Leoncjusz leaned back in his chair. ‘Why do you want this?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I guess because I’ve never had one before.’
He placed the papers on his desk, then cleared his throat with two deliberate breaths. ‘We cannot risk you leaving library. You know this.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Can you get a tree then? I’ll stay here. As usual.’
Leoncjusz stood. His face cracked into an unexpected smile. ‘But what is Christmas tree without decoration? And surely I will need help picking them out.’
He switched off the column heater and moved towards the coat rack.
‘It is cold out there.’ He pulled a coat off the rack and gave it to her. ‘You will need my second favorite coat.’
* * *
With her neck wrapped in a scarf and hands jammed into lambswool coat pockets, Sophia followed Leoncjusz to the oak doors. He opened them and stepped outside. She followed him onto the cobblestoned side street. It was her first time outdoors in months. She watched her breath melt into the frosted night.
The narrow side street was seamed with three-story stone buildings with iron-barred windows and doors nearly always shaped in an arch and tall enough to have been made for giants. Fairy lights crisscrossed above the cobblestones, glittering vibrantly under brick archways. A band of musicians marched past, three by three. They wore blue jeans and Santa hats and played clarinets, flutes and drums. One musician was dressed head to toe as Santa Claus, his white beard tucked under his chin so he could play his trumpet.
Orange shapes, rich like chocolate, poured from the trumpet’s bell. Other shapes, thousands of them, danced playfully in the wake of the marching musicians. Some were yellow and pliable, others were white and rich. Sophia stepped forward so they jiggled and bounced all over her in a sort of citrus candy dance.
‘This way,’ Leoncjusz said, following the band. ‘No more than ten feet from me at all time.’
Sophia fell in step beside him, his cinnamon-scented accent making her hungry. The citrus shapes scattered before her, melting before her shoes reached them. A Dalmatian dog on a balcony above poked its head between the iron bars for a curious peek at the jeans-and-Santa band. A mischievous yellow triangle bounced off its ear. The dog scratched its ear, pricking it up while the other one remained flat. Sophia laughed, and the sound created a momentary hole in the dancing citrus shapes.
The Christmas market was located in the town square, its centerpiece a magnificent Christmas tree at least six levels high, adorned with lights and scarlet orbs. Underneath the tree were an impressive array of nativity scenes and crib displays. Sophia didn’t pay it attention for long, however, as the displays of cheeses, vin brulé and polenta proved too hard to resist. One display that caught her attention featured four majestically dressed pigs sitting at a table and dining on chestnuts and port.
‘You are hungry, yes?’ Leoncjusz said. ‘The polenta looks lovely. I will get some for dinner. Wait here.’
‘Shouldn’t I keep no more than ten feet—’
He walked off, her words lost in the music around them.
Doing as he said, she stayed exactly where she was, near a stall of toy Santas climbing rope ladders. Why they were climbing rope ladders she had no idea, and made a note to ask Leoncjusz when he returned. None of the children’s toys were packaged in boxes. Everything seemed so much more real here, so trustworthy. She couldn’t help but contrast it with the Fifth Column, Denton, the false construct that was her life. Where had it come from, this immutable, vicious evil? How had it stolen its way into humanity, into the world? She didn’t have the answers, and it bothered her.
She stepped aside as half a dozen children scampered past her, shouting and giggling, hands full of chocolate and Santa’s black coal candy. A happily inebriated egg-shaped man stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and emptied wine from a plastic cup into his mouth. Although he looked Italian, he was dressed as a tourist. Sophia pushed past him, pressing her hip against his wallet, and slid it out with her nearest hand. She slipped it into her jacket pocket for now.
Behind her, there was a new band of musicians, with violins and flutes this time. They played Christmas carols that spurted glittering fireflies up above the crowd. It was a private masterpiece only she could see, and it made her smile.
Following the musicians came a perfectly timed flow of line dancers connected by interlocked elbows. They reminded her of the Barrel of Monkeys game she used to play as a kid with her younger sister, Tereza.
Sophia found herself smiling as she watched the locals dance past. She checked the stolen wallet. Two fifties and two twenties. A total of 140 euros, which would do her just nicely — she would convert them to the correct currency when the time was right. She discreetly dropped the wallet on the ground and slipped the euros into the hip pocket of her jeans.
An older woman with the energy of someone a third of her age seized her hand, taking Sophia completely by surprise. The woman pulled her into the line, shaking her arm to encourage her to dance. Sophia’s instinct was to pull away, but she found herself moving in step with the music, the fireflies glittering past her in encouraging spirals, and realized she was actually enjoying it.
She spotted Leoncjusz as her line of dancers rounded past him. He was looking serious as he lined up at a food stall. As she passed him, he noticed her and a look of surprise came to his face. She flashed him a smile and hooked her arm around his. He didn’t have time to avoid her, or even to get angry because she wasn’t waiting where he’d said. He didn’t break the line and walk away either, so that was a good sign. Instead, he laughed nervously as he struggled to get in step with everyone else.
‘I lose my place in line!’ he yelled over the music.
She spotted evidence of a half-smile. Two fireflies circled him like moons around a planet.
The band reached the center of the town square and the ever-growing line of dancers coiled in closer and closer. The fireflies whipped themselves into a frenzy above their heads, funneling into an ever-intensifying spiral. She looked up from Leoncjusz’s feet to find him grinning from ear to ear. A great many people had joined in the line behind him. He couldn’t break away now if he tried. She laughed. That’s what he got for making her a hermit for all these months.
The fireflies burst from their formation, exploding outwards like a family of shooting stars and fading into the ink of the night. It was then she realized the musicians had stopped playing. The dancing locals began to disperse, exhausted but smiling.
Sophia was hot inside her jacket. She unzipped it to cool down and turned to Leoncjusz. He was laughing between heavy breaths.
‘This is last time I take you out of library,’ he said. ‘I am too old for dancing!’
‘Sure you are,’ she said. ‘You had the most fun out of everyone!’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘If I ever had daughter, I would hope her to be like you, the real you.’
She smiled. It felt good having someone around who wasn’t a programmed killer. Maybe she’d save her escape for next time and stay just a little bit longer. After all, it was quite some time since she’d decorated a Christmas tree.
‘Look there,’ he said. ‘I see ornaments we might like.’
Her legs felt like Jell-O after the dancing, but it didn’t stop her hurrying to inspect the glass balls. She held up a violet-colored one. ‘We should get some of these.’
Leoncjusz smiled, and picked up a ruby-colored ball. ‘My mother call these bombka.’
‘What does that mean?’
His smile disappeared. ‘It Polish for “little bomb”.’
Sophia took the bombka and inspected it. ‘It’s a bit like me.’
* * *
Sophia hooked the last of the bombka onto the Christmas tree. It was only the same height as she was when kneeling, but perfectly adequate. The glass balls adorned the tree like a rainbow of gemstones: ruby, amethyst, irradiated blue sapphire, turquoise and even a mottled
black and gray one that could have passed for snowflake obsidian.
‘I don’t think we’ve done too badly,’ Sophia said.
Leoncjusz exhaled as he sank into an armchair, still wearing his winter coat. There was no roaring fireplace, but they had the spare heater Sophia normally used while reading.
‘I have present for you,’ he said, removing a cloth package from a deep pocket in his coat and unwrapping it upon his lap.
She half-expected a lump of coal, but there was a passport inside.
‘Your new identity,’ he said, and held it up to reveal a pistol and flashbang underneath.
Every instinct fired inside her, and it took every effort to suppress them.
But he didn’t take the pistol in his hand. Instead, he lowered the cloth package, the pistol still inside, to the rug on the floor. She could see the pistol was unloaded, and there was another item in the cloth wrapping — a magazine packed with live rounds.
Sophia shifted into a crouch. ‘What’s that for?’
He met her gaze, unusually relaxed. ‘I also have bullet-resistant vest for you and some other items that might be of use.’
‘But what for?’
‘How many months has it been?’ he said.
She blinked. ‘Five, I think.’
‘Five. And I have shown you all I can. Now,’ he nudged the cloth package towards her with his foot, ‘you kill me. If you want to.’
‘Why?’
He looked confused. As though he was making perfect sense and she wasn’t listening properly. ‘This is my Christmas gift for you. Liberation.’
‘Liberation?’
‘How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail? And pour the waters of the Nile on every golden scale.’
It was a test, she told herself. It had to be. Had he been working for Denton all along? Was the journal written to fool her? He hadn’t seemed too upset when he caught her looking through it. Had he even gone to the market to do their grocery shopping or had someone else done it while he waited close by to catch her? Perhaps it was all part of the plan. Everything carefully staged to test her. To see if she was fit for service.
Worse, he might be completely delusional. That journal of his could be pure fantasy. McLoughlin could be imagined. The deprogramming might not be what he said it was. Maybe just a few parlor tricks he’d picked up in some sort of hypnotherapy book. Or maybe something far more insidious.
She picked up the pistol and inspected it. It was a slim-framed Glock 36. The magazine appeared to be loaded with .45 ACP rounds.
It didn’t matter what side he was on, whether he had good intentions or bad ones, whether he was telling the truth or lying, whether he was delusional or sane. She had been his prisoner for five months. Physically and mentally.
‘You have two choice,’ he said. ‘You can help us or you can walk away.’
‘All my programming, is it gone?’
He nodded.
Sophia loaded the magazine. ‘And the parameter that kept me from leaving?’
‘Everything, Sophia.’
She cocked the pistol. Instinct took over. She didn’t have control any more. Her eyes welled up, spilling tears onto her cheeks. She aimed at his head.
‘What are you doing?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’
She fired.
Chapter Fourteen
Sophia lowered her pistol and decocked it. She let it drop to the carpet. Leoncjusz inspected her desk and the hole it now sported.
‘I thought you were going to shoot me,’ he said.
She wiped the tears from her face. ‘So did I.’
She was different now. She couldn’t hurt Leoncjusz.
He picked up her passport and handed it to her. There was money inside.
‘This is your new life,’ he said. ‘You can do what you like now.’
* * *
The next morning, Sophia got dressed in a pair of jeans and a hooded sweater from the stash of clothes Leoncjusz had organized for her. She put the kettle on in the makeshift kitchen and noticed a dust-laden photocopier next to the bin. Leoncjusz must have found it in the library and moved it here.
She turned it on. It beeped and a strip of dust glowed green above a liquid crystal display. She lifted the cover and planted her hand on the glass, then hit the start button. The photocopier hummed to life and swept under the glass with a begrudging whine, then spat a piece of paper into the side tray. She picked it up and smiled. It was in perfect working order.
She screwed up the paper and tossed it in the kitchen trash can before entering Leoncjusz’s office to ask if he wanted a cup of tea. She’d already prepared the teapot for two, knowing he’d say yes. But he wasn’t in his office. She checked the clock on his desk. It was twenty to nine. He was usually in here from seven onwards, working away on his programming papers. He didn’t budge until he was hungry enough to make breakfast. And that was rarely before ten. Perhaps he was in the bathroom.
Letting the tea steep for a few minutes, she entered the Pacciani Room. Leoncjusz was there, dusting off a desk she hadn’t seen before.
‘A new desk?’ she said.
He looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, yes. Well, no. Old desk actually. I found it in storage this morning.’ He gave it one final wipe with an old rag he’d made from torn clothing. ‘This should be suitable, yes?’
Sophia smiled. ‘Yes.’
He clasped his hands before him. ‘You have made decision then.’
She pressed her lips together. ‘There’s a bus I can take.’
He nodded. ‘It is best I don’t know where.’
‘Leon,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘I shall thank you,’ he said. ‘I must to redeem myself some way.’
She forced a quick smile. ‘Me too.’
‘The resistance I am part of, it is called Akhana,’ Leoncjusz said. ‘I am meeting liaison this afternoon in Pondetera, to negotiate safe passage to Akhana base in Belize. It would mean lot to me if you stay until I return this afternoon. I cannot have you travel on empty stomach.’
Sophia found herself agreeing. ‘OK. I’ll hang around a bit.’
* * *
While Leoncjusz was away, Sophia found herself sitting at her new desk, her tea long gone cold. All she could think about was her dead family. She had to go home. At the very least, she felt she needed to say goodbye.
She returned to her room, took off her clothes and put on the para-aramid bullet-resistant vest Leoncjusz had given her. It was part of the package, along with the passport, flashbang and Glock that the Akhana had delivered to Leoncjusz. He had placed it outside her bedroom door last night. She inserted the boron carbide plates that came with it, then covered it with a T-shirt, a fitted black jacket and jeans. She double-checked her bag. Inside, her passport, the Glock and the flashbang.
There was one more thing she wanted to take. She returned to Leoncjusz’s office and fished out his journal. She took it to the photocopier and made a copy of every two-page spread. She bound them with bulldog clips and stuffed them into her bag. She had translated most of the journal already but there might be something she’d overlooked. She packed the Italian — German and Italian — English dictionaries too, only to find they weighed her bag down. She removed them and made a mental note to purchase a pocket-sized German — English dictionary.
As an afterthought, she stuffed the flashbang up the right arm of her jacket, pressed against her forearm, then zipped the cuff to stop it falling out. She moved her arms in circles and walked around, testing to make sure the grenade wasn’t going to slip out or impair her movement. Once she was satisfied, she unzipped the cuff and slipped the grenade into her bag again for now, then changed her mind in case someone wanted to search her bag and zipped it in her cuff again. She had the money she’d pickpocketed at the Mercatino di Natale as well as the stash Leoncjusz had put in her passport. In total, that gave her 1025 euros.
It was below zero outside, so she borrowed L
eoncjusz’s second favorite coat and pulled it on over her jacket.
* * *
Firenze Santa Maria Novella station was all marble, concrete and skylight. The night train set Sophia back ninety-six euros and departed just after 1900 hours. She passed the time by drinking too much espresso and watching a well-dressed half-European, half-Asian woman con tourists out of loose change. By the time the train arrived, the woman had collected from no less than twenty-six tourists. Sophia had to admit she was impressed.
On the train, she tried to take advantage of the reclining seat by getting some sleep, but it was a conflict of old habits: trying to snatch sleep wherever possible and keeping her wits about her in public. She’d selected a seat in the corner, with easy access to the adjoining carriage and where no one could sneak up on her, but by the time the train pulled into Vienna the next morning, she’d only managed three hours of sleep. She felt like she’d been hit by a train instead of riding one.
The next leg of the journey didn’t have a reclining seat, but by that point she was too wired even to think about getting some rest. She played the scenario over and over inside her head. What if her parents opened the door? But it wasn’t possible. She knew they were dead. What if Denton had permanent surveillance on the apartment block in case she was alive? She had to be careful.
The train crawled under the arched skylight at Prague train station. She pulled the collar of Leoncjusz’s coat tight around her neck, grateful for its lambswool lining, and moved with the crowd onto the platform.
* * *
The dirty gray Communist-era paneláks—prefab public housing blocks — stood as concrete guardians in the snow. They looked like makeshift fortifications constructed by an army that was desperately short on funding.
She recognized her parents’ panelák, only the concrete panels had eroded since she’d seen them last. She walked up the slick concrete path to find the nameplates on the intercom buzzer had been torn off.
Entry into the panelák wasn’t a major issue. The door was open, but the entrance was cluttered with idle residents, mostly women save for a topless barrel-chested man and a three-year-old boy who rode up and down the icy sidewalk in a little red plastic car. The women glared at Sophia as she walked up the concrete steps, but said nothing. A rake-thin young man wearing a white baseball cap and a sleeveless puffy jacket leered at her from where he leaned against the open door. She walked past him, inside, ready for anything he might try on her. But all he did was stare.
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