Ten years later
Ryker made his way across the square in the Smichov district of Prague. The temperature was steadily dropping. The early morning rain had turned to ice on the pavements. He took short and heavy steps to avoid slipping and hunkered down in his thick coat to protect himself from the chilling breeze. The dark clouds above him suggested snow was on the way.
He passed by the curious Golden Angel building, a curved structure with sleek lines whose tall glazed facade was delicately etched with the image of an angel among clouds. The oversized figure looked down on the square below as though a protector. Ryker was far from religious, though he’d often wondered if he’d had some higher power looking out for him during his troubled and violent life. After all, despite everything, he was still walking, still free.
Or perhaps the opposite was true. His troubled and violent life was in fact a punishment.
He shivered as he glanced up at the angel, the thick and low clouds that filled the sky up above giving her a sinister edge.
Ryker carried on across two blocks, to a smaller and quainter square. He’d been here three times before in his stay in this city. Two weeks. That’s how long he’d been in Prague. Longer than he’d originally intended, but this intriguing city – and some of its equally intriguing inhabitants – continued to draw him in.
Why was that?
Ryker had arrived in Prague alone and would leave here alone. He’d been intermittently on the move for several months, across several different countries. Everywhere he went it was the people he paid the closest attention to, always from afar, as though his new quest was to analyze strangers to determine their life stories.
But what was he looking for? Perhaps more importantly, why did he care?
He headed up to the door of the bar-cum-restaurant and pushed the creaky fixture open. The wood-clad space inside was dark and dingy. A heavy varnish odor was just about drowned out by the far nicer smell of freshly cooked food. One of the reasons Ryker was here.
He took a seat at a table for two by the window and looked around him. A variety of familiar faces. Two weeks in this city. His fourth time in this place, yet he already had a good grasp of the schedules of some of these people, it seemed.
Ryker scanned the menu and made his order at the bar, deciding on an ice-cold local beer to help wash down the stew he ordered.
Back in his seat, he continued to look around, flicking his eyes between the people and the TV screen up behind the bar that was showing rolling national news coverage with subtitles in Czech. Ryker had only a basic grasp of the language, though could gain most of the key facets of the mostly gloomy news items from the images.
A few minutes later the door to the kitchen opened and out came the waitress who’d served Ryker each time he’d been here. Dyed black hair, nose ring, figure-hugging leggings, and a thick woolen jumper, she carried the casual look not just with understated elegance but with confidence and a don’t mess with me attitude that drew Ryker in. She brought the food over, holding Ryker’s eye the whole way.
‘Dobrý den,’ she said with a warm smile as she put the food down on the table.
‘Dobrý den,’ Ryker said in return, trying his best to get the pronunciation of the basic greeting correct.
Her smile widened. She glanced over her shoulder but remained standing over him.
‘You’re back again,’ she said in pretty decent English.
‘I am.’
‘You like the goulash?’
‘The best outside of Hungary, right?’
She looked over her shoulder again. Ryker followed her line of sight to the table of three men in the opposite corner. Two of them were eyeballing Ryker. When she returned her gaze her smile had dropped a little. Agitation, but also wariness. Across the other side of the space, the sole barman, who was wiping a glass, also had his rabbity eyes flitting back and forth.
‘What’s your name?’ Ryker asked. It seemed appropriate enough to do so now that he was a regular.
‘Simona.’
‘I’m James,’ he said.
‘You’re from England.’
‘I am.’
‘Just visiting?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Business?’
‘Pleasure.’
‘On your own?’
‘So far.’
A coy smile.
‘I’d be lying if I said the only reason for me coming back here again was the food.’
‘Yeah. So what else?’
‘You could sit with me, have a drink, and I could tell you all about it. But I don’t think your friends would appreciate it.’
Her smile flickered again, but not for long. There was an awkward pause. Awkward for her, at least.
‘Not while I’m working, but… perhaps a drink after I finish?’
‘Here?’
‘No, how—’
‘Simona,’ the barman called over, before rattling off a command in Czech.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’
Nerves now. Her tough exterior wavered.
She turned and strode over to the bar where she and the barman exchanged a short but agitated tirade before Simona disappeared into the kitchen. She didn’t reappear over the next ten minutes as Ryker ate most of his food.
Finally the inevitable. It had taken four visits. Was that more or less than he’d expected?
But then, why did it even matter to Ryker?
He thought again of the angel. The protector.
The man sat down without asking. He thudded his arms down onto the table, crossed them over as he glared at Ryker. He was the youngest of the three. Probably late twenties, though his bushy beard made him look several years older. He wasn’t the tallest guy, nor the most muscled, but the way he’d swaggered over clearly showed he thought he could handle anything and anyone. Most people who felt that way eventually realized their mistake quite abruptly.
‘Why are you here?’ he said. English, though not as good as Simona’s.
‘To eat.’
The sides of his jaws pulsed from him clenching his teeth.
‘Why are you here? Again.’
‘It’s a restaurant, isn’t it?’
‘You shouldn’t talk to her.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t talk to her. And don’t come here again. We don’t need your money.’
He picked up the notes that Ryker had placed on the table, scrunched them, and threw them in Ryker’s face. The paper bounced back onto the table. The man stood and headed back over to his friends, who were both glaring at Ryker.
Message understood. Ryker finished his beer. Wiped his mouth clean, then uncrumpled the money before neatly laying it back on the table again. Then he got up to leave.
Still no sign of Simona.
Ryker headed on out.
But he didn’t go far. It was cold outside, but Ryker hung on the edge of the square, pulled into the foyer of a closed-down clothes shop, then waited. And waited. He looked around the increasingly familiar buildings here. A mishmash of apartment blocks, five to seven stories. Far from the most luxurious living spaces in Prague, but also nowhere near the bottom either.
Ryker remained where he was for more than an hour, seeing barely any passersby before the three men emerged from the bar. They headed across the square to two parked cars. They didn’t go anywhere. Instead, they remained standing, smoking, chatting, checking their watches.
Ryker slid further back.
A few minutes later another car entered the square directly across from where Ryker was standing. It parked up. Two men got out. Older than the three. Gruffer-looking. The five began a conversation, but it wasn’t long before eyes were turning in Ryker’s direction. He’d hardly tried his best to stay hidden.
The exchange ended. The two older men got back into their car and drove off. The other three remained standing, staring over to Ryker. Would they simply head away too?
No. Of course not.
Shoulder to shoulder in a battle line, the three moved toward Ryker. He peeled off from the front of the building he was standing by. Thought about turning and striding away. Something held him back from doing that.
The men were ten yards from Ryker when Mr Beard shouted over angrily.
‘I told you to go.’
Ryker raised an eyebrow. ‘You told me to leave the restaurant. I did.’
‘Leave here. Now.’
The men stopped. They were still several steps in front of Ryker. A standoff. What were they going to do? All had their arms by their sides. Hands empty.
Then the door to the restaurant clanked open. Simona burst out. All eyes turned to her. Overcoat on, she stormed toward the men, gesticulating, shouting. There was fire in her, all right. Ryker smiled. Mr Beard peeled away and went to intercept her. She took her phone out. Waved it in front of his face. A warning? She held the phone aloft. He grabbed her wrist. Ryker twitched. The two other men flinched as though ready to attack if he tried to intervene.
He didn’t. Not yet.
Simona’s angry rant continued. She whipped her arm away and stomped over to Ryker.
‘Come on,’ she said.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him away. He went with it. Turned to see the three men regrouped and staring, but they weren’t following.
Simona took Ryker around a corner.
‘You shouldn’t make them angry,’ Simona said.
She sounded annoyed.
‘I wasn’t trying to.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
He glanced at her. Couldn’t read the look on her face. Somewhere between incredulous and amused, if those two things could ever go together.
‘I’d like to think you only came back for some goulash, and to see me,’ she said. ‘I saw the way you looked at me the last time. But now I’m not so sure.’
Ryker didn’t say anything to that. They carried on walking, their pace slowing.
‘What did you say to him?’ Ryker said.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘For a drink. Away from there.’
She led the way and two minutes later they arrived outside an Irish pub.
‘Does every city in every country have one of these?’
Simona looked a little confused by that question.
‘After you,’ he said, indicating the door.
They headed inside, got a drink each, and took a seat at a booth. As well as harps and Irish flags everywhere, the pub also had a multitude of TVs. RTÉ news, BBC World Service, golf, soccer, all at once.
‘I don’t get you,’ Simona said before taking a sip from her wine.
‘Why not?’
‘You hang around like you want something. So what do you want?’
Now there was a question. What did Ryker want?
He took a long drag of his beer.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing one of those guys is a relative. Your brother?’
She laughed. ‘No. Not that. I think you’ve got the wrong idea. But I can tell you’re as interested in them as you are in me.’
‘No chance,’ he said with a smile.
And while she didn’t give any explanation as to her relationship with the men, she did then begin to talk about herself. Twenty-eight years old. Unmarried, no kids. Never lived anywhere but Prague. Ryker was paying attention to every word. And he was engrossed by her.
At least to start with. But as drawn to her dark eyes and her feisty attitude as he was, he couldn’t resist flitting his gaze up to the TV screen behind her when there was a flash of red. The BBC news channel going to its headlines.
Ryker’s eyes remained fixed there as he read the scrolling bar of the breaking news over and over.
And over.
Russian oligarch Pavel Grichenko found murdered in England.
Impossible. ‘James?’
Long thought dead, Grichenko had been officially missing for more than ten years.
‘James? Are you even listening to me?’
No. He wasn’t.
Ryker rose up from the table. Looked down to see anger and disappointment on Simona’s face.
‘I’m sorry.’
And he really was, but there was nothing else he could do.
‘I’ve got to go.’
Which was exactly what he did.