Local time – 4:48am, Sunday 17th June, 2011.
Prague, Czechoslovakia.
Alex was woken from a muddled, panicky dream by the ringing of Henry’s phone. A shadow man had been chasing her through the streets of London and every time he got nearly close enough to grab her, she flew forward, as if out of a sling shot. But her relief at being awake was short lived, as she slowly registered the alarm in Henry’s voice. The bright red numbers on the clock by the bed said 4:48am and the beginnings of the sunrise seeped round the edge of the blinds. Lying still, she listened intently to his side of the conversation.
‘Oh my god. They’ve acted so quickly…’
‘This is total bullshit! How could they possibly move so fast…’
‘The New York Post? And The Times? What about The Washington Post…’
‘We can be there in 45 minutes.’
Henry was out of bed and throwing things in his bag while still on the phone to Phil. Alex felt adrenalin flood through her tired body. It was clear they were going to the airport earlier than planned. She quickly got out of bed and went to the bathroom. All of the intimacy of the night before had drained away. She threw on some jeans and a black shirt. Henry finished his phone call but still seemed stunned. He looked over at the bed, then gave a half smile at her efficiency when he saw her standing by the door with her bags in her hands.
‘So you’ve gathered we’re going?’
‘Yep. What’s happened? Have they found out about the video?’
‘Yes. They’ve stopped the send. And there’s already articles on the major news sites calling it a virus. They’re killing our video because they know what it could do.’ Alex was staggered. She hadn’t forgotten how deeply entrenched she was in this terrifying mission, but somewhere between falling asleep and running from assassins in her dreams, the sheer danger of what she was doing had reduced in her consciousness. The look on Henry’s face brought it back like a sledgehammer. The Bilderbergers were never going to lie down and let the video destroy their plans. She had already acknowledged that. But the speed with which they had managed to come up with a way to halt its progress was amazing.
‘Do you think I’m still safe? Sorry to sound selfish, but I am the one who was identified. Do you think they’ll be looking for me?’
‘Yes. They’ll work out it was Ryan too. We need to get to Pakistan now. The others will be at the airport in ten minutes, and Phil will make sure the jet is good to go. We need to get to the airport.’
‘Ok. But there’s one thing we need to do on the way. I know it’s dangerous, but we promised Vlady the cash and I wouldn’t feel right... ’ Henry groaned with frustration, stopping Alex mid sentence. She had worried he wouldn’t hold up their side of the bargain, and now her worry seemed justified.
‘Alex, there isn’t time. We’ll send it to him later. Phil just wants us to get out of here.’
‘We’ll get the cab to go past, I’ll run it in. I’ll be quick. Please Henry, we promised!’
Alex opened the door to usher Henry out in an attempt to show how fast they could get going. Henry grabbed the last of his possessions from the bedside table, stuffed them in his bag and ran ahead of her. He still looked angry in the lift. But Alex was determined, and she wasn’t going to be bullied into letting Vlady down.
Wenceslas Square was eerily quiet when they walked out onto the street. Alex felt far too conspicuous and half expected the dark shadow of the Mossad operative from her dream to appear.
‘Have you got the cash?’ she asked, stepping onto the road to flag down a taxi. Henry half heartedly nodded and pointed at his bag. Before he had a chance to give the driver directions, Alex jumped in the front seat and said, ‘We’re going to the airport, but we’ll stop at Hotel Republic first, I’ve got to drop something off.’ The driver sensed his passengers’ urgency and drove accordingly. They were at the hotel in under two minutes. He pulled up outside and only then did Alex hold out her hand for the money. Henry gave in. ‘Put your shawl on your head. And don’t talk to anyone. We could be followed.’
He reached into his backpack and handed her a plastic shopping bag. She grabbed it, draped her shawl over her head and jumped out of the taxi.
The creak of the front door seemed loud enough to wake all the hotel’s guests. There was no one in the tiny reception area. Alex had already made up her mind to hide the bag there where the hotelier would find it. She would surely mention to her son what she found and he would understand where it came from.
Not wanting to frustrate Henry any longer than necessary, Alex hurried behind the desk and shoved the bag on a small shelf. She placed the reservations diary on top of it, so the next person to pick up the dog-eared folder would find the money. She had turned around, ready to run back to the taxi, when something caught her eye. The door behind the reception area was open, and it led through to a tiny living room. She hadn’t realised before that the hotelier had a small flat. But this was not what caught her eye. The sole of a shoe was visible next to the sofa. And Alex’s fraught mind recognised why this was odd. You could only see the sole of a shoe standing up like that if there was a foot in it. And if there was a foot in that shoe, the wearer was lying on the ground. Alex’s heart shot into her mouth. She rushed into the room, completely oblivious of any danger. The shoe was worn by the hotelier. And she was lying on the floor next to the sofa because she was dead.
Alex lunged forward, half retching, half falling in shock at the scene. The woman’s face was a mash of bloody pulp and her chest was covered in blood. The patterned old carpet squelched under Alex’s feet, and it was only then she realised she stood in a puddle of it. For a split second, she tried to think how to check for a pulse. But the woman was grey, and stiff. Alex cried out in panic. ‘Vlady!’ She turned away from the awful scene and ran back into the reception area. Bolting up to the top floor, three stairs at a time, she flung herself into the attic bedroom. This time she vomited. Vlady had put up a better fight than his mother. His hands and arms were covered in gashes and he lay in a crumpled mess next to his cello case. His head was at right angles to his body, a sure sign of a broken neck, and he had wounds in his face, stomach, chest and thighs. There was so much flesh visible, it looked like he had melted. Whoever did this was a brutal animal. Trembling, she tried to think how she could help. Was there any point calling an ambulance? They were both dead and it might alert the Bilderbergers to her location. There was nothing else to do but leave. Her wobbly legs took her down the stairs, threatening to give way and let her fall. She heaved against the front door, not wanting to look back into the flat, and only when she was back onto the street did she realise her shawl had fallen off.
Henry looked ready to tear his hair out with worry when she jumped back into the taxi and slammed the door. She wanted to tell him what she saw, but the look on the driver’s face reminded her she was a wreck. She didn’t need the man paying any more attention to them than necessary.
‘Morning sickness’ she said meekly and smiled at him. He nodded and drove away. She took out her iPhone and tapped in a message. Then she passed the phone to Henry, leaving the words on the screen for him to read: ‘Vlady and his mother are dead. It’s our fault.’