The Woman From Prague Page 3

  Halfway through the song, I felt an arm around me. It was Kaz. He was singing and I was signing, and we finished strong, so close to the stage now we were practically singing into the mic.

  We sang Johnny Cash and we hugged and he bought me a beer. I don’t have brothers but I imagine that’s what it must feel like to have them. After that, he invited me out for more beers, and even though I didn’t take him up on the drinks, I still went out and we had a good time.

  He’s been my one and only friend in the time I’ve been here.

  I like having one friend. Keeps things concise.

  Even better, that friendship blossomed into a pretty solid business relationship.

  “Before we get to it, may we conduct our business?” Kaz asks. “This way it is done.”

  I take an envelope out of my coat and put it on the bar. He picks it up and peeks inside, finds a list of apartments that’ll be free and empty for the next couple of days. He nods and takes out a tightly-packed roll of Czech bills and holds it toward me. I stuff them into my pocket.

  This is my side-gig. One that Stanislav would probably not be thrilled about. Kaz is in a line of business that requires empty apartments. I have no idea why and I’ve never asked. It’s just a thing we came around to in conversation one night.

  I make about five thousand crown per “rental”, which works out to a little over two hundred dollars. It’s a nice partnership, because I don’t have to do anything and the apartments are always immaculate when he’s done with them.

  “I do not know what I’m going to do when you leave,” he says.

  “You’ll manage.”

  “Maybe you stay? I will take care of you,” he says. “You come stay in my apartment. I have a beautiful apartment. Many rooms.” He spins a little in the seat to look at me. “And the women, my friend. I will introduce you to women who are so beautiful you will have no idea why they are even talking to you.”

  That conjures an image of Crystal. Her hair buzzed to stubble on one side of her head, black hair draping like a curtain on the other. Blue-green tempered glass eyes.

  “I already know how that feels,” I tell him.

  He chugs the last of his beer, waves the empty pint glass at the bartender, who comes over to fill it. He doesn’t do anything to mine even though it’s nearly empty, because he knows I won’t have another.

  “So what is the problem?” Kaz asks.

  The bartender is out of earshot, down at the other end cleaning some glasses. I’ve also never heard him speak a word of English so I’m not too worried. The bar is empty save us. I walk him through what happened. It sounds ridiculous, saying it: some government clown is blackmailing me into a one-and-done spy mission.

  After I finish, he nods and says, “You sound very fucked.” But not at all surprised. Like this is the most normal thing in the world for me to be telling him.

  “Thanks. You ever hear of anything like this?”

  “I have heard stories,” he says. “Expats and tourists get jammed up on this thing or that thing. Sex and drug stuff. Girl notices wedding ring so they go to wife. They know your name, they know your Facebook, your shit is done. But no, never anything like this.” He takes a swig of beer. “You are going to do it, then?”

  “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  Kaz looks around and lowers his voice, even though we’re still alone. “I know people. Good people.” He taps his temple. “Smart people. I can have you out of here in a few hours.” He flattens his hand and arcs it through the air. “Leaving on the jet plane.”

  “I’m worried they might actually go after my mom,” I tell him.

  “I suspect it is bluff. If the job is so easy, it does not seem worth flying all the way to America to murder old lady to motivate you.”

  I drain the beer, put the empty glass on the coaster. Drop my head forward and rest it against the bar. It’s not a terrible point. If I leave, are they really going after her? Or will they find someone else to complete the task?

  It’s too big an if.

  “Can’t risk it,” I tell him, picking my head back up.

  “Maybe tell her to leave town for a little while?”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start with that,” I tell him. “How do I explain all this? I don’t want to scare her.”

  “Look on the bright side,” he says. “You are like James Bond now. Without all the toys and the good looks and ability to seduce women.”

  “Thanks. The 1970s called. They want you to know the communist punk look was lame even back then.”

  “We only got this look last year, Mister Fancypants American. Still in style.” Kaz drains his beer. “You want weapon? Someone to back you up? I get it for you. Easy.”

  “I don’t think I need to take it that far.”

  “Good to be safe. I know a guy. Get you whatever you need. For a price, of course. But you will be, what do the Americans say? Strapped.”

  “I don’t think I need to take it that far. I’m more worried about missing the exchange.”

  “You need me, you call me. Understand?”

  “I will, thanks.”

  “You want another?” Kaz asks. “I will have another.”

  “You know I try to keep it to one,” I tell him, getting up.

  Kaz sticks one finger in the air and the bartender nods, takes the empty glasses, and goes to pour a fresh one. “You should build a better tolerance, my friend.”

  The thing I don’t want to tell him is that a few months ago I was self-medicating with whiskey and when the supply ran out, I got hit with a case of the DTs. I probably shouldn’t be drinking at all, but beer is practically water and, anyway, it’s nice to have a little something to take the edge off.

  Also, it’s not like I’ve ever been good at doing the smart thing.

  “I’m getting old,” I tell him, placing some coins on the bar, enough to cover one of Kaz’s beers. I pat him on the shoulder and he puts his hand over mine.

  “It will all work out in the end. You will see.”

  “Yeah. We’ll see.”

  Once I’ve got the information on the photo memorized, I crumble it up and drop it in a trashcan on a corner. I already know the street with Samantha’s apartment—Crash Hop has an place over there. It’s across town, which means walking, and that much is nice because Prague is a good walking town. I stick in my earbuds and click over to Bach’s cello suites as performed by Yo-Yo Ma, and let that rip.

  Good walking town, good walking music.

  Leaves me with some space to think. It’s a good space for that. Big, sprawling, lots of nooks and crannies to explore. Confusing as shit because I can’t pronounce any of the street names, and they zig and zag and stop and reform and circle back on themselves.

  This has been my first time out of the country. What continues to strike me as incredible, even though I’ve been here for more than two months, is the age of the city. So much of it has been standing for longer than anything in America. It does well at challenging your perspective, and makes you realize how much bigger the world is. How much of it you don’t know.

  The architecture, in particular, is fascinating to me. I’ve been learning a little about it. There are buildings here that remind me of buildings in New York. There’s a synagogue that looks like the inside of the Village East Cinema. Apparently it’s called Moorish revival style. Of course I recognize the Gothic style from St. Patrick’s Cathedral, but there’s also Romanesque, like the Mercer Hotel, and Renaissance, similar to Casa Belvedere, an Italian cultural center on Staten Island, not too far from where I grew up.

  To be clear, I barely understand what any of these terms mean. I can’t explain the difference between art nouveau and baroque. But I like the way I can wander around and come across something that reminds me of home, even this far away.

  I spend a lot of time wandering and reading, and some of it is beginning to stick. I wish I was this motivated to learn stuff while I was still in school. I would have been
a much better student.

  I bunch up my coat against a gust of wind. The snow has stopped but it’s still pretty damn cold. I move in the general direction of where I think Samantha’s apartment is. I should probably consult a map.

  I think I’ve strayed too far but come out on Wenceslas Square, which is actually a half-mile long and shaped like a rectangle, with a wide street and businesses lined up on either side. It’s got a boutique feel, more so than the rest of the city. That aside, it’s a big, pretty spot, and a popular place for demonstrations.

  It takes a little while and a bit of backtracking, but at the other end of the square I find the street I’m looking for: Římská. A few blocks later and I’m outside a bland apartment building. Far less people here. This neighborhood is more residential. No businesses in sight save the coffee shop across the street, and coffee strikes me as a good idea, so I head in and order an Americano to go and sit at a table in the corner.

  It’s mostly empty, just a few people reading books or poking away at laptops. I take my laptop out of my backpack, find the Wi-Fi network, which is unprotected, and research the list of businesses Samantha is known to frequent, to get a sense of what kind of area I’m working with. There’s a dry cleaner and a grocery and two restaurants on the list, besides this coffee shop.

  Should have kept the photo. I could take it to the guy working the counter. Ask him if he recognizes her.

  I poke around a little on Facebook and Twitter, hoping to find a Samantha Sobolik. I can only find a LinkedIn profile with some of her job information, which sucks, because LinkedIn is about as useful as a handle on a bowling ball.

  I get bored with that and figure on clicking around Google to see if there are any good examples of the bullshit I’m currently facing down. But I don’t know what to search for outside of “spy blackmail.” So I search for that, and the first story it returns is about a spy who was blackmailed with racy photos and murdered by the KGB.

  Not a comforting start to this search.

  I check my e-mail to see what the new assignments are from Stanislav. It’s a light couple of days, which is good. Again, he ends the message by asking me to stay on and offering to get my work visa straightened out. Even though I’ve heard it’s a huge pain in the ass and takes longer than I’m allowed to be here, he insists he can get it taken care of quickly.

  My enthusiasm for staying is suddenly a lot lower, unfortunately.

  As I’m opening a new tab to search for flights, picking Tokyo to start, a brush of blonde hair floats across the window. I grab my laptop and ditch the half-empty coffee and duck outside, nearly slamming the door into a lean, young Middle Eastern guy with a top knot and some patchy facial hair. I apologize to him and he gives me a dirty look as I dash onto the sidewalk, where I see Samantha walking down the street with a bag of groceries.

  Well shit, that was easier than I expected.

  Except I have no idea what to do right now.

  I can’t follow her into her building. I mean, I can, but that’s creepy, and there’s an outside chance I’ll get maced or kicked in the balls for the effort. Better she doesn’t see me. So I stand there and watch her disappear inside.

  After five minutes of watching the front of the building, I consider going back for another cup of coffee. I can’t stand here. It’s a quiet street and I’m staring at a building. It makes me wish I still smoked. At least then I’d have an excuse to be outside.

  As I’m thinking I should go, the front door opens and Samantha comes out, headed in the direction of Wenceslas Square. She doesn’t seem to notice me and I hang back. Another few blocks and it’ll be so crowded that I can get closer.

  So we walk, and I follow twenty to thirty paces behind her.

  I try to figure out Samantha’s deal. Something to pass the time. From the way she carries herself, from the neat way she’s dressed, I bet she’s polite. Probably has a cat, or at least shares a lot of cat pictures online. Drinks cider. Talks to her mom every day.

  Character profiles are fun. Back when I was doing the amateur PI thing, I would sometimes have to follow people. Not a lot, but every now and again. Sometimes I would have to follow people and keep a log of where they went. I would create profiles for them in my head to see how much I got right about them if our paths actually crossed.

  A lot of the time, I got pretty close. Some of the finer details I’d flub, but you meet enough people, you see patterns in their stride, the lines of their faces, the tone of their voice, their word choice.

  The thing I don’t like about this is there’s a wide-eyed innocence radiating off Samantha. So I’m hoping that whatever goes down between Roman and me manages to stay clear of her.

  By the time she stops, we’re back near the apartment where Roman and his men jumped me. She turns down a side street and stops at a café. That’s cover enough, so I follow her inside. It’s crowded and she sits at a table so I do the same, taking a seat across the dim, noisy room.

  This is the first time I’ve ever followed someone across half a city.

  I hate to say it, but it’s kind of fun.

  Every time I think I’m going to get away from this kind of work, I end up doing it.

  I should take that as a sign.

  She orders some food and I do the same because I’m starving. I pick something that is mostly meat and potatoes and bread because everything in Prague is meat and potatoes and bread. Which is nice. I’ve spent the last year mostly around vegans and have some making up to do.

  The food comes out quickly and I dig into it, keeping one eye on Samantha, who’s reading a book with a title I can’t make out.

  Once I’m done with the food, I order a coffee and open my laptop, not wanting to be sitting here doing nothing. The Wi-Fi login is scratched on a blackboard behind the bar, so I hop on and as soon as I open my e-mail, a chat window pops up.

  Bombay: Yo. What’s up?

  Bombay is my closest friend from back home. One of the few people besides my mom I miss on a routine basis. It’s been a while since we spoke, so even though I feel like I should be paying attention to Samantha, I figure I owe it to him.

  Me: Nothing much. Working.

  Bombay: How’s the other side of the world?

  Me: Good. How are things there?

  Bombay: Same. You’re not missing much. That’s a nice laptop.

  Me: How do you know what kind of laptop I’m using? You’re like 20,000 miles away.

  Bombay: 4,000 miles. And I know what type of laptop you’re using because you’re shit at internet security and so is the coffee shop you’re sitting in.

  That’s the other fun thing about Bombay. He works in IT and does some light hacking, which, given the things I tend to get caught up in, often comes in handy. Our friendship extends beyond that usefulness—we’ve been friends since grade school, actually—which is why I don’t usually feel bad asking him to help me out with stuff.

  Except for that time his apartment got trashed by someone looking for me. That wasn’t so good.

  Bombay: You must be making good money. That’s an expensive rig.

  Me: Someone left it behind in an apartment.

  Bombay: So you stole it.

  Me: It’s not stealing. We tried for three weeks to get in contact with the person who left it. If they want it back, I’ll hand it over. But until then, finders keepers. You’d be amazed at the kind of stuff people leave behind.

  Bombay: Hold on…

  The computer screen flashes and the mouse zooms around the computer, zipping through folders. After a few minutes of this, the chat window flashes green.

  Bombay: There. I checked to make sure the person didn’t leave behind any porn or personal information.

  Me: That’s nice of you. Last time you did that you needed me to download a program and give you access.

  Bombay: Learned some new tricks. You’d be amazed at how vulnerable computers are. You don’t want to fuck around on this stuff.

  Bombay: So when you coming h
ome?

  Me: Not sure yet.

  Bombay: Everything okay?

  Me: Yeah. Why?

  Bombay: Seems like something is wrong. From your tone.

  Me: It’s words on a screen. How is there a tone?

  Bombay: C’mon.

  The other thing about Bombay is he knows me better than anyone, so if there’s something to pick up on, he’s the one to do it. Part of me wants to clue him in—I might need his help before this is over—but I also don’t want to get him involved. Not on something this weird. Given that he’s Muslim and works with computers, he’s convinced he’s being at least passively monitored. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that was true.

  I’m trying to think of a good excuse that’ll throw him off the scent when there’s movement at the front of the café. A man enters who appears to be homeless, given the tattered state of his clothes and the sloppy beard. The hostess makes a face, like she’s going to bounce him, but he looks around and zeroes in on Samantha, walks to her table, and leans in close to her so he can whisper something.

  She doesn’t recoil, doesn’t turn up her nose. Just nods, hands him some money, and he walks away.

  That’s interesting.

  Me: Everything will be fine. I have to run. Sorry.

  An ellipses pops up under the message, to indicate Bombay is tapping out a response, but I don’t wait for it. I leave some money on the table and when I’m sure Samantha is focused back on her book, I shove the laptop in my bag and duck out the door.

  The homeless guy stops in a liquor store and comes out moments later with something in a brown paper bag, then walks a little to a public park off the Vltava. The wind is harsh and frigid coming off the water.

  The man sits on a bench, takes a plastic flask bottle of vodka from the bag, then downs a good portion in one gulp. I had planned on taking this slow, but at the rate he’s going, I don’t know how much longer he’s going to be useful. Within ten feet of him I can smell him. He smells like mildew. As I get closer, he tucks the bottle inside his coat, as though afraid for it.

  “In that café, you spoke to a girl,” I tell him.