by P. J. Nash
Cops in Prague were always walking around in pairs. That way they always had a witness to say they hadn’t beaten you or asked for a bribe. And they didn’t wear their hair down, a tempting target to be pulled on during a scuffle. A memory stirred, and Zuzi dug into the huge bag of discarded newspapers she had been carrying in the hope of getting a few hundred crowns to buy some food. Scrabbling in the bag, she found a clipping and held it up in the weak morning sunlight. Now she knew where the memory had come from. What she really needed to work out was how she could make the best use of this information and turn her life around. She needed to speak to Mr Prohaska. Pushing one of her last two crown coins into a phone at a street kiosk, she punched in a number and waited.
Malostranska Metro Station, Prague
Karel Novak had bought a set of blueprints in his case that had not ever been seen in City Hall.
‘These are the only existing drawings of the KCM*(1) redoubt that I know of,’ he had said with some pride. ‘When Havel and his theatre pals had sent the Communists packing in 1989, they had got their secret police goons from the StB*(2) to burn the entire archive before Havel and Co could get their hands on the goodies,’ said Novak.
Rolling out a large blueprint, he picked up stones from the broken concrete floor and weighed the corners down.
‘The underground floorplan of Malostranska station is some thirty percent bigger than the publicly accessible part. In the early nineties, the metro simply padlocked the doors of the KCM redoubt as their priority was making the trains run on time. Put simply, they mothballed it,’ said Novak.
‘Pardon my ignorance, but you talk about the KCM redoubt like we all know what it is. Could you explain?” asked Jiri.
Novak became suddenly animated for a man of his age. ‘Paranoia, that’s the key word, my friend. The Communists were scared of the Russians after the invasion, they were scared of the people after the clampdown in ’68, and they were scared of being right next to NATO countries. So, Svoboda, who was running the show, decided to build a bunker where the head honchos could hang out till the nuclear fallout died down. And in some comfort, the KSC had their own metro trains especially for this purpose at another secret depot.’
*1 KSC –-Czechoslovak Communist Party
2* StB - Communist era Czechoslovak Secret Police
Jiri’s mind drifted back to the eighties, when he was at school in the dark days of the Cold War. As school children, they had practiced ducking under their school desks to hide from the nuclear bombs of the imperialist NATO forces of the West. He pictured a post-nuclear Prague devastated by a thermonuclear explosion. Quietly, he thanked God that his children were born in relative freedom.
‘Ok, so, can we get in there? Should I get my officers to get some cutting gear?’ asked Jiri.
Novak bent down, reached into his briefcase and, holding up some keys like a fisherman, proudly showed off his prize catch. “But you may need some torches. I didn’t design the power system.’ Novak smirked. ‘No problem,’ said Jiri.
Undisclosed Office, Na Prikope, Prague
Dressed in a sombre suit and rolling a large suitcase behind him, Basil Lenkov looked every bit the Russian businessman. He pressed the buzzer on an anonymous black door, and it swung inwards. Standing inside were two heavies, muscles barely concealed beneath their suits, spun around and patted him down. The first pulled the Sig Sauer automatic pistol from its shoulder holster, flicked out the magazine and put them both on a desk. The second beckoned him up the thickly carpeted stairs. The ceramic stiletto knife taped under his shoulder remained undetected. Not that it mattered. As an ex- Spetsnaz soldier, he was trained in unarmed killing and could have dealt with the heavies with no weapons at all, if needed.
‘The second heavy opened the door to a well-appointed office. Behind a battleship-sized desk, a diminutive man rose to his feet.
‘Vasily, welcome to Prague. Have you bought the Barrett?’ The man in his mid-fifties wore a suit and sported rimless designer spectacles. Looking more than an accountant than the head of the Russian mafia in the Czech Republic, Yevgeny Topov slid a slim brown folder across the desk.
‘Yes, I have brought the Barrett,’ replied Vasily, easing himself into a chair.
‘Good, because I want you to put a fifty-calibre bullet between the eyes of a particular bitch who’s been disrupting business here in town.’
Malostranska Metro Station, Prague
Novak’s key slid into the lock, and Jiri pulled the heavy blast door open. Six inches of hardened steel swung on massive hinges. Shining his Maglite into the darkness, the beam of light lit up something the size of a huge cavern.
‘The generator room should be on the left,’ said Novak.
Opening a door, Jiri played the light on an antiquated generator. Pulling a red handle, he stood back as the machine spat and gurgled to life. A plume of acrid diesel smoke filled the cavern as the machine sprang into life. Suddenly, the cavern was bathed in light, and the full extent was revealed. A boardroom table surrounded by high backed chairs filled one end of the room. On the opposite wall was a huge metropolitan map of Prague. In another corner, a huge pile of canned goods and US Army MRE were stacked up. What stood out amongst the seventies era room was the military cot, a rolled-up sleeping bag and a video camera on a tripod.
‘Bingo,’ said Jiri. ‘Get the sniffer dogs in here and get on her trail.’
Andel, Smichov, Prague
‘Come with me to the car, and I’ll drop you back at your hotel,’ smiled the police woman, beckoning him into a narrow side street. Howard Dugdale felt reassured by her presence, having spent a couple of hours in a bleary beer haze after losing his friends. It was his second day of binge drinking in an effort to celebrate the forthcoming marriage of his friend Martin. Beer for breakfast, vodka for lunch … it went on and on. The woman opened the car passenger door and pushed him in. After slamming it shut, she started the engine. As the car moved away, a woman brushed past the car and disappeared into a side street. Zuzi leant against the wall and caught her breath. She had done her work as instructed by Topov. Her hand went to the two, five- thousand crown notes in her pocket. She would eat well for a month with this money. The woman would die for sure when Novak’s men caught up with her, but pity was for people who could afford a conscience.
Smichov Police Station, Prague
Sandersen had been given the all clear at the hospital and James had breathed a sigh of relief. The preliminary investigation had revealed the bomb was a sophisticated one and not made with a recipe from the Anarchist’s Cookbook downloaded on the net. James’s brain was on fire as to who was behind it. Was it the Dark Angel? He supposed not. Their intervention had been kept on the downlow with the message being rammed home hard that Jiri and his team were heading up and making progress with the investigation. The endgame was close, James felt in his gut. She had crossed the line, and now, there was no going back. She would either be captured alive or killed in the process or kill herself to avoid the rest of her natural life in jail.
No, that was a separate business altogether. Whoever had been behind the bomb was after Quercus had wanted him dead up close and personal. That meant this was a personal vendetta, a debt being repaid. The computer whiz kid had been central to hitting Bain in his bank balance. But James had seen Bain go over the balcony and zipped into a body bag. So, was this a sign of a new player on the scene or a dead cat bounce from beyond the grave? Whatever it was, there was a danger still out there that wanted him dead. The call from Commissioner Matthews had told him danger was brewing back in Melbourne. He needed to get back there soon. The sooner the Dark Angel was behind bars, the sooner he could get back home and take care of business.
This fat puppy will be the last one. You will take him and sacrifice him on the altar of Czech womanhood. Then, you will join the spirit of Sarka in the afterlife. This world has not been kind to you, and you want to leave it. Hopefully, she will be waiting there for you. Your daughter who was ripped from yo
ur belly before she had chance to experience this awful world. Perhaps she was lucky never to have been born into this world dominated by men. Vile, lust driven pigs who think women are just bodies to be exploited for their base desires. You had fought back at least and showed that women could fight back and be warriors and kill these pigs who come to your country to prey on you. You hadn’t wanted to kill, you had been driven to it. They had made you a victim, and you had fought back. You were a woman warrior whose name would go down in history. You were the Dark Angel.
Undisclosed Location, Prague
Eyes still stinging from the pepper spray, Howard Dugdale struggled against his bindings as the car buffeted down cobbled streets. He had known something was wrong when they had pulled into the underground car park. A spray of liquid had hit him in the face as he’d struggled to undo his seatbelt. After falling from the car onto a concrete floor, he scrabbled across the floor like a drunken crab.
‘Stay still, you pig,’ she’d say, hitting him with a baton repeatedly. He’d complied so to make the pain stop. After being thrown in the boot of the car, he’d managed to regain his composure. Using his mouth, he’d pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and dialled a number with his nose.
Divoka Sarka, Prague
Lenkov parked the rental car at the McDonalds, grabbed his bag and headed into the low scrubby hills in the direction that the tracker signal pointed. Scanning the landscape, he saw he was alone, save for the bright Lycra clad jogger cresting the horizon. No bother, collateral damage had never bothered Lenkov. After squatting down he unzipped the bag and began to assemble the sniper rifle. She wouldn’t be letting the poor guy go quickly, she wanted to make a statement with her sacrificial lamb. Having slotted home the magazine, he chambered a round and raised the rifle to his right eye and began scanning the landscape for his target.
Sirens blaring the police convoy sped through the city streets as Jiri’s detective squad and the SWAT team vans headed to Divoka Sarka. The 112 call had come through to the control room with no one attempting to say who or what they wanted. But the line had remained open. It intrigued the operator, and instead of dropping the call, she listened carefully. From the background noise, she guessed the phone was in a car. She hit the record button to record the call, then tapped a few keys to put a trace on the geographical location of the phone. It was on the move towards the Divoka Sarka park. Nothing untoward in that. Until a muffled grunt filled the air and a woman’s voice was heard.
‘Quiet, you pig, you’re going to die, but not until I’ve made an example of you.’
A chill ran down the operator’s spine as she clicked on the icon to declare a major incident.
Dugdale stumbled up the wooded slope, the manacles on his ankles impeding his progress. The cold metal of the gun was jammed in his back, urging him forward. If there was any doubt about what was going to happen, the rope noose swinging hanging from the tree bought in the breeze confirmed his worst fears.
‘Kneel, bastard,’ she said.
He stared into her eyes. ‘I haven’t hurt anyone. What have I done?’
Her response broke his nose as the butt of the gun snapped his septum. Crumpling into a bloody mess on the wet leaves, he stayed quiet, lest it should invite more violence.
‘What the fuck?’ said Lenkov under his breath. Through the scope of his rifle, he had spotted the hangman’s noose swinging from the tree. A bloodstained man came into view, followed by a woman holding a gun in the nape of his neck. Holding the gun in one hand, she slid the noose over the man’s head.
‘Police drop your weapon! Get down on the floor now!’
The slope was flooded by black clad police officers waving guns. She spun and fired off a volley of indiscriminate shots towards them. They scattered, and then, a volley of shots chewed up the trees sending leaves and branches scattering. She fired again. And pushed the blood-stained man off the slope and into the void.
Lenkov had her in his sights and let out his breath as he squeezed the trigger. The Barrett gave a slight puff and a mild kick. He realigned and fired again, a black blur filled his scope blocking his line of fire, but his finger had already pulled the trigger. Too late, the bullet zipped from the barrel in a supersonic blur.
Jiri and James had scrambled up the hill guns out as the SWAT team members fanned out to secure the hill. The element of surprise had been put aside for one of overwhelming force to keep the victim alive. Fitter and faster, James had crested the hill first. Gunfire had erupted all around him as he made for the two figures on the narrow ridge. James saw her pointing the gun and then throwing it away when she realised it was empty. She drew a knife and made for the man who was now swinging helplessly from the noose, feet flailing. It was too close for a shot, so James launched himself into a rugby tackle, taking them both to the ground. As they fell, something hit James in the back like a freight train.
Jiri saw the pair fall and the woman rolling from under the prone form of James.
‘Get your hands up, now!’ He screamed. But as he aimed to fire, she broke into a sprint and jumped off the sheer cliff.
Jiri was red-eyed and emotionally drained as he pecked out the final draft of his after-action report. It had been a confusing and a bloody end to the investigation, but the bosses upstairs and at City Hall were satisfied.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ the mayor had said. Not so for Katerina Manes and Lawrence James. One lay in a hospital bed with multiple fractures, heavily sedated and guarded, the other lay in a hospital bed with a bullet fragment having blown off part of his thigh.
Dugdale was unharmed apart from bruises and a broken nose. ‘Well, thanks for saving my life. Don’t think I’ll be coming to back to Prague for a stag do again. Maybe I’ll bring the girlfriend next time?’ he’d said after reading the English translation of his statement and signing it as an authentic copy. ***
‘Yes, I hope one woman hasn’t put you off the whole county,’ Jiri smiled. ‘But about the stag dos…maybe try staying in your own country. The whole carbon footprint thing, you know …?’ he added.
On the other side of the world a cordless telephone rang.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Smith.
‘I got it straight from the horses’ mouth boss, I bribed an x-ray technician. He’s never going to walk again, his spinal cord’s fucked,’ said the voice.
‘Well, that couldn’t have gone better,’ said Mr Smith. And for the first time in a long time, a smile cracked Cyrus Bain’s face. He eased back in his sun lounger and took a sip from his cocktail, sinking into a deep meditation as he watched the koi carp in his pond swim by.
Part II
So, it had come to this, weeks of underhand comments, childish pranks and threats overt and covert, exploding into a frenzy of fists curses and kicks.
A group of men brawled in the unlikely arena of a partially constructed apartment block, the helmeted workers providing the transfixed audience to a fight with no rules and no limits. Work had stopped when a hefty slab of a man in a sharp suit and handmade shoes had flashed a police warrant card.
‘We need to borrow your site for a bit, so you and your lads take this and fuck off till were done.’
The bewildered foreman had taken the hint and the handful of high denomination notes. Waving to the guys on the scaffolding, he'd shouted, ‘Time to make our self’s scarce lads, the law needs the site for a while.’
Needing no encouragement, they'd dropped their tools and made for the portacabin where they brewed tea and the smokers lit cigarettes.
Detective Lawrence James was finding his second wind as he rocked on the balls of his feet, fists raised and a taste of blood in his mouth. His tongue explored his mouth and confirmed the loosening of two front teeth. He swung back from a slow left hook from Detective Sergeant Craddock and slipped in a hefty jab to Craddock's gut driving wind out of him and causing him to stoop. James's knee came up to meet Craddock's jaw, which cracked sickeningly. Craddock sprawled into the dust and was lying
prone as James drove a volley of kicks into Craddock’s kidneys.
‘Be glad I've only got my Converse on, you fat cunt, else I'd do some real damage,’ spat James.
James had given Craddock the kicks having carried an extra special need to vent spleen on him. Since the time a few months earlier when he had seen Craddock zipping up his flies as he walked away from James's car having liberally sprayed it with beery piss. That time and numerous other times, James had sucked it up. He was a Brit and as a Pom, he'd expected a bit of joshing and piss taking. Any rookie expected a bit of hazing being given out to the new guy, but it usually tapered off, not the screw being turned up a ratchet week after week. But the shit he'd taken had seem strictly amateur when compared to what the FNG, the Fucking New Guy, had been on the end of.
Detective Ari Munu, a Maori from New Zealand, had been fighting all of his life and didn't show any signs of giving up anytime soon. Just under six foot five inches and weighing in at a hundred and twenty-five kilos, he was facing off three suited and booted detectives. Ever the fashionistas, they'd doffed their jackets before entering the fray, much like they did when they decided to hand out an extra judicial hiding to any dealer or pimp who didn't pony up their cut of the cash to the bent cops. But now, it was the sharp-suited corrupt cops who were on the wrong end of a beating. The three guys, none of them slight, advanced fists raised in a vain swagger of an attempt at a boxer's stance. They believed in safety in numbers and that their inevitable numeric superiority would overwhelm their single opponent. But this was no elite Roman Legion facing some woad-clad warriors. And it was the reason why David and Goliath was an apocryphal fairy tale. Nine times out of ten the biggest guy won.