Legends

“I was instructed to release you at fifteen minutes to seven. I surmise that your body would have been found floating in the Vltava. Your valise, filled with American dollars and British pounds and false identity papers, would have been recovered from the quay. The authorities would have speculated that a suspicious American, involved in the illegal sale of weapons and weapons systems, had been murdered by international gangsters. A small item to that effect would have appeared in the local newspapers. The American embassy would give the matter superficial attention—your CIA station chief might even hint that the national interest would be better served if they did not dig too deeply into the affair. With the ink still wet on the various reports, the case would be closed.”

“A quarter to seven—that gives me less than an hour,” Martin noted.

“My automobile, a gray Skoda, is parked fifty meters down the quay. The gas tank is full, the keys are in the ignition. Drive along the quay until you come to the first ramp leading to the street, then cross the river at the first bridge you come to and head due south, following the signposts to Ceské Budjovice and beyond that, Austria. If they stop you at the frontier, use one of your false passports. The whole trip should take you about two hours if you do not meet too much traffic.”

“If I’m running, I want to take Zuzana Slánská with me.”

“Her life is not in danger. Yours is. She faces a prison sentence if the evidence is sufficient to convict her.”

Martin was worried about Radek. “How will you explain that your handgun is missing?”

“I would take it as a service if you would strike my head above the ear hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. They will find me only just beginning to regain consciousness. I will claim that you overpowered me. They will have their doubts—I will certainly be demoted, I may even lose my employment. So what. I resist, therefore I am.”

The two men shook hands. “I hope our paths cross again,” Martin said.

Radek flashed a sheepish grin. “Be warned, Mister—next time I will not be such a fool as to settle for one lousy U.S. dollar an hour.”

Gritting his teeth, Radek shut his eyes and angled his head. Martin didn’t stint—he knew Radek stood a better chance of talking his way out of trouble if the head wound were real. Gripping the handgun by the barrel, wincing in empathy, he forced himself to swipe the butt sharply across the young man’s scalp, drawing blood, stunning Radek, who slumped onto his knees.

“Thank you for that,” he groaned.

“It was not my pleasure,” Martin observed.

He collected his belongings and made his way across the gangplank to the quay, which appeared deserted. Radek’s Skoda was parked in the shadows to his left. He went to the car and opened the door and threw his belongings onto the passenger seat. When he turned the key in the ignition, the motor started instantly. He checked the gas gauge—it was full, just as Radek had said. He threw the car into gear and started down the quay. He’d gone about half a kilometer when his headlights fell on the ramp leading to the street. Suddenly Martin’s foot went to the brake. Killing the headlights, he pulled the car into the shadows at the side of the quay. He sat there for a moment, shaken by the pulse pounding in his ear. An old instinct had triggered an alarm in the lobe of his brain that specialized in tradecraft. He retrieved the German handgun from the pocket of his jacket, removed the clip, flicked the first of the icy 9-millimeter Parabellum bullets into the palm of his hand and hefted it.

He caught his breath. The bullet looked real enough. But it was too light!

Contrary to what the interrogator had said, Martin was not past his prime!

Checking out the bullets in a handgun was a piece of tradecraft Dante Pippen had picked up during a brief stint with a Sicilian Mafia family. When you gave someone a handgun, or left one where it was sure to be found, there was always the danger that it could be turned against you. In Sicily it was indoor sport to plant handguns loaded with dummy bullets that looked and (if you pulled the trigger) sounded like real bullets. But dummy bullets didn’t have the same weight as real bullets—someone familiar with handguns could sense the difference.

Radek had set him up for a fall.

Martin remembered the pained look in the young man’s eyes; he could hear his voice, oozing sincerity, delivering his manifesto: I am not the man I appear to be.

Who amongst us is the man he appears to be?

Martin thought about going back to liberate Zuzana Slánská. But he quickly abandoned the idea—if he returned to the houseboat for her now, they would know that he’d figured out the scheme. And they would fall back on Plan B, which was bound to be less subtle but more immediate.