Local time – 10:30am, Saturday 16th June, 2011.
Prague, Czechoslovakia.
Daniel Klein twisted his pint glass between his hands and peered out at the quiet street. His seat by the window at Sherlock’s Bar gave him the perfect, inconspicuous view of the entrance to the Městská police station. His glass was half full, and although he sipped at it regularly, the volume of beer wasn’t changing.
He had been in the bar for two hours and couldn’t afford to drink like a real tourist. Luckily, there were enough English bucks’ weekend drinkers starting their party early to ensure he drew little attention to himself. After receiving his orders that morning at Prague Castle, he came straight to the bar, waiting for his target to arrive across the street. Now he just hoped the Prague police would hold up their side of the bargain. Rounding up protestors was the easy part; almost like rounding up sheep. With their predilection for travelling in packs, their bleating chorus and their ridiculous hippy outfits, they were quite like sheep.
Daniel grinned to himself, imaging a more exciting project – popping off sniper rounds into the protestors’ pathetic sit-downs at G8 conferences. Of course, he would never be allowed to do that. But it was a nice daydream. He imagined them scattering like pigeons, tripping over their do-gooder placards in their terror to get away. Their Bohemian wraps flying everywhere, like broken wings. They wouldn’t be so Kumbaya with a couple of bullets in their backsides. The journalists, on the other hand, were a different problem. They weren’t nearly as easy to arrest, especially if they weren’t pestering around the castle like maggots on a corpse. He gently rubbed the knife concealed under his shirt. He was lost again in his daydream, imagining what he would do with it if he found himself in a dark ally with most of the journalists he knew. Gutter scum. Stalking the dark corners, looking for ways to undo anything optimistic in the world. The fact that he was waiting for one particular rodent journalist to enter the police station in Prague made him smile. This was a fitting reversal of roles.
Daniel’s mind may have been preoccupied, but his eyes were not. And, being well trained in surveillance, he didn’t miss the change in scenery outside. He was expecting a police car to pull up in the only space left on the narrow street. But instead a small white Fiat parked there. He watched as a guy with a crew cut, light blonde hair and a sandy tan got out. Daniel had worked with enough intelligence staff to know American military when he saw one. This guy made far too much effort to move slowly. Daniel knew that look too. This bozo was trying way too hard. Must be a newbie. Daniel laughed to himself. He took out his phone and glanced around to make sure no one was watching him, and then fired off a couple of photos of the vehicle and the driver, who, having locked the car, was now strolling all too relaxedly down the street.
Once the guy had disappeared, Daniel scanned the photos and then texted them back to base. They would work out who he was within the hour. Their face recognition software was far better than the Americans’, not that they would be sharing this information. Daniel bristled at the thought of there being someone else on his turf. His mission wasn’t exactly thrilling, but it was important. As important as any other he had done of late. He liked to work alone, and if he wasn’t working alone, he wanted to know about it. Cooperation was often forced on him, under the guise of neighbourly friendship. But to Daniel, it was all bullshit. All he needed was a name, a face and a gun to get his job done. And he had two of these things today. If the face would just turn up, he could finish the job and go home.
He stared out at the street for a while longer, conscious that he hadn’t received a message back confirming receipt of his images. But when the message did come, it wasn’t what he was expecting. His boss, with his usual directness, was changing the mission.
‘Target prematurely taken out of game. Track down replacement pawn. Name: Alex North, journalist for The Contingent. Face on its way.’