Lost and Found in Prague (12 page)

Dana wandered around the Hradcany, looking for an Internet café after eating an early dinner alone. She had invited Borelli—her treat this time, she’d insisted—but he had reminded her he was having dinner at the monastery.

They’d spent a long afternoon sitting in his hotel room, going through the list of Nováks in the city, the priest attempting to find Pavel by calling every one of them. She’d listened with admiration as he spoke, his voice taking on an engaging, friendly tone, though she didn’t understand the words. She sensed if there was information to be had, Borelli could get it. They ordered lunch, delivered from a restaurant near the hotel, Borelli tipping generously, then continued. They discovered little, other than finding a distant cousin who said Pavel was no longer in Prague and he had no idea how to contact him.

Dana found an Internet café and checked in with the clerk at the counter, a man in his late twenties with greasy black hair and an untidy mustache that seemed to dip into his mouth every time he spoke.

“Dekuji,”
she said as she sat down at the computer, glancing up at the clerk as he hovered over her in the pretense of helping. “Thank you. I’m fine from here.” She waited until he ran a finger over his mustache, smiled, and moved on.

Dana signed in and got on the Internet. She typed in
Pavel Novák
and came up with almost a half million results. Sorting through the first few pages, scanning articles about a professor, a composer, and even an art forger, she concluded none was the Pavel Novák she was looking for. Attempting to narrow down her search, she typed in
Velvet Revolution
, then skimmed several articles that contained the name Novák, but found no mention of a Pavel in this context. She added the word
musician
to
Velvet Revolution
.

Finally, she found a black-and-white photo, a group of four young musicians who had been involved in the Velvet Revolution. The only person identified in the photo was a long-haired fellow named Marek Cermak who’d evidently made a name for himself after the revolution as a rock musician and passed away a few years after. One of the men, holding a guitar, looked very much like Pavel Novák. Slender with dark curly hair. Yes, this was Pavel Novák—a very young Pavel from twenty years ago.

Then she noticed the man standing in the middle of the group as if this was exactly where he belonged. At the center of the universe. She felt her face grow warm, her heart palpitate as a memory returned of a long-ago evening after a demonstration, a meeting of students in an old deserted theater. Not the Laterna Magika, she was sure, though she could not recall the name or even the exact location. Then a gathering, a party of sorts, in a small, run-down apartment nearby. They were drinking. Emotions and adrenaline high, mixed with fatigue. And something else, though she could not name it at the time—youth combined with the aphrodisiac of risk. They were in the middle of a revolution, and she wanted to be part of this, to be part of something more than herself. He’d stared at her from across the room, then approached. He had a beautiful, though dangerous, smile. His hair, his beard, wild, the color of fire. They were talking, drinking, then making out. Someone passed a smoke, hand rolled. He took a drag, pressed it to her lips. She pulled the smoke deep into her lungs, exhaled. He led her out of the room, down a narrow hall, past others, some conversing, others engaged in more intimate discourse. Alone somehow, in the narrow confines of a stairwell. He kissed her again, the pressure of his body lowering her to the stairs. His tongue, probing. He tasted of beer, cigarettes, rebellion. His beard rough as sandpaper against her face. Fingers fumbling with the hooks on her bra, touching her breasts, sending a shock wave through her. He was working his way along the waistband of her jeans, touching, moving, the snap undone, the zipper, his hardness pressing into her. The angle of the uncarpeted rough wooden stairs digging into her back. A loose nail, jabbing. This discomfort of her surroundings, the position she’d willingly placed herself into. She didn’t even know him.

“No,” she said. “Please, no. Stop.” The weight of his body crushing her. She pushed, elbows against the stairs, trying to escape, then her hand against his broad chest. He resisted. She dug her fingers into his arm, feeling the tightness, the strength of his muscles. He grabbed her wrist. She shoved him again, her knee into his groin. He let out an angry shriek. Finally, freeing herself, she sat up, pulled her shirt down over her unsnapped bra, brushed her hair away from her eyes. She could hardly breathe.

She hit print and glanced over at the printer. It whirred out a copy.

She sat for a moment, attempting to push thoughts of this man out of her head. Caroline and Pavel had been there that night, too, but they had been falling in love. Caroline chirped all the way back to the youth hostel. Dana, overcome with guilt, said nothing of Branko. She never described what had happened that evening.

Branko—yes, she remembered his name.
Bronco, like a wild horse?
she’d asked earlier in the evening and he’d smiled and explained it was spelled B-r-a-n-k-o.

The attendant had picked up her copy from the printer and was studying it. As long as she was here, Dana thought, she’d check her own e-mail. She signed on to her office account—nothing important. Her professional life appeared to be on hold. Then she signed on to her personal account, which she hadn’t checked for a week and a half. She cleaned out the spam, deleted a dozen e-mails from places she shopped back home—a bookstore, a bath and body shop. No messages from friends or family. Of course not—they all knew she’d be gone for two weeks, that she hadn’t brought her laptop. She typed in her brother Ben’s e-mail address and wrote:

I miss you. Have been thinking about you. Enjoyed Rome. Now in Prague. Will see Cousin Caroline on Sunday. I’ve become involved in quite an adventure here in this magical little medieval city. Mystery and intrigue abound! Tell you all about it when I get home. Love to Mom, Jeff, Pammie, and the kids.

She reread it, thinking it sounded much too light and amusing to reflect what she’d become involved in. But she didn’t want to alarm them or tell them anything about the events that had possibly taken place at Our Lady Victorious. And she didn’t want to share her fears for Caroline.

She hit send and logged off.

The attendant gave her a once-over and took her money for the copy. When she stepped out of the Internet café the sun had set and the sky was spinning a tapestry with the most incredible threads of deep fuchsia and gold and orange. She walked through the square, then down the hill toward the hotel, realizing she didn’t want to go back to her room just yet. She continued on to the Karluv most, the streets still clogged with groups of young people, students on spring break, families on holiday. The vendors had closed shop, packed away their portable kiosks. The music of a handful of performing groups floated along the bridge. Several people were taking photographs. She stopped for a moment to admire the lovely scene of the spires silhouetted against the sky, now softened to pink and lavender.

Strolling over to the Staromestské námesti, where she’d eaten lunch with Borelli the previous day, she found the stalls for the Easter market shuttered for the evening. She still hadn’t done any shopping and had no gifts to take home. Her musings turned again to family—her mother; her brothers, Ben and Jeff; Jeff’s wife, Pammie; the little ones, Zac and Quinn and Olivia.

As she turned and headed back toward her hotel, Dana thought of how much fun she’d had with Borelli and felt a touch of guilt that she was enjoying this. Spending the morning and much of the afternoon with him, between going to the optometrist’s shop and searching for Novák, making the calls, he’d unobtrusively asked about her life back home, and she’d revealed that her dad was gone and her mother still lived just outside Boston. She’d told him about her brothers, niece, and nephews. He shared that he had but one sister, and together they owned a small vineyard in Tuscany, which his only nephew managed. The nephew and his wife had an eight-year-old daughter named Mia.

Borelli did not inquire about husband or children, perhaps aware this might be a sensitive topic for a woman her age, and Dana shared nothing of this part of her life.

She wished he could have joined her for dinner. She now anticipated, with a mixture of excitement and horror, what might happen the following evening after the church closed. She’d done a few questionable things in her life as a journalist, but she’d never sneaked into a convent, then illicitly entered a church and climbed up on an altar to examine a religious icon. She realized she was much more nervous about their plan for the morning—Borelli unlocking the convent door, Dana entering and searching during the old nun’s funeral. The building was large and ancient and, she imagined, divided into a number of small rooms, nooks and crannies, and secret places, and she wondered if she could even find the keys.

She crossed back over the bridge. The musicians were gone, save for a lone young man with a sonorous voice, sitting cross-legged near the statue of the queen’s confessor, John of Nepomuk. The crowds had diminished, yet dozens still idled on the bridge. Many huddled in groups as a slight chill now hung in the evening air. Young people leaned up against the balustrade, laughing and passing bottles of wine among themselves or sipping from beers. Lovers stood holding one another, oblivious to those making their way over to the Malá Strana. Others stopped to admire the view. Again Dana lingered. The colors were fading. The sky slowly darkening.

She thought of Drew, Joel’s dad, how much like these lovers they’d once been. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in over three years. Perhaps the pain and memories were too much for both of them. Grief bound some couples closer, while others were pulled apart. Maybe she and Drew had not loved each other enough to make it through their loss. She’d had two brief and, in retrospect, meaningless affairs since, but there was no one in her life now.

Again she thought of Branko, that night long ago. After she’d told him no, he called her a bitch, a tease, then angry Czech words she did not understand. “First you say yes, then no. A man goes after what he wants. Women,” he snorted. His nostrils flared and for a moment she thought he was about to strike her, but instead he placed his hand under her chin, lovingly at first, then moving slowly to her throat, fingers tightening. She began to cry. He released his grip and laughed. “Go home, little girl,” he said. “You are not woman enough for all this. Go home and grow up, you little American bitch.” Then he stood and walked back down the hall.

The following morning she told Caroline she was ready to go home. Caroline wanted to stay.

As Dana continued across the bridge, strangely, she now thought of Investigator Damek, their meeting at headquarters, their encounter the previous evening. His hair, curling wildly from the rain. He didn’t appear to spend much time primping, but she’d never liked that in a man. His looks were natural, unassuming. Yet he carried a perfectly pressed white cloth handkerchief in his pocket. A man of contradictions. But also—what was it? His quiet consideration before he spoke? She realized she was smiling. He was married. She knew that. She’d as much as asked him, though she wasn’t sure why. Sometimes her mouth took off before her brain. She was well aware of this.

She headed toward the Malostranské námestí. A block from her hotel, she had another thought. Maybe they could find Pavel by finding Lenka. If they’d had a child together, even if they never married, wouldn’t they maintain some kind of contact? Or Branko? Had they remained friends? She couldn’t remember his last name, though she was sure he’d told her. As if someday this would be important, as if he would become a major figure in the new Czechoslovakia.

She headed back toward the Internet café, guessing it stayed open late, maybe all night. Just as she turned the corner, a half block from the café, she stopped abruptly. Investigator Damek stepped out the door and started down the street in the opposite direction. Had he been following her? Dana watched as Damek walked away briskly, but in her mind she pictured him entering the café, flashing his badge, and sitting down at her computer, the seat perhaps still warm, insisting the shifty-eyed clerk retrace her steps on the computer, maybe even passing him a handful of korunas. But what would Damek discover? That they were all looking for Novák? She wondered if he could hack into her personal e-mail. She’d mentioned to her brother that she’d become caught up in an adventure in Prague. But Damek could learn nothing from that. The only thing he might discover from her e-mail to her brother was that she missed her family. That she was lonely.

Dal Damek woke as her soft, sweet-smelling body faded away. He sat up, realizing the woman in his dream was the American reporter, puzzled by this erotic presence of a woman he found more irritating than attractive. He slipped out of bed, made his way to the shower, turned it on full blast, not bothering to let it warm up as he relieved himself of the throbbing ache in his groin, as the spray of freezing water pelted his chest.

Out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, he opened the fridge in the kitchen, little more than an extension of his living room, which was also his bedroom. He grabbed a bottle of water and sat on a stool at the small, raised counter that created a divider between the two areas. Staring down at the copy of the Internet photo he’d left there the night before, he could smell her again. She didn’t seem to be the type to wear perfume—she was almost boyish—yet she smelled lovely, like a wildflower he couldn’t quite place. Sweet and erotic. He had been aware of this as he sat across from her at her hotel, then in the seat at the computer café where she’d been just a short time ago. He did not understand this strange appeal. She was as skinny as could be, and he preferred a curvy girl like Karla. But she wasn’t ugly—she had a pretty face, nice eyes—he’d noticed her eyes as she’d stared across his desk, then the table at the hotel bar, blinking nervously without her glasses. Full lips. Straight American teeth. She was perhaps most attractive when she smiled, which he guessed she didn’t often do.

He tried to shake this image, this sensation, her scent from his head. Yet he could not let go of Dana Pierson because he had to determine why she, as well as the Italian priest, had taken such an interest in the death of an old nun.

After spending over an hour the previous morning following the two foreigners, then again trailing Dana Pierson that evening, he’d accomplished little other than confirm they were looking for a man named Pavel Novák. The clerk at the Internet café had guided Dal through the websites the woman had visited, and it seemed he’d been correct—the man they were searching for was the Novák who’d been active in the late 1980s during the
sametová revoluce
.

The photo, a group of four young musicians, was dated 1989. Dal guessed Novák was among them, but couldn’t identify him. He’d found no photos in his earlier search, but he had yet to delve into the archives—thousands, if not millions, of files in the basement of headquarters in such disarray it might take weeks. He had no time for this.

He took a sip of water, the cool liquid sliding down his dry throat, and then picked up the magnifying glass sitting on the counter. Again he examined the details of the blurry picture. The tall blond man in the front he easily recognized as a once-famous Czech rock star, Marek Cermak, though he’d passed away years ago, possibly of a drug overdose. A stocky fellow standing in the center, hands clasped together, feet set wide, wearing an open-collared shirt and jeans, sporting a scruffy beard, displayed a confident smile. Dal sensed this man oversaw the whole production. He looked familiar. Maybe someone he’d known years ago, or maybe a younger version of someone he’d encountered recently?

According to what Dal had discovered at the Internet café, Dana Pierson had also looked at some e-mail accounts. It appeared, just as she said, that she was on holiday. Dal took another swallow of water. He was tired, and the thought of jumping back in bed tempted him, but his mind was too full, and he knew he couldn’t sleep.

An image came to him—the old nun’s feet, tattered leather sandals, wool socks so worn he could see through to the flesh of her heels. A threadbare habit and tattered knit shawl. Then another recurring image pushed it aside: finely polished black leather shoes, fur-trimmed winter coat fit for a king, a hundred tiny, shiny mink having given their lives to warm a rich, plump Czech senator. The unsolved murder that should now be receiving Dal’s full attention. This along with the murder of Filip Kula.

Dal had accomplished little with his visit to Kutná Hora the previous afternoon. The professor was in the hospital, having suffered another stroke. He’d spoken with the niece, but gained no further information. Dal’s instinct told him there was something in Hugo Hutka’s files, and he and Kristof had indeed made some progress with their trip to the state archives. There was something there . . . something buried somewhere in three hundred million pages of material. Did the senator’s contact with Hutka, as well as the actor, Filip Kula, through his aide, Fiala Nedomová, indicate he was attempting to dig up something from the past, a possible connection to the Communist secret police to discredit someone now in a position of political power?

Detectives Reznik and Beneš continued in their attempts to learn more about Fiala Nedomová, but she had no family, a spinster without husband or children. If she was dead, like the senator, Kula, and Hutka, no one cared.

The previous afternoon, Friday, Dal had received an e-mail from the chief of criminal investigations.
Report to my office Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. Progress, in my opinion, is much too slow.
Dal had no doubt he was speaking of Senator Zajic’s case.

Taking another swallow of water, he went to the window and stared down. A man across the street was filling a newspaper stand. Dal’s thoughts turned again to the American reporter. He had no use for reporters—Czech, American, or otherwise.

He let out a dry hacking cough and sensed he was catching a cold or his allergies were acting up. Spring did this to him every year. Everyone loved spring, but Dal preferred the cold, hard winter. He ate better. He breathed better. He slept better.

Draining the bottle of water, he stepped into the kitchen, tossed the bottle in the trash, and then wandered back to the foldout sofa and sat among the rumpled blankets, staring at the photo of Karla and Petr on the end table.

•   •   •

“You are a spineless coward,” Father Giovanni Borelli chastised himself as he sat, nursing a whiskey, unable to sleep. He’d slumbered restlessly through the night and awakened early.

He had yet to confront Beppe. He had not, if he were to defend himself, even had the opportunity. They had taken their dinner along with the entire community of the Carmelite monastery, Brother Gabriele hovering attentively. Giovanni was always suspicious of those who appeared most innocent and caring. A monk who looked like an angel. A priest overly fond of children. An attorney who went out of his way to visit an ailing widow who’d lost touch with reality as well as family.

Perhaps he should have called Father Ruffino aside and spoken to him or shared his concerns as his friend walked him to the monastery door and bade him farewell for the evening. But Giovanni had said nothing.

He’d always admired Beppe, always trusted him. They had been best friends so long Giovanni often felt they understood one another without words. He couldn’t imagine the man lying to him. Was this the reason he could not confront him? Because he felt a very personal betrayal? Would the friendship they had shared for so many years fall apart, unravel, if he learned that Beppe had deceived him? Maybe Dana was right in thinking a ransom had been demanded, that the man feared for his life if he revealed any of this. Giovanni considered that his presence in Prague might even be a threat to his friend.

He would wait until after he and Dana examined the statue on the altar to further question Beppe. If it proved to be a fake, then he would have to speak to him. He would not throw out accusations, but if the statue was missing, Dana was right. The nuns would know, and they would have run to the prior of Our Lady Victorious with this terrible news. He would speak to Father Ruffino then—if and when they confirmed the statue a fake.

Father Borelli was beginning to doubt that he even possessed the necessary skills to conduct a proper investigation. Dana had told him she was going to do some online research. Giovanni himself had limited computer skills. His nephew, Leo, had attempted to teach him, had even taken him to one of those computer stores to make a purchase. The place was confusing, with so many choices, so many parts, electronic devices Giovanni couldn’t even put a name to. They’d taken the computer home, set it up, and Leo had started in, explaining this, then that. He’d attempted to show him how to use the Internet for research. After three days of trying, Father Borelli had become so frustrated he considered returning the computer and demanding a refund. Yet it still sat in his office at home, barely used other than for a game of solitaire now and then.

At one time, Giovanni had been known for his investigative skills—he knew who to call, he had a feel for how to phrase a question, and he could generally tell when someone was lying to him. Wasn’t that where the real information came from—an interview with a real live person, not some electronic box supposedly attached to the world? Or from authentic correspondence, official documents, and historical archives. But everyone—investigators, reporters, the police force—relied on computers now. Maybe Giovanni Borelli was too far behind the times. Maybe he should just leave this to the young folks. He took another gulp of whiskey, feeling it slide down his throat with a surge of anger.

He had an acquaintance who might be able to help. Several years ago—no, decades actually—Father Borelli had been called upon to investigate the black market selling of religious icons taken from Catholic churches. The man who had helped him with this investigation had at one time been engaged in the trade. He’d reformed and confessed, though Father Borelli had doubts there had been any true reformation. As a priest he knew he should believe in repentance and forgiveness, but human nature was such that at times it was difficult. He taxed his memory, but could not recall the man’s name. Maybe he’d been out of the trade so long he’d be no help. What was his name? He was Italian. Giovanni had the information in his file at home. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. He would call his housekeeper. He knew right where the file was.