Lost and Found in Prague (14 page)

Quickly she carried it to the sink and carefully, quietly poured the water, fly and all, down the drain. She turned on a dribble of water. What was she doing? The nuns could probably hear the water moving through the ancient pipes right now. No, the music would drown it out. She placed the bowl with a small amount of water on the floor. Taking a deep breath, she walked back to the table, stared down at the keys, then turned the second, small medal over to examine it. The Infant of Prague! She lifted the key chain and keys out of the box. She could hear the cat lapping at the water without so much as a thank-you. The music had ceased. Then the cat was silent, the room so quiet she could have heard a pin drop. Or a key. The cat had curled up in a ball on the carpet runner. Dana stuck the keys in her pocket.

She took a step toward the door, sure that it was the exit down to the stairs, then the hall that led to the door and out of the building. She dipped her hand into the holy water font and crossed herself, leaving a cool damp spot on her warm forehead. Taking in a deep breath, slowly she opened the door, then hurried quietly down the stairs and through the hall and out into the fresh air, where she finally exhaled and lifted her face triumphantly to the late-morning sky, barely noticing the gathering clouds.

Dana placed the purloined items in the hotel safe, showered, and put on a clean shirt. She hadn’t realized until she was on her way back from the convent that she was covered with sweat. Now, refreshed, she left the hotel, going through a shopping list in her head as she walked. The thought of shopping for her church break-in escapade with Borelli made her laugh nervously, aware this wasn’t funny at all. She couldn’t believe they were going to do this. But it was too late to turn back now. She’d just stolen a set of keys from a convent, along with a couple of receipts and a CD.

Making her way through knots of tourists on the bridge, wending through the crowds toward the Námestí Republiky, Dana looked up, checking the dark, cloud-filled sky. Her chest compressed at the words on the building above her:
PRAHA INTERNATIONAL
. She glanced at the street sign and realized this was the name and address of the headquarters she had seen during her Internet search.

Should she?

She stepped into the building, her eyes darting from the high glass ceiling back to the marble floors, a traditional look meshed with the modern. Following arrows and signs, she took the escalator up to the second floor. A large round table, displaying a human-sized arrangement of live flowers, stood in the center of the lobby. Several photographs—corporate executives, she guessed—hung on one wall. There he was, Branko Banik. A flattering photo, one she’d seen on the Internet.

A young, attractive receptionist sat at a large curved glass and metal desk. Dana approached. “Is Mr. Banik in?”

The woman gave her a look as if to say,
Mr. Banik doesn’t speak to just anyone off the street,
but then she asked her name.

“Dana Pierson,” Dana said, guessing he most likely wouldn’t remember her, though she’d kept her family name after she married. She honestly couldn’t recall if he’d even asked her name.

The woman spoke into the phone. She hung up. “Would you care to arrange an appointment or leave a message?”

Dana fumbled in her bag for a business card as the woman presented a pen and pad with the company logo emblazoned across the top.

Dana wrote:

We met years ago here in Prague. I’m trying to contact a mutual friend, Pavel Novák. Would appreciate any help you might give
me.

She scribbled her hotel name and phone number, then handed the note to the woman along with her business card. Without even looking at it, the woman paper-clipped the two together and smiled at Dana.
“Dekuji.”

Dana nodded and turned and walked across the cavernous lobby, down the escalator, and back onto the street, only slightly stunned at what she had just done. She guessed she would not hear back from Branko, who, it appeared, had done quite well since last they’d met. Why had she bothered to stop, and why had she left her card? Perhaps to say,
See, I’ve not done so bad myself
.

She arrived at the Kotva department store and found it had taken on a new glow since the late eighties, as if touched by the magic hand of free enterprise. After passing through the lower level, the assault of perfectly coiffed and made-up perfume girls, offering to spray or dab, Dana took the escalator up to the men’s department, where she found a black sweatshirt—with a hood, no less. In the electronics department she found a flashlight and CD player. Eager to listen to Pavel Novák’s song on Caroline’s CD, she grabbed a quick lunch—chicken sandwich to go—at the market on the first level of the store and started back to her hotel. As she walked, Dana wondered if Sister Claire had heard the CD, if her speaking the name Pavel Novák and Laterna Magika, the title of one of his songs, had some connection to the music on the CD.

As she passed the front desk, the clerk, a young man with spiky hair, handed her a note. With a thank-you, she glanced at it. Borelli had insisted they have dinner before going to the church and had called to let her know he’d made a reservation and would pick her up at seven.

As she arrived at her room she wondered if she should dress for dinner. She knew Borelli enjoyed a good meal and guessed it was probably a nice place if it required a reservation. Maybe her jeans and black hoodie wouldn’t be appropriate attire. Of course, the priest could wear his black uniform, the same outfit to break into the church. She decided she’d wear her skirt for dinner, then come back to change.

She put the CD in the player and forwarded immediately to the song “Laterna Magika” as she sat on her bed. Pavel’s voice sounded so familiar, strong, yet gravelly, taking her instantly back in time. He had a very distinct and easily recognizable voice. She envisioned the young man, handsome with his dark hair, his alluring smile. The music had a strong, thumping beat, not the folk songs of the American protests of the sixties, but a loud, rebellious, sexy rock. Her heart thumped to the beat, the thought of a true revolution in which she’d played a small role. Several other voices joined in on the chorus, lyrics indistinct. Borelli would have to translate the Czech. Was there something hidden in the words?

Dana ejected the CD, placed it on the nightstand, and collapsed on the bed, exhausted. She’d had a big day and, in a sense, it had just begun.

She woke several hours later, confused and rummy the way she always felt when she took a daytime nap. She stood, went to the window, and glanced out. The sky still appeared overcast. She looked at her watch. Already 6:30. She washed her face, put on some makeup, and then slipped on her skirt and blouse, her flats. They still felt damp from getting caught in the storm on Thursday night. She’d not heard from Damek since, though she knew he’d followed her again—to the Internet café.

Before she left, she looked in the safe. Should she take the keys with her now or come back for them? She had to come back to change anyway. She hesitated a moment and then picked up the keys and ran her fingers over the small medal of the Holy Infant. She slid it off the key chain and stuck it in the pocket of her cardigan, and then stuffed the two receipts in her purse, along with the photo of the group of musicians she’d printed out at the Internet café. She placed the keys in the safe.

Borelli was early, waiting in the lobby for her.

“I’d planned on picking you up in a cab,” he said, “but then I remembered that damn ditch in the middle of the street. I’ve got a driver waiting down the street,” he added with a touch of ill temper.

“I appreciate your coming by. I could have met you at the restaurant.”

He started out, as if he expected her to follow, and she did. They walked around the construction single file, past a road crew now beginning to cover the ditch, and then side by side up the hill.

“Well?” he asked. “You have the keys?”

She pulled the little Infant of Prague medal out of her pocket.

“I hope there is more to it than that,” he said with a grunt.

“Yes. Two keys. This was attached. I brought it along now for good luck.”

“It’s a religious medal, not a rabbit’s foot.”

“I know that,” she said apologetically.

“You plan on coming back to the hotel after dinner?” Borelli asked.

“Yes, of course. I didn’t want to wear my church-break-in outfit to dinner.” She laughed nervously. He laughed, too, but it soon turned into a cough. He breathed heavily as they walked and she sensed this would be a long walk to the end of the street, to the waiting cab.

She was about to tell him about the CD when he asked, “How’s your head?”

“Still on, still functioning,” she replied. She knew he was referring to the knot she’d received in her fall. Actually she was doing fine. The black and blue was barely noticeable with the adjusted hairstyle, and tonight she’d added a little makeup.

“The glasses?”

“Perfect,” she said with a smile. “Thank you.” She still wondered how much he’d paid to have them fixed. He’d waved her off earlier when she said she’d like to pay him back.

“Was Sister Agnes okay?” Dana asked. “The other nuns?”

“It was a funeral, but yes, the nuns’ conduct seemed appropriate for a group of women who had lost a good friend. I saw nothing strange, no calls for help. I don’t believe you should worry about their safety.”

“Good,” Dana replied, but she was thinking—now, how could you tell if they were being held hostage or not? It wasn’t like they had a lot of freedom before all this transpired. “I just want to talk to her. Being unable to is frustrating, if not frightening.”

“Yes,” he agreed, though she heard little sympathy in his voice.

“I found a CD at the convent,” Dana said. “A recording by several musicians from the revolution. There’s a song entitled ‘Laterna Magika,’ the artist, Novák.”

Borelli’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he turned and stared at her. “Do you have it?”

“At the hotel.”

“Very good.”

“I couldn’t understand the Czech lyrics.”

“This could be very interesting, possibly some meaning . . .” He grinned as if quite excited about her discovery. “I’ll listen to it. Later.” They’d arrived at the cab. He opened the back door and she got in.

“I’ve put a call in to my acquaintance,” he told her as he wedged into the backseat from the opposite side, “but I have not heard from him. If the Infant has been offered on the black market, he might know, or he might be able to point me in the proper direction.”

“What did Father Ruffino have to say today?” she asked. “And last night?”

“I thought it best that we wait until we know for sure—”

“That it’s missing?” She felt a little jump of anticipation and excitement at the thought of what they had planned for later in the evening.

He nodded.

Everyone seemed to be tiptoeing around Father Ruffino as if he’d been granted a special dispensation. Dana didn’t understand this at all. Father Ruffino, she was sure, knew more than he had shared, yet Borelli seemed unable, or unwilling, to accept this possibility. She wasn’t sure about Damek. Did Father Ruffino have some hold over him, too?

They arrived at the restaurant and were greeted warmly by the maitre d’, who appeared to know Borelli and showed them to the best table in the house, with a lovely view of an outdoor garden, it being too chilly to actually sit outside. She liked this treatment that went along with taking a meal with Borelli. He went over the menu with her, suggesting dishes he’d enjoyed on previous visits. She decided on the tournedos of beef béarnaise and he on roast leg of venison with pears and millet gnocchi. Borelli ordered a bottle of wine.

She told him about going to the Internet café the previous night, then returning to find Investigator Damek just stepping out.

“Well,” the priest replied, “I’m certainly glad Investigator Damek has decided to take this seriously.”

She pulled the copy of the photo of the four musicians out of her bag, then presented the receipts she’d taken from the convent. When she told Borelli her theory and explained where they’d come from, his expression held a hint of respect and admiration. He seemed impressed that she’d stolen not only the keys, but a pair of receipts as well as a CD.

The sommelier appeared with their wine, Borelli tasted and nodded, then Dana’s glass was filled.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” she asked when they were alone again. “Indulging in alcohol when we might be handling a priceless, delicate little religious icon later tonight?”

“You’re so convinced it’s a fake, it shouldn’t matter,” he came back with a chuckle. She laughed, too, but she could hear that nervous twitter, which seemed to be lacking in Borelli’s. She wondered if he’d done something like this before.

The priest inspected the first receipt. “This is hard to make out,” he said. “The handwriting is terrible. But I believe it says . . . sharpen three scissors, fifteen . . . knives. . . . Yes, I believe that’s what it says.”

“A knife sharpener?”

“It appears to be. Now, this,” he said, picking up the second receipt, “same atrocious handwriting, same type of receipt, sequential numbering. It appears this one was for a . . . a garden shears.”

“The shears from the church,” she said. “This is the person who took the keys. A sharpener—is there a word for that, a name to describe such an occupation?”

“L’arrotino,”
Borelli said, and then he sang,
“Donne, è arrivato l’arrotino.”
He grinned. “A little ditty from my childhood—
l’arrotino
used to drive through the countryside on a bike and sing to let the villagers know he had arrived. It’s funny—I haven’t thought of that in years.” He shook his head. “But I don’t know the word in English. Or in Czech.”

She pointed at the signature line on the receipt. “This fellow—
l’arrotino
 . . .” She liked the sound of the word in Italian. It was almost musical. “He arrived one day at the convent, sharpened scissors, knives, then asked if they had anything else. One of the nuns said, ‘Why, yes, the shears that we use at the church. Why don’t you come by tomorrow.’ So he stole the keys—that first day—made a copy, came back the next day to sharpen the shears, returned the keys.”

Borelli sat silently, adding nothing to Dana’s theory.

“It wouldn’t make sense if it was someone the nuns had called themselves,” she continued, “like, say, to fix the toilet or repair a leaky pipe. In such a case the nuns would have initiated the service call, but if it were an itinerant
arrotino
, he would come to them. They hadn’t called him or asked him to come. He just dropped by.”

“To sharpen scissors, knives, shears, and to steal the key to get into the church?” Borelli snorted dismissively, then took a drink of wine. “There’s no identification on this receipt, no address, no phone, only an unreadable signature.” His admiration for her thievery seemed to have soured.

She looked down at the receipt. The signature was little more than a scribble.

Other diners had come in and the restaurant was nearly filled, quiet chatter drifting through the room. Their meals were delivered. Borelli’s wineglass was refilled. Dana shook her head. One was plenty.

“Even if we could read the signature,” Borelli said, “it would most likely be an alias. If your premise is correct. You believe it was this Pavel Novák?”