I rocket forward, drop my shoes to the ground, and grab the largest of the three attackers by the wrist. I wrench his arm into a lock that spins him around and sweep my forearm against his throat, sending the back of his head into the cobblestone wall. He lurches at me, but I catch him in the jaw with a fist that twists his body away.
The second attacker seizes my shoulder from behind. My elbow flies back into his stomach; then I turn and drive the heel of my hand up under his chin, sending him toppling backward. He’s incapacitated but likely only for a few seconds. I sense movement at my side and turn. A big, drunken swing from the third attacker misses my head by a good six inches. I answer with a fast kick to his groin. He doubles over and staggers a few steps. But as I move toward him, I notice the other two attackers backing away, hands raised.
I look to Roman. He’s still on the ground, still only semiconscious, but has a pistol in his hand and is trying to level it at them. Two of the attackers turn and stumble off down the alley, while the third runs off in the other direction.
Roman swings the pistol around, looking for a target. Gently, I wrap my hand around it and force the muzzle down. “Put it away,” I whisper.
Blood burbles from Roman’s nose. “The fuckers,” he gasps.
But he’s drifting off again, back into unconsciousness. I check his pulse and see that it’s strong, but he needs a hospital and there’s no way I can carry him by myself to the car. For only a second, I consider shouting for help, but a man with the last name Kladivo probably doesn’t want the police coming around asking questions about what happened and why.
I pull his phone from his pocket and figure out how to access the contacts. I thumb through them until I see the word otec—father, same as in Russian. I press the name, and the phone dials.
“Pan Kladivo,” I say when he answers. “It’s Sofia. Roman’s been hurt—attacked. He’s breathing but unconscious. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
A pause, then a calm voice. “No. No ambulance. Where are you?”
“Praha 1, near the Old Town Square. A little alley…”
“Are there shops nearby? Give me the names.”
I tell him the names of a pizza restaurant and a wine store, both closed for the night.
“I’ll have someone come to you. Don’t move.”
“Thank you.”
“Sofia?”
“Yes, Pan Kladivo?”
“Were you—were you with him?”
“No, Pan Kladivo. I came only later.”
A pause. In the background, I hear soft music and the tinkling of glasses as if he’s at a party. “Someone will be there soon,” he says, and then the line clicks off.
For five minutes, I wait by Roman’s side. He’s breathing deeply and steadily, which I take to be a good sign. Then two figures appear at the end of the alley, coming from the direction of the square. As they step into the light of the streetlamp, I recognize Emil and Libor.
“The fuck happened?” Emil says.
“Three men attacked him,” I say.
They stand dumbly over Roman for a few moments, debating in Czech what to do. Then they hoist him up, one under each arm, and drag him toward the square.
I start off in the other direction, but Emil grabs my arm. “No chance,” he says. “Boss says you come with us.”
I follow them to Emil’s BMW and help them fold Roman into the backseat with Libor. I climb into the passenger side, and we take off through the dense late-night Prague traffic.
“Who did it?” Emil asks as we leave the city and start into the suburbs.
“Three British guys,” I say. “I don’t know why they picked Roman.”
Emil laughs under his breath. “I bet I do.”
We say nothing more the rest of the ride. The apartment buildings give way to small houses, then to large houses the farther we get from the city. The car turns onto a private gravel road with signs giving what look like ominous warnings in Czech about what will happen to those who dare trespass here.
We approach an iron gate set into a stately stone wall. Beyond it is a large stucco mansion, an enormous place with a well-manicured yard. A man in a gangster-issue tracksuit approaches, shielding his eyes from the headlights with one hand, and carrying a submachine gun with the other.
Twenty-Two
Roman is laid out on a long wooden table in the kitchen like a dish being prepared. An improvised mattress of quilts is wedged between him and the planks, and above him hangs a rack of copper pots and pans. A few of Bohdan’s personal security crew hang around waiting for orders.
Bohdan, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened, stands with hands on hips, supervising the work of a private physician summoned to the house. The doctor is deferent and frightened, keeping his eyes low.
I sit where Bohdan tells me to sit, in a wooden chair pulled away from the wall. From here, I can see Roman clearly. He has only just now regained consciousness, and the doctor is sewing stitches into a cut on his cheek. Roman’s eyes are on me, deep with panic. The physician dabs away some blood and announces that he’s finished.
Bohdan snaps his fingers as he gives an order in Czech. He’s commanding everyone to leave, apparently, because everyone does, even the doctor. I begin to stand, but Bohdan seizes my shoulder and forces me back into the chair. “Not you,” he says.
When the door to the kitchen is closed, Bohdan turns and looms over me. “Leave out nothing,” Bohdan says. “Leave out nothing or I will know.”
“Three men, three British men, drunk, came up to him. They were harassing him, saying—terrible things. They grabbed him, and Roman tried to fight them off. He fought like—like a lion.”
Bohdan shakes his head as he turns to Roman. “You hear that, Roman? She calls you a lion. Such loyalty. Despite everything, you are still the king of the jungle in her eyes.” He approaches his son, leans in close. “You were with—that fellow?”
Roman closes his eyes and says something in Czech.
“In English, so that Sofia may hear and understand,” Bohdan says. “Do not be a coward.”
“I was with—a friend.”
Bohdan’s shouting causes me to jump in my seat. “A friend? One of your boyfriends? One of your lovers?”
The humiliation in Roman’s eyes seems even more painful than his physical wounds. “Ano,” he whispers. Yes.
Bohdan nods and leans against the edge of the table. “I have only ever asked for you to keep your sickness discreet. Yet even this you cannot do. Have you any idea what will happen if it is discovered my son is a sodomite?”
“I’m sorry, táta.”
“And you?” Bohdan says, pointing to me. “How is it you happened to be there?”
“We had—gone separate ways,” I say. “I went to another bar and happened to see Roman on the street.”
“And what did you do, file your nails and watch like a useless bitch? Or did it occur to you to get help?”
Roman interrupts. “She fought them. The men knocked me to the ground, and she fought them.”
Bohdan cocks his head and squints at me. “This is true?”
I nod. “Yes, Pan Kladivo.”
Bohdan leans in close to me, so close I can smell his cologne. “How is it you learned to fight?”
“My father was a soldier. Spetsnaz,” I say. “My father believed a woman should learn to defend herself just as she learns to sew and cook.”
“Roman, is it true the woman fights like Spetsnaz?”