Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller! Page 4

  As soon as the Party Executive had completed their night of professional mourning for the cameras, the already election frenzied offices had moved still further into overdrive. The funeral had to be arranged and the most opportunistic of the Party opportunists bid to turn the event into a meticulously stage-managed political event, featuring grief filled services at Prague Castle followed by live TV broadcasts of the hearse on its six hour drive via Bratislava to Herbert’s home town of Bojnice, the roads lined with weeping mourners throughout. The thought made the bile rise in Peter’s throat and he sighed a not entirely inaudible, ‘Thank God’, when the idea was vetoed by Herbert’s children, a subdued Svobodova and an angry Karol Černý, the only absentee in those days. Eventually, the family acquiesced to a small, public memorial service in the Tyn Church where Herbert had died, followed by a private service and internment in Bojnice. No processions, no nonsense. Their one political concession being for the flag of the old Czechoslovakia to be draped over the coffin, in recognition of Herbert’s stand for that country in the past, and his desire for its future restoration. The rumour in the office was that Herbert’s family were refusing even to speak with Svobodova or Černý, for reasons that were unclear.

  The funeral itself, which Peter did not attend, was the first occasion Karol Černý had appeared in public since Herbert’s death. An understandable absence when mourning a friend, thought Peter, but dangerous behaviour for a Party Leader fighting an election. When Černý had arrived in the Party offices before going to speak at the memorial, Peter was shocked by how the events had noticeably aged him; his eyes still fierce but a little sadder, the stride still strong but weaker by just a degree. In the event, Černý said little in the office, not even bothering to throw his usual insult in Peter’s direction, settling instead to fix him with a brief, but reassuringly contemptuous, stare.

  The funeral over, the whirlwind continued with the still subdued Svobodova returning to Slovakia for formal elevation to the office of Prime Minister. Peter had no axe to grind with her and managed to offer a brief word of congratulation which had met a not too cold response considering his insensitivity of the night of Herbert’s death. Then Peter once more found himself the resented outsider. Left largely to his own devices he suspected his role would end once the Party Executive had formalised the expected new power structure and elected Černý as Herbert’s replacement as overall Party Leader. Černý had made not the slightest attempt to mask either his dislike for Peter personally, or his anger at the perceived intrusion into Party business by an outsider, and Peter was merely thankful that his posting would soon be over and he could begin the arduous process of washing Herbert’s blood from his hands.

  But then the unthinkable had happened. In a move which stunned Party Headquarters into silence, save for Černý’s apoplectic rage, the news leaked through that the Party Executive had appointed Miroslava Svobodova the Senior Partner in the hierarchy and overall Leader of the Party. The reasoning, ostensibly speaking, was sound; Svobodova was now Prime Minister of Slovakia in her own right while Černý, for all his greater experience, was merely a candidate in the middle of a campaign. Whatever he offered in gravitas, she countered in current status.

  Peter guessed that the real reason was good, old fashioned misogyny. The executive members tolerated by Herbert as political necessities, no doubt saw in Svobodova someone they could control, an outsider easier to ‘manage’ than the old lion, Černý, who now prowled the offices with even greater predatory intent, willing someone, anyone, to challenge his authority. The misogynists were to be disappointed though as Svobodova made an immediate impact, pressing Černý on points of strategy and pushing him for joint exposure at key events, frustrating the old man still further.

  To Peter, all this would have been amusing were he not so damn sick of it all. His detested superior had assured him that after decades of this work, Herbert was to be his final target. He hadn’t said it in those words of course, he never did. Remy Deprez was not one to ever formally request a death; he relied on inference and hypothetical lectures to get the message across, and Peter had always intuitively understood what was required. There’s been no contact from Deprez since Herbert’s death, but that was not unusual and Peter expected he was merely being made to stew a little in the juice of his own guilt. That was one of the ways Deprez exercised control. Well Peter could live with that if it meant being finally free of the life he had endured this past quarter of a century, just as he could live with the disdain of his colleagues in the office. They spoke in Czech and Slovak about him when he was within earshot, not knowing, or not caring, that he had a fluent understanding of both. He had as much contempt for most of them as they for him, considering them wholly unworthy to bask in the reflected glory of the man he had murdered. Well screw them, thought Peter, pretty soon he would be sent on his way by that toffee-nosed bastard Černý and he could forget about the lot of them.

  And that was precisely what he intended to do as he left the office that evening and walked through the rain across the cobbled streets of Old Town towards Jakubská; the street which was home to Peter’s beloved bar. At least for the night Peter could forget each and every one of his problems, dead or alive, forget who he was and who he was compelled to be, and lose himself in his blues. And the blues that Peter needed to hear were on offer at only one venue in the city: The Smokin’ Hot Blues Bar & Restaurant.

  The venue was a blend of the best and worst Prague had to offer. Occupying the ground floor of a building tucked away in one of the many gothic streets leading off from the Old Town Square, the warm glow from its windows and the sound of blues flowing from the door offered a genuine sanctuary to weary souls. The small bar area, separated from the restaurant by a stone step and small archway, was populated by people who called this place home. The smell of Cajun cooking came drifting through, hoping to tempt the drinkers up the step. A couple of ex-pats sat on rickety wooden bar stools, their heads resting on their arms as they drifted in and out of intoxicated consciousness. Alone by the door, a student nursed a small coffee and flicked thoughtfully through the pages of a textbook, striving a little too hard to create the image of an intellectual. On the next table sat a small cabal of American girls, thrilled at their first big adventure away from the States and keen to enjoy every second of their time in this country. In the corner, directly facing the archway through to the restaurant, Peter deposited himself at his usual table and quickly downed the beer that traditionally greeted his arrival. Sans tie and collar open, he sat hunched over his table, empty beer glass in hand, watching the big, shaven headed American singer wailing his blues to all. Peter turned his glance to the barman who returned his look and raised his eyebrows in query.

  “Slivovice please Michael,” Peter said, referring to the harsh plum spirit so loved in this part of the world. The first time Peter had drunk it still haunted his memories. It was foul, gut churning stuff and in truth Peter had never developed any affection for it. Only habit, formed through years of Czechoslovak hospitality when one never refuses the offer of a drink, compelled him to order it.

  Michael nodded at the order and turned around to draw the drink. Peter allowed his eyes to drift onto the rear of one of the American girls who had come to the bar as he made his order. On most other occasions he would have indulged himself and woken up beside her the next day. This evening though, his libido was tempered with disgust, mostly with himself for spending his nights in the beds of girls less than half his age.

  His daydreaming was broken as the figure moved to stand in front of him. The girl, having noted Peter’s staring, had come to stand by his table, bringing with her the slivovice from the bar.

  “Hi!” She said in an annoyingly chirpy voice, bleached teeth shining down at him. “My name’s Faith.”

  Peter looked at her for the briefest of moments, quickly suppressing any lingering desire to take advantage of her obvious naivety. He leaned towards her and took the proffered glass from her hand, a l
ook of disinterest on his face.

  “Mine isn’t.” He said this coldly, returning his stare to the bluesman, now accompanied by his fellow musicians.

  When after a couple of seconds the girl hadn’t moved he glanced up in irritation at her open mouthed expression and raised his eyebrow, silently daring her to say something. Hint taken, Faith returned unceremoniously and offended to her friends who looked hesitantly over at the surly Brit in the corner.

  Peter leaned his head back against the yellowing wall and let the blues wash over him. The cold night air from the open door chilled his right side while his left basked in the warmth of the bar. Smiling to himself, he closed his eyes and drained the slivovice from his glass, curling his lip as the harsh spirit burned its way down. He idly pondered whether to chase it with another or move on to rum, but that decision could wait; the music had captured him. He could still remember when he first listened to a real blues record. Not the kind of overplayed cover bastardised by bubble-gum pop stars, rapping over classics and calling it a ‘tribute’. Peter winced. He had known bluesmen in Prague who had wept after hearing the wailings of legends tortured into what today’s ‘stars’ insisted on calling R’n’B. Well it wasn’t what Peter recognised as R’n’B. No, Peter remembered like it was yesterday. An old ’78, loaned to him by his mate after that bitch had left him. He had always been a Mod, enjoying the energetic passion of all things soul and beat, but he’d never spent too much time on the blues that started it all until then. Peter remembered every crackle on the vinyl as he had huddled next to the speakers; strangely nervous, as if Robert Johnson was pleading with Peter for sanctuary from the Hell Hound on his trail. The music had stayed with him ever since, becoming his refuge and his comfort, and while he would always be a Mod in his heart he was a bluesman.

  His friend, Rasti, Smokin’ Hot’s owner, would often tell Peter he should say the odd prayer, but Peter did his praying through the music. That was what bluesmen did. And he knew the blues were played here every night and he could sit and listen and keep his conscience quiet for a few hours.

  The dream burst as Peter heard a familiar cough coming from the door, ending his brief respite from purgatory. His eyes still closed, he sighed at the arrival of the man he knew was standing in the entrance. Opening his eyes, Peter ignored the doorway and looked over to Michael who raised his eyebrows in response. “Rum.” Peter said.

  Remy Deprez was a tall but not very well built man with a thin nose and impeccably cut black hair, his face and lips each as pale as the other and the eyes a sunken grey.

  Peter took the offered glass from the barman and looked across at his superior standing in the cold doorway. He breathed a short laugh before turning back to watch the bluesmen play. The new arrival walked parallel to Peter’s table and looked down through the restaurant to where the musicians were hitting their stride. “Perhaps we should go somewhere a little more discreet…” he began over the sound of hot piano and applauding diners.

  “I’m watching the band,” Peter immediately countered in a harsh voice before raising the glass to his lips and swallowing the rum. “Another one please Michael,” he said to the barman as he slammed the glass down. Peter smiled to himself as he watched Deprez’s face twitch at the open insolence but the Frenchman offered no rebuke; his desire to challenge his subordinate apparently receding at the site of the empty glasses and Peter’s clenched hand tapping erratically on the table. Instead, he took off his heavy overcoat and hung it on the hat stand next to the bar.

  “Fernet.” He directed the barman then seated himself at Peter’s table, distaste growing in his face as the blues at the far end of the restaurant stepped up a gear.

  Peter, eyes closed again, tried desperately to block the knowledge of Deprez’s presence and concentrate on the music, but to no avail. His respite was over and though he ached for the freedom to listen to his blues, the suffocating shadow of the man sat uncomfortably alongside him choked the life from his desire. Opening his eyes he took his freshly replenished glass in his hand and downed its contents in one gulp. Slamming his hands on the table he stood up and marched to the door. “Come on then, let’s go,” he snapped impatiently, looking back at the irritated Deprez who now moved to quickly finish his own drink. He tipped a wink at the barman. “I’ll be back in a bit Michael,” he said, “keep my tab open.” Michael nodded in agreement. Deprez was suddenly at Peter’s shoulder and the two were walking out of the door, the sound of the blues receding.

  Peter stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked down the cobbles towards old town as he always did when leaving the bar. The illuminated spires of the Church of Our Lady before Tyn peeped over the row of buildings like a beacon in the black sky but the comfort Peter usually drew from the sight was absent tonight; they refused to soothe a man who had committed such evil within their walls. Deprez stood next to him, his amused smile still on his face, and the pair began stepping slowly along the stone walkway.

  “Why did you have to pick now Deprez?” he asked irritably. “You’ve been happy to leave me dangling this long, why pick tonight to chew my ears off when I’m trying to relax? Herbert’s dead, what more do you want?”

  The smile disappeared from the Frenchman’s face as his thoughts quickly turned to business. “The fall out hasn’t gone exactly as predicted.” Deprez’s deathly pale face looked even whiter in the cold rain. “Reunification is still probable if one believes the opinion polls.”

  Peter’s face contorted as the pair walked slowly down the deserted street. “And that’s supposed to be my fault is it?”

  “No,” Deprez shook his head, “we just expected things to turn out differently that’s all, particularly with Miroslava Svobodova in control.”

  “What does it matter who’s in control as long as it’s not Herbert?” Peter asked in irritation.

  “Don’t be naïve Peter,” said the Frenchman, “if Karol Černý had been made senior Partner in the leadership one would have expected support for the Party to continue; he is almost as big a hero as Biely. But Svobodova should have been a different proposition. She’s a woman; a young woman.” Deprez paused as though her gender itself should have obvious cause enough to make his point.

  “And?”

  “And she is a nobody, she is no heroine of the Spring, she wasn’t even in politics until Biely took a shine to her.” Deprez sounded distant, as though voicing his internal ponderings aloud. Peter was in no mood to offer sympathy.

  “So she’s fooled you. You thought she was a nonentity and instead the people love her.”

  Deprez grimaced. “It’s fair to say we expected her reception to be somewhat different than it has turned out to be. We thought without Biely to hold it together the Party would fracture and support would fall away. Then we could forget all this reunification nonsense once and for all.”

  “And instead she’s proving herself a competent leader and Černý’s kept his gob shut. I saw him on the news the other day, talking about his new leader bringing an age of prosperity to the Czechoslovak people. Looks like you misjudged that one Remy.”

  Deprez shot his mocking subordinate a look. “You seem remarkably comfortable with the prospect of a new Czechoslovak Republic for an employee of the Institute Peter.”

  Peter shrugged, enjoying his superior’s moment of discomfort. “I’m not arsed either way Remy. You don’t need my opinions; you just spin me three times and point me at whoever needs killing.”

  Deprez had not taken his eyes from Peter and narrowed them as they walked. “Well I’m sure you will have an opinion on this Peter; The Child believes that we can still turn this situation to our advantage after all.”

  Peter froze at the mention of The Child and the pair stood still in the middle of the street. “What makes him think that?”

  “He feels we have an opportunity to ferment suspicion and distrust on a par with those back in….” he trailed off.

  “1992?” Peter growled.

  1992 was when Peter had st
arted hating Remy Deprez. It was when Deprez had betrayed Peter, a betrayal he still feared retribution for. It was also the year Czechoslovak legend Alexander Dubček died. Although Dubček had been tacitly against the movement for Slovak independence in 1992, he nonetheless looked set to become Slovakia’s first President; an International Statesman respected the world over with the potential to turn Slovakia into a beacon for the new Europe. It wasn’t to be. Instead he ended up dying in a hospital bed ten weeks after a car crash from which his driver walked away unscathed. The Slovaks cried foul, but the investigation found no suspicious circumstances and his death was officially marked down as a ‘tragic accident’, while the Slovaks endured a succession of weaklings and pretenders in Dubček’s place, looked on by the world as the poor relations of the more glamorous Czech Republic.

  “You want it to be like 1992?”

  Deprez nodded uncomfortably. “The Child thinks invoking such feelings will eradicate the unification movement and ensure Eastern Europe remains fractured and divided, dependant on the support of the established European hierarchy to survive in the face of any suspected Russian aggression.”

  Peter nodded his head in anger, listening to the same old stories re-played with new characters. “And just how does he plan on doing that?” Peter asked, already knowing the answer.

  “The Child feels, hypothetically speaking of course, that a major event such as the death of another prominent proreunification politician, such as Miroslava Svobodova for example, would provide the appropriate response.”