The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (18 page)

In Namur, Gustav Slavik paced back and forth in his room. He paused and looked out the window. The traffic on the rue de Bruxelles was at a standstill.

He smashed his hands together. The American’s call was overdue.
What’s his name, “Hamm.” Hamm, where the hell are you?

Something was wrong!
Ivana, what happened?

Not that far from Gustav’s room, the rue de Borgnet enters the place Leopold. Rush hour traffic jammed the juncture. The motionless cars would have looked like a parking lot, but for the fact that they were jammed in random directions, rather than in orderly lines.

The VW Passat, caught in the midst of this impasse, was squeezed far to the right of its destination. The driver, Josef Hrubec, cursed and hammered the horn in frustration.

In the back seat, Ivana huddled in fear against the driver-side door. Next to her sat Hans. The smile was gone. His cheek had three red streaks, a memento of her struggle. He pressed a tissue to his face, it came away smeared with blood.

Hans glared. Ivana pushed harder against the door. It did not yield.

Hans’ smile became a grimace, truly ugly. He balled his fist and cocked his arm for a smashing blow. Ivana shrank away.

Hrubec intervened.

“Damn it Hans, stop! What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? Karel said not to touch her. If he finds a bruise on her, he’ll kill you. He alone will ‘deal’ with her.”

Hans continued to glare, his fist still balled.

“So?”

“So trust me. Do not cross Karel. You’ve never met him. When you do, you’ll thank me. I just saved your life.”

Hans looked away. He lowered his arm and relaxed his fingers.

Hrubec studied Hans in the rear mirror. He spoke over his shoulder.

“That’s better! We’ll both be rewarded for this. Mr. Moravec is very generous when he gets his way.”

He spied an opening and pulled in front of a Mercedes truck. One more lane and he would be on the N91, headed for E411, the main route to Brussels.

Hans withdrew to his side of the car. His retreat was little comfort to Ivana. She sat trembling.

Hrubec understood her fear.

No one quits Karel. He alone must be the one to terminate a relationship.

He drove on.

For this girl, the “termination” would be permanent.

Bill Hamm was desperate. He had blown his assignment, but he was not thinking of his own career.

Now he was certain that Karel Moravec had Ivana.

He thought of that old assassin, Gustav Slavik, who was waiting for his call. He had read Slavik’s dossier. Years ago Gustav had supplied arms to a communist cell in this very town. Now Bill must ally himself with this man to deal with Moravec and his enforcers.

An alliance with a monster? Hamm, this can’t work.

He smiled ruefully.

If it doesn’t, I’ll be dead soon anyway!

At that cheerful thought, He punched Gustav’s number in his phone.

He needed to talk with the monster.

“Brrring, Brrring, Brrring, Brrring, ...”

Hrubec drove the VW north on the E411 towards Brussels. The Passat rode smoothly, absorbing the vibrations of the roadway.

The comfortable ride meant nothing to the two riders in the back seat. They sat spaced as far apart as the car’s interior permitted. Neither spoke.

Hans sat erect, muscles taut. He glared at Ivana

Ivana slumped sideways, eyes down. She stared at the floor mat under her sneakers. Incongruously she noted that it smelled new. She coughed and her shoulders began to shake.

The cultivated fields on either side of the highway were gray and lifeless, devoid of snow. Far to the right, a long line of trees, branches bare, marked the horizon.

Hrubec slowed the VW and exited the throughway.

Ivana rolled with the turning car. She saw a sign “Chaussée de Charleroi,” but there was no town, no house, only dry dead fields awaiting next Spring’s planting.

Hrubec laughed and turned to Hans.

“The Americans will think we went to Brussels. They’ll never find us. There’s a farm ahead. We’ll stay there and wait for Karel’s instructions.”

Hans bristled at Ivana.
Just wait bitch, I’m not done with you yet.

In Namur, Bill Hamm, a camera slung on his shoulder, stood across from the train station. Like any other tourist, an open map was in his hand. In reality, he surveyed the Gaufres-de-Liège
stand across the way. Gustav would come there. He would sport a dark blue baseball cap for recognition.

Bill waited. A cab stopped at the entrance to the train station. A man got out. Maybe? No, he was hatless.

Bill felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see an older man, beardless but with gray stubble on his cheeks. He wore a dark blue cap. The man spoke.

“Mr. Hamm, when you do surveillance in Belgium, keep your hands out of your pockets. It’s so American.”

Bill looked down. His left hand
was
in his pocket.

“And don’t pose as a tourist. You must have known I would look for an ‘American.’”

The last word was pronounced with a sneer. Bill bristled, but Gustav was not finished.

“No wonder you lost Ivana.”

At that jibe, Bill’s hand slid into his jacket. His hand found the 9 mm M9 in his shoulder holster. Gustav stepped back, hands open in front of him.

“No wait. I’m unarmed. Your American airport security was too much. I had to leave my Makarov in New York.”

His hands dropped.

“Besides, you stopped Moravec’s assassins from killing the girl. That was not easy. I respect that and I thank you for it.”

Bill’s hand left his jacket.

“Please Mr. Hamm, I accept your offer. I will do anything to help you find her.”

Gustav held out his hand. Bill ignored it and spoke.

“All right. I have descriptions of the two men who took her. One was young, good looking with fair skin, tall, with a Flemish accent. He had a red Kawasaki, a 250 cc. He abandoned it when they took Ivana.”

Gustav shook his head negatively.

“This man I do not know. He would be a local hire.”

“The other man drove a VW Passat, black.”

Gustav showed a faint smile. Bill continued.

“He was short, stocky and slightly bald, with a narrow face and sharp nose. He wore a well-pressed suit. Apparently he was the boss of the two.”

Gustav’s smile disappeared.

“That one is Josef Hrubec. He likes German cars. He is one of Moravec’s top men. He’s short and looks mild, you underestimate him and you die. He’s very dangerous. Even I avoided him when I was in Prague.”

Gustav paused. He looked away and spoke, as if to himself.

“Hrubec! Damn, that is bad news.”

The house was not far from the little town of Malèves, Belgium. Built of stone, its style was typical of old Belgian farms. Half of the elongate building had been a barn for livestock. The other half had been the living area. The halves were joined together in a single structure to conserve heat during the winter.

At present, the former barn was split into a garage plus a windowless room that extended the living area. Thick oaken doors guarded the only exterior opening to the garage. Looking from the outside, there was no telling what might be hidden behind those closed portals.

From the front of the house, a mile-long lane ran through barren fields to the paved road. To the back, bushes and scattered trees lined a small creek.

Josef Hrubec waited in the Passat while Hans got out and swung the garage doors wide. There was ample room for the car inside. Hrubec signaled Hans not to close the doors, then he spoke to the rear seat.

“
Bitte Fräulein
, open your eyes, we are here.”

Hrubec waited. Ivana, stirred and sat up.

“
Bitte Fräulein
, I cannot wait. Get out of the car, now.”

She stepped out. From the garage a single door led to the living quarters. Hrubec gripped her arm and led her through it into a room with no windows. The walls were painted a glaring white. There was a lone bed in the corner. Above it, a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. The door opposite opened onto a hallway.

“Fräulein ‘Irma,’ this is your room. Please do not leave it except to use the ‘WC,’ the bathroom.”

He pointed to the hallway.

“The first door on the left. Now I must leave. Hans will care for you in my absence.”

Hrubec went back into the garage, got into the Passat, and drove away fast.

Hans watched the Passat disappear down the lane. Then he pulled the garage doors shut and went into Ivana’s room. She lay on the bed, her face buried in the pillow.

Hungry, he went to the kitchen. He had not eaten at the Arsenal while Ivana had munched her Croque Monsieur. That did it. He made himself a grilled cheese sandwich.

Hans touched his sore cheek. The girl must pay for that. He would fix her face. Forget this “Karel,” whoever he was.

There was plenty of time. Hrubec would not return for several hours.

The rented Renault sedan headed from Namur towards highway E411. Bill Hamm drove. Gustav sat in the passenger seat. His eyes were closed. He was either asleep or planning his next move. Bill suspected the latter. He spoke.

“Why don’t you think they took her to Brussels.”

“There are too many of your people there. Hrubec will avoid Brussels if he can.”

“Then why are we taking the E411?”

“The E411 was highway A4 when I was here last. There was no European Union then.”

Bill snorted.

“Answer the damn question. What’s the plan? Why Route E411?”

“We Czechs had two safe houses near here. I think Moravec kept them after your corrupt friends took over my country. Hrubec used one of them in the old days, me too. We take E411 to the Chausée de Charleroi.”

Gustav’s forehead furrowed. His shoulders drooped. His voice became a whisper.

“I have no God, Hamm, but if you do, pray for my Ivana. If Karel gets hold of her ...”

Bill Hamm guided the Renault north on E411. In the passenger seat, Gustav, head slumped, sat silent. He had not spoken since his comment on prayer.

Bill did not relax. His passenger appeared to sleep, but relying on appearances with a dangerous individual like Gustav could be fatal.

They were twenty kilometers from their exit when Gustav sat up. There was no sleep in his eyes or hesitation in his voice.

“Hamm, you cannot deal with Hrubec alone. I need a weapon.”

Bill kept his eyes on the road.

“Hamm, listen to me. I know you have a spare. I know your procedures.”

Bill smiled.
Procedures? My group is total chaos.
He kept his focus on the traffic ahead. After a moment he spoke.

“Tell me about Josef Hrubec. Why do you fear him?”

“It was in the pink prison on Bartolomejska Street. I assisted him in an interrogation.”

“But you were senior to him.”

“Only in age, not in Party rank. Anyway, he was in charge. I watched. It was too much, even for me. I found an excuse to leave the room. I went to the toilet and threw up. When I got back, the subject was dead. Useless too. Hrubec did not get the information.”

“I don’t believe you. I read your file. You ran hundreds of interrogations, and some died.”

“This was different. The boy was 18. The body, face were completely mutilated. He begged for death over and over. I almost shot him myself. Hrubec enjoyed it. He did not want answers. He wanted it to last. I don’t believe in angels, but Hrubec almost convinced me they are real. In that room, that day, there was pure evil, Satan himself. The air was rank. I couldn’t breathe, my arms felt paralyzed.”

“Finally, Hrubec put down the power tool, an American brand. I remember that, a ‘Milwaukee.’ At that moment, I escaped to the toilet.”

“When I got back, Hrubec stared at me. His eyes were black. He saw my fear and knew I could never challenge him. He smiled, put his hand on my shoulder, and pointed to the remains on the floor.”

“I was whipped. My legs were jelly. I gathered the boy up, blood everywhere, on my hands, clothes, unavoidable. I put him on the cart and pushed him away.”

Bill shuddered at the term “gathered.” His eyes turned back to the road.

Gustav fell silent again.

In the stone farmhouse, Ivana sat up on the bed and surveyed her surroundings. Except for the bed, the room was bare. There was nothing to use as a weapon.

Ivana’s fear of Hans was replaced by anger at herself. Her juvenile escapade had been stupid.
Ivana, you know better. What were you thinking?

She had not succeeded as top assistant to Karel Moravec by sex alone. Rather her success had preceded her seduction. Ivana was intelligent and resourceful, her carefully prepared flight from Karel had proved that.

She scanned the windowless walls once more. Nothing. She turned to the door to the garage. Locked. Her only choice was the corridor with the WC.

Ivana heard the sound of something frying in the kitchen. Hans must be there.

She stepped into the WC and closed the door. It had no lock.

The toilet was against the wall. To the right was the shower. A flimsy semicircular curtain separated it from the rest of the “closet.” It offered little shelter from leering eyes, and no protection from assault.

She turned on the fixture. The overhead spout was detachable, fed by a flexible metallic tube that allowed its use as a hand spray.

There was hot water. She turned it on, but drew back her hand quickly. Evidently the thermostat was set high.

Footsteps sounded from the kitchen. Ivana jumped.

Hans had finished eating.

The footsteps approached.

Bill Hamm pushed the Renault to its limit, but larger cars, Mercedes and others passed him with ease. A large sign appeared on the right.

Sortie Chausée de Charleroi, 1 km.

Bill glanced sideways. Gustav nodded.

“This is it. This is where we get off.”

Bill slowed. They quit the autoroute.

At the farmhouse, Hans stood at the door. Ivana was on the bed. She looked up and smiled.

“Hans, forgive me. I should not have scratched you. I was scared of that man, the driver. He frightened me. I’m sorry. You know I like you. The ride on your moto, remember?”

Hans eyebrows lifted. He fingered the scratches on his cheeks. Ivana spoke again.

“No, I mean it. I’m sorry. You’re a real man. I can see that.”

She stood up and smoothed the jeans on her hips.

“You’re a man. I know you like what you see. You can have whatever you want. I promise I won’t fight you.”

He seized her shoulders, and pushed his lips against hers. After a moment she pulled back. She licked her lips.

“You
are
a man.”

She kissed the scratches on his cheek.

“I told you I won’t fight, but I’m filthy. These clothes stink. Let me freshen up first. You’ll be glad. I like real men.”

She smiled and dropped her jeans. Hans stared. He nodded.

She went into the WC and shut the door.

Hans stood outside and listened to the water running in the shower.

He licked his lips. After she kept her promise, he would return to “business.”

Bill drove the Renault on the Chaussée de Charleroi. After a short time, Gustav touched his arm.

“Turn here. We go towards Malèves.”

Minutes later, Bill spotted a farm house, far back from the road. He looked at his passenger once more. Gustav nodded.

“That’s it. But it’s not how I remembered it. It’s more modern. Karel has made changes.”

Bill slowed to turn onto the lane that led to the house. Gustav touched his arm again.

“No, not that way. It’s too open. Keep driving ahead, up to that creek.”

He indicated a small bridge. Just past it was room for several cars. A path worn by fishermen led down to the bank.

“We’ll park there. The creek runs behind the house. The bushes along the bank will hide our approach.

Bill parked on the other side of the bridge. He looked in the rear mirror. The road had curved. The lane to the farmhouse was not in sight. Anyone driving to the farmhouse could not see the Renault. It was safe here.

Bill got out of the car. Gustav plunged into the brush. Bill followed him.

Soon Gustav was out of sight. Bill kept on, guided by the sounds of shuffling leaves, twisting branches and snapping twigs ahead of him.

In the farmhouse, Hans stared at the door to the WC. He had waited long enough. When would this woman finish?

He pounded on the door. There was no answer. The water continued to run in the shower.

He opened the door and looked in. A blast of hot water scalded his eyes. Sightless he grabbed forwards.

He felt bare flesh, but not in time.

The shower head crashed against his face, followed by a second blow to the head. At the third blow, he fell to the floor. All was black.

Hans did not feel the fourth blow that smashed behind his ear.

Ivana nudged Hans’ body with her bare foot. He was unconscious.

She replaced the shower head in the overhead holder and rubbed her ankle where the hot water had seared it. She stepped over Hans and retrieved her jeans from the bedroom.

Fully clothed, she headed for the kitchen. She looked about for a weapon. She chose a carving knife from a wooden rack.

She opened the door and stepped outside. The wind struck her face. She shivered, her jacket was in the Passat

She ran towards the creek.

Downstream from the farm house, Bill Hamm stopped and listened. There were no sounds ahead. Where was Gustav? Bill clasped his 9 mm with both hands. He pointed and swept the brush ahead with a semi circular motion.

Nothing.

He could not trust Gustav.

Eyes forward, he crept through the brush in the direction where Gustav had disappeared.

In the farmhouse, Hans pushed himself up off the floor. His head ached, but his first concern was to see. He stumbled to the basin and fumbled for the spigot.

He lowered his head under the faucet and let the water wash over his tortured face and swollen eyelids.

The cold flow soothed him. After a minute he stood erect and opened his eyes. All was blurred. Usually-distinct objects merged seamlessly together with no sharp outlines.

He wrapped a wet towel about his face and stumbled to the kitchen. Empty! The back door was open. The bitch was gone.

Hans left the house, face still wrapped. Ahead of him, the bushes were a gray amorphous mass of branches. He tried to focus, but with little success.

Frustrated, he drew his gun, a Browning Hi-Power 9 mm made in the Fabrique Nationale in Herstal. He held it ready.

Something rustled in the brush to his left. He pointed and fired.

A Hooded Crow flapped skywards, unharmed. Hans cursed and lowered the gun.

He turned to his right. Over thirty meters away, a figure emerged from the brush and ran limping through an adjoining field.

Hans was sure it was Ivana. He raised the Browning to fire.

Hans hesitated. The dim light of evening plus his impaired sight caused the fleeing form to waver in and out of focus. He lowered his weapon. Just then the runner stumbled over a low ridge of cleared stones that marked the border of the field and disappeared.

Hans picked his way along the stone border, searching for Ivana. He heard a scraping sound to his left. Stepping carefully he circled that way.

Scarcely visible in the twilight Hans saw a human form crouched motionless behind an overgrown pile of stones. He approached from behind.

It was Ivana.

His balled fist slammed against the side of her head. She fell, stunned, eyes glazed.

Desire for the fallen woman swept over Hans body, but his anger was too great. This bitch had hurt him, twice.

He pointed the weapon at her head.

His trigger finger began the fatal squeeze.

A roaring animal crashed through the nearby brush and ran straight for Hans. He turned.

It was a man, arms waving and mouth foaming. Hans did not know Gustav, but he saw the brute expression of that face and the malice in those eyes. He had to stop the mad rush.

Hans fired. His bullet struck home, but not in to time slow the madman. Hans’ gun was knocked free and his arms pinned in a bone-crushing embrace. He fell backwards, with his assailant on top of him.

The fall jarred his left arm free. His hand felt a hard object, one of the field stones. He gripped it tightly and swung with all his strength.

“Crunch!”

The deadly grip loosened, the body on top of him went limp.

He pushed himself up from the dead weight and stooped to pick up his 9 mm.

He examined the attacker. The bullet had struck home. The madman’s chest was covered in blood, but his breaths, while weak, were regular. Hans looked at his own shirt. It was stained with the brute’s blood.

He glanced at Ivana. She had risen, wobbly, to her feet.

He turned back to the fallen madman. He would finish him first.

He pointed the Browning at the prone Gustav.

For a second time Hans underestimated Ivana. She launched herself at him, striking with both hands. He pushed her back. She fell to the ground.

He looked down in disbelief. A brown handle protruded from his chest. The bitch had driven the carving knife into him.

Could she be that strong?

He exhaled. Bloody bubbles foamed through his lips.

The bitch got my lung
.

Hans raised his gun, but it was struck from his grasp. The madman had recovered. Death shone from his eyes, but Hans was scarcely aware.

He saw the madman’s hand that now held the Browning. He stared at the deadly opening of the barrel directed at his face. There was time only for a thought.

My own gun?

That was his last.

“Crack.”

The Browning jerked upwards.

Hans fell backwards.

The bubbly breathing ceased.