The Mortality Principle

“I’ve never seen it,” he said. “But I did a search on the internet to find out who you were. Seems you’re quite the celebrity.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she replied.

“You’re too modest,” he said. “You get more hits on your name than our own prime minister does.” She heard his laugh, but wasn’t sure she was meant to laugh along. A man could laugh at his own country, but from an outsider it could come across at worst as mocking, at best condescending.

“Can we meet?” she asked. “Tonight?”

“Where are you?”

She stopped under a streetlamp and checked her map, giving him the name of the street and the church they were heading toward.

“I know it,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Don’t go inside. They won’t know you, and you won’t fit in. Strangers aren’t welcome these nights. I’m sure you can understand why. There’s a late-night café on the same street, a little farther along.”

It wasn’t hard to pick out the only shop front still illuminated.

“I see it,” she said.

“I’ll meet you there. Tell Maria that you’re waiting for me. She’ll take care of you.”

“I’ve got my cameraman with me,” she said, hoping that wouldn’t put him off.

“Then I’ll see you both in the café.”

7 (#ulink_ac4e5bc7-dd39-519a-b0a4-a1f7edcbefc7)

The café was like a Czech riff on the old Edward Hopper painting Nighthawks.

It had a central bar island and a huge brass espresso machine that dominated the back wall. Four diners were inside and a waitress wearing candy stripes. Annja opened the door. There were a dozen seats at the bar, another dozen tables. All four of the diners were at the bar. They seemed to know one another, and were comfortably chatting with the waitress as Annja walked through the door. The waitress—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a tired smile—walked toward them with a pair of menus in her hand.

“Anywhere you like, folks,” the woman said, in English, immediately picking Annja and Lars out as tourists. She gestured toward the private tables.

“Are you Maria?”

“Yes,” the woman responded cautiously.

“Great. Then we’re in the right place. We’re supposed to meet Jan Turek here in about ten minutes.”

“Ah, that old rogue.” All signs of concern disappeared in an instant. “Please,” Maria said. “This way. Let me take your coats.”

She ushered them to the booth near the window, away from the people propping up the bar. A plastic checkered cloth covered the stains on the old table. Marie gave a questioning glance at Lars’s flight case.

“Camera,” Lars said, patting it.

“Camera, eh? I’ve got one of those on my phone. Fits in my pocket, too.” The woman chuckled to herself. “Sometimes smaller is better.” She winked at the big Swede, who just shook his head with a wry smile. Maria wove a path back to the bar without leaving the menus on the table. She returned a couple of minutes later with a bottle of red wine and three glasses.

“Jan’s favorite,” she said. “Your food will be ready by the time he gets here.”

“But…” Annja started to say that they hadn’t ordered, but the woman was already heading back to the kitchen. This, no doubt, was what Turek had meant when he said Maria would take care of them. It was going to be interesting to see what came out of the kitchen.

It took nine of the ten minutes for the reporter to appear in the doorway.

Turek might well have been the mythical golem himself. Easily three inches taller than Lars, and twice as wide, he looked like a mountain as he lumbered into the room. It took Annja a moment to realize a lot of his bulk was due to the several heavy layers of coats he’d wrapped himself in.

Turek raised a hand to Maria, who was back behind the bar again.

She smiled back. Annja knew that kind of smile. Turek was more than just a regular diner at the café. Maria nodded toward their booth, and the reporter wandered over, sliding into the seat beside Annja.

“Jan Turek,” he said as he shook hands with both of them. He offered Annja an easy smile that softened the hard edges of his angular face. He had the dark shadows of four-day stubble on his cheeks, and hollow eyes. His many coats were wrapped around a rather fragrant body. There was no doubt in her mind that Turek was living the part, every night out on the streets among the homeless. She admired him for that. Turek poured himself a glass of the red wine and raised it in the direction of the bar before taking a healthy swig. “Nectar of the gods,” he declared. “Maria keeps a case in stock for me.”

The wine was a touch harsh for Annja’s palate, with a bite to the aftertaste that made it bitter going down. It was definitely an acquired taste, one that Turek had and Lars was happily in the process of getting by the looks of things.

“As nice as it is to share a glass with friends, we’re not friends, are we? You want something from me, so how about we get down to business. What do you want to talk about? No, let me guess. The killings. That’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

“In a way, yes, but actually I’m more interested in your angle about the golem,” Annja said, leaning back a little as Maria approached the table and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of her.

“Kyselica,” Jan said. “Fermented cabbage soup. It’s Maria’s specialty. You have to try it.”

The woman returned with a plate of sourdough bread and put it down between them. “Enjoy,” she said, placing one hand on the reporter’s back and planting a kiss of the top of his head. He was definitely more than just a regular.

Annja pushed her spoon through the soup before lifting it to her lips to taste.

It was surprisingly good, and much better than it smelled.

Even though she’d had a good meal at the restaurant by the river, she took several mouthfuls before she spoke again. “It really is very good,” she agreed, nodding and smiling. Annja glanced across at Lars, noting that he’d already finished his.