The Prague Ultimatum Read online

  He stopped for a moment, breathing deeply.

  “Ever since the 1930’s,” he began again, his voice calmer, “the Far Right has been hated and castigated the continent over, damned by history and condemned by the present, despised by every right-minded person who ever drew breath. And yet it never quite dies, it never quite goes away, not forever. A few twisted devotees keep the flame alive, however faintly it might flicker until somewhere, when people are desperate, angry, looking for someone or something to blame, it raises its head above the parapet once again and starts whispering. It starts pointing the finger, it tells people they shouldn’t have to live like this, that it isn’t fair the way life’s treated them, that if it weren’t for the Jews, or the Pakis...if not for the ‘fucking Muslims pouring in’ or ‘the bloody Polish taking all the jobs’, then things would be better, more than that things would be perfect. They’d be ‘Great Again’, they’d ‘Get their Country Back’. And you know why it keeps growing? Because the politicians, the ‘Mainstream’, people like you Prime Minister, gloss over it, never accepting that their message, however loathsome it is, might just be what disenfranchised, disaffected people want to hear. So instead of confronting the filth, instead of telling those people that there is a different, better way, instead of accepting where governments have failed and working to put things right, instead of fighting lies with truth, you ignore them, you put your hands over your ears and pretend you can’t hear them. So, when the bigots tell the people their concerns are being ignored, that the political classes don’t care, you’re doing a pretty damn fine job of proving them right instead of doing what you should do! And so every generation it comes back and none of us can ever truly rest easily, we can never know for sure that the shit we went through in our lives won’t be re-visited tenfold on our kids, or on their kids, and all because a bunch of politicians are too scared to go over the top in into the battlefield and win the damn war!”

  Stone turned away and leaned on the desk, his eyes glued to the papers upon it, the rise and fall of his shoulders betraying the heavy breathing brought on by his tirade. He instantly regretted the outburst; not the content, which he was sure needed saying, but certainly his tone, and he remained in his position, awaiting the inevitable admonishing.

  It didn’t come. Instead he felt Natalie’s soft palm covering his own, squeezing it with the same understanding affection he had come to expect from her. And while her touch began to ease the tensions from his body, he heard Svobodova behind him, taking a step closer.

  “And which battlefield, Captain,” she began, her voice understanding and devoid of resentment, “should people like me be walking into?”

  Stone straightened up and turned around to face her, keeping hold of Natalie’s hand as he did so.

  “Fight them, Prime Minister,” he replied simply. “Take the fight to them, on their own turf, their own battleground. Meet on television, on the hustings, on their own damn doorsteps. Take each and every untruth they can throw at you and show them up for the lies they are. Don’t deny these bastards the oxygen of publicity; give it to them in droves and then see them choke to death on it when they’re exposed for the liars they are. If Myska’s making ground because he’s good TV then be better TV, that’s the only way to beat him: at his own game.”

  The hint of a smile brushed Svobodova’s lips, her eyes steadfastly on the Captain’s own.

  “I take it Captain,” she began softly, “that you have such a battlefield in mind?”

  “Indeed I do, Madam Prime Minister,” he smiled back, “but if you’ll forgive me, I’d like something in return.”

  SIXTEEN

  IT WAS A MESMERIC PERFORMANCE from Svobodova; one which had her supporters on the streets cheering, the journalists drooling and Stone himself relishing a burning sense of pride. She had done precisely as he’d hoped and confronted Myska, unannounced at the scene of the latest bungled terror attack itself.

  The self-styled Man of The People had, as expected, basked in the opportunity to bring others to his cause, condemning the folly of allowing refugees shelter within a culture they couldn’t adapt to, attacking the inherent brutality of the Islamic faith and extolling the virtues of a thoroughly Westernised European Union to all who would listen, and that number continued to grow, boosted by the whir of the cameras which captured his every move. Only when, from his vantage point on the ridge of the Jan Hus Memorial, he saw the crowd part and a figure walking through it did he begin to falter; the appearance of Miroslava Svobodova herself approaching him and stepping up to join him on the plinth, robbing him of his compassionately phrased - if hate filled - crescendo. He had tried to continue, but the momentum was ers, as was the attention of the cameras and the crowd, some of whom spat boorish insults which she simply laughed away, but most would be abusers stunned into reluctantly respectful silence while her supporters beamed up to her with unabashed pride. She had spoken in passionate Czech to the people, holding them in her palm as she had done years before and, stood away from the crowd, Stone felt the emotion pouring from her body and spreading through so many of those present; some who would in any case call themselves her champions, but others swayed by the intensity of her delivery and her irrefutable logic. Time and again, Myska raised myth after long debunked myth about the evils of immigration, the conspiracy of multiculturalism and the incompatibility of Middle Eastern traditions with those of central Europe, only for Svobodova to effortlessly bat them aside, until the characteristic unflappable charm began to twist into uncomfortable frustration. By the time of her final vehement appeal to the crowd, Myska had no answers to give save for the repeating of soundbites and slogans.

  He had taken in the performance a second time later that night, with an equally excited Natalie in his arms, as Svobodova’s dramatic appearance was repeated on the news bulletins and discussion shows, her vehement defence of herself, her philosophy and those who sought shelter under her country’s protection subtitled for people across the globe to watch and admire.

  “It took us twenty-three years to remember that we are a family,” Svobodova had declared to the crowd in her final address, “after listening for so long to men who told us we were different, so different that we should be kept apart, that our lives should be separated by borders and regulations; relations reduced to the status of barely welcome visitor in each other’s lands. Twenty-three years before we came to our senses and realised that our bond, our familial unity, our common humanity was and is so much greater than any division the world wants us to live through from time to time. Yes, these are challenging days, many would say terrible; the world seems abundant with evil people committing evil acts. But if Mr Myska succeeds in convincing you to follow his dream, his path towards a Europe united in race only, for let us be honest with ourselves, that is the essence behind his charms, do any of you think that those evil acts will end? Of course they will not! Only who will you have to blame then? How long before the Leaders of this glorious future label you as the next great threat? Since human life first crawled out of the sea, there have been those inclined to visit horror upon their brethren; whether their justification was philosophical, political or religious, they were and are united in their desire to commit evil. Let us now be united in our desire to overcome it, together, to counter terror with love. My friends, it took twenty-three years for us to remember we are one Czechoslovak family; I pray nightly and I beg you now that it will not take another twenty-three to remember we share that relationship with the World.”

  Her words had been spontaneous and heartfelt, and as soon as they were spoken she had stepped down from the plinth and walked back through the crowd whence she came, as the crowd cheered her and headline writers went into overdrive.

  The warmth in Stone’s chest grew with each viewing, until Natalie’s hand reached across to the remote he held in his and flicked the screen to blank.

  “You were right,” she said, stroking his chin, “she should have done that a long time ago.”

/>   “Maybe,” Stone smiled, resisting the playful urge to give the time-honoured riposte of ‘I told you so’, “but maybe now was the perfect time.”

  “Well the reaction has been positive to say the least; the speech coming on the back of the arrest is going down well in the country. If we can keep things looking positive until the service next week we might just have turned the corner and taken back a bit of momentum.”

  Stone grimaced in distaste. The plan for the great and good of the world to fly in for a choreographed show of ‘solidarity’ in the wake of the attacks - but what was to the more cynical a glorified publicity shot for the elite - had been agreed earlier that morning, and it was not one which pleased the Captain. He had attended more than sufficient stage-managed conflict zone appearances in his career, by politicians who flew in under heavy cover and promptly flew out again of the battlefields they had helped create, after a few perfunctory handshakes and heroic poses with the latest hardware. This was simply more of the same; a theatrical appearance by a political class who despite for the most part despising each others’ politics, all shared the same burning ambition of power for its own sake and possessing of a keen awareness of what they needed to do to wield it. Attacks of the type suffered by Prague and throughout Europe in recent years, while causing loss of life and temporary chaos, nonetheless offered the silver lining of opportunities such as this to link arms and light candles in unison, while looking sombre and statesmanlike for The People, many of whom would unwittingly buy into the charade with a hashtag or two; all a refreshing distraction from whichever domestic catastrophes they sought to divert attention from. Stone had long since tired of such parlour tricks, even before his public disgracing, and knowing that both Svobodova and the increasingly world weary President Černý were likewise opposed to it was small comfort, given that they had accepted the political necessity of jumping through this particular hoop.

  “I can’t wait,” the Captain grumbled, “remind me to come down with diarrhoea that day.”

  “I’ll send out for beer and burritos the night before,” Natalie laughed.

  “Anyway,” Stone continued, “I’m hoping to have something more substantial to cheer about by then anyway.”

  “Ah,” his lover nodded, “your ‘something in return’.”

  “Yep.”

  “When are you doing it?”

  “Tomorrow.” Stone took a sip from the glass of water next to the bed and yawned, shuffling down between the crisp, fresh sheets and closing his eyes, the pressures of recent days beginning to catch up with him physically. “I’m meeting Williams at six at Zlatý kůň Hill and then the day is ours; aside from a few ground rules we’ve pretty much been given carte blanche.”

  Her fingers began to stroke gracefully against him, Natalie exquisitely tracing the outline of his face with the tip of her finger.

  “So, you’ll be wanting a good night’s sleep then?” she asked, a hint of mischief in her voice.

  “Mm-hmm,” he confirmed, trying to resist his body’s reaction to the finely moving fingertip, “a particularly deep one.”

  “Ok,” she replied, “I understand. Of course, you know that the best way to be sure of a truly great night’s sleep is to make sure you’re extra tired beforehand?”

  “Is that a fact?” he grinned, his eyes still playfully closed, “and where did you learn that?”

  “They don’t make people Professors for nothing. In fact, I think it would be best if you were positively exhausted…”

  Stone opened his eyes and his grin widened, reaching over to embrace her fully in his arms.

  “Oh really?” he chuckled, pulling the sheet over them as she settled into his arms, “well who am I to argue with a Professor?”

  SEVENTEEN

  “IS HE IN THERE?”

  The sun was beginning a lethargic ascent as Captain Stone arrived in front of the typically scowling Williams just before six that morning, climbing just high enough to glint across the triangular roof which adorned the commanding tower of the nearby Karlštejn Castle.

  “Aye,” confirmed the Scotsman, “Rado’s lot picked him up just before four, he’s been down there by himself for a while now; he must be nicely uncomfortable.”

  “Let’s hope. After you Mr Williams.”

  “Oh, no,” Williams demurred theatrically, “I wouldn’t dream of it, after you, Captain.”

  Moments later, the pair were descending down a winding metal staircase, built into the very earth itself, emerging at last into a damp, dimly lit but expansive cavern, decorated from head to toe in majestic drip stone formations of varying length but equal magnificence. The uneven footing only added to the abundance of just visible natural beauty around them which seemed only to grow in intensity the deeper into the cave they walked, as if the cavern were displaying itself with the self-confident audacity of a Peacock, almost daring the newcomers to find a rock out of place or a stalagmite of anything less than breath-taking resplendence.

  While the perfection of the rock formations was indisputable, the Captain and his companion soon came across something that was indeed out of place, if not wholly unexpected. Reaching the edge of one runway, illuminated by the lights wired into the pathway, a figure came into view; unkempt, lolling slightly against the ropes that bound him to the chair which sat at the very edge of the path, inches from the sheer drop to the next level beneath him. Here at last was Stone’s ‘something in return’. Though the restrained figure sat with his back to the newcomers, the Captain knew exactly what he looked like: skeletally thin, unhealthily so especially for one so young, with a short beard protruding from his chin. Here sat the second of the would-be bombers; the one whose belt had failed to detonate and whose face had since been shared across every news channel in the West and across countless social media accounts in the intervening couple of days.

  Abdul Salam.

  As they drew up behind him, Stone winced. The caves were cold, damp air permeating even his well-guarded lungs, but the young man was sat wearing only a thin t-shirt and shorts, his shivering obvious from some distance away.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he cursed under his breath to Williams, “I didn’t say he was to be tortured, did I?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” Williams answered insincerely, “I must have got giddy and embellished your instructions a bit.”

  The Spook strode ahead, grabbing hold of the chair and scraping it around and towards them, pulling the prisoner back into consciousness as he did so; the young man blinking the mistiness from his eyes and straining to focus on the duo.

  “Who are you?”

  A second chair stood to the side and Williams pulled it in front of the bound figure, sitting down with an almost jolly aplomb.

  “Who, us?” he smiled, “oh, we’re just your friendly neighbourhood infidels; it was such a beautiful morning we thought we’d stop by for a chat and show you the sights. These are the Koněprusy Caves, do you like them?” He gestured expansively around, his unsettling smile still on his face. “They form the largest cave system in Bohemia, you know, and the funny thing is no-one knew a thing about them until about ooh, 1950 or so. The Communists were still in charge here back then; they were a funny lot, very irreligious. You’d have had a whale of a time running around blowing up the unbelievers then, I can tell you… well, maybe just the once actually. But anyway, the Caves! Fascinating tale; a bunch of quarry workers were carrying out a controlled explosion on the south-eastern side of the hill up there, and they only went and blew an entranceway to these beauties right there in the quarry wall. They spent all their spare time crawling through these caves, one metre at a time until finally one day, they found the main cavern, the one back there. Brilliant eh?”

  Salam simply stared, his lips remaining defiantly closed and his body trying to supress the shivers running through it.

  Williams feigned disappointment at the lack of response and shrugged.

  “No? Well, I guess you had to be there. But you know t
he moral of the story is that explosions can sometimes have unintended consequences, even ones that don’t manage to go off correctly.”

  Williams sprang forward, gripping Salam by his t-shirt and tipping him forward so that his face drew close to the Scotsman’s own, which twisted instantly into a mask of angry ferocity.

  “Now you listen to me you little shit,” he snarled, “you might be too fucking dumb to know how to work a trigger properly, but as far as I’m concerned you’re still a murdering wee bastard who should be hung out to fucking dry. We’re giving you one fucking chance to answer each and every question we put to you, or I will personally drop you over the side of this rock and take great pleasure in watching you break apart across millennia old stalagmites, do you comprehend me?”

  “Williams!”

  Stone, appalled, pulled his colleague away from the prisoner, whose chair rocked back upright.

  “What the fuck do you think…”

  “This is MY interrogation Mr Williams,” Stone cut him off, “and you are here at MY invitation. We’ll be doing things my way for the duration, is that understood?”

  Though used to the spy’s cool demeanour, the stare he now gave the Captain was soaked in a new level of icy hostility, almost as though he was struggling to restrain himself from physically attacking Stone. After an age, Williams nodded softly, his unbreakable stare not leaving Stone.

  “Aye,” he quietly intoned, “I understand. The floor is yours Captain.”

  With a sweeping movement, Williams presented the prisoner to Stone and moved in an instant to the side, as though absorbed by the cave wall he leant against.

  “So much for the Bad Cop,” coughed Salam, the hint of a sneer on his face.

  Stone sat down on the abandoned chair, rocking it gently forward and back for a few seconds as he sized up the prisoner before him.

  “I’m sorry they left you like this,” he said dispassionately, “this wasn’t entirely what I had in mind.”