10.

26 June, 10:00 AM, Czernograd, Police Station Number 5

Marina waited for him downstairs in the lobby at 10 o’clock as agreed, reading a travel magazine on one of the long sofas of gilded wood upholstered with red velvet, all part of the Austro-Hungarian empire decor of Hotel Casino’s public areas.

The nearest police station was only three blocks away, in the opposite direction to last night’s restaurant, and they got there quickly, only to wait for half an hour in a queue to see a middle aged woman with badly bleached blonde hair, who sat in judgment like Christ, deciding whither a petitioner would go.

Marina did all the talking; Jake just played the silent part of a somewhat distraught and confused foreigner. The hour after that was a blur of waiting, getting the statement taken down by a young and visibly disinterested officer, and more waiting. The chairs were old and uncomfortable and the corridor narrow. Jake and Marina had to pull up their legs every time someone passed them by. The walls looked bright from a fresh coat of clinically white paint, but the building itself was old, and in a few places along the edges of the ceiling it seemed like they had painted straight over mildew.

Sometime later they were called in again. An older and more serious man in the forest green uniform of Ruthenian and Galician Milicija led them through winding corridors and up two flights of stairs. This time they only had to wait a few minutes before being ushered into a large, sunlit room dominated by a heavy desk near the window.

The man sitting behind it, with his back to the sun, was on the phone. He gestured for them to sit down, while he finished the conversation. He put down the receiver and addressed them in English.

“I’m Inspector Maciejewicz,” he introduced himself.

Maciejewicz was showing the scars of the middle-aged spent behind the desk, the memory of the street beat of his youth receding as fast as his hairline. Some would describe him as portly; he preferred to see himself on the upper end of normal for his age and height. He could still catch breath after walking up the stairs to his office, even if it was not considered a prerequisite for work in the Visitor Liaison Office. Those on the third floor of the Station Number 5 rarely got to chase suspects down narrow, rubbish-strewn alleys or piece together dismembered bodies of Chechen mobsters. It was mostly tourists getting their passports stolen or getting conned by fake nymphs. Also, there was a lift in the building.

“I believe that Mr –“ Maciejewicz glanced at the piece of paper in front of him, “Voynich,” he pronounced Jake’s name with a harder accent, like the locals would, “has had an incident at the airport?”

“Yes, indeed,” Jake nodded.

“An incident involving a car, apparently trying to run you over?”

“Well,” Jake tried to choose his words carefully, “I’m not quite sure if the car was trying to run me over, or run anyone in particular over, but yes, there has been an incident.”

“Well, we shall attempt to find out,” said Maciejewicz. “You see, and not that I’m defending this particular driver, or drivers generally, but unfortunate accidents or near-misses like this one happen all the time, and normally they would not be of much interest to me, except that this one happened to take place outside the airport. And, as you can imagine, we are now quite security conscious about things that happen in and around our airports.”

Jake nodded.

“We are not treating this as a terrorist incident, of course,” the Inspector smiled weakly and swung sideways on his chair, “but we are now obliged by law to investigate as top priority any security incidents at airports and other locations of critical importance.”

“I hope this will turn out to be just an accident,” Jake felt obliged to finally say something.

“Perhaps,” Maciejwicz pursed his lips and tapped the incident report with his pencil. “Do you, Mr Voynich, have any reasons to believe that someone might wish you harm?”

“I don’t believe so,” Jake shook his head. “I’m just a-“

“Nothing to do with that mysterious powder you were trying to bring into our country?”

“I-“ Of course they would know about it, Jake thought. As easy as typing a name into cross-linked law enforcement databases. “These are my grandfather’s ashes.”

“So you say, Mr Voynich,” said Maciejwicz, picking up a pencil and tapping it lightly on his desk, “So you say. And I don’t have any reasons to disbelieve you.” A short pause in tapping. “Firstly, one Bogoslav Voynich did indeed pass away recently in the United States – my condolences –“ he bowed his head slightly without interrupting his monologue. “Secondly, the traffic of illicit drugs through our country generally goes in the opposite direction, if you know what I mean. East to West,” he added just in case Jake did not. “In fact, if the powder was identified as a known illegal substance by the Customs agents, you would not have been able to leave the airport as you did, don’t you think?”

Of course, Jake thought. That must have happened when the hound dog Customs man took the urn out of the room. It wouldn’t have taken them too long to establish it was not coke, heroin or meth. But having excluded the most obvious, it still left the RiG Customs with an unidentified grey powdery substance on their hands – no pun intended – and not enough to detain and charge Jake with anything.

“In any case,” the Inspector continued, “the Customs should soon enough be able to confirm your story.”

“Do you know how long it will take?”

“Well, the Customs really do their thing at their own timetable,” Maciejewicz shrugged, “but I’m sure that in light of the subsequent events we could ask them to expedite the process somewhat.”

“Thank you,” Jake said.

“In the meantime,” the Inspector put the pencil down, “we have the contact details for you and for Miss Mirga-“ Jake just realised that until now he did not even know Marina’s surname, “and we will be in touch. In the meantime, could you please keep us informed of any travel plans or movements? For your safety and our convenience, of course.” He pushed his business cards across the table, one for Jake, one for Marina. “We will also need to take a statement from your brother, Miss Mirga, as a witness to the incident, so if you could be so kind as to make sure he contacts my office as soon as possible?”

Marina nodded.

“And, Mr Voynich, if you remember anything else that you might think might assist us...”

“Yes, of course, I – we – will give you a call,” Jake said. “Thank you.”

Jake and Marina rose from their seats and made it towards the door.

“Oh,” they turned around to the sound of the Inspector’s voice. “Welcome to the land of your ancestors, Mr Voynich,” said Maciejewicz, already looking away, dialing his next call. “I hope you will enjoy the rest of your stay.”

Photo by Bruno Martins on Unsplash