Chapter 10

Prague is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe and unlike many other places it had escaped much of the destruction visited upon the continent during World War Two. The couple, a man and woman, seemed by all outward appearance to be enjoying their visit to the Czech capital. They strolled along the cobblestone thoroughfare as if they were tourists, walking east from the Church of St. Nicholas towards the Charles Bridge and Old Town on the other side of the Vltava River.

Even in late spring the sun sets early behind the hills surrounding Prague and an unseasonable fog covered the water, rolling up the river's banks before slowly dying in the narrow streets. The Charles Bridge, built in the 14th century and later embellished with the statues of saints, was normally a showpiece of the city, but now it too was shrouded in mist. The vague glow of yellow streetlamps added to the surreal ambiance as the couple crossed the bridge slowly.

Every now and again they would pause to admire one of the thirty bronze statues that adorned each side of the bridge at precise intervals. Some of the statues were worn in places, as they were touched by the many pedestrians who traversed the span each day. Near the center of the bridge, which was nearly a third of a mile long, they found the statue of St. John Nepomuk, a catholic priest whose tortured body, according to legend, had been thrown into the river from that very spot in 1393. For that reason he was especially popular with the superstitious Czechs. The bronze relief had a brightly polished sheen to it near the base and the woman followed local custom, stroking the metal with her fingertips for luck.

The man and his companion remained there, standing near the railing while the river, swollen with spring rains, swirled around and past the great sandstone piers supporting the structure. The bridge had never been open to motorized traffic and the couple was undisturbed by the occasional passage of a pedestrian intent on hurrying home after a long day. Very few people looked at the pair. They would appear and disappear like apparitions in the dense fog, walking quickly with their eyes cast down and shoulders slumped against the pervasive gloom. Even the most pragmatic of them couldn't have anticipated the damp chill that now enveloped their fair city.

"Perhaps he's changed his mind," the woman said in German with a glance at her watch, but her companion shook his head and then his shoulders beneath the wool overcoat he wore.

"Patience," he replied. "The fog is making him cautious, that's all."

Some ten minutes later his confidence was proven correct when a solitary figure approached from the east. He was tall and well rounded, like a bear shambling from the mist in his heavy fur coat. His pace slowed when he saw the pair waiting for him and he looked around nervously, but for all intents and purposes they were alone for at least a dozen meters in either direction; beyond that it was impossible to see or hear anyone.

The girl turned her back to the railing, leaning against it with her hands in the pockets of her red leather jacket. She was very tall and thin, and the way she stood might have suggested a defiant availability, a challenge that many men found provocative in an attractive young woman, but that was a deliberate and well-practiced deception.

"Juergen?" the newcomer asked softly, his thick Russian accent obvious, even in that one simple word

"Yeah," the man replied. "Did you bring it?"

The Russian hesitated and then held up a leather case, a soft satchel of the sort preferred by middle class bankers and lawyers. He took one backward glance over his shoulder and with his mind made up, stepped forward quickly, meeting the two Germans at the statue as they'd previously arranged. It was all going as planned, even better than that perhaps, given the fog surrounding their clandestine meeting.

"You have the money?" the Russian asked.

"Here," the man said softly, opening his coat and pulling up his sweater. He had a money belt around his waist and the Velcro gave way with a soft ripping sound when the man pulled it free.

"Give it to me," the Russian demanded, glancing over his shoulder anxiously.

"Give her the case," he said. "I'll give you the money."

The Russian looked at the girl and she could see his face was damp with sweat. He was flushed, despite the cold, and finally the man nodded, stepping towards her and stretching out his right arm so she could take the satchel.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at the man as he relinquished his grip.

Pop — Pop — Pop

The Russian groaned, very nearly collapsing as three bullets entered his chest. The German had pressed a small pistol just beneath the man's right armpit, pulling the trigger quickly and then leaning into him, shoving the stricken Russian headlong over the rail and into the swift current below. The splash seemed loud, but only because the couple was directly above it. The dense fog muffled the sound nearly completely and no alarm was raised, no shouts for help were given. There were no witnesses and the body would sink quickly in its heavy clothing, tumbling through the dark water. When the body was found, days or even weeks later, the Russian would be miles downstream and offer no clue to his killers' identity.

"Hmph." The woman shrugged after examining the contents of the leather case.

She didn't bother to close it, but left the buckles unfastened and tossed it into the river, watching it disappear quickly from sight. The man had already tossed his weapon into the water and was fixing the money belt once more around his waist, pulling his sweater into place and buttoning his coat. They paused only long enough for a brief, but earnest kiss before walking into the fog with their arms around each other like so many lovers out for a romantic stroll in beautiful Prague.

"What was in the case?" I asked Wolfgang softly and our meal had been largely forgotten while the man had spoken.

"Was it drugs?" Sofia asked, looking pale and shocked by what she'd just heard. "You lied to me!"