Blood White and Blue

  First published in Great Britain in 2018

  by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive,

  Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © James Silvester, 2018

  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.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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

  ISBN 978-1-911583-90-5

  MOBI 978-1-911583-91-2

  Cover by Michelle Morgan

  urbanepublications.com

  “For Dad.”

  PROLOGUE

  The grounds of the British Embassy, Prague, 1968.

  A ferocious and unwelcome sweat brought on by the August heat, erupted on the brow of the young Civil Servant as he raised the gun in an awkward and wholly unfamiliar movement, his aim distorted by the shaking in his arm and his nervous clenching of the revolver’s grip.

  “I could stop you,” he intoned, straining against the agony he felt in his arm to keep the weapon levelled on his foe. “I should stop you.”

  “Be my guest,” replied the second man, pushing his black trilby back above his brow and defiantly staring beyond the wavering gun barrel into the eyes of his accoster. “You might as well finish the job; it’s the least you can do after this.”

  The second figure was as young as the first, but stood straighter than his counterpart, his features were more cruelly arranged, and he wore an altogether fiercer expression on them, no doubt borne from the furious rage he felt towards the gunman before him. But while his face was etched with anger, his opponent’s radiated only anguish.

  “Oh, I think I’ve finished the job well enough, don’t you? The whole Embassy knows by now, that you are a traitor, nothing more than a Communist Patsy.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Language, Old Boy,” the first man smirked through his obvious pain, as though trying to enjoy his moment to the full but his heart denying him the pleasure. “You can’t pretend you don’t deserve this, or that you didn’t know the moment was coming. It was always coming, ever since you decided upon betrayal.”

  “Then put a bullet in my brain and get it over with, will you? Spare me your gloating.”

  From across the courtyard, the gunman slowly lowered his arm, a twinge of sadness further diluting the loathing which he had yearned to surrender to.

  “No,” he answered, simply, eliciting a frown of reluctant curiosity in response. “There’s only one place you can go, old boy. In seconds, security will descend upon you and drag you back to Britain in chains. You’ll be paraded across the front page of every paper in the land, your face jeered at nightly on every television unless you run.”

  “Run where?”

  “To your suitors, of course; to the Reds. The Dubček regime is doomed and the Hardliners are waiting in the wings. I’m sure they’d welcome you with open arms, after all, you’re the man who killed the Prague Spring.”

  “You’re not serious…” the desperate man half-whispered, almost incredulous at what he was hearing. “You really can’t be serious.”

  “What’s the matter? You always wanted to make your mark on history, and now you have. Whether you run or not, you’ll be remembered forever for this,” came the response. “You can either spend your life reeling from your castigation in a prison cell, or else you can embrace it here as a hero; a hero of sorts anyway.”

  There was no choice that he could see, the other man’s logic was sound, and he had always considered himself a logical man; that was what had gotten him into this mess to start with. But a lifetime here, with them?

  “We were right about you,” he said after a moment. “All this time, we were right about you. This is a death sentence just the same as if you put a bullet between my eyes, you know that. But then, you never did have the courage to fire a gun, did you, Geoff? And that arm of yours doesn’t look strong enough to take the shot anyway, does it?”

  “No,” Geoff quietly conceded. “But it isn’t just my gun you need to be wary of, and you never did have the courage to take a bullet, to be the one to take the pain, did you Alex? That’s why you’ll run.”

  The sun was getting hotter and Alex could hear the sound of boots getting closer. He turned his back to Geoff, to the Embassy and to his country, the country he had pledged to serve, and stepped closer to the gate, through which lay whatever he could turn into his destiny. As he stepped through, he turned back, just one more question on his lips.

  “Why did you do this?” he asked solemnly. “Just so you can say you stopped the man who betrayed Britain?”

  “Screw Britain,” the slighter man replied with equal solemnity from across the courtyard. “You betrayed me.”

  He nodded, his acceptance of the answer as reluctant as that of his situation and drew his first breath as a man on the run from his country.

  “Goodbye, Geoffrey,” he shouted through the gate. “Don’t get too comfortable, don’t ever let your guard down. Hell is a lonely place and that’s where you’re sending me. Don’t be surprised when I come back looking for company.” He doffed his trilby in faux salute to the Embassy, then turned and set off at a jog into a life in the chaos and fear of a Russian invasion.

  “Goodbye, Alexander,” Geoffrey whispered back, before the heat and his emotion overpowered him and he fell to the ground, his knees, and his gun dropping uselessly to the cobbles.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ONE

  Present Day – The Ocean.

  She’d been ready for them this time. This time, it was going down very, very differently. The previous night they had caught her unawares, the bastards in there with her; one of them grabbing her legs, another yanking back her long, dark hair and still another twisting her arms up her back; a filthy hand covering her mouth while another moved quickly and lecherously over her body, tugging at her white uniformed trousers
, stained with that evening’s menu, until they gave way and the trio gorged themselves on her vulnerability.

  “Just having a laugh,” they’d jeered as they left her, humiliated on the floor outside her quarters. “Every newbie gets a debagging on their first trip,” they’d snorted as she tucked her legs up to her chest and wept tears of rage and anger, “We’re just the ship’s Equal Ops team, making sure everyone gets their fair share!”

  They’d laughed and crowed as they disappeared, and she’d laid there for an age, shaking and quiet, hating them for their actions and herself for her failure to prevent them. She had crawled into her bed, intending to weep herself to sleep but refusing, the moment her head touched the pillow to succumb to self-pity, instead calling upon the resolve that had pulled her from the mouth of the cave years earlier. God forgive and help them, she sincerely prayed as she finally closed her eyes, because they knew not who they dealt with.

  The smirks had still been on their faces as she’d entered the galley the next morning, tempered only by their obvious surprise that she had shown up at all. She bore no outward sign of the attack, her fresh uniform was pristine and the long, dark hair they had pulled the night before tied up beneath her chef’s cap. She had looked each of them squarely in the eye, not a word passing her lips as she took her place on the line and busied herself with breakfast prep, adamant in her mind that nothing they could do would prevent her from doing her job.

  Already alert to the likelihood of a repeated episode of their ‘banter’, it was the sudden silence as the chop of fruit and the clunk and splash of pot washing abruptly ceased that told her it was time for the next assault.

  This time she was ready. She stamped down hard onto the hand reaching for her legs, a loud crack accompanying the scream of its owner, and she twisted quickly around, bringing the kitchen knife in her right hand slashing down across the cheek of her nearest abuser, who dropped to his knees clutching his face. The third of the unholy trinity lurched forward, a blade of his own clumsily slashing the air until it was knocked from his hand by a panful of boiling water.

  “Fucking foreign bitch!”

  The would-be knife man thrust his scalded hand into the dishwater as she dragged the first of her felled attackers across the cramped galley floor towards the open hatch on the wall known to the crew as the gun-port door, in reality little more than a square hole through which the food waste and rubbish was deposited. Picking up the tub of peelings and leftovers from the side with one hand, Lucie tipped it to the edge of the hatch, spewing its contents into the ocean below.

  As if on cue, a succession of dorsal fins began to ominously rise from the depths, following hungrily in the ship’s wake, the trail of leftovers almost magnetically drawing them in.

  “Just banter mate,” Lucie Musilova spat with every ounce of her fury, as she dragged the struggling oaf to the hatch’s edge, her resentment and rage granting her the strength to lift him and force his torso through it, where she held him by his belt, the ocean – and the fins – only feet below, “I’m sure you understand.”

  His arms flailing, searching desperately for a non-existent hand hold, the hunter turned prey twisted his body to escape the woman with his life quite literally in her hands in sheer desperation, the anger in her voice enough to convey the unlikelihood that this was a bluff.

  “Fucking hell, you crazy bitch, you wouldn’t!”

  The two other cowed abusers stood nervously across the galley table, one still clutching his face and the other his hand, but both wearing expressions of shock and fear.

  “Come near me, and he drops,” she shouted defiantly at them, the frothing emotion within her rendering her unsure as to exactly how hollow a threat it really was. They deserved this, damn them. Each one of them deserved it, for what they had done to her and for all she knew every other woman who had ever sailed with them. But she couldn’t go through with it, could she? She’d been a Woman of God, someone who helped and forgave, not condemned to execution… It was only when her screaming quarry emphatically increased the strength of his squirming in response to the squat snout breaking water beneath him that reality clawed its way back into her mind; the potential of her role changing instantly from killer to saviour as the panicking man began to wriggle himself free of her grasp in terror, and she squeezed harder with her arms around his legs to try and keep him safe.

  The door to the galley slammed open and in poured a handful of wide-eyed crew, led by a middle aged, bearded Officer, a Commander’s rank on his epaulettes.

  “Lucie!” The Commander shouted, his own eyes as wide as his men’s and shock clinging to his voice as tightly as Lucie clung to her abuser’s legs.

  Her senses returned, and once more in control of her raging emotions, Lucie railed against the squirming of a body consumed by blind panic, his contortions loosening him once more from her grip.

  With a final effort brim full of resentment and stress, Lucie hauled the weeping man back, his fingers scrambling to the metal floor as she pulled him back through the hatch to safety, and she stood there, her body aching and her mind exhausted, staring in contempt at the figure on the floor, while the newcomers quickly swarmed around, though none immediately found the courage to apprehend her.

  The danger averted, the Commander crossed over to her, stopping only to stare in disgust at the two other injured attackers, curtly ordering them both to seek medical attention then consider themselves confined to quarters pending investigation.

  He stepped over the third member of the self-appointed ‘Equal Opps Team’, who still clung to the floor as though fearful it would give way, whimpering softly.

  “Get that man to sick bay,” he barked; two men instantly picking him up and half walking, half carrying him out of the galley.

  Standing in front of Lucie, his expression turned to one of sympathy and worry and he shook his head gently.

  “Well, Lucie,” he sighed, his tiredness evident, “I’m afraid you’ve really fucked things up this time.”

  TWO

  “A little clichéd, wouldn’t you say?”

  It had been hours since Lucie was hauled from the boat and frog-marched through Southampton docks, past the gawping inquisitives for whom the parade of a tall, slim, striking woman with dark hair reaching down her back, was a distraction from the boredom of queuing for the ferry to Cowes, and deposited in a dull, grey secure room at the end of the pier.

  “It’s another one of that Polish lot,” she’d heard one hiss in response to the profanity she’d aimed at the guard and his wandering hand. “The sooner we’re out of bloody Europe, the better.”

  It was far from the first time such comments had been aimed at her, but each one served as another reminder as to why she’d signed up for the Merchants in the first place, another reminder that she wasn’t welcome here anymore, in what was supposedly her own country.

  Dressed at least in her own civilian clothes – flared, worn jeans and a blue paisley shirt, enveloped in a long, black overcoat – she stubbornly resisted giving in to the situation by blowing expertly on the harmonica she kept in her coat pocket, amongst the discarded tissues and forgotten sweet wrappers. It was either that or re-read the crinkled tabloid rag thrown in the room for her for the third time and hoping that this time it somehow magically contained articles with a bias other than foreigner-bashing, or attacks on Kasper Algers and Co. – a small band of MPs who still dared to put their heads above the parapet and defy the alleged ‘Will of the People’, and so the harmonica won easily.

  A fair few years had gone by since she had frequented the pub circuit in Bury with her small group of friends, blasting out rock covers and blues standards to audiences of varying levels of intoxication, but the skill had never left her and neither had her love for the music and its unique ability to at once soothe, caress and admonish. Lucie was quite content to lose herself in her playing before the door banged unceremoniously open, breaking her from her self-induced trance.

  “They would
n’t let me bring my cello,” she replied to the odd man now stood in the doorway, her voice full of sarcasm.

  Returning the harp to her pocket she took in the new arrival through her enchanting brown eyes, as he closed the door and sat across from her at the small table in the centre of the cramped room. Rapidly balding and not especially tall, the bags under his eyes betrayed a tiredness which was obstinately refuted by the sharpness of his stare, which remained fixed on Lucie as he sat. His dress was unremarkable; a simple, if well-cut suit and a reasonably expensive looking shirt, worn tieless and open-collared. Over one arm he carried a beige raincoat, which he now hung on the back of his chair, and in his hand was a black file which he snapped open, finally dropping his eyes from her to the papers it contained.

  “Lucie Musilova,” he began in a crisp, clear voice. “Thirty-five years old, born to a Czech mother and a British father who remained unmarried. Parents deceased, the father from testicular cancer, the mother in suspicious circumstances which remain unresolved. Childhood spent between both countries, leaving you fluent in both languages as well as Slovak, Polish and a smattering of Hungarian. Prior to your tour of duty with the Merchant Navy and the current… unpleasantness…”

  “They assaulted me,” Lucie interrupted, her anger clear but understated, “they deserved every bit of ‘unpleasantness’ that came their way.”

  The stranger’s eyes once more fixed on her; fierce but not completely devoid of sympathy.

  “I’m sure,” he concurred simply, in a tone which discouraged further discussion of the point.

  Dropping his gaze once more to the papers, he picked up his thread.

  “Prior to your tour with the Merchants, you trained as a Military Chaplain with the RAF and served in Afghanistan for a time.”

  “That’s none of your business…”

  “During which time, you were injured in action – your right knee, I believe - were awarded the George Cross for heroism and immediately afterwards resigned both your Commission and your Holy Orders…”