by Rob Hart
“Why?”
“My contact, the guy I was supposed to meet with on the bridge. He’s skittish about meeting me here. Which, given the super assassin after us, is fair. We meet tomorrow at Wawel Castle. So get yourself packed.”
“How am I going to get on a train? Roman has my passport.”
“Border checks aren’t that tough between the Czech Republic and Poland. I mean, traditionally you’d show the conductor your passport, but I’ll get that taken care of. We’re leaving in two hours. I’d like to get there early, get some food, make sure we aren’t being followed. I booked a sleeper car for the two of us. We’ll arrive in Kraków tomorrow morning.”
I pick up the coffee, take a long sip. I’ve been meaning to travel in the region but never got around to it. I’m comfortable here. Though maybe complacent is a better word.
“Sneaking me over borders now,” I tell her. “That’s a bit much for a plaything. Which is all I am to you assholes.”
“Don’t lump me and Roman together,” she says. “For the record, I don’t work for Herema Global. That was a cover. And I haven’t lied to you yet, unless you count omissions, which I don’t. This Roman guy is not some secret covert agent.”
“Why should I trust you over him?”
“I’m nicer.”
That makes me laugh out loud. “No, you are fucking not.”
“Have I threatened to kill your mother?”
Pause. “No.”
“Exactly. Now shut up. Go get dressed. Take a shower if you want. And man up while you’re at it.”
I’ve been able to weather Sam’s insults, but that one sets me off, like a pot boiling over. I jump to my feet and yell, “I get that you’re a super fucking badass. Congratulations. I’m no fucking slouch. If you want me to follow you on this, you are going to show me a modicum of goddamn respect.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel like I maybe went a little overboard.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. She stares at me for a long, hard moment, and then smiles and nods. “Okay.”
The tension dissipates like smoke on a breeze. “Okay?”
“I told you to man up. You manned up. I’m going to lie down until you’re ready to go.”
Sam gets up and heads toward the bedrooms, leaving me alone in the living room.
Well. Maybe I should have gotten torqued off sooner.
Sam steps back into view. “Hey, what’s your mother’s name?”
“Theresa. Why?”
“Curious.”
She disappears again.
Once Sam’s door closes, I go to the room I’ve been staying in to get my pack and a fresh pair of clothes. I’m down to one clean t-shirt and the pair of jeans I’m wearing, plus a black fleece that Kaz gave me. I grab all my dirty clothes and go hunting for a washing machine, find it in a cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. I strip down to my boxers, load everything up, and start the cycle, then head for the shower.
Before I get into the bathroom, I realize my secret phone will die pretty soon, and I won’t be able to top it off in front of Sam. So I take it out of my coat, wrap it in my t-shirt, find a charger in the kitchen, and plug it into the outlet next to the mirror in the bathroom.
Look in the mirror. The dark circles around my eyes are varying degrees of purple and yellow.
I let the water get hot, the room filling with steam until the mirror is fogged up, and pull off my boxers. Stand there and put my hands on the sink. My head is feeling a little better. A little more like my own skull, and not like pieces of broken wood nailed together. But I wish I could lie down, sleep for a hundred years.
As I’m about to climb into the shower, there’s a knock at the door.
“Ash?”
It’s Kaz. I crack open the door and peek out. He pushes in, so I pick a towel off the rack and wrap it around my waist. He looks at my battered torso and grimaces. “My friend, you look terrible.”
“Thanks. What’s with the naked rendezvous?”
Kaz speaks in a low tone, like he’s nervous someone is listening. “I just… want to make sure you are okay. I know you are in tight spot. Do you know what you are doing?”
“Are you kidding? I have no idea what I’m doing. At all. Whatsoever.”
“I think you should be careful around this girl. I’m not sure I trust her.”
“You gave her clearance to use this place as a base of operations.”
“I trust her self-interest,” he says. “And I trust money. I do not trust her to protect you.”
“Priority number one is my mom. Two is you. Three is me. Four is everyone else.”
“Okay, good,” he says. “I am late for an appointment so I must be leaving you. But you will call me directly if you need anything, yes? Do not forget. I know people. I can help. Safe passage. Money. Weapons. You name it.”
He stresses the word “weapons.”
It’s a little adorable, the way he says it. I know guys like Kaz. They all think they’re on top of the place they live. I used to be like that, until I didn’t live anywhere anymore.
I stick out my hand. “Thanks.”
He shrugs and leans in to hug me. His grip is tight, and a little too long, and finally I have to tell him, “I thought you said you didn’t star in porn films anymore. This is starting to feel like the start of one.”
He pulls back and smiles. “Be safe, my friend.”
When Kaz is gone, I drop the towel and climb into the shower. I’m stuck on a question: who’s playing with me, and how do I make sure that person doesn’t intend to dispose of me when this is all finished?
Sam and Roman can’t both be on the side of angels.
Moscow rule. Assume nothing.
That’s really the best I can come up with.
Hlavní Nádraží train station looks like a dreary shopping mall. Given how nice everything else in this town is, I am both surprised and disappointed. There are two levels of stores, a mix of general purpose and food stuffs, and ticket counters and kiosks and all the other things you’d expect in a train station.
The sun is setting behind us as we enter the station, a warm gust of air pushing away the cold and enveloping us. For the first time since we left the apartment, Sam speaks. “We should get some food. What are you in the mood for?”
“Dealer’s choice,” I tell her. “I’m not picky. Nothing with olives, though.”
“Got it. I’ll see if I can find us some wraps. Extra olives on yours.”
“Thanks.”
Across the way there’s a bookstore that takes up two levels in the center of the station. “I’ll be in there,” I tell her. “You want a magazine or something?”
“Nope.”
We part ways and I step through the door of the bookshop. I figure there is no way on this green planet I’m going to sleep well on the train and I should get something to read. There are plenty of English titles available, which is encouraging. Halfway here, I realized I left my Raymond Chandler book at Kaz’s apartment. I didn’t think it was worth bringing my bag on what is ultimately a quick trip back and forth.
Nothing grabs my attention on the displays up front, so I wander the stacks, looking over my shoulder occasionally. I touch the outside of my coat to confirm the phone is still there. I hope it doesn’t go out of range. I hope it works in Poland.
At the crime and mystery section there’s a display with multiple copies of Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie. That seems like a safe bet. I flip through to make sure it’s in English and bring it to the cashier. As I’m paying, Sam enters. She notices me looking at her and smiles.
“You’re paying attention to your surroundings,” she says. “That’s good.”
“I try.”
Something crinkles in her hand. I look down and she’s got a Burger King bag clutched tight in her fist.
“Are you kidding?” I ask.
“What?”
I accept the change from the cashier, a young girl with pink
hair and a pink lotus flower tattooed on her neck. “Dekuji,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome,” she says in an Australian accent.
Sam and I step out into the main part of the terminal and she asks, “Seriously, what’s wrong with the King?”
“I don’t even eat that shit when I’m home. Here we are in one of the oldest and prettiest cities in the world and we’re going to eat American fast food?”
She sits on an empty bench and I sit next to her. She takes out a burger and hands it to me. “First, you’re welcome. Second, it’s nice to get a taste of home. Third, the line was shortest. I picked up some water, too, for the train.”
I put down my new book and unwrap the burger. Take a bite. I’m not a fast food guy but I do have to admit the taste of it brings back a rush of something familiar. It’s nice, if I ignore how it’s going to gum up my arteries.
“Where is home, exactly?” I ask.
“None of your business.”
“I’m from Staten Island.”
“Okay.”
“See? It’s easy to share.”
She thinks for a moment. “I’m from here.”
“I feel like that’s not true.”
“I don’t care.”
Sam devours her burger in the time it takes to get through half of mine, and then rips open the bag to reveal two big containers of fries. She puts the bag on the bench between us and picks at them as she looks around the terminal.
“Do you know what the trick is to catching a tail?” she asks.
“No,” I mumble through the last of the burger.
“Shoes.”
“Shoes?”
She nods. “Some guy is following you, right? There are quick and dirty ways to alter your appearance enough that you might miss them. We went over some of that in the park. Could be as simple as a wig or a fake mustache. A reversible jacket. A backpack with a different shirt inside. Something you change in and out of quickly. Get what I mean? Shoes are too much to carry. No one ever swaps out their shoes. If you suspect you’re being followed, pay attention to shoes.”
“Interesting,” I tell her, shoving a handful of fries into my mouth.
“Here’s another good one,” she says. “When you want to send someone information, don’t e-mail it. Instead, open a dummy e-mail account, save the information as a draft, and then give the person the account login. It’s easy to track where an e-mail was sent from. Not so easy to track where you logged in.”
I take out a handful of fries. “That’s good advice. Why are you giving it to me?”
“Thought you might like to learn something,” she says. “I have a gift for you, too. Something I picked up after we got separated today. It’ll help pass the time.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll give it to you on the train.”
“Do I have a brain tumor or something?”
“What does that mean?”
“You are suddenly being very nice to me and it makes me wonder if I’m dying.”
A brief, pained smile flashes across her face. She looks different. Like when I first saw her coming out of her building. “I’ve been riding you pretty hard. I know that. But you’re not completely useless. This whole thing… it’s spiraling out of control. And now I’m alone. Before, I could trust that Fuller would swoop in and help when I needed it. Now I don’t even have that.” She pauses, looks down at her hands. “It’s nice to have some backup.”
Part of me wants to rib her for this, the way she’s been relentlessly fucking with me. But there’s a vulnerability that’s so bald it almost scares me, so I let her have the moment.
“I’d take anything you’re willing to teach,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up,” I tell her. “Maybe I’ll be a spy.”
“You don’t want to do this job.”
“Why?”
“For a hundred reasons. A million. But most of all because you’ve got someone somewhere in this world who loves you. And you love that person. And you can’t love someone or be loved and do this.”
“That’s a grim assessment of things.”
Sam looks up at the board looming over us, watching the numbers click over. “C’mon,” she says. “Our train is here.”
“You’re being evasive,” I tell her.
“Shut up, you girl. If it’ll make you happy, we can braid each other’s hair once we’re settled on the train.”
“There’s my Sammy,” I tell her.
She ignores me and stalks away. I follow and we pass crowds of surly locals and confused tourists and backpackers and wandering families. I look to see who might be looking at us, keeping an eye on their shoes.
We get to a concourse—a long, wide hallway with staircases shooting off it, leading up to the platforms. We find the platform we need and I can feel the cold on my skin before we even get to the top. It’s snowing again. The ground is covered with a dusting where there aren’t overhangs to provide cover.
In front of us is a large, belching train, blue and red and old. The paint scratched and scored, like a child’s toy that’s been treated roughly. I’m not sure where we board but Sam walks with purpose so I follow her, the crowd thinning until it’s the two of us, our shoes crunching in the thin layer of snow.
At the last car she climbs aboard and stamps her feet to clear snow off her Nikes. It’s pleasantly warm inside. There’s a bathroom to the left, and in front of us a narrow corridor, leading toward the front of the train. Maroon carpeting and wood paneling. It looks like someone’s basement. Smells about the same, too. Dank. There’s an old, heavyset man in a porter uniform at the end. He looks down the corridor at us and nods, then leans back in the open door, to some conversation going on in another room.
We walk the row to the fourth door and Sam opens it. There are three bunks on the left wall, each one creating a dark little alcove that looks like a coffin. The right side of the compartment is so narrow I have to walk sideways. There’s a luggage rack running along the top, a window at the far end with some cheap curtains, a table and a mirror bolted into the corner underneath. Sam immediately opens the mirror, finds a plug, and sets up her phone and charger. Then she swings her backpack onto the luggage rack. I take off my jacket and put it next to her backpack, careful to fold it so the phone doesn’t fall out, and far enough away she doesn’t jostle it when she goes to get her bag.
The two of us can’t help but be in each other’s space. Standing this close to her, it’s hard to not think about how slight she feels. And yet, there’s a very good chance she could break me in two.
She looks up at me and says, “I’ll sort out tickets and stuff with the conductor.”
She pushes past me like a cat, her body contorting to slip through the slim space, and exits the room. I kick my boots into the corner, then climb into the bottom bunk and find that even though I’m six feet tall, it’s not terribly uncomfortable. My feet barely miss the far wall. There’s a nice full pillow and sheets and a little reading light, plus a couple of mesh storage pockets, like on the back of airplane seats.
Sam comes back in, closes the door, and slides the metal latch to lock it. There’s a ladder for the top bunk hanging from the luggage rack but she doesn’t use it, grabs her bag and climbs like a spider onto her bunk. She doesn’t say anything and the train isn’t moving and I have no idea how long this is going to take, so I take out my book, flick on the reading light, and get ready to start the first chapter.
“You ready for your gift?” she asks.
I slide the book into the corner. “Sure.”
Something hard hits me in the thigh, just missing my crotch. I yell out and fold inward. Sam hops off the bunk and pulls down a seat that’s bolted into the wall, the spring mechanism creaking.
“Did I hit you in the nuts?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then I missed.”
“You are not a nice person.”
“Shut up and open it.”
I swing my legs off and feel around until I find the package. Our knees nesting like spokes of a zipper. It’s a small envelope, folded up and taped over. I open it and find a padlock. It’s clear plastic so I can see all the guts inside. There’s also a small plastic package, holding an assortment of long, flat pieces of metal.
“You got me a lock pick set?” I ask.
“You said you wanted to learn,” she says, taking it out of my hand. From the small pouch she extracts a piece of metal in the shape of a Z, but the middle is straight, rather than slanted. “This is a tension wrench. The rest are picks with a variety of different ends, but you’ll find the only one you ever need is this one.” She fishes out a pick with a slightly curved end and holds it up to me. I take it and turn it over in my hand. The metal is thin but rigid. Makes all those movies where people pick locks with paperclips seem far-fetched.
She puts down the envelope on the sink and picks up the lock and shows me the mechanics of it, explaining how the pins are at different heights and you have to line them up so they’re flush and that makes the mechanism turn. Then she picks up the tension wrench and runs me through it, applying a little pressure with one hand, using the pick to move the pins into position with the other, the lock nestled in her palm. Within seconds the lock pops.
She hands it back to me. “Think you can do it?”
I take it from her and close the clasp, then insert the tension wrench like she showed. I go to work with the pick. Since it’s my first time and I feel her watching me, the pressure makes it feel like I’m doing this with oven mitts. I get one or two of the pins, but by the time I get toward the back, the ones I moved slide back into place.
“Here,” she says, taking my hands, holding them steady.
Her hands are small and warm. She guides my fingers, taking over for me, using them to make the pins move. The way she touches me is a way I haven’t been touched in a while. Making a move on her makes me fear for my life. But given our proximity, it’s hard to not think about it.
When I look up, I realize she has green eyes. I haven’t noticed the color of her eyes before.
We’re so close right now, and that intimacy takes down the brick wall that’s been separating us. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing. And there’s a faraway look in her eyes, like maybe she is. The two of us hold each other’s gazes for a moment. She opens her mouth, like she wants to say something, and closes it again.