Lost and Found in Prague (25 page)

Damek swung into a parking spot, opened the door, jumped out, and motioned Kristof to follow.

Before leaving the office, he’d slapped the now well-worn photo of the musicians on Cerný’s desk and told him to identify the man in the dark glasses. If anyone could recognize a man in a photo from twenty years ago it was Cerný. He’d grabbed Kristof and explained, as they drove, what was going on, though Dal himself was not sure just yet.

Communist informants.
Commercial corruption. Theft. Murder.
Just what were they dealing with? Did the murder of a senator, as well as a film star, and a man intent on revisiting old Communist-era files, have anything to do with the theft of a precious icon? And was Branko Banik involved? The reporter he’d called was not available. Dal had left his cell number. It was now just minutes before midnight, but Dal had no doubt he’d call if he got the message. Any ambitious reporter was unlikely to brush off the chief of homicide.

“If the payoffs to Kula and Lenka Horácková are somehow connected, why would deposits to Lenka’s account be so easily traced?” Kristof asked. “Yet all deposits to Filip Kula come from an untraceable Swiss account?”

Dal didn’t know, but one thing he did know: Dana Pierson had worked her way into something much deeper and more dangerous than the disappearance of a religious icon. And he had a pretty good idea where she was right now.

They made their way through the narrow, alleylike passageway of the brick building, opened the green lacquered door, and stepped inside. Immediately, Dal saw Dana Pierson sitting on a bar stool speaking with the bartender. The place was relatively quiet. A quick glance around told him there was no one else in the bar he wished to question.

She turned, her expression registering surprise, then something he interpreted as relief.

Dal introduced Kristof, receiving a puzzled look from Dana.

“He says the man,” she told Dal, gesturing toward the bartender, “in the bar the other night is named Milos Horácek. The male form of Lenka’s family name? Same last name as Lenka and Pavel’s son, Václav? He owns the marionette shop, once worked in a puppet theater here in Prague.” Dal realized this man had been here all the while as he passed around the photo, inquiring if anyone knew an actress named Lenka.

Dal grabbed her arm, jerked her off the stool, led her outside, no one speaking until they stood several meters away from the building, under the eaves of another, Kristof’s eyes darting from rooftop to rooftop.

“What are you doing here?” Dana asked. “I thought you’d given up on the case of the disappearing icon, passed it on.” She glanced at Kristof as if she needed further explanation as to why Damek had brought along another detective. “He’s the assigned officer?”

“No,” Dal replied. “He is a homicide investigator.” They walked, his arm still linked through hers. Damek glanced around, attempting to keep in the shadows of the building, staying away from any street or building lights. Kristof continued surveillance.

“Somehow the theft,” Dal told her, “might be related to the murder of Senator Zajic, as well as two earlier homicides.” He motioned down the street toward the car.

“Murder?” she said. “There’s a big difference between a thief and a murderer.” She glanced at Kristof.

“Lenka is either working for Banik,” Dal said, “or she’s blackmailing him.”

“How do you know that?”

“A payment deposited to her account each month.”

“You’re trying to tie Lenka and Banik to these murders?”

They’d arrived at Dal’s car. He could see she was shivering, stuffing her hands in her sweatshirt pocket. He motioned Dana in front as Kristof jumped in back.

Dal began reciting facts from the murder investigations, the recent surveillance film from the bridge that showed the man the mime had described as photographing the scene of the senator’s murder days before it happened, the same man Dal and Dana had seen at the park, the man who was obviously following Dana, the man who was in a twenty-year-old photo with Pavel Novák and Branko Banik. Dal knew there was a link, some connection between the theft at the church and the murders. And, unknowingly, Dana was the key to discovering it.

Pavel. Lenka. Václav. Milos Horácek. Senator Zajic. Filip Kula. Hugo Hutka. Branko Banik. The man at the park whose name he did not yet know.

“You believe the man we saw at the park,” Dal asked, “is the same as in the photo with Pavel’s band? Branko’s band? Do you know this man? When you came to Prague many years ago?”

“No, but Caroline, Sister Agnes, knew him. . . .
Goon,
she said. That’s what she called him, Branko’s goon.”

“Goon? This word I do not know.”

Dana thought for a moment. “A thug? Someone hired to intimidate or—”

“Murder?” Damek asked.

Dana shivered. “Jirí something. . . .” She pressed her fingers to her forehead as if trying to withdraw the information, the name. “Jankovic. Jirí Jankovic.”

“How do you know this?”

“My cousin.” Dana took in a deep swallow. “Caroline, Sister Agnes, told me his name.”

“You did not notice someone following you?” Dal asked.

“Well, you,” she said. “I’ve had the feeling someone has been following me since I arrived in Prague.”

In Czech, Dal told Kristof to call Cerný, give him the name and this information on Jankovic, and find a current address, anything else that might be helpful.

As soon as he hung up, Dana said slowly, words halting as if she were still thinking it through, “Something else Caroline said about Banik, she said he was an opportunist, that he had no loyalties, that he played both sides.”

“Did she explain?”

“She clammed up at that point. I could see she didn’t want to discuss it further, as if she was afraid. But I sensed she was referring to something that happened during the revolution or shortly after.” Dana paused as if thinking. “Could he have been acting as both a dissenter and possibly a Communist informer?
Playing both sides
, those were her words.”

“Both sides?” Dal repeated and glanced back at Kristof.

•   •   •

The cabdriver had dropped him off several blocks from the cemetery, as per Giovanni Borelli’s request. He knew he must arrive alone, yet with each labored step, each intake of the cool night air, doubt circled around him like a pack of hyenas waiting to pounce on their prey.

In the short time between his informer’s second call and stepping into the cab outside his hotel, Father Borelli had decided he would go alone, just as instructed, examine the Infant, and then, if he found it to be authentic, he would arrange a second meeting to transfer funds in exchange for the icon. He would share all this with Investigator Damek then, after he was assured the Infant was real.

His heart pumped furiously. Again his stomach rumbled, the heat in his chest refusing to cool, though the night air felt crisp and refreshing against his face. Giovanni stopped for a moment to rest, as if standing still might slow everything else down, too. He considered pulling out a cigarette, but, glancing down at his illuminated watch, he knew there was no time. He gazed up at a dark, star-filled sky. The half-moon, waning, hung like a lopsided, open-mouthed laugh, taunting him.
You old fool,
it seemed to say.

He inhaled deeply as he started again down the deserted street. The cemetery, he knew, was just a block away now, but it seemed he had already exerted as much energy as his ancient body possessed. He was too old for this. Trying to be a hero? Perhaps he should have alerted Investigator Damek, sent a much younger man, a police officer who knew how to do this. Was he, Giovanni Borelli, so intent on solving this mystery alone, without the sophisticated aids of technology or the Czech police, that he was about to let his pride destroy him? He thought of the conversation he and Dana had had that very afternoon, and the words of a familiar Bible verse played through his head.
Pride goes before disaster, and a haughty spirit before a fall
.

Yet he knew it was too late for a change of plans; he could not turn back. He continued along the street, the shadows and silhouettes of buildings hovering above him. As he approached the souvenir shops, closed and battened down for the night, he knew he was almost there. The small storefronts were recessed into the concrete walls surrounding the cemetery above, its layers and layers—twelve graves deep—holding the remains of almost three centuries’ generations of Czech Jews.

The plot had served as the only approved location where Jews could be buried from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century and contained, if he remembered correctly, over twelve thousand headstones, bodies numbering near ten times that, grave piled upon grave, dirt hauled in periodically to add another layer. Again he stopped, glancing up above the shops. He could make out the iron fence, the shapes of tombstones, pressed together, some leaning at odd angles. Though he saw little from this perspective in the dark, he had visited this popular tourist site several times and had a clear picture of how it was laid out, appearing as if the entire area had been disrupted by an earthquake, the ground swelling and tossing the stones about, though still clinging to the earth, rooted and refusing to let go.

He heard a rustle and jumped, then realized it was a crumpled paper blowing along the street, though he’d detected no wind in the still, quiet air. A quick wordless prayer formed in his mind, and he realized once more, clearly now, what an irrational and dangerous mission he had embarked on. “Protect this old fool,” he whispered, his prayer now taking on words.

He leaned up against the wall, the bulk and pressure of his body rattling the rolled-down front of a small shop. Then again, he stepped forward, inching along as he approached the Pinkas Synagogue, his body taking on such weight he felt he might collapse.

He recalled that the only authorized entry to the cemetery was through the courtyard of this building, though he knew the gates would be locked at night. How would he find the person he was to meet? He laughed nervously—he didn’t imagine there would be a great number of people strolling about the synagogue courtyard or cemetery at this hour. Giovanni’s eyes flashed, searching for any possible sign of life. Sensing a movement on the rooftop, something inside him jumped. Gazing up, he half expected to see a golem lurking and darting along the roof. He made out a small dark outline, realizing it was a bird as soon as it took flight and then landed in the tree directly in front of the entry to the synagogue.

A golem? Surely he was losing his grip on reality. Merely a legend. Ah, yes, the Jewish community of this city had its own myths—among them the golem, a creature created out of clay from the Vltava River by Rabbi Loew, who rested in this very cemetery. During the daytime a tourist could buy a replica of a golem at one of the many souvenir shops. A creation of good, as he was said to have protected the Jews, he soon turned to mischief, some might say evil. According to tradition, he’d taken up residence, perhaps involuntarily, in the attic of the nearby Old-New Synagogue.

Father Borelli’s eyes darted about once again, searching, finding no one, and he realized he was seriously thinking of turning back. He’d left the cabdriver two blocks away, requesting the man wait for his return.

“How long?” the driver had asked.

“Daybreak,” Borelli replied. Then he pressed a scrap of paper into the man’s hand, along with a stack of euros to cover his waiting time. On the paper he’d written the name and number of Investigator Damek.

Borelli felt a sense of panic come over him, realizing he had no idea exactly where he was to meet this person or what kind of danger he might expose himself to if someone actually appeared. From where he stood, he could see the gate leading to the cemetery. He stepped closer. A sudden hiss, followed by a series of screeches and yowls, startled him. Within an instant he realized it was probably a couple of tomcats, though he saw no sign of such creatures. When he finally reached the gate and grasped the iron bars, it appeared, as he had suspected, locked. He touched the scrolling iron of the fence and then rattled it, as if to announce,
I’m here
. No answer.

He gazed inside, but, shrouded in darkness, the shadows of buildings folding in on the small entrance, he could make out nothing.

“Here,” a low voice called to him. Borelli turned. Across the courtyard of the synagogue he saw a figure.

“Italian?” the man said, then uttered the fake name Father Borelli had given his source over the phone. “You have arrived on time. Good.” The man spoke Czech, no accent, as Giovanni could tell from the few words. A native, he surmised. He made out the form of a tall, thin man. The outline of his figure revealed he wore a hat, though the shape struck Giovanni as odd and unusual. He himself wore no hat—and strangely now the thought came to him that a head covering was required to enter the cemetery, that during regular hours the tourist office would provide such. Slowly, the man moved forward, though the tilt and angle of his head, the lack of light, made it impossible to make out the details of his face. But Giovanni could see now that the strange-shaped hat was actually a combination of hair and hat, a bunched mat protruding from each side of his head. It was too dark to determine his age, but from his stance, the sound of his voice, Father Borelli guessed he was not a young man.

He carried a large duffel bag. The man glanced around to make sure they were alone, as did the priest.

“Come,” the man said, turning, motioning with one hand, leading Borelli deeper into the recesses of the courtyard. Father Borelli’s heart pumped even faster. His shoulder ached as if it was he who carried a heavy bag.

The man stopped, held out an arm to tell the priest to come no closer. He set the bag down on the cobbled surface beneath their feet and pushed it toward Father Borelli, then backed away several steps.

Borelli stood without words, feeling as if he had not enough strength to lift the bag. Then, with great effort, he knelt, feeling the crunch and creak of his knees. Carefully he unzipped the bag. He reached inside, ran his hand over a bundle wrapped in cloth. An Infant wrapped in swaddling clothes. Slowly, not removing it from the bag, he uncovered the figure, nestling it into the folds of soft cloth. Running his fingers over the crown, along the garment, he could feel it was the proper size. He sensed the man standing above him and felt something rise in his own chest. He heard a click as a light flicked on and centered inside the bag for the priest to better examine the figure. Father Borelli glanced up, but the man quickly moved the beam, boring directly into Giovanni’s eyes, preventing him from having a clear view of the man’s face. Father Borelli gazed back down at the Infant. Dark garment, revealed by the shaft of light. Which would have been correct had it been taken on Good Friday.