I hardly have time to collect my bag from the rolling belt when my phone rings. Fumbling with the luggage, I press the button and tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder.
"Yeah?" I answer breathlessly.
"Cosima, did everything go as planned? No problems at the borde?" Daniel's voice enters my ear and I'm reminded that, at his request, I emailed him my flight plans.
"Yes, all good," I reply, rolling the bag down the polished floor.
"Great!" He sounds hesitant and the line goes silent for a few seconds. "I was disappointed that I couldn't catch you before you left."
"Yes, I wanted to leave early, didn't want to miss my flight," I say carefully, appearing as available as possible. "Besides, we had discussed my plans, I didn't think you'd want to meet before I leave. If I had known it I would've made an effort..."
"Oh, no, no..." Daniel says quickly. "I just wanted to thank you for looking after Delphine last night. She told me about it."
I stop abruptly, causing a few people run into me and mutter things that I probably wouldn't like to hear even if I was able to understand them, but I'm too baffled by his words to care. What exactly did Delphine tell him and why would she tell him anything at all? The only thing I know for sure is that, whatever story she told him, it certainly wasn't the truth, otherwise I firmly suspect he wouldn't be thanking me or would be inclined to show appreciation about having Delphine all over me last night - however briefly.
"Hello? Are you still there?" He calls.
"Yeah... Yes!" I snap out of it. "And there's nothing to thank me for." I vaguely reply.
"Nonsense!" His voice sounds loud in my ears, as I step outside and wave down a taxi. "Of course I'm counting on your discretion."
"Absolutely!" I say with conviction, but feeling utterly confused. My instinct telling me to just go along with it. "Don't worry about it."
"Great!" He repeats, but this time sounding a lot more genuine, almost relieved.
"My taxi is here," I tell him as a way to end the conversation, watching the driver place my luggage in the trunk.
"Yes, yes, of course," Daniel says. "Keep in touch."
"I will," I say, sliding inside the cab and taking a deep breath when he ends the call.
The hotel suite is large, with a living room and a bedroom decorated with a quiet elegance, although I barely have the energy to appreciate it. Exhaustion makes my muscles heavy from the travel and a night without sleep. When I got to the cottage last night after Delphine left, the first thing I did was take a shower to rid myself of the smell of her subtle perfume and the feel of her lean body pressed against mine. It was hardly helpful. My memory played tricks on me, not letting me rest as my mind catalogued the differences; what had changed in her touch, how much more desperate it felt, or how her kisses had gained an intensity I wasn't familiar with. I tossed and turned in the bed, hearing Sarah and Felix come in, and held my breath, fearing they'd storm into my room and demand answers, and sighing in relief when the house had gone quiet without me being disturbed in my fake slumber. And, still, I wasn't able to relax.
I woke before the alarm went off and made as little noise as possible as I prepared to leave to avoid waking my housemates. A taxi drove me to the airport, where I arrived way too early, hoping that the long flight would allow me the time to calm my mind. But nothing could be further from the truth. With nothing else to do, instead of resting, my thoughts tormented me non stop; replaying last night's events on a loop until I could feel her again, her strong hands pulling me to her and setting my world ablaze. Against my best judgement, the hate I once felt, some of which still clung to me over the years, began to melt with every loop of that memory. And yet, I still feel the anger, perhaps a bit more vividly than the last few years, like a beast that has been sleeping and is now awake.
It's an unique trait of Delphine. No one, before or after her, had been able to evoke such conflicting emotions within me. No one even came close and that's probably why I was never really able to let go. The scars she left stand alone, never really mended, only barely covered. And it's silly, after so many years, I should be able to see it through an objective perspective and despite knowing this, I simply can't. Whether or not I unconsciously refuse to let go of the past or never mentally prepared myself for it, thinking I would never lay eyes on her again, I do not know. It's just the way it is, and now that the task is upon me, I'm no closer to accomplishing it than I was over a decade ago.
Only now, that thousands of miles stand between Delphine and I, does my mind give me some respite. The moment I'm settled in the hotel suite, I collapse on the queen size bed and my eyes close and I fall into a deep sleep. It will get easier now, I think before sleep takes over; easier because I have something that'll take my mind off her and help me refocus on something I can control. In the morning I'll start looking for answers.
And that's exactly what I do. I get up early, my energy restored with a good night of sleep and head down to the breakfast lounge in comfortable sweatpants and a hoodie. Few people are up at 7.30 and the ones who are are businessmen, dressed in impeccably pressed suits and reading the paper while they eat. An hour later, after a shower, I'm ready to face the harsh Warsaw winter, and the snow that had draped the European capital with blanket of white, shining brightly under the weak sun.
My first stop is the Rzeczpospolita headquarters, a national circulation newspaper, and the source of the few clips I'd found, all of them signed by a Oskar Karasek, who happens to be exactly who I'm looking for. I figured, since I'm using the man as a stepping stone, may as well go directly to him and see if I can persuade him to help me. I approach the reception desk and a pretty, young woman with dark eyes and light brown hair shows me a pleasant but sleepy smile.
"Tak?" She says.
I frown slightly and lean closer over the high desk. "Good morning, I'm looking for Mr. Karasek" I reply in English, hoping she understands.
Her smile grows a little and she nods. "He's not in yet. Do you have an appointment?"
I press my lips together in an apologetic smile, even though this fault is calculated; it's much harder to refuse a meeting when the person is already waiting. "No, I don't. But I'm in the country for only a few days and I have some urgency in the matter."
"Okay," she answers, continuing to nod. "I'll let him know you're here when he arrives." She pauses to pick up a pen. "Your name?"
"Anne Sullivan," I answer in the moment. "I work for the Wall Street Journal."
The young woman scribbles it down and directs me to take a seat in the lobby.
I sit and wait. There's little movement in the lobby this early morning, but it assures me that I won't run into many people, which is exactly what I want. I have no interest in attracting attention to myself. Even so, the few people who come in do look my way and the longer I have to wait the worse it'll get.
I've been waiting for at least half an hour when I finally get up from my seat and go to the front desk again. "Excuse me," I say to the same receptionist. "You haven't forgotten about me, have you?" I ask with a crooked smile.
She smiles as well. "Oh no. I've informed Mr. Karasek that you're waiting for him."
"So he has arrived already?" I ask surprised.
"Yes. He said he'll be right over."
"Oh... Okay." I frown and return to my seat.
Sure enough, after five more minutes, I'm approached by a man in his late thirties early forties with prematurely gray hair that frames pleasant, boyish features in an uncontrollable mess. His dark gray suit is in disarray and his blue tie is loose, appearing as if he just woke up after a hard night which he, no doubt, spent inside that same suit.
"Ms. Sullivan?" He asks, extending his hand.
"Mr. Karasek," I take his hand for a firm and energetic handshake.
"Follow me!" He says and doesn't wait as he makes his way out the door.
Confused, I fumble with my coat, beanie and shoulder bag and hurriedly chase after him.
It has started to snow again, and light flakes fall from low, heavy clouds to soften the cobblestone sidewalk. I struggle to keep up with his long steps, tightening the coat around myself and meet his stare when he looks back once over his shoulder, giving me a easy smile. We don't go far, turning into a small coffee house at the end of the block, and he claims one of the corner tables. Even before I take the seat in front of him, one of the waiters is setting an espresso on the table.
He looks at me, lightning a cigarette. "Can I get you anything?" He asks amid a cloud of smoke.
"No, thank you," I answer politely. "I was wondering if you could shed some light on a person who seems to interest us both."
"I'm interested in a great many people, Ms. Sullivan," he says casually, his English perfect but heavily accented. "For instance, now I'm very interested in you." He finishes by aiming his cigarette at me.
I tilt my head and squint. "I'm not sure I follow you..."
"Imagine, for the sake of argument, that after Eliza - that's the lovely lady you met - has told me about you, I called my contact at the Journal," he says lightly, almost amused. "And, lets say, that after he complained about the ungodly hour, he told me that no one with your name works there."
"It's a big paper," I comment with a shrug, not letting him know how unnerved I'm really feeling. This is not going well.
"Please, Ms. Sullivan - if that's even your name - do not insult me." He continues politely, affable even. "I don't think this will work if you continue to insist on this lie."
I sigh and twist my lips annoyed, but knowing that I've been made. "Fine!" I concede. "But if you knew I wasn't who I said I was, then why did you agree to meet with me?"
"Professional curiosity!" He says, raising both his arms, making a few heads turn our way.
He seems to be enjoying himself, but I don't particularly like it. It's making me second guess my decision. After all, journalists can be a difficult class of people to work with if your priority is to keep a low profile. Without a word, I start to rise.
"Oh... Come now," he says watching me. "Why don't you sit down and tell me about this person who interests us both?"
I look down at him and think for a brief moment. This is not ideal, but I really don't have any other option.
"Mariusz Baczkowski" I say, struggling to pronounce the name correctly.
His expression becomes serious at the mention of the name and he takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. "Why does he interest you?"
I sit down and look him in the eyes. "I can't disclose that," I say with caution.
"Who are you working for?" He presses, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.
"I'm not at liberty to..."
He raises his hand to stop me. "Let me see if I have this right: you want information from me, but won't disclose any of your own." The smile is back on his face. "I don't think you're aware of how these sort of things work."
I unbutton my coat and lean comfortably on the chair. He may be acting defensively, but I know I've peaked his curiosity, and need to take advantage of that to get what I want without revealing more than I'm willing to. He's shrewd and I might've been caught off guard by his cunningness, but I'm not new to this.
"I can give you a story about Mr. Baczkowski, but I need what you have on him first." I tell him.
"You know what that says?" The journalist's eyes are on me, interested despite his words. "You have nothing, otherwise you wouldn't have sought me out."
"I have means that you don't," I counter. "And, in truth, what you know so far I can just as easily discover, I'm just trying to save some time." I bluff, but my voice is steady. "It's a very good deal from your perspective: you save me some time and, in return, you get a very nice exclusive."
He smiles is easy as he brings the cigarette to his lips for one last hit. "And how do I know that once you get what you want, you won't forget about me?" He challenges. "I don't even know your real name?"
"You don't!" I shrug. "But I suspect that we're on the same side. Besides, from what I read in your articles, it doesn't seem like you have much concrete evidence, just a lot of supposition." All lies - we haven't even gone to the trouble of translating his pieces. "What I want to find out is how much of it it's true."
"Oh... It's true alright!" He states firmly, nodding his head. "It's no secret that your man has deep ties with the Russian Mafia. Everyone knows it, no one can prove it. Every time I think I have a source willing to go on record, someone else beats me to it and they disappear."
"Dead?" I raise a brow.
"Oh no, of course not, that would be too obvious." He continues to talk, and if releasing his information is something he's doing consciously or if he's just caught up in the conversation, I don't know, nor do I care - provided he keeps talking. "They stop taking my calls, miss meetings, or they reappear just to tell me to get lost.
"If I were to speculate I'd say they're either being paid off or threatened." He pulls out another cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag. "At least, that's how they've been dealing with me for years now."
"And yet, you don't give up..." I encourage him to keep talking.
"Well... maybe I'm just more foolish than the rest." He raises his shoulders and chuckles. "I have no family for them to use as leverage. My work is all I have and my reputation is not for sale."
"Let me help you, then," I say with conviction. "Give me your contacts, your sources, and I can work from there."
His laugh gets louder. "And what makes you think they're going to talk with you when they refuse to talk to me?"
"I'm not a journalist, I won't ask them to go on record," I answer point blank. "And I can be very persuasive."
He stares at me silently, constantly sucking his cigarette, thoughtfully analyzing my proposition.
"I'd also like a list of the people and/or corporations he has worked with," I push, noticing his barriers falling. "Anything you have on him."
"Mr. Baczkowski is usually used as a front man for the Russians. A relatively clean name, at least on paper, with a Polish passport," he reveals. "Mostly he's connected with companies established by Russians in Crimea after its liberation," he quotes with his fingers, "from the Ukrainian subjugation in 2014."
I rest my chin on the palm of my hand, my elbow on the table and I glance around to see that no one seems to be paying us much attention in the mostly empty coffeehouse. The early morning rush has come and gone and the few patrons who remain are men, retired probably, who have the time to spend a couple of hours reading the paper while they drink their coffee. Then I look back at the journalist in front of me, who's watching me with a slight frown in his brow. I think about what he said, about how this story is important enough for him to gamble his life and I decide that he's most likely the only trustworthy person I'll meet on my trip.
"Lets say, hypothetically, Mr. Baczkowski has approached someone else, saying he's interested in building a business relationship," I start and his eyes gleam again with curiosity.
"Is this person American!" He asks, grinning widely.
"An American based company, yes," I answer and his smile only grows. "But he would be acting in someone else's behalf, correct?"
"Unless he's trying to branch out on his own, which I sincerely doubt," he says.
"Any way to know who would he be representing?"
"Take a guess!" The journalist says. "Mr. Baczkowski has been representing a number of companies, with different and sometimes conflicting interests - oil, natural gas, guns, diamonds, even wheat and barley - but they're always connected, one way or another. The Russian oligarchs keep access to big industries air tight, the priority is to maintain the monopoly."
"I'm really gonna need that list, Mr. Karasek" I say, not in a demanding voice, but determined nonetheless.
"Very well," he cracks with a deep breath. "But let me tell you something: when you do business with Mariusz, you know who he's really representing."
"Unless he's the one who made the first contact," I point out, "which happens to be the case."
"I guess..." He looks doubtful. "Whoever you're working for seems to be uncomfortable enough to send you looking for answers." He gets up and pulls the coat over his shoulders. "I keep everything I have on him in a safe deposit box at the Bank Gospodarstwa. Hard copy only, nothing on computers where it could get easily accessed."
I get up as well, understanding that the conversation is over. "I'll keep it that way," I assure him.
"Meet me outside the bank at 3:00. It's three blocks east of the paper, easy to find." He says when we're already outside. "I'll give it to you and I hope you have better luck than me."
"So do I," I tell him.
He doesn't say goodbye, merely walks down the street in the same direction we came from.
I walk in the same direction, albeit in a much slower pace and take the opportunity to get familiar with the area. The streets are large, pedestrian and traffic movement is what one would expect in the middle of the morning in a downtown of a big city. The area is mostly comprised of commerce in the ground levels of office buildings, with very few used for residence. I enter a an open storefront and without much trouble, purchase a cheap prepaid phone with cash. With the plastic bag in hand I continue on in search of the bank. It's not necessarily as easily as promised, but eventually the massive stone building comes into sight with its big golden letters. On the large sidewalk out front, a few men in suits talk amongst themselves, but aside from that, everything is mostly quiet, the new snow deterring people from going outside unless they absolutely have to.
I return to the hotel and unbox the phone, dialing the number Mrs. S gave me on our last encounter as a way to contact her during my stay in Poland.
"Any news?" She says immediately after answering the phone.
"Funny you should put it that way," I say, smiling at the sound of her voice. "I met with the journalist who's covering Mr. Baczkowski's activities around here."
She's silent for a while and then says. "I don't like journalists, Cosima."
"I know, but this will pay off," I assure her. "I'm meeting him again this afternoon and he's gonna give me everything he has."
"And what will you give him in return?" She doesn't sound pleased.
I hesitate. "I promised him a story."
"Cosima..." She warns.
"I know, I know..." I try to calm her. "But it was the only way to get him to talk. Besides, it's not like I said anything that could compromise us."
"You know he'll probably ask for more before he actually gives you anything," Mr. S says and it's like I can see the crease in her brows, silently scolding me.
I breath out and let myself fall back on the couch behind me. "If necessary I'll throw the Websters under the bus. Nothing will fall on us," I say. "But this is a priority. He's already told me some very interesting things and if his information pans out, I think I'll be able to find out even more." I don't go into specifics, knowing she wouldn't want me to over the phone.
"Alright then. Do what you think it's best. I'm trusting your judgement on this, Cosima. Be sure not to push too hard." She concedes. "And the priority is your safety, okay?"
I smile again. "Yeah, don't worry. I have this under control."
"Good, good..." she says. "Anything else?"
"Daniel Webster called as soon as I landed yesterday," I answer casually.
"What did he want?"
"Just to keep tabs, I'm sure," I reply after a brief moment of hesitation that I hope it has gone unnoticed.
This is followed by a long silence - too long, even for her. "Okay," she eventually says. "Let me know how the meeting with the journalist goes. I'll be waiting for your contact later today."
The line goes dead right after that and I stare at the inactive phone, wondering if Sarah or, more likely, Felix has found a way to contact S and tell her about what happened the other night. Regardless and even if she does know, she won't say anything about it while I'm here. Not only because she believes it will be an unnecessary distraction, but also because, at least while I'm here, Delphine does not represent a problem. By now, I'm sure I'll have an earful when I get back, but there's no point in worrying about it now and maybe I'll get lucky - maybe I'll find something so juicy that all of the Delphine nonsense will be forgotten.
I have lunch at the hotel and then take a cab, having the driver drop me a block away from the bank. I take my time arriving, and wait on the other side of the street, my eyes going from the main door to my watch constantly. I'm still 20 minutes early and have yet to see Karasek enter or leave the building, but wonder if he will show up at all. I should've asked his number, I think and decide that, if he doesn't appear in the next ten minutes, I'll look for him at the paper.
However, none of that is necessary. Four minutes after three, he emerges, holding a briefcase close to his chest and approaches the curb, waiting at the crosswalk for the sign to turn green for pedestrians. Halfway across the street, he spots me, smiles and gives me a head nod, continuing in my direction. I straighten my back, but make no move to go at his encounter.
The sound echoes off the tall buildings of the large street, loud and sudden and the few people outside are running around, looking for cover. Some, in their hurry, slip on the ice and fall to the ground with a scream and that only adds to the chaos and hysteria. Cars speed away, tires skid in the wet pavement with a loud screech. Amidst all this, my eyes look for the journalist, sprawled in the middle of the crossing, face down, a river of blood emerging from what is left of his head, the gray mane painted red.
Sirens scream in the distance, getting gradually closer and I'm frozen in place, unable to take my eyes away from the lifeless body completely ignored by everyone else. Only after a motorcycle roars down street and stop in front of me, blocking my view of the dead man, do I shift my gaze to the biker. Leather jacket and gloves, cargo pants and heavy boots, all in black as well as the full-faced helmet.
"We need to get out of here!" The person says in a voice muffled by the headgear.
I blink a few times. "What?!"
"Cosima, let's go!" It's the accented way she says my name with urgency that makes me realize who it is.
"Delphine?!" I ask, my confusion only seems to grow.
She tries to pull me by the arm but I free myself with a strong tug. In a moment of surprising clarity, I run to the abandoned body and grab his briefcase, my eyes avoiding his shattered features. The emergency lights are flashing down the street, red and blue announcing their proximity. I sprint back to Delphine and, with no time to hesitate or ask questions, I loop a leg over the seat of the big bike, tuck the briefcase between her back and my chest and wrap my arms around her waist.
Hardly a five seconds pass when Delphine twists the throttle and has us speeding away from the approaching cars.
A/N: SPOILERS FOR 5.08
I wrote this chapter before the episode and was really not expecting Mrs. S fate on the show, she'll be missed. However, I intent to continue to pay homage to Siobhan "Badass" Sadler in this weird fic.