by Rob Hart
“Evzen Doskocil,” she says. “Local artist. Kind of a big deal. Based on the nature of their conversation, I think this is who the victim was waiting for. So we find him and we talk to him.”
“How do we do that?”
She closes the laptop. “Therein lies the problem. Remember the Moscow rules?”
“Which one?”
“Assume everyone is under opposition control. I don’t know if he’s in on it or if he got strong-armed into doing something he didn’t want to do. But he’s been active on both Facebook and a gay hookup app in the past twenty-four hours so he’s not trying to hide. I think it’s time to honeypot.”
“What’s honeypot?”
“Seduce the target to get them to give up information.”
“How are you going to do that if he’s gay?”
She smiles, and the way she smiles, like she’s about to have a laugh at my expense, makes my stomach sink a little.
“First,” she says, “I don’t do that. It’s demeaning. Second, I think you’re a little more his type.”
I’ve been meaning to make it out to the Kafka Museum and I wish it were under different circumstances. It’s the weirdest museum I’ve ever been to. The place is less a museum and more of a surreal, shadow-drenched art installation. The room I’m in is almost completely dark. The exhibits float in pools of harsh, jaundiced light. Demented circus music plays over the loudspeakers and is occasionally interrupted by the cawing of crows.
It feels a little like an analogy for my life right now.
I find a quiet alcove and turn toward the wall. “Are you sure he’s here?”
Sam’s voice buzzes in my ear. Once again, a cool piece of spy tech she pretends is something you can buy at Sharper Image. The two-way earpiece looks like the nib of a pencil eraser, and it doesn’t feel like I’m wearing anything at all.
“Yes,” she says. “He just checked in on Facebook. Shut up.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m not uncomfortable with the fact that he’s gay. It’s fine that he’s gay. I have gay friends. But what if he knows I’m not gay?”
“Pretend he’s a chick.”
“It’s not that easy. Like, what if he makes a move on me and I flinch?”
“Don’t flinch.”
“Right, but what if I do? Like, unintentionally?”
“Shut up and make him think you want to fuck him.”
Sigh.
The place isn’t very big and it doesn’t take long to find him. He’s standing over a glass case, looking down at a series of old, yellowed pages, resting on dark felt. As I draw closer, I can see they contain writing in tight cursive and a few have doodles. Little stick figures that seem to be trapped in the crushing mediocrity of their lives, or afflicted with a severe case of nihilism.
I get close to him, but not too close. He’s wearing a heavy topcoat similar to mine, nearly buttoned up to the throat, barely showing off a bright yellow scarf.
“Hi,” I say to him.
He looks up at me and regards me like a cat meeting a new person. He’s extremely handsome. Almost depressingly so. Like it would make you feel bad to stand next to him in a bar.
“Hello,” he says, then gets a good look at my face and frowns. “Got in a fight, did you?”
“You should see the other guy,” I tell him. “Barely a scratch. It wasn’t my finest moment. So… do you come here often?”
Sam buzzes in my ear. “Are you kidding me?”
“Just… you know… are you a big Kafka fan?” I ask.
“Well, he was one of the great writers,” Evzen says, like I am a not very smart person, which might be true.
“Where should I start?” I ask. “What should I read first?”
“The Metamorphosis is probably the most accessible,” he says, perking up a little, if only because now he gets to show off. “But if you really want to understand the man and his work, stick with the short stories. ‘A Hunger Artist’ is my favorite.”
“Thanks for the recommendation.”
“You are… not from around here,” he says.
“Right. I’m from…”
He puts his hand up. “Let me guess. New York?”
“Nice catch.”
This makes me cringe. God, I suck at flirting.
“Are you enjoying your time in Prague?” he asks.
“Immensely,” I tell him. “Though I don’t know much about it.”
“Are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Sometimes I can’t tell the difference,” I say, trying to sound suave, and then realizing that means absolutely nothing, and also how much of an asshole I must look like when chatting up strange women.
Evzen nods like he’s humoring me and says, “Well, I hope you’re able to discern the difference. This is a wonderful city, regardless of your intention.”
“Listen, I’m trying to meet some new people. It’s… a little lonely being in a new place like this. Would you be interested in getting a drink?”
“Thank you, but no,” he says, offering me his hand. I take it and we shake. He gives me a short, tight smile, and turns to leave.
Well, don’t I feel like an asshole.
Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean I’m his type. Which is still a little dispiriting, no matter how you slice it. Getting shot down is getting shot down. I tell myself it’s because I’m not at my prettiest.
Sam yells in my ear, “Don’t lose him, you dummy.”
Maybe if I can’t appeal to Evzen’s taste in men, I can appeal to his ego. I call after him. “It’s just, you’re the painter, correct? Evzen Doskocil? I’m a big fan of your work. I’d love to bend your ear a little.”
He turns and smiles a bit. “You know my work.”
“I’m a painter, too.”
“What medium?”
I give a cursory answer. “Watercolor.”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how I could possibly help you, but if you’re buying...”
“I’m buying.”
“Good job, honeypot,” Sam says. “Now bring him to me.”
By the time we get outside and make it down a few blocks toward this bar I claim I really like, it becomes abundantly clear that I know nothing about painting.
I bullshit as much as I can and try to get him to talk more about himself, but he seems interested in learning about my work. What are my subjects? Do I try to sell my paintings? Have I ever tried to get into a gallery? I play along, make sure to sound like a hobbyist who’s breaking in, and therefore has no excuse to know anything.
When he asks me about my favorite brand of watercolor, I tell him I pick up whatever’s available, which offends him on a deep and personal level.
I’m almost worried I’ve lost him when Sam appears out of the doorway of the building we picked, grabs him by the collar, and pulls him through. I double check behind us to make sure the street is clear and follow them inside.
It’s a bare brick room with a dusty floor. The place is under construction, but given the layer of debris on the tarp in the corner, no one is in any rush. Evzen struggles as Sam drags him over to the wall, then throws him against it hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Before he has time to orient himself, she snaps a handcuff around one wrist, and the other goes onto a thin pipe running from the floor to the ceiling.
“Who are you?” he asks.
Sam flicks out the same knife she held to my throat earlier. She holds the point toward Evzen’s eye and he stops struggling, moving back so he’s flush against the wall.
“You do not speak unless I tell you to respond. Otherwise, we play a little game, which I like to call ‘which of your eyes is the dominant one.’ The way we play it is, I carve one out and you tell me if I was right. Do you understand?”
He nods.
“Within the last twenty-four hours you scheduled a liaison with a man,” she says. “Mid-forties, fit, graying hair. Do you remembe
r?”
He stares with wide, terrified eyes.
“You can answer. Do you remember?”
“Yes. I mean… no…”
“Which is it? Yes or no?”
“I didn’t arrange it,” he says. “A man came to me. To my home. He called himself Mr. X. He had two other men with him. He told me I had to do a thing for him, and if I didn’t do it, he’d… he’d tell someone something I didn’t want them to know.”
Sam glances at me over her shoulder, and I know the question she wants to ask is, ‘Was that Roman?’ I nod to her and she turns back.
“What then?” she asks.
“I agreed. I’m sorry. I agreed. They gave me the phone and told me to arrange a meeting and get his address. It took two minutes.”
“So you did it and, what? They just left?”
“They just left.”
Sam puts the knife a little closer to his eye. “You’re not lying to me?”
He spits and sputters. “No, I swear. I promise. I didn’t even go to the apartment. I never even met him.”
She stares at him for a moment, inspecting different parts of his face. After a few moments, she nods, clicks the knife closed, and slips it into her pocket.
As she turns to me to say something, the door swings open and Top Knot and the two guys she beat down the other night come rushing in. Top Knot’s forearm is wrapped in a thick cast, and the guy she hit with the beer bottle has a constellation of small white bandages covering his face.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam asks.
Three more guys follow in after.
None of them look particularly happy to see us.
“I guess not,” she says.
The scent of blood is in the air and we haven’t even gotten started yet. This is not a good sign. The six guys across from us are full up on youthful anticipation. Six against two isn’t great odds, even given Sam’s ninja-like abilities. So, I figure on maybe diffusing the situation a little.
“Listen, so, who the fuck are you clowns, anyway?” I ask.
Sam scrunches up her mouth, annoyed. The idiots look confused, like they don’t understand why I’m not more worried.
Top Knot raises his voice and says, “We are pledged to the Islamic State. Praise be to Allah, who commands us to be just, and permits us to retaliate against our oppressors in kind.”
And this is where stuff gets a little hazy.
Here’s the thing: my dad was a New York City firefighter and died on 9/11. He wasn’t supposed to work that day. Left my mom standing at the kitchen counter and me in bed, home sick from school. They never found his body. The thinking goes he got too high up in the building, so that he could evacuate the people who were trapped inside.
These are not the men who killed my dad.
But they subscribe to the same newsletter.
Hearing it sets off a bomb deep inside me, the fire of it consuming me. It’s like I’m hovering above my body, watching as I move from one to another, throwing punches so hard it feels like my arm is going to rip off and the bones in my fist are going to shatter.
It’s barely even a fight. They seem to get it within a few moments, because by the time I get to the third guy, his eyes are so wide with fear I would not be shocked to find he pissed himself.
I’m operating on another level of awareness.
When I drive my fist into his face, I feel his teeth shift against my knuckles. The air fills with the smell of pennies as his blood aerosolizes.
And when I get my bearings back, I’m standing over Top Knot, holding him by the collar of his leather jacket—which I’m pretty sure makes him a shitty Muslim—and it takes a lot of effort to not rip his fucking head off and puke down his neck hole.
Breathe.
Control your anger before it controls you.
He’s covering his face now, sobbing.
Before I can make a bad choice, someone grabs my arm. I turn and Sam is holding me. “Holy shit, dude, calm down.”
“I am calm.”
“You were screaming.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were,” says Evzen, who is now crouching and cowering against the brick wall, still handcuffed to the pipe.
“Well… sorry,” I tell Sam.
“Let’s keep one of these dummies conscious long enough to figure out who sent them.”
I let go of Top Knot and he falls to the floor. He scrambles away but doesn’t do a great job. His face is brushed with blood. I should be more worried about this. Maybe.
Sam nudges me aside and puts her foot on his throat.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
He chokes and spits. “Fuck you.”
She puts a little pressure on the foot. He gasps and wheezes, his face growing red. She pulls out the knife, flicks out the blade, and holds it up. “First off, if you’re not Toshiro Mifune, you should not have a top knot. It’s really not working for you. Second, normally I’d go off on some elaborate threat to scare you into complying, but I don’t even have to do that right now, do I?” She nods toward me. “I’ll just turn this asshole loose on you. By the time he’s done, there’ll be nothing left.”
“I said I was calm,” I tell her.
“You’re not helping,” she says.
She lets off on the pressure and Top Knot takes a huge gasp of air and sputters, a little blood coming out with it.
“Now, name,” she says.
“Raahil,” he says.
One of the guys lying on the floor is trying to get up. I throw my foot into his stomach and he folds into himself, moaning.
“Raahil,” she says. “Who sent you?”
“Fuck you,” he says.
Sam sighs, leans down, and throws her fist into his face, bouncing his head off the floor. He groans and she says, “C’mon, you guys love to brag. Who are you with, at least?”
“Ansar al-Islam.”
She applies a little more pressure to his neck, to hold him in place. “No, you’re not.”
“What do you know, you fucking whore?”
Sam doesn’t react to the insult. She just looks confused, and applies more pressure to Raahil’s throat to keep him in place.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Ansar al-Islam was an insurgent Sunni group in Iraq and Syria,” she says. “Active during the ‘03 invasion. But they were supposed to have merged with ISIL and disbanded a few years ago. I heard there were splinter groups that rejected the merger. But then again, there are so many terrorist groups out there, sometimes these dummies will pick a name off a list that sounds cool.” She looks down at Raahil. “Hey, so why are you following me?”
“Orders,” he says.
“Who’s orders?” she asks.
“They’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you. And I’ll take my time. But if you tell me, you might have a chance at running.”
“They’ll find me.”
“Hey,” I tell him. “I thought there was glory in death?”
Raahil glances at me but doesn’t say anything. I lean down to him.
“Or does all your fucking bluster and doctrine disappear when you realize there is a very real chance you’re about to die?” I ask. “You really want that, I’d be happy to oblige. You wouldn’t be the first person I’ve killed. But I’m trying to walk down a straighter path. So how about you cooperate and we all go our separate ways?”
I stand back up. His face softens and twists. He’s considering it.
Just when he’s ready to speak, the door opens.
Pug and Hulk come in.
“Come on!” Sam yells.
For a moment we all stand there staring at each other. Like it’s an awkward party and nobody knows what to say to each other. When they draw their guns, though, everyone moves quickly.
Sam dives for the other side of the room.
In the small space, the sound of gunshots is deafening. Huge explosions that bounce off the brick walls, mixed in with th
e spray of red stone and plaster. I run, too, following Sam, but by the time I get into the next room, she’s already lost in the labyrinth of the building, so I pick a direction and go.
There’s a web of empty rooms until finally I get to a dead end. But there is a window. I grab a can of paint off the floor, swing it hard. The glass shatters and I grip the sleeve of my jacket , use the thick fabric to clear shards off the windowpane, and hit the street.
There’s a restaurant across the way with a small crowd of people outside smoking cigarettes. I wave to them. “Prominte.”
And I run.
Sam must have taken a different door, headed deeper into the building. Hopefully, she got away. I don’t know how Pug and Hulk showed up, nor do I have any idea why they suddenly seem keen on killing me. There’s not a whole lot about this I understand right now.
I turn over my shoulder and see Hulk down at the end of the block. He’s not holding his gun but he’s moving at me a lot quicker than I would have guessed a guy his size could. When I turn a corner, I break into a hard sprint, pain pulsing under my forehead, and see a red sign for a bookstore. Shakespeare & Synové.
I glance over my shoulder and Hulk hasn’t turned the corner yet. This might work.
Inside, I’m blasted by warm air. The air is heavy with the musty smell of old books. I head toward the back, find a spiral staircase leading down, which brings me into a stone-floored basement. There’s a little more room down here, and a few people browsing, but no one pays me any attention. I head for the back, where it looks like there might be some daylight, and come up on the last thing I want to see.
A big bay window overlooking a canal that must branch off the Vltava.
I look into the lapping water. There doesn’t seem to be another way out down here. I contemplate a plunge. The window is locked. I pick up the closest book. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. A thousand pages of Russian aristocrats pretending to be French. That’ll work.
Except, I really don’t want to go for another swim. In part because I really like my new coat, but also, it was really unpleasant the first time.
