Prague, the last days of spring, 1.20 a.m
I was exhausted by the time I got back to the hotel. That unending day, which had begun with a simple exhibition, continued with a chase, and ended with a theft and murder, had been absolute hell. What more could happen?
While I was waiting for the lift to my room, I tried to collect my thoughts. Now, in addition to the contents of the bag, I also had to analyse the photos of the alchemical watch. I’d been vague with the police and Maglione, but my instincts were telling me that the two crimes – the theft and Hašek’s murder – were connected. However, the anxiety I was feeling was also due to the symbol the murderers had drawn on the wall at the Golden Bough with the blood of the unfortunate Hašek. Above all, though, I was disturbed by the way his body had been left for the police to find. It seemed as though it had been clumsily arranged to send a message to someone. But to whom? And why? I was persecuted by feelings of guilt too, because I’d followed the directions Hašek had emailed me and then kept quiet about the story of the bag. It might be a valuable clue that could lead the police to the killers.
The lift doors opened on the third floor but before I’d even had time to step out into the hallway where my room was, something – or someone – dragged me violently to the ground. I let out a strangled cry, and as I fell I saw splinters flying off the wall above my head, preceded by an unmistakable thud.
A pistol shot fired with a silencer.
“Quickly. Round the corner!” shouted a voice, as someone pulled at my jacket. I crawled along the floor and only after I’d flattened myself against the wall of the corridor which turned off the main hallway by the lift did I turn to look at my saviour.
“Riccardo, what are...?”
I didn’t have time to finish my sentence before another bullet covered us with shards of plaster.
“We’ve got to get away from here,” Riccardo Micali hissed, as he started to run. I followed him without a second thought.
Halfway down the hall, Riccardo opened the emergency door and threw himself headlong into the stairwell. After the first flight of stairs, I turned round for an instant. The door had just closed behind us when it was violently thrown open. I recognised the two men from the Charles Bridge. The first raised his right hand and took aim.
I threw myself forward, crashing into Riccardo who only just managed to keep his balance as a bullet smashed into the wall behind me. In the meantime, we’d reached the second floor and Riccardo returned to the hotel’s hallways via a second emergency door.
“Quickly, this way!”
I rushed after him and closed the door behind me. In a single movement, Riccardo took off his leather belt and tied it around the crash bar.
“It won’t stop them for long, so let’s go,” he said, starting to run again.
“Wait – the bag is still in my room.”
Riccardo stopped suddenly. “What?”
“Obviously! Was I supposed to take it with me to the police? I put it in the safe…”
Hotel guests, curious about the commotion, had started to peer out of their rooms. Some were in pyjamas while others were fully dressed, but all were trying to figure out what the hell was going on. While we stopped to decide what to do, we heard the emergency door banging loudly.
“Ok, let’s go!”
Riccardo ran to the end of the corridor and I followed. Seeing us running, the other guests took fright, and when the emergency door crashed open, some people began to scream, each in their own language. It was a veritable Babel.
We were almost at the end of the corridor when a bullet exploded a few centimetres from my right leg, shattering a patch of wall. The screams in the corridor multiplied and people began hurriedly locking themselves in their rooms. Riccardo turned and saw the first of the two men about to take aim again.
“This way,” he shouted.
He leapt into a room just as the door was closing, and I slipped in an instant before another bullet could reach me. I slammed the door behind me and turned towards the room’s interior. Riccardo had already raced across it and was climbing out of the window.
“Riccardo, what are you doing?”
There was a young couple in pyjamas in the room – a man with the air of a bank clerk was standing by the door he’d just tried to close; the woman, a beautiful curvaceous brunette, was sitting on the bed. They were both terrified.
“I'm so sorry…” I said sheepishly.
“Oy!” shouted the man in a thick Roman accent. “Are you off your bloody heads!”
“Excuse us,” I said, embarrassed, as I ran to the window.
We were on the second floor and just below the window were the huge letters of the hotel sign. Riccardo shimmied along the letters N and D of the words ‘Grand Hotel’, but they began to creak under his weight.
The screams inside the hotel continued – evidently the two gunmen were spreading pandemonium. Riccardo, managing to stay incredibly cool, landed on a cornice under one of the first floor windows. Easing myself gingerly along the ‘Grand Hotel’ sign, risking a fall of six metres to the pavement below with every movement, I reached him and flattened myself against the wall like a lizard. Riccardo bent down and peered through the window next to us.
“It looks empty.”
“But the window’s clos—”
I hadn’t even finished my sentence before the Sicilian had smashed the glass. He jumped into the room and I followed him, shaking my head.
“Look, I’ve got no intention of spending the next ten years in a Czech prison. Is that clear?” I gasped in exasperation, trying to catch my breath.
“Would you prefer a morgue?” was his sarcastic reply.
He had a point. Our two pursuers were not joking.
“Of course not, but… look out!”
Before I’d even had time to warn him he was lying on the floor of the room, unconscious. A shadow had emerged from behind the bed and having hit him over the head was preparing to launch itself at me.
“Hey, calm down!” I said, holding my hands forward defensively. On hearing my voice, the shadow lowered its improvised weapon.
“Are you Italian?” a female voice asked in a strong eastern European accent.
“I, yes… take it easy, I don’t want to hurt you.”
The woman stepped forward and for a moment her face was illuminated by the light from the street. She was beautiful – with a lean, neat, supple physique – and very, very young. Little more than an adolescent.
I moved to help Riccardo, who was recovering his senses, and the girl once again raised her weapon, which turned out to be a bedside lamp.
“Calm down, I just want to help my friend.”
Where Riccardo had fallen there was a night stand with another lamp. I switched it on and lifted the head of the Sicilian who looked around him, dazed and confused. After a couple of seconds he managed to focus on the girl in front of him and his expression turned fierce.
“You whore,” he spat, as he struggled to stand.
The girl, in response, raised the lamp above her head, ready to strike again.
“Hey, stop that! Calm down!” I said, positioning myself between the two of them. “You too, Riccardo. The girl’s just scared.”
In the meantime, the sound of voices and footsteps came into the room from the corridor, whilst through the window we could hear police sirens.
“Here we go – my new friends are back,” I said, shaking my head. Riccardo stood up, rubbing the back of his neck, as the girl collected a few things together and headed for the door.
“Wait, don’t open it!” I begged.
She looked at me with two bright green eyes that betrayed her great fear. “I going. Not want the police.”
I took a closer look at her, in particular her clothes, and I understood. An eye-catching pink miniskirt, a low-cut black top, fishnet stockings and thick makeup. Everything hidden by the black trench coat that she was hurriedly putting on. She was a prostitute, and perhaps her client had done a runner.
I smiled at her. “What’s your name?”
She smiled back, revealing perfect teeth with a charming little space between her two front incisors. “Zuzana… Zuzia.”
I glanced at Riccardo. “Don’t worry, Zuzia, we don’t want any trouble with the police either.”