The Equalizer

by Michael Sloan

  “You ever beat him?”

  “I let him win sometimes.”

  “Pick your pilot carefully. Control can’t know about it.”

  “Control and I don’t have breakfast together. He doesn’t play chess. At least not civilized games in the park. Just the ones with agents’ lives. I don’t report to him on a daily basis. If he needs me, he knows where to find me. Just like you.”

  He made some more moves against the Computer Wizard.

  “Do you want to know why I’m going to Prague?” McCall asked.

  “I figure it’s something personal.” Granny glanced up. “I look at you, McCall, and I see myself with a conscience. Emotions. Regrets. That’s the difference between us. You’ll go and do what you have to do in Prague. Whatever it takes. If you live, that would be good. If you die, I won’t mourn. That’s the way you should be. But you can’t be that way.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  Granny went back to his chess game against the computer.

  “Going to wish me good luck?” McCall asked.

  Granny didn’t answer.

  McCall walked away through the trees.

  * * *

  McCall sat at the bar in the Old World Tavern on Celetná Street in Prague opposite the Ventana Hotel. It was crowded even at 6:00 P.M., smoke hazing through the small tables and around the long bar. Lots of tourists, but the majority of patrons were young locals, boisterous and vibrant; this was a great city to live in. There were several televisions, most of them showing soccer games. The one above McCall’s head had on the local news. McCall was sipping a Glenfiddich, watching the front of the Ventana Hotel. He thought back over the past twenty-four hours. He’d taken a helicopter to the Danbury Municipal Airport. There’d been a Gulfstream 450 waiting on the tarmac. The pilot’s name was Hayden Vallance. He was tall, mid-forties, a hard face, the demeanor of a man with few friends and fewer enemies. He was quiet and soft-spoken and without any emotion that McCall could detect. He figured him for a mercenary. He’d shaken McCall’s hand, told him his name, asked for ID, which McCall had given him. His real ID. Then they’d boarded the Gulfstream. It had taken off twenty minutes later, bound for Prague. They’d flown over the Atlantic and refueled in a small airport outside Manchester, England. During the refueling Vallance had said nothing to McCall. They’d landed at Vodochody Airport outside Prague that afternoon. McCall had picked up his one small suitcase and waited for the steps to unfold from the Gulfstream to the tarmac. Vallance had stepped out of the cockpit. He’d offered his hand. McCall had taken it.

  “Granny says good luck,” he’d said, and that was it.

  McCall had checked into the Hotel Leonardo in the center of Prague Old Town. He’d registered under the name of Christian Hyvonen, mainly because he’d kept that passport and it hadn’t expired yet. He’d rented a colbalt blue Pontiac Grand Prix and driven to Celetná Street. He’d found a parking spot on the side street bordering the Old World Tavern. He was dressed mainly in black, slacks and poloneck, with his dark gray tweed jacket and Nike V2 black and blue running shoes. He had the Beretta in the sleek, customized holster Kostmayer had left for him on his right hip. He had a small Ruger SP101 .357 Magnum with a 2.5-inch barrel in the waistband of his black jeans in the small of his back. He had a Circus Faka slim throwing knife taped to the back of his right calf. It weighed ten ounces, was 12.1 inches long, and its throwing distance for accuracy was ten meters. He’d decided he was well armed enough to step into the Old World Tavern and order a Scotch.

  Up on the TV screen above his head the picture behind the female news anchor switched to a chateau about forty miles outside of Prague. This was where the big Trade Summit Conference was going to be held. None of the heads of state had arrived as yet, but it wouldn’t be long, and the security preparations were underway. McCall knew enough Czech to understand that the security for this conference had been stepped up, adding tracker dogs and U.S. intelligence to the Czech troops and Policie České Republiky. McCall didn’t expect to see Control or Kostmayer or any other Company agents up on the screen, but he had a picture of the activity that was going on in his mind. He’d been part of those security blitzes before. He didn’t know if there’d been any terrorist chatter about the conference, but even if there hadn’t been any meaningful threats, the United States government was not taking any chances. And calling in Control and the agents at his disposal was bringing in the best.

  McCall had flirted with the idea of getting in touch with Kostmayer to let him know that he was in Prague. That his presence there could very well have to do with their Summit Conference. The Company had tried to infiltrate Borislav Kirov’s Dolls nightclub in New York with an undercover agent because Kirov might be linked to terrorists. They probably didn’t know his boss was Alexei Berezovsky. Berezovsky was running an elitist assassination business. The leaders of the Western world, along with China and India, were going to be at this Summit meeting. And Borislav Kirov had arrived in Prague less than twelve hours before the conference began.

  A little too much coincidence for McCall’s liking.

  But he had no proof that Kirov was here to facilitate an assassination. For all he knew, Kirov was in Prague for talks to open a Dolls nightclub in Old Town. Besides, for selfish reasons, McCall didn’t want Control to believe he’d come in from the cold and was running a Company mission, albeit on his own. Even if McCall could get in touch with Control, what would he be able to do? McCall had no intel to give him. He would just be on a more heightened alert, and McCall was certain he was already operating on a very high level. No unauthorized person was going to get onto the grounds of that chateau.

  But if the assassin was Diablo, he wasn’t the kind of killer who mingled with the crowd with a silenced gun in his coat pocket that he somehow smuggled past security. He wouldn’t be wearing some kind of disguise. Diablo was a sniper. He killed his victims from a remote spot, high up, removed from the emotion and terror of the kill. He could view it dispassionately. He was not really a part of it.

  McCall felt completely cut off. He had never entered into a mission with no intel whatsoever. He had no backup. No one even knew he was there, except Granny and Hayden Vallance, and they didn’t know where he was. If he was killed it would be as if he had simply disappeared off the radar.

  Again.

  And no one would come looking for him.

  “Does anyone really care?”

  The soft, ironic voice came from behind McCall. He turned on the bar stool. A very beautiful young woman had sat down next to him, her eyes on the television screen. She had black hair and gray eyes, angular cheekbones, full lips, and a figure with very nice curves. She probably had long legs, too, as she was almost as tall as McCall on the bar stool. She appraised him with laughter in her eyes, as if daring him not to respond.

  “Care about me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know if there’s anyone to care about you. I was talking about the Summit Conference. All those heads of state meeting and shaking hands and talking earnestly about trade, or improving relations between countries, or whatever it is they talk about for three days, that nothing good ever comes from. I think they just chose our city to meet because it is the most beautiful in the world.”

  “It is very beautiful,” McCall said.

  He looked in the mirror over the bar. Reflected in it was the street outside the tavern window. It was quiet in front of the Ventana Hotel. No sign of Kirov yet. The Czech girl caught his look and turned.

  “Are you staying at the Ventana?”

  “No, that’s a little rich for my blood.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  McCall thought about his answer. Either she was very free-thinking and had no qualms about her candor, or she had been instructed to find out where he’d checked in.

  “Hotel Leonardo,” he said. “In Old Town.”

  “I know it. I’ve had drinks there. Very cool place. You’re not a tourist. We can tell them from across a crowded street
. But you’re not European.”

  “I’m from Finland,” McCall said. “Helsinki.” He offered his hand. “Christian Hyvonen.”

  “You don’t look Finnish.”

  “We’re not all blond with blue eyes.”

  “Thank God.” She shook his hand. “I’m Andel.”

  “That’s a pretty name. European names all have special meanings.”

  “I’m an angel, or a messenger.”

  “Which is it?”

  She smiled and there was a lot of laughter in it. “It depends on who I meet. Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Like for the movies?”

  “No. I’m working on a book. I’m in Prague for some research.”

  “I could show you around our beautiful city.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Are you going to be very old-fashioned with me? I know what I like and I am attracted to good people. Except for boyfriends, who have been complete disasters in my life.”

  “I probably wouldn’t be one of those anyway.”

  “Why? Because you’re a lot older than me? I’m almost thirty.”

  “Wow,” McCall said. “Getting up there.”

  “No one cares about age differences these days. Just like they don’t care what color you are, or where you’re from, or if you’re a transvestite or gay or straight, you’re just the person you are. I think you’re a little lonely, to be sitting here at this bar watching the street. You need some company.”

  “How much will it cost me?”

  “You’re very cynical. I’m not a prostitute.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Maybe I’m lonely, too. I was drawn to you. I don’t know why. Does it matter? But you think it’s shameful for me to be … what’s the American phrase for this?”

  “Coming on to me?”

  “Yes, that’s it. You’re supposed to be picking me up. Maybe you would have tried. I just wanted to be first. I don’t know what kind of book you’re writing, but can I be in it? I’d like to be a heroine in a book. That would be exciting.”

  “Life must be very exciting for someone with such a…” McCall searched for the right phrase. “Free spirit.”

  “It’s what you make of it. This night could be boring, or spectacular. We could share it together.”

  McCall shook his head.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “You have other plans.”

  “I do.”

  “That do not include a Czech girl with an amazing personality?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “That’s sad. I’d like to get to know you.”

  McCall shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said quietly.

  His eyes flicked up to the mirror behind the bar.

  Across the street, Borislav Kirov walked out of the Ventana Hotel. With him was the bodyguard replacement for Gershon that McCall had seen at Dolls nightclub. Both of them were dressed in dark clothes with Windbreakers and dark Nike shoes. They waited at the curb. McCall threw back the last of the Glenfiddich and put some Czech koruna on the bar.

  “I have to leave. It’s been very nice talking to you, Andel.”

  “I’m sorry you have to go.”

  “So am I.”

  “Can I give you a kiss before you leave?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, leaned over, and kissed him on the lips, then smiled and shrugged. Out of words.

  McCall walked out of a side entrance to the tavern on the corner. He unlocked the Pontiac Grand Prix and looked through the glass panel on the side door to the tavern. He fully expected to see Andel on her cell phone, calling Kirov across the street, saying she’d made contact and that Robert McCall was in Prague and was across the street from him.

  The young Czech girl was not on her cell phone. She had ordered a glass of white wine and now sipped it. She did look a little lonely up at that bar.

  Some things were just not meant to be, McCall thought.

  He slid behind the wheel of the Grand Prix and adjusted the rearview mirror. He only had to wait three minutes. A valet parking kid pulled up in a Ford Escape four-wheel-drive. Kirov and the bodyguard climbed in. The bodyguard was driving. He pulled away from the hotel.

  McCall did a U-turn and followed. He looked in the rearview mirror at the tavern window on the corner. Andel sat alone, drinking her wine, looking up at the TV news coverage of the most important people in the free world about to meet outside her beautiful city.

  CHAPTER 40

  The Ford Escape drove through Old Town Square, heading toward Prague Districts Six and Seven. McCall kept well back. He didn’t have to see the Escape. He had attached his iPhone to the dashboard of the Grand Prix. On the LED screen was the GPS streets of Prague. There was the usual blip, showing the position of his Grand Prix moving along the spider-threads of glowing roads, but down in the right-hand corner was a tiny window in which a red blip pulsated. That was the tracker signal from the lighter that Kirov was carrying in his coat pocket.

  They headed down the Pařížská, came to the river, and drove over the Čhechův Bridge. Twilight was gathering fast around them. The traffic was heavy, but as they got into the countryside, it started to thin out. McCall settled back. He had no idea how long the drive would be. They traveled through small villages and hamlets as the sky darkened. It was night when the Ford Escape entered the quaint village of Kutná Hora. McCall was about a mile behind it. He was so used to glancing at the intermittent blip in the right-hand corner of the GPS that when it suddenly flared it startled him. For a moment he thought it might be malfunctioning. Then he realized the Ford Escape must’ve stopped and that Kirov had climbed out and lit a cigarette. Somehow that interfered momentarily with the signal. But then it started to blip again.

  McCall slowed the Grand Prix. Up ahead he saw the imposing structure of a church with three towers looming up against the moonlit sky, crosses above them. The street ahead of him had only a couple of cars traveling down it. One of them turned off onto a side street and the other turned into a driveway. The road ahead was now deserted.

  The Ford Escape was not on it.

  McCall looked at the blip in the bottom right-hand corner of his LED screen. It was still pulsing, but it was not moving along the road.

  Kirov had pulled up to the church.

  McCall took the next left turn, then a right, then another right, and came up on the church from the side. There was a small courtyard there, not really meant for parked cars, although two were parked there. He pulled into the courtyard and killed the engine. He unclipped the iPhone from the dash. On the LED screen the pulsing blip was stationary. He dropped the iPhone into the pocket of his jacket.

  McCall got out of the Grand Prix, ran across the courtyard, stopped and looked cautiously around the side. The front of the church was deserted.

  Which meant Kirov and his bodyguard were inside.

  McCall ran back to where he’d spotted a side door under an ornate eave. It had a heavy iron loop for a door handle. McCall silently turned it and pushed. The door opened without the usual squealing hinges he’d heard in every horror movie he’d ever seen.

  He stepped inside the church.

  And into a horror movie.

  In front of his face a white skull leered at him.

  McCall leaped back and caught his breath.

  The skull had a white bone in its mouth.

  McCall looked up.

  More skulls were piled on top of the first one, ascending up one of the eaves. They glistened in the pale light splintered through the stained-glass windows. The skulls all had white bones in their mouths with ivory candle holders beneath them. McCall took a few more steps into the sepulchral chamber and looked higher up. Way above him was a chandelier, swinging slightly, as if a warm breeze from Hell was stirring it. Skulls were hidden in the chandelier, amid cher
ubs and fraying fringe. He looked over to his left. An alcove had large glowing skulls going up one side and smaller skulls—obviously belonging to children—going down the other side. All had vertical bones wedged in between them, as if the whole alcove was some kind of gruesome bone organ waiting for a macabre demon to play it.

  McCall froze where he was.

  He’d heard a scuff of sound.

  In this creepy place of death it caused him to shiver. There were shadows moving on the other side of the church. McCall took a deep breath, surprised that his breathing was fast and his pulse no doubt erratic.

  He passed a brass plaque and stopped long enough to get the gist of the copperplate writing. The Kostnice—Bone Church—had been so named because a monk named Jindrich had returned from Palestine and sprinkled a pocketful of holy soil on the cemetery surrounding the Chapel of All Saints. The graveyard had become sought after among the aristocracy of Central Europe as the place to bury their dear departed loved ones. Soon the burials outgrew the cemetery and older remains were dug up and elaborately arranged in the chapel. The last count had the skulls and bones inside the church accounting for forty thousand people.

  Whose sick idea had that been?

  McCall looked to his right in the heavy gloom and one of the skulls grew flesh.

  Its eyes flared with reflected light.

  It moved.

  McCall jumped back into a patch of dark shadow beside a coat of arms. He noted it was of the Schwartzenberg Family and showed a raven picking out the eye from an invading soldier. Ahead of McCall a shape took form and walked quickly past without seeing him. The figure was dressed in black, flowing through other shadows, watched by the empty eye sockets of the skulls. One of the men Kirov was meeting had also come in through the side entrance to the church.

  McCall remained completely still. The figure did not turn back. He walked on to the front of the church. McCall let out his breath, angry with himself that he’d almost walked right into him. The grinning skulls mocked him. Their specters in the unearthly shafts of radiance had taken the edge off his awareness.