The Woman From Prague

by Rob Hart

  Fuck it. I’ll sit down here in a corner. Hulk probably ran past this place anyway. I doubt he even saw me go in.

  So, of course, when I turn around, he’s standing there.

  He opens his jacket to show me the handle of his gun, sticking out of the front of his pants.

  “Roman would like to see you,” he says in a heavy Czech accent.

  We walk in silence for a couple of blocks. When it’s clear he’s not going to inquire about my day, I ask him, “Did you guys get the girl?”

  “No.”

  “What about the other guys there? What happened to them?”

  “They are all dead now.”

  “Everyone? Even the guy who was handcuffed.”

  “No. Him we let go.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He smiles a little. “I do not care.”

  After a little while walking, I ask, “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t know that I should tell you my name.”

  “C’mon. After all we’ve been through.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Who the fuck am I going to tell?” I ask.

  “Vilém,” he says.

  “Well, Vilém, I wish I could say it was nice to meet you.”

  “Same.”

  There’s something about him I like. A weariness at the frenzy of all this. Like he’s over it. It makes me think in another life we could have sat down and gotten a drink. That would have been nice. But now he’s in a position where he has to deliver me somewhere and if I refuse to go, he’ll probably shoot me in the head.

  Funny how the world works.

  We reach a restaurant and I can tell it’s fancy because there are white curtains in the window. Vilém nods toward it. “Inside.”

  “All right, then. See you around.”

  He turns and heads back the way we came. I find the restaurant is empty and, indeed, very fancy. White tablecloths, intricate chandleries. A well-stocked bar with no one behind it. Dim light trickles in through the front windows. It looks empty, until there’s a flash of movement across the way, against the far wall.

  Seated at a table, facing the door, is Roman, in a white shirt and black tie. The tie is tucked in between the buttons of his shirt. I make my way over and sit across from him. He’s chewing as I sit. He puts down his knife and fork, holds up a finger, finishes what’s in his mouth. He takes a sip of wine and pulls the napkin off his lap to dab at his lips.

  On the plate in front of me is a freshly-cooked steak.

  “You look like you’ve had quite the adventure,” he says, surveying my face.

  “Sure. An adventure. Let’s call it that, and not the clusterfuck you thrust me into the middle of.”

  He nods toward the steak. “I guessed medium-rare. You strike me as a medium-rare kind of guy.”

  I pick up my knife and fork, hover over the plate.

  “Do you think it’s poisoned?” he asks.

  “Is it?”

  “If I wanted you dead, you would be dead,” he says. “Would you like a glass of wine? The wine is not poisoned either. I’d tell you the name but I doubt it’ll mean much to you. It’s very expensive. Compliments this cut very well.”

  “Water is fine.”

  “Well then,” he says, gesturing to my plate with his fork. “You’re probably hungry.”

  We eat in silence. The restaurant has a funereal quality. No sound coming from the kitchen. The steak, though, is real good. Perfectly cooked, still hot. Probably the best steak I’ve ever had. At least I’m getting a meal out of this.

  Once Roman is finished, he sets his plate aside and folds his hands in front of him.

  “A lot has happened,” he says. “To be honest, I’m a little disappointed. You didn’t go back to the apartment. You dumped your phone and your laptop. Are you hiding from me, little golem?”

  “Nope,” I tell him. “That was all Sam’s idea.”

  “Please, take me through what’s happened since we first met.”

  I finish the last bite of my steak and take a sip from the glass of water sitting in front of my plate. I run him through the bullet points of everything since he left me. I don’t know if any of the information is worth protecting.

  At this point, I might as well play ball.

  When I’m done, he nods a few times, chewing it all over.

  “Ansar al-Islam doesn’t make a lot of sense,” he says. “I knew there was some kind of terrorist connection here. But they haven’t been active for a few years now.”

  “That’s what Sam said.”

  “Interesting. She knows her history. But this Chernya Dyra. You said she’s Spetsnaz? I’ve never heard of her.”

  I remember back to when I told him about the shovel on the phone, and way it gave him pause. It seemed very much like he knew what I was talking about. Maybe he’s lying to fuck with me? Fine. I’ll play along.

  “Apparently that’s the point,” I tell him. “She’s bad news. She fucked me up pretty good. I got the living shit beat out of me. All because of your stupid fucking game.”

  He bristles. “First, language. Second, how was I to predict that would happen?”

  “Do I get a pass on this job now? Can I go home?”

  “Oh, no, definitely not. Samantha Sobolik is keeping you around. I don’t know why. But you’re going to stick with her and find out.”

  My stomach sinks a little. “Why?”

  “You’re expendable and resourceful. Those are two valuable qualities.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  He shrugs, takes another sip of wine.

  “I also don’t believe you work for the government.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You said you’re from some branch I never heard of,” I tell him. “Sam says there’s no secret branch of spies in the U.S. government.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “The burden of proof is on you.”

  He smiles, empties the glass, and places it back down on the table, not letting go of the stem. “Here’s the truth about your new friend. She works for Hemera Global. I know this. That bank is doing a very bad thing that’s somehow related to, presumably, Ansar al-Islam. So that makes her complicit with jihadists. How does it feel, to know that?”

  “You’re telling me she’s a spy who works for a bank that works for terrorists?”

  “I never said she was a spy. You did. And you’d be surprised to find out about the kind of people banks employee these days.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “How so?”

  “Those Ansar al-Islam goofballs chased us down. If she’s in league with them, why would they do that?”

  “You really don’t understand how any of this works, do you?”

  “Try me. I can be clever if I think real hard.”

  “There is a piece of information,” he says, playing with his silverware, lining it up next to his plate. “It is a very valuable piece of information. It’s the thing that will tie a lot of disparate elements together. To some, it is worth a great deal of money. To others, it could do a great deal of damage to some wealthy people. The value is so great, nothing else really matters. It’s every man for himself right now.”

  “If this is such a big deal, why even get me involved?” I ask. “I thought the whole point of using me on this was because it wasn’t worth a more valuable asset.”

  “That’s when I though the job was easy. Now I’m finding how much it’s not easy.”

  “Well, then handle it your-fucking-self,” I tell him, pushing my seat back and standing. “Thanks for the steak.”

  Roman reaches into his coat and I think he’s going to come out with a gun. Instead, he puts a phone on the table.

  “Please sit,” he says.

  I stand there, contemplating whether I should break the wine glass next to my plate and shove the stem into his neck.

  “Sit,”
he says.

  I do. He picks up the phone and clicks it a few times. Stops, waits, and then the phone buzzes. He hits a button and turns it around so I can see. There’s a harsh shadow, so it’s a little hard to make out, but after a moment the image comes into focus: a copy of the New York Post. The phone is focused on the date.

  Today.

  The view on the phone swings away from the paper and settles on my mom’s house.

  I nearly puke up the steak.

  “My colleague tells me that your mother isn’t home,” Roman says. “Hasn’t been since last night. I’m beginning to suspect you tipped her off. Very smart. You must understand, the best you’ve done is save yourself a little time. That is all.”

  I want to speak but find I can’t.

  “Tell me again what you said in that apartment,” he says, smiling, flashing those teeth. “Something about a bell that can’t be unrung? You’re a… what was it… ‘born and bred New Yorker with anger management issues’? I allowed you the indulgence, but going forward there will be no further disrespect. You will do what I tell you until you are done, or your mother will die. It won’t take long to find her. Understand me.”

  My skin burns.

  The first man I killed, that was an accident.

  I’m at the point where I’d take joy in killing this smug asshole.

  My mouth feels like sandpaper. I take a sip of water and it doesn’t help.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I take a few breaths, calm down. I need to be calm about this. If he’s not going to let off, my only hope at this point is Sam. So I need more information. Something that’ll please her. Something that’ll make her feel indebted to me.

  I need her. Otherwise, I’m alone on this.

  “Why did you kill Sam’s handler?” I ask.

  “That man? Fuller? He was not a good man.”

  “So who was he?”

  “An independent contractor,” he says. “We’re not sure exactly who. But we’re working on it. The apartment was cleared out when we found him. No laptop, no phone, nothing.”

  Score one for the close eye. Though Roman scores a point too, because I feel myself smile a little when he says this. He notices.

  “You found something,” he says.

  “His body.”

  “And his laptop? His phone?”

  “Nope.”

  Roman stares at me for a moment, then lets it pass, says, “Sam gave you a burner, I presume?”

  “She did.”

  “Give it to me.”

  I hand it over to him. He takes it and clicks around on it, then types in something and hands it back.

  “I have the number now,” he says. “If you lose this phone or it’s destroyed, I give my colleague the order to kill your mother.”

  “What if she takes this one from me?” I ask.

  “Don’t let her.”

  “She likes to swap out burners.”

  “Don’t. Let. Her,” he says, enunciating each word.

  “What kind of guarantee do I have that you won’t send your men after us and start shooting again?”

  “I wasn’t shooting at you, golem. I was trying to separate you two in a compelling way so that we could talk. Do you really think my men have such bad aim? I understand it was a small room.”

  Good point.

  “Now run along,” he says. “Get back to work. And when she gets that piece of information she’s looking for, I don’t care what you have to do. You get it for me. The terms still stand. Do that, and you’re free of me.”

  I stand, salute him, and say, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck.”

  Then I leave.

  I wander a few blocks until I see the twin spires of a church jutting into the sky. The phone buzzes in my pocket. Presumably Sam. I don’t answer. I need a minute.

  The church is a basic Gothic-style church. Still pretty nice, though, as churches go. I wander inside to find only two other people, kneeling in silent prayer toward the front. I guess this one isn’t one of the tourist-attracting churches. Not like St. Vitus, up in Prague Castle, where the queue of visitors means sometimes it takes up to ten minutes just to get through the doors.

  From the trappings it appears Roman Catholic. A sign near the door says: Church of Saint Ludmila. I pick a pew closer to the back and sit, take in the surroundings. The design work on the stained glass behind the altar is incredible.

  Focus on that.

  Not on the pit of acid in my stomach.

  This is falling apart and I don’t know what to do. The best I’ve got is to stick with Sam. But I’m not sure I can trust her—that turn in the park was as unpredictable as it was terrifying.

  What else can I do?

  Move forward. That’s the best I can come up with.

  That’s my fault, really. When I left New York, I thought maybe I didn’t deserve to live there anymore. The truth was I was running away from my problems. I ran and ran until I backed myself into a corner.

  This happened because of the choices I made.

  After this, I need to make a change.

  Still not sure what that is, but I need to make it regardless.

  The phone buzzes again. I leave the church and answer.

  “Where are you?” Sam asks.

  I walk a little bit until I find a red street sign tacked onto the side of a building. “Sleszkà.”

  “Ditch that burner. It’s probably compromised. Then meet me at Kaz’s apartment. We’re about to take a little trip. I hope you like trains.”

  Click.

  I hold out the phone. Consider winging it into the wall. But I can’t.

  Destroying the phone would protect Sam and me but put my mom in danger. My priority here isn’t even in question. Especially because I’m starting to wonder, between Roman and Sam, who’s lying to me and who’s telling the truth.

  Unless they’re both lying.

  The phone is at half battery. I click the ringer all the way down until it’s silent, make sure the vibrate feature is off, stick it in the inside pocket of my coat, and walk.

  The front door of Kaz’s apartment is unlocked. Sam is sitting on the couch, looking at the door, like she knew I’d walk through at that exact moment. Her face is a smooth stretch of stone.

  The phone beats like a heart in my pocket. I take off my jacket, hang it up, sit on the wingback chair across from the couch.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Who’s Toshiro Mifune?” I ask.

  “Are you serious? Seven Samurai? Yojimbo?”

  “Haven’t seen them.”

  “You make me sad,” she says. “Did you trash the phone like I asked?”

  “Tossed it in the Vltava.”

  “So where the hell were you?”

  I consider lying to her, but my dinner date doesn’t seem important enough to hold back. Plus, the more lies I stack, the sooner the whole thing will topple.

  “Roman treated me to a steak,” I tell her.

  She nods. “What did you two talk about?”

  “Can I get a drink first?”

  “What are you, a child? Do you need a nap, too?”

  I don’t bother with arguing, just head into the kitchen. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter, which makes me happy. I dig around in the cupboards until I find a mug, which has a 1950s pinup girl on the side. I head into the living room, sit on my chair. Settle in and blow the steam curling off the top of the mug.

  “Well?” Sam asks.

  I touch the rim of the mug to my lips and the coffee is too hot. I hold it in my lap. “He was familiar with Ansar al-Islam. He doesn’t know who Chernya Dyra is but I think he’s lying. He says you work for Hermera Global and the information you’re looking for is about a very bad thing the bank did. He still insists he’s a secret government agent. If you think I’m valuable enough to keep around, there’s got to be a reason, and he wants it to play out. He also has a man outside my mom’s house. She’s not there, but it’s only a matter of time before
he finds her.”

  She doesn’t say anything and that annoys me.

  I take the coffee cup and try again. It scorches my mouth a little, but not enough to make me back off. “Where’s Kaz?”

  “Here, my friend,” he calls, emerging from the hallway in jeans but barefoot and shirtless, rubbing a towel against his wet hair. I find it a little surprising that he doesn’t have any tattoos. None that I can see, at least.

  “Listen, I was thinking maybe we ought to leave,” I tell him, then turn to Sam. “I don’t want to endanger him by being here. And clearly these assholes have been able to find us…”

  Sam clears her throat. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I cleared my phone. No trace. Smashed the laptop we snagged at the coffee shop. The key fob you have doesn’t broadcast a signal so it can’t be that. As long as you ditched the burner, we should be okay.”

  Well, there’s that.

  “Right,” I tell her. “But someone has to know we’re here…”

  “Hey,” Kaz says. His tone is sharp and a little angry. He’s looking at Sam. “May I have an opportunity to contribute?”

  Sam points to him. “Go for Kaz.”

  “Do you really believe you are safe here?” he asks Sam.

  “If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be here,” Sam says. “And to sweeten the pot, I’ll toss you some cash at the end of all of this, okay? Say… two grand? Euro?”

  Kaz thinks about this for a minute. “Five.”

  Sam frowns. “Three.”

  “Deal,” Kaz says.

  Sam looks at me. “See? Problem solved.”

  Kaz walks out of the room with a look of satisfaction on his face. Once his bedroom door closes, Sam looks at me and says, “I could have done five if he really wanted.”

  “How charitable. Are we really safe here?”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “Then stop implying it.”

  She picks up her phone and clicks away at the face of it.

  “So what’s the plan now?” I ask.

  “We’re taking a train ride,” she says without looking at me.

  “Where to?”

  “Kraków?”

  “In Poland?”

  “Is there another Kraków nearby?”