FATE'S CARROT
"Jurij? It's Lara."
A short pause. Then, true joy.
"Lara! My doll! How ARE you!"
"I'm fine. Sort of."
Why does she feel compelled to talk? The more she talks, the weaker she feels…
"Well, let me say: I will be fine. Eventually."
"Da. I see. Raising hell, you've been."
"Business as usual, Jurij. Or my bad karma."
"Huho. None of that esoterical mumbo-jumbo with me, girl."
A rattling sound comes through the wire. She can picture him clearly; his burly shape, short fingers thick as sausages and clad with golden rings, rapping impatiently against an empty glass while he waits for his latest wife, a former prima-ballerina of the St. Petersburg Ballet with a swan-like neck and a weakness for mink coats, to refill it. Ex-KGB, utterly corrupt, flashy, unscrupulous, dreaded by his enemies but worshipped by his friends.
"Didn't see you at the funeral."
"Courtesy of the Czech police. Some mess, that was. Don't think I could have handled it, anyway."
"Old Werner…I'm so sorry, Larissa."
"Don't be. I am still not sure whether he was such a big loss."
She can feel the Russian's discomfort even through the telephone.
"At the time of Egypt… don't know, Larissa, and you won't talk about it, not even to your old friends, but…back then….desperate, he was. He really felt guilty."
"And guilty he was, Zhivago. Let's drop it. And my name is NOT Larissa."
But God bless his sweet Russian soul, and bless Werner too, even if the old coward was just using her, once again. Not that it did him any good. Death's stiffness for him and the pain of the chase for her. The avenging angel.
Lara laughs bitterly at her reflection on her bedroom's window. Rivulets of rain weaving their paths on the other side of the glass, drawing tears on her haggard face, as if her mirrored image was silently crying. Lara's eyes are dry. She cannot remember the last time she shed a tear.
"Would you like me to come over? Keep you company? I've got a new shipment of excellent vodka. First class quality. We could knock a few down."
"No. Thanks. I'm fine. But I need information."
"Shoot."
"Kurtis Trent. French passport, but born 1972, Salt Flats, Utah, US. Could all be fake. Probably is."
"Agent?"
"Don't think so, but definitely military training of some sort."
"That's all?"
"I'm sorry. I know it's not much. He happened to cross my path."
"Did he. Poor chap."
"You said it. He isn't answering questions right now. Thought it would be a good idea to ask you instead."
"I'll see what I can do. Gimme a ring tonight, will you?"
"Thanks."
All the things you can buy with money. Like having a nurse or a doctor keep you informed. So she knows, but is not there to watch those eyes opening. Must have been one of her lucky days.
"Just this," the nurse tells him , handing over an envelope.
It is addressed to Mr. Trent. Inside, wrapped up in a blank paper sheet, is a Post Box key.
Kurtis sighs and lets his eyes wander over the white ceiling.
Every breath fuels the pain, the incredible, all-pervading flash of suffering his body has become. He's alive, though. A few minutes ago he'd had his doubts. The key in his fist is like the key to resurrection.
"Bingo. Your guy does actually exist, even if only since 1991. No 'Trent' before that."
"Go on."
"Foreign Legion, five years. You'll love this. His nickname was 'Demon Hunter'."
"Interesting. Why?"
"Good question. Looks like your guy had a particular tendency to get mixed up in situations of the, ahem, how should I put it? Paranormal kind? However, at some stage it got too much, even for the legion. He quit. He's made a poor job covering his tracks since. Here and there.The odd bit of work."
"Mercenary?"
"It certainly looks so, da. Speaks fairly good Ruski."
"Thank you for non-relevant details."
"My pleasure, Larissa. Wonder how come we've never met, sounds like the kind of man who knows what horse to place his bet on. But then, he hasn't been active for the last year and a half. Sort of vanished. Whoosh, just like that."
"Oh, did he? He's sort of materialized again," she mumbles pensively. "Jurij, I owe you one. Even if my name is NOT Larissa."
"Don't mention it. Look, not that I'm telling you how to conduct your business, but you want to take care. One of his main employers in the last few years was the Agency…"
"The Agency?"
"A thinly disguised recruitment service for mercenaries and killers. Hitmen, snipers. Got a problem, they'll sort it out for you. Run by Marten Gunderson."
"Not anymore. Had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Unless he's got a very thick skin, I doubt…"
She knows she's fooling herself even before she's finished speaking.
"All right," she sighs. "Tell me."
"Well, dunno if I want to know under what kind of circumstances you've met Mr. Gunderson, but I can tell you one thing for sure: Gunderson IS alive. The guy I talked to, why, he works for him too. He's on a weekend-off, back to see old friends…"
"You don't say! That friend of yours, how did he like Prague?"
She laughs at Jurij's silence.
"Never mind. Tell him he's a lucky man. I'm seeing you around."
Lara dashes across the gallery and leaps over the banister. It's a long fall down, and a heavy, clumsy landing. Her poxy luck won't even grant her the relief of a sprained ankle. A bit of physical pain would be welcomed. That, she can handle. She sprints across the hall and repeatedly thumps the switch that opens the front door. A gust of wind lashes against her risen face, rain prickling her skin like a million tiny daggers. If it ever stopped raining! Her contorted mouth works spasmodically against the rain, until a long scream finds its way out.
Behind her, a loud rattle of broken crockery, as a startled Winston drops the tray.
You knew, you knew it from the beginning. So what? That steady, merciless voice that has followed her since…when? Cambodia? Egypt? Oh, she knows whose voice it is. Sounds just like hers, but it's Werner's.
„Vorsicht, junge Dame: Das Vertrauen ist die Mutter der Narrheit"." Trust is the mother of folly."
You were a fine teacher, Werner. Maybe I did not listen carefully enough. But trust an ass not to stumble twice over the same stone.
Kurtis,
If you are reading this, it means Boaz did a sloppy job.
The place is called Croft Manor, Co. Surrey.
It's easy enough to find.
Lara.
His bag. His documents. His Boran-X. An open ticket to Heathrow.
The man closes the post box with a light swing of his hand and steps back into the street.
Spring has arrived in Prague.
A/N: Oh, yes. The german quote. I'm aware that such a saying doesn't exist. I was working at the story, couldn't think of anything better and said to myself, well, Akkon, if necessity is the mother of invention, you may use just that. By now I think the quote is terrible, but since the whole story is evolving around it…
