“Ha, ha, ha! Miss Jasmin is a very nice and humor people. Come visit Yavor soon. Hey Miss Jasmin? Yavor cook good Bulgarian food. We drink wine!”
“Maybe I will,” she said, wondering whether she’d ever return to Bulgaria. “Thank you, Yavor.”
They shook hands and Jasmin left. It was still murky when she walked to the train station. Stray cats screeched in shadowed backyards, and seagulls guffawed above her head. A pack of skinny stray dogs trotted past, increasing her heartbeat, but none of them paid her attention.
The train, a filthy museum piece, arrived about twenty minutes late. A man with a Bulgarian Railway badge hanging around his neck showed her which car to board and even helped her with her backpack. Jasmin was about to thank him when she noticed his outstretched hand. Unfortunately, few things were done as a favor in Eastern Europe. And when she looked closely, she saw that the Bulgarian Railway logo on his badge had been drawn with a blue marker.
“I should’ve learned by now,” Jasmin murmured as she reached into her pocket. She’d exchanged all her Bulgarian bills for Czech Crowns, but she still had a few coins, which she gave the man. Once he’d left, she sat down and pressed her forehead against the window. Her eyelids felt as if they’d suddenly gained a few pounds.
When she woke up an hour later, trees and fields of a sunlit countryside galloped behind the dingy window. Two white-haired women were sitting in her compartment, chatting in croaky old voices and in a language that might have been either Bulgarian or Serbian.
Even though she fell back asleep, the ride across Bulgaria still seemed eternal. The train took nearly six hours to rattle to the capital of Sofia, where it was stranded for two more hours. They reached the Serbian border relatively quickly afterward, but the police and customs officers kept them on halt for more than an hour, checking all the suitcases for contraband. On top of that, her compartment was near the bathroom, which reeked with increasing vehemence. They had to keep the window open, in spite of the cold wind that blew in as the afternoon advanced.
Jasmin tried to read, but the rattling of the old train tired her so much she mostly stared blankly at the blurred pages. The old women slouched on the uncomfortable seats with their white heads pressed together. Their faces grew increasingly red in the sunset as if they were having angry dreams.
When they reached the Serbian-Hungarian border, a stout Serbian border cop swaggered into their compartment. He merely glanced at the old women’s passports, but he slowly checked Jasmin’s page by page, with his back turned to her as if she wasn’t even there.
“Show me your ticket!” he demanded when he finally handed the passport back. She took the ticket out of her pocket and gave it to him. “So you are going to Budapest, huh? Is that your final destination?”
“No,” she replied, wondering what the hell it was to him. “I’m going on to Prague.”
“And where are you staying in Prague?”
“I haven’t booked a hotel yet,” she snapped, determined to demand his name and badge number if he asked one more inappropriate question. He only gave her a suspicious look, however, and then he returned the ticket and marched away.
Dusk fell and so did the temperature, and the two women ordered Jasmin to close the window. The bathroom stench slithered in whenever the train stopped. Even when she finally got off, the smell followed her loyally around the Budapest train station.
Although she felt as if she’d been traveling for days and days, her destination still seemed unreachable. She was in for a long wait for the connecting train, and for an epic journey through Hungary and Slovakia. And yet she realized she was elated.
As far as she knew, Sid’s murderer was soon to be extradited. The bite wound no longer hurt, and she looked forward to strolling around Prague, which she’d visited as a child but hardly remembered. Then she’d fly home and see her parents.
For the first time in months, her future didn’t look bleak, dark, and sinister.
THE PLANE BROUGHT VARBANOV to Prague in two short hours. He spent the morning roaming the cobblestone alleys and admiring the medieval monuments of the Old Town. After lunch, he loaded his gun and drove his rented Skoda Superb to the train station.
According to the electronic board, the Berlin-bound train from Budapest would arrive on Platform Five at fourteen-thirty. He found the platform and paced up and down along the rails as if the pavement burned his feet.
The sun poured through the arched, glass ceiling and made him sweat. His fingers ran over his smooth cheeks, missing the prickly touch of the sideburns: he’d shaved them off before the flight. As he’d been wearing a uniform while talking to Jasmin in Varna, and as she had no reason to expect him in Prague, he felt sure she wouldn’t recognize him as he hunted her.
The crowded station was an ideal place for the hit. The gun was concealed in an underarm holster under his sports coat. The suppressor was screwed on, ready for discreet murder. All he had to do was to press it against her back and fire. Before anyone noticed she’d been murdered, he would already be outside.
As the train rushed in, he trotted to the middle of the platform so that he could see people leaving every car. He breathed heavily as he scanned the windows and the opening doors. About twenty people got off each of the seven cars, turning the platform into chaos.
Jasmin’s face was carved deeply in Varbanov’s memory. But it wasn’t anywhere in the crowd.
Pushing and shoving, he rushed to the exit to wait for her outside. The passengers squeezed through the exit doors like a giant centipede and spilled along the sidewalk. But Jasmin wasn’t among them.
Varbanov rushed back toward the train. Before he got there, however, the doors were already pressure closed, and the train started to pull out.
“Where is the next stop?” he shouted at a dispatcher.
“In Usti nad Labem.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“About a hundred kilometers northwest. Near the German border.”
“And when does it get there?”
“In an hour. Maybe less.”
Varbanov ran to his rented car, where he typed Usti nad Labem into the GPS.
“Shit!” he growled when the machine showed it would take him sixty-five minutes to get there. As he started the engine and swerved out of the parking lot, he activated a small tracking device he’d got from Panzer.
THE TRAIN RIDE TO THE next station ended up taking less than an hour. Nevertheless, it was the longest hour in Jasmin’s life, as she crouched in a locked bathroom, rigid with fear.
Just as she was about to get off the train in Prague, instinct had told her to look out of the window. She had recognized Varbanov even without the sideburns. And she’d seen him reach for something under his jacket.
At first, Jasmin had thought the inspector had come to ensure her safety. A moment later, the truth hit her like a fist: he was working for Renard and Panzer. And the thing he’d been hiding under his jacket could only be a gun.
Having dashed for the bathroom as soon as the truth had dawned, Jasmin didn’t know whether he’d boarded the train. Her heart nearly shattered inside her whenever someone knocked on the bathroom door.
As soon as the train stopped, she left the bathroom and ran to the nearest exit. An old man with a cane stood by the opening door. He slowly stepped off the train, and Jasmin peeked over his head. As she didn’t see Varbanov anywhere, she jumped onto the platform. Her eyes darted around. The station was nearly empty. Was Varbanov hiding in the station building? Or was he on her train, about to leap after her?
She saw another train standing on the farthest track. Three or four people were rushing to the last car. Guessing that it was about to leave, Jasmin sprinted toward it. A dispatcher swore at her as she crossed two sets of railways, but she didn’t heed him. Having managed to jump in just before the door closed, she galloped straight to the bathroom.
Two hours later, the train halted at a large station and wouldn’t move. Fearing that this could be the la
st stop, Jasmin ran out. Although it seemed impossible that Varbanov could have managed to follow her all the way here—wherever here was—she boarded the first train she saw. Driven by panic, she changed trains twice more afterward. It was half-past eight when the last train arrived at a small station. The blue and white sign announced a place called Turnov.
Jasmin recalled that Father had often talked about the Turnov region, where Grandma had been born. It was called the Bohemian Paradise, a land that abounded with picturesque towns, deep woods, and vast labyrinths of towering sandstone rocks. Jasmin even vaguely remembered that her parents had taken her here to visit a very old man who was probably her great-grandfather. A sense of familiarity made her get off the train.
She stumbled across the quiet hall and collapsed onto a bench, trying to make sense of her situation. Her backpack was probably in a lost-objects office at the Berlin train station, but she still had her passport, a wallet with about a hundred dollars’ worth of Czech crowns, and an electronic plane ticket for tomorrow afternoon.
But what if Varbanov knew about her planned flight home? Although she was sure she’d shaken him off, he could easily ambush her at the airport. She had to go to the police . . . and hope they weren’t as crooked as Inspector Varbanov.
Making sure that nobody was following her, Jasmin left the station. She soon reached a picturesque square hemmed in by colorful buildings crowned with gables and spires. Twilight came as she tottered around the square looking for a police station.
While she was passing a restaurant, the rich smell of meat and gravy skulked into her nostrils. Her empty stomach gave her a kick. On impulse, Jasmin walked in and sat at the nearest table. She felt safe, at least for the moment. And unless she wanted the cops to think she was a mad, babbling conspiracy theorist, she’d better fill her stomach, wash her face, and collect her thoughts.
The tablecloth was sparkling white, which made her feel dirty. Her hands were sticky, and her sweaty hair clung to her cheeks.
The waiter—an incredibly tall teenager with spiky hair and braces—probably thought she was a vagrant. “You want something to drink?” he asked her with a frown. Jasmin could tell he was dying to ask if she had money.
“A beer, please,” she said, attempting to smile. She was happy to realize the Czech she’d learned from her father was good enough to understand him. She scanned the menu and ordered the first dish that sounded familiar.
When she returned from the bathroom, a frosty pint of draft pilsner stood on her table. It filled her stomach and somewhat quenched the worst of her hunger. She dug into her dinner with the fervor of one of Pavlov’s dogs. Once her plate was empty, she leaned back and sighed. She felt full and relatively safe, which she would’ve taken for granted any other day of her life, but which was a luxury today.
Nevertheless, the police had to hear the whole story. Her growing suspicion that the news of Renard’s arrest was false made the beef sirloin and dumplings flip in her stomach. She had to report him in the States. And she hoped the Czech cops would keep her safe until she boarded the plane.
“Is there a police station in town?” she asked the waiter, who brought her the bill.
Mellowed by a generous tip, he nodded and said, “There’s one near the Karel IV Hotel, some ten minutes from here. Is there any trouble?”
“No, not really, I guess. There’s just this man . . . anyway, thank you for the information.”
An elderly couple entered the restaurant, and the waiter left to bring them the menus. As she put her wallet back into her shorts pocket, Jasmin looked out of the window.
The street lights had come on, painting the colorful buildings on the square with shades of yellow. A boy in a green cap swished by on his bike, perhaps rushing home to have a late dinner. A young woman came from the other direction with a cell phone pressed against her ear, perhaps calling her boyfriend to pick her up. And Inspector Varbanov was standing on the corner, waiting for Jasmin so that he could butcher her.
Jasmin sank into her chair. Paralyzed by fear, she sat there like a sacrificial lamb, hoping he would go away. When she dared to peek out again, she saw him start to walk toward the restaurant. Mad energy flushed her out of her stupefaction. She shot up and ran to the kitchen, almost toppling the waiter, who was just walking out.
“What is it?” he asked when he saw the panic in her eyes. “Is it the man? Is he here?”
“He’s right outside,” Jasmin wheezed. “Is there a back door I can use? I have to get out!”
Although he said nothing, the waiter inadvertently looked left toward a darkened corridor. Jasmin ran down there and found a small door. It was locked, but the key was stuck in the lock. She turned the key, pushed against the door, and rushed outside.
She staggered through a blackened alley. A passing car honked at her as she sprinted across a wide, well-lit street. Survival instinct dragged her away from the glittering downtown and toward the sparsely illuminated suburbs. No time to look for the police. She had to vanish.
Jasmin ran like a startled cat, and her thighs soon throbbed so much she feared that a cramp would send her to her knees. Her lungs felt as if they had been flushed with lava. Blood began to trickle down her calf—the scabs must have come off, and the holes from the Doberman’s teeth must have opened again.
The houses got smaller and sparser, and gardens and fields grew in size. She felt a tinge of hope when the moonlit night of the country replaced the eternal day of the town. She turned on a narrow regional road and galloped toward a towering wall of trees which, she hoped, would conceal her in their shadows.
The night suddenly brightened. Jasmin heard an engine roaring behind her back. She turned around. The car was right behind her. Its high beams seared into her eyes. Its front bumper charged straight at her like the lowered head of a stampeding bull. The car had to be going at least seventy miles per hour.
She staggered aside and slid into a ditch just as the car shot past her. A whiff of hot air slapped her face. Her nostrils filled with the smell of gas. Had she stayed on the road a second later, her brains would’ve been splattered all over the car’s windshield.
The brakes screeched like a flock of bats. The car skidded as it came to a stop. Jasmin groaned when she saw the backup lights come on. As she turned around and plunged into a field of tall cornstalks, she heard the car reverse.
The car stopped, and the door squeaked open. A ghost of the car’s interior light skulked toward her. Jasmin didn’t need to turn around to know who the driver was. How could he have found her again?
A sickly pale beam of a flashlight traced her through the cornstalks, making the shivering leaves flare like ghosts’ hands. She heard the thud, thud, thud of three muffled shots. The bullets rushed past her, wheezing almost as loudly as she was. As she kept running, she lowered her head so that it wouldn’t stick over the stalks.
In the middle of the field, her shoes began to sink into mud. She thought she heard cornstalks rustling behind her. Was he getting closer? She glanced over her shoulder. The beam of the flashlight swept the field aimlessly some forty yards behind. Encouraged, she plowed on, and at last, she left the field behind.
Following a narrow path, she entered the wild, timbered heart of the Bohemian Paradise. But to her, it looked like the Bohemian Inferno.
Swaying in the wind, the treetops lashed the needle-strewn ground with dreadful shadows that made her see things that weren’t really there. Aerial roots snatched at her feet like the hands of those prematurely buried and made her trip over. Trim sandstone rocks stuck above the treetops like giant’s fingers from a morass. They shot up to the sky and punched out the moonlight, and at times she stumbled in complete darkness. All around her, the woods echoed with the grunting and squealing of wild boars.
A black silhouette of a ruined cliff-top castle jutted above the treetops. She instinctively turned toward it, sensing that salvation could be found within the ancient walls.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T
he Ruins had changed over the centuries. The charred keep and crumbling battlements still overlooked the grassy bailey, but a chapel and four palaces had risen in place of the other rubble. Baroque statues now flanked the bridge over the moat. Unfortunately for Jasmin, the gatehouse had also been rebuilt—and the gate locked every night.
By the time she reached the top of the cliff, her shinbones hurt so much she felt as if they were growing and splintering. The dark woods blurred and spun around. And yet she kept staggering forward. The eyes of the statues followed her with an empty gaze as she trotted over the bridge toward the entrance. The high, arched gate gave her a contemptuous grunt as she tried to push it open.
Jasmin felt like screaming. Her heart thrashed and rolled madly in her ribcage. Exhaustion sent bolts of light to her eyes. And then there was another light: the pale beam she’d been hiding from in the cornfield.
Varbanov’s flashlight brightened the cold, noseless face of the first statue. It slithered toward her along the stone banister of the bridge. It flooded her eyes. Jasmin screamed when a bullet grazed the top of her skull and slammed into the gate behind her. Blood trickled down the nape of her neck. Singed, her hair smelled like a burning blanket.
Jasmin scurried to the banister and looked down. The drop was at least fifteen feet, but she had no other option. Another bullet screeched just above her as she crawled over the banister and dropped down to the grassy moat.
Pain shot through her ankles when her feet hit the ground. She rolled for a few blurry moments. When she finally lay still, she saw the horrid beam of light groping in the bushes around her, making her feel like an escaped convict hiding from searchlights. Jasmin scrambled to her feet and ran through the moat along the curtain wall. Even though she realized the castle could prove a deadly snare, her instinct kept urging her to find a point of entry.
Deception of the Damned Page 16
