “Yes,” said Anatol, and walked on.

  “Yes what?” Karol persisted.

  “Yes, you’re being nosy.”

  “But what was that all about? Did you meet at a support group? Have you got heart cancer too, and you’re not telling us?”

  Anatol smiled. Not a bad way of putting it. Yes, you could say he did have heart cancer. Sylwia had given it to him—the most infectious cancer in the history of the world.

  “We were close once, that’s all.”

  “Aha.”

  He thought that was the end, but it wasn’t.

  “Did you know she’s already collected the entire amount she was asking for?”

  Anatol stopped.

  “All of it?” he asked.

  “Yes. She needed two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and yesterday she had that and then some. But a few days ago she only had about thirteen thousand. Did you make a donation?”

  In forty years he had never been disloyal. Neither to his wife nor his girlfriends, nor the army, nor his country. For the first time in his life he’d been a traitor, and he knew that with this one act he’d wiped out everything he’d ever been, would wish to be, and could be.

  He was, and would always be, a man without honor.

  “Just some savings,” he said at last.

  He could have lied, but he was so very tired of this game by now. And he didn’t want to lie anymore; he knew they deserved to hear the truth. On top of that, he was sick of playing “Polish spies” and chasing secrets from seventy years ago. What the hell did all that matter compared to a woman who was dying because her own heart was trying to kill her?

  “When did they find you?” asked Lisa behind them.

  In the silence of the mountains their breathing seemed unnaturally loud.

  “I made a transfer at an internet café in Gothenburg. I emptied all my savings into her account. I was afraid I wouldn’t have another chance. That evening they were waiting for me. They offered to pay for her operation and add a bit more for personal expenses.”

  “You betrayed us?” Zofia’s voice sounded so shocked and wounded that Anatol felt it like a physical blow. He felt the worst about her. Lisa was a thief from the underworld, Karol was a thief in white gloves, but Zofia? The girl with the coal-black eyes who was determined to change the world for the better at any price? And now, because of him, she’d pay the price.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What did you have to do in exchange for the money?” asked Karol.

  “Carry a bug and a wire so they could monitor our activities. International stability and all that.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I took it. I had it on me until yesterday. When I saw that they’d transferred the entire amount to Sylwia, I left it at the hotel in Kraków. I’m sorry.”

  He felt he was losing his self-control. It was the worst thing he’d ever done. If he had a gun, he’d put a bullet through his head right now. But he couldn’t. Before anyone had a chance to speak, he set off uphill. And they went after him.

  A few paces later they emerged into a clearing, where the sun reflected off the snow so brightly that they had to look away. It took a while for their eyes to adjust.

  The hotel stood at the top of the clearing, like a fairy-tale castle on a mountaintop. A solid square on a foundation of granite blocks topped with an almost-flat roof, propped against the walls by slender supports, it was simple, alpine in style, without any tacky decorations. Just a solid sanctuary, a refuge prompting a sense of peace and confidence.

  “Who found you?” asked Zofia, blocking his path.

  “The same guy I shot in New York. The assassin.”

  Zofia stared into space. “Jasper Leong,” she whispered.

  “Yes and no,” said Lisa. “He was known as Jasper Leong, but also Martin Meller. A very evil man. We have to get away.”

  “Martin Meller?” said Zofia, staring at her in amazement.

  “I guess we all have our secrets,” said Anatol, without taking his eyes off Lisa; his icy voice was well suited to the winter landscape. “By some tremendous coincidence Jasper Leong is Martin Meller, our lady thief’s ex-lover. Known to the criminal elite as Hermod, the contract killer for the greatest superpowers, who guarantee him protection.”

  Lisa stepped back a pace.

  “I know how it sounds,” she said. “But I’m not connected with him in any way.”

  Nobody said a word.

  “We must go now,” she repeated. “If he found Anatol and was following him until yesterday, he’ll find us too. We have to go our separate ways and forget everything.
”

  Lisa went up to Anatol and looked him in the face.

  “You’re either stupid or evil. Either way, you’re definitely a traitor, Snake.”

  Anatol didn’t answer. He had nothing to say.

  “Are you so eager to save your ex so she can get off with some other guy?”

  “Lisa . . .”

  “Fuck you. Because of you we’re all going to die.”

  They stood silent. Higher up, there were children romping in the snow, tourists taking pictures, and a small ski lift making noise. Everyday life, so ordinary and normal, made this situation seem surreal.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” said Anatol. “But it’s her life . . .” He broke off, seeing that nobody was listening. Zofia was sitting in the snow; Lisa had turned her back on them and was staring into the forest. And Karol was nervously ambling along the path.

  “We have to make a decision,” he said at last. “The obvious solution is to turn around and, as Lisa said, go our separate ways.”

  “We’re not turning back now,” said Zofia, her voice faltering. “If we delay, it’ll only benefit our pursuers. They’ll never stop, and you know that perfectly well, Karol. The only way we can survive is to put this whole business to rest. We must carry on.”

  “But what if they’re waiting for us?” asked Lisa.

  “Here we’ll either finish this or we’ll die. I’m not going to run away.”

  Karol went up to Anatol. “Is it true you got rid of the bug and the wire yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  Lisa, with her back turned, snorted with laughter.

  “What are the chances they’re waiting for us? Or that they’re close behind?”

  “There’s a strong chance they’re waiting for us. And a one hundred percent chance they’re right behind, coming up fast.”

  Zofia stood and brushed off the snow.

  “There’s no time to lose,” she said. “I’m going on. So is Anatol; his wife has her money now, and they can’t take anything away from him but his life. You owe me that, don’t you, Major?”

  Anatol nodded. “Do as you wish.”

  And she set off up the path toward the hotel. After a slight delay, Lisa followed, without looking back at the men.

  “You’ve killed us, Snake,” said Karol, looking the soldier in the eyes.

  At that moment a shot rang out. It rolled across the mountains like thunder, and lasted a long time before its distant echoes fell silent. All four looked at one another, expecting to see blood, one of them wounded.

  But they were all fine.

  Instead they heard giggles coming from a small shepherd’s shack a dozen yards away. Anatol was there in a few leaps. He looked inside and pulled out two sniggering boys.

  “Hand it over,” he said. “Now.”

  The older boy reluctantly reached into his pocket and placed a handful of firecrackers in Anatol’s hand, probably meant for seeing in the New Year.

  “Name.”

  Tears appeared in the boys’ eyes, and the younger one began to snivel.

  “Please, sir, Adam and Alojzy Banaszek,” mumbled the older boy.

  Anatol pointed at the hotel, and the boys ran off. He stood there a while, looking at the firecrackers in his hand, as if everything depended on them. Then he put them in his pocket.

  “What’s been done can’t be undone,” he said without looking at his companions. “There’s a chance they don’t know we’re here. But I’ve had enough of wondering what might become of us. Let’s end this.”

  He set off toward Kalatówki, after a quick glance at the bent cableway support, barely visible in the distance.

  He could hardly believe he was here.

  4

  Hermod raised an eyebrow when he heard the bang. Though he could tell the difference between a gunshot and a firecracker, he still looked out the window, but there was nothing interesting, just children tobogganing, people in line for the ski lift, and a newlywed couple having their picture taken in the beautiful surroundings.

  Relax, it’s just brats playing with fireworks.

  Either way, the incident awoke him from his reverie. Unfortunately, his tracking device had stopped working the day before. Either the battery had given up or the Pole had decided to pull out. This had hampered the operation a little, because he didn’t know for sure if they’d turn up here or go to some other place in the mountains, but that only added spice to the affair; an easy catch isn’t nearly as fun.

  5

  Joanna Banaszek wasn’t frightened by the bang, because she knew her children were clowning around. When they were still in Wrocław, Antoni had given the boys fireworks.

  And that ended her peaceful breakfast.

  She put the last piece of frankfurter in her mouth, finished her cold coffee, and went to get dressed so she could track down her boys, tear their stupid heads off, and feed them to the bears.

  6

  From a distance, the hotel looked very solid. From close up it was like a stronghold, designed to withstand harsh winds, avalanches, earthquakes, and war. The walls made of hewn blocks of stone were particularly impressive.

  The hotel was surprisingly large. From the side facing the clearing, it appeared to have three stories—the glass strip of the restaurant level, with two floors of hotel rooms above it. From the entrance side, you could see a loft above the rooms, where the staff quarters were located. And underneath the restaurant was another level for the entrance into the hotel and a buffet, and below that were some utility rooms and a ski equipment storage area.

  “Do you think there’s an entrance into the caves somewhere here?” asked Zofia. “Are there even any caves here?”

  “There are,” replied Anatol. They went up the wide steps into the hotel. “These are limestone rocks. But I doubt if anyone hid anything in there. You’re probably imagining large chambers, stalactites, underground lakes, and so on. But the Tatra caves are more like stone intestines, a tangle of drainpipes, and for the greater part of the year they’re flooded. Even if someone were able to hide something larger than an apple core in there, I doubt your paintings could have survived unless they were sealed in sarcophagi. But the Tatras don’t have caves big enough to hide a bunch of crates.”

  “They’re not in crates,” said Zofia. “In Lviv we found out that Aszkenazy had cut the paintings out of their frames, preserved them, and rolled them up. A few dozen crates would require a ballroom, but a few dozen scrolls would fit in a broom closet. That’s what we’re looking for.”

  They were standing at the front door.

  “Well, then?” asked Zofia.

  They looked at each other; they were a pitiful sight. None of the excitement from the start of this adventure was left, none of the tension they’d felt in New York or the fear that had galvanized them during the chase across the frozen Baltic Sea. Nor was there the satisfaction of discovering and connecting facts, the thrill of tracking down a great mystery. Following Anatol’s betrayal, all that was left was an exhausting sense of threat, resignation, and weariness.

  Zofia took hold of the handle, then froze, as if waiting for someone else to make the decision for her and push her inside.

  “It’s not the gates of hell, just the door into a hotel full of tourists at the height of the season,” said Karol. “Get a grip and let’s go. Let’s check it out, and when we don’t find anything, let’s fuck off to some place they’ll never find us. I’ve had enough.”

  He moved Zofia’s hand aside and pushed the heavy door.

  7

  She loved the winter, but every time she had to get dressed to go outside, she longed for the summer, when she could just slip on a pair of flip-flops and go. Now she had to be more cautious. Underwear. Thermal top, thermal leggings. Knee-high ski socks. A thin turtleneck, ski pants, suspenders. Next a ski jacket, gloves in the outside pocket, a hat in one inner pocket and goggles in the other. Just toss her ski boots over her shoulder, and she could go out, perfect.

 
; All that effort just to play around on the small slope beside the shelter. Usually she had a warm-up day here, before the real mountains, but now . . . what a shame.

  8

  It smelled as it should, like a ski resort in winter—food, tea, melted snow, and wet jackets.

  “I’m hungry,” said Karol.

  Zofia was hungry too after the walk and was in dire need of a good espresso. But she decided that was secondary to the fear and anxiety she was feeling.

  We shouldn’t be here, she thought. We shouldn’t be here. We’re playing adventure hunters, and they’ve already tried to kill us several times just to stop us from getting here. Of all places on earth, this is the last one we should be in.

  She went up a staircase leading to the restaurant, café, and reception desk. There was a friendly girl in a turtleneck behind the counter, a screen in the corner showing the weather forecast, and some tourists talking in Italian as they admired a map of the Tatras painted on the wall. In a dayroom decorated with bad mountain landscape paintings, four seventy-year-old guys were giving it their all playing foosball.

  At the end of the hall a double door led into the restaurant and café and to the wall of glass that offered a fairy-tale view of the Tatras.

  Zofia took a few steps in that direction and sighed, feeling this was her place. And that maybe the world had meaning after all. She could sit at a table by the window, order a coffee, and stay there for hours, watching the landscape change to the rhythm of the day.

  There were more beautiful mountain views in the world than this, and there were nicer mountain hotels, but here—here in some special way, freedom and space combined to create a domestic warmth. Usually you had to choose between one or the other—either you froze as you puffed along the trails, or you sat indoors, safely drinking tea in your slippers. Here, by this window, you didn’t have to choose. Here you could have the two greatest feelings in the world in a single package.

  “Have breakfast here for a week,” Karol whispered in her ear, evidently reading her mind, “and no work of art will seem worth the bother.”