The guards hemmed him in, as if the 5-foot, 10-inch American was going to karate kick his way to freedom.
“I will see your passport please.”
He handed over the battered, swollen blue booklet. Stanieski looked it over and glanced at the picture, then at the man in front of him twice. People often had trouble seeing Harold Middleton, couldn’t remember what he looked like. A friend of his daughter said he would make a good spy; the best ones, the young man explained, are invisible. Middleton knew this was true; he wondered how Charlotte’s friend did.
“I don’t have much time until that flight.”
“You will not make the flight, Mr. Middleton. No. We will be returning to Warsaw.”
Warsaw? Two hours away.
“That’s crazy. Why?”
No answer.
He tried once more. “This is about the manuscript, isn’t it?” He nodded to the attaché case. “I can explain. The name Chopin is on it, yes, but I’m convinced it’s a forgery. It’s not valuable. It’s not a national treasure. I’ve been asked to take it to the United States to finish my analysis. You can call Doctor—”
The inspector shook his head. “Manuscript? No, Mr. Middleton. This is not about a manuscript. It’s about a murder.”
“Murder?”
The man hesitated. “I use the word to impress on you the gravity of the situation. Now it is best that I say nothing more, and I would strongly suggest you do the same, isn’t it?”
“My luggage—”
“Your luggage is already in the car. Now.” A nod of his head toward the front door. “We will go.”
“Please, come in, Mr. Middleton. Sit. Yes there is good…I am Jozef Padlo, first deputy inspector with the Polish National Police.” This time an ID was exhibited, but Middleton got the impression the gaunt man, about his own age and much taller, was flashing the card only because Middleton expected it and that the formality was alien in Polish law enforcement.
“What’s this all about, Inspector? Your man says murder and tells me nothing more.”
“Oh, he mentioned that?” Padlo grimaced. “Krakow. They don’t listen to us there. Slightly better than Posnan, but not much.”
They were in an off-white office, beside a window that looked out on the gray spring sky. There were many books, computer printouts, a few maps and no decorations other than official citations, an incongruous ceramic cactus wearing a cowboy hat and pictures of the man’s wife and children and grandchildren. Many pictures. They seemed like a happy family. Middleton thought again of his daughter.
“Am I being charged with anything?”
“Not at this point.” His English was excellent and Middleton wasn’t surprised to notice that there was a certificate on the wall testifying to Padlo’s completion of a course in Quantico and one at the Law Enforcement Management Institute of Texas.
Oh, and the cactus.
“Then I can leave.”
“You know, we have anti-smoking laws here. I think that’s your doing, your country’s. You give us Burger King and take away our cigarettes.” The inspector shrugged and lit a Sobieski. “No, you can’t leave. Now, please, you had lunch yesterday with a Henryk Jedynak, a piano tuner.”
“Yes. Henry…Oh no. Was he the one murdered?”
Padlo watched Middleton carefully. “I’m afraid he was, yes. Last night. In the recital hall near Old Market Square.”
“No, no…” Middleton didn’t know the man well — they’d met only on this trip — but they’d hit it off immediately and had enjoyed each other’s company. He was shocked by the news of Jedynak’s death.
“And two other people were killed, as well. A musician and a cleaning woman. Stabbed to death. For no reason, apparently, other than they had the misfortune to be there at the same time as the killer.”
“This is terrible. But why?”
“Have you known Mr. Jedynak long?”
“No. We met in person for the first time yesterday. We’d e-mailed several times. He was a collector of manuscripts.”
“Manuscripts? Books?”
“No. Musical manuscripts — the handwritten scores. And he was involved with the Chopin Museum.”
“At Ostrogski Castle.” The inspector said this as if he’d heard of the place but never been there.
“Yes. I had a meeting yesterday afternoon with the director of the Czartoryski Museum in Krakow, and I asked Henry to brief me about him and their collection. It was about a questionable Chopin score.”
Padlo showed no interest in this. “Tell me, please, about your meeting. In Warsaw.”
“Well, I met Henry for coffee in the late morning at the museum, he showed me the new acquisitions in the collection. Then we returned downtown and had lunch at a café. I can’t remember where.”
“The Frederick Restaurant.”
That’s how Padlo found him, he supposed — an entry in Jedynak’s PDA or diary. “Yes, that was it. And then we went our separate ways. I took the train to Krakow.”
“Did you see anyone following you or watching you at lunch?”
“Why would someone follow us?”
Padlo inhaled long on his cigarette. When he wasn’t puffing he lowered his hand below his desk. “Did you see anyone?” he repeated.
“No.”
He nodded. “Mr. Middleton, I must tell you…I regret I have to but it is important. Your friend was tortured before he died. I won’t go into the details, but the killer used some piano string in very unpleasant ways. He was gagged so the screams could not be heard but his right hand was uninjured, presumably so that he could write whatever this killer demanded of him. He wanted information.”
“My God…” Middleton closed his eyes briefly, recalling Henry’s showing pictures of his wife and two sons.
“I wonder what that might be,” Padlo said. “This piano tuner was well known and well liked. He was also a very transparent man. Musician, tradesman, husband and father. There seemed to be nothing dark about his life…” A careful examination of Middleton’s face. “But perhaps the killer thought that was not the case. Perhaps the killer thought he had a second life involving more than music…” With a nod, he added, “Somewhat like you.”
“What’re you getting at?”
“Tell me about your other career, please.”
“I don’t have another career. I teach music and authenticate music manuscripts.”
“But you had another career recently.”
“Yes, I did. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
Padlo considered this for a moment, and said, “Because certain facts have come into alignment.”
A cold laugh. “And what exactly does that mean?” This was the most emotional Harold Middleton usually got. He believed that you gave up your advantage when you lost control. That’s what he told himself, though he doubted that he was even capable of losing control.
“Tell me about that career, Colonel. Do some people still call you that, ‘Colonel’?”
“Not anymore. But why are you asking me questions you already seem to know the answers to?”
“I know a few things. I’m curious to know more. For instance, I only know that you were connected with the ICTY and the ICCt, but not many details.”
The UN-sanctioned International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia investigated and tried individuals for war crimes committed during the complicated and tragic fighting among the Serbs, Bosnians, Croatians and Albanian ethnic groups in the 1990s. The ICCt was the International Criminal Court, established in 2002 to try war criminals for crimes in any area of the world. Both were located in The Hague in Holland, and had been created because nations tended to quickly forget about the atrocities committed within their borders and were reluctant to find and try those who’d committed them.