Noble Sanction

by William Miller

  Prague is an old-world city straddling the banks of the Vltava River. Called the City of a Hundred Spires, it has survived both World Wars and communism. Medieval stone houses rub elbows with some of the most inspired modern architecture in the world and, in the middle of it all, squat decrepit reminders of the former Soviet bloc. It’s a thriving country where tourism is emerging as one of the biggest industries. People from all over the world come to the Czech Republic to see castles and experience the culture.

  Noble reached for a cup of coffee on the dash and sipped. He tried to stay focused, but his mind kept wandering. Noble had been on his share of sneak and peeks. Normally he was pretty good at it. The Green Berets had taught him the value of patience. He once spent a week lying in a crevice on the side of a mountain in Afghanistan, but just lately he found waiting next to impossible. Sitting still gave him time to think, and thinking was dangerous.

  He watched the front of the building but his mind drifted to Paris—and Sam. Noble found himself back on the deck of the ship, feeling the icy spray and the pitch of the river barge beneath his feet. He heard the whipcrack of the pistol, saw Sam jerk, and watched her tumble over the side of the ship into the dark waters. Tears doubled his vision. He gave himself a shake to clear his thoughts and took a few deep breaths.

  Get your head back in the game, soldier.

  Noble pushed a thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets in an effort to bully his mind back on point. It was just after three and the afternoon sun was slanting on the buildings. Winter still clung to the city, reluctant to surrender to the forces of spring. Bare trees clawed at a clear blue sky, and wisps of smoke drifted up from the chimneys of Prague. Noble was dressed in a navy-blue windbreaker and denims. His toes felt like chips of ice. He could have used the heater, but the cold was helping to keep him awake.

  A pair of schoolboys came up the street, passing a soccer ball back and forth. Their feet made soft punting sounds against the scuffed ball. One made a joke. The other chuckled. Noble didn’t speak Czech and couldn’t tell if it was funny or not. Ten minutes later a beat-up old land cruiser backed into a spot on the street. A bent and wizened old woman was behind the wheel. Noble watched as she wrestled the big car into the space with a lot of jerky moves. The wheels humped onto the sidewalk and the back fender crunched against a parked Citroen. The old woman climbed out and limped to the front of building, relying heavily on her cane. She had a shopping bag clutched in one arm and her hand trembled as she tried to slot her key. Noble thought about getting out to help, but couldn’t risk exposing himself.

  As he watched, the old woman dropped the keys. They landed on the step with a metallic clack. She muttered to herself, bent down slowly to retrieve them and a melon tumbled out of her shopping bag. It bounced next to the keys and started to roll. She caught the wayward fruit before it could go bounding down the steps, stuffed it back in the paper sack and then groped for the keys, looking right at the Škoda as she did.

  Noble slouched down in the seat and tried to look disinterested. The old woman straightened up and this time she managed to insert the house key. The front door swung open on tired hinge. The woman threw one last curious glance at the Škoda before swinging the door shut with a rattling bang.

  Noble sat staring at the scarred wood, replaying the scene in his mind. Had there been something about the woman? Or was he just being paranoid? How’s the old saw go? Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean you aren’t being followed. In the field of covert intelligence, paranoia came with the job description. Matthew Burke had drilled that into him. Noble decided to snoop the car. He gulped the last of his coffee before climbing out into the chilly air. His heels raked the uneven cobble stones. He passed the old beater, with its passenger-side tires on the curb, for a peek. Nothing unusual, but if the assassin was smart enough to fake her own death, she was smart enough not to leave evidence in the back seat of a car. On the other hand, the old woman might be exactly what she appeared to be.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eliška Cermákova tucked the cane under one arm and mounted creaking steps two at a time. She had spotted the rangy looking customer in the dark blue SUV earlier in the day. He might be a jealous lover stalking an ex or maybe just a fella waiting on a friend, but Eliška doubted that. More likely he was a hitter waiting for her.

  She stopped on the fourth-floor landing, pulled off the silver wig and shook out her short blonde hair. The hallway smelled like molding wood and stale urine. Eliška could hear the television through the door. She raised a fist to knock and hesitated. She considered turning around and going right back down the stairs. It wasn’t too late. The world thought she was dead. She could go out the back door and disappear. But she wasn’t going to do that, and she knew it. She was just delaying the inevitable. Coming here was an unnecessary risk, but she had to make sure the old man was safe.

  Get it over with, Eliška told herself.

  She rapped her knuckles against the flimsy wood. The sound was barely audible over the TV. Eliška waited. She was about to knock again when she heard floorboards creak. She slipped a hand inside the floral-print blouse and her fingers curled around the hilt of a 9mm Kahr in a shoulder holster.

  The chain rattled and the lock clicked. Eliška heard clumsy fingers wrestling with the knob and relaxed her grip on the pistol. The door finally opened and an old man’s face appeared in the gap. For a moment, she was afraid he wouldn’t recognize her.

  “Been a long time,” Piotr Cermákova said. He turned and shuffled to a tattered recliner in the center of the living room.

  Eliška set the groceries on the kitchen counter, propped the cane in the corner, closed the door and put the chain back on. “Papa, never take the chain off the door until you see who’s on the other side.”

  He waved away her concern with one mangled claw. Only the ring and pinkie fingers remained on his right hand. The left had three digits and a thumb, but the appendage was withered and mostly useless. He gripped the arm of the recliner with his ruined hand and lowered himself down. He was older than she remembered. His eyes were milky white orbs and wisps of white hair clung to a bald scalp.

  “Have any strangers come here, Papa?”

  He shook his head. “Nobody. Why?”

  On the television, a news anchor was talking about the migrant crisis in Europe and Italy’s decision to deport thousands of Muslim refugees. Eliška found the remote and turned the sound down.

  “I was watching that,” he said.

  She sat across from him on a dusty sofa that smelled of mothballs. “The same report will be on again at five and at six.”

  He shrugged boney shoulders. It was an impatient gesture that Eliška knew all too well. It meant he didn’t agree but wasn’t going to argue the point. He said, “Where have you been all these years?”

  “Working,” she told him. “I’ve been working, Papa.”

  She looked around at the shabby apartment. There were cracks in the plaster walls and water stains on the ceiling. A thick layer of dust clung to every surface. “Have you been getting the checks?”

  The money was coming out of her account. Somebody was cashing the checks.

  He nodded. “Got the checks.”

  “What are you doing with the money?”

  He offered another shrug. “Saving it.”

  “Saving it,” Eliška said. “For what?”

  “An emergency,” he told her and reached for the oxygen mask hanging on a tank next to his recliner. He twisted the valve and took a deep hit.

  “Papa …” Eliška shook her head. “Use the money, Papa. I can always get more. Buy yourself a hearing aid so you don’t have to turn the television up so loud. Or move to a new apartment and buy a big screen TV.”

  “What do you care?” He took the mask away from his face. “How are you getting all that money? That’s what I’d like to know. What have you been doing, Ellie?”

  She swallowed a hard knot in her throat. “What does it matter?
”

  “Blood money,” he said. “That’s what it is. Plain and simple.”

  “I do what I have to do,” Eliška told him. “You certainly have no problems cashing the checks.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t use me as an excuse.”

  “You always did the right thing.” Eliška waved a hand at the crummy apartment. “And look where it got you. You gave your fingers for Czechia and the only thing you got in return is a one room flat in a rundown tenement built by the Communists.” After a beat, she added, “The same Communists you fought.”

  He gripped the arm of the chair and pushed himself up a little straighter. “I fought for freedom. I gave up my fingers to free Czechia from tyranny. I’d do it again.”

  “Lot of good it did.” She rubbed her forehead. “Now we have crooked politicians who line their pockets while pensioners survive on crumbs.”

  “It’s not a perfect system, but it’s better than what we had before. You don’t know. You weren’t there. You never laid awake at night fearing a knock at the door.” He settled himself back into the recliner and pointed to the shabby surroundings with the two remaining fingers on his right hand. “Change takes time. Rome wasn’t built in a day. What we did, we did for a better tomorrow. We did it for the next generation. I don’t know why you chose the path you did. You could have had a future in the military. You could have been running military intelligence by now. Instead you chose the easy money.” He gave another of those impatient shrugs and his tone softened. “I blame myself. Your mother died before you were grown and I was never much of a father.”

  “Sorry I was such a disappointment.” Eliška sat there, feeling hot with shame. She dashed a tear from her eye.

  He said nothing.

  She thought about walking out and leaving the old man to his fate. She took a minute to collect herself and said, “Papa, we need to go.”

  He scowled and cranked himself around in his seat for a look at her. “Go? Go where?”

  “You remember Miklos? He’s got a cabin in the foothills south of the city. It’s a nice place in the woods with no distractions,” Eliška said. She was trying to make fleeing for their lives sound like a pleasant surprise.

  He sniffed and waved away that idea with one mangled claw.

  “Won’t it be nice to get out of this dusty old apartment?” Eliška asked. “Some fresh mountain air will do you good.”

  “I don’t need mountain air. I need oxygen.” He held up the mask as evidence. “You expect me to lug this tank up a mountainside?”

  “I’ve got a car, Papa. We can take the tanks with us.”

  Eliška stood up and went to the window. Her brow wrinkled. The dark blue SUV was still parked at the end of the street. Whoever he was, he was watching the front of Papa’s building. She needed to get rid of the surveillance before she could move the old man. She said, “I’ve got to take care of few things first. Pack a suitcase while I’m gone and be ready to go when I get back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

  Her patience reached the breaking point and she grabbed him by the lapels. His cloudy eyes opened wide. Sour breath washed over her. Eliška spoke through clenched teeth, “Listen to me, you stupid old fool! I’m trying to save your life. There are some very bad people after me and they’ll use you to get to me. Now, pack a bag. We’re leaving as soon as I get back.”

  His unshaven chin trembled. A small sound worked up from his sunken chest. Eliška let him go, grabbed the wig off the counter and went to the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Noble was back on the Seine, feeling the freezing spray and the deck rolling beneath him. He saw Sam step around the pilothouse. He heard her final words but they were muffled and indistinct, like they were coming through a badly tuned radio. The pistol cracked and Noble watched her fall.

  “Why her?” He asked the empty car.

  The scene played inside his head on a continuous loop until Noble thought it would drive him mad. He lost sight of the street and the rental car and the crumbling Eastern bloc architecture. All he saw was Sam dying, over and over and over again. And every time she plunged over the railing, the warmth of his heart dimmed until a deep depression took hold.

  Tears were building behind his eyes, threatening to break free, when a door closed with a soft clump. The sound jerked Noble back to the present. He blinked and passed a hand over his face. The elderly woman had emerged from the bleak Soviet pillbox. She hobbled down the steps and turned north.

  Noble sat up a little straighter. His eyes narrowed. There was something different about her, but Noble couldn’t put his finger on it. He watched her for a minute, wondering what had caught his attention. Then it clicked. Noble said, “You forgot your cane.”

  A grim smile turned up one side of his face. He had to respect her tradecraft. She was good. Not many thirty-somethings could transform themselves into a doddering grandmother at will. The change was so complete, if she hadn’t slipped up and left the cane behind, Noble never would have spotted her.

  He started to turn the key in the ignition, but he couldn’t follow her in the car. She was moving too slow. He would have to tail her on foot. That gave her the advantage. She was from Prague and knew these streets. Noble had only been here a handful of times. Most of his knowledge came from studying maps on the flight over.

  He waited until she reached the end of the block before climbing out and following at a leisurely stroll. Apartment buildings gradually gave way to corner stores, restaurants, and fashion boutiques. Noble was moving at a crawl. He imagined snails passing him on the sidewalk. Even plodding along, it was hard to keep her in front of him. Noble stepped inside a corner market and pretended to browse the fruit selection while he watched the old woman make her way up the sidewalk. She stopped at the intersection, glanced once over her shoulder and then disappeared around the corner so fast it was like watching a magic trick.

  Pretty spry for an old gal.

  She was headed for Wenceslas Square, where she could lose him in the crowd. It was the smart play and exactly what Noble would have done in her situation. He stepped outside, jogged to the end of the block and turned the corner into a sea of people.

  Originally a horse market, Wenceslas Square is now one long shopping arcade that ends at the National Museum. A large stone fountain commands the center of the busy pedestrian area and stately oaks line the boulevard. Vendors sell everything from cheap T-shirts and knock-off designer handbags to trdelnick pastries and chocolates, which aren’t as good as Belgium chocolates, but close.

  A thousand voices filled Noble’s ears and the warm smell of the sugar-coated pastries made his stomach rumble. Pigeons waddled beneath the feet of gawking tourists while a pair of street performers played “Paint It Black” on cellos. Noble shouldered his way through the masses and craned to see over the crowd. For a moment he thought he had lost her, but halfway across the Square he spotted gray hair moving at a trot. Noble dodged around a fat man and set off at a run. He had closed half the distance when the silver-haired grandmother darted inside a joint called Hot Peppers.

  Suggestive silhouettes flanked the entrance and flashing neon announced, VIP Lounge. Noble pushed through the door into a thick wall of smoke and pulsing sound. The inside was all plush red leather, dim lighting, and mirrors. On stage, a dancer in a small square of black lace twisted around a polished brass pole. Noble worked his way along the bar, scanning the crowd for little old ladies on the move. A bottled ginger in an impossibly short skirt sidled up next to him with a smile.

  Noble waved her off. “I looking for something older.”

  He searched the tables around the stage but the assassin had vanished. Noble stood there a moment, taking in the room. The adrenaline rush that comes with a chase was wearing off and failure crowded around him like a cloak. His gut had twisted up in knots during the chase and now it started to let go. He was just about to double back toward the entrance when he glimpsed a head of gray hair he
aded for the back of the club. Noble set off in that direction. He passed a slim blonde with a boyish cut. She was dressed in a halter top and shorts. He didn’t think anything of her until he saw the silver wig lying on an empty bar stool. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. A hand came down on his shoulder and he felt a knifepoint in the small of his back.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wizard sat in a corner booth at the Occidental with his back to the wall. A plate of wagyu beef and two martini glasses stood on the table in front of him. It wasn’t yet lunchtime. The crowd was thin. The Occidental is a regular haunt for DC’s movers and shakers. A trio of senators had a table near the window and the head of the State Department was at the bar along with the new AG, deep in conversation. Dean Martin was on the sound system asking how lucky a guy could be. Very lucky if you happen to be a member of the Rat Pack, thought Dulles.

  Across from him sat Ron Hinson, a senior investigator with the Secret Service. He wasn’t what most people thought of when they pictured a Secret Service agent. Ron was middle-age and middle-class, with no distinguishing features. He could walk through a room and nobody would spare him a second glance. What most people didn’t know was that Ron Hinson’s everyman appearance was a carefully cultivated cover. It allowed him to do his job more efficiently. Wizard always thought Hinson had missed a brilliant career in intelligence work.

  Hinson picked up a seltzer water and said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Been a while.” Wizard cut off a slice of beef. “Thought we should catch up. How’s the wife and kids?”

  Ron laughed and speared his steak tartare with his fork. “They’re just fine, thanks for asking. But even my wife knows Albert Dulles doesn’t call up old friends for a three-martini lunch unless he’s got an angle.”