Aileen’s breathing was slow and rhythmic. He let her rest, stepped out, stretched, and clicked the door locks.
He went into the shop.
***
******
Chapter 17
Tuesday, November 23
The doughnut shop featured a long counter as well as a row of tables that lined the front windows. A group of roughly-dressed men, talking loudly, sat at the counter. Peter assumed that they were fishermen. A glance out the window proved him correct. A jeep-like vehicle mounted with vertical tubes for surf rods was parked outside. Waders were piled in the open back.
Several of the window tables were occupied. At one was a middle-aged man, youthful in bearing. He sat with an attractive woman. He held himself with authority.
Peter guessed that the man belonged to the police cruiser that was visible through another window. That was confirmed a moment later when he shifted in his seat. He had a weapon at his hip. Idly, Peter noted that it was not a Makarov.
At that thought Peter panicked. Gustav’s Makarov was stashed under the seat of Aileen’s car. How could he explain to the police his possession of an untraceable Makarov with hair and blood on the grip.
He canceled his plan of resting to sip coffee inside.
He pushed to the counter and ordered a large coffee to go. While waiting, he took one last survey of the tables. The policeman sat silent while the woman spoke on the phone. She appeared to be talking business.
Oddly the policeman’s inactivity comforted Peter. He thought of Aileen. Others had their problems too. Peter realized that the woman’s long phone conversation while her partner waited was no way to build a relationship.
Peter paid for his coffee. He took one short, too-hot swallow, burned his tongue and headed for the exit.
***
As Peter left, he passed the table with the policeman. The woman there was speaking Czech!
At the sound of his native tongue, Peter forgot about the Makarov and Aileen. He blurted.
“Promiňte. ‘Excuse me.’ You are Czech?”
Mila clicked off. She looked up.
“Ano. ‘Yes.’ And you?”
“I am, but I live in Chicago now.”
At the word “Chicago” Mila’s gaze intensified. Anne Simek and her father Havel lived in Chicago and Mila had just been on the phone with the father seeking Anne’s whereabouts. It had been fruitless. Either Havel did not know where Anne was or he was not willing to say.
Mila gathered her thoughts. Association with Jim Harrigan had taught her reticence. She withheld her identity and waved at Jim.
“This is Jim Harrigan. May I ask your name?”
“Dr. Zeleny, I studied at the Motol Teaching Hospital in Prague. Do you know Prague?”
Mila started. Zeleny, as in Vaclav’s package?
She looked at Jim. Apparently he had not noticed. She turned her answer into a question.
“Of course, but what brings you to the Outer Banks?”
Peter hesitated. He was exhausted, and he needed to trust someone. Mila appeared honest, and she was Czech. He abandoned all caution.
“Actually, I’m looking for a woman. Her name is Anne Simek. Do you know her?”
At those words, Jim Harrigan bolted upright.
Mila merely smiled.
“I should know her. I’m her cousin. I’m Mila Patekova.”
It was Peter’s turn to relax.
“So you’re Mila. I’m Peter. I told her she should call you. I need to see her again. It’s very important. Where is she?”
Mila frowned.
“Again? I’m hoping you can tell me. Sit down Peter. When did you last see Anne?”
“Last Saturday, at the Comfort Inn just south of here, but I called her from Maryland yesterday. She’s in North Carolina somewhere. She wouldn’t say where.”
Jim Harrigan intervened.
“Look, I’m not comfortable talking here. They’re too many people around us. Why not come to Duck with us. We can talk in my apartment.”
Peter was not sure.
“I have someone with me. She’s asleep in the car. She’s badly bruised. If you don’t mind two of us, I’ll come. We both need rest. We drove all night.”
Jim Harrigan spoke.
“What do you mean, ‘bruised.’ Who is she?”
“Her name is Dr. Harris. She’s with a small company ‘Ryan Associates’ in Bethesda, Maryland. They ... ”
“Ryan Associates!”
Jim stared at Mila. Then he added.
“And the bruises?”
Peter opted for honesty.
“She was beaten up, but not by me.”
Jim continued.
“All right Dr. Zeleny, I can accept that for the moment, but you must come with us. If she’s with Ryan Associates, neither of you is safe here. You can tell us the rest of your story at my apartment. We need to find out all you know.”
Peter hesitated. Mila took his arm.
“Peter, it’s OK. Jim is with me. He understands us. He’s on our side.”
Peter nodded and followed Jim and Mila out the shop.
The police cruiser headed towards Duck.
Peter followed. Aileen still slept.
***
It was late afternoon in Prague and the shadows had lengthened. Ivana sat staring at her desk.
She had no message from Gustav since Friday. Where was he? Was he dead? How much did Karel know? He certainly suspected her.
She had reason to worry. At their last meeting, Karel had not been himself.
And not just Karel, but more disturbing, Fiala, the secretary had subtly changed. She no longer looked down when she addressed Ivana, but actively sought eye contact, as an equal, or maybe more?
Ivana glanced at her Rolex. It was not an imitation. No, Karel had bought her the real thing to seal his admiration for her.
The watch was highly accurate. She noted the time. Karel’s office hours were over. His plans for the evening were already established. Clearly, Ivana was not part of them.
Warning bells clanged in her mind. She sensed danger.
She heard sounds in the hallway, the clicking steps of a woman in high heels. Curious, Ivana went to the door. She cracked it and looked out.
Down the hall strode Fiala. Her gait was confident, her face radiant. She was evidently dressed for a night on the town. Despite her dislike for the secretary, Ivana had to admit that Fiala was most alluring.
Fiala stopped at Karel’s office. The door opened from the inside. In the sudden glow of light, Ivana could see clearly. She sucked in a breath.
Fiala was wearing a red silk scarf, one similar to Karel’s favorite for Ivana. But it was something else that upset Ivana.
Shimmering on Fiala’s wrist was a brand new Rolex!
***
Ivana returned to her desk. Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in her hands. She knew Karel, and she knew the significance of that Rolex. All doubt disappeared. She was in danger.
The phone rang on her desk. She started to answer but drew back. After four rings it stopped.
Ivana had not become Special Assistant to the Director because of lack of intelligence. She had foresight. She had prepared for this day.
She texted her plans to Gustav. She had no idea where he was or whether he would receive it. No matter. She had to act.
She had prepared well. She picked up a satchel from behind her filing cabinet and went to the executive powder room down the hall. It had a full bath and shower. Ivana disappeared inside. A half hour later she emerged.
The woman with well-coiffed long blonde hair was gone. In her place was a brunette whose short-cut jagged black hair revealed a shapely neck. The elegant business suit had been exchanged for jeans, sweatshirt, and backpack, while high-heeled Italian footwear had morphed to comfortable flat Nikes.
She leafed her new passport. The cover was burgundy, the color shared by member states of the European Union, but the words on it were not “Česká Repu
blika” and “Cestovní Pas,” but rather were, “Deutschland,” and “Reisepass.” Fittingly, her name was now Irma Neumann, a German national, at least according to this document.
Deliberately, she walked to the cleaning closet. There she tied a kerchief over her newly short hair, and put on an oversized smock. She emerged, pushing a cleaning cart in front of her.
Back at her office, Ivana’s next task was to push papers and memos into her shredder. That done, she entered on the most dangerous phase of her departure. In her office safe were two “key cards.” One was her own. The other was her insurance, a duplicate of Karel’s.
The phone on her desk rang again. She jumped and stood frozen. Again it sounded four rings, then stopped.
Still, the most important task remained. She stopped at the door to Karel’s office and slid his card through the slot. Click, and she was in. She pulled the cart in after her.
She knew exactly where to go. She knew Karel’s files, she had arranged most of them!
Breathing heavily, she punched his code in the lock and pulled open the drawer.
There it was. A large brown folder, stuffed with CD’s, papers and photos, and even a flash drive. She often had seen Karel frown as he studied the contents of that folder spread over his desk.
She shoved the contents into her backpack, and re-secured the file. She moved towards the door.
Too late! The hallway was filled with running feet.
She stopped. Her heart palpitated.
Heavy footsteps raced in the direction of Ivana’s old office.
She retreated and crouched behind Karel’s desk. The massive structure was no longer intimidating, it afforded welcome concealment. She exhaled.
A crash down the hallway signaled the destruction of her office door. Shouts and curses echoed in the corridor.
She stayed huddled behind the desk. She did not move.
***
Only when all sounds in the hallway had abated, did Ivana stand up. She peered out Karel’s door. There was no movement. All was quiet.
She entered the hallway. The cart with its mops and buckets rolled smoothly in front of her. She looked in her old office as she passed. The door lay flat on the floor. Her desk was upended. Papers and folders were scattered about. Everything was a shambles.
She made her way to the freight elevator.
She pushed the button. She heard the groaning of gears as the lift started upwards from the basement below.
She watched the dial rotate slowly.
S-One, ...One, ...Two, ...
Hurry up. Hurry!
Three, ... Four, Come on.
... Five. At last!
The dial stopped.
She fronted the cart and lifted the heavy grate.
A voice called from down the hall.
“Počkat! ‘Wait!’”
She pulled the cart on and pulled downwards. The grate rattled and thumped shut. She hit the “Down” button, hard. The machinery cranked anew.
By the time the guard arrived, only his shoes were visible through the grate as the elevator inched its way down. She saw his heels. He had turned away.
She arrived in the basement without incident.
***
In full view of the guards, Ivana hung up her smock before parking the cart in the storeroom.
She waved her ID casually. They were uninterested. She stepped out onto the loading dock.
Moments later she was free, a young student attired in jeans and sweatshirt, breathing hard as she lugged a heavy backpack.
Ivana walked fast in the direction of the Vltava River. Already the lamps of the Charles Bridge shone through the dusk that settled over the dark waters.
***
In the restaurant at the Hotel Leonardo, Karel’s cell phone sounded. He took his hand from Fiala’s thigh and answered.
His face reddened.
“What do you mean, she’s gone?” That is impossible.”
A pause. He spoke again, louder.
“Search again. She has to be in the building.”
Karel slammed his phone on the table. The wine in Fiala’s glass slipped over the rim and onto the table cloth.
She lifted her glass and dabbed the spot with her napkin.
Karel did not notice. His eyes lowered and narrowed. Ivana! How dare you? His jaw muscles contracted. No one leaves me! He ground his teeth.
Across the table Fiala’s face paled. She took a deep breath.
Karel recovered his aplomb. He smiled and touched her wrist. Color returned to Fiala’s cheeks. She smiled back.
The smile decided him. He would take Fiala to his apartment (formerly Ivana’s) where he would have privacy to explore Fiala’s charms. Ivana would not dare return there!
And Ivana’s Mercedes still was in her space at the office. There was no need to worry. On foot, she could not escape him. By tomorrow, his men would bring the ungrateful bitch to him.
Still, he resolved to change the locks on the apartment.
***
The next two hours were all that Karel could hope for. Fiala was energetic and enthusiastic, a welcome change from the reticence Ivana had shown over the past weeks. Fiala pressed against him anew, but he was exhausted. His head sunk into the pillow and his eyelids closed.
The buzz of the phone jarred him awake. The call was from Vienna. The man spoke English like an American.
“Gustav has gone to the Americans. He’ll tell all he knows about you if they will protect the ‘Goldfinch.’ That’s the CIA’s code for ‘Ivana.’ He wants them to give her asylum.”
Karel did not speak. Gustav had no human feelings or emotions, and he hated the Americans. Why was he desperate to protect the girl?
His silence prompted the caller to speak further.
“She texted him her plans. She knows you’re watching her car. She’s headed for Ruzyne Airport by metro and bus.”
Karel wanted to scream, but he did not wish to alienate this informant. He took a deep breath .
“This is most helpful. Thank you. You will be rewarded.”
Karel jumped from the bed and made two brief phone calls, one local, one to the United States. Then he stood in thought. Ivana, what have you done to Gustav? What hold do you have on him?
The damned “Goldfinch” was now a major problem!
Fiala opened her eyes. She pouted.
“Karel, why are you up? Come back here.”
He looked at her, and shrugged. Why not? He had done all that could be done for the moment.
Moments later he was on top of her.
***
Ivana left the Metro at “Dejvická.” Head lowered, she walked to the waiting bus, 119. It was the end of the line, or rather, the beginning of the return trip to Ruzyne International Airport.
Most of the seats were empty. She chose one by a window, halfway back. She stacked her backpack on the aisle seat to discourage any potential occupant. Then she leaned her head to the side and pretended to sleep.
All the while, she vigilantly observed each new boarder through half-closed lids. One man in particular unsettled her. His shoes were shiny leather and expensive. He did not belong on a bus. He chose a seat between her and the front door.
The last man to board appeared to be American. He stopped and studied her backpack, as if to move it. She held it firmly in place. Her signal was clear. He backed away.
He sat behind and opposite, next to the window. Ivana pushed herself further against hers.
At last, the driver engaged the gears and the bus pulled away.
***
On the bus to the airport, Bill Hamm was in a quandary.
The young woman seated across from him matched the description of “Ivana Novotna,” but under that kerchief her hair was short and black. He had expected long blond tresses.
Her behavior was the key. She was clearly on the run. And her destination was Prague’s Ruzyne International Airport.
This must be the “Ivana” he sought.
***
Bill Hamm worked for the CIA out of the United States Embassy in Vienna. The day before, he and his coworkers had received an alarming text message from a known assassin and former Communist, Gustav Slavik. He appeared desperate.
A stockpile of deadly “Novichok nerve agents,” ostensibly destroyed by the Russians to comply with the Chemical Weapons Convention, had been secretly transported to the United States by former Czech Communists under the aegis of the pharmaceutical giant, Hus-Kinetika. Gustav would share what he knew of the secret stash in exchange for American protection and asylum for a young woman, Ivana Novotna, who also had evidence of the conspiracy.
The scenario stretched all credulity. Nerve agents were incredibly difficult to handle, and many had died doing so. Still, Hus-Kinetika had the means and knowledge to store the material Gustav described. But Gustav was vehemently anti-American. What hold could “Ivana” have on him that he would seek help from his enemies? The team’s inclination was to ignore his allegations as some sort of ruse.
Then Bill Hamm’s friend, Jeannine Ryan, had called and told him of the problems in Hus-Kinetika’s report on Xolak. Two negative references to the giant company in one day tipped the scale. Bill and his partner Tom had flown to Prague to investigate. There, another text from Gustav stated that Ivana was on her way to the airport.
For someone on foot, the logical route from Ivana’s office to the airport was by metro to the “Dejvická” stop and thence by bus to the airport. Bill had waited at that stop. When the young woman appeared and boarded the bus, he had done likewise.
***
The bus ground its gears towards Prague’s Ruzyne Airport.
Bill watched the man with the expensive shoes shift in his seat and fidget with his phone. His hands moved constantly.
Opposite him sat a mother with her young son. The boy slept on her shoulder. Doubtless, she was a single mother who had worked late. He was sure they were not headed for the airport. They would likely leave the bus soon.
The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) Page 12
