The lunchtime crowd hadn’t arrived yet; there were still lots of empty tables. I peeled off my coat, scanned the few patrons who were already there. None looked like a Jahangir. Most of them were huddled over glasses of beer, tucking into their meals. Groups of people bunched together at the long wooden communal tables. Nobody was sitting alone.
I found a seat at the end of a table where I could see the entrance. It was far away from everybody else. I stuck out like a tick on a dog’s balls. Jahangir should be able to find me easily enough.
The walk had made me thirsty. I ordered a beer from Martina, my favourite waitress. She wanted to stay and talk, practise her English, but I told her that I was meeting someone; she sulked back to the bar.
I lit up another, swallowed the beer. The hangover began to ebb. My beer had disappeared when the door swung open and a flurry of snow chased Jahangir in. It had to be him. He was dressed like a local, trying to blend in. But he blended in like oil in water. He had a dark complexion, a Roman nose, straight jet-black hair. His face was long and mournful; bluish lips compressed into a thin line in the shadow of his nose. He looked like a gypsy.
I stood, waved away my shroud of grey smoke. He saw me and walked across. I held out my hand, ‘Jahangir?’ He nodded imperceptibly. ‘Noah, Noah Stark from Všeobecné Vývozni.’
Jahangir looked at me suspiciously for a moment, leaving my hand suspended between us. ‘Noah? Is that a Jewish name?’
‘No.’ I replied. ‘Christian. It’s my Christian name.’ He stared at me blankly, warily took my outstretched hand, gripped it in his cold thin fingers, shook it.
Jahangir sat down opposite me. ‘Beer?’ I asked.
He looked at the glass in front of me, curled his lips. ‘No thank you. Just a glass of water.’ But he didn’t refuse a Galois. I lit it for him with the tired Zippo. Then I waved at Martina, whose sulk disappeared as soon as she saw that my companion was male. When I ordered water there was that hint of disapproval again.
I wasn’t giving Martina the attention she thought she deserved. I was busy trying to work out who Jahangir was. I couldn’t identify the accent. He definitely wasn’t a gypsy, didn’t seem Pakistani either. His English was fluent, but there was a strange timbre to it. At the end of each sentence the pitch of his voice would rise and then fall away. It was very characteristic; but I couldn’t place it.
He got straight to the point. ‘Are you able to supply the osmium in the quantity specified?’
‘Of course,’ I lied. ‘But I need some details first. There are different forms of the metal and also isotopes. What exactly is it you are wanting?’
‘Osmium 187. Five kilograms in crystal form. Purity must be 99.4 percent or better.’
My heart stopped beating, but I nodded sagely. ‘And how much are you prepared to pay?’
‘I am authorised to pay twenty-seven thousand per gram and no more.’
I blinked. How I managed to stay conscious I don’t know. I stared at him for a moment doing everything I could to remain composed. I pursed my lips and nodded in a way that I hoped looked knowing. But behind the façade my mind was racing. I was desperately trying to multiply twenty-seven thousand by five thousand; without success. It was certainly more than a hundred million dollars! My neurons were crackling like fireworks; but apart from the blink I hadn’t flinched. All the long poker nights were finally paying dividends.
Martina brought the water; the interruption gave me time to get my stress levels down. If I’d had to speak a second earlier, it might have come out in a high-pitched squeal like a choirboy. We both watched her, saying nothing. I smiled, but Jahangir seemed to be staring at Martina’s long black hair the same way that I looked at her tits. She glared at him and returned to the bar.
Thanks to Martina I had recovered my composure, ‘I’m not sure if my suppliers will go that low, but I’ll see what I can do,’ I blagged.
Without touching the glass of water, he stood up, extended his hand. ‘You have my mobile. When you have the price call me, and we will discuss delivery and payment.’
I shook his hand and he was gone, leaving me in a whirlpool of confusion and doubt. Had he seen through me? Had I said the wrong thing? And finally, was this all real or just some elaborate practical joke? Maybe he was scamming me.
‘You want eat?’ Martina’s words broke through my reverie and I realised that she had been standing in front of me for a while. I was ravenous.
‘Yes. Please bring mesmaženy sýr s hranolky e tatarská omáčka. And another beer,’ I said, waving the empty glass. Fried cheese and chips would hit the spot.
While Martina went to fetch the food I thought about Jahangir, tried to place him. Then it struck me. I knew where his accent was from. I’d watched ‘The Circle,’ an art-house DVD, with some bohemian friends a few weeks before. His accent was the same. It was Iranian.
But what were the Iranians doing spending that amount of money with a tiny import-export firm in Prague? What did they want to do with Osmium 187? Why the cloak and dagger stuff?
Martina brought the food and at the first sniff of the fried cheese, my mouth began to water. The Czechs definitely know the art of comfort food. I could almost feel my arteries slamming shut from the surge of cholesterol. But I didn’t care. It was bloody marvellous.
It all disappeared very quickly and I used the chips to mop up the last scraps of cheese and tartar sauce from the plate. When Martina brought the bill, I left her a large tip, kissed her on the cheek and arranged to meet her when she finished work.
Chapter 3
I lived in Prague 1, on Helmova, not far from the outskirts of the Old Town. I could have found accommodation closer to work; apartment rental in the post-industrial suburb was cheaper. But I preferred to stay near to the centre of Prague, among the nightclubs and bars. The twenty-minute commute was a small price to pay, even in the dead of winter.
It was a short walk to my apartment from the nearest tram stop at Těšnov; the sidewalks were still icy and I had to tread carefully. I’d left my gloves at the office, or in the Casino: I couldn’t remember which. Although it was freezing I didn’t dare put my hands in my pockets; one slip and I’d probably smash my brains out on the pavement. My fingertips were completely dead by the time I arrived at the apartment building.
It was warm inside. I stood in the hall stamping my feet and flapping my hands about until some feeling returned.
My apartment was on the first floor, overlooking the narrow Helmova. It faced east, seldom saw the sun, making it dark most of the day. I didn’t need the sun for warmth; the central heating was equatorial. I stripped off my smeggy clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, jumped into a hot shower.
The water stung my frigid extremities, but I didn’t care. When I had finished I was pink all over and there was barely a trace of the hangover. I went to my bedroom lit a cigarette, towelled myself dry. Unfortunately I’d left the cupboard door open and I saw my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door. It was the first time in a long time I’d seen myself naked. It was a sight I’d been trying to avoid. But there I was; so I looked.
The face was okay, starting to slump. A closer look at my nose revealed a matrix of tiny red capillaries. I shuddered. Gravity was pulling the skin under my chin towards the floor. The face was rounder than it used to be too; lined. But I thought I still looked good for a man in his forties. I turned my head to one side and jabbed a finger along my jaw line, trying to push the wattle back.
My chest was starting to sag like an old woman’s tits. Stray silver hairs gave me a grizzled look, a dog past its prime. And then there was the belly. No longer a six-pack, it was a fucking barrel.
When I’d joined the French Foreign Legion twenty-two years before, I’d been in prime condition, fitter than most. I could run 2.4 kilometres in under seven minutes; I was chiselled. I stayed in peak condition for another fifteen years, could outrun most of the men in my company, out-march them too. But during my last five-year contra
ct I slowed considerably. I was an adjutant by then and spending more time behind a desk than in the field. Excess intake of Kronenbourg had filled out my paunch. I still ran, did the forced marches, parachuted regularly; but couldn’t keep up with the youngsters any more.
Since leaving the Foreign Legion I had done absolutely fuck all. Not one push-up, sit-up, pull-up: nothing. I wasn’t even sure if I could do a pull-up any more, felt the urge to try. I looked around the room for something I could pull myself up on. The curtain rail was too flimsy. There was nothing obvious that I could use, but I was determined to see just how bad things had gotten. I figured that if I opened the cupboard, I could hang from the top and pull myself up there. Bad idea. I had barely taken my weight on my arms when the cupboard began to topple. I managed to stop it, but as I did I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder. That was it. I vowed to get fit again.
The trouble wasn’t just the lack of exercise; I couldn’t go a night without getting blind drunk in one of the city’s bars or brothels. And there was the gambling. I’d managed to save a bit while in the Legion, especially when overseas. But most of that was gone; and the Legion pension wasn’t enough to live on, even without the gambling. Pathetic.
The doorbell rang. I went to the window and looked out. It was Martina. She’d finished early. I grabbed the keys, went to the window, opened it, threw them down to her. I closed the window and went to put something on while Martina let herself in. I was still half dressed when she burst into the apartment, all giggly and excited.
She came straight through to the bedroom where I was still half out of my trousers, one leg cocked in the air like a dog.
‘Ahoj potvora. Why you get dress? Take pants off.’ She pushed me over onto the bed, whipped the trousers off. At least she had no issues with my body image. I wriggled self-consciously out of my undies while she stripped off, discarded her clothes to the four corners of the room, smiled devilishly at my growing interest and then the little succubus leapt on top of me.
But it didn’t go as planned. It’s not something I normally share, but I couldn’t get it up. Despite Martina’s best efforts it stayed as limp as a dead gerbil. I was gutted. It had never happened to me before. I pushed her away gently, ‘I’m sorry...’ But I couldn’t think of an excuse, couldn’t even look at her.
She laughed, ‘Not worry. Next time.’
‘No really, I’m sorry. It’s never happened...’
‘Is okay.Do pravda. Next time.’ She kissed me on the mouth.
I’d expected ridicule, scorn even, but Martina didn’t seem to mind. She took the gerbil gently into her hand, kissed it and whispered softly, ‘Sleep now. You be better tomorrow.’ Then she put it down carefully, covered us with the sheet, cuddled up next to me, closed her eyes.
When I woke it was night; Martina was still fast asleep. I looked at her naked body, thought of trying again, but I couldn’t face failure twice in one night. The thought alone was enough to guarantee my impotence.
I was starving. I gently woke her and we went for dinner at Zlatá ulička, a little restaurant around the corner from the apartment. Afterwards she wanted to come back to the apartment. But I’d never allowed women to stay the night, dreaded the thought of anyone being there in the morning. So I put her on a tram home.
Back in the apartment I felt like shit. Not the hangover: that was gone. I felt like shit because I’d sent Martina home like some cheap tart. Part of me wanted to phone her, ask her to come back. But I didn’t. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling guilty.
The next morning Martina’s scent still lingered in the room. I got up and went to the mirror again, took a good look at myself. I didn’t like the man who stared sullenly back. It wasn’t so much the flabby body or the nicotine stained fingers; it was the man: the selfish, self-satisfied, alcoholic arsehole.
I hadn’t done the transition from military to civilian well. After twenty years of military discipline, living in a world of men, I didn’t know how to do anything else. And for twenty years I had only slept with whores. I’d not had a proper relationship with a woman my whole life. Since arriving in Prague I’d not made one close male friend either.
I missed the Legion. When I left, I thought that twenty years was enough, needed to get out. But it wasn’t until I stood in front of that mirror and took a hard look at myself that I realised what I’d lost. I didn’t want to admit that I was alone for the first time in my adult life; I’d been hiding it in all the drinking whoring and gambling.
Tears stung my eyes, pain arced through my hand. The mirror lay in pieces; blood dripped from my sliced knuckles. Fortunately I didn’t cut myself badly; I cleaned and dressed the wounds. After I’d cleared up the broken glass, wiped up the blood, I packed a tog bag with my training gear and went straight to the gym near my apartment.
I’d joined when I first arrived in Prague, paid up front and never been back. I paid my 200-crown entrance fee - again - and changed into my trunks. They had a twenty-five metre indoor heated pool. I thought that would be a good, low impact, way to start. And I loved the water. I’d always been a swimmer; at school I’d won just about all the swimming prizes in my final year. For the first few laps I had all the grace of an epileptic turtle. But it didn’t take long for me to get my mojo back, and I was soon stroking like a pro.
Not for long. As soon as the heart rate increased I was back in e-turtle mode. I had to get out before I drowned. Once my heart rate had slowed a little I tried the exercise machines, but I had definitely torn a muscle doing the cupboard trick, so I worked on my legs instead.
When I emerged after a long sauna and a hot shower, I was feeling light headed and not entirely prepared for the winter weather. It was snowing and I made my way back to the apartment as fast as my shaky legs would carry me. When I got there I hunted down all the cigarettes in the apartment and put them in a bag. I was surprised at how many packets I had squirreled away. I emptied all the ashtrays into the bag and took the whole lot to the bin outside. I knew that my resolve would wane; and if there was as much as a shred of tobacco in the apartment when that happened, I would find some way of burning and inhaling it.
Back upstairs, I phoned the office to find out if the letter had arrived. It hadn’t. It was mid-day already and I couldn’t be bothered going to the office in that weather, so I went to the bar to see if Martina was on duty. She was.
When she saw me, she frowned. Not a ‘you bastard’ frown, but more like ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ I smiled, waved. She saw the bandage, came to me.
‘What happen?’
‘I cut myself shaving.’
That frown again.
‘Sorry. It’s nothing serious. I’ll tell you about it later. What time do you finish?’
Without a word she went across to the bar and spoke to the manager. Suddenly she was all smiles, whipped off her apron, pecked him on the cheek, fetched her coat. With my arm firmly in her grasp, she led me to the door.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Domu.’
‘Sorry?’
‘My house.’
I had been seeing Martina on and off for three months; I didn’t have the faintest idea where she lived. A lot of things were going to have to change.
We boarded the tram at Pohořolec. I didn’t ask where we were going, was surprised when she got off two stops later. It was a short walk from there to a suburb of crumbling grey apartment blocks, all identical, all with small windows and dingy looking balconies. She stopped at one and led me inside. Her apartment was on the second floor. It was tiny. In the small reception area Martina took off her shoes and indicated that I should do the same. She took a pair of slippers from the rack behind the door and put them on. The sitting room was small, only large enough for a sofa, a chair and a TV. It didn’t seem to be an apartment that she would live in, looked like it belonged to someone older.
‘Is this your apartment?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I live here with parents.’
&
nbsp; I went cold. She saw the panic in my eyes; laughed. ‘Not worry silly. They not here. Working.’
I don’t know why the idea of meeting her parents had that effect on me. Perhaps because I thought that her father might be about my age.
She showed me around. There were two doors leading off the living room. One led to a small kitchen and the other to a bedroom, barely big enough for the double bed and small cupboard that filled the space. There was a distinct shortage of rooms for a family of three. ‘Where do you sleep?’
Marina sat down on the couch and patted it.
‘There? On the couch?’
She nodded.
‘Not much privacy.’
She shook her head, allowed a sad smile.
‘You want tea?’
‘Yes please.’
She made us both cups of tea; and we sat there in her parents’ living room, on her bed, drinking tea and making small talk.
We left before her parents returned, caught the tram to my apartment, stopped at the supermarket on the way and bought ingredients for a dumpling soup that she made later that evening.
After dinner we curled up on the couch together, watched Czech TV. I didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on, but she enjoyed it and that was enough. When it was time for bed, I asked her to stay the night. She accepted.
Chapter 4
Five days later Radka called to tell me that a letter had arrived. I went straight to the office. When I arrived, she looked up from her desk, stared at me. I was still feeling guilty about how I had spoken to her; it was unnerving. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Co?’ She looked confused. No wonder; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d apologised to anybody.
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 2
