by Graham Brack
‘Did you tell Sedlák this?’
‘We wouldn’t normally,’ Poznar replied. ‘Things get out, you see. Much easier if we just offer him every assistance short of actual help and thus ensure that our man is never caught. Eventually the fuss dies down and Sedlák would have given up.’
‘And did he?’
‘The file was still open when he died, but these events were three or four months ago, and he had done nothing practical for much of that time.’
‘That sounds like Sedlák. So do we know anything at all about these men?’
‘Not really. We could do with implanting a man there to see if he can pick anything up, but in view of recent experience there’s no appetite amongst my lot for doing so just yet. I don’t have any proof that these people who badgered the Slovaks are connected in any way to your explosion, but I don’t believe in coincidence, and here we have a group of unknown men expressing an interest in direct action, and you have someone who has access to a big bit of armour plated steel with a gun on the front. Suppose these men had found or stolen the gun? It was on the move because it had been stolen from the people who originally had it but weren’t using it.’
Slonský dipped some bread in his soup and chewed reflectively. ‘It’s plausible, isn’t it? They’d have to have found a gun that nobody had reported missing and that people had been very tight-lipped about for nearly forty years, but maybe somebody blabbed.’
‘If you keep a secret for that long, why suddenly start talking about it?’
‘Let’s work forwards from 1968. You’ve got five or six people who know where that gun went. They have every reason to keep it to themselves, and secrecy becomes a habit. Until, say, the fall of Communism in 1989 you might still need the gun, so you say nothing. Presumably those men who were army age in 1968 would still be alive in 1989, so they could talk about it then, but it sounds as if they didn’t. Here we are nearly twenty years later, and those men will be my age or older. Some may be dead. If they want to hand on the torch they have to find new people to tell. And the new people haven’t lived under a government where saying the wrong thing can get you up against a wall wearing a blindfold. My generation was much better at keeping secrets because we had to be. Maybe it’s got out now because new people have taken over the care of the thing?’
‘Why wouldn’t they just give the gun back to the Czech Army in 1989?’ Poznar asked.
‘I don’t know. And until I do, it’s a big hole in my theory.’
‘I don’t have a great deal of confidence in mine either. If it has been stolen you’d expect those who originally had it to be making efforts to get it back but we’re not hearing of that. Of course, we’re hampered by not having anyone on the ground there.’
An idea was forming in Slonský’s head.
‘Are you serious, sir?’ Navrátil asked.
‘Deadly serious.’ Slonský reconsidered for a moment, then added, ‘Maybe “Deadly” wasn’t the best word to use there.’
‘You want me to infiltrate a far right gang that has already tried to kill a police officer?’
‘Well, that’s not going to be a problem if you don’t let on that you’re a police officer.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
‘And I don’t want you to become a member or anything like that. Just give the impression that you’re sympathetic to their aims and see if they tell you anything.’
‘But I’m not sympathetic to their aims.’
‘Navrátil, when you were a little kid just starting school, did your teacher ever play that game where you all pretend to be trees?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There you are, then. You’re a lot more like a right-wing terrorist than you are a tree, so if you pulled that off pretending to be a neo-nazi should be a piece of cake.’
‘And how do I convince them I’m one of them? You can’t just sit in a bar asking strangers “I’m new in town. Do you know where the neo-nazis hang out?”, can you?’
‘Obviously you have to be more subtle than that. Poznar will give you some tips. He’s coming up with a cover story for you.’
‘Sir, be straight with me. Isn’t this a bit dangerous?’
Slonský sighed. ‘Of course it is, lad. It’s more dangerous than a Prague taxi-driver in a hurry. But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary. We’ll tell Doležal what you’re up to so that he doesn’t get in your way or throw a fit if he sees you. And he’ll provide backup if you need it urgently, though until the very last you communicate through this office. It won’t be healthy to be seen talking to the police.’
‘I’m not sure I like that phrase “until the very last”, sir.’
‘Don’t be difficult, Navrátil. Are you going to help or not?’
‘And if I say no…?’
‘Clearly I’ll have to order you to do it. But I’d rather not.’
‘Is that so you’ll feel less guilty if anything happens to me?’
‘Nothing will make me feel less guilty, Navrátil. And even if I tried to escape any guilt, I’m sure Peiperová will keep reminding me. And, if I’m honest, I’m more scared of her disapproval than yours.’
Navrátil looked pensive. ‘I’ll do it, sir, on one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘You explain it all to Kristýna.’
‘What’s your name?’ barked Poznar.
‘Michal Ondráček.’
‘Occupation?’
‘Postgraduate doctoral student, Charles University.’
‘Supervisor?’
‘Professor Jakub Hofmann.’
‘Very good, Navrátil. On to the next part.’
Navrátil relaxed. Learning somebody else’s name was the easy part; not responding to his own was the tricky bit. That, and the prospect of not being able to communicate with Peiperová for an unknown period of time.
Poznar dropped a battered manila folder on the desk.
‘This is a nicely dog-eared first draft of your Ph.D. thesis. It would be as well to read it, given that our technical people have gone to great lengths to create it. The essence of this is that Professor Hofmann didn’t like it. Your thesis title is “Czech cultural identity since 1945” and you’ll see from his scribbles that he liked the bit up to 1989, he was reasonably happy with the chapter up to the separation from Slovakia in 1993, and he thought only a few alterations were needed in the chapters from 1993 to our accession to the European Union in 2004, but he was deeply unhappy with the chapters after that, because he said you had underplayed the desire to be European, as evidenced by the 77% vote in favour at the EU referendum. So he wants you to do some field work asking people who voted in favour whether they think they are primarily European or Czech. You have to do it, and he has suggested the Pardubice and Holice area as a good testing ground, but you’ll tell anyone who listens that the point of your research was to reinforce the importance of being Czech and not losing that uniqueness within the European Union. With luck, that will give anyone who hears you the chance to agree and perhaps somebody will introduce you to a militant such as would join Our Home. Any questions?’
Navrátil looked unhappily at a couple of pages and noted the copious comments in red ink. Even though it was not actually his thesis he felt Ondráček’s pain.
‘Is Ondráček real, sir?’
‘No, we can’t use a real student’s identity in case someone knows him. But if anyone enquires they’ll find Michal Ondráček in the university files. Fortunately the university computers weren’t too difficult for our guys to get into. Professor Hofmann isn’t real either, but he has a webpage if anyone goes on to the university website and puts his name in the search box. You might want to take a look in case you ever need to describe him. Scruffy, curly hair, red complexion, round gunmetal-coloured glasses he wears partway down his nose, straggly beard.’
‘Suppose somebody wants to speak to him, sir?’
‘Here’s his business card. That telephone number at the bottom dive
rts to us, and we’ll know it’s someone wanting Hofmann. Whoever answers will know what to do. If you need to call us, this is the simple way to do it. Just tell us you’re Ondráček and we’ll know to whom we’re really speaking.’
‘I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Doležal this afternoon and explained that you’ll be working there undercover, but I haven’t told him what exactly you’re doing,’ Slonský chipped in.
‘Doležal will keep out of your way. If you need him, contact him through us,’ warned Poznar. ‘Doing it any other way could put you both in danger. Remember that these people have already killed to keep their secret.’
‘Believe me, I won’t forget,’ Navrátil assured them.
‘We won’t leave you there indefinitely but we’ll have to rely on your reports to decide whether trying to infiltrate them is a dead duck. Expect to be there for a month at least. We’ve got you a room in a private house such as a graduate student might be able to afford and we’ve paid for two weeks up front.’
‘After that?’ Navrátil asked, hoping that he was not going to be expected to pay for everything and reclaim it when he got back to Prague.
‘We’ve got you a bank debit card in your new name. We’ll monitor the account and keep it topped up. You’ll always have five thousand crowns in there. If you need more there’s also a credit card here. Don’t go wild with it. I know you’ve got to eat but I don’t want to find you’ve been on extended pub crawls or buying the company of loose women.’
‘Anyone less likely than Navrátil to do either of those would be hard to imagine,’ Slonský interjected. ‘He’s more disposed towards blowing the lot on votive candles and presents for his girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’ said Poznar. ‘How are you going to explain where you are to her?’
‘She’s another police officer,’ Slonský said. ‘Soon to be personal assistant to the Director of Criminal Police. She can be trusted.’
Poznar relaxed. ‘Well, that’s good. I’d hate to have her banging on my door every few minutes. You won’t be able to contact her directly. Even letters may be intercepted.’
‘She lives in the police barracks,’ said Navrátil, ‘so I didn’t expect to be able to write. Maybe I can phone her.’
‘Just remember you may be overheard. Tell her nothing about the job,’ said Poznar.
‘I won’t and she wouldn’t expect it, sir.’
‘I’d be sparing. Once or twice a week, ideally when she isn’t on duty.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And remember that if they’re well connected, and we don’t know that they aren’t, they may be listening in on your phone, so you might put her in danger if they realise that she’s a police officer too.’
‘I won’t do that,’ Navrátil claimed.
There was an awkward pause.
‘Any questions?’ asked Poznar.
‘I don’t think so,’ Slonský replied.
‘I was asking Navrátil.’
‘Oh — well, have you, lad?’
‘No, sir. I’ll get going in the morning.’
‘Very good. Stick to public transport. We don’t want anyone booby-trapping your car.’
Navrátil liked this assignment less and less.
Peiperová felt much the same way when Navrátil broke the news.
‘It could be dangerous,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Navrátil responded.
‘Promise me you won’t get hurt?’
‘That’s a bit difficult to promise, isn’t it? I’ll be very, very careful.’
‘I’m not going to enjoy not being able to talk to you whenever I want.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Just promise me if there’s any trouble you won’t be brave?’
‘You want me to be a coward?’
‘Yes, because cowards keep safer than brave people. If rough stuff starts I want you to run away as fast as you can.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Navrátil. ‘That’s exactly what I was planning to do.’
‘What’s eating you?’ Valentin asked Slonský.
‘Hm? Oh, Navrátil’s got a job to do and it could be dangerous.’
‘Then shouldn’t you be doing it?’
‘I’m needed here. And he’s much more nondescript than me. I don’t want to be antisocial but I can’t talk about it.’
‘You’re talking about it now.’
‘Only in general terms. If it got out I was speaking to a journalist there’d be hell to pay.’
‘You’re not. You’re talking to me as your oldest friend.’
‘Who is a journalist.’
‘Well, technically, perhaps. But you’re speaking to me in my private rather than my professional capacity. Or, more accurately, not speaking to me.’
‘Things are just a bit tense at the moment, old pal. I’d feel happy if I knew a bit more about what we’re letting Navrátil in for.’
‘He’s a bright lad. He can afford to rely on his wits.’
‘Oh, he’s intelligent enough. One of the brightest policemen I’ve ever met, though I’m not sure that’s much of a commendation. But he’s too trusting and innocent. He’s just not suspicious enough. Now, Peiperová is another matter. She can spot a lie from a hundred metres.’
‘Send her, then.’
‘You can’t send a woman into that kind of danger! All sorts of things that don’t bear thinking about could happen.’
Valentin took a slug of his iced water, having removed the slice of lime from the rim of the glass to make it look more manly. ‘You know best. But young women today bang on about equality, so I’d have thought that has to include an equal right to the nasty jobs too.’
‘You may have a point. But even if she begged me to be allowed to go, she’s due in the Office of the Director of Criminal Police for 366 days as from 1st June, and he’d have my anus for a novelty inkwell if I let anything happen to her before then.’
‘She hasn’t got out of it, then?’
‘I don’t see how she can. In theory she has a choice, but in practice…’
‘Ah, yes. The good old-fashioned Czech way.’
‘We had a choice under communism, didn’t we? Do what they want or spend a few years in a labour camp thinking about what you might have done differently.’
‘I never actually went to prison. There was a time when having been jailed was quite a badge of honour in the Journalists’ Union.’
‘Yes, but not until the ones who did the jailing had gone.’
Valentin took another glug. ‘Can’t you wire Navrátil up with cameras and microphones and things?’ he suggested. ‘There was a documentary on television the other night when they sent an undercover reporter to look at practices in a vegetable canning factory, and he was a walking film studio.’
‘When do you see television? You’re in here every night.’
‘I recorded it on my video recorder. And I’m not here every night. I missed 5th April.’
‘Did you?’
‘Tummy trouble. Flooding out of me like…’
‘Yes, I get the point. Anyway, we daren’t kit Navrátil up with all that. If he gets detected he’d be in real trouble.’
‘Well, he’d be in real trouble anyway, by your account. What more can fitting him up with some technology cause?’
Chapter 9
If Navrátil had been taken aback by the early morning phone call from his boss ordering him to come to the office before leaving, he was more amazed to be directed to the technical services department, and was now standing in his underwear as Slonský and Technician First Class Spehar discussed his complaint that while he understood the reason for fitting him with a video camera and microphone, keeping the battery pack down his boxer shorts was surprisingly uncomfortable, not to mention that it was getting quite warm.
‘Can’t he just put the battery in his jacket pocket?’ asked Spehar.
‘You can see the bulge.’
‘We could give him a kit with an integral recha
rgeable battery.’
‘How long does it run between charges?’
‘Four to six hours, maybe.’
‘Can he turn it off to save the battery?’
‘Yes, but it draws attention to you. And the camera is concealed in a lapel badge which might lead people to wonder why he’s always wearing it.’
Slonský scratched his head. ‘You’re the one who has to wear it, lad. What do you think?’
‘Can I put my trousers back on while we talk, sir?’
‘Go on, then. We’ve admired the sharp creases in your boxer shorts long enough.’
Spehar left the room for a moment. The two detectives could hear the unmistakable sound of a shelf tumbling from a cupboard as items were moved around. Spehar reappeared with a battered light brown briefcase in his hand.
‘I’ll sort that out later,’ he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at a passageway littered with objects as diverse as a large parasol, a goaltender’s hockey stick and a supermarket trolley. ‘This may be the answer to our problem.’
‘An antique briefcase?’ Slonský commented.
‘Yes, but not just any antique briefcase. This one has cameras built into the handle.’