The Woman From Prague

by Rob Hart

  “Sure thing.”

  Stanislav clicks off and this is a relief, at least. I consider calling my mom next, to make sure she’s okay, but New York is six hours behind Prague, which means it’s… three in the morning? Math is not working so great for me right now. Feel like I’m pushing stones up a hill trying to think about numbers. I set my alarm for four hours from now. That’ll be 7 a.m. for her, and she’s an early riser.

  As I’m rolling over, the phone rings again.

  And of course, it’s Roman on the other end.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “Dunno,” I tell him. “Some crazy person with a shovel tried to kill Samantha but decided to try to kill me instead. Beat me nearly to death. So, thanks for that, you fucking asshole.”

  There’s a pause on the other end.

  “A shovel?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes.”

  He goes silent for a few moments, and I think we’ve been disconnected. Then he says. “Keep your phone on. I’m not done with you yet, little golem.”

  Click.

  I put the phone down next to me and stare at the ceiling for a little while longer. Sleep tugs at me, and I don’t bother to fight it.

  “Hey.”

  The room is dark. I think someone said something, but waking up is like coming up from the waters of the Vltava. Deep and confusing and scary.

  How is it dark out? How long was I asleep?

  My alarm must have gone off. Did I sleep through it?

  I try to get myself into a sitting position but there’s a weight on the bed. Someone is sitting next to me.

  “Kaz?” I ask.

  There’s a foot control for the lamp in the corner. I reach down for it, but before I can, it clicks and the light comes on. There’s a small sneakered foot on it.

  The sneaker is a grey Nike with a white swoosh.

  It belongs to Samantha Sobolik, who is perched on the edge of the mattress, holding a small knife, the blade extended and resting against the leg of her jeans.

  The blade is black, sucking up the light rather than reflecting it.

  “Try again,” she says.

  The sight of Samantha Sobolik sitting there throws me a bit, and not because I’m tired and suffering from a minor brain injury.

  No one in the world besides Kaz knows I’m here, and on top of that, she’s holding herself completely different than she did yesterday.

  The tasteful, bland outfit is gone, replaced by black jeans and a skintight black thermal shirt that accentuates her slight curves. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her demeanor is different, too. The flat look she’s giving me makes me believe she’ll use the knife.

  She sounds American. There’s a bit of Southern drawl slipping between her words but it’s like smoke. I can’t be sure.

  I’m still naked. That’s not making any of this better.

  “How did…”

  “I ask the questions, dummy,” she says. “First and foremost, who are you and why were you following me?”

  “You noticed I was following you?”

  She arches an eyebrow and smirks. “I hope you do not do that shit professionally because you are terrible at it. I made you outside the coffee shop. You followed me across half the city and then you showed up on the bridge—what did you do, shake down the bum who passed on the message to me? That’s how you found me?”

  “I did.”

  “So you’re only half a dummy. I ask again, who are you?”

  My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten or had anything to drink in too long and I can feel it. My surfaces of my mouth are sticking together. “Can I get up? Get a glass of water?”

  “Talk first,” she says, holding up the knife. “Water second, if I decide not to open your throat.”

  “My name is Ash McKenna,” I tell her. “Yesterday, some asshole named Roman blackmailed me into doing a job for him. That job was to follow you and retrieve for him whatever you were supposed to get.”

  “Ash? Short for Ashley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have a girl’s name.”

  “Thanks. No one’s ever pointed that out before.”

  “So this guy tells you to do something and you listened to him? Do you do whatever people tell you to do? If I told you to take a running leap out that window over there, would you do it?”

  “You have a knife. And he said he would go after my mom. I believe him.”

  She sighs. Stares off into the distance. “Okay. That’s not nothing. So who was he?”

  “He said he was from a government agency. He couldn’t tell me which one, but said I wouldn’t recognize the name.”

  She rolls her eyes. “There are no secret government agencies. That’s fairytale Hollywood bullshit. There are seventeen U.S. agencies that do something akin to what a dummy like you might call spying, and they’re all a matter of public record. If you come across an actual spy in real life, they’re probably CIA, though I doubt he’s CIA.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I would know if he were CIA.”

  “Does that mean you’re CIA?”

  She doesn’t acknowledge the question. The balance in my head shifts. From the concussion or the woman on my mattress with a knife, I’m not sure which.

  “Hey, earth to dumbass,” she says. “Did this Roman guy call you yet?”

  “This morning. Said he’s not done with me and he’ll be in touch.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you draw? Can you draw a picture of him for me?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then you’re useless.” She pulls up the leg of her jeans to reveal a black strap. She stashes the knife, tucks the hem down over it, and stands. “You are very lucky to be alive. Crazy lucky. Lucky like you should play the lottery because the universe is very much in your favor right now. Get out of this town as quickly as possible. Because that guy on the bridge might be looking for you. And if I can find you, it won’t be long before he does. He won’t be as sweet as me.”

  “It’s not a guy.”

  Samantha had turned halfway toward the door but when I say that, she freezes, one foot actually hanging in the air. She turns to me, her skin blanched, her eyes so wide I can see white all the way around the irises.

  “What did you say?” she asks, her voice small and tight.

  “I said it wasn’t a guy. It was a lady. I saw her face before I went for a swim.”

  She inhales hard, looks around the room like a trapped animal, then falls to her knees beside the bed, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me close.

  “Are you telling me the Chernya Dyra is a fucking woman?”

  “I… guess?”

  She falls back into a sitting position on the floor, her whole body sagging. She presses her thumb and forefinger into the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes.

  “You saw her face,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “She knows you saw her face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I was wrong,” she says, looking up at me. “I am very sorry to tell you this, but you’re going to be dead soon.”

  She seems genuinely upset for me, and given her attitude up until this moment, the sudden change of heart opens a pit in my stomach. I’m suddenly not so hungry.

  “Can you please explain to me what’s happening?” I ask. “Please?”

  After a few breaths, she looks up at me. “I want a cup of tea.”

  She gets up and walks out of the room. I climb out from under the covers and grab my bag, pull out a clean pair of boxers, then jeans and a t-shirt. Get dressed, taking care not to move too much. Moving hurts.

  I head into the kitchen. There’s a note on the counter from Kaz, scribbled on the back of a receipt. Says he checked on me and I seemed fine and he’d be back in the morning. It’s almost midnight.

  Samantha roots around in a drawer an
d finds a couple of teabags. She doesn’t ask me if I want one, pulls two mugs out of the cupboard, and fills the electric kettle in the sink. I go to the front door to make sure it’s locked. I know it is because that’s how these fancy locks work. They automatically engage behind you. But it’s nice to be sure.

  Given the current state of affairs, I think it’s good to stay on top of my surroundings.

  I stop in the bathroom and cup my hands under the faucet, drink some water. Brush my teeth and take a piss, purposely avoiding the mirror. When I’m done, I find Samantha pouring boiling water into the mugs. I’m not a tea drinker but I feel like something hot would be nice right now. Hopefully this has some caffeine in it. Then it’ll be a double win. I feel like I could sleep for another two days.

  Samantha leans against the counter and holds the mug to her mouth, letting the hot water touch her lip. She doesn’t drink, just tests the temperature as she gazes out the window, which looks through the courtyard and to the other side of the building.

  “What exactly is a Chernya Drya?” I ask.

  She places the mug on the counter next to her and says, “Do you know what a black hole is?”

  “Vaguely. A collapsed star. So dense not even light can escape. Blah-blah-blah science.”

  “Yes, but the thing about black holes is you can’t see them. A scientist can’t point into the sky and say, ‘That right there is a black hole.’ They have to measure it by the way it warps the space around it.” She picks up the mug again and holds it, her voice growing quiet. “By the destruction it causes.”

  “I do not like where this is headed.”

  “You shouldn’t. Chernya Dyra is Russian for black hole. And until this morning I wasn’t even sure he… she really existed. Most people think she’s a myth. According to said myth, she’s a former Spetsnaz operative gone free agent.”

  “Spetsnaz?”

  “You really are pretty dumb, aren’t you?”

  “Clearly.”

  Samantha walks to the small table next to the window, sits down, hunches over the steaming tea, breathing it in. “It’s a unit of the Russian Special Forces. Think of the biggest, baddest motherfucker you know. That person is a floppy little bitch in comparison to a Spetsnaz agent. A lot of their training involves a very real risk of death. If a recruit gets jammed up, they let him die, because that means he’s not fit for the unit. One of their final tests is to find a pregnant cat, gut it, and count the kittens inside. It’s meant to desensitize them to blood and gore.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  “Holy fuck is right. And if she’s a woman…” Samantha laughs. “You ever hear that quote about Ginger Rogers? That she did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels? A female Spetsnaz agent would have to work ten times harder to prove her worth. She never would have made it through unless she was hard as a bucket of nails. No one knows anything about her, other than what they call her. You are probably one of the few people alive who has seen her face. You are very, very valuable. But that also means she’s going to want to kill you.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  Samantha takes a sip of tea, seems satisfied with the temperature. “Without any question or doubt.”

  I pick up my own mug and sip but find it’s still too hot.

  “How did you even get away from her?” Samantha asks.

  “I can handle myself.”

  “Fuck you. You should be dead.”

  “I got in a few shots. The cops interrupted us. Distracted us long enough so that I got her mask off and then jumped into the river. What’s with the shovel, by the way?”

  “One of the primary tools of the Spetsnaz agent. It can be used for a whole shitload of things. Dig a ditch to avoid enemy fire. Dig deep enough and you can survive a tank rolling over you. You can cook food on it, you can build stuff with it, you can defend yourself with it. And you can kill with it.”

  I want to say this is silly, but there was a time in my life where I carried a weaponized umbrella—a steel rod with a kevlar canopy. It didn’t raise eyebrows if I carried it on my belt and it could fuck shit up as well as it could protect me from the rain. I understand the usefulness of a weapon that can hide in plain sight, even if a shovel is a step stranger than an umbrella. She and I have that in common. An appreciation for multitaskers.

  “If she’s so dangerous, why are we still here?” I ask.

  “She hasn’t already killed you, so clearly she hasn’t been able to find you,” Samantha says. “Yet. I’m sure she’s looking. We have to move someplace else. Soon.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “Between this Roman thing and you seeing the Dyra’s face, I think you should stick with me for a little while.” She points a finger in the air. “Not that I am thrilled about this, because you are a stupid dumb idiot. But until such time that I deem you a danger to my own life, I think it might be best to stay close.”

  “And you trust me?”

  “I trust that you are fucking terrified right now and that you’ll do what you’re told.” She gets up, takes a step toward me. “I trust you to believe me when I say that if you fuck with me, I will reach into your asshole, grab the first thing I can get a grip on, and pull, very hard. Now get your shit together and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “What if I say no?” I ask.

  She smiles. Shakes her head. “Do whatever you want. You want to die? Go ahead.”

  I sit at the table. Fold my arms and put my head down. Breathe deep, exhale slowly.

  Seems I’ve got three choices. Roman, Samantha, the Dyra. None of whom are particularly nice. All of whom seem to be pretty cavalier about my continued survival.

  The Dyra tried to kill me. Roman threatened to kill my mom. Samantha may be unpleasant but she hasn’t actively tried to hurt me yet, she’s just belittled me. My gut tells me to pick the fourth option, but since there doesn’t seem to be a fourth option, there’s only one choice to make.

  “I need to call my mom first,” I tell her.

  “Oh my god, you giant baby. We don’t have time.”

  “I am going to call my mom, and if you want to stop me, you are welcome. Care to give it a go?”

  She stares sharp little points at me and breathes in deep three times before she says, “Five minutes.” Then she sits back down with her tea.

  As the phone rings, I nudge the door closed with my foot. My mom picks up on the second ring. “Ashley?”

  She sounds tired. I’m worried that I woke her but remember it’s just after dinnertime back home.

  “Hey, Ma.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s so nice to hear your voice.”

  “You, too.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just a little homesick. Figured I’d check in.”

  “You can come home, you know. You’re welcome to stay here until you get settled.”

  “C’mon. I can’t move back home.”

  She laughs a little. “What, you wouldn’t be cool anymore if you lived with your mom?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not cool enough for you.”

  “Sure. Early dinner, some Netflix, and in bed by ten. I am a woman on fire.”

  I want her to get out of town, maybe buy me some time if this goes sideways, but better if she thinks it’s her own idea. My mom is too smart to not know something is up if I suggest it myself.

  “Listen, I wanted to make sure you knew, I have to leave Prague soon, but I figure as long as I’m on this side of the world, I might as well poke around a little bit longer,” I tell her.

  “Where will you go next?”

  “Not sure. Maybe Tokyo.”

  “You really should go to Ireland. See where our family came from.”

  “I’d rather do that with you.”

  She pauses. “It’d be nice to travel a little. It’s been so long since I went anywhere.”

  “Well, why don’t you, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

>   “I mean get out and have a little fun. You’re always saying you miss Aunt Ruth. Ever since Uncle Bryon died she’s in that big empty house in Pennsylvania.”

  “I was hoping for something a little more exotic than Pennsylvania.”

  “Start with that. When I come home, we can plan a trip to Ireland. See it together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “It would…” Another pause. This one a little more precise. “Ashley, it’s like you’re trying to get me to leave. Don’t say you’re going to show up and surprise me. I’d like to know you’re coming…”

  There she goes. Still can’t get a lie over my mom.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not,” I tell her. “But c’mon, I feel like a shitty son being all the way on the other side of the world, and I can’t bear the idea of you being lonely. At very least, you and Ruth can make some margaritas and have a couple of days of fun.”

  “You’re not a shitty son. You’re mediocre, at worst.”

  “Hey.”

  “Kidding.” She huffs, sending a little burst of static into the receiver. “You know what? I think I will go see Ruth.”

  “Good idea, Ma. I’ll let you know as soon as I decide where I’m headed next.”

  “Okay. And, Ashley?”

  “Yeah, Ma?”

  “Stay safe.”

  “Got it. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Click.

  “That was actually kind of clever,” Samantha says from the doorway, now wearing a dark coat that goes down to her knees and a dark purple scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. “You probably bought her a day or two in case this Roman fella does decide to go after her.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, put my head in my hands, feel my stomach collapsing on itself. I want to puke. I want to scream. I want to cry. After losing my dad, I can’t bear losing my mom. I can’t. I wouldn’t survive that.

  “What if I’m dead?” I ask, looking up at Samantha. “Would she be safe then?”

  Samantha purses her lips. She leans over and places the mug of tea on the floor and crosses the room toward me. She reaches out, and for a moment I think she’s going to put her arm around me, but she sends the flat of her hand hurtling at my face. She connects hard enough to throw me back onto the mattress. It rings a bell under my skull that keeps ringing as I get myself into a sitting position.