The Amber Knight by Katherine John Page A

folded the map away as Elizbieta directed them through the traffic-clogged streets of the centre into a wilderness of giant, high-rise apartment blocks. Adam’s sense of direction failed completely as they traversed concrete roads flanked by towering walls of windows set neatly one upon the other. The only variation between one gargantuan edifice and the next was the degree of weathering and graffiti, and an occasional favoured block that could boast the luxury of balconies.
    ‘Turn right here.’ Elizbieta leaned over Adam’s shoulder.
    ‘Beats me how you can possibly know where we are when there are no landmarks.’ Adam turned a corner occupied by a gang of jeans-clad youths.
    ‘This is the street. Look for number 193.’
    ‘This isn’t that different from some of the estates around Gdynia and Gdansk.’ Magdalena craned her neck in an attempt to read a faded number painted on a wall.
    ‘Yes, it is,’ Adam argued. ‘These people haven’t the old quarter to visit.’
    ‘They’re allowed to travel now, same as us.’ Elizbieta sat up and dabbed blusher on her cheeks and perfume on her neck.
    ‘Krefta’s an old man,’ Adam teased.
    ‘You know me and old men.’ Elizbieta winked at him in the mirror as he reduced the car’s speed to walking pace.
     
     
    Even after they found the block it took twenty minutes to locate Krefta’s apartment. Less than a quarter of the doors bore numbers and none had name plates, as though the occupants wanted to live as anonymously as possible. After Adam had wasted five minutes in fruitless knocking, Elizbieta tried the neighbouring doors, eventually rousting out an old woman who purported not to know Krefta by name, but deigned to identify him from Adam’s photograph. She insisted she hadn’t seen him in weeks, had no idea where he was, or if he was coming back, and her parting shot, before slamming her door, was that Krefta could be dead for all she knew or cared.
    ‘Nice neighbour.’ Adam returned to Krefta’s door. It was at the end of a blind, windowless corridor. Four out of the five light bulbs designated to illuminate the area were missing, and, whether it was the gloom or the unnatural silence, he had the uneasy feeling that there were hostile, listening ears behind every door. After checking the ceiling for CCTV cameras, a ridiculous exercise given the age and state of the building, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a multi-bladed penknife.
    ‘You’re not thinking of breaking in?’ Magdalena was horrified.
    ‘I didn’t drive all this way for nothing.’
    ‘This is Byelorussia.’
    ‘I’m carrying enough money to bribe the police.’
    ‘Ssh!’ Elizbieta glanced around nervously, ‘it’s not the police you have to worry about.’
    ‘You two can go back to the car,’ Adam attacked the door.
    ‘If you’re intent on behaving like an idiot, I’ll keep a lookout,’ Elizbieta whispered conspiratorially.
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I’ll stay but only for the sake of the museum. Your successor might not be as amenable in funding projects,’ Magdalena declared practically.
    Adam slid a long thin blade between the lock and the post. The door was so flimsy, one good kick would have finished it and, if it hadn’t been for the noise and the mess he’d make of the door, he might have been tempted. As it was, it took him a few minutes to prise the lock from the frame.
    ‘The river must flow under the building.’ Elizbieta reeled back as Adam entered the apartment.
    ‘The poor little thing.’ Magdalena stooped down beside the corpse of a kitten. Skeletally thin, its fur writhed with spirals of maggots. ‘How could anyone have left it?’
    ‘Perhaps Krefta didn’t realise it was locked in.’ Adam looked around. The room was a reasonable size but it was crammed with rubbish and mouldering furniture. A single, small window was set in the wall opposite the door. In front of it a table held piles of papers and the remains of a greyish,