Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  Černý had angrily rejected the proposal, viewing it as nothing more than intrusive snooping, but Herbert was prepared to be more welcoming, recognising the need to keep the EU on board. Though Herbert suspected there was more than a little truth in the opinion that Peter was a ‘snooper’, he found himself liking the company of his new official liaison a great deal on a personal level. The two would often spend evenings working late in Herbert’s office where the conversation would invariably turn to the Sixties and the days of free thinking and the best music; Peter extolling the virtues of the UK Mod scene while Herbert relived his love of the Czechoslovak ‘Big Beat’ sound. Herbert looked forward to those evenings and welcomed the chance to speak English and give his thoughts on the old Blues Masters over a glass or two of slivovice, or the rum that Peter so enjoyed. Against his better judgement, Herbert simply enjoyed being around Peter and he was pleased to see him here now.

  “I know,” Herbert nodded in response to Peter’s statement, “but not here, later, away from the cameras.” Abhorrent though the politics of image and style were to Herbert he had no desire to submit to the prejudices of the press by administering his insulin here.

  Peter laughed and teased his friend. “Becoming image conscious are we?” he asked. Herbert laughed back and Peter stepped over the seats in front of him to sit next to Herbert on the front row. He looked fit for a man in his early fifties, and his slightly longer than average dark hair gave an impression of youth only countered by the hint of grey flecked through it and the lines beginning to pronounce on his face. Peter’s suit too stood him slightly apart from others in the room. It was just as immaculate as theirs but was cut in a Sixties, double breasted style, accompanied by a thin tie, buttoned down collar and target symbol cuff links.

  “You did well today,” Peter said in an understated but sincere voice, “not that you need me to tell you.”

  Herbert smiled, “It is still always nice to receive compliments,” he said. It was true, Herbert didn’t need to be told how well he had done; one thing he had never lacked was the ability to hold an audience in his palm. Nonetheless he took his friend’s compliment graciously.

  Peter looked contemptuously round at the great and good of world journalism and with sudden aggression in his voice asked, “How many more of these jokers are you going to talk to?”

  Herbert knew that had Peter been speaking with anyone else, ‘jokers’ would not have been his adjective of choice.

  “You should be more tolerant of the press my friend,” he said, the slightest twinge of sarcasm edging his words, “they are the bastions of freedom; the defenders of truth and champions of the oppressed.”

  Peter grinned widely, “Oh aye?” he said, “and I bet the sun stops shining every time they do up their pants.”

  The pair laughed and for a moment, and Herbert felt his tensions ease. Peter possessed an innate ability to bring calmness to a situation with a joke here and there or an arm around the shoulder when needed, and Herbert felt just the right level of relaxation ebb through his body.

  “You are right of course to be cynical,” the older man sighed, “in my day it was different, even under Communism.” He gave a short half laugh, “You can say what you will about Soviet oppression – and believe me I have – but at least I didn’t have to worry about what suit I wore, or whose hand to shake first or whether or not to bleach my teeth.” Herbert’s voice took on a whimsical tone, “When the tanks came for me, I could at least be sure it wasn’t because of the colour of my tie.”

  “It was a different time,” Peter said, joining his friend at the edge of his daydream, “a time for heroes and villains. Today’s a time for photo shoots and bombing people because they wear a hijab and their father found oil in the back garden. There are plenty of villains knocking around these days Herb, but not too many heroes.” The mood of relaxation was over as Peter’s words brought the pair back to the reality of the moment.

  “Bloody hell,” Peter sighed, “We’re sat here like Statler and bloody Waldorf and you’ve got bastions to talk to.”

  Herbert nodded and moved to stand before stopping and looking at Peter. “What are your plans for the evening?”

  For a moment Peter looked uncertain before he answered, “Nothing much; a few glasses of the rough stuff, a bit of vinyl and asleep on the couch in front of a dubbed cop show I expect. Nothing beats Bodie and Doyle speaking Czech.”

  “Today is the anniversary of my wife’s passing,” he spoke with his usual quiet dignity, “I have arranged to visit the Church of Our Lady after finishing here, to pay my respects. I would be grateful for company if you feel you are able to come? Though I would hate to deprive Bodie and Doyle of your support.”

  For a moment Peter looked shocked and Herbert wondered if he had asked too much.

  “Yes, of course, I’d be very pleased to.” Peter’s words stumbled hesitantly out and Herbert, wishing to save his friend further embarrassment put his hand up.

  “Thank you, I am most grateful. Wait here and we can go on together.”

  Herbert took a deep lungful of breath and stood up. Gesturing over to where the British camera crews were waiting he thanked God that this was the last one for the day. “Why don’t you come with me?” He asked Peter, “I’m sure the BBC would like to hear the EU’s position on today.”

  Peter looked up with mischievous eyes, “The EU doesn’t have a position on today Herbert,” he smiled, “we wouldn’t want to go interfering in the internal political arrangements of valued member states now would we?”

  Herbert nodded his amused agreement, “Perhaps not.”

  “Anyway,” Peter continued, “I’ve no wish to share a camera with him.” Peter nodded over to where a tall, thin, not unattractive looking man with dark, swept back hair was offering charm and a politician’s answers to the young reporter in front of him. “He’s only here looking for his first big headline in the job.”

  “Really?” Herbert’s eyebrows rose quizzically, “and what has Britain’s dashing new Foreign Secretary done to provoke such disdain? As a patriotic Englishman are you not proud of his achievements?”

  Peter grinned his wicked grin again, “Patriotic Englishman?” he said, “Not me Herb; I’m a good European.” He winked and Herbert laughed once more before walking over to the waiting camera.

  As he approached, Herbert could sense the discomfort of the young reporter and, he imagined, so too could Greyson, who was not so much answering questions as delivering a Party political broadcast. Herbert’s first instinct was to let him. The press were, after all, only too keen to leap on the slip ups and mistakes of the political class, so they had little right to complain when the roles were reversed. However, he was not so keen for the day’s events to be so blatantly hijacked by a politician from another country, even one as charming as Greyson, who owed no allegiance to the Czech or Slovak Republics and who’s own Party’s friendly overtures were politically motivated and far from cast iron. What was more, he could sense the chastisement of his late wife for not coming to the defence of an obviously bullied young woman, even though in life she would have insisted that no woman needed a man to stand up for her.

  Struggling for a moment to supress the smile such memories provoked, Herbert steadied himself and stepped into the view of the camera, cutting the free flowing Greyson off in mid eulogy, grasping his hand, grinning broadly and looking him straight in the eye, knowing full well that the younger man would have no choice but to accept the politically warm embrace with equal fervour.

  His senses still attuned to the reporter beside them, Herbert responded positively to her questions, praising the friendship of Britain’s new Foreign Secretary and his Party and extolling the virtues of the new group formed through their joint efforts in the European Parliament. It was an immaculate performance from Herbert. He deftly deflected praise away from himself and towards Černý and the reunification movement as a whole, at once the statesman and the humble servant, utterly in control of the
conversation. Greyson looked on with something approaching awe, or perhaps envy, in his eyes. And as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone, bidding goodnight to Greyson, the young reporter and the viewers at home, before turning and walking out of shot, leaving Greyson and his previously bullied reporter on an altogether more equal footing.

  As the camera left him, Herbert’s strong stride turned into a shuffle and he nodded to his driver and security detail, waiting patiently in the stands, his readiness to end the day’s activities. He looked over to where Peter still sat, stoic, face uncharacteristically grim, eyes staring at nothing. It was now or never, Herbert thought, and he edged closer to his friend, placing his old hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Peter’s eyes shot up, his mind pulled from its introspection, and Herbert was glad to see a smile form on his friend’s face.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “When you are, Herb.” Came the quiet reply.

  Herbert held out his hand to Peter, helping him up from his seat, Peter returning the gesture with a protective arm cautiously hanging in the air by Herbert’s waist. Herbert afforded himself the briefest of backwards glances at the auditorium, before turning back to his friend; the pair of them walking out, slowly and steadily together.

  CHAPTER 2

  HERBERT HAD NEVER EXPERIENCED SUCH A SILENCE between himself and Peter as they were driven away from the conference centre in the direction of Old Town. The atmosphere between them typically crackled with energy, the ease of their chemistry enough to break the ice in any room. Not this evening; Peter, reclined in the shadows, was deathly silent, lost, Herbert assumed, in his own thoughts. The only noise from the Englishman was his unusually deep breathing, as though he were trying to suppress a troublesome cough or else rein in an unwelcome emotion. Herbert himself was reluctant to break the silence, being likewise preoccupied with his own internal musings, much as the well-being of his friend was one of them.

  The car journey proved mercifully swift, and as they stepped from the vehicle, Herbert could not help but notice Peter’s grim countenance, his eyes resolutely avoiding both Herbert’s own and the majesty of the Church. Walking slowly, as determined to take in the beauty of their surroundings as Peter seemed to ignore it, Herbert left his security by the entrance and selected a pew mid-way toward the altar, the great man struggling through a combination of age and confined space to drop a knee to the prayer mat. As he strained, he grew conscious of Peter’s arm hovering impotently over his shoulders, and so with little more than stubborn determination, Herbert pushed himself down to save his friend from the nervous obligation of providing unsolicited aid, thus stripping Herbert of his dignity. The just audible sigh of Peter’s relief as he did so brought a wry smile to the old man.

  Retreating into his spiritual refuge, Herbert closed his eyes and his mind to all thoughts of interviews, egos and electoral politics. Whispered, prayerful words without a sound bite or slogan amongst them trickled from his lips before they too stopped and silence embraced him, punctuated only by the throb in his chest.

  The tell tale sign of a creaking pew broke Herbert’s serenity and alerted him to at least the physical discomfort of his friend alongside him; the old man’s face stretching into an understanding smile as he opened his eyes and pushed himself painfully back to his seat, his stare still fixed ahead on the altar.

  Beside him, Peter also sat staring forward, unblinking, his breath, it seemed to Herbert, short, as though he were exerting some great effort of strength to remain in his seat.

  “You are not fond of churches?” Herbert’s voice was gentle, paternal, tailored to put his friend at ease.

  The younger man slowed his breathing, inhaling deeply into his lungs before quietly answering, “It’s just been a long time.”

  Herbert’s smile widened. He understood. “I have spent time away from the Church myself. There are few constants in life Peter; The Lord’s joy at our return to the fold is one of them. I hope you may experience that yourself one day.”

  “I’m more inclined to think He’s changed the locks in case I ever come back.”

  The small joke pleased Herbert, still conscious of the rhythmic thumping in his chest brought on by the day’s events. He knew his words would not invoke a spiritual revival in Peter, but hoped they may at least serve to ease the tension that was palpably enveloping him.

  “It must have been difficult under the Communists, being religious and all.” The question was asked matter-of-factly and Hebert recognised his friend’s attempt to steer conversation away from the state of his immortal soul.

  “To be honest, I’m afraid to say I neglected to pay the proper attentions to The Lord in those days. I was young, eager to progress, passionate about my country. My heart at that time was so full of worldly concerns and the prospect of personal glories that I neglected to give glory where it was deserved. That is to my eternal shame.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Peter objected quietly, “The rest of the world seemed pretty pleased at what you and Dubček were doing in the Sixties; trying to make it a better place.”

  “For myself?” Herbert snapped his response and immediately regretted it, having no wish to add to his friend’s discomfort. “No, I wanted to make Czechoslovakia a better place Peter, but I wanted also to take my place at its head.” His voice was calmer, but the regret it framed could not be diluted. “I was loyal to Alexander of course, but I knew that one day I was destined to be his successor. I would have tolerated no other.”

  He felt his eyes dampening as he made his confession; the golden crucifix he stared at the only thing to retain it’s clarity as the tears began to blur his vision.

  “And where did my hubris carry me?” he continued. “Into exile, as my country fell to the Soviets and I spent decades in the wilderness, thankful for mere survival in the face of an empire I couldn’t fight.”

  “That was always going to happen.” It was Peter’s voice which now snapped in irritation. “The Russians were never going to just stand by and let you and Dubček run around like the cats who got the cream, and saying a few prayers every Sunday wouldn’t have changed that.”

  “Perhaps not,” Herbert agreed, “But they might have changed me. I have been given a second chance my friend, the keys to the Promised Land. This time I have been sure to give glory where it is due and if people don’t like it, well, that is their problem. Instead of lusting to be at my country’s head, I am content to engage with its heart.”

  He drew himself up in his seat and dabbed at his eyes with his beloved wife’s handkerchief, inhaling deeply as he did so. Beside him, Peter sat rigid, still staring ahead with a look of discomfort on his face, and Herbert gently placed a wrinkled hand on his knee.

  “And what about you my friend?” Herbert’s customary calm was now restored and he spoke to Peter softly, paternally.

  “What about me?” Peter responded stiffly.

  “Why did you come here tonight, to this place which causes you so much discomfort?”

  “You asked me to come, remember?” Peter’s responses were as curt and irritable as Herbert could remember him being and the old man could have sworn he heard the slightest of breaks in the broad, English voice.

  “Yes, I know I asked you,” he responded with still more calm and softness, countering the younger man’s aggression with every word, “you could have refused, made any excuse. But you came.”

  “Does it matter why I came?” Peter spat, “Can’t it just be because I was trying to be a friend?”

  “If that was the reason of course,” Herbert replied, “but there is something else. You have not been yourself now for several days; not the warm companion with whom I have spent so many hours, talking of music and movies and long dead heroes of days past. There is something troubling you. I thought if we could talk privately, away from the office I might be able to help.”

  “So you brought me to Church?” Peter almost sneered the words, his own eyes now filling swiftly.

  “Chu
rch is a place for confession, of reconciliation. You have seemed on the verge of telling me something for some time now, but nothing has come; I will listen my friend, and will try and help if you will trust me with whatever is troubling you.”

  Peter’s tears were falling freely now, though his head remained stiffly facing forward, unable, or unwilling to turn to look at the old man.

  “You should have just quit.” Peter sighed, drying his eyes. “Why didn’t you just quit? You’re an old man; you didn’t need all this hassle.”

  “Why would I stop now?” Herbert responded gently, “This is the second chance I yearned for and I must see it through to the end. Whatever the campaign throws at me I can withstand, though I am grateful for your concern.”

  Herbert saw Peter close his damp eyes and bow his head as though compelled to offer prayer, but he knew there was a different reason for the younger man’s posture and he waited for it to emerge.

  “Herbert, I know how much this means to you but I’m your friend. There’s so much riding on this, so much stress. It could kill you.” Peter said. “Can’t you understand that? A weak heart, advancing years and the weight of two countries’ expectations on your back don’t make for a good mix.”

  Herbert nodded. He understood only too well; indeed, the knowledge of his own mortality and the stresses he had placed upon himself were never far from his thoughts, but this… this was his mission, his purpose.

  He smiled faintly, not attempting to counter Peter’s warnings in any way. “I understand,” he said, “and I thank you. But I cannot stop now.”