The Prague Ultimatum Read online

  TWELVE

  IT TOOK STONE SO LONG to find Abelard, even following her tersely texted directions, that he could be forgiven for imagining the confirmation of his fears - and while that would be painful he could certainly understand why. From his admittedly limited experience of the Professor thus far, she struck him as the kind of woman ill-prepared to take much in the way of disrespect from her gentleman friends and he hoped that his alcohol fuelled self-absorption would not be taken as such. Nonetheless, he eventually found the almost unnoticeable gate on the slope of Petřín Hill which led to the small but intensely beautiful Vrtba Garden, in the shadow of the Palace. Pausing for the briefest of moments to admire the baroque finery he ventured in, finding the picturesque venue mercifully free of tourists.

  He soon saw her, sitting on a stone bench, her face away from him, taking in the majesty of the grandly constructed St Nicholas Cathedral. He approached her with the stealthy subtlety of a soldier as he struggled to make his opening gambit; the instinctive spontaneity which served him so well in combat leaving him floundering now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last, his hands in his pockets and sincerity on the face she was turned away from, “I was an arse.”

  No answer came, the Professor continuing to stare ahead. Breathing deeply, he spoke again, attempting an explanation of his morning with Greyson and his Bastard, to who Stone somewhat resentfully owed his life.

  “Greyson’s in town,” he said simply, opting to avoid any flowery lead-in to a topic which was bound to unsettle her. “He surprised me this morning while I was walking in Old Town; he and the man who saved me in the tube station, Williams he’s called.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  She snapped the question with an obvious pain in her voice, repressed as best she could but inescapably present.

  “You haven’t wanted anything to do with me for the last few days, but all of a sudden Jonathan comes to town and you think I’ll go scurrying back to him if you don’t make a move, is that it? Am I supposed to take that as another Regimental tradition? The military equivalent of raising your leg and pissing all over whatever you consider to be your property.”

  “No,” Stone moved to stand beside her, joining her in looking out at the Cathedral, “no, that’s not it. You can believe it or not but I was coming to see you anyway before he found me. I got jumped last night by a couple of Myska’s goons.”

  “Are you ok?”

  She spun around instantly, her wide eyes checking him for any sign of physical impairment.

  “I’m fine, honestly I’m fine,” he reassured her, though she scanned him thoroughly before returning her stare to the Cathedral.

  “They were just a couple of scrotes trying to put the frighteners on me, that’s all, they came off worse. But it was enough for me to get my head out of my arse and start realising what my priorities should be again.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re ok.”

  Her words were sincere but almost whispered, a clear indication to the Captain that his behaviour was not yet entirely excused.

  “Look, I know it’s not been easy for you, this assignment, and my recent attitude hasn’t helped matters, but I am truly sorry. On the morning of the attack it seemed like I was fighting all the old battles again when Svobodova took your advice over mine, and then finding out about Greyson’s sacking just tipped me over the edge. The only reason I agreed to come here in the first place was for the exoneration he offered me, and it felt like the rug was being pulled out from under me when I saw his face plastered all over the news. And it’s not about marking my territory or anything like that; if you want to tell me to get on my bike now then I will. But once I learned he was in town I figured you wouldn’t take it too well and I wanted to be the one who broke the news of his arrival to you. I didn’t want you to walk into a meeting one morning and find him sat at the head of the table with a croissant, coffee and a condescending smile.”

  “I already knew,” Natalie spoke again with less anger in her voice, “Svobodova told me, she said it was ‘only fair’.”

  He slowly lowered himself beside her on the cold, hard seat, deeply exhaling and shaking his head, no words coming to his mind to support her in her confused emotion. Though her gaze remained fixed ahead and her body language tense, Stone felt a part of her relax into his presence, her head hovering just a few millimetres above his shoulder, not quite low enough to fully break the tension.

  “Why did you get divorced?” she suddenly asked, out of the blue, the Captain frowning in response at the unexpected enquiry.

  “I told you,” he stiffly answered, “she got tired of being a soldier’s wife, that’s all.”

  “No,” Natalie pressed, “I mean, what was the straw that broke the back? What made you both realise that you just didn’t want to fight anymore?”

  The probing question didn’t offend Stone, but he struggled to know how to answer it, his mind raking over memories long since dormant and less than a delight to re-live. Nonetheless he began to relax, his tautness dissipating as he pondered out loud.

  “I don’t know,” he sighed gently, “everything was so easy in the early days, you know? I loved her, truly and thought we’d be together forever. And for what it’s worth, I believe to this day that she genuinely felt the same way about me. But slowly things began to unravel. I think when our son was born she wanted, or maybe expected me, to give up the Army, find something else to do with my life.”

  “But you couldn’t do that, could you?”

  “No way. I mean I thought about it, but being a soldier, it’s just who I am. I joined up the day I turned eighteen. My Dad, my adoptive dad, took so much stick for having taken us in, a black single mother and her son; he was the best man I’d ever known and from an early age I swore I’d follow in his footsteps, be the type of man he was. There was no way you could ever get me in a shirt and tie doing a nine to five. I thought I could provide the best example for my son; boy did I get that one wrong.”

  Their eyes still on the Cathedral, Stone felt her fingers reach deliberately between his, squeezing her affection and support as he continued.

  “After that things started to get worse. She’d forever be accusing me of having affairs, of sleeping with women in the forces or knocking around with prozzies while away on duty, all stuff I never did and never even occurred to me. I ended up sinking so deep within myself that I stopped communicating with her almost entirely; I didn’t ask her advice on anything, never talked about my work and basically just grunted responses when there was no alternative but to talk to her. When I was home I used to take her out, just the two of us, trying to recapture some of that earlier passion, but every time it became a disaster. She’d have too much to drink and start screaming at me that I was a lying, unfaithful cheat, then I’d shout back that she was crazy and making my life hell. We said some pretty horrible things to each other before we’d stagger home, pissed out of our heads shouting all the way… In the morning we’d make up, do our best to laugh it off as being down to the drink or the stress or not getting to see each other as much as we’d like and we’d get on with the day, only for exactly the same thing to happen the next time we went out. I suppose we were cheaper than cabaret for a lot of people around that time.”

  He blinked away the dampness in his eyes and returned the squeeze of Abelard’s hand before continuing.

  “Things just got worse from there. Eventually, the rows became longer and the making up less sincere; we stopped laughing it off the morning after, just hugging each other wordlessly instead, and pretty soon the hugs became shorter and more awkward, until finally even those stopped - but the arguing continued and the name calling got worse. One night, after she’d called me a filthy liar one too many times, I turned around and told her she was a shit mother who cared more for getting pissed and screaming at me than for her boy sat at home wondering why his parents didn’t get on. It was a fucking horrible thing to say, whatever the provocation and I certain
ly didn’t mean it, but the damage was done. I wanted to apologise but by then I was so sick of the constant fighting that I didn’t find it in me to. The next day there was no apology, no hug, not even a smile; she just kissed her boy goodbye and walked out the door. Barring solicitor’s letters, that was the last I heard from her; I thought we’d have a protracted battle for custody but the fight never came.”

  “You never saw her again?”

  “She’d write letters to him, send presents for birthdays and Christmases, but until recently that was it.”

  “Until recently?”

  Stone nodded, the words coming more easily than he’d imagined, while Natalie’s hand continued to squeeze his.

  “She found him on Facebook one day, started to e-mail him and asked to see him. I’d just been suspended after the Syria Incident, so I was at home with him. He asked me about it and I said it was up to him, I had no right to try and block anything.”

  “And did he meet her?”

  He collected his thoughts again, a loving smile spreading on his lined face.

  “He was so worried about meeting her that day,” he mused, “it was almost like he was getting ready for a first date, never mind a reunion with a parent; ‘how do I look Dad? What do you think of this shirt? Should I shave? Is this too causal? Is that too formal?’”

  The Captain grew misty eyed at the memory.

  “I just laughed and said he was perfect however he chose to look and he should just go, be himself and see what happened. He was still nervous so I offered to ride on the Tube with him to go and meet her. I felt closer to him that day than any day in my life; it was as though none of the stuff we’d ever argued or rowed about in the past mattered anymore, not that it ever did, not really. I was so proud of him, and I’d like to think he felt the same about me…”

  Natalie’s lips pressing softly on his own gently pulled him from the melancholia which threatened to overwhelm him, and he returned her kiss enthusiastically, accepting the forgiveness she offered.

  “I know he did,” she whispered as their lips parted, the warmth flooding back into her demeanour with each passing second, “and so do I.”

  THIRTEEN

  “HI MATEY, ARE YOU OK?”

  Stone gasped to regulate his breathing, having awoken to the sound of his mobile phone and sprung up quickly. He blinked his eyes to become accustomed to the dark and looked around at the bedroom of his apartment. Natalie was still there, curled up beside him and locked securely in the depths of sleep. They had returned directly from the Palace gardens to the apartment, making up in the time-honoured way. A Trail of untidily deposited clothing marked their stumbling path from the main door to the bedroom, where the tension, stress and pain of their situation broke, relaxed and poured away in the ecstasy of their love making, before they had drifted into carefree and appreciative sleep. Barely one shrill ring from the telephone had been enough to wrench the Captain from his rest, and now he sat, upright with the phone glued to his ear, hoping for the expected sound of his son’s voice, in one of his typical late night/early morning calls.

  “I’m fine thank you honey bunch,” came the cheerily sarcastic reply in inescapably Scottish tones, “how are you?”

  “Williams,” sighed Stone, rubbing his hand over his tired, sore eyes, “aren’t you supposed to be out finding somewhere to sleep?”

  “Aye, I have done,” came the answer, “by chance the apartment below yours was free so I’ve taken that.”

  “Oh, bollocks.”

  “Ah, don’t be like that Captain,” the river of sarcasm continued to flow, “we’re all one big happy family now.”

  “Williams, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Of course I fucking do, why else do you think I’m calling now? I was trying to get my head down before but you and the Good Professor were banging away so hard I thought I’d developed tinnitus; at one point I was looking up the Czech word for ‘Plasterer’ in case you came through the fucking ceiling. Ringing you in the middle of the night is the only way I could pay you back.”

  “Piss off.”

  “Hang on!” Stone moved to hang up the mobile, but something in Williams’ tone compelled him not to. “Don’t get precious on me Captain,” the aging voice chastised him, “that isn’t my only reason for calling.”

  “And what is the real reason?

  “You have an early start tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Remember you said you wanted to catch up with the film crew? Well now you have the perfect opportunity; one of them has been murdered.”

  Stone reached the scene even before the sun had grazed the roofs of the multi-coloured baroque buildings lining the streets of Malá Strana, a black overcoat shielding him from the early morning chills and accompanied on one side by a grim faced Radoslav and on the other by the furrowed wrinkles of Williams. Another of the tanks stood silently and archaically majestic upon the cobbles, it’s turret pointed upwards as if in salute to the bloodied and battered body that lay a few steps in front of it, being brought almost lovingly into focus as the creeping sun leaked light onto the bloodstained path. A small cordon of police vehicles and a surely redundant ambulance encircled the scene, complimented by the fluttering of yellow police tape, steadfastly prohibiting the encroachment of the gradually increasing bystanders.

  A police officer, evidently tired and overdue for relief held up a hand to the approaching trio, backed by his superior who took issue with Rado’s flashing of his credentials and proceeded to argue the necessity of his presence.

  “What’s she saying?” Stone quizzed, frustrated in his desire to examine the scene.

  “Oh, it’s just the old ‘jurisdiction’ chestnut,” Williams explained, translating the terse exchange with ease. “She’s wondering why a security operative like young Radoslav is interested in a run of the mill murder scene. Plus, she doesn’t like the look of us two.”

  “Doesn’t she now?”

  “I can’t say I blame her, we look like the fucking villains on a shit crime drama. Still, like us or no, she’ll have to let us in. Rado’s Full House beats her Pair.”

  Stone scowled in distaste at what he was beginning to realise was Williams’ deliberately provocative humour, while as if sensing the disapproval, the seasoned Spook grinned widely to himself.

  “Come on now, quick as you like…at last! Thank you!”

  A thunderous expression on the detective’s face, she finally, if somewhat reluctantly, bowed to bureaucratic reality and waved the three of them through the yellow paper barrier and into the scene. Stone headed to where the victim lay and crouched down, shaking his head sadly as the sickening outcome he had half expected since William’s call a couple of hours earlier was proven true.

  Barry Hendry, Sergeant, late of The Queen’s Royal Hussars lay with his head on the kerb, the impact with which had, according to the attending mortician, killed him outright. There was certainly enough blood to verify a massive head injury, while the look of surprise on the dead man’s face added credence to the explanation, but it did little to satisfy Stone.

  “How do you know it was murder?” he snapped loudly and to no-one in particular. A uniformed officer stood close by taking it upon himself to answer the question in Stone’s own language.

  “Witnesses,” the young police officer said, “several. “They say a fight broke out and this man was punched to the ground, he hit his head and that was that.”

  “You have the attacker in custody?” Williams quizzed, receiving a shaken headed response.

  “His name was Sergeant Hendry,” Stone barked, “not ‘this man’. He was a soldier, he gave his all for his country and he deserved a damn sight more than to die like this in a street fight.”

  Radoslav placed a hand on Stone’s shoulder, firmly but without condescension.

  “Captain,” he softly intoned.

  “I’m sorry.” Stone shook his head again and gave one last look of respect to the fallen comrade.<
br />
  “At ease, Sergeant Hendry.”

  Straightening up he spoke again to the young cop, though in altogether softer tones.

  “The witnesses you mentioned, are any still here?”

  The officer nodded and gestured over to where a young man with a goatee beard and deathly pale skin shivered in the open back door of a squad car, a towel hanging pathetically around his shoulders. Stone saw enough to know both that the man was in deep shock, and that he was Petřík, the young man with the tragic past whom the late Sergeant had pointed out days earlier while Stone had been admiring the beauty of the Russian tank. The Captain walked slowly over and leant close to the man, searching his mind for a some comforting word to offer and finding nothing but blanket apologies instead.

  “Petřík?” Stone tried to tease some words from the shaking youngster but seemingly to no avail, Petřík simply rocking back and forth. The young face was bruised and swollen, contusions evidencing the beaten he had taken.

  “What happened Petřík? What happened to Barry?”

  For the briefest of moments, the frightened eyes turned towards Stone and the mouth hung open just slightly, as though he were being consumed from within by information he yearned to share but which would not come. And then, almost as soon as he had looked up, his stare became sightless again, returning to the ground before him while his rocking continued apace.

  Stone straightened and turned away, cursing. He had no evidence at all but the stench of Myska’s hand permeated the crime scene and it was the singular lack of evidence that caused him to swear out loud as he walked away from the recovering witness, gripped by an unfamiliar and wholly unwelcome sense of impotence.

  “Are you alright?”

  Williams’ voice never seemed too far away from a cynical incline, it seemed to Stone, but the man’s eyes at least displayed an apparently genuine concern, the weathered spy appearing alongside him unexpectedly.

  “Yeah, fine,” Stone lied. “It’s just, he was a soldier, he risked himself in combat his whole life and managed to come through unscathed. It’s not right that anyone should die like this, but for someone who’s dodged bullets for his country to be sucker punched in a street fight…”