Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller! Read online

  urbanepublications.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2015

  by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleamingwood Drive,

  Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © James Silvester, 2015

  The moral right of James Silvester to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-909273-79-5

  ePub ISBN 978-1-909273-80-1

  Mobi ISBN 978-1-909273-81-8

  Design and Typeset by Julie Martin

  Cover by Julie Martin

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wiltshire

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  The publisher supports the Forest Stewardship Council® (FSC®), the leading international forest-certification organisation. This book is made from acid-free paper from an FSC®-certified provider. FSC is the only forest-certification scheme supported by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace.

  TO TIMOTHY AND GEORGIA,

  with love bigger than the Universe and with apologies for the times I get things wrong. I can’t apologise for the question mark tank top though; you are both just going to have to come to terms with seeing me wear that in public.

  God bless xx

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Author’s Note

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MY THANKS AND MY LOVE TO MIROSLAVA, for continuing to put up with me and for introducing me to so much of what would come to inspire this book. I really cannot thank her enough for her love, support and belief, though her choice of football team continues to disappoint me. My love and thanks as well to my parents and family for the encouragement and love you have and continue to show me and to my friends for keeping me sane over the years.

  I also must express my thanks to Alan and Laura, without whom my life would be quite different and this book, if it existed at all, would be unrecognisable. Without their friendship I would not have got involved with Modradio, would not have made that first, fateful trip to Prague and would not have met the lady who would become my wife. Those two have had about as big an impact on my life as it is possible to have. Thanks guys.

  Speaking of Prague, I must thank the erstwhile crowd of my favourite Blues Bar and Restaurant, some of whom I hope will enjoy reading this story with a touch or two of nostalgia. My thanks especially to Michael, Jamie and Phil for allowing me to reference them in this work, and, of course, to the genial Peter Lowe, for letting me steal his name. I must also thank Rasti for his kindness in doing likewise.

  Thanks to my colleagues at Modradiouk.net for putting up with the show over so many wonderful years and for all their help and support with publicising the book. Likewise, thanks to Bev and Etta of Whitefield library, in which I toiled on several occasions, trying to get the contents of my cluttered, disorganised mind down on paper.

  Too many writers have influenced me to note here, but I would like to give a particular mention to the great Bernard Cornwell, who most kindly, responded to the email of a frustrated, wannabe writer several years ago with some simple but prudent advice. Thank you Bernard; this book is in part the result of you taking the time to reply.

  Finally, my sincere thanks to my comrades at Urbane Publications, where I am proud to be part of a circle of mutually supportive and phenomenally talented writers. And, of course, to Matthew Smith. Without Matthew’s unique approach to publishing and his willingness to engage with and take a chance on me, this book would still exist solely in my dreams.

  Thanks one and all.

  CHAPTER 1

  APPLAUSE SHOT AROUND THE CONFERENCE CHAMBER like the cannonade of a victorious commander, reaching high into the rafters where cameras whirred and the cheers echoed. Down below, the man who had launched the barrage stood at the podium unmoved by the wave of devotion which threatened to engulf him. An ignorant observer might scratch their head and ponder how this man could inspire such praise; he was not after all what one would call a typical politician of the modern age. His suit, though tastefully elegant, hung crumpled over slightly stooped shoulders, and his large, once powerful hands gripped the lectern as much for balance as to add dramatic pose to his oratory. He was an old man, closer to his eighties than he had ever thought he would be, and did not belong to the photogenic, rent-a-smile band of pseudo-celebrities that comprised today’s political elite. But this was Prague and this man was a hero.

  More than a hero in fact; Herbert Biely was a legend. A legend of Prague’s glorious Spring of 1968, that beautiful time when Alexander Dubček captured the hearts of the Czechoslovak people with his policies of liberal reform. Herbert had stood side-by-side with Dubček then as a youthful and impetuous high flier of the Czechoslovak Communist Party, proclaimed by all as a future First Secretary, tempered by the gentle wisdom of his older mentor. He had remained at Dubček’s side as the tanks rolled through their streets and their Russian comrades sent soldiers to ‘invite’ them to Moscow to sign the Protocols. Upon their release he had remained with his mentor until the day they were parted by their Soviet overlords, ostensibly to serve as ‘Ambassadors’ but in reality to prevent them becoming focal points for rebellion and to offer them the temptation to flee. The Russians were fools to believe they could encourage either man to defect. They never would. They were proud men. They were Czechoslovaks.

  The memories played flirtatiously through Herbert’s mind as he raised his eyes from his notes and spoke in a rich, deep voice, unhindered by age, “I am a proud man, I am a Czechoslovak!”

  The rows of supporters stood as one, adding cheers of passion to their stream of perpetual applause, while high in the gallery reporters pressed fingers to earpieces, the millisecond wait for translation a tortuous age.

  Seated behind Herbert, the Party elite joined in the applause, some nodding sagely, their clapping slow and deliberate. Others jumped a little too eagerly to their feet, as much to be captured by the world’s cameras as to show their support for the maverick before them.

  Unfazed though he continued to be, Herbert had not lost his sense of theatre and he teased his entranced audience with silence, his sharp eyes flicking over the horde of faces gazing pleadingly back.

  “Our divorce was not of our own volition; no multitudes marched through our streets demanding our separation. Instead we were torn from each other’s arms, from each other’s hearts, by arrogant men who never asked nor cared that we, the Czechoslovak people, had no desire to be separated. He
roes of our one nation, Dubček, Havel, our own Karol Černý, argued against our partition, but the words of heroes counted for little in the minds of weak pretenders who chose wealth, power and influence over our bond as one people and future prosperity for our nation. In their quest for personal glories, they reduced one unified country into two asset-stripped playthings, ripe for the picking of the criminal and the corrupt, all the while rejoicing at the resentment which grew between us. And, my friends, we let them win, those arrogant, selfish men. Oh yes, we did. Like quarrelling lovers we have sulked and accused while ignoring the bond of family in our hearts. But we are ready now to acknowledge again that bond which they could weaken but never truly shatter. We are ready to share our destinies, to wipe our divorce from the slate and to marry our futures again.”

  He shouted the words above the pounding applause and with an old pro’s eye he looked up to the gallery, a subconscious signal to the hacks to prepare for the money shot.

  “We are ready to become one again!”

  Herbert felt his resistance to the emotion in the room crumbling and, through a perfectly refined sense of occasion, he rolled back the years and lifted his arms from the lectern, holding them outstretched as though trying to embrace the hall. With a power in his voice he had first felt decades ago he reached his crescendo, “Naše rodina sešel, sdílení svých budoucích!”

  The cannonade became an explosion as Herbert was engulfed in the feverous devotion of his followers and the flashing lights of the world’s amused yet intrigued cameras. Above in the gallery his words were being spoken in a hundred languages and he allowed himself an inner smile as he thought what the world would make of his message. They were only a few short words, but ones which would provoke many more – ‘Our Family Reunited, Sharing its Future’.

  The handshakes came next of course. While the audience continued to erupt behind the bright white flashes that scorched his vision, Herbert was compelled to endure the indignities of modern day political posing. He left the lectern and stepped backwards towards his cabinet, his elite, all the time facing the throng of cheering people and waving dutifully as politicians should. He hated such posturing nonsense and loathed himself for succumbing to it. It was so much easier in the Sixties. There was little photogenic about Alexander Dubček, a balding, thin man with thick glasses and an ill-fitting suit. But he was a greater icon than a hundred of today’s ‘leaders’ put together. Today the world’s elite comprised of weak men and gutless women so concerned with saying the right thing that they invariably said nothing, masters of delicate thuggery who picked the pockets of the people while telling them they were giving more. To a person, thought Herbert, they were fakes, charlatans and worse, careerists; perhaps the most nauseating failing of all. Though he himself had been a ‘young Turk’ when he was the rising star of the Communist Party, he had toiled for his reputation and when the crunch came he had lived up to it. How many would do the same today? How many would stand by their people or their principles while staring down the barrel of a rifle or the muzzle of a tank’s gun? They were pathetic, and worse, he knew many such people sat on his own party’s rows behind him.

  Herbert readied himself for the cold embrace of such political friends, as they climbed from their seats and walked, arms outstretched toward him, each hoping to be the one to congratulate him first, showing the world the closeness of their bond. Well Herbert wasn’t ready to be a careerist’s stooge yet. With the natural skill of a gentleman, Herbert bypassed the proffered hands and reached out to the tall imposing figure at the back of the group, taking the man by surprise and pulling him to the front of the stage before wheeling round and scooping the woman at his left toward him, his arm paternally tight around her waist. These were the people he wanted with him at this moment; these were the two he could be sure of.

  The man, similar in age but grander in appearance than Herbert, was Karol Černý, leader of the Party’s Czech branch and another to come through the Prague Spring adorned with the earned label of hero. Černý had the look of nobility about him and carried that same air of aristocracy in his personal manner. A junior working under Herbert when the Russians came, he had impressed his superior with his fierce loyalty, just as Herbert had impressed Dubček with his own. Now he stood once more at his leader’s right hand, his hair white, his physical strength sapped by age but his pride as fierce as ever.

  Adorning Herbert’s left arm was the stunning figure of Miroslava ‘Mirushka’ Svobodova; the woman who had helped Herbert build his business empire since the day he invested in the spa at Bojnice. A confident and capable Business Manager, she had stayed with him as his investment paid off and he had set about transforming Slovakia into the new hub of Central European tourism; an assortment of spa towns and ski resorts attracting the sort of wealthy clientele for whom global recessions were a minor inconvenience. And when Herbert made his decision to return to national politics she stayed, building the new Party together with him and Černý. She proved a key player behind its surge to resounding victory at the Slovak national elections, which elevated her to the position of Deputy Prime Minister of the Slovak Republic. From there the party, alongside their Czech comrades under Černý, had swept the board at the European Parliament Elections and were poised for victory at the Czech polls in just a couple of short months, Černý himself within touching distance of the Czech Premiership. The plan was simple: election in both countries would be a green light from the people to begin the process of reunification, and both Svobodova and Černý would be instrumental in the realisation of that plan.

  These two, Herbert knew, had done more to bring about the prospect of a new Czechoslovakia than any of the hangers on and opportunists who now swarmed assiduously around them; and it was these two who deserved the limelight of this moment. Herbert sincerely hoped they would bask in it, not purely because it was deserved but because he himself was barely able to. The masterful oratory, which so encapsulated the still applauding delegates and which drew the careerists closer still around him, merely disguised the fact that he was tired; drained, weak and tired.

  After Černý had delivered his own rousing speech to close events and urge the activists to ensure the Party’s Czech elevation, the grand conference hall subsided into a low buzz with a few remaining delegates and the jabbering of journalists. The Slovak reporters were filled with questions and barely concealed awe for their Prime Minister and Herbert certainly owed the major Czech stations the courtesy of speaking with them, although he was careful not to steal Černý’s prominence. Only diplomacy persuaded Herbert to speak with the flippant American girl in the power suit who congratulated him on raising his ‘tiny little country’ to international prominence in such a short space of time. Herbert, old and wise enough to swallow his offence, politely suggested that even small pebbles could cause ripples in the pond before bidding goodnight and excusing himself to find the Spanish news crew.

  With the new British Foreign Secretary present, he knew he would be expected to speak to the British cameras and that he should take a precious few minutes rest, but he pushed himself on regardless. In truth, Herbert secretly enjoyed showing off his continuing fluency in several beautiful languages, but he inwardly conceded that he was perhaps giving one interview too many.

  After the final ‘gracias’ Herbert sat down on the front row, feeling as hollow and empty as the auditorium was fast becoming. He prayed silently that the British journalist’s questions would be brief and light. Pulling out the embroidered cotton handkerchief from his top pocket, an old gift from his late wife, he wiped his brow clear of the sweat which had started to form. Allowing himself a brief moment of self indulgence he ran the intricate delicacy of his wife’s embroidery through his fingers and closed his eyes, wondering what she would have made of his performance. He chuckled gently, imagining her chastising him for everything from his choice of suit, to his speech, to his posture; never allowing her deep pride in him to go to his head and forever pushing him to do better. Tho
ugh he told himself his return to politics was born from frustration at the then holders of power, in truth it had, in part, been to seek distraction from the solitude which stalked him as he approached his empty bed each night.

  The moment finished, he pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket and sat up straight, adjusting his tie and brushing down his lapels in readiness for the next interview when he became aware of the person behind him.

  “It’ll be time for your injection soon.” The newcomer spoke in a gruff Northern British accent.

  Herbert swung his head round and smiled at the figure seated in the row behind him.

  Peter Lowe, sometimes surly but most mostly affable, was the Englishman with whom Herbert had spent some considerable time over recent months. Herbert was fond of Peter, although his relationship with the Party was an unusual one. The whole inspiration behind the Party’s conception was reunification, and with that goal came a raft of complications. Each country was a unique legal entity with treaties and obligations in place, each of which would require addressing in the event of reunification. While in many cases such considerations would be trivial and even mundane, others would be infinitely more complicated. Added to that, Herbert had gone from idealised hero of two nations, to Prime Minister of one seeking to influence the electoral outcome in the other; precarious ground even with the appointment of Černý as Czech Leader. For Herbert to be involved in the campaign at all necessitated careful negotiation of the political minefield, and the legal complications amounted to an international headache.

  That was where Peter had come in. Shortly after the Party’s overwhelming successes in the European Parliament elections, Herbert had received a phone call from Brussels offering congratulations on the Party’s achievements and explaining the potential for unique problems that may arise from the results. As both Republics were, ‘valued members of the Union’, the EU wished to ensure that National elections in both countries were as smooth as possible and that neither nation would be subject to increased levels of tension or the possibility of de-stabilisation. To assist, they offered the services of a ‘Relationship Manager’, seconded from the Institute for European Harmony, an EU sponsored Think Tank, to serve in an advisory capacity until the elections were over. Peter Lowe was the chosen man, based chiefly on the fact that he worked at the Institute’s Prague office and was acutely familiar with the Czech political scene.