Hot Siberian by Gerald A Browne Page A

promise himself that he would piss in the eye of his conscience, blind it before, during, and after.
    Not knowing the victim was a help. On the opposite, weightier end of the seesaw was the fact that he, although hired, had the responsibility of choosing the victim. This time, as usual, there were certain stipulations; however, the most important aspect of it was left up to him. He didn’t understand how that could be. It had perplexed him from the first, but he’d given up trying to figure it out and knew better than to ask.
    He had arrived in Prague Tuesday night and registered at a modest hotel in the Radlice district close by the Konvarka railway station. He wanted to do what he was being well paid to do and get out of Prague as soon as possible. He’d never liked the city. He saw it as grimy, its buildings coated with soot from the burning of so much coal. Carapaces of scaffoldings were everywhere to facilitate the cleaning of the buildings, but, the killer noticed, there were seldom any workers on them. He thought the scaffolds probably only stood for intent.
    It had taken him four days to make his choice. He’d spent most of the time in and around the better hotels, their lobbies and bars. The Jalta Hotel on Vaclavske Square had been a source twice before. The arrangement of its lobby was right. It provided him with a sofa chair from which he could hear what went on at both the registration desk and the concierge’s counter. There he sat, not really reading the Czech newspaper with such interest nor so intent on composing postcard messages on the reverse side of views of Prague, but listening. Listening for the speaking of French. Merely that. By Thursday he had his prospects. All were undoubtedly visitors from France, as stipulated. Two were women, and if they had been the only two he would have been forced to choose between them. Fortunately among the prospects there were three men. By Friday he had settled on one and decided he would wait another night. Most of the people of Prague escaped from the city on weekends, and that might be to his advantage.
    Now, seated at a table in the Café de l’Europa, the killer looked aside to his left, apparently admiring something of the Art Nouveau decor. Then he let his eyes drift to the right, phlegmatically scanning those persons standing at the bar. At just past midpoint he made his eyes almost indiscernibly catch the gaze of the man, the victim, in the navy-blue flannel suit. Simultaneously with that eye-catch his fingers drummed the shoulder of the empty chair.
    Less than a minute later the victim, whiskey sour in hand, came to the killer’s table. He was sure of the situation, sat as if the chair had been kept empty for him, and started the conversation as though it had been in progress. “I visited Franz Kafka’s studio today,” he said in rapid French. “I was the only one there. Why should a genius such as Kafka go so unadmired? It’s ridiculous.”
    The killer looked puzzled, although he spoke fluent French and had understood every word. With stumbling grammar and an impeding middle European accent he asked in French if the victim spoke Czech.
    The victim said he didn’t.
    The killer did an indifferent shrug and said they could try talking in French, but the other should please speak slowly.
    The victim was used to making spontaneous assessments. In fact, they were an important part of his pleasure. He was excited by his quick decision that he was very much attracted to this Czech with the hard, chunky body. He liked the boyish shag of the Czech’s light brown hair, the way his nose appeared to have been broken and never properly put straight, probably broken in a village brawl. What luck, the victim thought, that he’d taken the concierge’s advice and come here to the Europa rather than to the Three Ostriches as he’d planned. Such sideroad instincts had frequently led him to good things. From