by Graham Brack
They stood in silence until they were sure there was no more. Slonský gave a little cough.
‘Load of waffle. She could have said that in half the time.’
Ricka was tapping at his keyboard like a deranged woodpecker.
‘Okay, call made at 02:04. We’ve got the number she used but you probably already know that.’
‘I didn’t know she had a police mobile phone,’ said Navrátil. ‘I haven’t.’
‘This is no time for sulking, Navrátil. I’ll get you one if it stops you pouting. What else can you tell us, Ricka?’
Ricka had switched to the second laptop. Around two-thirds of the screen was taken up with a map.
‘Right, stage two,’ he announced. ‘The phone company will have strength of signal data for its masts. I’m going to suck those down and it will display on this map as circles of different sizes related to the signal strength centred on each mast. Where the circles intersect is where she was when she made the call. But it’ll only be accurate to around fifty metres at best, so don’t get too excited. It’ll take me five minutes or so.’
‘Fine,’ said Slonský. ‘Navrátil, go and get some coffees, rolls, whatever. Here’s some cash. I’m going to call Captain Lukas and tell him what has happened.’
Navrátil reappeared with a tray. Either the canteen felt generous or it was unsold stuff from yesterday but it would do. Ricka was reciting a series of numbers to someone via his mobile phone and then the screen started to fill with pale blue circles. After a few moments a selection of them darkened and a couple began to expand.
‘Just a moment,’ said Ricka. ‘We have to wait for them to stop pulsating.’
The images steadied.
‘That’s a bloody mess,’ opined Slonský.
‘We can tidy it up,’ said Ricka. ‘I’ll take away the masts that had a minimal signal.’
One by one the circles disappeared until four were left.
‘Now I can make them more transparent so we can see the map underneath,’ he continued. ‘And finally we enlarge the intersection like this.’
Slonský lent so far forward that neither of the others could see the whole screen.
‘What’s that big rectangle?’
‘Switch to “aerial photograph” and we’ll see,’ said Ricka. ‘There you are — you’re in luck. It’s one big building with a lot of space round it.’
‘Certain that’s the place?’
‘Over 99.98% certain.’
‘Can’t you just say yes?’
Ricka raised his palms apologetically.
‘That’s south of the city, sir,’ Navrátil observed.
‘Yes. And what makes me feel happier about it is that it isn’t too far from the place where Pluskal torched the Volkswagen. He knows his way round that district.’
Slonský pointed to a piece of wasteland. ‘That’s where the van went up. How far is that?’
Ricka measured the distance against his thumb and then laid the thumb on the scale.
‘Perhaps six hundred metres, maybe a little more.’
Slonský clapped Ricka on the shoulder.
‘Good work. Navrátil, let’s go and get her back.’
‘Shouldn’t we get backup, sir?’
‘Element of surprise, lad. Besides, they’re all in their pits. I’ll tell the desk sergeant what’s happening and Dvorník can get some help on its way. We’ll just get over there and keep watch. See if we can check that she’s in there before we go in with guns blazing.’
‘Guns? Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘It’s a damn sight more dangerous if the bad guys have guns and you haven’t. Can we leave you to tidy up, Ricka?’
‘Sure. I’ll print these out and leave them on your desk.’
‘Fine. Can you spin your magic at eight o’clock when she switches it back on and phone me if anything has changed? Come on then, lad. Polish your shining armour and let’s go rescue the damsel.’
It was surprising how fast Slonský could walk, thought Navrátil, finding it difficult to keep up despite breaking into a trot.
‘One thing, lad; how did you know it was Peiperová?’
‘Sixth sense, sir. That, and she told me the code to your voicemail.’
Slonský stood still, hands on hips and a scowl on his face.
‘Does everybody know that damn code except me?’
On Slonský’s orders, they parked the car a block away from the warehouse and continued on foot. The removal of any markings made identification of the building difficult, but where the letters of the sign had been removed the paint was a darker green, allowing them to make out a word that could well have been “turbine”. The building was broadly rectangular with a large double door in the nearer short side. There was a forecourt of around twenty metres between the door and the road. Navrátil made for the main door, but Slonský grabbed his arm and dragged him to one side.
‘Keep in the shadows, lad. When we open the door, don’t stand behind it. You’ll be silhouetted against the light and make an easy target. If she’s here, she’s probably at the far end of the upper floor.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She said the sun came in at midday, and that’s the south end. Are you happy you know the plan?’
‘What plan, sir?’
‘Breathtakingly simple. We open the door, sneak in, rescue her, arrest Pluskal, and live happily ever after.’
‘I thought we were going to wait for backup.’
‘We are, but if I know Dvorník he’ll arrive with all the sirens going and all hell will break loose. We need to be in position when that happens. Come on. Keep it quiet, and when we get inside head for the darkest corner.’
They crept to the door and Slonský gently rotated the handle. It was locked.
‘Damn!’
Navrátil dropped to his knees and squinted under the door. He selected the corkscrew attachment on his knife, spotted a piece of cardboard and slipped it under the door, and jabbed the corkscrew into the keyhole. There was a gentle clink as the key dropped on the card and Navrátil pulled it back under the door. He smiled triumphantly at Slonský.
‘Beginners’ luck,’ whispered the older man. He turned the key and they slipped inside, bearing to the left to get under the east windows where light was dribbling in half-heartedly.
‘Let your eyes get used to the gloom,’ said Slonský.
There was a staircase that started about a third of the way into the building and ran upwards along the west wall. At the far end there was a second staircase that doubled back on itself in a tight spiral.
‘Okay,’ hissed Slonský, ‘you’re quicker than me. Can you get to the far end and position yourself on the stairs to block anyone running away? Keep your head down. I don’t think there are lots of them — they couldn’t stay this quiet. If you’re sure it’s safe, start creeping up the stairs. If you spot anyone at this end, don’t shoot. It’ll probably be me.’
Navrátil nodded and slid along the wall. It was necessary because the nearer part of the upper floor was in the form of an atrium, so someone at the top of the stairs or on the gangway might have seen him. He relaxed as he passed halfway and found his way to the foot of the rear stairs. It was difficult to see Slonský, who had secreted himself in the shadow at the far side of the staircase, but Slonský must have been able to see him, because he waved his gun and started to climb the stairs slowly. Navrátil tried to keep pace, but it was tricky to judge how quickly to climb given that he had to keep looking upwards to watch for Pluskal or another of Griba’s goons.
Navrátil reached the top of the stairs and gingerly raised his head. He was looking at a large room, almost square. The wall furthest from him did not exist; what he had taken to be a companion-way was simply the edge of the upper storey. The stairs met it at the left side and there was a double safety rail from there to the wall on the right. Peiperová was sitting against the wall to his right on a grubby mattress, her hands and feet tied with duct tape a
nd cable ties and she had another piece of tape across her mouth. Navrátil briefly wondered how she had made the call, but then decided to puzzle that out later. He ducked his head again and found his penknife, extending the blade in readiness to cut the tape. His chief concern was that he could see no sign of Pluskal or anyone else, but he was sure that someone must be there.
Slonský had climbed two-thirds of the way up the stairs when hell was unleashed. So far as Navrátil could make out, it began when Slonský’s mobile phone rang. Slonský fumbled in his pocket for it, just having time to register that it was Ricka before Pluskal erupted from a pile of blankets that Navrátil had mistaken for rags. Pluskal dived down the stairs and Slonský’s gun was jarred out of his hand. Navrátil was torn between helping Slonský and rescuing Peiperová, but there was no real contest, so he fell to his knees and began sawing at the tape and ties with his penknife. Once her hands were free, he pulled off the tape over her mouth and gave her the knife to finish the job. Navrátil decided that the best plan would be to get back downstairs and form a second line of defence behind Slonský, so he plunged down the stairs again and started running the length of the building. To his horror, he could see an elderly tourist silhouetted in the doorway. He was wearing a backpack and was consulting a map, apparently unaware of the danger he was in. It meant that Navrátil did not dare to use his gun.
Pluskal had barged past Slonský and despite a ragged tussle on the stairs, he had managed to free himself. He raced for the doorway with Navrátil about twenty-five metres behind him, and made to push past the hiker. As he sprinted through the doorway the old man took a step to the side and jabbed his walking pole into Pluskal’s ankle, causing him to tumble to the ground. With an inelegant flop, the man finished up sitting on Pluskal’s back, and Navrátil was able to throw himself on top of the criminal to pin him down. It was only then that Navrátil realised that he was looking at Captain Lukas.
‘Quick, man, your cuffs!’ Lukas barked. ‘There are spares in the rucksack.’
Navrátil unzipped the rucksack to discover a clanking mass of ironware. In addition to half a dozen revolvers, there were several pairs of handcuffs, a baton or two and a coil of fine rope. It was a surprise that Lukas could walk with it on.
Slonský arrived, panting heavily and bleeding from the knuckles of his right hand. He applied another pair of cuffs to Pluskal’s ankles and took the opportunity to give him a sly kick in the ribs while he was lying on the ground.
‘Perhaps you would help me to my feet,’ said Lukas.
‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said Slonský. ‘Navrátil, help the captain up.’
Peiperová had limped down the stairs and was walking towards them, her legs still numb from the binding. She was dishevelled, in need of a good wash and rather embarrassed because she knew she smelled of urine.
Lukas straightened his clothing. He was wearing a gaudy tropical shirt such as nobody would have believed that he might own.
‘Don’t stare,’ he snapped. ‘I got it from the lost property box. Now, Slonský, perhaps you would explain to me why you didn’t wait for back-up?’
‘We were just conducting a reconnaissance when my phone went off, sir. Ricka is a genius but has no common sense. The ringing alerted Pluskal and it all happened from there.’
‘I see,’ said Lukas, apparently unconvinced. ‘It’s as well that the desk sergeant gave me your message instead of Dvorník, so I gathered together a few guns just in case and threw them in this malodorous backpack, thus showing, if I may say so, considerably more foresight than you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Slonský, who had divined that a display of abject contrition was his best policy. ‘But you were taking a chance, sir. You put yourself in great danger.’
‘Not really,’ said Lukas, and swept his arm behind him. Now that he drew their attention to it, Slonský and Navrátil could see the detachment of four police marksmen with their rifles trained on the doorway.
Peiperová had reached them, and threw herself against Navrátil’s shoulder. She cried quietly for a few moments as he stroked her hair, and then she pulled away and looked at Pluskal lying face down on the concrete.
‘Has he been arrested, sir?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Slonský. ‘But it’s a fine distinction.’
Peiperová nodded, then kicked Pluskal at the side of the knee. He yelped with pain.
‘That’ll teach him to resist arrest,’ said Slonský.
Lukas looked away.
‘I’m glad I didn’t see anything,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you will treat the prisoner with respect henceforth. Now pick him up and get him over to the cells before his masters realise what has happened.’
As Lukas had noted, there was a certain urgency in getting information out of Pluskal before the villains realised that Peiperová had been freed, so Slonský was prepared to forego his usual degree of delicacy during the questioning.
‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve got evidence proving that you were driving the van that killed Holoubek.’
‘As if,’ Pluskal said scornfully.
‘Please yourself,’ said Slonský. ‘Navrátil, show him the steering wheel from the Volkswagen with his prints on it. Now, we can link this van to the killing of Holoubek and I have two eye-witnesses who can identify you. Wriggle all you like, but you’re looking at forty years inside. Courts take a dim view of killing old age pensioners and policemen, and Holoubek was both, so you’re doubly stuffed. They’ll probably give you great medical care to make sure you stay alive for every day of your sentence. You’ll be an old man when you get out. If you get out, that is.’
Pluskal snorted. Slonský took two large strides towards him, grabbed him by the front of his sweater and hoisted him to his feet. It was an inelegant move because Pluskal was handcuffed to the chair, but eventually he was upright and Slonský was undoing the handcuffs and refixing one end to his own wrist.
‘Come along!’ he growled, and dragged Pluskal into the courtyard at the back of the cells.
‘Navrátil, cuff him to those window bars,’ said Slonský. When that was done Slonský unfastened his own cuffs and put them back in his pocket.
He stood in front of Pluskal and lifted the prisoner’s chin so he could glower into his eyes.
‘Forty years. Have you got any idea what forty years in jail will be like? Look up. Go on, look up!’
Slonský yanked Pluskal’s head back.
‘See that blue stuff? Last time until 2046. You’ll be — what? Seventy-nine? Make the most of it. Breathe in the fresh air. It may never happen again. In fact, maybe forty years is too few. Perhaps we’ll ask for forty-five. What’s an extra five years between friends? Of course, if you helped us I could get five years off for you. Thirty-five instead of forty. What difference will five years make, you wonder? Ask yourself again when you’ve served thirty-four and a half. There may not be much between thirty-five and forty, but there’s a world of difference between six months more and five and a half years more. You’re not looking at the sky.’
Pluskal felt his head being pulled back again.
‘Got kids? They’ll be middle-aged when you next hug them. You won’t have to pay for a daughter’s wedding, because you won’t have done a quarter of your sentence by then. If she has kids, you won’t see them till they’re adults.’
Slonský grabbed Pluskal by the chin and squeezed his cheeks.
‘My only regret is that I’d have to make it to a hundred to enjoy every last day of your imprisonment. But if I can, I’d love to. It would be worth the effort.’
Pluskal made the mistake of smiling.
‘Then we’ve got kidnapping a police officer to add in,’ continued Slonský. ‘That should be good for an extra fifteen years. Consecutive, of course. There’d be no fun in a concurrent sentence. And maybe we can add some more.’ He gripped Pluskal firmly by the ears so he could maintain fierce eye contact. ‘Did you touch her? Did you?’ His voice was quiet, cons
piratorial, menacing. Pluskal tried to pull away. ‘I bet you did. Pretty girl like that all tied up, how could you resist? Cop a quick feel, did you?’
Slonský was taken by surprise by the punch. And even more by the second, third, fourth and fifth punches. He grabbed Navrátil by the upper arms and wheeled him away. Navrátil’s baby face was contorted with anger.
‘It’s his skin I’m trying to get under, not yours,’ bellowed Slonský.
‘If he did … if he laid a finger…’
Slonský trapped Navrátil against the wall and lowered his voice.
‘Look, she didn’t mention it, did she? If he’d molested her, she would have said.’
‘She kicked his knee pretty hard.’
‘Yes, she did,’ agreed Slonský, ‘but she’s a well brought up Czech girl. If he’d groped her, she’d have rammed her knee in his groin.’
‘Yeah, I suppose…’
‘Go and see how she is. She won’t want to be alone when she wakes up. Take her to get some new clothes, have a hairdo or some other treat. If she wants to talk, you can listen. Now go. You can give me a call later and we’ll make plans for tomorrow.’
Navrátil nodded and went back inside. Slonský straightened his jacket and took a couple of deep breaths to get back into inquisitorial mode.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said to Pluskal. ‘Now, where were we? Ah, I remember. We were calculating the length of your sentence.’
Pluskal chuckled. ‘Your maths is bad. I’ll be out long before that.’
Slonský sat on the windowsill.
‘Now, that’s where we disagree. I know you’ll be gone much longer than you think, and actually you know it too. This is all just bravado. It’s a shame Navrátil has gone. It stops us playing good cop, bad cop with you, though actually we’re more bad cop, bad cop. As you saw, Navrátil believes in direct action, while I’m hot on sarcasm and humiliation. We’re a good team.’ He fished in his pocket for something. ‘Did you ever play rock, scissors, paper as a boy?’ he asked.
