A Blind Eye: Book 1 in the Adam Kaminski Mystery Series

by Jane Gorman

  Adam put his thoughts into words, saying, “The past is one of the things I am interested in, minister. May I ask you about your past?”

  “As I said, I have learned from my past. I have taken action to move forward, not backward.”

  “Many people say that you maintain strong connections with Russia. That you are more Russian than Polish, in fact.”

  Novosad smiled grimly. “Many people say many things, Pan Kaminski. I do not bother myself with what many people say, only what I know to be true. I move forward, not backward.”

  “My cousin believes — and I agree — that something in the past, something long since buried, came back to the surface recently. Perhaps Basia learned of that thing. And in the end that knowledge is what killed her.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps.” Novosad shrugged. Then his expression sharpened and he looked carefully at Adam. “Do you speak metaphorically, young man, or literally? For I believe that the sins of our forefathers are great, and knowledge of those sins could lead a person to suicide. I tell you again, Basia committed suicide. No one did it for her. No ghost from the past, certainly.”

  “A ghost? No. Something real? Yes. I have requested access to the national archives, minister. I intend to follow the footsteps of my cousin, and perhaps of his daughter, to retrace their investigation until it leads me to the truth. The truth of what happened to Basia.”

  “You shouldn’t do that, Pan Kaminski.” Novosad shook his head. “Don’t go looking into the past. You do not know how strongly people feel about the past or about the changes that are coming.”

  28

  The Aleje Emilii Plater was familiar to Adam and his team. Their visit to Warsaw had started here, at the Central Train Station. The train station was an expanse of concrete and pavement, a low, flat structure of even lower architectural interest surrounded by openness and emptiness. It stood as a reminder of what had been.

  Not the most noticeable reminder.

  Just north of the train station and across Emilii Plater towered the Palace of Culture, Warsaw’s most visible and most symbolic relic of the Soviet era. Its mud-brown stone walls reached to the sky in a futile effort to demonstrate the strength and power of the Soviet government. Giant carved statues of farmers and laborers, men and women, glared down pridefully from their perches along the wall.

  It didn’t take long to realize, however, that Emilii Plater, like Warsaw itself, had a split personality. The heart of the Warsaw business district started only a short walk from the train station. Shining glass and steel towers brazenly defied the former socialist order. Shocks of sunlight glinting off the surfaces reflected onto the sea of cranes below as Warszawians set to work busily building their city as a capitalist center.

  Skyscrapers reaching toward the heavens cast shadows on the alleys below, blocking out low gray reminders of the previous regime. Blocked from light, but not from memory. For more was hidden than seen in Warsaw — the danger of any split personality.

  The team’s first meeting of the afternoon was within one of these steel towers. Members of the team all nodded appreciatively and smiled at the view shared with them by the president of one of the first independent banks to open in Warsaw after the Soviet era. A rotund man with a glistening bald head, the president smiled manically at each new vista as he walked them around the four corners of the floor his offices held on the fourteenth level of the skyscraper.

  Adam expressed his appreciation of the view and the modern offices with the others, though he stayed a safe distance away from the windows. He couldn’t get his mind off Łukasz and his troubles. After listening to the merits of the Polish banking system for thirty minutes, he realized he hadn’t really heard a thing.

  As the group passed from one office to the next, Adam grabbed Angela’s arm and pulled her aside.

  “Listen,” he said quietly as the rest of the group continued on to the next level down. “I need to break away for a little while.”

  “Again?” Angela raised her eyebrows. “You missed so much already today. I’m just glad you made it for lunch. The president here would have been really disappointed if we hadn’t all enjoyed his hospitality. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “It’s my cousin,” Adam explained.

  “Right, your cousin.” Angela looked skeptical. “The one you just met, barely know, and have been running around Warsaw with night and day.” She looked Adam up and down. “And this isn’t about our friendly Pani Stanko, is it?”

  “Sylvia? No, of course not, it’s about Łukasz. He’s gotten himself into a little bit of trouble, and he needs my help right now.”

  “What kind of trouble, Adam? Are you going to end up in trouble yourself?”

  “Not at all, of course not. He’s a journalist and he just needs some help getting the information he needs for his story. Given our role here, I’m in a position to be able to help, so I am.” Angela looked worried and Adam felt a pang of guilt for not telling her the whole truth. “I’m doing the right thing.”

  “The right thing for him or for you? You’re supposed to be working while we’re here, you know? Making your department look good? You shouldn’t be distracted like this. Or putting yourself in risky situations.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing big. I’m just trying to find the right people who can help him.”

  Angela stood for a moment and stared at him. He could only guess what was going through her mind, but finally she let out a breath and adjusted her glasses on her nose. “Fine. I guess we all need help sometime.”

  Adam watched her go with a smile, then turned to the elevator bank at the other end of the hallway. As he turned the corner, he heard Angela’s voice carrying over the others.

  “Pan President, I must extend the sincere apologies of my colleague, Pan Kaminski. I’m afraid a family emergency has drawn him away urgently. I know he is very disappointed not to be able to stay for the rest of our tour here.”

  Adam grinned to himself as her voice faded as the group moved farther away, and offered Angela a silent nod of appreciation.

  The sky was clear but the light was nevertheless gray as Adam stepped out onto Emilii Plater. Turning to his left, he saw the great Palace of Culture looming ahead. He thought of a joke a university student had told his group during one of their first meetings in Warsaw. From where does one get the best view of Warsaw? From the Palace of Culture. Why? Because from there, you can’t see the Palace of Culture.

  The view from the Palace of Culture these days was quite different from when it had first been built. Now gleaming fortresses of business and capitalism slowly encroached on the grand concrete plaza surrounding the palace.

  As he approached the area, Adam saw the giant skyscrapers weren’t the only sites of capitalism in the space. Within the plaza itself, a makeshift market was set up. Under a tin roof, rows of rickety wooden stalls formed narrow aisles around which shoppers moved, searching for cheap clothes, home goods or electronics. The heavy scent of kielbasa and sauerkraut in the air suggested a food vendor was tucked away in one of the aisles. Stall after stall sold everything from watches to winter coats to books and music. Adam wondered how many of these goods were being sold legally. Probably none.

  Pausing to look through a pile of used books in one stall, Adam caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning to see what had attracted his attention, he saw only an old woman, bundled against the cold, digging her way through a pile of woolen sweaters in the next booth over. Seeing him look at her, she smiled uneasily and nodded, then returned to her search.

  Adam laughed at himself and moved on to the next stall. Wherever he looked, he saw only buyers and sellers, residents of Warsaw trying to make a living or live on the small income they had. Bartering was rampant and young men moved about between the stalls, keeping an eye on their goods and perhaps keeping an eye out for any police. Though law enforcement was not evident.

  Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. And he couldn’t af
ford to ignore it. He had intentionally attacked his suspects that morning, pushing hard to see if any of them cracked. It was a tried and true technique, and Adam knew results weren’t always immediate. Sometimes the criminal mind had to wallow for a few hours before responding to a challenge.

  Moving quickly, Adam stepped into a narrow gap between two stalls. Walking behind the booths, he backtracked until he found another passage to the main aisle, this time earning what were probably some fairly crass words from an old woman manning the booth. Apologizing quietly, Adam stepped carefully back out into the aisle. No one noticed him, no one called out.

  Walking up the aisle, following the same path he had just taken, Adam watched the people around him carefully, looking for any sign that one of them was paying him more attention than the others. A man in a dark jacket caught his eye, then turned away. A young woman in a trendy woolen coat dropped her handbag and looked at Adam as she bent to pick it up.

  This was getting him nowhere. He was just paranoid. Turning to retrace his steps back to the tram and his hotel, Adam caught a glimpse of a man ducking between the stalls. Jogging to catch up, Adam pushed through the same gap, and once again only caught a glimpse of the man’s back as he ran up the narrow path between the backs of the stalls. Moving to follow him, Adam felt a heavy arm push against his chest.

  “Nie można go tutaj, proszę pana.” A large elderly man stood in his path. “This is not for visitors, only vendors.” The man’s lined face was set like stone, and he took a step forward as he crossed his arms over his chest. Adam contemplated pushing past the man, then noticed the two younger men approaching from either side. There was no way he was getting behind the booths again.

  “Damn!” Adam spun and ran back out to the main path, but he hadn’t seen enough of his pursuer to know what he looked like. He had only caught a glimpse of what looked like black jeans, black shoes and a dark leather coat. That description fit half the shoppers in this marketplace.

  * * *

  Adam dropped the journal back onto the coffee table and sniffed the air. A musty odor, of old books and wool sweaters. Not what he expected in the apartment of a young woman like Basia Kaminski. He turned his back to the bookshelf, ignoring the dead plant that sat, leafless, on top.

  Łukasz had been happy to give Adam the key to Basia’s apartment. He was looking for anything that would help him get a better sense of who Basia was. And why she might have been killed.

  He stood and stared at the apartment around him. Every possible storage space was used, every corner had something tucked into it. Clothes folded neatly and tucked inside a chest that worked as a coffee table. Extra blankets piled under the sofa. Baking pans stacked upright between the fridge and bookshelf.

  He dug through stacks of books and notebooks, poked between neatly hung dresses and trousers, rummaged through kitchen cabinets. But so far, he’d found nothing to justify the intrusion.

  He knew she had taken care of her possessions, repairing rather than replacing items that were worn or damaged.

  Basia must have liked to cook. The kitchen cabinet was stocked with jars of herbs and spices, from curry powder to Italian seasonings, cayenne pepper and teriyaki sauce. They were small jars and nothing was duplicated. Each kept clean and neat, some almost empty but waiting to exhale the last of their contents.

  Piles of books, stacked high on the shelf and against one wall, suggested that reading was her other passion. He ran his finger along the spines of books, flipped through handwritten notebooks, shook out magazines and journals. But nothing slipped out.

  Adam took a deep breath and focused. There must be something here. Now he knew more about Basia, not only what she liked to do but how she liked her world — neat, organized, simple. The apartment was so small everything fell under his glance. He let his eyes roam over the space in front of him.

  Closing his eyes, he took another breath. Stretched his shoulders. Opened his eyes and looked again.

  Someone passed by in the hallway outside the front door, but Adam ignored the footsteps.

  There. In the kitchen. Two cookbooks stood upright on the counter leaning against a cabinet. Just where they should be. But between them, sheets of paper.

  Adam took the two steps that brought him into the kitchen. A few pieces of paper, folded in half, were tucked between the books. Adam’s Polish wasn’t strong enough for him to read the typewritten pages, but they looked familiar to him. He recognized the standard format of cover letters and resumes.

  Skimming the papers, he saw a few names he didn’t recognize. A few more that he did. Kapral. Szopinski. Why would Basia have access to other people’s job applications, if these were in fact applications?

  There could be good reason for it, Adam knew. She might have been helping fill another internship, seeking out the most qualified applicants.

  He folded the papers again, shaking his head and frowning. No. If these were innocent, they wouldn’t have been hidden in the kitchen. Basia was too organized for that.

  Turning back to the living room, he glanced one more time through the notebooks and books that sat on the coffee table and the bookshelf. Grabbing them up, he tucked them, along with the papers, under his arm.

  Łukasz would be able to read these, to figure out their significance. But whatever he found, Adam knew it would tie back to Kapral. A man with something to hide. Something Basia must have exposed.

  Adam pulled the apartment door shut behind him and listened to the lock catch. This was his last evening in Warsaw, and all he had done was rattle a few cages, dig up a few lost papers. Łukasz would be disappointed, no doubt.

  Even as he tried to convince himself he had done all he could, he frowned at the thought of leaving Warsaw without identifying the killer.

  29

  Early Saturday morning, the small van waited in the drive of the Newport Hotel. The day was surprisingly sunny, given the recent weather, though still bitterly cold.

  Stepping out into the brisk light, Angela raised her hand to shade her eyes and took one last look at the city around her. Shrugging her shoulders slightly, she stepped into the van where the other members of the team were already waiting.

  The streets of Warsaw were crowded, as they always were on All Saints’ Day. Some city streets were closed for processions and parades, which meant heavier traffic on the streets that remained open.

  All Saints’ Day brought out not only city residents but also visitors from around the country, who came to Warsaw to see the famous cemeteries within its boundaries. Powązki Cemetery held the remains of some of Poland’s greatest figures while Okopowa bore memorials to the millions who had been killed on Polish land.

  The van made its way slowly through the city streets, winding its way to the airport on the outskirts of town. The driver cautiously navigated the busy streets, weaving through traffic as cars pulled over to let passengers disembark or stopped suddenly to avoid hitting one of the many pedestrians that swarmed over the sidewalks and sometimes out into the streets.

  The driver stopped at a red light and glanced in his side view mirror. A black sedan had pulled up next to him, which meant nothing, until he noticed a second, similar vehicle pull up a little too close on the other side as well.

  The attack took less than three minutes.

  A man dressed in black with a balaclava pulled low over his face jumped out of one of the sedans and reached for the van door. The driver tried to drive forward, but he couldn’t maneuver the van around the second car.

  The man moved swiftly, professionally. The doors flew open, the man pushed his way violently inside. Witnesses heard the screams, but stood rooted to the ground in fear. In the blink of an eye, the man was back out of the van and in his sedan. Both cars screeched into motion, blowing through the still-red light, forcing other cars off the road.

  Within minutes, sirens could be heard approaching the scene. Three police cars surrounded the van, which now sat still and silent at the intersection. An ambulance appro
ached with a little more caution and stopped a few cars back.

  By now, a crowd of people stood on the sidewalks and pushed out into the street near the van. Harsh whispers filled the air as people described to each other what they had seen and heard, and what they had not seen.

  As the police approached the van slowly, the doors opened once again. The police halted their progress, weapons drawn. Angela stumbled out of the van, her glasses hanging awkwardly from her face, her coat covered in blood. She gasped and fell onto the pavement.

  The police and medics jumped into action. One moved forward to support Angela, leading her carefully back to the waiting ambulance. More moved into the van to offer what help they could to the other passengers.

  Leaning heavily on the arm of the technician, Angela shook her head. “No, no, I’m all right, I wasn’t hurt, just pushed a little. But… he’s dead… he’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead, Pani, what happened?” the young man asked fearfully in English, carefully wrapping a warm blanket around Angela’s shoulders and offering her a drink from a steaming thermos. “What happened to you?”

  “It was an attack. They were there specifically to kill him. It doesn’t make sense… why him?” She started to sob softly, and the technician looked away, back at the van where other passengers were being led away.

  The last two police to leave the van stepped slowly down and shook their heads at their commanding officer. “One dead.”

  Their words carried to the technician, who unconsciously pulled Angela’s blanket tighter around her shoulders, as if to protect her from the words. Words she couldn’t translate.

  “Who is it, what can you tell me?” the senior officer asked.

  “American man, reddish-brown hair, tall, more than six feet.”

  “How was he killed, was it an accident?”

  “No accident, he was stabbed in the heart. One stab, strong and sure. The killer took the knife.”