The Pillars of Abraham

by Ian Young

  ‘Drop me here,’ she says, tapping Tom’s arm.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Drop me here!’

  ‘I mean, do you want me to park up and join you, or …’

  ‘Sure, why not.’ Alabama opens the door and turns to stick her head back in the car. ‘Wanna beer, or …’

  Alabama leaves the question hanging as Tom did a moment ago.

  ‘Or what?’

  Nope, he isn’t getting it. ‘Never mind, I’ll wait for you.’

  Alabama climbs the few steps and goes inside. A guy is sitting behind the bar reading a paper; he stands as she walks up.

  ‘Dobrý den.’ The man looks at her as though she was about to ask for something he couldn’t deliver, like he’s wary of her approach: surely she’s walked into the wrong building, a woman alone in a bar? That can’t be right.

  Alabama returns the greeting. ‘Dobrý den, pivo prosím.’ Beer please.

  ‘OK. Draught or bottle?’ he says in English.

  ‘Bottle please … no glass.’

  ‘I bring it.’

  Alabama makes her way to a table by the door. She puts her bag down, then steps outside as though basking in the sunlight, but watching the embassy and wondering where the cars might be parked. There’s a large wooden gate in the centre of the building and she supposes it could be used for cars, though it seems more decorative than functional. It’s more like the entrance might have last been used to allow a horse and cart to pass in imperial times. To the right is a glass and wooden panelled entrance guarded by two policemen. She thought they might have been a queue of hopeful Czechs applying for visas. Perhaps, she thinks, the consular department is elsewhere. Who knows?

  She hears the sound of a bottle being placed on the wooden table behind her and decides to take a seat. The barman also leaves a small plate of nuts alongside the Pilsner. Alabama thanks the barman and he returns to his station with a curt nod. There is only one more customer, a casually dressed man in a white short-sleeved shirt and grey slacks, tapping away on a laptop. He shows no interest in her.

  Where’s Tom? How far away did he have to park? While she gazes through the door, a dark-suited man marches up to the glass and wood panelled door of the embassy, shows his pass to the policemen, and enters. After he’s gone the two Czech policemen share a laugh about something. One of them taps the other on the arm then strolls away, looking at each car that passes as though … as though it might contain a kidnapped scientist?

  Alabama has noticed it a couple of times now. The man tapping away at his computer has looked across at her more than once. It was subtle: a stretch of the arms and a glance around; a look at the time and a glance around. Alabama swigs her beer and looks at her own watch. It was no leap of intelligence to suppose Americans use the bar when they need a change of scenery. He is, without doubt, American. There’s an aura about him, body language, self-assurance. Alabama can’t explain it except to say it’s like knowing someone is a computer nerd – there’s a look. But if he is American, why hasn’t he introduced himself and told her his life story already?

  There’s only one explanation as far as Alabama is concerned: the keyboard tapper was a spook. What the hell, she thinks, let’s make conversation. ‘Beautiful day, ain’t it?’ she says suddenly.

  ‘Excuse me?’ The man looks straight at Alabama as though she’s thrown some of the peanuts at him.

  ‘Sorry, I kinda ‘sumed you spoke English. American?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, how you doing?’ The man doesn’t wait for a reply and goes straight back to tapping on his computer, but not before he’s glanced at his watch again.

  The thing is, muses Alabama, there’s a clock on every computer screen. The only reason this guy keeps looking at his watch is because he’s waiting for someone, or for something to happen. We always make a point of checking the time when we’re conscious of time.

  ‘You here on business?’ she says.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We’re not doing too good, are we?’ says Alabama with a chuckle. ‘Are you in Prague on business?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ He looks back at his screen then seems to have a rethink. ‘Just here for a couple of days.’

  The man flashes a brief, and quite insincere, smile then resumes his tap-tap-tapping.

  ‘Me too.’

  The man doesn’t respond. It was classic. Never volunteer a lie; classic CIA training. Sure, he could have bullshitted her about being on a conference, or selling microprocessors, or some other crap. But why bother? If you don’t lie, you won’t get found out. The fact he said nothing at all is a classic sign that he had everything to conceal. Hell, she had never met a normal American that sat in a bar minding his own business.

  And if her theory is correct, it would mean he was telling the truth about staying here just a few days. So not a resident spook, then.

  ‘I’m just visiting, too,’ she says. ‘Wanted to see our embassy. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  The man nods but doesn’t look up.

  ‘Sorry, you’re probably writing a report or something, or emailing your boss.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ The man looks at his watch again then glances around at the door.

  So, he’s waiting for someone. Then again, so is she, and Tom steps through the door just at that moment.

  ‘You parked your car back home, or something?’

  ‘Co že, sorry, what?’

  ‘You wanna beer?’

  ‘Oh, just a cola, please.’

  ‘Seriously, you drink that stuff?’ Alabama shrugs and signals to the barman, but he’s already on the case. Seconds later he brings a half-filled glass of cola and the half-drained bottle to the table, mutters some pleasantries and leaves.

  ‘So …’ Tom takes as swig of his cola ‘… seen anything yet?’

  Immediately, Alabama slews her eyes to the key-tapping spook across the bar. Sure enough, he jerks his head towards her (though doesn’t actually look at her) then back at his laptop. It’s as though he was unable to stop the reaction in time to think better of it. And then, for good measure, he takes a slurp from his coffee cup; the clatter of pottery as he places it back down on the saucer is the only sound in the bar.

  Alabama glares at Tom and signals the other guy’s presence with a pointed look of her eyes. Tom shrugs as though she might be paranoid.

  Keyboard Man suddenly jerks his head around again, this time looking through the door. Alabama assumes it was another sneaky way of checking her and Tom out, but he snaps his laptop closed and hurries out. Alabama follows him with her gaze, leaning sideways to see out into the square. She can’t help herself. Before she knows what she’s doing, she leaps to her feet and hurries to the door, watching with ashen face as Keyboard Man jumps into the passenger seat of a white Škoda Octavia parked across from the embassy.

  Chapter 28

  Hanzel and Mason study the CCTV and live webcams that spy on the residents of Prague. If they only had this in my father’s day, muses Hanzel, life would have been … even worse for the ordinary Czech citizen. Instead of relying on a network of informers, his father could have monitored the population like some kind of god, omniscient and omnipotent. The cameras haven’t reduced crime in Prague, but they have provided a means of proof. Criminals and louts have been convicted on CCTV evidence alone and that makes the police service’s job that much easier. Not that Hanzel’s father ever needed proof of wrongdoing. In any case, what the state once considered as ‘wrongdoing’ is now part of life in post-revolution Czech: criticising the government, watching American news channels …

  Hanzel blinks hard and switches his attention to another monitor. What would his father have done if the Internet had been widely available back in the seventies and eighties? Well, same as China and North Korea, supposes
Hanzel, but would it have made his job easier? Hanzel thinks about the information on Kendrick and Andreia he picked up from the American news websites. Whatever these scientists have done, found out, or possess, is certainly pissing someone off. Aliens. Hanzel laughs, oblivious to the heads that look and query him. One of the policemen looks over at Hanzel’s monitor, perhaps expecting to see some example of drunken behaviour captured over the weekend.

  Aliens. So, the Americans really do have little green men locked up in the desert. Perhaps Andreia and Kendrick threatened to tell the world. Where does Unsworth’s religious group fit in, then? Surely the existence of aliens doesn’t preclude the existence of God. Maybe God made two worlds. Why not? After all, Hanzel has two children, why shouldn’t God make two babies to look after? Hanzel shakes his head.

  ‘There!’ He points at the monitor, leaning in to direct his finger at the white Octavia. ‘Do you see it?’

  Mason presses down on the back of a chair and leans over the police operator’s shoulder. ‘Can we follow it?’

  Hanzel switches to Czech and asks the operator the same question. The operator cycles through the camera feeds and picks up the trail.

  ‘It’s in the Fifth,’ says the policeman, referring to the district to the west of Prague where Hanzel lives.

  ‘When was this?’ asks Mason.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hanzel doesn’t look up from the monitor as the operator flicks between CCTV cameras in an attempt to follow the car.

  ‘Last night, this morning … last week? When was the recording made?’

  ‘It’s not a recording, it’s live.’

  ‘Right. Let’s get out there,’ says Mason, pointing with his thumb as though catching a ride. ‘We can get directions from your colleague here.’

  Hanzel looks at the policeman, who shrugs. ‘Rozumiš?’ He asks the policeman if he understands Mason. The policeman says he gets the gist.

  ‘Come on, man, we’re wasting time!’ Mason takes Hanzel’s arm and applies a little pressure.

  ‘OK, OK,’ says Hanzel. He turns to the policeman and asks for his cell phone number. They exchange numbers and Hanzel leaves, almost dragged by Mason.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ says Mason. Give me your keys.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘You’ll be on the phone, navigating. Besides, I know what I’m doing.’

  Hanzel stops by the car, gaping at the Englishman. Seriously? He wants to drive my car around my city while I watch? ‘I know Prague like I know my apartment.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mason. ‘Effective task sharing. We’re wasting time.’

  There’s something about Mason’s body language, his tone, something authoritative that Hanzel feels compelled to obey. Hanzel’s hand has already crept into his pocket, fingers clutching at the keys and, almost without thinking, he pulls them out and hands them to Mason. He once went on holiday to Tenerife and watched a hypnotist on stage making fools out of people. Is Mason a hypnotist?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Mason, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘So you said.’

  They get into the car and head for the Legií Bridge to cross over the Vltava into the Fifth. Mason eases through the traffic as though he’s been patrolling Prague all his life. Hanzel watches him. There’s a sense of danger about the man, not because of any threatening physique – that’s average, but … something. He doesn’t even look aggressive, certainly doesn’t act aggressively. Hanzel can’t put his finger on it. Assured. That’s it, like Mason knows he can do anything he wants, or make other people do what he wants. Either way, Hanzel finds himself being driven around his hometown in his own car by a foreigner – don’t they drive on the other side of the road in England?

  Hanzel’s phone rings. After a brief conversation he turns to Mason and tells him to take a right turn into Újezd after the bridge.

  ‘It’s been picked up on Karmelitská. You know where that leads?’

  ‘No idea,’ says Mason, eyes darting around like he’s trying to count particles of dust or something.

  ‘Tržiště, which is where the American embassy is. I pray it doesn’t lead us there.’

  ‘It makes sense.’ Mason’s tone doesn’t invite disagreement but Hanzel can’t help asking why he’s so certain.

  ‘Because,’ says Mason after a deep breath, ‘because … well, maybe it doesn’t.’

  Hanzel stares at the Englishman, keeping silent, hoping to draw him out. But as the silence continues, Hanzel becomes certain Mason hasn’t changed his opinion; he just decided not to share his reasoning with him.

  They drive to the end of Vítězná towards a tree-stacked hill – Kinský Park – and follow a tram into the cobbled street that runs alongside the eastern perimeter of the park. The park stretches north and borders the Schoenborn Palace Gardens, which sits magnificently behind the US embassy. Hanzel had little reason to stake out the embassy before today, though he allowed himself a wry smile at what his father would think of this; he’d spent his life watching the US embassy.

  He has to admit it: his city is stunning. From the intricately paved roads to the historic architecture, Prague oozes culture, style and beauty. But his father’s generation had a lot to answer for. For instance, how could they wedge a concrete block of a building in-between the elegance of neo-classicism? Sure, the people had to live somewhere, but it was like fitting a classic Mercedes Benz with a faded door from a 1970s Škoda Favorit.

  A crowd has gathered outside the Church of Our Lady Victorious on the left. Mason doesn’t look but Hanzel leans forward to see a bride emerge and stand on the steps smiling. He wonders if Unsworth is in there, overseeing the show (or whatever they call it –service?). In fact, do Catholic priests seek sanctuary in churches like spies head for the embassies? Actually, had he missed a trick? Would a search of Prague’s churches lead to Andreia?

  ‘Slow down,’ says Hanzel. ‘Here, stop here.’ Hanzel points to the paved area outside a small restaurant. ‘You’ll need to leave room for the trams, pull up on to the kerb.’

  Mason eases the car up on to the low kerb and stops. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘That road,’ says Hanzel pointing left, ‘is where the US embassy is.’

  ‘I can tell,’ says Mason. ‘Those two squaddies don’t look too alert.’

  ‘I need to call Karel, the CCTV operator.’ Hanzel is about to make the call when his phone rings. He listens then hangs up. ‘It’s as I feared. The car has stopped outside the embassy.’

  Mason pushes the gear lever into first gear and, glancing over his left shoulder, pulls back on to the road.

  ‘Wait!’ says Hanzel, reaching for Mason’s arm.

  The Englishman doesn’t react and his arm remains un-flinched.

  ‘We can’t do this alone, Mason. I have to speak to someone about this.’

  ‘I’m going to drive by, take a video with your phone, pretend you’re making a call. Hold it to your ear with the camera pointing towards the car and anyone who gets in or out.’

  ‘Shit.’

  The two soldiers guarding the entrance to Tržiště turn at the approaching car. One holds his hand up, the other readies the under-car security mirror. Hanzel leans across the car as one of the soldiers stoops to talk to Mason. Would it be a good idea to show his ID? He has no way of knowing who would be allowed in and who wouldn’t. Mason is right though. They do look bored and would probably be relieved to let them pass if they saw he was in the security services.

  It works, though the soldiers still search under the car. As they drive away, Hanzel opens up the camera app on his phone and does as Mason asked.

  ‘There it is,’ says Mason, slowing the car. ‘Are you recording?’

  ‘Shit, yes, just get me out of here quick.’

  Hanzel’s eyes catch
those of a policeman stood by the kerb, close to where the white Octavia is parked. He looks away quickly, twisting the phone at his ear so it points back at the car as they pass. Mason stops. He actually fucking stops.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ yells Hanzel, lowering the phone.

  ‘Turning around.’ Mason’s tone is that of a man stating the obvious.

  ‘I mean—’

  ‘There’s a parking space next to your man, look.’

  ‘You can’t stop here … bože!’

  Mason pulls into the space beside the Octavia and opens the car door. As he climbs out the policeman begins strolling across. Mason won’t have understood the words, but the waved arm gesture is unmistakeable.

  Hanzel leans across to the driver’s seat and yells through the open door. ‘Just get back in, this is not funny.’

  ‘I’m sorry, officer,’ says Mason in a no-nonsense tone. ‘I’m looking for the university campus, Malá Strana or something, is it near here?’

  Mason looks around as he talks – and he certainly talks. He doesn’t give the police officer time to respond, instead bombarding him with rapid and authoritative sounding English, never looking at the officer. He walks back around the car to the Octavia. Oh, fuck. Hanzel looks back down the road to the soldiers, but they’re busy chatting, paying no attention to what’s going on outside the embassy.

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ he says, tapping on the window. Hanzel stares as though his life is flashing before him, reminding him of all the horrors.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ says Mason. ‘Do you know where the science faculty of Charles University is? It’s in Malá Strana, I know it’s near here. You see, I’m looking for a missing friend of mine, she’s a scientist—’