The Pillars of Abraham

by Ian Young

I haven’t even showered.

  ‘See you soon.’

  I glare at Mason. ‘Tell me he isn’t coming here?’

  ‘He is, why?’ Mason looks me up and down. It was like being scanned by a Martian. ‘You’ve got more time than if we had to go and meet him somewhere.’

  I dash into the bathroom in an attempt to look less like a fugitive and more like a sentient doctor of science. While I strip off, I hear Mason tidying away the breakfast dishes. It’s like living with my mother. He even cooks. He offered to teach me some simple dishes – not patronising at all. I declined. I offered to explain the chemical processes that take place when he grills a slice of steak, but he muttered about protein molecules changing shape as they absorb heat energy – denaturing, he said, shrugging his shoulders as though it was irrelevant general knowledge that he barely remembered from fifth grade.

  I stand in the shower, looking up as the steaming water splashes on to my face. There’s no shortage of raging water ready to fire from the showerhead. It’s always hot, never intermittent like some showers, never difficult to find the right setting for full-on tropical storm. I love taking a shower here, it’s the only time I feel truly isolated from the world – from Mason. I can neither hear him nor see him. The cubicle’s small, with obscured glass; it’s like being back in the submersible, except the water’s inside pounding my skin, not outside threatening to crush me. But it still feels like I’m alone in the universe. Sometimes I would wash my hair three or four times, or shave the rest of myself bald just for an excuse to stay in the shower for longer. My body looks like it’s completed the evolutionary journey from hirsute ape to hairless woman. Perfection achieved, tick in the box for Darwin.

  I half-consider staying in the shower until Hanzel leaves, but curiosity is strong with me. Jeez, I sound like Yoda.

  When I come back into the sitting room the Czech policeman is already here, chatting with Mason and drinking coffee. I know it’s coffee because it’s all we have in the house. I was dumbfounded when Mason told me he didn’t drink tea. I thought all English people drink tea.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Andreia,’ says Hanzel, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Andreia?’

  ‘Call me what you like as long as you don’t beat me.’ OK, it’s a stupid thing to say, so I flash a smile to mitigate that stupidity.

  ‘Well, my father might have, but I won’t.’

  That sounds a bit stupid too. ‘I’m glad your father isn’t here, then.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s dead.’

  This is going well. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, taking the only vacant seat in our compact apartment.

  ‘It’s OK, he belonged to a different era. So …’ Hanzel eases himself back on to the sofa, but sits close to the edge, arms resting on his thighs. ‘What can you tell me about the American in the river?’

  It’s a risky plan. Whoa, that’s an understatement. It’s a crazy plan. I’m in the departure lounge at Prague Airport waiting for a flight to England, somewhere called Bristol. I’m not meant to fly there; I don’t actually have a ticket. I could be booked on any flight at a moment’s notice.

  Hanzel said I probably wouldn’t fly anywhere when the priest sees me at the airport, and being seen is my responsibility. I check my watch: 6.30 p.m. The flight is scheduled to leave in thirty minutes. Maybe he is already at the gate, in which case I’ve failed in my simple task.

  For some reason, Hanzel was forced to release Unsworth and drive him straight back to the airport. But, during interrogation, when Hanzel showed the priest a photo of me, Andreia Menendes, he flinched like he’d been slapped. So Hanzel’s master plan relied on Unsworth recognising me at the airport, and either calling someone to come for me or persuading me to go with him to Bristol. Either way, Hanzel has men all over the place, or so he says.

  I spot Unsworth. My stomach tenses as though I’ve been punched. I know what that feels like; I’ll never forget the incapacitating shock of pain spreading from my belly, or the terror of being assaulted so violently. I can handle the frisson that now plays about my belly at the sight of Unsworth. Time to get noticed.

  I stand and shoulder my bag. ‘Hey, I remember you,’ I say as breezily as I can manage.

  The priest stops in his tracks as though he’s seen someone he thinks has died. Not yet. ‘Oh, yes, miss … sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘Andreia,’ I say. I didn’t bother with the surname he now knows is fake.

  ‘Ah, yes, lovely to see you again. Where are you heading?’

  Shit! I’m supposed to ask first. What if he isn’t going to Bristol? I just have to go with it. ‘Bristol, for a conference.’ That isn’t in the brief. So much for Mason’s method of going with gut feeling.

  ‘Oh, that’s where I’m flying to,’ says Unsworth. What seat are you in? I’m in three A.’

  For God’s sake! Hanzel said easyJet didn’t allocate seats. Didn’t anyone do the research? Now what do I tell him?

  ‘I’m on a standby ticket.’ Genius. ‘It was a last minute booking, flight’s full.’

  ‘They usually are,’ he said.

  Thank God.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t want to go.’ I really don’t. Hanzel said he’ll have men at the airport ready to jump on the plane and follow me should Unsworth fail to take the bait. But clearly they’ll have more control over events if I just stay here.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ says Unsworth. ‘Bristol’s full of Cheddar-munching, cider-swigging yokels.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Unsworth looks around then takes my elbow. I have to make a call. Would you wait here for me?’

  ‘I don’t want to miss the flight,’ I say, lying through my teeth.

  ‘I’ll only be a minute. They haven’t started boarding yet.’

  I nod and Unsworth dashes back to the departure lounge. Back on track. I Look around, trying to spot one of Hanzel’s spooks. A guy strolls past me, tapping a rolled-up newspaper on to the palm of his hand. He doesn’t look at me. Mason said none of them would look directly at me. What should he do, nod and wink? I check my watch and shift my weight from one foot to the other.

  An incomprehensible announcement sounds over the PA. I catch ‘Bristol’ and ‘invite passengers’, but that’s all. It’s clear that the plane is boarding (or delayed – they could have been inviting passengers to wait). Well, I wait. The last thing I want to do is get on a plane to Bristol without Unsworth. Actually, I don’t want him to get on either. I want him to charge through the concourse shouting ‘murder the unbeliever’ then one of Hanzel’s men to blow his head off before he gets within fifty yards of me. What the hell am I talking about?

  The longer I wait alone, the colder I feel. It’s as though Unsworth’s God is sucking the energy from my core, revoking my life pass. How ridiculous. If I have no faith, then whose fault is that? It’s the way I was born. It’s like Catholics condemning gay people. Being gay isn’t simply a life choice, it’s how you are, how you were born. Whose fault is that? God’s, clearly. He’s the only one with any control over how you are made. Isn’t he? What the hell am I talking about? I shake my head and roll my eyes.

  The disembodied and quite incomprehensible voice of the easyJet representative squeaks over the PA and I manage to catch ‘final call’. There’s no sign of Unsworth. I’m waiting close to the beginning of the concourse that stretches out between parking areas for planes, or whatever they’re called. My gate is about halfway down, perhaps a hundred yards or so. Even if Unsworth appears now I doubt we could make it, not unless he’s a super fit pensioner. I checked my phone, Hanzel’s number is on speed dial. Shit! When had that died? I press the home key, the side keys, tap the screen. Dead. Fuck.

  And then he appears. He waves at me, shuffling along like a man of ninety. ‘Sorry, miss,
come on, we can make it.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘They made the final call a few minutes ago.’

  ‘No, no, we can run.’ Unsworth begins to trot then stops suddenly, clutching his chest and grimacing.

  ‘No, way,’ I say. ‘You’re not running anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, Andreia, I’m so sorry.’ Unsworth bends forward and reaches out for my hand. ‘You go, you can make it.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. I told you, I didn’t want to go anyway.’

  Unsworth gives a little chuckle and looks back to where he’s just come from. ‘I hope you don’t think I made you miss the flight deliberately.’

  ‘Of course not, why would you think that?’ Why would he? The sneaky bastard. Where are Hanzel’s men?

  ‘Um, well, you want to share a taxi back into town?’

  I look around, searching for the guy who didn’t wink at me. ‘I guess …’

  ‘Come on,’ he says, taking my elbow. ‘Do you have anywhere to stay?’

  ‘My apartment?’ I make it into a question with a little rising intonation.

  ‘Of course, you live here, I remember.’

  Jesus. What has he planned? Would one of his Vrazi guys gun me down in some kind of drive-by while the taxi waits at a junction? Actually, the way these murderers work it wouldn’t surprise me if the guy’s waiting outside the terminal ready to blow me away. I look around trying to spot Hanzel or one of his men. Boy, it’s cold. I start to shake. Immigration. I reach into my bag, hand fumbling for my passport. Where the hell is it? There’s no queue. Unsworth steps forward and hands his passport to the officer, who doesn’t give a shit. There it is. I hand my passport over, a little more shit given this time, but only a little. The immigration officer hands it back and we push through the gate into the arrival hall. My legs can barely move. I will them forward, the left one: move; the right one: move. And again. I scan around, searching faces. He’ll be in black, a black Spiderman. Oh God. Where’s Hanzel? Unsworth ushers me to the door. A group of men stand just outside, smoking, dressed in black. It’s like my legs are sinking deeper into mud, like my neural network is breaking down. A bang, to my left. I scream and collapse. Unsworth is like lightning. He grabs me as though he’s just dropped his bag. That’s all it was, a suitcase dropping on its side while a child dragged it along. I tell Unsworth I’m not feeling too good and he pats my arm.

  We are just a few feet from the door. I can’t do it. Any second my knees will buckle and I’ll collapse again. Unsworth’s grip on my elbow tightens as though he senses my hesitation. The evening air should be warm, but it prickles my skin with a chill that rattles my nerves into a full-on shiver. If Hanzel is here this is the time to leap into action. Strangely – and I can’t believe myself – I really want Mason with me. His skills are tried and tested … I trusted him, literally, with my life. But he isn’t here. Hanzel told him to leave it to the professionals. What a joke! Mason could show these guys a thing or two. He trains bodyguards, for heaven’s sake.

  Unsworth stops. He looks around then changes direction, shoving my elbow firmly, like I’m under arrest. Where the fuck are you? I look left at the line of yellow cabs, their drivers stood by open doors, smoking, chatting, laughing. Not a care in the world. Unsworth is going the wrong way. We cross the road towards some office buildings, but don’t make it that far. Cars are passing through a long car park, drivers leaning forward, peering through windscreens; travellers with their luggage waving when they recognise their ride. I cast round, panicking, my breath struggling to find its way into my lungs, my frantic brain neglecting its primary task: keeping me alive.

  A car pulls up in front of me. Oh God, this is it. I can’t see the driver’s face. Why can’t I see the driver’s face? The glass reflects the sky. An aircraft, orange and white, speeds across the window. I turn to watch the easyJet plane soar into the sky, into a sunset. Why can’t I hear it? And then a hand grabs my head, pulls me down and bundles me into the back of the car.

  Chapter 26

  Hanzel stares through the window of his office on to the road outside the tall building. Within minutes of Unsworth making his call, Hanzel was hauled into the director’s office. Did he know who had just been on the phone, his boss demanded. Hanzel shrugged. He wanted to say the Pope, but that didn’t seem appropriate (as a reply or as a likely caller).

  Hanzel has already been reassigned. His boss couldn’t understand why he was still wasting taxpayers’ money following an investigation that was dead. He further couldn’t understand why Hanzel had illegally detained a foreign national – a priest, for fuck’s sake – overnight. This is not a hotel, the director yelled across the desk. Hanzel, did he realise, was that close (2 mm, he judged, looking at the gap between his boss’s finger and thumb) from being thrown back into the State Police.

  He watches Unsworth leave in the back of a car on his way to the airport from where they grabbed him yesterday. Time to call off the plan. Hanzel picks up his cell phone and calls the young scientist. There’s no ringtone, it goes straight to message. He’ll try again in a minute.

  It’s unbelievable: a Catholic priest murdering scientists here in Prague. To je nesmysl, his boss said, utter nonsense. Except it’s true. Hanzel feels like a small boy in a Hollywood movie, trying to convince grown-ups that his toy soldiers came alive and fired a missile through the window, and that’s why it shattered. Hanzel tries Andreia’s number again. No answer. He stuffs some papers into his briefcase and presses the catches closed.

  After declaring the whole affair nonsense, the director stared into his eyes for several seconds. He said nothing more, as though inviting Hanzel to deny the declaration. The Service did not have the resources to investigate Hanzel’s imaginary affaires. What he did in his own time, however, was up to him; what he wasted BIS money on was not. Perhaps Hanzel needed a week’s leave to think about his priorities?

  The problem, realises Hanzel, is he’s no detective. And he’s given up smoking, though that won’t last long. He tries Andreia once more. Damn. He presses another button on his phone and waits for the ringtone.

  ‘Jada, it’s Hanzel. I can’t contact the scientist. After you’ve dropped Unsworth off, find the girl and bring her back.’ Job done. Hanzel picks up his briefcase and leaves for home.

  It takes only a few minutes on the tram and a couple more on foot to reach his apartment. Something is cooking on the hob and Krystina is cuddled up on the sofa with the children, watching the evening news.

  ‘You’re early, miláčku,’ she says, making no attempt to extricate herself from the two youngsters sat either side.

  ‘Things are a little quiet at the moment so I’ve got some leave.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Krystina’s face says it all. She’d make a better detective than he would.

  ‘Fine,’ he says, nodding his surrender. ‘I have a little project to work on, unofficial.’

  ‘You mean deniable.’

  Could women read all men like this, or just their husbands? Zdeněk lets out a small laugh. ‘Tell you later.’

  He stands for a moment staring at the children. ‘Hello, kids!’ he says with as much sarcasm in his voice as he can muster.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ they say almost in unison.

  Krystina sighs. ‘I’m afraid you can’t compete with the sight of a dead American being pulled from the Vltava. It’s not every day, is it?’

  ‘What are they saying about it? Another suicide?’

  ‘They’re probably saying what your lot told them to say.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us. It’s currently a police matter. They’ll be saying what the FBI has told the police to say.’

  ‘Well, according to the FBI, then, the dead man’s wanted for the murder of a journalist in Boston.’

  Zdeněk frowned. ‘I wonder if the FBI actually believe
that.’

  ‘Shouldn’t they?’ Krystina looks at her husband quizzically. ‘Sorry, I won’t ask.’

  ‘I’ll be in my study.’ Zdeněk retreats from the sitting room and makes his way to the small bedroom he converted into an office. He isn’t sure how long he’ll have a home office for since the children won’t want to share a room forever. Little Petra is fast approaching an age where she won’t want to share a house with her brother, let alone a room. He dumps his bag down on a chair and shuffles papers around his desk, checking envelopes and identifying all the bills.

  Krystina pops her head round the door. ‘Is this anything to do with your unofficial project?’

  How does she do that? ‘Take a seat,’ he says, moving his bag to the floor. ‘Remember I asked you about religion the other day?’

  Krystina nods. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘This guy they dragged from the river didn’t kill anyone. I think he was kidnapped by the people who really murdered the journalist in Boston and I’ve had one of those people in custody until half an hour ago. According to …’ Zdeněk thinks for a moment about Andreia, and the danger he’s put her in. ‘According to a scientist I interviewd, they’re called The Pillars of Abraham.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds sinister.’ Krystina shuffles to the edge of her chair, closer to her husband.

  ‘The director’s been warned off the case, and I’ve been officially reprimanded for pursuing it against my brief. What I do in my own time is my business, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Who warned him off, the FBI?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he says. ‘It’s not the sort of thing the FBI get up to in foreign countries. CIA, perhaps, but who knows. Whoever, it is, clearly the priest I’ve been investigating has friends in high places.’

  ‘Well of course he does,’ said Krystina, grinning and rolling her eyes skyward.