Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  Peter stopped dead, his worst suspicions confirmed. He flung his clenched fist into the stone wall beside him and cursed as the pain penetrated his alcohol-numbed senses. “You promised me Herbert would be the last one!.” Peter’s eyes were those of a condemned man whose expected reprieve was withdrawn at the last moment. “I was supposed to just be a spy! He was a harmless old man; a bloody hero!”

  Deprez glanced quickly down both directions of the street to be sure they were alone and stepped closer to Peter, his aggravation overcoming his fear.

  “Harmless is hardly the word,” he said quietly, “since he insisted on gracing the world with his return to politics he managed to effectively turn Slovakia into a one party state and was on the verge of re-uniting with the Czechs. We didn’t go to all the trouble of breaking the country up after the Cold War just to let a relic from the Sixties put it back together again! Can you imagine the damage to the project if he’d succeeded?” Deprez’s eyes flicked again from left to right then focussed on the fool in front of him. “All that was supposed to end with Dubček. If the Czechs and Slovaks unify then all at once they become the focal point for all the ascension states. Instead of towing the line we give them, they could very well form their own power block in the Union that could in time disrupt the Institute’s control. And the more confident they grow the more divided the Union as a whole will be, conceding on more and more points out of fear the new bloc will encourage Russian interest if their demands are not met. We cannot let Europe’s future be dictated by a loose collection of post-communist shitholes, when it is infinitely better that they remain internally divided but under our overall protection.”

  Deprez visibly relaxed, the frustration in his face giving way to the calm countenance of a teacher, patiently explaining a problem to a troublesome student. “The established hierarchy have to stay in control. The balance cannot be threatened, not by Greece or Ireland collapsing, not by Britain dissenting and not by grandiose Slavs and gypsies trying to do things their own way. It is we who maintain control Peter, for the good of the Union.”

  Peter grimaced through the barrage of logic without moving his eyes once from the cobbles at his feet. When he was sure it was over, he inclined his head, just slightly, upwards and focussed on this man that he despised.

  “Fuck you Deprez.” Peter spat out the bitter words, glaring fury at the Frenchman before him. “Fuck you!”

  Deprez twitched a little, always wary when Peter’s feral side reared its head, but reasonably sure its potency was diluted by the mixture of beer, rum and slivovice thumping through Peter’s brain. Cautiously he stepped forward, trying to add a touch of steel to his voice.

  “I’m only letting you know the situation Peter,” he began, “I’m just voicing The Child’s opinion that things would be much smoother if Svobodova wasn’t around. They’d be smoothest of all if she were dead before the weekend. Probably best not to hope for another car crash though, not so soon after Haider. They’d be smooth for you Peter; I’d be off your back, for good this time. How you take that information is entirely your own affair.”

  “Bastard! You’re ordering me to kill her, just bloody say it.” Peter mumbled like a sulking child and pushed his hands into his pockets.

  Deprez shook his head at the pathetic sight before him. “I don’t need to Peter do I?” he said quietly, “I’ve never needed to. You are no spy; you’re a murderer.”

  Peter broke off his eye contact and turned his head back up the street to where the blues came dancing through Smokin’ Hot’s doors.

  “You know the situation Peter,” Deprez straightened his tie and pushed the hair back from his face, “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Peter watched him walk away towards the bright lights of the Old Town Square then turned back towards Smokin’ Hot. “Bastard!” he said again, and set off back to his shot glass and his blues.

  CHAPTER 5

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER Peter staggered out of Smokin’ Hot’s doors and leaned against the wall in front of him hoping the cold air would dilute the dizziness brought on by his last shot. He knew Rasti would have let him sleep in the restaurant if he’d wanted to but he needed another drink and even in his intoxicated state he didn’t want to impose upon his friend. Instead Peter set off to find one of the round-the-clock sports bars that lined the streets behind Old Town.

  Peter found the entrance to the place he was looking for, inset into a graffiti-ridden stone wall and after pausing for a few more deep breaths he went down the stairs into the basement bar below. The fresh air that threatened to sober him a little was replaced in his lungs by the hot, thick atmosphere of his new surroundings. All around him lay the scattered remnants of the latest night in Prague. Mostly men, all sat hunched at small tables as far from each other as possible, hands cradling small beers or smaller shots that looked untouched to Peter’s eye but were held possessively, like crucifixes against unseen vampires. They were the usual suspects; a couple of stragglers from stag groups, separated from their friends and unable to find their hotels, waiting nervously for morning in this suddenly intimidating city. Others were travellers presently arrived at Florenc on the night bus, seeking inexpensive shelter before continuing their journeys in the morning. The rest were comprised of refugees from domestic arguments who had fled to this sanctuary before rows with partners went too far, while a couple of aging prostitutes sat closest to the door, their pimps slightly further back eying Peter up. There were only two rules here – stay awake and keep yourself to yourself. Peter had lost count of the number of times he’d seen homeless people scurry into places like this having scrimped enough money together for one drink, trying to make it last all night, only for them to be violently ejected after falling asleep in the unfamiliar warmth. He wondered how many of tonight’s guests would successfully hold out until morning.

  Crossing to the bar he ordered a shot, drank it and asked for another and a coffee from the impassive Czech bartender who refused to open a tab. Peter slapped the money on the counter, and carried his drinks to a small table in a corner alcove from where he could keep his eye on all the occupants of the room. The smoky air was complimented by the dim noise from a small TV on the wall showing basketball highlights and from which, along with a couple of framed football shirts alongside it, the venue claimed its ‘sports bar’ status. In the corner opposite Peter, a battered slot machine was being cursed at by an unkempt drunk who complained to all who would listen that it was broken and unfair before depositing further coins inside it.

  Peter downed his shot and was content to spend an hour or so sat in his not too uncomfortable chair before going home and facing the unpleasantness of sleep. The heat in the air though shook Peter’s resolve and he felt his eyelids begin to droop, making his eyes sting from a combination of exhaustion and second hand smoke. Having no wish to be roughly escorted from the premises, he forced them open once more and focused on the bright television image glaring from its alcove, and slowed his breathing into deep, sickeningly warm gulps.

  Peter noticed from the periphery of his vision, a dark figure rise from its table and move slowly in his direction. The movement distracting him, he turned away from the TV and towards the shuffling shape, straining vainly through the dim light to make it out, while shadow continued to hide its visage. As it continued to move towards him, an air of grim familiarity enveloped Peter. Its face was still hidden in the poor light, but its shape and its movement sparked instant recognition in Peter’s mind. Impossible! Peter couldn’t move, but continued to stare open mouthed, eyes streaming as the figure moved closer, now only feet away. Relentless, as if deliberately ignoring Peter’s fears, the figure stepped forward, the light bleeding onto it as it moved into full view and Peter looked, pale and silent, into the face of Herbert Biely. The flesh grey, the mouth robbed in murder of the smile it had possessed in life, but the eyes still somehow sympathetic, with just the tiniest glimmer of the warmth Peter so well remembered. Peter could only continue stare in drea
d. He was immobile, paralysed, as Biely leant purposefully forward, arms outstretched towards him….

  Lost in the disorientation of waking, it took a few seconds for Peter to place exactly where he was. The two strong hands jerking him up from his seat by the front of his jacket quickly brought him back to reality and he swore in Czech at his attacker, knocking the bigger man’s hands from his chest and instinctively adopting a coiled, if unsteady, pose in readiness for a fight. Scanning the three men in front of him he recognised the surly barman, stood further back from the other two, a look of smug triumph on his face, while the others were the rougher looking men he’d mistaken, or not, for pimps when he’d first come in.

  “Vypadni! Churak!” The bigger of the men snarled at him; the profane order to leave obvious to all, even those ignorant of the language.

  Peter looked, in contempt more than appeal, at the other patrons in the bar, the smarter of whom were keeping their heads down and their eyes averted, casually flicking the pages of day old newspapers. One or two of the Brits risked the occasional wide-eyed glance over at Peter before hurriedly returning to nurturing their still untouched beers.

  Peter inwardly shrugged and chastised himself for expecting help; he’d left plenty of people in similar binds to their own fate over the years. Instead he quickly assessed his chances of taking the three men on single handed and making it across the bar and up the concrete steps to the street in one piece. The barman would drop with one punch, Peter reckoned, and the bigger of the other two was probably beatable quickly – from the look of him he was more flab and weight then muscle and strength. But the other one, the slightly shorter guy, was a different prospect. He’d take some beating even if Peter wasn’t still half asleep with a nightful of alcohol in his gut. And even if he did manage to floor him Peter had no way of knowing if anyone else in the bar was in on the deal; he could drop the three of them and make it to the door only for three more to block his path. Even if he made it out of the bar, it wouldn’t take long for his attackers to recover and pursue him, probably phoning their bigger, harder friends up the road to join in the fun too. Swallowing his pride, Peter reluctantly unclenched his fists and moved away from his table. “Ok, ok,” he said, “dobrou noc.”

  He backed away from the trio, keeping eye contact with them until he reached the steps where he turned and shot up them three at a time. Reaching the top, the freezing night air punched him in the face and Peter cursed as rain began to fall. Checking his watch he reckoned he could manage to squeeze in a few hours’ sleep before he had to get ready for his meeting with Svobodova which had been arranged earlier that day. It was a meeting he was not looking forward to in the first place, but was now complicated further by the necessity of her death at his hands. He had no desire to murder Svobodova but neither did he have any choice, however unjust that may be. Better to just accept the fact that they were both victims of other people’s power plays, get on with it quickly and quietly and let the Institute play puppet master once again. Afterwards if he still felt worthless he could come back here and let the three arseholes downstairs finish the job.

  His introspection was curtailed by the freezing puddle that splashed over him courtesy of the speeding taxi hurtling on up the street. In sheer resignation, Peter, his vocabulary exhausted of expletives, began to trudge slowly back in the direction of Smokin’ Hot. His limited desire to journey back to his apartment washed away in the puddle, he figured to throw himself after all on his old friend’s mercy and ask to sleep in the restaurant for a few hours. He knew he still had a couple of suits and shirts there somewhere, kept in reserve for times such as this, and while Rasti might insult, chastise and threaten to kill him for leaving only to crawl back and wake him, as an ex man of the cloth Peter knew he would let him in eventually. And he hoped to God that Herbert would let him sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  ALTHOUGH SLEEP PETER DID, it was as disturbingly unpleasant as it was deep, punctuated by images of a placid Herbert and a hundred vociferous others, whose screams morphed into a constant pounding in his head upon waking. Confused, he looked sharply around, gasping air into his lungs, trying to determine where he was, only for the movement to increase the pain in his head threefold. Clutching his face in his hands and forcing his breathing to slow down, he blinked the blurring out of his eyes and focussed, probing his mind to recall how the night had ended. He was back at Smokin’ Hot, he knew that much.

  Peter sat up. He had been lying half covered by a sleeping bag across two clumsily thrown together tables, his rolled up jacket shoved under his head as a damp pillow. To his left, on the floor, lay the remainder of last night’s clothes, pulled inside out and carelessly strewn, while to his right stood a dirty metal bucket, presumably intended to capture any vomit he may have ejected. Peering into it, Peter found it mercifully empty. His vision regaining some clarity, he recognised one of his emergency suits, housed at the restaurant for just such an occasion, pressed and hanging above the archway in front of him. God bless Rasti, he thought.

  Peeling himself out from the sweat drenched bag, Peter gently hauled himself from the table and stood, bare feet on the cold tiles, stretching the aches from his body brought on by his cramped night. The extended movement re-fuelled the thumping in his head and he froze still again, eyes clenched, willing the debilitating pain away and silently yearning for a few moments of complete stillness and quiet.

  His solace was ruptured by the peel of mocking laughter that came from behind him, and Peter unclenched his eyes and cursed. Turning slowly around, he stood in the dubious glory of his nakedness, in front of the small, Romani cleaning lady, standing in the archway to the bar, pointing at him and screeching with laughter. Thinking it pointless even to cover himself, Peter sighed deeply and, his booming head unable to search for the necessary Czech translation to explain, confined himself to cursing again. He collected his suit and offering her an exaggerated bow, stepped through the bar and into the outer corridor where the toilets and a rickety shower were housed.

  The majority of the cannon fire in his head washed away with the slow trickle of water and what remained was quietened by the steaming, black coffee waiting for him at the end of the bar as he stepped back in, somewhat cleaner and far more appropriately attired.

  Rasti was nowhere to be seen, presumably out meeting his suppliers as usual, but the still chuckling old cleaner had mercifully remained to refill his cup with the rich Colombian blend provided courtesy of the small company run by a couple of Rasti’s friends. After two or three cups Peter almost began to feel human again and stood up to leave, quickly feeling in his wallet for a spare note to supplement the wages of the cleaner who offered him a theatrical wink and wolf whistle in return.

  The smile on Peter’s face at his less than dignified start to the day soon disappeared in the cold, fresh air, bringing with it the realisation that he was on his way to meet the very woman who’s newly proposed death at his hands had led him to wake up naked and hung-over in the first place. The grim irony almost drew a harsh laugh, but Peter stifled it, instead cursing the biting cold around his throat and the absence of his favourite silk, paisley scarf.

  Getting away with murder wasn’t easy, despite what Hollywood had to say, and it sometimes amazed Peter that he had done so successfully and repeatedly for quite so long; over a quarter of a century in fact. For much of that time, the apparatus of the Institute had been behind him, but even so it was achievement he had once felt a peculiar pride over, but no more. Herbert’s death had been problematic enough, but the combination of his age and ill health had lent itself so beautifully to a cover of natural causes, that it was considerably easier than normal. Svobodova would be a different proposition. A young woman (politically speaking at least) in her forties, she was the very picture of good health with no complaints or conditions for Peter to take advantage of. No, with her, it would have to be an accident and organising something appropriate with such limited access to her was the puzzle occupying Peter’s min
d as he walked to Party Headquarters.

  The puzzle had stayed with Peter as he’d stepped into the building and waited for the call to Svobodova’s office, and it remained as the meeting was delayed hour by hour by hour. When the call finally came darkness was falling and Peter was still fully in the throes of pre-occupation, but Svobodova’s opening question wrenched him back to the present.

  “So what did you do to him?”

  Peter squirmed, she couldn’t know could she? He looked straight into her eyes for any hint of accusation and relaxed a little as she broke into a smile.

  “Sorry, what did you do for him? It’s been a while since I spoke in English.”

  Peter marvelled at the effortlessly seductive way in which Miroslava Svobodova leaned forward at her desk, her hands clasped together on the oak surface, cleavage subtly but deliberately exposed above her tightly buttoned waistcoat. Catching himself, Peter quickly moved his eyes up to her commanding, if somewhat mischievous eyes, and noted her raised brow as she waited for an answer.

  Svobodova was beautiful, unquestionably so, her features punctuated by faint, delicate lines which simultaneously betrayed her years and added a layer of experience to her attractiveness. That same experience haunted her eyes at least as much as they glinted with a peculiar coquettishness. To Peter, methodically absorbing and cataloguing each detail of her appearance and surroundings, these small imperfections only emphasised her magnetism; her maturity adding to her natural beauty more than lipstick and blush ever could. She was unique in Peter’s mind, and for the first occasion in almost as long as he could recall, he felt the buzz of nervous anticipation teasing his senses; a sure fire indication that he was close to being intimidated by this woman, although not so much that he neglected to guard his answer.