The Lure

40 Kamensky

The first call reached Colonel Jan Boroviška in the early morning. A couple answering the description of the criminals — the blonde hair was an especially strong indicator — had been seen in Bratislava. Enquiries in local Tatras hotels had also revealed that a young couple behaving oddly had boarded a coach for Vienna, but had jumped it in Bratislava.

With this observation, the search area, fifty thousand square kilometres of Slovakia, shrank to the fifty or so square kilometres of Bratislava.

Boroviška felt reasonably satisfied with the morning’s progress.

The face under the grey Cossack hat was podgy, American, and alert rather than mean. A grey scarf was tucked under a double chin. The man wore a long brown coat the likes of which Petrie had last seen in a movie about Wyatt Earp, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. From a doorway across the road Petrie watched him look around the tables, exchanging a brief comment with Darko. The waiter shook his head. Then the American disappeared briefly into the men’s toilet before reappearing and heading out on to the freezing street. Petrie judged that the man really was alone; he dodged across the busy street and intercepted him on the pavement.

The American had a strong, sincere handshake, as if he’d just read an article on What Your Handshake Tells About You. ‘Dr Petrie, I presume.’

‘Mr CIA?’

The man scowled and Petrie thought yes, he did look mean after all. ‘Actually, Joe Callaghan. Phone lines aren’t too secure and the first thing is to get you the hell away from here. The way you’re blundering around you won’t last the day.’

Callaghan turned and walked smartly along the broad street. He took Petrie across a broad square criss-crossed by trams.

‘This isn’t a hostile city like Moscow was fifteen years ago. I’ve no reason to expect we’re under surveillance.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ Petrie said. ‘You mean I’m safe for the moment?’

Callaghan ignored the anxious question. They walked past a little row of market stalls. An old woman, dressed for the Arctic, tried to sell them a bag of hot chestnuts. Callaghan turned into the Tesco, still walking smartly. A security man watched them incuriously. Petrie followed the American through to a café and out a side door; they turned left on a quiet street, walked about fifty yards and then stopped. The American looked around. Then: ‘You’re on your own.’

‘What?’

‘At least for the next few hours. I’m waiting for instructions about you from Washington.’

‘A few hours? Look at me. I won’t last that long.’

‘By rights I should hand you over to the Slovak authorities, Dr Petrie.’

‘Why?’

Callaghan put a world of meaning into a sniff. ‘Spoken as if you didn’t know. You’re wanted for murder.’

Petrie took a second, aware of the American’s eyes assessing his reaction. Then he said, ‘I’ve been set up. They want to kill me.’

Callaghan said, ‘Uhuh?’ in a neutral tone of voice.

And by the way, I’ve landed from a flying saucer.

‘I won’t last a few hours,’ Petrie repeated desperately.

‘Sure you will. Look, take in a movie. And call the Embassy at seven o’clock. Hey, this is like the good old days.’ The man turned back towards the Tesco.

Petrie, feeling exposed, walked off in the opposite direction. He gave serious thought to clearing out of Bratislava altogether, finding his way across the Austrian border only a few miles away. But what then? Would he be any safer there? Wandering the exposed streets at random, he came across a cash machine. Money! In his present situation, it was water in the desert. He inserted Vashislav’s card. After an uncomfortably long delay a message came back: refer to your bank.

He visualised a warning message coming up on some terminal somewhere: card belonging to wanted criminal being used at the General Credit Bank, Gorkého 7; the terse message going out to the nearest police car; the swift U-turn in the street; the arrest.

Get a grip. They can’t have anticipated I’d have Vashislav’s card and pin number. He tried Svetlana’s card, inserting it wrongly twice in his haste. Again the delay; this time agonisingly long. And again the message: refer to your bank.

Petrie cleared off smartly.

It was half past four when he joined a short queue outside the Kino Istropolis. The poster outside showed a group of youths obliterating the entire Yakutsa by leaps, kicks and punches against a background of skyscrapers and exploding cars. Blood of the Tiger, it turned out, was in Japanese with Czech subtitles but Petrie followed every word. When he emerged from the cinema, warm but hungry, it was dark, snowing heavily, and time to phone the Embassy.

‘Is that Brenda? Joe Callaghan, please.’

‘A moment.’

A couple, in their thirties, appeared outside the phone booth, hats flecked with snow.

Petrie thought there was a coolness in Brenda’s voice, and then he thought he was being paranoid, and then he thought that in his present fix maybe paranoia was his best friend. He waited. The man outside the booth made a big thing of the cold, stamping his feet and flapping his arms. Then a stranger’s voice, male, came on the line. ‘Dr Petrie? Be at the Zámočnícka Ulica at nine o’clock.’

‘Where the hell is that?’

‘It’s in the Old Town, just off St Michael’s Lane. I can’t talk any more.’ The line went dead.

Petrie glanced at his watch: eight-forty. He had a vague idea that the big castle overlooked the Old Town. He set out, using the orange-lit Bratislavský hrad as a beacon.

He wandered along cobbled streets, shiny and wet. Past an Irish bar, all Guinness and green and full of chatter. Couples passed, sometimes single people; there was a 1920s’ elegance about the fur coats and hats. In the dull light, the East European architecture seemed bleak and unwelcoming. Away from the main thoroughfares, the narrower streets were almost deserted; windows were shuttered or heavily curtained. It was a good night to be indoors.

He found the Zámočnícka Ulica within fifteen minutes. It turned out to be a narrow cobbled lane. Feeling vaguely uneasy, Petrie turned cautiously into it, peering into dark corners. Wonderful smells drifted out of a crepa, reminding him that he was out of money to buy food. Something moved but it was only a shadow passing behind a heavy curtain; the lighting inside the room was dull. The lane had a blind bend and light from a café flooded the cobbles at its curve. Petrie stepped into the shadow of a doorway, and waited.

By mid-afternoon, another call reached Colonel Boroviška, this time from the Deputy Governor of the General Credit Bank: an attempt had been made to use two of the credit cards belonging to the criminal gang, on the Gorkého, right in the city centre. A swift convergence of plainclothes policemen and anonymous cars drew a blank, as did saturation coverage of the surrounding streets.

Still, the news was good: they had no money. Hunger, and the rigours of sleeping in the open in this weather, would soon force their hand. Bratislava was so close to the Austrian border that, Boroviška felt, they would try to cross it in desperation.

He gave them a day, two at the most.

At ten to nine a police car stops at one end of the lane and a small policeman steps out. Two uniformed colleagues go over and start chatting to him. Petrie tries to sink into the shadow, wonders if he should clear off; but they are just laughing and talking, one of them leaning on the car. It has to be coincidence.

At nine o’clock a church bell begins to strike. At the other end of the lane, two men appear in silhouette. They walk unhurriedly into the lane.

Suddenly, irrationally, Petrie is overcome by panic. There is something implacably hostile about their body language. And the policemen have stopped chatting; they are peering into the lane.

He dives for the café and almost collides with a woman of about thirty, dressed against the cold in a long fur coat and hat. She says, ‘Darling!’ and gives him a squeeze, puts her arm in his and guides him along the lane towards the police. He wonders about pulling free and running but the men, both in their fifties, are about twenty yards away and approaching smartly. ‘Put a smile on your face.’ The accent is American. Terrified, he tries to grin. ‘That’s horrible. You look like Hannibal Lecter.’ He giggles like a teenage girl, feels the woman’s arm tensing in his. They pass within feet of the policemen. They watch them pass, a couple enjoying an evening out.

Up St Michael’s Lane, under the archway, breaking into a trot. The two men are now half-running; they are drawing the attention of the policemen. At the top of the lane there is a black Merc; they climb in. Now the men break into a sprint. The car takes off. One of the men manages to grab a door handle. He is white-haired, about fifty. But then the car accelerates clear. Petrie says, ‘Oh Jesus.’ Callaghan, at the wheel, says, ‘Don’t worry about the number plates.’

The woman is holding out her hand. ‘I’m Alice, Joe’s assistant,’ she says in a conversational tone. She is long-faced, with gypsy earrings and lots of bangles. Petrie begins to wonder if he has strayed into some alternative reality, like Alice in Wonderland.

‘So,’ says Callaghan. Petrie waits, but Callaghan has nothing to add.

‘Who were they?’ Petrie asks Alice.

She shrugs. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

The car moved quietly north on the Stefanikova. They stopped at traffic lights, next to a blue tram. Faces looked down at him, people who rode trams every day and lived in cramped apartments where you could hear your neighbour snore, and who wondered what it was like to drive an E-series Merc with soft lights, sweet music and red leather seats no doubt convertible to a bed.

Callaghan looked at Petrie in the rear mirror. ‘You’re quite a guy, Tom.’

‘I committed murder?’

‘Uhuh.’

He kept his voice level. ‘Why did I do that?’

The traffic was lightening and Callaghan put his foot down. The car surged forward effortlessly. ‘Nobody’s saying, beyond the fact that state security is involved. The cops have clear instructions: find you, fire you over to the army, and forget you.’ Callaghan looked over at Petrie, strummed his fingers on the leather-padded steering wheel. ‘State security,’ he said thoughtfully.

Petrie nodded. ‘Find, fire and forget.’

‘And the media are being kept out of it.’

‘What did I do exactly?’

‘You took a hatchet to some guy. You and your girlfriend both. Split his skull in half.’

Alice said, ‘I can tell you’re a dangerous psychopath just by looking at you.’

Callaghan added, ‘Your girlfriend has such a sweet innocent face I think she must be the axe lady.’

Petrie looked out at the grey streets. ‘What was our motive?’

‘The uniforms aren’t privy to that. State security’s a wonderful blanket.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘Alice and I are taking you someplace safe. We listen to what you have to say, and then people in Washington make a decision about you.’

‘There’s a limit to what I can tell you.’

Alice said, ‘There’s no limit to the time you can spend in a Slovakian prison.’

‘I wouldn’t get the length of the courthouse.’

Callaghan sounded as if he was in pain. ‘Tom, the Cold War’s long dead. Extrajudicial killings and poisoned umbrellas are for spy stories.’

Petrie allowed himself a brief, sardonic laugh. ‘Mr Callaghan, you haven’t a clue. Not even the beginnings of a clue. In fact, you have absolutely no bloody idea.’