by Ian Young
Hanzel checks his watch and frowns. In his father’s day, matters of state security took precedence over everything else. Wives and families didn’t complain if their husbands worked twenty-four hours a day. Being in the secret police brought benefits that were otherwise unavailable to ordinary citizens. But that was then. Hanzel’s wife isn’t cowed by his status. Come to think of it, neither were the residents of Prague. He supposes that’s a good thing, even if it made his job more difficult. Stuff it. The priest can wait until tomorrow.
Hanzel rarely uses his car for work, preferring the tram that takes him straight to his home in Prague 5. The district to the west of the city is convenient for his office and for town, but is cheaper than more central districts such as Prague 1 or 2. There have been many new developments in and around Prague in recent years, and plenty old blocks redeveloped into modern and attractive homes. Property prices have multiplied many times over since 1990. The state-owned apartment his father lived in throughout his career had, like many, passed in to private ownership after the end of communism. At the time of his death, Hanzel senior owned a property worth eight million Czech Korun. It helped Zdeněk Hanzel, an only child, to buy one of the newly refurbished apartments in the trendy and sought-after neighbourhood of Smíchov. His only concern is when his daughter reaches her teenage years, the Nový Smíchov shopping centre is bound to become an expensive hang-out.
As soon as Zdeněk opens the door to his apartment, the smell of pork hits him like the pig itself has charged at him. It’s the most popular meat in the Czech Republic, abundant, cheap and versatile. Hanzel only once tried lamb, at an official banquet, and though he loved it, the meat is too expensive to eat regularly.
‘I’m starving, miláčku, what’s for dinner?’ Zdeněk smiles to himself, knowing perfectly well what’s for dinner, and winks at his son, who dashes up to him.
‘You’re not funny, Dad,’ says the little boy, throwing his arms around his father’s legs.
‘Fishcakes and dumplings,’ says Zdeněk’s daughter, sticking her head around the kitchen door, but not venturing any further.
Zdeněk looks at his daughter and frowns. ‘Oh, Petra, have you got a … um … what’s it called?’ Zdeněk, rubs his chin. ‘Any, um, oh I know, hugs for your dad?’
‘You’re not even funny,’ says Petra, popping back into the kitchen.
‘Charming,’ said Zdeněk. He rubs the top of his son’s head then kicks his shoes off, replacing them with slippers.
The smell of pork draws him into the kitchen where his wife is just dishing up the dinner. Zdeněk understands the sacrifice his wife made when their second child was born. A graduate of Charles University, Krystina Hanzel had a promising career in teaching ahead of her. But they simply couldn’t afford full time childcare, and with Zdeněk’s job demanding long and unpredictable hours, it must have felt, at times, like she was a single parent. Once the children are both in secondary school, perhaps she could return to her career. Perhaps by then, Zdeněk will have a more settled job in the office, something he’s supposed to have now. She places the dinner on the table and kisses her husband on the cheek.
‘It’s good to have you home early,’ she says.
‘Yes, it’s good to have dinner together.’ Zdeněk feels bad about the priest. He has to be careful because he doesn’t have the power to detain and question someone in this manner. The BIS are an intelligence gathering organisation, not a detective agency. And Hanzel is not even on this case anymore, despite the apparent links to dead priest – both of them.
‘How did you get on at school today, kids?’
Little Petra rolls her eyes. ‘Fine,’ she says.
‘Fine is good,’ he agrees, nodding as though impressed. ‘How about you, Jacob?’
‘Can’t remember,’ his son says. The boy shrugs and tucks another piece of pork away, chewing hard.
‘No point going,’ Zdeněk mutters.
After dinner Zdeněk helps his wife clear the table then spends thirty minutes or so with his children until it’s time for their bath and bed.
With the children sleeping, Zdeněk puts his feet up in the sitting room with a glass of beer. There’s little on the television that interests him these days, besides the news, so he flicks through until he finds what he considers to be a reliable news channel, the BBC World Service. And it’s good for his English.
Zdeněk’s wife comes and takes a sip of his beer. ‘The BBC again, miláčku?
‘I’ll switch it off,’ he says, grabbing his glass back. ‘I want to check something on the Internet anyway.’
‘A case?’
‘Yes, well, unofficial now, just something’s bothering me about an old case we’ve dropped.’
Krystina watches him for a moment; she knows not to ask questions, but to wait. If he can tell her something he will.
‘What’s the difference between Jews, Christians and Muslims?’ he asks, looking at her straight.
‘That’s unexpected,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I imagine there’s rather a lot. Let me see, Jews don’t believe Jesus was the son of God … uh … Christians …’
‘The Son of God – Jesus, right? The one they crucified?’
‘Oh, miláčku! Don’t you know anything about religion?’
‘Sometimes, the less you know the better.’
‘Well, clearly not on this occasion.’
‘Fair point,’ says Zdeněk. ‘Let me put it another way. What have they in common?’
‘Ah, that’s a lot easier.’ Krystina laughs. ‘They all fundamentally believe in the same god. That’s about all we used to teach at school. That, and they each consider Abraham to be the father of their religion.’
‘So, there must have been a time when they all believed in the same thing, before they went their separate ways.’
‘I suppose. I remember they had their different names for God, but it was essentially the same figure.’
‘Right.’ Zdeněk stares at the wall, his hands clasped together, fingers touching his lips.
‘Are you praying?’ asks Krystina. ‘Or trying to work out which religion would suit you better?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I can’t imagine you under the power and influence of some religious movement.’ Krystina scoffs and reaches for Zdeněk’s beer again.
‘What did you say?’
‘Just a joke, miláčku.’ Krystina retracts her hand and sits back on the sofa.
‘No, you said, that’s what they have in common, these three religions. They all use God as a means of controlling their followers.’
‘Oh, Zdeněk, you are cynical,’ she says, leaning forward again.
‘That’s the connection!’
‘What is?’ Krystina frowns at her husband. ‘Can you tell me any more?’
‘Only to ask why the three biggest religious faiths in the world meet secretly in my town for a good old chat.’
‘Well, if it were Bratislava, there’d be a man like you in Slovakia sat asking his wife the same question.’
‘Perhaps.’ Zdeněk finishes his beer before Krystina can steal any more and gently places the glass on the table. ‘I guess these religious leaders would have plenty to lose if no one believed in God.’
Chapter 22
Mason has been sitting by the window since I returned home from the police station. He’s like one of those nosey neighbours that spies on everyone else in the street. Occasionally his head turns slowly as he watches a car or pedestrian moving along the street below. And each time, I feel a tug in my belly as though someone is poking me from the inside.
‘For God’s sake, Mason, come away. Unsworth’s in custody. He has no idea who we are.’
‘I think we’re blown,’ he says, glancing at me. ‘We can either flee now, or wait to see i
f someone comes here for us.’
‘The only person who’s going to come here is that secret agent when he realises I know more than I let on.’
‘Precisely. Once he gets stuck into the priest he’ll be back. My guess is he’ll be back for me.’
I have a pang of disappointment when I realise Mason is actually looking out for himself and not me. But I have to cut him some slack: it would be the first time he’s done so since I met him a little more than three months ago.
‘Why would he come for you?’
‘Murder. It’s enough, I think.’
There’s that superiority complex again, It’s enough, I think. Hanzel will be coming to get me for murder if Mason carries on like that.
I curl my legs underneath me and turn back to the TV. I’ve given up on the BBC because they’re too global. I need local news, or at least—
‘You have to be kidding me!’ I sit bolt upright on the sofa. ‘You have to be freaking kidding me!’
Mason lets the curtain drop and moves across to my side, staring at the TV.
‘That’s three,’ I say. ‘What happened to this one? Accidentally ate the poisoned mushrooms?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mason cups his hand at the back of my head – he actually cups his hand on my hair!
‘This guy … Robert something or other, just poisoned himself while out walking through pastures near the airport.’
‘Prague Airport?’
‘Yes, Prague Airport, what other airport is round here.
‘Well, that’s a shame—’
‘Shut up and listen.’
The author, known for his outspoken attacks on the Church, was found earlier this morning by a dog walker. Our Prague correspondent Caroline Meacher has more.
The man, a regular dog walker here, told me he how he found Robert Tranter about a hundred metres from the main route between the airport and the city. There are no signs of injury, and police aren’t looking for anyone else in connection with the death. Mr Tranter’s wife said he’d gone away on a research trip for his new book, due to be published next year …
‘No way is this a coincidence,’ I say, leaning forward, away from Mason’s cupped hand.
‘You’re not linking this with the other suicides, are you?’
‘You better believe it!’
‘But they were scientists, this guy’s more a philosopher.’
‘Yes, but what do these scientists have … probably … in common?’
Mason shrugs like he really doesn’t care.
‘They don’t believe in God.’
‘Oh, Andi, you can’t possibly make that connection. Not all scientists are atheist. You can hold religious beliefs and be a scientist at the same time. They are not mutually exclusive.’
‘Seriously?’ I really couldn’t see how anyone could accept both arguments at the same time. It’s like a doctor believing homeopathic remedies actually work (do the chemistry, people).
We watch and listen for a minute or two. I’m desperate to start arguing again but I stay silent while the reporter finishes. Then Mason jumps in.
‘It’s suicide, Andi. You heard her, there were no traces of others around, and police are not looking for anyone else. They’re all suicides.’
‘That’s a lot of suicides, Mason!’ Hell, he was probably right. ‘Well, I don’t believe in coincidences and this is beginning to look a lot like a coincidence.’
Mason furrows his brow and pushes his eyebrows together in a ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ expression. As I replay my words, I realise he has a point.
‘What I mean is, there have been three deaths among the scientific community, including this guy,’ I point at the TV, ‘and in my mind that adds up to something more than a coincidence.’
‘Got you.’ Mason presses his lips together and makes that short humming sound.
What does that even mean? He keeps doing it and it’s getting annoying. It’s like some non-committal noise when you don’t actually want to agree or disagree with someone.
‘So what you’re saying,’ begins Mason, ‘is if I see you holding a large knife, or sitting on the window ledge, I should be worried.’
‘Only if I come near you with the knife.’
I jump up off the sofa and go to the bathroom. I’m tempted to go get a big knife right now. Perhaps some alone time will do me good.
Monday’s my night off from the Irish bar. I sit on the toilet, lid down, just sitting, looking around the room as though seeing it for the first time. There’s a bottle of cleaning fluid on the shelf beside me. I pick it up and read through the list of chemicals, smiling if I recognise something from the Czech language. I can draw the molecular representation for just about every chemical found in domestic products, and describe how they interact with other chemicals. Wow! Way to go, girl. Mason can disarm violent attackers and beat them to a pulp. He can chase them down and kick their asses. No doubt he could lead an assault on a heavily fortified terrorist hideout, rescue all the hostages and kill all the bad guys (I hope it doesn’t come to that). Well, big deal, Mason, I know how to make crystal meth. That’s worth something.
I go to bed and spend all night rolling around like a wounded soldier. There’s something about meeting the man who wants you dead that stops you sleeping.
By morning my sweat-soaked pyjamas are so creased it looks like I’ve just pulled them from the washing machine. Czech apartment buildings were designed to withstand frozen winters of -40 ° Fahrenheit; shame they weren’t designed to cope with summers of +120 °.
By 6.0 a.m. I give up sleep and walk into the sitting room expecting to see Mason still at the window, but he’s in the kitchen pouring boiling water into my cup.
‘Morning, Andi, sleep well?’
Hilarious, Mason, just hilarious. I try to ruffle my hair, forgetting I’d cut it short after twenty-five years. Mason’s idea – some sort of foolproof disguise. Perhaps he just prefers girls with short hair.
‘Aren’t you working today?’ I ask, actually hoping he wasn’t.
‘Probably not,’ he says, quietly.
‘That for me?’ I say, reaching for my mug. ‘Thanks.’
‘I think we should cut and run, Andi.’
‘Think again, soldier boy.’ I sip my coffee, eyes looking up at Mason. ‘For the first time in three months we have a lead. I’m going nowhere. Besides, Hanzel told me not to leave Prague.’
‘Of course he did. I wasn’t talking about booking a flight to London. We’ll hitch a lift into Germany, it’s little more than an hour west of here.’
‘Sorry, Scott, there’s no way.’ Mason always frowns when I use his first name. ‘Hanzel’s not interested in what happened in LA, he’s only interested in Unsworth. There’s no need for you to get jumpy.’
‘I’m not jumpy.’
For the first time since I’d known him, Mason sounds tense and his face takes on a hardened look, almost a scowl.
‘I don’t want to leave,’ I say softly. ‘And I don’t want you to leave me.’ I think about holding him.
Mason looks at me, his eyes darting around my face as though trying to memorise my features. And then he smiles. ‘What the hell – as you might say.’
I let my breath out with relief. ‘Hanzel has nothing on Unsworth, only suspicion. Even the Americans don’t know about him. If Hanzel thinks he can hand him over to the Yanks, he’s in for a surprise.’
‘You sound very sure about this.’
‘Think about it. A Catholic priest orders a hit on a couple of UCLA scientists? That’s crazy. The LAPD have already explained the dead body as a burglary gone wrong and they haven’t connected it with Howie’s murder, they still think that was a hit and run.’
‘I suppose.’ Mason d
rinks his coffee and places the empty mug on the table. ‘So you reckon he’ll release the priest sooner or later?’
‘Definitely, and when he does, we’ll be waiting. Wherever he goes, we go with him.’
Chapter 23
Zdeněk Hanzel looks at Unsworth as though trying to draw out his secrets telepathically. It’s a trick he learned as a child from his father. Hanzel’s father would spend minutes just watching his son, then he would tell him he already knew what he’d been up to, but owning up would mitigate the punishment. It always worked on young Zdeněk. He imagined the men who sat opposite him in the cells of the Kachlíkárna, men whose flesh had already been tenderised by the well-worn fists of the StB thugs. But that was then: different times, different styles. Hanzel has no need for violence.
The secret agent glances down at the file before him, allowing himself a quick grin as though he’s accessed all he needs to know from Unsworth. He pulls a photo from the file and lays it on the desk.
‘This is you, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t deny it,’ says the priest.
‘It was your second visit to Prague within a week, but yet you came under a different identity. Can you explain that?’
‘I think if I could have that phone call everything will be explained sufficiently for you.’
‘Of course, the phone call. I’m so sorry, I forgot yesterday. Who are you going to call? God?’ Hanzel deliberately stifles a chuckle, trying instead to remain deadpan.
Unsworth, however, lets out a sharp grunt of air as though acknowledging the humour. ‘I don’t think that would do any good.’
‘Oh?’ Hanzel leans forward. ‘But you are a priest, aren’t you?’
Unsworth nods. ‘I think that’s obvious,’ he says, spreading his arms.
‘But an unusual priest,’ suggests Hanzel, noting Unsworth’s frown of confusion. ‘On both occasions in Prague you visited this building …’ Hanzel places another photo on the table ‘… with these men.’