The Woman From Prague

by Rob Hart

  My heart jabs my ribcage.

  The toilet flushes.

  I wonder if Sam will stab me when she sees I kept the phone.

  Probably.

  Score. I find one that works and trail the wire back until I find what I think is the right plug, stick it into the wall outlet next to an unplugged blender and coffee maker. Nothing happens.

  Fuck. Wrong plug.

  Try the next. Nothing.

  On the third one, the screen lights up green. I push the rat’s nest of wires against the wall as the bathroom door opens behind me. I move the coffee maker and blender to block them.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asks.

  “Looking for something to eat,” I tell her.

  She pauses. I don’t turn to her so I can’t tell how she’s looking at me. I can’t hear anything so I don’t think she’s crossing the room to me. My body has to be blocking her view but there’s something about the gap in the air between us that makes the skin on my neck tight.

  “Can you make me a cup of tea?” she asks. “Is there tea?”

  My body relaxes.

  “Sure.”

  She steps into the sunroom. I exhale. Put on the electric kettle. Turn. She can’t see me from her vantage point. I check under the sink, see there’s an outlet down there. Hooray for shoddy construction. Stash the chargers, make sure the phone is still charging, and go about pouring two cups of tea.

  Once they’re done, I carry the steaming mugs into the sunroom. It’s right on the border of uncomfortably warm, which is a nice respite from the weather outside. I place the mugs down and sit across from her. She says, “It’s nice in here.”

  “I wish there were a couch. I’d take a nap.”

  “Shame,” she says. She picks up her spoon and swirls it around the mug of tea but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. She’s got that flat lizard look again.

  The same one I recognize from the park.

  When her hand is free, she reaches underneath the table, into her jeans, and places the folded knife next to the glass. It makes a heavy clacking sound on the glass table.

  I sit up a little straighter, my breath caught in my chest.

  I’m sweating. I’d like to say it’s the heat of the room, but I doubt it.

  “So, how long?” she asks.

  I take a sip of tea, careful to keep my hand from shaking. “How long what?”

  “How long before were you going to wait before telling me you didn’t destroy the phone like I asked?”

  I reach for my mug and pick it up, but don’t feel very confident I can maintain a grip on it. Put it back down.

  “It’s complicated,” I tell her.

  “Let me guess,” she says. “Roman is tracking it. So he knows where we are?”

  “He does.”

  Her voice is quiet. Almost sad. “And why didn’t you feel fit to share this information with me?”

  “You know why.”

  “Your mom.” She nods, like this is a fair answer, and I wonder maybe if I’m off the hook. But with that look on her face, I’m not taking any chances. “You should have told me. I would have been less angry about this whole thing if you’d been up front with me about it.”

  “When did you find it?”

  “I knew you were lying when you came back,” she says.

  “That’s why you drugged me, right?” I ask. “You didn’t want me to see that you searched my coat.”

  “It was also so you’d get a good night’s sleep,” she said. “I wasn’t lying about that. If I weren’t on the clock, I would have taken a little nip myself. Those trains are a pain to sleep on. But, yes.”

  “So. Where does that leave us?”

  Sam waits a moment. Runs a hand along the back of her neck and looks down at the knife. “I’m not sure. Part of me figures I should slit your throat, leave you here, and be done with all of this. I don’t know. Is there anything else you haven’t told me? Any other secrets you’re keeping? Tell me now. Choose what you say carefully. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  “There’s nothing else,” I tell her.

  After a moment, she nods. “I guess I can understand the impulse. I mean, it’s your mother. Personally, if it were my mom, I’d leave her to whoever this Roman joker is, but you seem to actually like your mom.”

  “I do.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “It is. And it’s not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because she’s leverage, and it’s all my fault.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments. Sipping our waters in the white haze of light coming down through the frosted glass above our heads. It’s getting too hot. I pull the fleece over my head and place it on the chair next to me.

  “So you’re not going to slit my throat?” I ask.

  “Not at this very moment, but I’m leaving my options open.”

  “That’s encouraging, I guess.”

  “What was the end game here?” Sam asks. “Were you going to fuck me over?”

  “I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it,” I tell her. “I’m used to improvising. I figured the most important thing was to see this through. But now we’re at a place where this information really needs to get out. And I get the sense that Roman is trying to hide it. That’s not acceptable.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m all in. I’m going to help you see this through the best that I can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You might get killed.”

  “You can get killed doing a lot of things. You can get killed crossing the street.”

  “You are more likely to get killed doing something like this.”

  “I’d rather do something than nothing.”

  She nods, seemingly satisfied.

  “So we get back to Prague,” she says. “We get the password. The question is how we handle Roman. We could tell him to meet you someplace, and when he shows up, I’ll open his dumb throat.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “You lied to me, which pisses me off, but you’re putting yourself out there and trying to help, which I can respect. So, sure. Wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Problem,” I tell her. “He travels with two men, and they have guns. That’s a little different than beating on a roomful of goofy kids playing at being terrorists.”

  “You mean those two dummies who ambushed us when we had Evzen?”

  “That’s them.”

  She sucks on her cheek, thinking. “That’s tough. They’re not rocket scientists but they’re also not complete idiots. We’re going to need to make sure that whatever meeting point we set up is very favorable to us and very unfavorable to them. We have some time to think about it.”

  “Good. Which leaves us with the problem of Chernya Dyra.”

  “That’s the real issue. Because I’m sure she still wants to kill you.”

  “Please don’t say it like that.”

  Sam takes a deep breath, eases down into the chair to get comfortable. “Look, if she’s coming after you, that puts us at an advantage. We know she’s coming after you. She doesn’t have the element of surprise. With any luck, I’ll clear her off the field, too. That one’s going to be a lot harder. But it’s going to worth it.”

  When she says this, she smiles. A soft smile that makes it look like she’s imagining something happy and wistful.

  It’s weird at first, but then I get why.

  The realization feels like something cold and sharp twisting under my ribs.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” I ask. “Why you kept me around.”

  “What?”

  “You want to bag her and you’re using me as bait.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She says it like she knows exactly what I mean.

  “Ginger Rogers,” I say. “You take down big game, you build yourself a rep.”

  She breathes in and out a few time
s and says, “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Well, fucking thanks for that.”

  “This scenario ends with me saving your ass,” she says. “Just because it benefits me, too, doesn’t make it a bad plan.”

  “It would have been nice to know.”

  “It would have been nice to know about the phone,” she says.

  “Touché.”

  She stands, throws back the last of her tea, and sets the mug down, clicking it hard on the table. She takes the knife and sticks it back in her jeans. “I’m going to take a nap. You going to be okay, sweet pea?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Just… I like how we’re talking to each other like adults here. We should try to keep that going.”

  “Oh, shut up, you girl,” she says before turning to the bedroom and closing the door behind her.

  I try to read my book but after a few pages don’t feel like it, so I click on the television. Three Days of the Condor is on, which feels oddly prescient. The American dialogue is muted low and someone who is half asleep and has never felt a real emotion is very quietly reading the dubbed lines in Polish. Sometimes it’s like he actually dozes off, and the actors go on for a minute and then there’s a frantic rush to catch up.

  I don’t understand Polish but I find this mesmerizing.

  So much that I nearly miss the scratching sound coming from the front door.

  At first I think it’s the movie. A sound so soft it’s buried under the dialogue.

  But given the orientation of the television, I’m practically sitting next to the door, and when I look over, I can see the doorknob give a slight jiggle, like someone is testing to make sure the lock is engaged.

  No one should know we’re here.

  Except.

  Fuck.

  The key fob. Someone was monitoring the Crash Hop systems.

  Whoever’s doing that might know I checked into this apartment.

  And while it could be a simple mistake, a neighbor looking to borrow something, a solicitor, anything—I’m pretty sure that’s not what this is.

  So, so stupid.

  I get out of the chair, keeping quiet, grab the cell phone from under the sink, and step softly to the bedroom. As soon as I pass over the threshold, from the wood floor onto the carpet, Sam bolts up. She’s a light sleeper. And she’s still dressed, which is a smart move given the circumstances. I put my finger to my lips and, with my free hand, point toward the door. She nods, grabs her bag, and we move into the living room.

  There’s no movement, no sound from the door. We shrug into our coats and Sam pulls on her backpack, cinching the straps, and pulls out a pen. Which is an odd choice, but better than empty handed, I guess.

  She looks around until she realizes there’s a framed print hanging on the wall across from the door. It’s reflective enough that we can see our own outlines, ghosts against a tasteful field of wildflowers. She pushes me back against the wall of the living room, so whoever is coming through the door won’t see us, but we’ll be able to seem them. She leans close to my ear and whispers so quiet I can barely make it out. Sounds like: “Close your eyes.”

  The door clicks and whines open.

  We look at the print and it’s hard to make out details but there’s a figure moving toward us. Sam looks up at me, nods, and I do what she says. The last thing I see is Sam bringing the crook of her elbow up to cover her face and wonder if I should do the same, but it’s too late.

  There’s a clicking sound and an incredible flash of blinding light cuts through my eyelids. So bright it burns.

  As the white light fades, there’s a gunshot and a scream.

  I open my eyes and can’t see anything but blue and shifting light. I don’t know where the gunshot came from, but I’m pretty sure the scream came from Sam.

  By the time we reach the landing, my vision is returning. I can make out shapes and borders, but it’s like I’m looking through the haze of a snowstorm. Someone is leading me by the arm and I hope it’s Sam. My foot kisses air and I topple forward into empty space, reach out and catch myself on a railing.

  The stairs come into focus. Sam is next to me. Her face is twisted up in pain. She growls at me through gritted teeth. “C’mon.”

  We take the stairs so fast it’s like our feet are barely touching them. We burst outside and it’s overcast. Sam doesn’t wait for me. She takes off running and I labor to keep up.

  “The phone,” she yells over her shoulder. “Get rid of the phone.”

  “I don’t think it’s the phone. Crash Hop...”

  Sam interrupts, her voice labored. “I don’t care. Do it.”

  I take the phone out of my pocket as we turn the corner and ring up the number Roman put in. He answers immediately.

  “How are you, my little golem?” he asks.

  “Remember the assassin I mentioned? She’s on our ass. I need to ditch this phone. Meet me tomorrow night at eight in the apartment where we first met.”

  “Are you…”

  “No time for a counter offer. Bring takeout. We might be hungry. Also, fuck you.”

  I hang up and toss the phone against the wall, plastic clattering to the ground behind us. After a few blocks, properly turned around now, we duck into a café. It’s crowded enough that no one pays us any attention. We find a set of bathrooms in the back and one of them is unoccupied. We step inside and lock the door behind us.

  As far as bathrooms go, it’s fairly clean. Toilet and sink and urinal. White and blue and oddly futuristic. Not the worst place for some emergency triage.

  Because there’s blood on my hand and it’s not my blood.

  A steady drip of red is falling from Sam’s sleeve, striking the floor in little pats. Her arm is hanging from her side like a piece of meat.

  She turns the sink on hot and tries to pull off her jacket but has a tough time, so I step behind and help. I hang it on a hook on the wall and she turns to reveals a tear in the shoulder of her gray sweater. There’s red underneath. She pulls the sweater over her head so she’s down to her beige bra. It’s uniform, lacking of any kind of adornment. It’s the bra I would have expected her to wear.

  There’s an oval cut into her shoulder. Probably the bullet that was meant for one of our heads, diverted by the flash bang so that it grazed a deep path through the surface of her skin. She kneels down and roots around in her bag, comes out with a little bottle of brown fluid and what looks like a toy handgun. She hands me the gun and turns to look at the wound, pulls a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, douses it in the brown liquid, and places it on her arm, wincing a little as she does it.

  “Looks like five staples to get it closed,” she says. “Maybe six.”

  “This is a stapler?” I ask, turning the gun over in my hand.

  “I don’t have any anesthetic,” she says. “Do it quick. This is not going to be fun.”

  She reaches her hand over and presses the sides of the wound closed, so instead of an open red eye it looks like a pair of dark red lips pressed together. She breathes out hard when she does this and closes her eyes. I’m standing slightly behind her and I can see the full of her back, save the part obscured by the bra strap.

  She has a lot of scars.

  Some fresh, pink and mottled, raised from the skin. Others faded, thin and white. A few that are round. Others long and narrow. Her back is a roadmap of pain and it says more to me than anything else she’s said.

  She opens one eye and peeks at me. “C’mon, Ashley. Do it.”

  I press the gun to the middle of the wound and wince, phantom pain leaping from her to me as the gun makes a hard click. The staple bites into her skin and she exhales hard, grits her teeth, but doesn’t move.

  “Quick now,” she says, desperate. “Quick.”

  I shoot staples into the rest of the wound, working my way in one direction, and then the other. Fresh rivulets of blood trail down her arm. Five staples. It looks properly closed. When I’m finished, she looks at it and nods and presses the wa
d of paper towels to it again.

  “In my pack,” she says. “Bandages and gauze.”

  They’re easy enough to find. I pull out a large bandage and press it over the wound and wrap it in tape.

  “Tight, tight,” she says.

  I wrap it hard but not too hard, spinning the tape on so it’ll keep pressure on the wound. When I’m done, she walks to the toilet and drops her pants and sits, peeing loudly. I turn to the wall to give her some privacy. When she’s done, she gets up, flushes, and picks her sweater off the hook.

  “At least it’s clean in here,” she says.

  “You need to stop lying to me, you know,” I tell her.

  She pulls her sweater back on, maneuvering carefully around the bandage. “What does that mean?”

  “You said you don’t have any cool spy shit,” I tell her. “What do you call a flash bang disguised as a pen?”

  “It’s not that cool,” she says.

  “It’s kinda cool.”

  “Shut up. We have a train to catch. If we can, I’d like to pick up a new jacket. Maybe a new shirt. Mine has a hole in it.”

  “Sure.”

  She nods, closes her eyes.

  For a moment she looks like a balloon about to deflate, and then she falls against me. Her small body pressed close to mine, and I don’t know what to do. This feels like the universal sign of wanting a hug, and I am never really opposed to obliging that kind of thing, but the thought of putting my arms around her makes me think of hugging a bear trap.

  Eventually I settle on putting my hand on her back, under her neck and where her shoulders meet. Think again about the scars underneath her clothes. Feel the weight of them against her.

  That’s the thing about scars. People like to say time heals all wounds. Wounds do heal, but the scars they leave behind are tight and they tug when you move. You never forget about them. Not entirely.

  She breathes, long and deep, and exhales. The warmth of it spreads across my chest. I can feel the loneliness radiating off of her. I hold her tighter because I think that’s what she wants. As I press her against me, she surrenders, nearly going limp.

  As much as I want to provide her the comfort she seems to need, my own level of comfort is dwindling.