“You know what bothers me?” he asks now.
Marek sighs. Most things bother Bogdan. But the main thing bothering him, his partner suspects, is that he hasn’t gotten laid in the twenty-first century. If so, it must constitute excruciating torture, because his wife still has the kind of body that made God invent the fig tree. Marek has fantasized about her for years. “What bothers you?” he says to humor Bogdan and keep him moving in the proper direction.
“Somebody that builds swimming pools for a living must know everything there is to know about cement. Would you agree?”
“So what?”
“So when he’s designing a secret compartment to hide his safe, why wouldn’t he use cement to anchor it in place? Did you ever wonder about that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t. And that’s all that matters.”
“You know what else bothers me?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t your cousin rob the guy himself?”
“If he wanted that hotel job, he had to be in Dublin on a specific date. Besides . . .”
“Besides what?”
Marek pulls the bottle out and finishes it off, then drops it on the ground.
“He got bitten when he was little. He’s terrified of dogs. Big or small, it doesn’t matter.”
The cousin clearly is not desperate enough to attempt anything this dangerous. Like most people, he probably just goes to work, gets paid, and accepts his lot. Whereas they convinced themselves they were destined to be tycoons.
Bogdan bends, picks up the bottle, and sticks it in his own pocket.
“Why’d you do that?” his partner asks.
“Because I’d bet that when you bought it, you weren’t wearing gloves. Were you?”
Marek chucks him on the shoulder. “Good old Bogdan. We’ll make a thief of you yet.”
Without another word, they step out of the woods. Both of them served the military stint that used to be required of physically capable young Polish males, and they stride forward now in good order, as if a band that only they can hear has struck up “Dabrowski’s Mazurka.” Cross the Vistula and the Warta, and Poles again we shall be. We’ve been shown by Bonaparte the way to victory. He feels like he’s marching to his own execution.
Without casualty they reach the wall. It’s at least two meters tall. Trying to find out if the dog is ambulatory, Bogdan kicks the gate. This time Marek doesn’t protest. His vodka-fueled bravado seems to have waned during their advance over open ground.
Nothing happens. He kicks it again. Still nothing.
“Well,” he says, “if we’re going to do it, now’s the time.” Operational command, he understands, has passed to him. He pulls a small flashlight from his pocket and shines it on the gate.
Above the steel handle there’s a digital keypad. He suspects it allows a limited number of chances to enter the correct numerical sequence. He wonders if it might not also somehow be linked to the alarm, so that the final failure will set it off. A part of him would be relieved if that happened, because then they could turn and run before actually breaking the law. The other part knows how badly they need money. “Give me the code,” he says.
Marek hesitates. “Four . . . four . . .”
“That’s not what you’ve been saying all night. You’ve consistently said four two one six.”
“Four two one six. That’s right.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes . . . Bogdan?”
“What?”
“You’re feeling pretty good about the dog?”
“No,” he says, bending and pressing the four key, “I don’t feel good about the dog at all. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is how the dog might be feeling about us.” He punches the two key, then the one, then the six. Hearing a faint droning sound, he takes a deep breath, grasps the handle, turns it, and pushes the gate.
It budges but doesn’t open wide enough for him to enter. “Too much snow’s piled behind it,” he says. Together they lean against it and finally manage to create barely enough space to step through. He goes first, and Marek follows.
No sound from the dog, and no sign of him either. About twenty meters ahead, on their left, is a small outbuilding that gives off an eerie blue light. Most likely the electrified doghouse. Bogdan hopes the animal got back inside before passing out, because if not he’ll have to drag him in before they leave. Otherwise, he could easily freeze to death.
The big house itself is dark, not a light on anywhere as far as he can tell. He’s thinking how strange that is when he takes another step and the night is suddenly ablaze.
Powerful spotlights are mounted on the roof and at various points along the security wall. For an instant, both of them are blinded. When he regains his vision, the first thing he notices is the kielbasa. It lies about two meters away, embedded in the snow, completely untouched.
A moment passes before the full import registers. “Oh, my,” he says.
Marek, who to the best of Bogdan’s knowledge has never attended mass in his life, crosses himself.
Simultaneously, they turn toward the gate. The dog stands before it, blocking their exit.
He’s an impressive animal: his body is longer than it is tall, with powerful shoulders, straight forelegs, and a gently sloping back. He displays the classic wedge-shaped muzzle, oval eyes, and erect ears, and his nose is perfectly black. A showstopper for sure—and the show he’s stopped tonight has two actors, each of whom will react to the threat in his own definitive manner.
For Bogdan, the event is simply the latest in a string of failures that started several years ago. Until then, he thought life was about addition: you worked hard for somebody else and saved a certain sum of money. Eventually you started your own business, and then you bought a place of your own. You and your wife had your own bedroom, with a bed that didn’t have a crevice in the middle so it could be turned back into a couch the next morning. You had a new TV, a nice computer. Then one day, with little or no warning, you found yourself in the subtractive phase. Something went wrong, and that led to something else. You lost this, you lost that. And the next thing you know, you’re standing in the snow, in the middle of the night, with a wall and a German shepherd separating you from your tomorrows. Only modest hopes remain. Maybe if they embrace their fates, conceding the dog’s right to take a chunk out of their butts and make up for the kielbasa he’s too smart to eat, they can get on with the business of living their shitty lives.
Marek, on the other hand, experiences the onslaught of terror, laced with no small amount of rage at the injustice. He’s a person, yet he’s been outfoxed by a dog. Before he can be cautioned to remain motionless, he brandishes the crowbar.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Bogdan says.
As if to express agreement, the shepherd tilts his head to the right, studying Marek with those intelligent eyes.
“It’s okay, boy,” Bogdan whispers. “He wouldn’t hurt you. He never hurts anyone but us.”
The dog steps forward.
Marek yells, “Son