His father, a metallurgist by profession and an active member of Solidarity, cherished the deeply rooted ideal of a free Poland. He hated the dictatorship in his country, but was blind to the one that he imposed on the boy’s mother, who never lost her cheerfulness, despite the physical and psychological hardships she had to face. It touched her to see how the boy managed to keep in his mind a fixed, happy image of his father and mother together, on the bank of the Motława, when his father’s most noteworthy traits were violence and prolonged absences from his family, as a result of his unequal battle against a totalitarian government. In that area, at least, one had to give him credit for his steadfast commitment to his cause. It was too bad that he failed to establish those same hard-won freedoms in his home. For instance, he very easily could have granted the boy’s mother freedom of expression. The image of the river could well be the happy picture taken by a happy mother. But no. That in no way represented reality. That photo never existed, was never taken. What did exist was fear, the everyday terror of hearing the key turn in the lock to make way for the devil. After a long absence, it was the end of peace. Once again there was the black suitcase full of dollars for the cause. “It’s from the Americans,” he said, wolfing down the dinner prepared by his wife, so pure-hearted that she never once thought to season it with rat poison. That’s what he would have done. “It’s from the Vatican,” his father continued. “This time we will finish them.” And he laughed like a child on the verge of seeing his dreams come true. He said they couldn’t talk to anybody about the source of the money. Should its existence become known, they would all deny it. Besides, it was dirty money, obtained at other people’s expense—from drugs, from trafficking in poorly guarded secrets. Dirty money to finance noble ideals, of equality, justice, and liberty. Foreigners, prying eyes, and naturally enemies couldn’t learn the source of the money. It was from the Americans and the Vatican, his father said, without specifying the twists and turns those bills had taken, the hands through which they had passed, the shadow enterprises, the administrators of corrupt banks. No one would ever know.

The younger man remembered, as if it were yesterday, the day he came home and saw her. Her eyes open, glassy, inert, their vision gone. The blood that ran down her neck into a puddle on the floor. One could barely discern that the original color of her blouse was white. His father was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, drunk, cursing, trying to explain how she had failed to respect him. Before he knew it, the damage was done. “Now there’s just the two of us, son,” his father said, inebriated and maudlin. “Come here, boy. Give your father a hug.” It wasn’t a plea but an order, obeyed by the boy, who hugged his father with his body, and his mother with his mind. The knife went deep into his body, up to the handle, while the boy kept hugging his father tightly, with great love, eyes closed. When he finally died, his son drew away from him, and looked for the last time at his mother’s body.

“Now I’m alone.”

Finally, the moment he’d anticipated for so many years had come. At last he was to meet the Grand Master, who must have already landed on American soil, on one of the runways here, at New York’s La Guardia Airport. This servant of his was waiting for him on the secluded tarmac, at the space assigned for the plane to stop. He brought a car befitting a dignitary of such stature. His smile concealed the nervousness eating him up. The Master was like a father to him. Though he didn’t know him personally, the man had given him all the benefits a real father provides for his children. A roof over his head, education, work, and encouragement. Although it had all been done long distance, maybe that was exactly why he had developed such great love and respect for the Master.

The plane was already on the runway. Once the engines were shut down and the door opened, the first person to appear was the man in an Armani suit whom he had met in Gdansk. This one waited to help the gentleman of advanced age coming behind him, leaning on a cane topped with a golden lion. He gripped the cane with one hand, and the assistant’s arm with the other. At last, all three of them were face-to-face. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The master, the servant, and the assistant.

In a scene worthy of bygone centuries, the Polish servant knelt before the Master and reverently bowed his head.

“Sir, I want you to know what an honor it is for me to finally meet you,” he said, eyes closed.

The old man placed his trembling hand on the servant’s head.

“Stand up, my son.”

The servant quickly complied. He wouldn’t dare look his master directly in the eye. The old man got into the car, and he shut the door.

“You have served me well. Always with great efficiency and dedication.”

“You can truly count on my total, absolute devotion,” he said with sincere reverence.

“I know it.”

“Where’s the target?” the assistant asked.

“Visiting a museum, right now.”

“He likes to cultivate his mind,” the man in black sneered.

“Where would you like to go, sir?” the Pole asked shyly.

“Let’s be tourists for a while,” the old man answered. “Take us for a drive.”

His words were orders.

A hushed exchange, not intended for the servant’s ears, was under way in the backseat.

Once this was over, the Master made a call and had to wait a few seconds for a response.

“At what point are we going to meet?” he asked directly, without any prior greeting. He listened to the response, and spoke in a curt tone. “Mr. Barnes, pay close attention to my orders.”