The Cruelty, page 25
One of the Brits heaves a beer bottle that strikes Roman sharply in the back of the head. Roman turns, and even in the dim light, I see fearsome anger on his face. Still, the men aren’t intimidated. One of them grabs Roman by the shoulders and head-butts him in the nose, snapping Roman’s head back. Then all three start in with round after round of sloppy punches that last until Roman crumples against the wall and slides to the ground.
His body is limp, and the three men stand there for a moment, deciding whether the fun ended too soon. Leave him alone, I think to myself. You’ve done enough. Then one of them starts kicking him, driving his sneaker into Roman’s stomach and side and head. The rest join in.
I rocket forward, drop my shoes to the ground, and grab the largest of the three attackers by the wrist. I wrench his arm into a lock that spins him around and sweep my forearm against his throat, sending the back of his head into the cobblestone wall. He lurches at me, but I catch him in the jaw with a fist that twists his body away.
The second attacker seizes my shoulder from behind. My elbow flies back into his stomach; then I turn and drive the heel of my hand up under his chin, sending him toppling backward. He’s incapacitated but likely only for a few seconds. I sense movement at my side and turn. A big, drunken swing from the third attacker misses my head by a good six inches. I answer with a fast kick to his groin. He doubles over and staggers a few steps. But as I move toward him, I notice the other two attackers backing away, hands raised.
I look to Roman. He’s still on the ground, still only semiconscious, but has a pistol in his hand and is trying to level it at them. Two of the attackers turn and stumble off down the alley, while the third runs off in the other direction.
Roman swings the pistol around, looking for a target. Gently, I wrap my hand around it and force the muzzle down. “Put it away,” I whisper.
Blood burbles from Roman’s nose. “The fuckers,” he gasps.
But he’s drifting off again, back into unconsciousness. I check his pulse and see that it’s strong, but he needs a hospital and there’s no way I can carry him by myself to the car. For only a second, I consider shouting for help, but a man with the last name Kladivo probably doesn’t want the police coming around asking questions about what happened and why.
I pull his phone from his pocket and figure out how to access the contacts. I thumb through them until I see the word otec—father, same as in Russian. I press the name, and the phone dials.
“Pan Kladivo,” I say when he answers. “It’s Sofia. Roman’s been hurt—attacked. He’s breathing but unconscious. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
A pause, then a calm voice. “No. No ambulance. Where are you?”
“Praha 1, near the Old Town Square. A little alley…”
“Are there shops nearby? Give me the names.”
I tell him the names of a pizza restaurant and a wine store, both closed for the night.
“I’ll have someone come to you. Don’t move.”
“Thank you.”
“Sofia?”
“Yes, Pan Kladivo?”
“Were you—were you with him?”
“No, Pan Kladivo. I came only later.”
A pause. In the background, I hear soft music and the tinkling of glasses as if he’s at a party. “Someone will be there soon,” he says, and then the line clicks off.
For five minutes, I wait by Roman’s side. He’s breathing deeply and steadily, which I take to be a good sign. Then two figures appear at the end of the alley, coming from the direction of the square. As they step into the light of the streetlamp, I recognize Emil and Libor.
“The fuck happened?” Emil says.
“Three men attacked him,” I say.
They stand dumbly over Roman for a few moments, debating in Czech what to do. Then they hoist him up, one under each arm, and drag him toward the square.
I start off in the other direction, but Emil grabs my arm. “No chance,” he says. “Boss says you come with us.”
I follow them to Emil’s BMW and help them fold Roman into the backseat with Libor. I climb into the passenger side, and we take off through the dense late-night Prague traffic.
“Who did it?” Emil asks as we leave the city and start into the suburbs.
“Three British guys,” I say. “I don’t know why they picked Roman.”
Emil laughs under his breath. “I bet I do.”
We say nothing more the rest of the ride. The apartment buildings give way to small houses, then to large houses the farther we get from the city. The car turns onto a private gravel road with signs giving what look like ominous warnings in Czech about what will happen to those who dare trespass here.
We approach an iron gate set into a stately stone wall. Beyond it is a large stucco mansion, an enormous place with a well-manicured yard. A man in a gangster-issue tracksuit approaches, shielding his eyes from the headlights with one hand, and carrying a submachine gun with the other.
Twenty-Two
Roman is laid out on a long wooden table in the kitchen like a dish being prepared. An improvised mattress of quilts is wedged between him and the planks, and above him hangs a rack of copper pots and pans. A few of Bohdan’s personal security crew hang around waiting for orders.
Bohdan, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened, stands with hands on hips, supervising the work of a private physician summoned to the house. The doctor is deferent and frightened, keeping his eyes low.
I sit where Bohdan tells me to sit, in a wooden chair pulled away from the wall. From here, I can see Roman clearly. He has only just now regained consciousness, and the doctor is sewing stitches into a cut on his cheek. Roman’s eyes are on me, deep with panic. The physician dabs away some blood and announces that he’s finished.
Bohdan snaps his fingers as he gives an order in Czech. He’s commanding everyone to leave, apparently, because everyone does, even the doctor. I begin to stand, but Bohdan seizes my shoulder and forces me back into the chair. “Not you,” he says.
When the door to the kitchen is closed, Bohdan turns and looms over me. “Leave out nothing,” Bohdan says. “Leave out nothing or I will know.”
“Three men, three British men, drunk, came up to him. They were harassing him, saying—terrible things. They grabbed him, and Roman tried to fight them off. He fought like—like a lion.”
Bohdan shakes his head as he turns to Roman. “You hear that, Roman? She calls you a lion. Such loyalty. Despite everything, you are still the king of the jungle in her eyes.” He approaches his son, leans in close. “You were with—that fellow?”
Roman closes his eyes and says something in Czech.
“In English, so that Sofia may hear and understand,” Bohdan says. “Do not be a coward.”
“I was with—a friend.”
Bohdan’s shouting causes me to jump in my seat. “A friend? One of your boyfriends? One of your lovers?”
The humiliation in Roman’s eyes seems even more painful than his physical wounds. “Ano,” he whispers. Yes.
Bohdan nods and leans against the edge of the table. “I have only ever asked for you to keep your sickness discreet. Yet even this you cannot do. Have you any idea what will happen if it is discovered my son is a sodomite?”
“I’m sorry, táta.”
“And you?” Bohdan says, pointing to me. “How is it you happened to be there?”
“We had—gone separate ways,” I say. “I went to another bar and happened to see Roman on the street.”
“And what did you do, file your nails and watch like a useless bitch? Or did it occur to you to get help?”
Roman interrupts. “She fought them. The men knocked me to the ground, and she fought them.”
Bohdan cocks his head and squints at me. “This is true?”
I nod. “Yes, Pan Kladivo.”
Bohdan leans in close to me, so close I can smell his cologne. “How is it you learned to fight?”
“My father was a soldier. Spetsnaz,” I say. “My father believed a woman should learn to defend herself just as she learns to sew and cook.”
“Roman, is it true the woman fights like Spetsnaz?”
“It is,” Roman says. “Better than your own men.”
Bohdan sighs and rubs at his temples. “Sofia, I will arrange for someone to drive you home.”
“I could stay and help him.…”
Bohdan opens the kitchen door. “You are no longer needed, Sofia.”
One of the tracksuit crew, a thin guy with short bleached hair and a tattoo of a diamond on his neck, takes me by the upper arm and hustles me out the door to the back seat of a Volkswagen. He says nothing on the ride, not even asking for the address to Hedvika’s place, which he apparently already knows.
Back in my room, I lie in bed for three hours, unable to sleep, unable to even think of anything beyond Roman’s beating and how it affects my plan. By four in the morning, my eyes are just beginning to close. And that’s when they come for me.
* * *
There’s a sharp rap on the door, and I hear voices and the rattling of keys. Before I can ask who it is, the door opens, revealing Hedvika in a thick quilted nightgown, hair bundled up in a net. Two men stand behind her, one of them the driver with the diamond tattoo, the second, someone new. He’s thick and pushing fifty, with flushed cheeks and a gray mustache turned orange under the nostrils from cigarette tar. Poor Hedvika looks both terrified and furious.
“You are to come with us,” the second man says as he begins yanking open drawers and throwing everything I have onto the bed. The other guy pulls a folded trash bag from his pocket, snaps it open, and starts stuffing it with my possessions, everything except my cell phone, which he puts in his pocket. I pull on my jeans and a T-shirt, but my boots and shoes are already in the bag and they ignore me when I ask for them.
When they finish, there is nothing left of me in the room, no sign that I was ever there. I see the man with the mustache counting out bills and placing them in the palm of Hedvika’s hand. Paying her for the trouble, and a little something extra to just shake her head if anyone comes around asking about me.
There is no question of my not going with them. “It is ordered by Pan Kladivo,” one of them says. For only a brief second, I consider running, but I’m barefoot and wouldn’t get more than a few meters before one of these two gunned me down.
I’m ushered into the side door of an unmarked van. The back is separated from the front passenger compartment by metal mesh running from floor to ceiling. They take hold of my arms and push me to the van’s floor. Arms twisted behind my back, I feel steel on my wrists and hear them ratchet handcuffs into place. I lash out with my legs, but the guys catch them and cuff my ankles, too. Diamond tattoo kneels on my back while the second one slides a black fabric bag over my head.
The van door slides shut, and we’re moving a few seconds later. The big guy is still here with me in the back. I can smell him—beer, cigarettes, and sweat. I can feel him, his mass looming there in the space. There are no seats back here, and very little to hold on to, so as the van turns a corner, I tumble against the back doors.
“The passport you showed Miroslav Beran at the casino is an obvious fake,” the big guy shouts in Russian. “What’s your real name?”
“Sofia Timurovna Kozlovskaya,” I answer.
For this answer, a slap to the side of the head.
“What’s your real name?” he shouts again.
“Sofia Timurovna Kozlovskaya,” I say again.
A slap to the other side, this one harder.
“What’s your real name?”
“Sofia Timurovna Kozlovskaya.”
A boot lands in my side, and I topple over. The van is accelerating and the road beneath us is smooth, as if we’ve just entered onto a highway. What I’m counting on—what I have to count on—is that the passport Yael gave me is as good as she said it was. And even if it’s not, I have to stick with the story to the end. If they still have my dad, telling them my real name is a sure way to get him killed.
Hands grip my shirt and yank me forward. “We checked the records, you little bitch!” my interrogator shouts. “Your passport says you’re from the city of Armavir, but the hospital has no paperwork on you.”
It’s clear from his accent he’s a Russian native, so I answer in Russian, working to get my own accent absolutely perfect. “Because I was born in Novokubansk. Armavir is where I grew up.”
He slams me up against the wall of the van. “I know Armavir as well as I know my own prick. Tell me, what color is the roof of the opera house?”
“The roof of the opera house is blue.”
“Bullshit! There is no opera house in Armavir!”
“The roof of the opera house is blue,” I repeat.
“You told Pan Kladivo your father was Spetsnaz,” my interrogator screams. “We know he was a factory worker.”
“After the army, he was a factory worker,” I shout back. “He died when I was a girl.”
“Aw. Poor little slut,” he growls, then boxes my ears. “What did he die of?”
“Vodka.”
A punch in the left kidney. “What kind of factory did he work at?”
“Rubber,” I yell. “His factory produced rubber.”
A punch to the right kidney. “Rubber for what?”
“Your mother’s dildos.”
But he’s tiring from the game, and after he shouts a few more questions and throws a few more punches, he stops. He’s breathing hard, wheezing. Then there’s the click of a lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke.
The waiting, the guessing at how it’ll all turn out, is over I suppose. Something’s gone wrong, some hole in my story found, some bit of intelligence gathered. The evening that began in a restaurant by a castle will end with my body in a barrel floating in a swamp. It occurs to me this might be too great a leap of logic, but truly I can see no other conclusion.
We’re still on the highway. Even through the walls of the van I hear the thrumming of truck tires and the snort of air brakes as we pass big eighteen-wheelers. I lose track of the time. The interrogation and beating seemed like hours but was probably no more than a few minutes. My body hurts, and I feel myself bleeding from the wrists where I’ve pulled at the handcuffs in futile rage.
After a very long time marked only by the sound of traffic and the clicking of a lighter as my interrogator starts a new cigarette, the van slows, and we make a hard right. The road here is more pothole than pavement, and I bounce and roll around the back of the van like a toy ball. It’s this way for ten minutes or so. Then we slow again and take another right.
We must be nearing the end now. My stomach turns to iron, and I wonder how they’ll do it. Shoot me? Strangle me? And why here? Why not in Prague? The answers don’t really matter, I guess. They’re just something to keep the fear boiling. My body is numb with resignation. No atheists in foxholes, the saying goes, but there’s clearly no God here, either, so I guess we’re even. It’s all inevitable and clear as day.
Even through the hood over my head, I can tell the driver has opened his window. The air pressure has changed, and I hear a dense symphony of crickets. I smell the delicious, damp air of a forest at night.
Beat me? Slit my throat? Rape me first?
My interrogator yanks off my hood without warning, and I sit up to get a better look. Bugs spin in the light of the headlamps as we approach a mud puddle almost as wide as the road itself. The driver curses, and the rear wheels spin as we crawl through it. Up ahead, a chain-link gate moves as the backlit silhouette of a guard pulls it open.
The van wallows into the middle of a courtyard illuminated by four sodium lamps that shine down onto the mud below in gray cones of light filled with moths. Buildings line the sides of the yard, painted green maybe forty years ago and not touched up since. We roll to a stop before a long two-story structure. The whole place has an institutional quality to it, like an army barracks.
We are not alone, however. There are a half-dozen cars also parked here: two Range Rovers, three BMW sedans, and a Mercedes that looks exactly like the one that took Bohdan Kladivo away from the restaurant.
The driver turns off the ignition and comes around to open the side door. It shocks me how meekly I let myself be taken from the van. I don’t fight, don’t even resist. Instead, I let them hoist me up by each arm. After a few steps, I realize their grip is surprisingly painful, not because they’re squeezing, but because I can barely walk and they’re dragging me. My body is accepting what my mind will not: that this is how it ends.
* * *
The mud beneath my bare feet is cold, and I can smell the forest, its wetness, its life. A moth touches my cheek, my forehead. My interrogator pushes open the door to the building. Fluorescent lights flicker and buzz, casting the dirty linoleum floor in a sickly blue. My feet drag and shuffle along, leaving behind the undignified footprints of one who is about to die badly. My escorts stop at an open office door, tap politely on the frame, and the figure of Bohdan Kladivo rises from a chair.
He is a different species from the man who sat across from me at dinner not eight hours ago. In the fluorescent light, his face is drawn and skeletal, the devil from a medieval woodcut, just as Rozsa had said. He is once more in his expertly tailored suit, with tie cinched up at his neck, the fat knot like a pedestal for his Adam’s apple.
My interrogator says just a few words in Czech, and Bohdan replies with a single nod as if the interrogator has just confirmed what he’d suspected. Bohdan approaches me, places a hand on my shoulder, and guides me farther down the hallway. My two escorts follow.
“Do you know what this place is?” he says next to my ear, voice low and confidential.
“No,” I say, the word barely coming out.
“We call it our tábor—our camp. But under communism, it was something else: a jail run by the secret police.”
We’re at the top of a metal staircase, and his footsteps ring as we descend. Mine are silent, and the staircase is cold as a sheet of ice on my bare soles.
