1 July, 10:30 AM, Czernograd, Hotel Casino
A different day, a different weather outside the window, and a different cop outside his room. Today’s lucky functionary tasked with foiling evil attempts by persons unknown was a tallish, prematurely balding man with a thin mustache arching over even thinner lips. He reminded Jake of the concierge at his parents’ apartment building on the Lower East Side. Presumably neither of the two men really wanted to be where they were, but the policeman at least had a gun holstered under his left arm to make him feel important even if the current job wasn’t.
Jake introduced himself, but the conversation floundered on the language barrier. Still, the cop – Polikovsky – knew enough to remind Jake that his superiors would prefer he stays in his room as much as possible and enjoy all the free TV and a bar fridge. Jake, on the other hand, reminded himself that someone had tried to kill him once already, that he was approaching one week in Ruthenia, which was almost one week longer than he had originally planned, that he was starting to miss home and work, and that he was also starting to miss Marina, who slipped out of the room sometime early in the morning while he was still asleep. None of these thoughts necessarily made him feel any better as he stared out the window at the leaden sky over the capital and followed a distant speck of an airliner on its way somewhere that wasn’t here.
His phone rang during the commercial break during a half-hour edition of news at CNN. This time he recognised the voice straight away.
“I’ve got good news, Mr Voynich,” Milos said. He sounded as oily as his hair. “We’ve heard back from the Customs and they will be able to return your possession tomorrow.”
It was good news, indeed, not least for Milos and for Maciejewicz too, who now could look forward to a time, very soon, when they would be rid of the troublesome American who has somehow managed, as Americans often tend to do, to provoke a murder attempt on himself.
“In light of the special circumstances,” the Deputy Inspector on the make continued, “the Customs have agreed to hand the urn to us, so that we can then pass it onto you. To minimise any need for you to do any unnecessary running around town,” he added.
“Thank you,” Jake said. “Much appreciated.” The pleasure, and convenience, is all yours. “I still intend to travel back to Stare Duszki to fulfil my grandfather’s last wish.”
“Oh,” Milos sounded more annoyed than surprised. “Well, I’m sure we can arrange an escort to travel with you... just in case. Have you booked your flight back?”
“No,” Jake replied, “since until a minute ago I wasn’t yet aware of the good news.”
“Yes,” Milos paused for a moment. “True. Anyway, as discussed, we would recommend that you do. Now that you are aware of the good news.”
“I shall do so,” Jake said, not quite sure yet whether he was lying or not. “And thank you, once again. Give my best regards to the Inspector.”
When he hang up, he dialed Marina’s number. To share the good news.