1 July, 12:15 PM, Czernograd, 44 Rimsky Street
Palec listened to them, sunk in his chair, right hand on the chin, seemingly absorbed by the three flatscreens on the opposite wall, all on mute, one playing the local Channel 5, the other BBC World, and the third one on rotation, now Fox News. But they knew he didn’t miss a word.
“Show me,” he said when they finished.
Stas pushed the printouts in front of his boss and leaned back.
The Director swung his chair and stifled a yawn before having a look. It’s not that he doesn’t trust us, thought Halszka. But it always seems like an exam.
“There’s something else,” Palec raised his eyes from above the printouts. It was something between a statement and a question, or maybe a challenge.
No, it’s not that he doesn’t trust us; he’s just better, therefore ultimately he only trusts himself.
“All the meetings between the Prince and the oil and gas people that your new friend Kasprzak is present, he’s the only other Palace official present,” Palec said and sat back.
He was right. The other two meetings with mining executives, the diary noted, were also attended but at least one other of Prince Piotr’s administrative staff. So were other meetings, with a few minor exceptions.
“So what do we know about Kasprzak?” D1 asked. The third LCD switched from Fox to Al Jazeera and a shaky camera footage was showing the fresh aftermath of an explosion on a busy street, with stunned and bloodied passers-by – Iraqis? Pakistanis? – still milling around in a daze.
“Nothing that rings alarm bells straight away,” Stas said.
“If they have been, we would not be having this conversation,” Palec shrugged. “Let’s have a look through our files and see if anything jumps out in light of our latest finding. And have a careful look through his diary; see what he has been up to when not with the Prince.”
Stas nodded.
“HSB,” the Director turned to Halszka, “you look at the oil and gas angle. Know much about the field?”
“Not much, other than the Prime Minister predicts in ten to twenty years Czernograd will look like Dubai,” she shook her head.
“A timeline conveniently extending beyond several electoral cycles,” Palec said. “If he’s wrong, we might end up like Lagos or Baku instead, but he won’t be around anymore to see it through.”
“Very cynical of you, Mr Director,” she said.
Palec ignored the remark. He opened the top drawer at the desk, pulled out a small black leather-bound notebook, leafed through it and having found what he was looking for, copied two lines on a piece of paper.
“Hubert Wentz,” Halszka read out the name. Below were the eight digits of a phone number.
“Hubert Wentz,” Palec repeated. “Tell him I’ve sent you and will appreciate any confidential backgrounding and advice he might give you. You can be open with him. Within bounds of course. I trust your discretion...”
“And Mr Wentz?...”
“He’s been around the industry for some time,” the Director said. “He’s a dwarf,” he added, almost an afterthought.
“As in a person suffering from dwarfism, or-“
“No,” he interrupted her. “As in one of the dwarfs, HSB. The people who have been running Ruthenia’s mining for the past few centuries.”
“Oh,” Halszka mumbled.
“Yes, you did say you did not know much about the field,” Palec sighed. “Wentz will be a gold mine of information for you, if you excuse the pun. More than I expected he would need to.”
Photo by Scheier.hr on Unsplash