Motol hospital, Prague, Czech Republic
November 29
Crew put his hand over the heater vent on the dashboard, tried to feel the warm air as the engine purred. The snow on the windshield was falling, sliding on slick ice. He cursed, stomped his foot on the ground, and turned the air flow up to the highest setting.
“Come on… work faster…” he grumbled.
His phone rang and he screwed up his face, holding it to his numb ear.
“Crew,” he said.
“Any luck?” came Sobotka’s voice.
“None yet. Just got back from the square, turned up nothing. Did you know the clocksmith died?”
“No kidding. I bet the mayor’s having a fit. What happened to his security detail?”
Crew cricked his neck.
“I heard they were out drinking last week. Haven’t heard anything since. How much you want to bet they get charged with criminal negligence over it? The son’s sick, the daughter’s clueless… pretty soon, there’s no one left that can keep that thing running anymore.”
“What’s it been, 500 years?”
“Something like that.”
Sobotka grunted something similar to disapproval, despair.
“What’re you doing now?”
“Just taking a break,” he sighed. “How bout you?”
“Interesting development,” she said. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Sure,” Crew said, felt for the heat again, still couldn’t tell.
“What’s that noise?” Sobotka pried. “Do you hear that?”
“Don’t know. Don’t hear anything.”
“Crew, you moron, did you break into another car?”
Crew rolled his eyes, turned the heat dial down, then all the way back up.
“I ran the plates, the owner’s been dead a year.”
“It’s still against the law. If a cleaning crew finds you you’re going to get in trouble.”
“Listen,” Crew said, looking out the window at the empty street, “those lazy cleaning bastards haven’t been down this way for a long time. And I need this break.”
“Right,” said Sobotka, and the word was wonderfully loaded. Crew stretched his legs, shifted in his seat and felt a spark against his knee. Two dangling wires underneath the steering wheel dropped loose and the car went dead.
“Shit, hold on,” he said, threw the phone on the passenger seat and bent down, tapped the wires back together and twisted them a bit to keep them joined. He grabbed the phone, perched it between his shoulder and his ear, and felt for the heat again. “Made me knock the car off.”
“Can you feel my regret?” Sobotka deadpanned.
“Oh yeah,” Crew grumbled.
“So you ready to come help me fix the Kolikov problem now?” she asked. “Or are you still wasting time?”
Crew’s eyelids drooped halfway and his jaw clenched.
“I’m still wastin’ time,” he replied.
Then he saw something, out of the clearing windshield, through a space in the snow… a figure in the distance… a head, dark brown, bobbing behind a snow-covered van. Crew froze, watched carefully. The head ducked down out of sight for a second, and then came back up, checking away from him, and then turning back again. Crew clenched his teeth: a full mask wrapped round the head, no skin in sight.
“I’ll call you back,” he said, closed the phone, and quietly opened the door. He drew his gun as he crossed the street with light-footed caution, came round the van in a rush.
“You! Don’t move!” Crew shouted savagely, gun darting forcefully towards the stranger.
The man reacted immediately, dropped the metal case he had been carrying and placed his hands up above his head. Crew moved in behind him, ready to fire into the back of his skull, and kicked the case away. The man twitched at the sound, glanced back at him, like he was sizing up his opposition.
Crew kept a safe distance, motioned downward with his gun.
“Get down on the ground! Hands behind your head!”
The man complied, got to his knees, put his hands to the back of his mask. He didn’t seem to be armed. At least not obviously.
“Down! Down!” Crew repeated as the man paused on his knees.
“Don’t shoot!” the man yelled, his Czech heavily accented. “Don’t shoot!”
Crew walked closer to the man and kicked his shoulder, and he fell over into the snow, but kept his hands over his head, obviously taking Crew seriously.
“I’m with the British government,” the man called as Crew circled closer. “I’m not armed.”
“What’s in the case?” Crew challenged, keeping his gun very visible.
“Equipment,” the man pleaded. “for blood tests. Just for testing.”
“Where did you get that mask?” Crew asked, edging closer.
“It’s standard issue for—”
“Looks Chinese to me.”
“It is! We buy them from Beijing, but I’m British, I swear!”
Crew grunted, re-gripped his gun, nudged the man in the shoulder with his foot.
“So why the Healer get-up if you’re not Chinese?”
“Healers are guaranteed safe passage. It’s… it’s considered a safe cover—”
Crew laughed maniacally.
“Safe? You’ve never been this far east, have you? Any able-bodied Czech with a sense of honour would kick a Healer’s ass in a heartbeat if he got the chance. Really, really poor choice of costumes on your part.”
“It’s standard issue,” he pleaded, “in all black zone areas.”
Crew’s gun faltered a bit, he stepped back.
“Black?”
The man turned his head slightly, not moving his hands at all, checked Crew nervously.
“Ev… everything east of central Germany is considered a black zone now.”
“When is that supposed to have happened?”
“T-two months ago,” the man stuttered. “At a meeting in Geneva.”
“So why’m I just hearing about it now, from you?”
The faux-Healer put his head down onto the sidewalk.
“They’re still trying to think how best to inform the public. They’re… they’re afraid of civil unrest.”
Crew snorted, turned away briefly and put his hands atop his head, sighing loudly.
“Why? Just because they’re leaving us here to rot, so they can come in later and ‘start fresh’? Why’d that lead to civil unrest? That sounds like a great plan!”
“I can understand you’re upset, but—”
“What’re you doing here?” Crew said, re-training his gun. “Who are you?”
The man turned his head slightly to look at Crew.
“My name is William Carey. I work for the Containment Office in London. I’m… I’m tracking a British national who was last seen living in Prague.”
“Who is he?” Crew said, his tone a civil sort of demand.
“I’m sorry, it’s… it’s classified,” Carey muttered.
Crew half-lowered his gun, took a tentative step forward. Carey didn’t move, stayed still. Crew’s voice was quiet, angry.
“You’re here illegally. Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you now. Give me one reason.”
“I’m here legally!” pleaded Carey. “Ask your Director of Public Safety! I’m due for a meeting there in an hour, I swear!”
Crew shifted his weight.
“Sestak? Knows you’re here?”
“Call him. We’re co-ordinating efforts.”
Neither man moved for a moment.
“What will you do when you find this fugitive?”
Carey motioned to his case, looked back up.
“Test him, make sure he’s clean, and… then… then bring him home for trial.”
“And if he’s not clean?”
Carey paused.
“I have… I have an order of exile for him. He’ll be banished from Britain forever.”
Crew snorted a laugh.
“So he’s our problem?”
“We have a directive! It’s out of my hands! A directive to protect our citizens from any dangers… even themselves.”
Crew nodded at this, put his gun away too, grunted angrily.
“Funny,” he said to no one in particular. “so do we.”
He delivered a swift kick to the back of Carey’s head, and could see he was out cold. Crew nudged the metal case with his foot. It had a complex lock on it, which he spun the numbers on casually, then picked it up, slammed it against a nearby wall, and threw it down the sidewalk as far as he could. He lifted his mask long enough to spit on Carey’s unconscious head.
He turned, took his phone from his jacket and rang Sobotka.
“Sorry. Thought I had something there,” he said, pacing away from the scene.
“Dead end?”
Crew glanced back at Carey, lying in the snow.
“Might be later.”
He kept walking, stopped in front of the car, the beautiful abandoned car. He looked around the street, didn’t see anyone.
“You don’t suppose...” he began, but Sobotka cut him off.
“You can’t steal the car.”
“It’s more like borrowing.”
“You can’t take it.”
“It’s an Aston Martin, though.”
Pause.
“Silver?”
“In-dash GPS too. And it works.”
Pause.
“Park it away from the station, and don’t leave fingerprints.”
Crew smiled, snapped the phone shut and got into the car, gripped the steering wheel longingly. The heat had kicked in.
