Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller! Page 6

  “This and that,” he said, “Just informal advice really.”

  “About?”

  “Anything and everything – everything that would have a wider impact on the EU as a whole at any rate.”

  She smiled at his obfuscation. A nervous looking aide entered the room with a tray of coffee, placing it on a side desk and handing a small, white cup and saucer each to Svobodova and Peter before scurrying out once more. When the door closed, the politician stood up and moved to the cabinet behind her, pulling from it a glass bottle, half full of a transparent liquid all too familiar to Peter.

  “I admire that you still keep his confidences,” she said, “I hope I can rely on you to be similarly discreet about Party affairs in his absence.” She poured two glasses of the spirit, handing one to Peter, who grimaced slightly at the imminent return of alcohol to his system. “Anyway,” she sat back down across the desk from him, “It would appear his faith in you was justified; I understand now why he asked you to go with him the night he….” She tailed off and Peter’s grimace deepened at the reminder.

  “Listen,” he began, “About that night, I’m sorry I was such an insensitive prick, I just needed to be alone and it was the quickest way I could think of getting rid of you.”

  She downed her shot slowly, not breaking eye contact with him.

  “Honest as well as discreet,” Svobodova remarked.

  “When I need to be.” A short silence descended and Peter thought, for a moment, that he was about to be ejected, which would make the successful execution of his assignment all the more complicated. The brief flutter of uncertainty faded though as a smile toyed with the edges of her mouth.

  “No apology necessary, it was a strange night, particularly for those of us who he called friends.”

  Chasing the alcohol with her quickly drained espresso, Svobodova’s mood seemed restored.

  “My apologies,” she began, “I’m afraid this meeting will have to be ‘on the go’, I have to be somewhere else.”

  “Oh, ok…” Peter began to respond as Svobodova stepped quickly up and walked to the door, gesturing to Peter to follow her. As they left the room, the cavalcade of security proceeded to walk them through the corridors to the basement at the rear of the building, whereupon they were ushered into the waiting black official limousine. Even as they were seated the politician was on the front foot again.

  “You don’t mind?” she asked, not waiting for an answer, “you’ll be able to make your own way home I’m sure?”

  “Sure,” Peter responded, with the voice of a man whose consent was already assumed.

  As the car set off, Svobodova leaned back, not quite relaxing but dropping down a gear, her eyes never leaving Peter’s.

  “So,” she began, her tone conversational, “having spent all that time with Herbert in private, what did you think of him, of his vision?”

  “The official answer?”

  “Your answer.”

  “He was an absolute genius.”

  She laughed. “I know that,” she said, “but why do you think so?”

  Peter realised he was being tested, pressed on exactly how well he really knew the landscape and the background to the reunification movement. He didn’t mind such quizzes, they were par for the course and, in truth Peter was a bona fide expert on the region’s politics, a necessary side line of his true occupation. Pausing only to adopt a sage expression he mimicked his host and leant back in the comfortable leather seat, taking advantage of the poor lighting that masked him.

  “Herb knew all those years ago when the country split into two that there was no real passion for independence. Ok, people were in favour of decentralisation from Prague, but not necessarily to the point of separation. Klaus and Mečiar never held a referendum to determine the public’s will, they pretty much just divided the country up between themselves and made damn sure they came out on top. In reality the split was an arbitrary decision by men in smoky rooms, with the side effect that there was a sizeable chunk of the people who felt betrayed by their leaders. Whereas Havel and Dubček eventually reluctantly accepted the split and remained active, Herbert took a step away from it and flat out refused to run for Slovak office on the grounds that he would always consider himself a Czechoslovak. So he went away and amassed an enormous fortune in business and toured America and Europe on the lecture circuit. Eventually he started popping his head over the parapet again and when the new governments started selling off your national assets, like High Tatra, he started buying them back and investing in them. He turned a tidy profit too, with the help of people like you.”

  He paused to judge her reaction to his last few words; a smile and a theatrical bow of the head.

  “In fact,” he continued, “that was pretty much the only bit of criticism people could throw at Herb: a former socialist making money on the back of Slovak heritage. Whereas Dubček was always a reforming socialist at heart, Herbert had no problem with the finer trappings of capitalism, but he justified it over the years with the amount of jobs he created and the massive regeneration he sparked. Still, it was about the only stick that Čurda’s lot could beat him with. But Herb never forgot that significant numbers were upset at the break up. He watched so many youngsters leave the country to make money elsewhere when you joined the EU and he realised that one day they’d want to come home and make some changes, so he positioned himself to take advantage of that. He invested his fortune in the spa towns and resorts, and used his global influence to attract the best clientele. Then he built his Party around the idea of tempered capitalism with a huge focus on community bonding and social responsibility that everyone remembered as the best parts of Communism. It was largely through his efforts that the Slovak GDP started to rise at a higher rate than the Czech’s, so for once Slovakia wasn’t being treated as the poor neighbour. The knowledge that you weren’t going to be anyone’s doormats anymore helped erode some of the natural resentment that had built up and more people were happy with the idea that reunification would mean a real partnership. And all the time he was bringing the Slovaks to his side he was mobilising his old Czech allies like Černý to work their PR magic in Prague and remind people that the new dawn promised during the Revolution had never really happened, fermenting the idea that the Czechoslovak family had been torn apart against its will.”

  “You make it all sound very simple,” she said, “surely it can’t have been as easy as that.”

  “No.” conceded Peter. “I mean to be completely honest he was helped by the lack of any real opponents in Slovakia. After some of the stuff that went on under Mečiar’s watch a hero of Herb’s stature could have swept the board at the elections without even having to open his mouth. But getting the Czechs on board was harder, particularly with Čurda as President; although personally I think Hedvikova is the real power in that Party.”

  Jaroslav Čurda was the Czech President and a vociferous opponent to Herbert and his dream of reunification. Technically only an interim President, following the surprise departure of Zeman several months earlier, he was nonetheless a cunning, if not particularly clever, politician and was enjoying the place atop Czech politics that his current position afforded him. Needless to say, he had responded less than favourably to the two pronged attack of Biely and Černý in advocating reunification, knowing full well it would likely signal the end of his own luxury and influence. Daleka Hedvikova meanwhile was the incumbent Czech Deputy Prime Minister and an altogether more formidable opponent; less experienced and somewhat colder than Svobodova, but dynamically energetic and possessing of a sharp political intelligence.

  Peter continued, “Herb’s masterstroke was his European Parliament campaign. Until then no-one had really thought reunification was a serious proposition but he and Černý managed to show both countries what a united approach could achieve, orchestrating the campaign around genuinely Czechoslovak issues, presenting you as one country and one people with favouritism for neither, and you totally swept the board. �
�urda’s lot don’t have a single MEP left, which is probably why he hates you all so much.”

  Svobodova nodded at Peter’s exposition, while the car sped through a deep puddle, splashing water against the tinted window.

  “Yes, Čurda,” she mused. “He’s an odd one. We’d expected opposition from Zeman but… so strange, that business…”

  “Yes, a lot of people thought so,” coughed Peter, unwilling to encourage too great a degree of questioning down that route. ”But at least the elections were brought forward as a result.”

  Svobodova’s impish grin was back. “So what is next for us, Mr Lowe? How do you think Herbert’s vision will progress under my stewardship?”

  Peter opted for his usual tactic when asked to stroke a politician’s ego: blunt honesty. Besides, he probably owed her that much given how it would all soon be immaterial. “Well you’re not perfect by any means.”

  A raised eyebrow was her only response, so Peter continued.

  ”You don’t have Herbert’s gravitas and you don’t have the status of Heroine of the Prague Spring to fall back on – but you make up for that in general competence. It doesn’t hurt either that you’re a beautiful woman.”

  “So I am a pin up?” She asked in a stern voice that implied she had long grown tired of such criticisms.

  “Not at all. You know as well as I do that it isn’t so much beauty that’s important as image. Thatcher was hardly a pin up but her image kept her in power years longer than many expected. In your case you’ve managed to combine your natural beauty with a projection of strength and intelligence meaning men respect you and women see you as proof that they don’t need to compromise their femininity to be successful. The feminists and students adore you; they see you as the face of the future – a kind of Slovak, female JFK. You’re a winner all round on that score; the uncrowned Queen of Eastern Europe so the western press say, more popular than Merkel ever was, or Thatcher too for that matter. Demographically the only groups you don’t carry are the ultra-nationalists and some of the more hard core older generation who have a problem with a woman in charge. But that’s why you need to keep that old bugger Černý on side.”

  Peter thought he saw the first signs of a blush on Svobodova’s face that was quickly suppressed.

  “A Slovak JFK?” she quizzed. “That implies I have nothing to offer but a bright smile and vacuous promises of Camelot.”

  “I disagree,” Peter’s voice was un-fawning and clinically professional. “You certainly benefit from the Camelot factor, like Obama did, in that there are chunks of the electorate who’ll follow you without even knowing your politics, just because you’re a symbol of change. But you go deeper than that. Herbert wasn’t exactly a politician for the digital age but he and Černý managed to build a strong Party in spite of that; using their reputations, but backing them up with facts and details. As the inheritor of that, you benefit from the fact that the public have already bought into your Party’s ideals, and now have the Camelot/Obama factor to go with it. Politically, the cards really are stacked in your favour.”

  “What else?” she asked, her voice lighter again. “You said I was by no means perfect but then proceeded to flatter me.”

  “Well you get some stick for being a bit eccentric. The waistcoats don’t really help deflect that.” Peter’s eyes dropped again to her torso to illustrate his point.

  Svobodova grinned her impish grin again. “I’m surprised to hear an aficionado of Sixties culture suggest I should dress more conservatively.”

  “Oh I don’t,” Peter countered, “I think a bit of eccentricity is absolutely fine, in fact I think you could stand to play up to it a bit more.” Her mischievous grins were infectious and Peter found himself warming to her, actually enjoying the playful, flirtatious tone to their conversation. “In fact I reckon you could carry off a pocket watch pretty well if I’m honest,” he said.

  “A pocket watch?” She laughed out loud and Peter was pleased to see the crack in the veneer. Before he could answer though, a telephone in Svobodova’s armrest began to ring and the young woman composed herself and pressed the speaker button.

  Peter instantly recognised the severe, booming voice of Karol Černý bellowing to Svobodova in his native Czech tongue, which she responded to in kind, occasionally glancing her eyes up at Peter.

  Words flowed quickly as the car sped along and Peter struggled to translate, picking out that Svobodova was ‘on her way’ before hearing his own name mentioned. As it was spoken, the line went momentarily quiet, before Černý spoke again, in English.

  “Since you insist on keeping that panák in your employ,” the booming voice began, “I suppose our conversations will be in English from now on.”

  The insult twisted Peter’s gut and against his better judgement he heard himself responding. “I might be a stooge,” he said, “but I’m not a bloody tourist, I live here. And I can speak Czech quite well thank you.” Peter said the last words in Černý’s language to hammer home his point to the old man.

  Another silence was followed by a curt ending to the call from Černý and a statement that he would contact Svobodova again, later.

  Svobodova shrugged at Peter. “I would apologise for Karol, but you should know what to expect from him by now.”

  “You gave into him.” Peter was matter of fact and said the words without judgement or condemnation.

  “How so?”

  “You spoke to him in Czech, not Slovak.”

  Svobodova laughed heartily. “Is that all?” she asked. “Mr Lowe, it’s the same language.”

  “Not true,” countered Peter recognising her bluff, “if I’d said that you’d slap my face. To an ignorant foreigner they might sound the same but the differences are pretty big really.”

  Svobodova sighed a little, her laughter receding. “No, you are right. The truth is, Mr Lowe, that when a Slovak speaks to a Czech the conversation will ninety-nine times out of a hundred be in Czech. It’s like a sort of natural deference almost, certainly in Černý’s case. I don’t like it but it’s pointless to argue about it.”

  “It’d piss me off.” Peter said in blunt honesty.

  Svobodova laughed again, her veneer once more splintered. “It pisses me off too,” she said, “but such is the way of the world. If you think that’s bad you should listen when we speak to the Polish, they will always expect us to defer to their language. But to be honest Mr Lowe there are more important things for me to worry about than regional dialects.” Her voice became more serious as the briefly relaxed pressures returned to line her beautiful face. “We are at the pinnacle of a campaign to bring our countries back together, to do literally what your Benjamin Disraeli said metaphorically; create one nation where two now exist. I don’t think picking fights about which dialect to use will be helpful in achieving that.”

  “You should be careful though,” Peter’s voiced displayed equal concern, “little things like that that will be gobbled up by the press. Fifty years ago regional dialect wouldn’t have mattered to anyone but these days it’s exactly the kind of thing the media will use to attack you, to make one side or the other look like the junior partner. The anti-reunification lobby will pick your every word apart and if they can highlight any split they’ll have you.”

  The new Prime Minister simply smiled in response, as if, Peter thought, weighing up some great conundrum in her mind. And then just as suddenly, she snapped forward and peered through the window.

  “We are nearly here and I’ve taken up too much of your time already, I’m sure you have things to attend to. Thank you Mr Lowe.”

  Her closure of the meeting was a little more abrupt than Peter had expected, and caught him a little off guard. Again, he thought, probably all part of her tactics to dominate and control her conversations.

  “No problem,” he replied, “anytime.” He likewise sat upright, straightening his tie and readying himself for the walk home from wherever he was, but Svobodova spoke again, her customary smile bac
k on her face.

  “Anytime?” she questioned. “How about right now?”

  “What?” Peter grunted, surprise overriding politeness.

  The car drew to a halt and Svobodova waited for the driver to open the door. Turning her head back to Peter, she grinned.

  “Do you like football?”

  “Yes,” stuttered Peter, imagining a brief chat about favourite teams and intoxicated night time walks to stadia for vital fourth round cup matches, before the door swung open and he was blinded by flashbulbs and floodlights as Svobodova stepped out in front of Prague’s Generali Arena.

  Following behind her, Peter saw that they had been swept up in a veritable fleet of similar cars, each carrying the great and the good to the ground. The endless stream of dark suited men that poured from the vehicles dragged Peter’s thoughts back behind the iron curtain, while the illuminated stadium and noisy crowd counterbalanced his perception. Security once more descended on them, carving a path through the thunderous noise to their seats in the Executive boxes, where Peter took the opportunity to look around at his company for the evening. The box was a who’s who of Czech politics. Away to Svobodova’s left sat Černý and his aides, engaged in hushed debate about a myriad of topics all un-connected with football, while on the front row, parallel to the half way line sat the Czech President, Jaroslav Čurda, alongside the formidable, Daleka Hedvikova, and the glove puppet currently occupying the Prime Minister’s office, Vladimir Rukavice. They were all here to watch the Czech Republic and Slovakia play a friendly.

  As the noise of the crowd increased, Peter struggled to feel comfortable in his surroundings. The anonymity of a football crowd usually afforded Peter the freedom to truly relax, and blend without ripple into the sea of the good, bad and worse of society that comprised it. He had spent many a day in such waters, where even the finest of people surrendered their composure to the rocky lurching of the foamy tribe, belching approval or roaring displeasure at the targets scurrying across the muddy green below. Never once had he been intimidated by bellows or sneers, and never had he felt the slightest bit out of place. Tonight though, he sat Neptune like above the waves, tucked into the Executive Box, the occupants of which, for the most part, stayed as quiet and sombre as the crowd below were loud and passionate. The exception to the unwritten rule of emotional sobriety was Miroslava Svobodova, whom Peter found himself sat beside, and who cheered each tackle and hollered for each shot; her face enveloped in unbowed enjoyment.