The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3)

by Mosimann, James E.

  ***

  Still dark on the Carolina coast, it was light now in Prague. Sexually spent, Karel was again asleep.

  Ivana slipped out of bed once more. She retrieved her phone and read Gustav’s text.

  Karel is no good.

  I will get Vaclav’s papers and trade them to Karel for you.

  I remember your mother. G.

  She erased the message.

  She went to the window and looked out. In spite of the cold morning, pedestrians in coats thronged the Charles Bridge. She yearned to join them, to be normal again.

  And thanks to Gustav, there was hope!

  Ivana stepped into the shower.

  ***

  After leaving Jim Harrigan in Duck, Mila returned home in Nags Head. She guided the white SUV into the dark driveway, turned off the lights and cut the engine.

  She sat silent for a moment. Jim Harrigan had been a big help to her. Thank God for him. I know he likes me.

  She noticed a van, lights out, parked under the Martins’ house across the street.

  That’s odd? The Martins’ house is shut down for the winter.

  She peered into the darkness. She could see no movement. She could not tell whether someone was in the van.

  She turned and scanned the dark Oleander bushes that lined her own driveway. No movement was discernible.

  Mila took a deep breath. She located her house key, and held it ready to insert in the door should she need to act fast. After that precaution, she stepped out of the car. With a single motion she shut the door and compressed the padlock symbol on the car’s remote.

  She heard the reassuring simultaneous “clicks.” The SUV was secure.

  Without looking back, she hurried to the stairway. She heard sounds (footsteps?) from the direction of the Martin house, but a sudden gust of wind rustled through her Oleanders, simultaneously rotating the creaking wings of the Martin’s wooden “Mallard” weather vane.

  She looked back but saw nothing.

  She ran up the stairs. At the landing, she thrust the key into the lock. It turned smoothly.

  She pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped in.

  Breathing heavily, she shut the door and twisted the lock handle. The dead bolt slid smoothly home. She heard the sound of security.

  “Click!”

  She was safe.

  ***

  Mila stood panting from her dash up the steep steps.

  She peered back through the peephole. There was no one on the landing. Had she imagined those footsteps?

  Get a hold of yourself, Mila. Now!

  She opened the fridge and drew out a bottle of beer, Pilsner Urquell. She stood numbly, then tipped the bottle and swallowed.

  Her thoughts drifted to her rentals, from the demands of her cousin Anne for a “roach-free” house, to those of recent tenants for “smoke-free,” houses.

  Mila did not smoke. Her home was smoke-free.

  Damn it, Mila. Stop the daydreaming. Concentrate! Something is wrong here. What is it?

  Then she realized. A faint odor emanated from under the bedroom door.

  Tobacco! The acrid smell of an East European cigarette.

  She turned to see a man in the doorway.

  His left hand held the offensive cigarette.

  His right hand held a gun.

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 10

  Saturday, November 20

  At the inn in Nags Head, Anne Simek ate a self-serve breakfast. She swallowed her coffee and flipped the rotating waffle iron.

  Peter Zeleny was late. Their rooms offered a free breakfast, but only until nine. If he did not hurry he would miss it.

  Anne wanted to like Peter, but she did not trust him. Vaclav Pokorny was in danger, and Peter seemed not to care. She took her waffle out and covered it with butter and syrup. Some people lost their appetite when nervous, but not Anne, she ate. Her mouth was stuffed with carbs when Peter Zeleny finally appeared.

  “Peter. Where have you been? I have to be at Whalebone Junction at noon.

  “Was Mila any help? What about Vaclav’s papers? What did she say?”

  “Mila! She doesn’t answer her phone or call me back. She’s useless. We need to do something.”

  That “We” worried Peter. He did not want to be part of this operation. He barely knew Anne, and he knew that her father hated his.

  “What will you do? You don’t have the papers. You can’t go.”

  “I have to try to save Vaclav. I’m going anyway.”

  She snorted.

  “And you can’t stop me.”

  ***

  In Duck, North Carolina, Jim Harrigan rolled over in bed as the morning sun shone through his bedroom window. He rubbed his eyes against the glare and read the digits on his alarm clock.

  Damn! Mila is waiting.

  He kicked the sheets off, jumped up, and pulled on his pants.

  He splashed water under his arms and rubbed on fresh deodorant. He shaved quickly, There was no time to shower. Still buttoning his shirt, he left his apartment.

  Jim was off-duty today. Nonetheless, he settled into the driver’s seat of his Duck Police Department vehicle. The Chief encouraged its use when off-duty, in the belief that the increased police presence deterred potential wrongdoers.

  As he drove south towards Kitty Hawk and Nags Head, he punched Mila’s number on his cell phone. There was no answer, only an automated message request. His eyes turned back to the road. Crews were at work clearing debris from the shoulders of the road where it had been pushed the morning after the Northeaster. There was little traffic and the drive was peaceful.

  He slowed as he passed the doughnut store on his left. Whenever duty took him south to Nags Head, Jim stopped for free doughnuts and coffee. Jim was desperate for both food and coffee, but Mila was waiting. He drove by.

  He parked in front of Mila’s realty office. It was closed.

  Jim turned towards her house. He trudged up the wooden stairway and stopped at the landing.

  He froze. His stomach muscles tightened.

  Her door was ajar. Through the crack he saw an overturned shelf, its books and papers strewn over the floor.

  He unsnapped his holster and grasped his Glock nine millimeter.

  ***

  Jim held the Glock in both hands and pointed the gun at the doorway. He kicked the door wide.

  No one there!

  The kitchen was a shambles, the contents of cabinets strewn about, the table upended. The fridge door hung wide while frozen cartons, smashed and dripping with moisture, lay on the floor amidst bruised vegetables.

  Glock ready, he moved to the living area.

  Again no one.

  This area was worse. Shelves were emptied, drawers overturned. The sofa’s frame was turned on its side. Its cushions, ripped and torn, lay on the floor. The end table was upside down, its lamp sideways. Beside it were two pieces of a shattered phone.

  The bedroom door was closed. He moved towards it, but stopped at the sound of footsteps.

  Someone had entered the house.

  ***

  Jim listened. Then he turned back, and pointing his weapon before him, stepped towards the kitchen. He gaped.

  There stood Mila in fashionable jeans, her hair neatly arranged.

  “Jim? How did you get in? Who did this? Who wrecked my house?”

  Jim holstered his Glock.

  “I think you should tell me.”

  He turned and righted the sofa frame onto its legs.

  “Mila, what happened here? Where did you go?”

  “How did you get in? I locked the door.”

  “The door was open. The place was a wreck. Someone searched for something. And they weren’t looking for money.”

  A tilted drawer protruded from the end table. Five-and twenty-dollar bills had spilled onto the rug.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was out of coffee. I left at seven to get some. I thought I’d be back before you got
here.”

  Jim’s eyes flicked to the half-empty can of Maxwell House Coffee spilled onto the kitchen counter.

  She read that thought.

  “I forgot it was in the cupboard. I mostly keep it in the fridge.”

  His next question caught her off guard. He pointed to a plate on the counter. On it were ashes and a spent cigarette.

  “Mila, You don’t smoke and that’s not an American cigarette.”

  “No, It’s a ‘Petra,’ a Czech cigarette.”

  “All right, who smoked it? Did he do this?”

  He waved his hand at the wreckage. She spoke.

  “A man was here. His name is Gustav. He’s Czech. He’s older. He had a gun. I never saw him before, but he knew someone I had befriended in Prague, a girl named Ivana. He was trying to help her escape from someone named Karel Moravec. He wanted to know where Vaclav was and what he had given me.”

  She waved at the room.

  “But he did not do this.”

  “So the house was in order when you left? But you didn’t go out for coffee, did you? You met someone, right?”

  “No, I met no one. I went out for coffee like I told you. The house was fine when I left. What’s more, I locked the door.”

  “I have to accept that, but this Czech guy, he didn’t hurt you?”

  “I was scared, but no, he didn’t touch me. He knew I was Ivana’s friend.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said Ivana was desperate, and I could help. He said if I gave him Vaclav’s papers, he could save her. He had a cell phone, a pre-pay. He gave me the number and told me to call him if Vaclav contacted me. I told him I would. He told me not to tell anyone. Then he left.”

  “How did he get in the house?”

  “He must have picked the lock. All the windows were locked.”

  Jim looked at the clutter on the floor.

  “And you don’t think he did this?”

  “No, Gustav would not trash my house.”

  “All right, call that number. I want to talk to him.”

  Mila punched the number. There was no answer. The line shifted to “Message.”

  Jim took the phone from her and punched “Stop.”

  He stared at the mess on the floor.

  “Mila, whoever searched your house wants what Vaclav brought, and they think you have it. Did Vaclav leave anything with you, a package, a computer CD, a thumb drive, a letter, anything?”

  “Jim, there was nothing.”

  “All right, let’s step back. When did you first see Vaclav?”

  “It was last Tuesday. I was in Washington on business. I picked him up at Dulles Airport in Virginia. He had just come through customs. He had a carryon, nothing else.”

  “No packages, no other luggage?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right, what then?”

  “My car was in short-term parking. We walked to it together. He was not out of my sight.”

  “Not even for the bathroom?”

  “He did stop, but I stood outside with the carryon. It was only a few minutes and I was right by the door. Then we went to the lot to find my car. We got in and drove straight to Nags Head, to my house. It took six hours. We only stopped for gas.”

  “What time did you get here.”

  “Let’s see. His flight arrived at Dulles at two, say an hour for customs, and then the drive here. It must have been about nine or ten in the evening.”

  “You didn’t go out to eat. And he gave you nothing?”

  “That’s right, nothing. I heated a frozen pizza. Then we went to bed.”

  Jim raised his eyebrows.

  Mila huffed.

  “Relax, he was in the spare bedroom.”

  “All right. Did you or Vaclav go to your office that night?”

  “No, and as far as I know Vaclav never was there.”

  “How did he get the minivan?”

  “Wednesday morning, I took him to the Enterprise Rental in Kill Devil Hills. But you’re a cop, I’m sure you already checked that it was their minivan.”

  Jim nodded.

  “You’re right. I am a cop. Look at this mess around you. Someone wants something Vaclav had, and they think you have it.”

  “But he didn’t give me anything.”

  Jim surveyed the torn papers, ripped cushions and open books strewn about the floor. He kicked at the rubble.

  He thought back to his days as a detective in Raleigh. Investigations mostly dealt with the obvious. Of course!

  “Mila, the carryon. Where is it?”

  “Maybe he took it with him in the van.”

  “It was not in the abandoned minivan. Your cousin could have it, or whoever shot Vaclav, or maybe it’s in the dunes, near where I found the van?”

  Mila froze. Silent, she stared out the window.

  “Damn it, Mila, you know more than you let on. Don’t hold out on me. Tell me.”

  He took her hand.

  “You’re in danger. You need to trust someone. Try me.”

  Mila’s shoulders shook and her lips quivered. Jim put his arm around her.

  “Mila, please, let me help you. Tell me what you know.”

  Her body went slack. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I want to, but I’m afraid. Jim, can I trust you?”

  She did not wait for a response.

  “I’ll tell you everything. The man who was here last night, Gustav, is the one who shot Vaclav. His last name is Slavik. He was a true communist, probably still wants to be, but now does jobs for money, what you call ‘wet work.’ He’s an assassin, but because Ivana is my friend, he never would hurt me.”

  She saw his look of incredulity.

  “Look, the eighties were all mixed up. In the same family some were communists, some were not, and many that were communists were liberal and against the Soviets. Our old folks had proved that too in 1968. It was liberal communists that gave us the Prague Spring before the Soviets crushed it.”

  She slipped her head off his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

  “You have to understand that we Czechs are not barbarians. We are cultured. Mozart loved Prague. And we are Westerners, Western Slavs. Prague is west of Vienna!”

  Jim Harrigan stared. Where is she going with this?

  “Anyway, Gustav had a job to do for Karel, a bigwig with Hus-Kinetika. Because of Ivana, Gustav has turned against Karel. He wanted Vaclav’s papers to trade with Karel for Ivana’s safety, for her freedom. Gustav knew her mother and father.”

  “Mila, you are talking about a cold-blooded killer. What have you done?”

  “I believed Gustav. I gave him what I had, Vaclav’s carryon.”

  “You what!”

  “Don’t be angry. It might not be that important.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “There was nothing in the carryon but a change of clothes. But there is something else I didn’t share with you.”

  Jim Harrigan shook his head in disbelief. What now?

  “I told you the truth when I said Vaclav didn’t give me anything. He didn’t. But it wasn’t the whole truth. When he arrived at the airport he had some newspapers under his arm. When I drove him to the Enterprise Rental, we stopped first at a UPS store. The newspapers were with him when he went in, but when he came out they were gone. He must have used them as packing. The point is he mailed something.”

  “And?”

  “I saw the address on the receipt. It was to Dr. Peter Zeleny, care of some company called ‘Ryan Associates’ in Bethesda Maryland.”

  Jim stared in stunned silence.

  ***

  In Maryland, at Ryan Associates in Bethesda, Jeannine Ryan looked up from her desk as Aileen arrived at the office.

  “Aileen, where is Peter’s father staying?”

  “He has a motel in Rockville, at a Motel on Shady Grove. That’s where I took him last night.”

  “That’s far away from us, at least a half hour.
”

  “Not far enough. He’s a womanizer. He’s dangerous. I’d feel safer if Johan Zeleny was gone. How did he have a son like Peter?”

  “He told you that Peter sent him to ask about someone named Vaclav Pokorny?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if Peter did or not. I don’t trust the old goat. He was all over me! He told me that he could see why his son liked me. I shoved him away and he started talking drivel about greedy capitalists and keeping up the ‘People’s’ struggle, whoever the ‘People’ are, surely not me and you.”

  Aileen folded her arms and grimaced.

  “What’s more, I don’t believe he knows where Peter is.”

  At that point there was knock on the door. It was a UPS delivery for “Doctor Peter Zeleny” care of Ryan Associates.

  No sender was indicated.

  Jeannine Ryan studied the package.

  “Strange, why us? But Peter’s missing, I’m opening this now.”

  She tore open the wrapping.

  “There’s nothing here but packing, crumpled newspapers.”

  Aileen took several papers and flattened them on the desk.

  “These papers are not the same. This one must be Russian, it’s Cyrillic. And these are Czech, at least the alphabet is Latin. Wait, here’s one in English, ‘The Prague Post.’”

  Jeannine pointed at a small crumpled mass.

  “That’s not a newspaper.”

  Aileen smoothed the wrinkles flat. It was a memo on Hus-Kinetika Letterhead from a “Vaclav Pokorny.” She started. Peter’s father had asked about “Pokorny.” The text was in Czech, but the subject clearly was Xolak. The memo featured a table of numbers.

  Jeannine looked at the numbers and turned to Aileen.

  “Clearly ‘Rok’ means ‘year,’ so ‘Průměr’ must mean average.”

  She did some quick calculations.

  “Aileen, these are the real 3-point averages for Xolak. From 2003 on if I divide them by three, I get the fake values in the report. The increase in allergic reactions to Xolak is large and real!”

  She grinned.

  “And look. ‘Vaclav Pokorny’ is cited in the Appendix of the report. This memo is the proof we need for Larry Hodges and the FDA.”