CHAPTER 13

The newspaper offices were in a part of town devoid of tourists, and the street was virtually deserted this afternoon. Branislav scoped out the scene in search of a stakeout car or any suspicious-looking characters. He saw no one but a woman leaning against a bus-stop sign. Even if she had been in a crowd, she would have caught his attention. This woman was eye candy. Black pants and a tapered leather jacket accentuated her thin—but not scrawny—figure. Her body language, however, was enough to put off all but the most daring flirt. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her expression was nothing short of prickly.

Seeing no immediate danger, he crossed the street.

Branislav took a deep breath before entering the bistro. Colleagues would pick up their morning coffee here before heading to the office. They would stop in for lunch and meet after work for drinks. In the middle of the morning or afternoon, one could usually find a reporter conducting an interview or using his laptop at one of the tables. If the paper ever relocated, bistro owner Venceslas would certainly lose the bulk of his business and be forced to close.

Venceslas was in his fifties and welcomed all patrons, regulars or not, with infectious enthusiasm. No matter the season, the former rock guitarist could always be seen sporting a short-sleeved polo, which allowed him to show off his tattoo sleeves and rippling muscles.

Photos of Venceslas’s idol, Henry Rollins, adorned the walls, alongside posters from the music legend’s LPs. This thematic décor choice was a startling contrast to the classically styled furniture: booth seats upholstered in sumptuous purple velvet and marble-topped tables with cast-iron legs.

“Hey there, champ,” Venceslas shouted as he filled a half-pint of brown ale to the brim.

Branislav responded with less energy than usual.

“Your date is waiting for you in the back. Go have a seat. I’ll bring you some liquid fuel in a couple of minutes. Hey, what sport does this guy play? Those guns on him are hard-core!”

Branislav replied with a raised eyebrow and crossed the main room, acknowledging various colleagues with a simple nod. With each step, his heart pounded a little harder. He passed the small bar leading to the backroom and located the man whose face was etched in his mind.

The tank truck was sitting coolly, his arms stretched along the top of the backrest in a booth on the far wall. His nonchalance only reinforced Branislav’s anxiety. He could feel the knot in his throat getting bigger.

With a wave and a huge smile, the giant invited Branislav to join him.

Don’t let him see your fear, Branislav was thinking as he approached the man who had saved his life twenty-four hours earlier.

“I took the liberty of ordering your favorite drink. Venceslas is also bringing us a plate of Prague ham. I figured I’d take advantage of my forced vacation to taste the local cuisine. And, uh, chill out, would you? You look pathetic.”

Branislav glanced at the mirror next to the bathroom door. Staring back was a gaunt face. Under his eyes were dark circles and bulging veins. He was a walking poster child for clinical insomnia, thanks to a cocktail of stress, adrenaline, and nights spent on the futon.

The young man removed his raincoat and folded it over the back of his chair. He sat down, placing his camera and plastic folder on the table, just as Venceslas showed up, tray in hand. Once the order was served, and the two men had the room to themselves again, Eytan pushed the plate of smoked ham in Branislav’s direction, never taking his eyes off his guest.

Branislav was starving, and he figured it wasn’t a good idea to get on the guy’s bad side by refusing to eat what he had ordered. So he picked up a slice of ham with his fork and put it on his plate, as Eytan, an amused look on his face, looked on.

“How…” he stammered. “How did you find me?”

“Your wallet.”

“Why did you contact me?”

“You know very well why.” He nodded at the folder.

“How did you know I’d be doing my own investigation?”

“You’re a reporter. Need I say more?”

Branislav laughed and adjusted himself in his chair. The guy was terse, but he was on point.

“You got that right, but—”

“Yes?”

“I have more questions to ask before…”

“No time now. Later, we’ll see.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice?”

“I had a similar conversation in a slightly tenser setting a couple of days ago,” the giant said. “We always have a choice. We just have to accept the consequences.”

Having seen this man dispatch the three guys from special forces, Branislav understood the truth of his statement. If the man had wanted to take his life, he would have done it already. Branislav knew this. But he still wanted some assurance, even if it meant getting no more than a hypothetical response.

“Just tell me what role you play in this story and if I have reason to be afraid of you.”

“I’m here to figure out what happened and to prevent those responsible from doing any more harm. As for your second question, well, I love watching my future victims devour a plate of meat. It’s so thrilling.”

Branislav practically choked on his ham. But when he looked up, he saw the playful smirk on the giant’s face and relaxed a bit. He managed to swallow the food lodged in his throat and spoke up again.

“I see. All right, I’m warning you, though. I’m working more on speculation than foolproof facts.”

“All investigations start out that way. Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. What did we see yesterday? Dead people and guys in protective suits—that implies a nuclear, biological, or chemical problem.”

“We can forget nuclear. That doesn’t match with the deaths or the state of the village.”

“I agree. What else do we have? Excessive military measures and commandos prepared to take out witnesses, which proves that the problem is supersensitive.”

“They’re saying it’s a fire,” Eytan said. “They’re hiding the real incident from the public and the media. Do you think it might have been a botched military operation?”

“That’s possible, but I doubt it.”

“Why?

“What I saw yesterday looked more like a response to an emergency situation.”

“I agree.”

“Based on this information, I followed your advice to lie low,” Branislav said. “Instead of probing army, police, or government officials, I focused on the village. I thought I might find a motive there.”

“Not bad.”

“Thanks. First, I got hold of a list of registered voters. Then I got my hands on some tax information to find out more about the villagers.”

“Sneaky,” Eytan said.

Branislav was flattered. He took out the records and pushed them across the table.

“Check them out. Just about all of the residents were retired. The odd thing is that I couldn’t trace work histories for most of them. In fact, that was true for everyone over sixty-five.”

“Go on.”

“These people worked and paid taxes—some of them paid huge amounts. But it’s impossible to determine what they did for a living. I have no idea what this means, but it’s troubling. And I found something else. A former colleague and friend of my father’s lived in that village. I called him Uncle Ivan when I was a kid. I didn’t know he lived so close to my parents. I hope he wasn’t one of the victims. Actually, I haven’t seen him since my father left Paramo. I can’t believe it’s been that long.”

“Your father worked at Paramo?”

“Um, yeah. Why?”

Eytan sat up and grabbed his overstuffed army bag. “Get your things. We’ll take care of the photo I asked you to print later. Is your car nearby?”

“Yeah, but—

“I have a sudden urge to meet your folks. Let’s go. Chop-chop!”

And just like that, before even realizing it, Branislav was on Eytan’s heels. Once outside, he pointed out his Skoda.

“Do you think my parents are in danger?” he asked on the way to the car.

“That’s exactly what I want to prevent. But you should still call. It’ll make you feel better. Don’t mention my name. Their phones might’ve been tapped. Okay?”

“Got it.”

The call was quick and the conversation casual enough not to raise his parents’ suspicions. Branislav was relieved to know that his mother and father were all right. He cheerfully told Eytan that the firefighters had returned to his parents’ home earlier in the afternoon to tell them that they were safe.

Seeing Eytan’s grave reaction, Branislav became alarmed.

They got to the car without exchanging a word. Branislav slid behind the wheel. Eytan got in and adjusted his seat all the way back to keep his knees clear of the glove compartment. As he was struggling to find a semi-comfortable position, the back door opened. Branislav jumped in his seat and let out a high-pitched yelp. In his rearview mirror, he saw the stunning woman who had been loitering at the bus stop half an hour earlier.

“Don’t freak out. She’s with me,” Eytan muttered as he fought with the seatbelt.

“Elena,” she said.

“Branislav,” the reporter responded, trying to sound suave.

She gave him a smile. Branislav could tell the facial gesture was painfully difficult for the woman. With the completion of the smiling exercise, she seemed to lose interest in any small courtesies. “Can you tell me why I’m stuck in the backseat?” she asked.

Eytan’s response made it clear that these two weren’t exactly amiable travel buddies. “Because I’m bigger. That’s why! Damn, you’re getting on my nerves.”

Branislav decided to stay out of the way. Without delaying any longer, he turned on the ignition. This was going to be a fun ride.