Of the cars arrayed in the yard, three were badly damaged by the explosion, and we’re missing the keys for two more. From the two remaining options—a Fiat hatchback and a Toyota Land Cruiser—we choose the Toyota.
As I sort through the keys, I hear what sounds like a furious hornet snap through the air beside my neck. I turn to my dad and see a look of surprise suddenly appear on his face as a circle of red expands over his left shoulder. My mind is slow to process what’s happening, but his isn’t. He raises the Kalashnikov with his right hand and lets off a burst of rounds that hammers at the air with a roar.
My eyes turn to his target, and I see the pudgy guard, the kid who poked at the women as they were herded from the trucks, the one who ordered me to feed them one bar apiece lest they get fat. Recognition comes to me at the precise moment the gun falls from his hands. He staggers forward, mouth agape, hands slack at his sides. Then he collapses to the mud.
By the time I turn my head back to my father, he’s leaning on the side of the Land Cruiser, face white, hand pressed to his shoulder. He growls under his breath in pain as I help him into the passenger seat.
“Just a shoulder, Gwen. I’ve got another one,” he says through gritted teeth.
I scramble through the contents of the vehicle looking for a first-aid kit. But all I come up with is a clean, or cleanish, white undershirt. I fold it into a tight square, press it to the wound, and, with a roll of electrical tape from the glove compartment, make a sort of shoulder harness.
“Time to go, Gwen,” he says against the pain. “There could be others.”
And he’s right. The shoulder harness is the best I can do for now, anyway. I put the Land Cruiser in gear and drive through the gates, the truck wallowing like a pig down the gravel path. When we make it onto the main road leading to the highway, I look over and see his face locked in a grimace.
“Where are we going, Gwen?” he says.
“To the embassy. They can help us there.”
“No. No embassy.”
“But Kladivo—he can’t get you there.”
He reaches over, squeezes my arm. “Gwen, Bohdan Kladivo is CIA. He’s theirs. Their man in Europe.”
The words hit me like a hurricane, and it takes me moments to stammer out a response. “He can’t be. Kladivo’s a monster, dad. He sells people—there were women, girls.…”
But he knows this already, has lived it. “And the CIA doesn’t care, Gwen.”
“But if he’s CIA, why was he holding you?”
“Money, Gwen. It’s always money. That’s the way it works, the whole world. His old boss, Zoric—he left behind anonymous accounts. Kladivo and someone in the CIA were going to steal them. I found out about it.” His face pinches with pain, and he leans back in his seat. “Jesus, it hurts.”
“I have the accounts, Dad,” I say. “It was in the book, 1984. You left it with Bela, and he gave it to me.”
He clenches with another kind of pain. “Tell me that’s not true, Gwen.”
“I found the storage locker in Queens, decoded the cipher, everything.”
His face is a mask of sweat. “Fucking Bela,” he gasps. “They were never meant for you. Never meant—Gwen, do you have a phone?”
I pull it from my pocket and hand it to him.
He dials a number and presses it to his ear. “Yes, this is Mr. Angler,” he says after a moment. “Tell Mr. Martin I’m leaving town today, but I want a grand tour of his apartment before I go.”
He’s trying to make his voice normal, but it’s clear he’s in agony. There’s a long pause, maybe thirty seconds.
“That’s right. The grand tour,” he says. “And I’ll be bringing a guest. My daughter.”
He hangs up and drops the phone to the floor.
“What was that about?” I say. “Who was that?”
“Friends. The only friends I have left,” he says, leaning back in his seat, his eyes starting to close. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. For what’s about to happen, I’m sorry.”
“Dad, wake up. What are you sorry about, Dad? What’s about to happen?”
“No embassy, Gwen.” His voice is quiet now, and he’s drifting into unconsciousness, his last bit of strength used up. “Just drive to Prague.”
*
I check his pulse every two minutes as I drive. It feels weak, and different every time. I pull over somewhere on the outskirts of the city and make sure the bandages are holding—they are—but it’s obvious he needs a hospital. With all the guards at the camp dead and the radio destroyed, there’s almost no chance Kladivo knows about what happened, but there’s no way in hell I’m dropping Dad off at a random hospital and leaving him out in the open.
I find the phone on the floor where my dad dropped it and tap the number of the last call. Three rings, four, then a male voice answers. “Hello again, Mr. Angler,” he says. He has a vague, unidentifiable accent—east of France, west of Russia.
“I’m the guest of Mr. Angler, his daughter,” I say. “The one he said also wants a grand tour of—I can’t remember, someone’s new apartment.”
“Of course,” the voice says. “Has there been trouble?”
“Mr. Angler needs a doctor. He’s been shot in the shoulder.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No.”
Silence for a moment. In the background, I hear the clicking of computer keys. “Are you safe at this moment?”
I look around. It’s an empty neighborhood of warehouses and industrial shops. “Yes. No. Or, you know, no one’s shooting at the moment.”
“Stay where you are. Someone will meet you at your location in five minutes,” the voice says.
“Do you need an address?”
“We have it, miss. Good-bye.”
I have no idea who or what is coming for us, but my father trusted them, and so I have to trust them, too. Still, I keep my pistol out and on my lap and monitor the mirrors for anything heading our way.
Sorry, he’d said, for what’s about to happen next. But whatever my father has planned, he’ll have to do it without me. I have my own agenda for the day, and it’s only half done. What I’ll do next is foolish. In fact, it’s suicidal. My rational self says to leave it alone, to go and be done with this place. But what my instinct commands, the rest of me must live with. So I decide to do it anyway, or die doing it, or die trying to do it.
I came to Prague out of obligation to my dad, but I’ll stay for the obligation I took on when I delivered those women into Bohdan Kladivo’s hands. The obligation to free them, no matter the cost.
A large white van rounds the corner. Its windows are tinted dark and the words CITY TOURS are painted on the sides. In Prague 1, these tourist vans are a common sight, but here in the outskirts they’re an oddity.
It rolls to a stop directly behind us, and the driver gets out and heads toward me. He’s a tall guy, maybe forty, with brown hair turning gray and wearing a blue City Tours jacket. I lower the window.
“Is that Mr. Angler next to you?” the driver says through a smile. His breath smells of spearmint gum, and his accent is pure American.