The Fifth Man

by James Lepore

  He had thus, moments ago, spoken carefully but openly with Costa in Athens.

  “He entered the cathedral a few moments ago,” Costa had said.

  “Your men?”

  “Two young priests are doing research in the passages. Your new friend has been very helpful.”

  “They have the description?”

  “Yes, he looks like a wolf.”

  “He will have security.”

  “They will all die.”

  “And our friend in Turkey?”

  “He is in his grotto.”

  “Your man is in place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead. Call me when they’re both dead.”

  “Of course, Nonos. And Dravic?”

  “Let him go. I have other plans for him.”

  Chris looked at his watch. Noon. The ceremony in Wenceslas Square would be starting soon. Tess and Anna were down in the square. He knew he would not be able to see them but he looked anyway. A beautiful day, the atmosphere festive, many happy people waiting to see President Klaus and Secretary Clinton. Security would still be very high but, now that the Vinice Towers had been raided, the risk of an attack very low. Chris looked at his watch again. Twelve-ten. Was the risk low? Nervous, feeling not quite at ease, he pulled a thick manila folder out of his desk drawer. It contained Stefan Kovarik’s surveillance file. He had looked through it before, read the reports, scrutinized the photographs. He decided to look at the pictures again. Over a hundred were taken at various times of the people entering and leaving the hi-rise. About half way through, he came across one of a handsome young man with long black hair entering the building. On his arm was a pretty blonde. That hair. Then he took his cell phone out of his shirt pocket, opened up its images folder and began scrolling. He stopped at the close-up of a handsome young man with long black hair at the helm of a skiff, smiling widely into the camera: Tess’s cell phone camera. Patriki, he said out loud, and then he heard an explosion in the square below.

  41.

  Prague, September 11, 2012, 12:00 p.m.

  “You look sad,” Tess said. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s Teo,” Anna said.

  “Matt? You call him Teo?”

  “Yes, he told me about your Uncle Teo, who was gay.”

  Tess smiled at the memory, but then noticed the tears in Anna’s eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “I am ten years older than him. I have two children by another man.”

  Tess did not respond. Of course these thoughts had entered her mind as well. The clichés were comforting and had made her feel wise. Older women clung to younger men. It would have to end. She will get hurt. Love hurts.

  “I have tried to tell him,” Anna said, “but he won’t listen.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That he has his life before him. That we must end it.”

  “Anna…” This scenario Tess had not envisioned, and now she felt smaller, and foolish, the price one pays for prejudging the hearts of others.

  “He must have a proper marriage,” Anna said, “children of his own.”

  Silence.

  “Have you ever had to break up with someone you love, Tess?”

  “No.”

  “He will not take no for an answer, and I am weak.”

  “You love him.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What will you do?” Tess asked.

  “I am thinking of staying here, of bringing the children here.”

  “Have you told Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says he will stay with me, that he will never leave me.”

  “He can be stubborn, Anna. Maybe…”

  “Yes. Maybe?”

  “Maybe you should give it a chance.”

  “You cannot decide for me, Tess.”

  “I know that.”

  “My heart is aching.”

  Tess reached across the table and took one of Anna’s hands in hers. No family, Tess thought, no money, two kids, on her own, bleakness, and yet she’s trying to do the right thing. What is the right thing?

  “We can be sisters,” Tess said. “No matter what.”

  Anna smiled at this and squeezed Tess’s hand hard before letting go of it.

  They were seated at a sidewalk table at a café on the north side of Vaclavske Namesti. Up and down the avenue the outdoor tables of cafés and restaurants were filled with people talking and sipping after-lunch coffee and tea. The tree-lined avenue, its center dotted with small oases of green, was in its full splendor under a cloudless blue sky, the day warm, the breeze cool and gentle. To the west Anna and Tess had a direct view of the wooden barriers that had been set up to block access to Wenceslas Square, creating a hundred-foot buffer around the equestrian statue of the patron saint of the Czech state. Czech special forces soldiers, machine guns slung across their chests, stood guard along the waist-high wooden barrier every twenty feet or so. Behind them there was another hundred feet of empty space and beyond that the rows of chairs for the dignitaries who would be attending the ribbon cutting for the renovation of the National Museum. The dais, which had been built in front of St. Wenceslas on his trotting horse, was empty, but the seats surrounding it were beginning to fill.

  A movement among the tables of the café next door, a pub where college students and young travelers were drinking beer in the bright sunlight, caught Tess’s eye. Looking over, she saw a tall and pretty blonde girl hugging and kissing a young man with lustrous long black hair. The people at the tables nearby clapped their hands and one or two whistled. The girl held a bouquet of pink flowers in her hands as she clasped them on the young man’s back. When they broke from their embrace the man walked away but stopped and turned to wave goodbye to the woman before reaching the edge of the square. He was wearing a bright yellow card around his neck with numbers on it. Tess wondered for a moment what this was but then dismissed the thought.

  “They have placed an American flag on St. Wenceslas’s staff,” Anna said, pointing to the statue.

  Tess looked and saw the small American flag waving at the tip of the metal staff the saint carried in his right hand. “So they have,” she said, smiling.

  The commotion caused by the two young lovers at the pub had subsided and now all eyes were turning toward St. Wenceslas as the dais was beginning to fill with government and museum officials. All of them had entered from the museum itself, as had all of the guests in the seats below. They were all wearing yellow cards around their necks. The last two on the dais were Czech president Vaclav Klaus and United States Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

  “My father says Clinton is here to strong-arm Klaus,” said Tess.

  “Strong-arm him to do what?”

  “To be more Euro-friendly.”

  “I hope he resists,” Anna said.

  “Why?”

  “They will enslave us again.”

  “Anna…”

  “Look at this,” said Anna, her voice suddenly tense, showing Tess a video on her cell phone’s screen. “They are storming the American embassy in Cairo.”

  Anna and Tess put their heads closer to the tiny device and watched, their eyes darting from the pictures of a building on fire, under siege by a mob, to the news crawl at the bottom: American ambassador, three others killed in Benghazi. Tess’s eyes were riveted on the mob, all young, rabid Arab men, their eyes blazing with hate, and then she remembered the young man with the long black hair as he turned to wave goodbye to the blonde woman. Patriki. She looked toward the square and there he was walking toward the barrier, waving to a soldier and pointing to his yellow card, lifting it for the soldier to see. Tess could see the soldier hesitate. Should he leave his post? Who was this guy?

  Without thought, Tess ro
se and headed after him.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

  Startled, Anna rose to look after her new sister. Patriki, she heard Tess call out at the top of her voice. But the dark-haired young man did not turn. Who was this Patriki, Anna said to herself, half smiling, a former boyfriend? Then she remembered seeing the woman Patriki was hugging slip something into his jacket pocket. A love note, she thought at the time, but it was metallic, she now recalled, something hard. A gun? Tess was running now, calling, “Patriki, wait!”

  Anna leapt over the café’s railing. Ahead Tess was closing on Patriki. They were about twenty feet from the barrier. Running faster than she could have imagined possible, Anna saw Tess grab Patriki by the shoulder, saw him shake her off, turn quickly and slam a closed fist into her face, knocking her flat to the ground, saw the soldier approaching, unslinging his rifle. Anna sped up and leaped on Patriki’s back. They went down, and Anna thought, how wonderful, my heart feels so light, how could this be? She did not hear the explosion, or feel it.

  But the people nearby did, watching in horror as it scattered Anna and Patriki and the soldier in many bloody directions.

  42.

  Ruzyne Airport, Prague,

  September 11, 2012, 10:00 p.m.

  “You have friends in high places,” said Stefan Kovarik.

  “I told you we’d be leaving,” Chris Massi replied.

  “When can I speak again with your daughter?”

  “Soon. But she’s told you all she knows. She thinks the blonde slipped something into Patriki’s pocket, the flowers were a shield.”

  “The girl is on the loose.”

  Chris did not reply immediately. They were standing on the tarmac, Chris’s jet idling thirty yards away. Czech Special Forces troops were guarding the high chain-link fence that enclosed this section of the airport, which was closed, except for patrolling soldiers and military dogs. His would be the only flight out of Ruzyne tonight. “Tess never saw her face,” he said, finally.

  “Still.”

  “Soon. I’ll call you. Can you come to Skopelos?”

  “Of course.”

  “We were lucky.”

  Kovarik nodded.

  “I have something for you,” Chris said.

  “What?”

  Chris handed the Czech agent a piece of notepaper. “It’s a GPS tracking signal.”

  “Tracking what?”

  “A yacht. The Frie Markit. You can pick up Mr. Dravnova whenever you want.”

  Kovarik smiled.

  “Be careful,” Chris said. “He’s guarded.”

  “We will be.”

  “And my son’s here. You have his number.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll bring Anna’s body to Skopelos.”

  “She came home to die, I’m afraid.”

  Chris nodded. “I think she knew it, somehow.”

  “And her children? They are Czech citizens as well as American.”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  EPILOGUE

  Skopelos, September 17, 2012, 6:00 p.m.

  From his seat on the rear balcony of his house in Skopelos, Chris could see Christina and two of the house maids setting the table under the grape arbor situated on a flat piece of ground at the foot of his olive grove. The slanting rays of the setting sun filled the rear of the property with a golden light. Behind the arbor a gravel path led down to the small cemetery where this morning they had buried Anna Cervenka. Christina, who had insisted on being the one to tell Anna’s children that their mother was dead, had fingered her prayer beads throughout the graveside service, murmuring the Greek Orthodox Jesus Prayer, once for each of the hundred beads, in thick island Greek. Anna was the mother of the Virgin Mary, she had said to Chris when the service was over and she had placed her beads on top of the casket. A great saint. Then she went back to her many duties, which now included raising Antonin and Franka, Anna’s children, who had been told they would be with Christina for a few days but would now be with her much longer.

  Chris had asked Tess and Matt to join him for a drink at six, and saw them now coming onto the stone terrace through the living room’s tall French doors. They approached and sat facing Chris across a round, wrought iron coffee table that was covered with a snowy white tablecloth and set with crystal rocks glasses, small white china plates and silverware. Tess and Matt were followed by another house servant, a new one, who was hired to help Christina with Antonin and Franka. She carried an inlaid tray containing an ice bucket, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and a bowl of black olives, which she placed on the table.

  While Chris was placing two ice cubes in each glass and pouring the whisky, Matt turned to the new young servant. “Where are the children, Katerina?”

  “They are being bathed.”

  “By who?”

  “Michaela.”

  “Why not you?”

  “The staff, they love these children. Shall I…?”

  “No, but please bring them down when they’re done.”

  “I will.”

  Chris raised his glass as Katerina walked away. Matt and Tess did the same. Chris, his glass poised in midair, nodded to his children but said nothing.

  “To what?” Tess said.

  “You tell me.”

  “To you,” she said.

  “To Anna,” said Matt.

  They clinked glasses and took sips.

  “What happened, Dad?” Tess said.

  “Fourteen people died,” Chris replied.

  “Who?”

  “A woman in Moscow named Irina Tabak was the first.”

  “Who was she?” Matt asked.

  “Nobody. Someone framed for stealing diamonds that were never stolen.”

  “Never stolen?” Matt said.

  “The GRU probably has them, but set her up for it. Your friend Nico killed her.”

  “And the other thirteen?” Tess asked.

  “Captain Stavros of the Scorpion, the two that Max killed in Brighton Beach, Skip Cavanagh, four Chechan terrorists in Prague; Patriki, Anna, the Czech soldier; a Russian don named Marchenko, a Russian spy master called the Wolf.”

  “What about Nico and Natalya?” Matt asked.

  “They’re alive, in Warsaw.”

  “Why?”

  “They weren’t spies, just thugs, idiots. They may be useful.”

  “What happened?” Tess asked.

  “Can you tell me?”

  “No, I’m lost.”

  “Matt?”

  Matt shook his head.

  “How’s your nose?” Chris said to Tess. Her bandages had been removed just the day before; her eyes were discolored but the swelling had gone down.

  “Fine.”

  “I was careless,” Chris said.

  “No you weren’t,” said Tess.

  “How?” Matt asked.

  “I assumed that Patriki was killed by Dravic. I barely looked at the picture Tess sent me.”

  “Am I still going to Arizona?” Tess asked.

  “Yes. You’ll know what to do the next time someone takes a wild swing at you.”

  Father and daughter smiled at each other.

  “What happened?” Matt asked.

  “The attack in Prague was supposed to line up with the ones in the Middle East. It would have been a disaster, Hillary Clinton killed, the Czech president. The Wolf tried his best to implicate me in it, starting with the money we paid for the diamonds, if we bought the diamonds.”

  “Why? Who are you, Dad?” Tess asked.

  “I’m a weapon,” Chris answered.

  “A weapon?” Tess said.

  “That’s what it comes down to,” said Chris.

  “Dad…”

  “We’ll talk later,” Chris said. “Here come the kids.” />
  Michaela was standing just inside the French doors, one child in each hand. Bathed in sunlight, they were beautiful children, the girl, five, dark like her father, and the boy, four, blond like his mother. They were composed, but somehow tense, like child actors about to go on stage. They have their role now, Chris thought. Then he looked over at Matt, who was staring with great intensity at the children.

  “We’ll take care of them, Matt,” Chris said. “They’re part of our family now.”

  “What about Dravic?” Matt asked.

  “The Czechs have him. They’re going to try him for the torture and murder of Antonin Cervenka.”

  “Do they have the death penalty in the Czech Republic?” Matt asked.

  “No,” Chris replied.

  Matt nodded, his eyes flat, expressionless.

  “What are you thinking?” Chris asked.

  “Inevitability,” Matt replied. Then, smiling, the children approaching, he picked up his glass of scotch and said, “To Anna, and the debt we owe her.”

  About the Author

  James LePore is an attorney who has practiced law for more than two decades. He is also an accomplished photographer. He lives in South Salem, NY with his wife, artist Karen Chandler. He is the author of four other novels, A World I Never Made, Blood of My Brother, Sons and Princes, and Gods and Fathers, as well as a collection of three short stories, Anyone Can Die. You can visit him at his website, www.jamesleporefiction.com.