I crapped myself; thought that I might have shot all three, hit the others with a ricochet or something. But two had fallen out of shock. They soon recovered, jumped up and took off like greyhounds after a rabbit, didn’t stop until they were out of sight.
I stood, walked over to the shooter. He had dropped like a sack of shit. One leg was folded underneath the other. He was lying on his back, gun in hand, piggy eyes open, staring at the sky. He couldn’t see a thing. I had aimed for his chest, the biggest target, full of vital organs, and missed: hit high. The bullet had smashed into the bridge of his nose, shoving it back into his brain. His eyes were pushed back, making his face concave.
The bullet was in there somewhere. It didn’t have enough energy remaining to punch out the back of his skull. A pool of black blood began spreading around his head.
The alley was still empty, but I was sure that it would begin filling soon. The Czech police were never far away from the action. I wiped my prints from the gun and gave it to the shooter, pressed it into his limp hand. The police would have fun trying to work out how he had managed to shoot himself in the face from a distance. I took his pistol, unscrewed the silencer, shoved gun and silencer into my pocket. Then I searched his pockets. Unsurprisingly they were empty.
It wouldn’t be good to be the only living thing bigger than a rat when the police arrived; so I looked around for the fastest way out. There was a restaurant a few metres along, away from the square. Beyond that was a narrow road that I hadn’t noticed before. I followed it and managed to clear Železná before anyone arrived. I didn’t know the area very well, but couldn’t have chosen better. The road was a dead end, but there were a number of narrow alleyways just wide enough for a person leading off the end of it; a veritable maze.
I didn’t have a clue where I was or where I was going. That was a good thing. If I didn’t know where I was then, I thought, the police couldn’t know either. I know there’s no logic in that, but it made me feel better.
The alleyway was dark: shaded by overlapping eaves high above. After a few turns I emerged from the gloom into a busy street. When my eyes adjusted to the light again I recognised the area. I was on Celetná, not far from the Old Town Square. I turned left to the square, back to the crowd where I would be anonymous again.
Out of some misguided curiosity I returned to Železná. When I passed the restaurant I saw that my bill was still on the table where I had left it. Železná wasn’t empty anymore. A small crowd of rubberneckers had gathered at the entrance. I joined them. The shooter was still lying where I had left him. There were two policemen standing over him. One had a pistol in his hand, scanning the street - trying to work out what had happened, if the shooter was still around. The other was talking on a radio, summoning the forensic team or something like that. I hoped that I hadn’t spread too much of my DNA about.
I headed back to my pension. On the way I stopped at a small coffee shop to give my brain a chance to catch up with what was going on. I went inside, chose a table in a corner with a good view of the entrance, ordered a large cappuccino, made some calls.
I phoned the hospital first, spoke to Daijko. No change; Martina was holding on but was still too weak to talk.
I needed to get hold of Piet. I should have phoned him next, but I wanted to check on Denis first, explain why he hadn’t been paid yet.
There was no reply from his home phone and the mobile went straight to messages.
I called Bob Grunter.
He answered immediately. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s Noah. I need something.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A passport.’
‘Any particular nationality?’
I searched for any sign of sarcasm, but couldn’t detect any. ‘No. Something bland.’
‘No problem. Name?’
I thought for a moment, decided to stick with something I might remember, ‘Pavel Kalik.’ It was the name I had booked into the pension under.
‘When do you need it… No, don’t tell me… Yesterday?’
‘Right. You need a photograph?’
‘No,’ he replied without pause. ‘We’ve got a few of you already. We’ll use one of those.’
Don’t you just hate a smarmy know-it-all?
‘I can have it for you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you to deliver.’
‘I’ll call you rather.’
I had no doubt that someone at the National Security Agency would have my number, was listening to my every word. I didn’t plan on telling them anything they didn’t know already.
It was time to call Piet. I dialled the number that Bob had given me. Piet answered immediately. The line was as clear as a summer day. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello Piet, it’s Noah.’
‘Wat de donder? Noah? Noah Stark?’
‘Yeah. How are you doing?’
‘I’m good. You… how did you get this number?’ He asked.
‘It’s a long story,’ I replied. ‘You probably won’t believe it when I tell you.’
‘What’s up?’ straight to business. He knew it wasn’t a social call.
‘I hear you’re at Shinkolobwe?’
‘Ja.’
‘And they mine uranium there.’
‘They mine lots of shit here… including uranium, ja.’
‘I have a client for five hundred tons of uranium… yellowcake.’
There was a long silence at the other end. I was just about to check if he was still there when he finally answered, ‘Ja… I’ll need to speak to some people here… but… ja… I think we can organise something.’
‘Tell your people that my client is willing to pay above the going rate.’
There was a funny rasping sound on the line. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn that he was rubbing his hands together. ‘Ja… fine… Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Actually, I was wondering if you had a spare bed. I need to be hands on with this.’
‘Hell ja. I’m pretty much on my own here. It’ll be great to see you again. When you coming?’
‘I’m planning to leave here today. I should be there in two or three days.’
‘Three days! Where are you coming from man, Timbuktu or something?’
‘Not quite.’ I laughed. ‘I’ll probably have to come via South Africa. I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘It’ll be good to see you again. It’s been a while.’ The line went dead. Piet was never one for small talk.
Finally, I phoned Bill at the office.
Radkaanswered‘Dobry den. Všeobecné Vývozní.’
‘Ahoj Radka,’ I answered. ‘Is Bill there?’
‘Ti vola! Mister Noah! Where have you been we worrying about you. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine Radka, but I can’t come to the office right now. Can I speak to Bill please? It’s very urgent.’
She understood. The line went dead for a moment, then I heard Bill’s dulcet tones. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ He obviously missed me.
‘It’s a long story. I’m going to be out of town for a while.’
‘I didn’t know you were in town.’
‘Yeah, well… Things are happening a little fast. I have to fly to South Africa this evening.’
‘South Africa? What for?’
‘The same customer.’ I’d already said too much over the telephone. The NSA weren’t the only ones who might want to listen in.
‘By the way, the Old Bill’s looking for you.’
That shook me. I didn’t expect them to link me to anything so quickly. I went cold. ‘The police? Looking for me?’ I tried to sound nonchalant, but it wasn’t my best performance. It’s hard to be cool when you’ve just shat your pants.
‘Yeah. Something about a bad smell coming from your apartment. Some old geezer thought you’d died in there and called the police. They found the place turned over. They were gambling on finding you here. You alright?’
I was touched that Bil
l cared about my health. But he hadn’t asked the question he should have asked. What he should have asked was ‘Where the fuck’s my money?’ That’s what he should have asked; and he didn’t. So I hung up, turned off the phone.
I guessed that the police were in the office. At the very least they were listening in. It was my last rational thought for a while.
I paid and went outside. I was halfway home when a feeling of claustrophobia came over me. It felt like the walls were closing in, squeezing me, restricting my breathing. I looked around wildly, expecting to find the police behind me - following. I looked in the faces of passers by, trying to spot the Mossad agent, the Russian assassin, the undercover cop. People began giving me a wide berth, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind.
The feeling didn’t last long, subsided fairly quickly. I was breathing heavily. Despite the frigid air, my clothes were sweat-soaked beneath the thick jacket. I stopped, concentrated on controlling my breathing, looked around to see where I was.
I didn’t recognise my surroundings immediately. The buildings were nondescript, no street signs to guide me. Across the road snow laden branches sagged over a yellow wall.
Most of the city’s snow had melted, transmuted into brown sludge that had slipped into the drains and sewers. But the little garden behind the wall was still white, sheltered somehow from the sun, an island of pale tranquillity.
I crossed the road and entered the park through a squeaky iron gate.
Inside was a cemetery: the final resting place of Prague’s Jews. I had heard of it, but never been there before. The cramped space was home to twelve thousand buried people; corpses stacked on top of one another, four or five to a grave.
The cemetery hadn’t been used for a long time. Most of the tombstones were broken, jutting jaggedly from the snow. It was peaceful, a quiet refuge amidst the dead in the heart of a bustling city. I was the only visitor. I found a bench, swept the snow from it, sat down, collected my thoughts.
My cold wet arse brought me back to the present. I took stock. I was worried about Martina, but she was as safe as she could be. The further away from her I remained, the safer she would be, what were the police after? Was it only the break-in at my apartment? Bill had been trying to tell me something; but what? They couldn’t possibly know about the man I’d shot on Železná it was too soon for that… what else? He’d said that the police were gambling on finding me at the office, maybe it had to do with the shooting at the Savarin, perhaps the shooter had started talking, told them that I was the target, maybe they wanted to know why someone wanted to kill me. If they didn’t find me they’d go looking for Martina. She wouldn’t be difficult to find.
I turned the phone on, dialled Daijko again. He didn’t answer immediately. When he did I knew there was something wrong. There was traffic noise in the background. There wasn’t supposed to be traffic noise; no traffic in an intensive care unit.
‘Ano.’
‘Daijko it’s Noah, where is Martina.’
‘In hospital.’
Wrong question. ‘Where are you?’
‘Outside hospital.’
‘Why? Why aren’t you with her?’
‘Police with her.’
Shit! ‘Why are the police with her?’
‘They say she in danger.’
‘I know that. We know that. That’s why you are there.’
‘Police make me leave. Isuf go home, I stay here at hospital. Wait for police to go.’
Good man. ‘Thanks Daijko. Let me know if anything changes.’ I turned the phone off again. I didn’t think that they’d bug his phone, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I got up from the bench, left the cemetery, walked to the river.
I desperately wanted to see Martina, move her somewhere safe, away from harm. But she still needed medical attention. I wasn’t in a position to provide that. And kidnapping her from the police would be tricky. She seemed to be safe. I decided that the best I could do for her was stay as far away from her as possible. I would get out of the country for a while, go to Africa, get the uranium, get our money back, come back when the dust had settled.
I didn’t go directly to the pension. I had to be sure that I was alone, that the wolves were safe in their den, far away from mine. I walked down Karlova, ducked into a narrow alley connecting it with Anenská, waited in the shadows. No one followed.
Only then did I go back to my room, lock the door behind me. I took the pistol and silencer from my pocket, laid them on the bed.
I looked closely at the pistol for the first time. It was a Pistolet Bisshumnyi 6P9; Russian made. A highly modified Makarov developed for Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces. I checked the magazine. There were five rounds remaining. I screwed the silencer back on and put the gun on the bedside table.
Before I went to sleep I went to the window and opened it. The window was set into the roof of the building. Although the roof was steep, it would do as an escape route in an emergency.
Satisfied with the rudimentary security plans, I showered, laid my clothes out for the next morning and crammed everything else into the Louis Vuitton.
I don’t remember putting my head on the pillow.
Chapter 33
It was getting light when I woke. I looked at my watch; it was just after seven-thirty. I had slept through the night without even a dream. I felt guilty. I’d expected nightmares: about Martina at least.
I decided to risk a quick call. Isuf answered. That wasn’t good. If Daijko’s English was basic, Isuf’s was monosyllabic.
‘Ahoj Isuf, kde Daijko?’ I asked
‘Domu.’
He’d gone home; probably been waiting outside the hospital most of the night. I felt even guiltier. My Czech failed me. ‘And Martina, she’s okay?’
‘Nevím.’
‘What do you meannevím? Where is she?’
‘Nevím. They take Martina.’
‘Who? The police?’
‘Ne. American.’
Shit. Seconds after I put the phone down, Bob called.
‘Where the fuck is Martina?’
‘She’s in good hands.’
‘Why did you take her out the hospital?’ Stupid question; I already knew the answer and he wasn’t going to give it to me.
‘We wanted to make sure that she has the best treatment.’
‘Fuck you. You’d better make sure she’s in perfect health or you are a dead man.’ As empty threats go, it was the best I could come up with. Bob knew that as long as he had Martina, I would be his bitch.
That afternoon a courier delivered a Canadian passport in the name of Pavel Kalik. It was a professional job with a good picture of me. The passport was a couple of years old, showing travel out of Canada to and from Europe over that period.
I had some time to kill before I caught my train. I called Jahangir.
‘Salaam.’
‘It’s Noah. I have a reliable source for the product. I will be travelling to the mine tomorrow to check that they can supply as agreed. I’ll call you in three days or so to confirm.’
‘Good. Let me know as soon as possible so that I can make all the necessary arrangements.’
‘Of course.’ I replied and turned the phone off. It was about time someone put down the phone in his ear.
I went to the pension, packed my meagre belongings, took a taxi to the railway station. I caught the last train to Vienna. The Czech police examined my new Canadian passport at the border, stamped it, handed it back to me without hesitation. The Austrians barely glanced at it.
I bought a Business Class seat with Martina’s winnings. The Austrians are like the Swiss. When I handed the bundle of euro notes across the counter, the lady in red raised an eyebrow; and that was all. No histrionics, no asking why – out of the thousands of people in the airport – I was the only one paying cash; and she didn’t call the police. I liked her.
Once I was through passport control and security there was still and hour or so before my flight was due to depart. It
hadn’t escaped me that I would be going from the heart of a European winter to an African summer, something I was ill equipped for. The Louis Vuitton, stylish though it was, was also attracting a little too much attention. Most people thought it was fake I suppose, most are, but I felt a bit queer carrying it, so I stopped at the Samsonite shop and bought something in black.
Levi and Lacoste also separated me from some of my cash. A suit from Hugo Boss – you never know when you are going to need one – completed the ensemble. I retired to the toilets to shower, change and repack. I emerged a different man, dressed for the tropics with my new acquisitions, LV and euros neatly stowed in the Samsonite.
The selection of English books in departures was dismal, but I did manage to find a paperback on Livingstone by Tim Jeal gathering dust at the back of the shelf. That would get me through the night. I suppose that I could have chosen an airport paperback, something mindless to pass away the hours; but I really can’t be bothered with that shit.
When the lights of Vienna had disappeared and the cloud enveloped us, I ignored the on-board entertainment and settled in to the book. I was interrupted only by dinner - washed down with a fine glass of South African red - and read through to the small hours before the crusty old Scotsman finally bested me and I fell fast asleep.
Chapter 34
The scent of a woman woke me. I lay still for a few moments absorbing her aroma, then opened my eyes. The flight attendant’s breasts strained against a crisp white blouse as she stretched across me to open the blind. Sun streamed through onto my face, waking me instantly. She saw that I was awake and straightened, leaving me with the memory of her scent and a growing morning glory. I shook the sleep from my head and returned my seat to the upright position, pulled on my shoes. The shoes were new, Lacoste’s version of the Chelsea Boot; a little on the gay side, but they were comfortable and the elasticised sides meant that I could get them over my flight-swollen feet.
When the plane began its approach to Johannesburg International Airport, I looked out of the window at the Highveld countryside, green from summer rains. Despite the regime change, Johannesburg didn’t look much different from the air. The sprawling townships surrounding the city were still barren and treeless. Thousands of small houses laid out in geometric patterns; tin roofs twinkled in the sun. The contrast between them and the forested suburbs of the affluent was striking. It was still a country of haves and have-nots, no longer divided by race as much as by connections to the luminaries in the ruling party. That much had not changed.
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 16
