The Woman From Prague Read online

  I still can’t tell if he’s dangerous.

  The guys he’s with, yes, absolutely. But there’s something about this guy that strikes me as both sinister and… soft? Either I’m not smart enough to be afraid of him, or I have no reason to be.

  “You know my name,” I tell him. “What do I call you?”

  “You can call me Mr. X,” he says.

  “No.”

  He purses his lips and inhales sharply, like he’s about to laugh. “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean that’s a dumb nickname. I’m not calling you that with a straight face. Think of something else.”

  “Fine. Call me Roman.”

  “Okay, Roman. That’s much better. So, Roman, what do you want?”

  “First things first,” he says. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “Nope. Not until you and your asshole friends came and fucked that up.”

  Pug and Hulk don’t bristle at this. I wonder if it’s because they don’t understand English or don’t care what I have to say.

  “First, it’s important to me that you’re truthful,” Roman says. “Because if someone else walks through that door, I’m going to shoot them dead. Second, can you please stop with the profanity? It’s… uncouth.”

  “We’re alone,” I tell him. “Asshole.”

  He shakes his head, pushes the edge of his sunglasses with a fingertip until they’re parallel to the long end of the table, forming an L with the remote. “You don’t seem all that flustered by this.”

  “Like I said, it’s not my first time,” I tell him. “I call it the John McClane Paradox of Bullshit.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “You’ve never seen Die Hard?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re lame, on top of everything else,” I tell him.

  He clears his throat. “So, about why I’m here. First, let me ask you, do you know what a golem is?”

  “Little weirdo with a jewelry obsession. Hangs around Mount Doom.”

  He shakes his head. “Golem. G-O-L-E-M. The golem is a very famous Prague legend. It is a beast of Jewish folklore, a creature created from clay by a rabbi. It is given life by magic to serve at the behest of its creator. A golem is a big, brutish thing. Strong, but not clever. Completely obedient.”

  “C’mon. Rip the bandage off. Tell me what you want.”

  He glances toward the ceiling—I think rolling his eyes—and looks back at me. “Foul language aside, I like you. You’re bold. You’re going to be a good fit for this. I represent the United States government. The agency I work for, you’ve probably never heard of it. Most people haven’t. When we do our job right, no one hears about us.”

  “You’re… what? A spy or something?”

  “I am a creator of golems,” he says. “It is really very hard to maintain the identities of covert agents. As soon as something goes on a computer, some fourteen-year-old kid in China has it. Every now and then we find ourselves with a job that’s important, but not important enough to risk one of our primary assets. Think of real spies as the high-value pieces arranged alongside the back of a chessboard. Do you play chess?”

  “Occasionally.”

  He nods. “The knights and rooks and bishops. You don’t risk them unless utterly necessary. The pawns, meanwhile, are expendable.”

  “And… you want me to be a pawn, or a golem, or whatever?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to be a spy?”

  “No, I want you to do a job for me.”

  This is where I start laughing. Pug and Hulk don’t flinch, but Roman looks disappointed.

  “Fuck off, dude,” I tell him. “This is nonsense.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  Roman removes his leather gloves and places them on the table, next to the remote. Then he takes a piece of paper, folded in thirds, out from inside his jacket pocket. He unfolds it and pushes everything—the remote, the gloves, the glasses—off to the side. He runs his fingers along the creases of the page to smooth it out. There’s a lot of compact handwriting I can’t read.

  “Ashley Florian McKenna,” he says. “Father died on 9/11. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Fuck yourself.”

  “A little over a year ago you were still living in New York,” he says, looking at the text, not at me. “You have some loose associations with Ginny Tonic, a known drug distributor. Before you left, the police were looking at you for the murder and rape of one Michelle Long. Though they eventually caught the real perpetrator. You come up a lot in police records. No actual police reports, but your name is in the system.” He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. “I’ve heard you fancy yourself a private detective.”

  That’s all about right, with a few minor parts missing—I freelanced for Ginny, mostly making deliveries of packages I was smart enough to not look inside.

  And I loved Chell. She loved me, too, just not the same way. So when I found the guy who killed her, rather than kill him, which had been my preference, I dimed him out to the cops. Figured it might be nice to break the cycle of violence.

  “It wasn’t professional, the detective thing,” I tell him. “I helped people and sometimes they gave me money and sometimes they gave me booze or drugs. I was comfortable operating on a barter system. I was more of a blunt instrument.”

  Roman smiles. “Blunt instrument. I like that.” He looks down at the paper. “So you left New York and six months later you’re living in Portland, where a couple of interesting things happen. Mike Fletcher, who was running for Congress, ends up the focus of a federal investigation. Among the complaints was harassing the employees at a strip club where you worked. And one of his employees, Chris Wilson, was found buried in a hole under a tree off a hiking trail. Neck broken. He got buried around the time you left Portland, best as I can tell.”

  This is the first I’m hearing Wilson had been found. Something happens to my face because Roman narrows his eyes, realizing he’s hit a nerve.

  And yes, I did kill Wilson, but it was mostly an accident, and anyway, it was to protect two people—Crystal, a dancer at the club, and her daughter, Rose. I really do not like the direction this is headed. My stomach twists and the bits of apple I ate are threatening to make a re-appearance.

  “A few months after that, you’re living in a hippie commune down in the Georgia woods,” he says. “Two people died. And a fracking derrick got blown up. There are rumors that a militant environmental group is involved… the Soldiers of Gaia.” He stops reading from the paper and looks up at me. “So, there are two interesting conclusions to draw from this. One is bad things happen and you run. Which makes me draw the second conclusion: you are very good at getting into and then out of trouble.”

  This is getting worse and worse. The involvement of the Soldiers was supposed to be covered up. That was the entire point—blow the derrick, save the community, stop the militant assholes from making a name off it. Where the hell is he getting all this?

  “Yeah, I don’t know about any of that,” I tell him, trying to play it cool, though I can’t help but look away.

  “Here’s the thing,” he says, folding up the piece of paper, pressing down hard on the creased edges until it lays flat. “I don’t know what you have or haven’t done. Maybe you weren’t involved in any of this. But you have to understand that this all looks very bad for you.” He taps the folded paper. “Someplace in here is something I can take advantage of. And I will. I can make your life very, very difficult. At the same time, there are records I can strategically eliminate, so even if someone sat with all of this information, your name wouldn’t be so prevalent.”

  Well. It was only a matter of time, I guess.

  Karma finally came to collect.

  This, though, is not my jam. I have never been good at following orders, and I don’t aim to get into the habit.

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m not going to be blackmailed into doing some asshole’s bidding.
Especially some government stooge. I reiterate my original request: fuck off. You want to throw this shit at me, go ahead. We’ll see how it plays out. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Pug huffs and shakes his head. Maybe he does speak English. Though my response might transcend language.

  Roman licks his lips and raises an eyebrow, not even a little surprised. “I thought it might come to this. I really did. So, there’s one piece of information I would like you to consider before confirming for me that this is your final decision.”

  He removes a very fancy fountain pen from inside his jacket and scribbles something on the folded piece of paper. He turns it around so what he wrote is facing me, and slides it across the table.

  It’s my mother’s address.

  My whole world goes red.

  “That’s a funny way to commit suicide,” I tell him, and throw myself across table, grabbing him by his collar, and I don’t care if those two assholes have guns, I am going to do my best to put his face through the floor.

  Before I’ve even got a good grip on Roman, Pug and Hulk grab my arms. Once I’m off-balance, Pug lets go of me and Hulk pulls me to his side, wraps his arms around me, lifts me into the air, and slams me down on the table. It creaks but surprisingly doesn’t break. Good on Ikea.

  I throw my elbow hard into Hulk’s gut and catch him square. He staggers back, gasping for breath, and I try to roll off the table. Pug grabs me by the shirt and drags me toward him. I slide off and hit the floor hard, knocking the little bit of wind out of my lungs. I twist to get up, but Roman’s leather loafer presses into my throat. I grab it by the toe and heel, try to move it, but it doesn’t budge.

  He’s stronger that I would have guessed.

  He is also very angry.

  The smile is gone. The cool, bemused demeanor has dissipated. He’s leaving me enough room to breathe, but barely. Within seconds, dark patches float on the edge of my vision.

  “The flight time from here to New York is eight hours and forty-two minutes,” he says. “I can be on a chartered jet in under an hour. Depending on the time of day, it could take anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to get from the airport to your mother’s doorstep. I could be in her kitchen in approximately ten hours if the timing works out. Would that be preferable?”

  “Fuck… you,” I tell him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fine,” I tell him.

  “Convince me that you are sincere,” he says, letting off the pressure a little. “Because given your attitude, I’m not so sure you won’t take another dive at me.”

  “I promise,” I tell him.

  And I mean it, too.

  The pressure increases again. Like he has to think about it.

  After a moment, he lets go. I sit up and look at Hulk, who’s cradling his midsection and looks like all he wants in this world is to stomp my head until it ruptures like an overripe pumpkin.

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “Honestly, can you blame me though?”

  He shrugs, like he gets it.

  The chairs got knocked over in the scuffle. We right them and seat ourselves. Roman sits down, smiling again, like none of what happened actually happened.

  There’s not even room for negotiation at this point. He’s got me and he knows it.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” I say.

  He smiles again. “See? That was easy.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was so very not easy.”

  Pug reaches into his coat and hands Roman an envelope. Roman opens it and places a photograph on the table. A black-and-white shot of a petite blonde. She’s a little plain, in a high school sweetheart way. Like you’d expect her to make a scrunchy face and cough after having a sip of beer.

  “Samantha Sobolik,” Roman says. “Czech, late twenties. She works for Hemera Global, a bank based in the United States with offices here in Prague. Sometime tonight, she’s going to receive some information that we would very much like to have. Probably on a thumb drive or a small laptop. You’re going to retrieve it for us.”

  “I don’t even know how to start with that,” I tell him.

  “You’re going to figure it out,” he says. “You have to understand, the information she has is very valuable and very dangerous. You’ll be doing your country a service.”

  “Fuck my country,” I tell him. “Priority number one is my mom.”

  “We’ll leave this photograph with you. On the back is her address, as well as locations in her neighborhood she is known to frequent. Memorize it and destroy it. Then get to work.”

  “Say I get whatever it is you’re looking for. What then?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll find you.”

  “If I do this, what? Free and clear? You don’t bother me or my mom?”

  “Never again,” he says. “This is a one-off.”

  “This Samantha,” I say, nodding toward the photo. “Is she dangerous?”

  “If this were difficult, I’d put one of my men on it,” he says. “But I’m afraid she might be under surveillance and my men are known in this country and could be compromised. Hence you. Nobody knows you here. I don’t need finesse. I need a tool. A blunt instrument, if you will.”

  Roman stands and brushes off his coat, like the act of being in this apartment has sullied him. Pug and Hulk stand behind him. “I know this is a little odd, but I’m a serious person and I suggest you take this seriously. It’ll be done before you know it.”

  They turn to leave and I tell him, “One thing.”

  The three of them turn.

  “You rang a bell you can’t unring,” I tell Roman. “If I get even the hint that my mother is in any kind of danger, I will come after you. I get that you’re a cool guy with thugs and guns and shit. But I’m a born and bred New Yorker with anger management issues. So even if I don’t kill you, you best believe I’m going to take a chunk out of you before you put me down.”

  Roman smiles again. “As I said before, I like you.”

  As he’s walking to the front, he stops at the kitchen counter, by the neat little pile I made when I came in and emptied my pockets. Phone, wallet, and passport. He picks up the first two, places them to the side, and holds up my passport.

  “I’m keeping this for now,” he says before disappearing from view.

  The door at the front of the apartment slams to signal their departure.

  What the actual fuck?

  I sit back, rest my head against the wall, and stare at the ceiling.

  This whole thing is so ridiculous, part of me believes it didn’t even happen. And I might fully believe that if not for the soreness of my throat and the overwhelming feeling of dread hanging in the air like a toxic cloud.

  I get up and go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and down it, pour another and place it on the counter, not sure if I want it. I pick up my phone and text Kaz: Need help.

  Pats is my favorite kind of bar: perpetually empty, so I have to wonder how it is they stay open.

  Gray light is streaming through the windows and “Lost in the Supermarket” by The Clash is playing a little too loud for mid-day. The bartender, who looks like he should be living under a bridge and asking people riddles, puts a golden pint of Pilsner Urquell in front of me before I’m even settled on the stool. It’s a beer I wouldn’t drink back home, but here it’s like Guinness in Dublin. It’s made locally, and you drink it here because it’s best when fresh.

  I toss some coins onto the bar and the bartender takes them without acknowledging me.

  “Na zdraví,” I say as he moves to the other end of the bar.

  People think the Czechs are rude. I don’t see it like that. They share a lot in common with New Yorkers. You live in a big, old city, in a relentless crush of people, you’re bound to develop a callus. This city is way older than New York, plus it’s been through a lot, with the revolutions and regime changes. The thing we have in common is we just want little peace and quiet.

  Pats is a good pl
ace for that. Always the same bartender, infrequent crowds, and the décor is very much my aesthetic: old-school punk rock posters in Czech, covering every available inch of space on the walls.

  The door opens and I hear Kaz before I see him. The clinking of the thick chain hanging from the belt loop on his jeans, disappearing into his pocket and connected to his wallet.

  Then I smell him. The cloud of cologne that precedes him is so thick I’m surprised I can’t see it. He hops onto the stool next to me, wearing a sheepskin Russian-style military hat, a black sweater, and red and black plaid pants with boots made for stomping heads in mosh pits. The outfit looks wrong on him somehow, with his soft, boyish face, and jittery energy. He’s past thirty, but I wouldn’t fault anyone for guessing he was twenty.

  “You smell like a French hooker,” I tell him.

  “It is very manly smell,” he says, his Russian accent leaning heavy onto his words. “You are jealous. I will lend you some.”

  The bartender puts a beer in front of him. We hoist our glasses and clink them. He downs half of it and says, “Vashe zrodovy, my friend.”

  I met Kaz on one of my first nights here. I was wandering the city by myself, completely lost, when I heard the sound of a punk klezmer band playing “Hava Nagila.”

  I had nothing to do and nowhere to go so I followed the music. That’s music you follow. I found myself inside a small bar, the band alternating between Eastern European folk songs with a punk-rock tilt. I bought a beer for fifty cents American and mixed into the crowd and the surge of it pushed me forward until I was right in front of the stage.

  The floor was plywood and it shook when everyone jumped but I jumped with them. Sweaty bodies were pressed into me and there was a mess of languages buzzing in the air.

  And then the band cut into a cover of “Folsom Prison Blues” and every single person in that place began to sing it.

  Every single person.

  It was a moment I’ll carry with me the rest of my life. Half a world away and alone and a little afraid and lonely and here was something so familiar. People finding connection through music. Johnny Cash, no less.