Page 86

“And you’re FBI?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then, who are you?”

Novotny responded with a multisyllable answer in his native language. It was gibberish to Bosch.

“How about in English this time?” he said.

“The Security Information Service,” Novotny said. “In the Czech Republic, it is like the FBI.”

“And you infiltrated the Spolu for the FBI here?”

“And you sacrificed me to Novak to save your own skin.”

“Yeah, damn right I did. You were going to stand there and let Novak put me down. That might be cool with the Security Information Service, but it’s not cool here. I had no choice. But here we are. Both alive. So it worked out.”

“I had no idea about what would happen to you. I was told to drive the car out and check for security. I called Cavanaugh twice to tell him it was an emergency, but he didn’t call back.”

“Because he was killed this morning at the port.”

“The explosion?”

“That’s right.”

Novotny bowed his head against the fence.

“Was he your only contact?” Bosch asked.

“In L.A., yes,” Novotny said. “But there are others in Washington and Prague, obviously.”

“You’ll need them to vouch for you. You can put your hands down. We’re going to go talk to the sheriffs.”

Bosch stepped back and used the gun to point the way. He kept it in his hand and at the ready, just in case. He had no idea how straight Novotny was being.

They started walking back up the path, Bosch two steps behind Novotny.

“Who is Slow? What’s his real name?”

“Slobodan Marek. He has been with Novak a long time — since he was a teenager. But he is not Czech. He is a Serb. Novak found him in an orphanage in Belgrade when he was young.”

Bosch understood that Novak had re-created his own story. He guessed that Marek had shown an aptitude for violence in the youth hall in Serbia.

“What about you? How did you infiltrate?”

“It started in Prague four years ago. When I came to America, I had credentials that Novak liked. False credentials.”

They had made it to the gate that led to the street leading to MacLaren. Bosch counted three sheriff’s cars with flashing blues a block away.

“And you can prove all of that to these people?” he asked.

“With one phone call,” Novotny said. “To Washington.”

They walked up the street toward the flashing lights. Bosch saw the woman who’d given him the gun standing in her front yard with her back to him, watching the police activity at MacLaren. As Bosch walked up to her, he unloaded the gun, slid out the magazine, and popped the extra round out of the chamber.

“Ma’am,” he said as he approached. She turned. “I appreciate your help.”

He handed her the weapon and put the ammunition in her other hand.