The Prague Ultimatum Read online

  “I needed to be with my people,” she replied in a reflective tone, only half-addressing the Captain, “and then I spent the rest of the night fielding calls from the damn Americans, demanding they be allowed to conduct the investigation…”

  Abelard shifted in her seat next to Stone and took a deep breath.

  “Please forgive the insensitivity of this question, but were the cameras at the hospital with you?”

  “What? No!” Svobodova screwed her face up in distaste.

  “I’m sorry, but Myska is riding high in the polls and will use this attack to make the lives of immigrants and refugees in this country and across Europe hell. You have to use anything you can to get in front.”

  Svobodova leaned forward, the resolve in her tired features apparent.

  “I will not exploit the victims of terror to boost my poll ratings.”

  “I respect your principles,” Abelard said, her own resolve equally strong, “but Myska will have no such hesitation, and his message will spread all the more clearly because of that.”

  An icy tension descended on the occupants of the car as it continued on its way, the two women embarked on a silent battle of wills. Each was formidable in her own way, thought Stone, and while he agreed with the strategic logic of his new lover, he saw in Svobodova a desire to be someone different to the cloned, standard issue politicians occupying the conveyor belt of power the world over; a desire he more than respected.

  The car pulled to a halt, the door opening for Svobodova, who stepped out, closely followed by Abelard and Stone, small pools of filthy, spent hose water lapping at their shoes as they stood at the barrier to the site, drinking in the nauseous image of beauty corrupted. Though the billowing smoke of the previous night was gone, its stench clung defiantly to the charred and battered surroundings, lending a malodorous accompaniment to the images of scattered debris and dark red stains tarnishing the ancient beauty of the grand old building.

  Svobodova had brought with her a large, but not exorbitant bouquet of lilies, which she placed on the ground in front of the yellow tape barring entry to the scene, before stepping back and bowing her head, her eyes reverentially closed. Stone, no stranger to such ceremonies, mimicked the gesture along with Abelard, the pair hanging back from the Prime Minister as much to avoid the encroaching cameras as to respect her moment of solace; the buzzing of the gathered platoons of journalists rising in intensity with Svobodova’s arrival.

  It was the noise of the buzz rising further still which caused him to open his eyes a moment later, accompanied by the sound of rubber tyres breaking softly on wet cobbles and the opening of a car door. He glanced over his shoulder and grimaced; the sight before him as unwelcome as it was expected: Myska.

  The MEP cut every inch the figure of the sincere mourner, adorned in an immaculate black suit and tie, every trace of the casualness in his demeanour and hair which Stone had perceived the previous day now brushed professionally away and replaced with a look of Statesmanlike distress. Carrying a similar bouquet, he passed through the clawing rabble of reporters and cameras, moving to lay it alongside Svobodova’s before taking up position alongside her so immaculately that the assembled press could be forgiven for believing the entire event to be choreographed.

  If Svobodova was shocked by the unexpected appearance of her rival, no such emotion played on her face, which remained reverent and respectful, her open eyes remaining fixed upon the sight before her. Closest to the pair, Stone pricked up his ears to catch the words of the populist politician, who leaned subtly, almost imperceptibly closer to Svobodova, clearly determined to take every advantage of the situation. His efforts were in vain as what words the Captain could strain to hear were in any case whispered in Czech and uttered too quietly for him to discern. Instead he settled back into the posture of a background guard, his gaze determinedly locked onto Myska.

  Almost as soon as etiquette allowed, the young politician raised his head and half-turned towards Svobodova, glancing quickly at Stone before turning back to her, an expression of pained sympathy on his face. He spoke again, just a fraction louder but clear enough for Stone to hear and in and English which left no doubt as to his intended audience.

  “A word of advice, Prime Minister,” Myska hissed quietly, “charming specimen though he is, keep your new monkey off my back and well in his cage, otherwise he’s likely to require the services of a vet.”

  With that, he stepped away from the barrier and took up position a few steps away, a chunk of the journalistic horde following him, questions spewing forth from their lips as soon as they were mere steps from the scene, as though they an orchestra desperate for him to take up the baton.

  Stone and Abelard stepped up alongside Svobodova who continued her vigil, obviously struggling to swallow the pointed racial barb her rival had made.

  “Bastard,” whispered the Professor, while Myska’s voice began to sound through the boom mics yards behind, “promoting himself and making speeches before they’ve even cleaned the blood off the floor. What’s he saying?”

  Svobodova paused before responding, allowing Myska’s condemnations to echo in her ears as a grim soundtrack to the devastation before her, eventually speaking with a voice coated in tiredness and resignation.

  “He’s saying that this is the outcome of a political class that ignores its people and dismisses their concerns as ‘racism’, that appeasement today means bloodshed tomorrow and that this is further proof that two such radically different cultures cannot live side by side in peace.”

  “So he’s a tasteless bastard too,” Abelard spat.

  “It is the way the world of politics turns,” Svobodova bemoaned, “but it is one I refuse to endorse.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  Both ladies turned to the hitherto silent Captain Stone, whose face was creased into a ferocious scowl.

  “If you’re happy for him to make speeches all day long he will do; he’ll get the upper hand in the argument and you’ll look like you’re on the defensive. Take the fight to him for a change.”

  The anger in Stone’s hissed words was obvious and he continued through gritted teeth.

  “Let the monkey loose on his back for once.”

  It had been a long time since Stone had allowed himself to give in to the anger born of the type of comment Myska had aimed at him. And while he cursed himself for doing so, he remained rational enough to know that what he had suggested to Svobodova was right: Myska must be challenged.

  With respect to the Captain,” Abelard began, “I disagree. You’ve already made your statement to the press, respond to his goading now and you’re dancing to his tune. Believe it or not, from a PR perspective you’re already ahead of Myska after your hospital visit last night, not to mention your pit stop at the scene of the attack.”

  “But there were no cameras?”

  “There were no TV crews to capture you, no, but this is 2018, there’s no-one out there without a smart phone or a tablet; the second you showed your face it was uploaded to YouTube and shared the world over. Believe me, I checked in the car; you’re trending.”

  “What?” Svobodova frowned.

  “It’s precisely the lack of TV crews that tells people your concern, your worry is genuine. You were prepared to put yourself in danger, you spent the night in the hospital with the victims, then a couple of hours later you were here paying respects. All that speaks louder than any speech Myska can make.”

  “That’s all very well,” hissed Stone, his irritation growing, “but while you’re busy taking the high ground that bastard will be spreading his filth all over the country and God knows how many people are going to suffer for it. When your opponent wants a street fight, sometimes you just have to take off your jacket and get down to it.”

  He could feel the eyes of both women on him and he latched onto their concern to stop the anger from clouding his mind. Natalie’s interjection had stung, not least because he knew she was right. Svobodova’s whole career,
her ‘mission’ since taking office, was to do things differently to other politicians; to be not just a symbol of political change but an embodiment of it, and submitting to Myska’s forced popularity contest was no way to do that. But Stone was right too. Myska was the type of bully who would go on causing harm until the day his victim stood up and punched him squarely in the face and by not rising to the challenge, Svobodova was effectively allowing him the run of the playground.

  The unexpected touch of Svobodova’s hand on his arm pulled him from his train of thought and he turned his head to meet hers; her eyes wide and sympathetic under a furrowed brow, but possessed of a steadfast determination to proceed on her chosen path.

  “Captain Stone, Lincoln,” her voice was soft and sincere, “I accept the veracity of your sentiment, believe me I share your desire to take on his poison, and I’m sorry, truly. But I will not use the site of an atrocity to beg for the approval of voters.”

  She deftly allowed her hand to drop and turned back towards the car, ignoring the pleas of the horde to respond to Myska’s brutish assessment. Abelard hung back, looking nervously at Stone, who swallowed the temptation to feel personally slighted by the Professor’s advice.

  “Are you coming Lincoln?” she asked, gesturing to the waiting car.

  “I’d prefer to be alone,” he snapped, instantly regretting his response, shaking his head in flustered apology.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I appreciate the offer but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company right now, I just need to clear my head for a while.”

  The faint smile on her face wasn’t enough to mask her concern, though sufficient resentment played in his system for him to resist immediately alleviating it.

  “Ok,” she eventually replied, the worry in her eyes evident. “Call me, alright? When you want to.”

  “I will,” he nodded, forcing a thin smile to his lips, “I promise.”

  She remained for a moment and Stone briefly pondered whether he should lean forward and give her a kiss, but decided this was hardly an appropriate setting to do so. Instead she smiled awkwardly and followed Svobodova’s footsteps to the car, Stone turning in the opposite direction, and walking a short distance away before finding a suitable alcove from which to keep the still bleating Myska in his line of vision.

  “Captain Stone, isn’t it?” The unmistakeable inflection of North America rung in Stone’s ears and he turned at the mention of his name to find a well-groomed and expensively suited man standing by his shoulder, staring intently past Stone at the eulogising Myska.

  “Never heard of him,” the Captain answered, turning his head back to the cameras.

  “Oh, come now Captain, don’t be modest. You’ve made quite a name for yourself recently; a British war hero, a VC no less, allowing a terrorist cell to escape and wreak havoc rather than order an advance? Must be kinda hard to live with, especially considering who the victims were… now wait friend, I don’t want any trouble!”

  Stone had spun around and stepped toe-to-toe with the newcomer, who couldn’t hope to match the military man for height or build, and who put his hands up at the reaction.

  “Well I suggest, friend, that you be careful to whom you repeat the shit you read in the papers, otherwise ‘trouble’ may be precisely what you get.”

  “Oh, point taken Captain, point taken,” the American twang was dripping with fake sincerity, the words clambering cynically through over-bleached teeth set behind a fixed, disingenuous grin. “Believe me I understand how frustrating the media can be, particularly when it comes to reporting attacks such as last night’s. That’s why I’m here: to help.”

  Stone stepped back from the charmless grin, the sickening thought that this was Greyson’s vaunted ‘Man’ making contact beginning to gnaw at him.

  “Help how?” he ventured, almost dreading the answer, “and who?”

  “Madame, Prime Minister of course,” came the condescending reply, Stone remaining silent at the answer. “You have influence with Svobodova,” the man pressed on.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. And more than you think. It’s been a long time since she let ‘outsiders’ advise her; you and the good Professor should feel privileged.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stone unconvincingly replied, prompting an abrasive laugh from the American, whose seemingly permanent grin lent it a sinister quality.

  “Yes, you do. And you’re going to tell Svobodova she should really accept the help that’s on offer to her and allow US agencies to conduct the investigation. She respects you, she’ll listen.”

  “I think you’ve overestimated my importance,” The Captain said, defiantly resentful of the insight this stranger appeared to possess, “Svobodova is her own woman, she doesn’t need to listen to me.”

  The man straightened up and began to step away from Stone, who kept his eyes fixed on him and his hands ready for possible conflict.

  “Oh Captain, my Captain,” he brushed down his immaculate suit jacket and adjusted a loose cufflink, Stone clenching his fists in readiness for a conflict he almost hoped would come but which his mind restrained him from instigating, “you’re more important than you realise. If you advise her to do a deal with America, she’ll pick up the phone for sure. She needs friends and lots of ‘em. See that guy over there?” He gestured to where Myska was wrapping up his rhetoric and making his way back to his own vehicle. “He’s a major league asshole for sure, but he’s winning votes. If Madame Prime Minister were seen to be co-operating in a high-profile crackdown on international terrorism, alongside her US partners, it can only be good for her image, I’d guess. And it would be far better for her health should she move to bring us on board while she, you know, still has a choice in the matter.”

  The words were said with an air of blasé nonchalance, the unsettling, baleful smile growing wider as he let them hang in the air while he began to move away from the soldier.

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Stone shouted after him.

  The American halted for a brief moment and looked back over his shoulder at Stone.

  “Don’t make me spell it out to you, you’re too intelligent for that; even if you are a national disgrace.”

  “You fucking…”

  Stone lurched forwards, grabbing the man by his needlessly expensive lapels; the twisted smile not leaving the American’s face.

  “Temper, temper Captain,” lectured the stranger, “a British Officer suspended for suspected dereliction found beating a US diplomat in the street just across the road from the cameras in Czechoslovakia? You don’t really want to become an internet sensation, do you?”

  The Captain, with painful reluctance, allowed this new tormentor to slip free from his hands while the darkest of scowls radiated the depths of his contempt.

  “Be seeing you,” smirked the man.

  And he was gone, slipping quickly but unhurriedly through the growing mass of people coming to pay their respects and let their emotions flow.

  It would be frivolous to follow him Stone realised; even if he were to successfully give chase, accosting him would only lead to more problems for Svobodova than she currently had and he had no wish to add to her stresses, despite the frustration still throbbing within him at her refusal to tackle Myska head on.

  Heading nowhere in particular but as far away as he could, Stone picked a direction and walked in it. Choosing streets at random, he found himself passing designer boutiques and glass fronted emporiums, tastefully built into the typically eerie allure of the architecture he had come to expect and admire in his short time in the city.

  He drew a lungful of warm, summer breath into his lungs as he walked, willing the stresses of this manic couple of days out with the spent air he exhaled and cursing himself for his unsoldierly display of petulance in front of Svobodova and Natalie. Stone could forgive anyone for an emotional reaction in the aftermath of the previous night’s attack, the scenes had after all been horrendous, but he was not an
yone, and had borne witness to countless similar spectacles and worse in his long career. It had been Svobodova’s stance which had disappointed him, and though he knew it unfair, he found himself blaming her for a lifetime of political disenchantment, as the shining dawns, bright new eras and sunlit uplands promised by so many successively failed to materialise. Svobodova was a good leader, that much was obvious, and she was a strong woman, too strong, Stone thought, to have backed down to Myska’s challenge, regardless of her stance on not providing him with the ‘oxygen of publicity’. He already had the publicity; the challenge now surely was to counter what he did with it. Stone had grown up listening to the eloquent prejudices of respectable men, and it pained and angered him to hear them spoken of again so many years hence. Some of his earliest childhood memories were the twisted faces of his neighbours and the sneers of passersby in the aftermath of ‘old Enoch’s’ speech. And seeing the rising tensions in Britain mirrored here in Prague brought the fear that the infamous ‘Rivers of Blood’ may one day appear if the extremists were left unchallenged.

  And then there was Natalie. Here he was not only enjoying the company of this woman but relishing it, and it seemed by her actions that the feeling was very much reciprocated. He had lost count of the number of times over the years that he had pushed women away, or been pushed away by them, as soon as the issue of his son came up, and it was as unsettling as it was welcome to find that not to be the case with her.

  He stopped to gather his bearings, the thought of Natalie lingering and a buzz of nervous anticipation playing in his stomach as he contemplated their first meeting. Enjoying the unfamiliar excitement, he took in his surroundings; the street having led him to the edge of the Old Town Square, a grand, baroque Church in white stone, its twin towers capped in green alongside him. Pausing to take in the panoramic beauty, the Captain froze as his gaze fell on a bedraggled, untidy figure, standing motionless under the shadow of the ancient Clock Tower, his wide eyes fixed on Stone. It was the same man who had silently watched him the previous night and who had saved his life in the subway; and Stone was damned if he wasn’t going to get one of these underhand bastards to stay still long enough to answer his questions.