The Prague Ultimatum Page 3

  “How long?” he asked.

  “It’s in our interests to get this done quickly and quietly, so get to Prague and I’ll be in touch.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Tonight. Flight Lieutenant Moore has your particulars.”

  The hand withdrew and the smile vanished, replaced by the deep furrows which clung once more to Greyson’s face. He moved to close their meeting, picking up his briefcase and buttoning his jacket in swift, well-practiced movements.

  “That’s it, no codes, no passwords, no exploding keyrings,” he said, “There’s money in your account, enough for expenses and to rent an apartment; I’d suggest somewhere central, maybe somewhere on Pricna. Just get to Prague, find Myska, learn what you can and wait to be contacted by my man there; he’s a bastard to be sure, but he’s good.”

  “What about Svobodova?” Stone replied, annoyed at the lack of the type of specifics his military life had accustomed him to, “If she’s the target why aren’t I protecting her?”

  “Leave Mirushka to me,” Greyson commanded, turning on his heel and heading towards the elaborately framed inner door, “I have someone else taking care of her.”

  “Your man?”

  “No,” the politician replied over his shoulder as he disappeared into the corridor, the heavy door swinging slowly closed behind him, “my woman.”

  TWO

  THE AGING COACH WHEEZED into the grimy, filth strewn parking bay, as tortuously exhausted as the passengers it ferried, it’s front wheel juddering into a pothole causing the thin, brunette woman in seat 14b to cross her legs and pray for the resolve of her bladder. As the surly driver spent the first of several eternities on his, surely superfluous, inching of the ancient transport into place, she composed a mental checklist of people and objects connected to this journey to curse. The driver was pretty high up, second only in fact to the man who had pressured her into making these arrangements. Then came the dilapidated vehicle she sat on, which had ferried her and a motley collection of apparently unwashed young men (who also featured on the list) from Vienna with the on-board toilet requested at booking, stubbornly inoperable en route. She reserved a special mention for the overweight, middle aged Czech man sat beside her, who had spent the last few hours snoring contentedly into her ear.

  Clambering achingly off the bus and taking a reluctant lungful of the sickly warm night air, she stretched the cricks from her back and neck before hopping from one foot to the other on the pavement as the driver heaved the collection of bags out of the storage bay. Collecting her own, she clutched it tightly to herself and took in her surroundings, a fresh wave of unease overcoming her as she began to understand the veracity of the reputation this place enjoyed. Florenc, the central bus and coach station in Prague, enjoyed none of the typical beauty of its host city. Dirty and poorly lit, collections of hooded youths sat shrouded in shadows on broken wooden benches along its bays, while groups of men prowled the concourse, smoking weed and filling fellow travellers with a perhaps unwarranted nervousness. She was an educated, civilised woman. She didn’t give in to racial profiling or group fear mentalities, but nonetheless she found herself suddenly aware of her overdressed isolation, standing alone, away from the other travellers and attired in an expensive, if somewhat crumpled business jacket and skirt. Where was the car due to meet her? Again, she cursed the orchestrator of her discomfort and dragged her travel case along the cobbles, the wheels tripping and skipping behind her as she ducked into the small and frankly unclean toilet ahead.

  Almost as soon as she had gone, a shining black limousine swept imperiously into the bay, ignoring the beeps of a multitude of coaches and impervious to the contemptuous glances of the Florenc hordes. A man, shaven headed with a neat, black goatee, stepped from the vehicle in time to see the woman emerge from the toilet and look thankfully in his direction.

  “Professor Abelard?” the man asked in accented English.

  “Yes?”

  “Welcome to Prague.”

  “Fucking gypsies.” The beauty of the young girl’s face twisted away as she hatefully spat out the words, the instant metamorphosis in her demeanour stunning Stone like a shrill bullet in a silent Afghan night.

  He had arrived, as Greyson had urged, that very night in Prague, at once disturbed that his soul had a price like any other and relieved that it could at least measured in honour, not silver. The exoneration promised by the politician was beyond priceless, offering not only the continuation of his hard-earned career, but the restoration of his reputation and proof of his blamelessness to the media, to the public, and most importantly to Stone, to his son.

  The involuntary musings had refused to abate as he reclined in the back of his airport pick up, the oppressive frigidity of his mood resisting the stifling warmth of the Czech summer night, and growing colder still at the sight of the grey, imposing concrete housing blocks lining the highway from the airport to the city; having stubbornly refused to die with the empire which spawned them. Stone had seen such constructs before, often broken, desolate; he had crouched in their crumbling and precarious shelter as he surveyed the battlefield and directed his squadron forward. The graffiti which clung to the upright oblongs outside his cab window, offered no greater comfort than had the bullet holes in the buildings of the past.

  The dullness gave way almost in an instant to a barrage of golden lights and illuminated grandeur, as though the City itself could sense the knot in the pit of Stone’s stomach at the sight of the dull, grey plainness and so reached its fingers out to him, charming him with a more obvious and seductive nobility. As they entered the city’s earnest embrace, his head was briefly turned by the shadowed outline of what looked very much like a tank, rooted to the pavement of a side road as the cab sped past. Though the silhouette brought a brief lift inside him, like a schoolkid excited at driving past their favourite footballer, he repressed the urge to query its presence and made a mental note to return to the scene the next day and confirm his sighting. The car had pulled to the side of a busy main road - the imposing, austere buildings which lined it seeming to beacon immense pride in their own architectural magnificence and crushing shame that so many of their number were now home only to liquor dens and sex shops.

  Pulling his bag from the car, Stone handed a note to the driver and paused before entering the hotel apartment he had booked into en-route, choosing instead to try and grab some essentials from what looked like a tiny convenience store, wedged into the ground floor of the adjacent building.

  Brimming over with all kinds of cheap snacks, every day convenience and tattered selection of tabloid newspapers, Stone had barely squeezed through the shop’s door when a small, scruffy child pushed hurriedly passed him and ran out into the night, a tin of mushrooms quickly flung after him, narrowly missing Stone’s face. The thrower immediately scrambled her apologies to Stone from behind the counter in fast Czech which went as far over his head as the can had near it. The young woman’s stare was a little longer than comfortable as Stone stepped into the shop, he hoped not because of the shade of his skin, but the way her smile at his beautifully intoned English quickly twisted into the hateful condemnation of the Romani boy she had aimed at, implied otherwise.

  “They get everywhere, little thieves. If it’s not the gypsies it’s the fucking Syrians; they never pay for anything. God knows why Svobodova keeps letting them in.”

  She was a young girl, too young, Stone thought, to be staffing such a shop on her own, but old enough to know better than to employ the kind of generalisations he was so sick of hearing in his own country. Having no wish to debate the matter, Stone quickly scanned the wares available, grabbing a few oddly labelled essentials and heading for the till.

  Behind the girl lay row after row of spirit filled glass bottles of various shapes and sizes, most of dubious appeal, while stacks of pornographic magazines lay uncensored on the counter top. He gestured politely to one of the large Scotch bottles, whose brand he recognised amidst the unknow
n, and reached into his pocket to quickly assess which of the colourful notes that made up the unfamiliar currency would cover his bill.

  The young woman, smiling again, quickly bagged up his goods and pointed to the appropriate note before handing him some equally baffling coinage as change.

  “Sorry about that boy,” the girl said as he pocketed the money, “You English did the right thing, getting out of the EU, taking back control of your borders.”

  The comment provoked a sigh that Stone struggled to internalise. A passionate European, he had long since grown tired of such comments, and while far from willing to again have the kind of conversations which had seen friendships disintegrate, the tug was sometimes too hard to resist.

  “I’m not so sure that we did,” he answered, finally giving in to the temptation to challenge her ignorance, “in terms of Britain’s status in the world it seems to me that we’ve gone from having a little of the power to none of it. And personally, I’ve always found freedom of movement to be rather convenient.”

  “Well, for normal people,” the girl sniffed, “but how are you supposed to stop terrorism with thousands of Muslims pouring in and out? It’s crazy.”

  “There are thousands of car drivers in Europe, we’ve no idea which ones will drink and drive and kill someone as a result. Do we ban driving just in case? Millions of people across the continent enjoy a drink now and then; how do we know which ones will have too much and hurt someone?”

  She squinted at him, a slight annoyance showing on her face at his lack of agreement with her philosophy.

  “I still say it’s crazy,” she stubbornly repeated, “anyway Myska will sort them out.”

  The name pricked at Stone, focussing him at once on his new objective.

  “Oskar Myska?” Stone raised his eyebrow, “I’ve heard he’s a bit extreme isn’t he?”

  “He’s a patriot, he just says what everyone else is thinking.”

  “Really?” Stone played dumb, “I thought people in this part of the world were behind Svobodova?”

  Another sneer.

  “It’s one thing to reunite Czechoslovakia, but another to fill it with Syrians.”

  “It’s hardly full,” Stone countered, calmly, “and they have to go somewhere, the poor buggers.”

  “They can go somewhere else; either back home or to some island somewhere, we’ve no room for them here.”

  It was an argument, if you could call it that, Stone had heard many times before in his own country and it saddened him to hear it repeated here, his tiredness at his peculiar day a poor base from which to debate with a closed mind. Picking his bag from the counter and inwardly resolving to find himself a different store should he be in Prague much longer, he offered a thin smile to the frowning girl.

  “Hmmm,” Stone muttered, considering her last words, “It’s a good job Nicholas Winton had a different idea in 1939.”

  With that, he turned on his heel, ignoring her open-mouthed expression and stepped out to walk the few paces to his new abode.

  Quickly checking in, he stepped into the sleek glass lift which powered smoothly up through the middle of the ageing, concrete floors, stepping out at the door of his apartment. The bright modernity of its interior contrasted sharply with the gothic austerity of the building’s facade, the Captain raising an appreciative eyebrow at the spacious comfort on offer.

  Throwing his bag on the bed, opening it only to take out the simply framed photograph of himself and his son and placing it on the nightstand alongside his key, wallet and phone, he quickly undressed and stepped into the bathroom. The hot, soothing shower went some way to washing the tension from his muscles and the whirlwind confusion of the day’s events from his mind. Stepping out, he threw a towel around himself and picked up the phone from the nightstand, scrolling through it until he reached the desired name.

  The dial tone droned laboriously on, the interminable vibrations continuing until the disembodied voice of his son invited him to leave a message.

  “Hi son, it’s Dad…” Stone’s voice hung inside him for an age, leaving him dripping in silence on the laminated floor. “Listen,” he eventually mumbled, “I just wanted to let you know I got here; it’s beautiful by the way, you’d love it, and I’ll give you a call soon, ok? And I love you. I know, you don’t like me saying that, but I do, I really do. And I miss you. Goodnight son.”

  Noting the threat of the crack in his voice, Stone shook his head a little and hung up the phone, delicately placing it on the pristine white cabinet beside his bed. Throwing the towel back over the rail, he reached into the bathroom and pulled a large, luxurious dressing gown from the door, allowing himself to surrender to the comfort.

  Although the apartment’s fridge was well stocked with alcohol, Stone resisted the additional expense and pulled the Scotch bottle from his plastic bag of assorted necessities and poured a large measure into a glass tumbler retrieved from the cupboard. Crossing barefoot to the large, grand window, he pulled back the thick, velveteen curtains guarding it and twisted open the small metal handle to take in the view.

  Here, at last, was the Prague he had heard so much about: a golden city of spires, towers and bridges, cradled delicately by the majestic night, as warm and as beautiful as his encounter in the shop had been cold and harsh. Crowning the view were the illuminated spires of St Vitus’s Cathedral, at once dominating and complimenting the famous castle atop the hill and shining, it seemed at that moment, just for Stone. Humouring his own superstition, Stone reached out of the window and raised his glass to the sight.

  “Well, here’s to you Prague,” he said, “Let’s see what we can do for each other.”

  It was a restless sleep, despite the comfort of the bed, punctuated with unpleasant memories and confusing dreams. In the time-honoured tradition of the soldier, his body was accustomed to taking advantage of whatever sleeping arrangements were available, without complaint, and these were certainly generous arrangements. That though was as far as the serenity went. Stone imagined himself running from something, as hard as he could down street after street of ancient cobbles while from windows high above, the laughing and pompous members of the Parliamentary Committee for Defence jeered and waved, hurling a combination of vile projectiles and viler abuse at his fleeing figure. Hard as he ran he couldn’t escape them, their contemptuous sneering growing ever louder until he rounded the thousandth corner at speed, to run into the grinning figure of Greyson, grimly attired, eyes black and flesh eerily white, holding his hand up in the air, clasped in which was a tiny bell.

  “It’s time, Lincoln,” the figure lamented, ringing the bell, impossibly loudly.

  “What?”

  The bell sounded once more and Stone sprang up in his bed, a deep and sharp intake of breath accompanying his waking. Blackness still engulfed the room and he blinked his eyes used to the lack of lighting as the bell continued to sound. Stepping naked from the bed, he fumbled in the open bag on the adjacent dresser, pulling out a pair of jogging pants and swiftly pulled them on and walked to the door, shaking the clutches of sleep from his mind.

  “What is it?” Stone bellowed as he fumbled with the lock.

  “Captain Stone?”

  “Who wants to know at five o’clock in the morning?”

  “Captain Lincoln Stone?” An unexpected Welsh lilt greeted Stone as he pulled open the door, coming from the equally unexpected, professionally attired and unsmiling woman before him.

  “Yes?” he managed, frowning.

  “Professor Natalie Abelard.” She stuck out a thin hand, which nonetheless clasped his own with considerable strength, “I’m here to accompany you to your meeting with the Prime Minister, Ms Svobodova.”

  “I’ve no such meeting arranged,” Stone objected.

  “I arranged it,” the face remained expressionless, “I’m Greyson’s woman.”

  THREE

  THE CITY STREETS BEGAN to crawl to life as Stone and his new companion were swept through them a short while la
ter, the first light warming cobbles and illuminating the tips of spires, as door hinges and bones began creaking into use. Stone felt none of the empty suspicion of his journey from the airport the night before, the graffiti somehow less harsh, the atmosphere more bearable and the city itself altogether warmer, despite the somewhat cool silence of his travelling companion.

  It was the Captain who ultimately broke the silence as the car glided past a rugged metal hulk, at once archaic and shining new, perched almost arrogantly atop a grassy, green roundabout, its long, cylindrical gun reaching deliberately out towards the oncoming traffic.

  “That’s a T54!” Stone exclaimed, twisting backwards to confirm his judgement.

  “I never liked Terminator,” came the disinterested response.

  “No, the tank, there!” Stone articulated out of the window at the rapidly diminishing sight. “I thought I’d seen one last night on the way from the airport but didn’t get a close enough view. But that’s a Russian T54, one of the most durable and successful tank models in history.”

  “Most successful, really? Fascinating…”

  “Well it is to me,” Stone countered, “The equivalent of the British Centurion, they were used for years, incredible machines. What’s it doing stuck on a roundabout? Odd place for a war memorial.”

  “It’s probably there for the filming,” Abelard said casually, her eyes focused on the papers in her briefcase.

  “Filming?”

  “Yes, the filming,” the Professor sighed in frustration, and returned the papers to her folder. “The fiftieth anniversary of the ’68 Russian invasion is coming up and they’re making some big blockbuster about it.”

  “Who? Hollywood?”

  “Yes, one of the big studios in partnership with a couple of smaller ones up here in Barrandov, with some extra funding coming from an EU cultural grant. It’s been quite a big deal in the What’s On papers.”