Gottwald took the proffered letter from Frank and scanned the credentials they had managed to grab — taken off the actual Botswanan ambassador two nights before. Cal knew he wasn’t a smooth actor like Frank or Ellis, but they’d assured him that his natural discomfort with this whole con game would be fine, given he was playing the part of some minor flunky pressed into service to meet a president. Meanwhile, someone was translating Frank’s English into Czech, or whatever they spoke around here.
Gottwald smiled and nodded at Cal, saying something in Czech that sounded friendly enough. The English translation came a moment later from the Czech interpreter. “The President accepts your credentials and hopes your ambassador has a speedy recovery. We hope he will accept our invitation to dinner soon, so that we may discuss the spread of socialist liberation throughout the African continent.”
Cal was about to nod and smile, but Frank leaned in just in time to remind him that he was supposed to wait for his “translation.” “The new president of Czechoslovakia hopes to never see you or me again, and will probably never have dinner with anyone, not even his own wife, unless Stalin gives the say-so,” Frank whispered, causing Cal to smile broadly and nod — probably Frank’s intent.
A moment later and the two were off to the side of the ornate reception hall, their diplomatic “duties” completed. “I don’t know, Frank,” Cal said with a straight face. “I think I make a damn fine ambassador, if I say so myself.”
Frank nodded deferentially. “You’re a natural world leader, Cal. Now let’s circulate and see if we can find our man.”
The two split up to cover more territory. All Cal would have to do was just smile and nod his way around the room. He’d originally been worried about running into someone who spoke anything African, but what became immediately obvious was that he was the only Negro in the room, and other than the fact that he felt a bit like a peacock at the zoo, no one really wanted to do anything other than stare at the colorful attraction. The ugly, colorful sash he wore over his suit didn’t help matters much.
Cal did a couple circuits, then settled down next to the refreshments; somehow, the 11 a.m. diplomatic reception still called for wine. How did politicians get anything done with all this drinking going on?
Then he saw Yushchenko, and his heart stopped.
The Soviet officer was standing in a cluster with a couple of other Red Army men, drinks in hand, laughing and chatting amiably. Cal looked around for Frank, but he was nowhere in sight. Well, I suppose this is what they trained me up for.
Cal walked over to the group, fishing a lighter out of his pocket — the very same one Yushchenko had passed to Maggie in Istanbul. “Gentlemen!” he said broadly, his arms raised, speaking in what he hoped was a believable African accent. “Do you have cigarette for me to have?”
The group looked stunned a moment, and Cal wondered if he’d put on too much of a show. Finally, one of the officers made a smoking motion, putting two fingers to his lips. “Yes! Da!” Cal replied, beaming like that damned Al Jolson character that everybody assumed black folk were like.
The officer fished a pack out of his pocket and said something in Russian that caused the rest of the group to laugh — probably at Cal’s expense. Didn’t matter. “Thank you,” Cal said as the officer handed him one, and lit the cigarette with Yushchenko’s own lighter — while looking right at the man.
Cal watched INSIGHT’s eyes widen for just a flash.
With a nod and a bow, Cal retreated out the glass doors and onto the balcony overlooking the hustle and bustle of Prague, all cleaned up and open after yesterday’s inauguration. He decided to count to a hundred to keep himself from looking around too much.
He only made it to forty-two. “It is your first time to Prague?” came a voice from beside him. Cal turned to find Yushchenko there next to him.
“Yes, it is,” Cal said, still trying to keep his accent on. “It is very nice here,”
Yushchenko held up a cigarette of his own. “Can I borrow your light?”
Bingo. “Yes, sir,” Cal said, handing over his lighter — and the note palmed beneath it. To Yushchenko’s credit, he barely flinched.
“Thank you, comrade,” Yushchenko said, handing back the lighter.
“No, you keep,” Cal said. “I have another.”
The Soviet colonel nodded and gave a faint smile, then turned and sauntered off down the balcony, idly puffing away on his cigarette. Cal managed to get to seventy-four this time before his nerves got to him and he extinguished his cigarette, leaving to go find his “interpreter” and report success.
Frank sat in the tiny, cramped Volkswagen, wishing to hell that people in Europe would drive real goddamn cars. Frank wasn’t even that tall, but he was beginning to feel like the tiny little vehicle, marked with a makeshift TAXI sign in Czech, was his own personal cocoon.
For the millionth time, Frank went over the plan in his head, wishing Danny had been along for this one. The note given to Yushchenko was very specific: Let’s meet, baby. Use chalk to mark the hydrant on Bělehradská Street between Rumunská and Koubkova Streets when you are ready. The following night, meet me at 25 Sokolovská Street. Come alone. Kisses.
Baby and Kisses were a clever way to throw off the scent, and the note had been written in Maggie’s hand. The hope was that if Yushchenko were burned, the note might look like he was having a little rendezvous with a lady — and Maggie was willing to play the part of an American lover, Ellis the role of angry husband. Things seemed pretty deniable, really. Even the chalk mark, an old standby from the OSS, could simply be a lover’s code. Yushchenko would probably get in trouble… but not executed. Hopefully.
Frank’s reverie was broken by a man walking down Bělehradská Street toward Danny’s cab, in a hat and trench coat. Frank could see a normal suit underneath — not a military uniform. The dim lighting and fog from the river made it tough to make out his face. Was he holding something in his hand?
The man approached the hydrant with a slightly unsteady gait and brushed by it — either an expert bit of tradecraft, Frank thought, or a sign the man had been drinking. Maybe both. He then continued down the street, swaying ever so slightly.
Frank looked at his wristwatch — 2:43 a.m. He waited until 3:06 a.m. to be absolutely sure that nobody else was around and that his potential contact — if that’s who he was — had had a clean getaway. Finally, Frank got out of the cab, locked the door, and walked up the street, hands crammed into his pockets. He crossed Bělehradská Street and made for a small park nearby, resisting the urge to walk past the hydrant immediately. Instead, Frank took a leak in a bush just inside the park, then slowly walked back to his car, passing the hydrant as he went.
There was a bright white chalk line on the hydrant’s dome.
It took every bit of discipline for Frank to keep the same slow pace as he made for his car.
“I hate all of you, you know,” Maggie groused as she paced the front room of the unassuming townhouse on Sokolovská Street. “I’m not a goddamn dress-up doll.”
Frank smiled at her from the dining room, where he was poring over a map of Czechoslovakia for what seemed like the hundredth time. “If he’s burned, you’re gonna need to play the part, Maggie. You’re taking one for the team.”
Maggie stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you just put me out in the red light district and rent me out?” she said. “Why couldn’t I just wear something normal?”