Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  Although others cast disdainful glances at the young Minister, Peter was the only one to vocalise his contempt.

  “It exists. I worked for it for decades, and between us and these four walls I killed more politicians, bureaucrats and various other arseholes in that time than I care to recall, including people like you. And right now that same Institute wants to kill Miroslava Svobodova.”

  Greyson stared, wide eyed and uncomfortable, while Bland coughed nervously.

  McShade stared a rebuke at Peter who sat back, satisfied his point was made.

  “To put it bluntly,” McShade continued, “we were all fooled. The government in the 1980’s, of which I was a member, thought that with the Community signing up to the Single European Act the gospel of the free market would sweep across all the continent’s economies, eradicating socialism and creating a vast, conservative block to deter the Soviets. We were wrong.” He gave a slight grimace as he replayed the memory in his mind. “All it did was give rise to a new political generation of federalists – people who saw themselves as principally European with any lingering loyalty to nation states superseded by loyalty to the nation of Europe.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Greyson snapped, still smarting at his embarrassment. “There are many people back home and in every country in Europe who share that view; including on our own benches in Parliament.”

  “There is nothing wrong in holding that view Foreign Secretary, but there is everything wrong with the manner that some have implemented their vision.”

  He paused to take a sip of water from the glass in front of him, his eyes raised but never quite meeting anyone else’s in the room.

  “When the ‘Institute,’ as it was described, was first mooted we were cautiously optimistic. There was never a chance of us surrendering autonomy to it but it was a useful tool for us at the time, particularly when it came to organising the fallout when the Soviet Union broke up. It gave us an avenue to affect change without incurring culpability through MI6. In the event we played quite a part in encouraging that break up, particularly in this corner of the world.”

  He shot a glance to Peter, who felt several pairs of eyes burrowing into him before McShade continued.

  “But despite the early encouragement, we noted that the Institute was starting to become more aggressive in both its aims and their execution, and their agenda began to conflict with our own. The final straw came when we learned of their plans to assassinate Alexander Dubček. To us such an act was pointless and would serve to jeopardise the future of a potential ally nation. Besides which, several members of the government had a high personal regard for the man and had no wish to see him lying dead at the bottom of some Bohemian ravine. After our appeals were ignored we effectively withdrew from the Institute.”

  “Or were withdrawn.”

  The others looked at Peter who had made the aside, but when he offered no more their eyes turned back to the statesman across the table.

  “Just like that?” Greyson asked.

  “Not quite.” McShade shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We withdrew, or were withdrawn if you prefer, in August 1992 and Dubček had his ‘accident’ on the first of September. Members of the Foreign Office and our security services made a number of complaints to the Institute, including a veiled and particularly foolish threat to blow the whistle on the operation. It soon transpired that the Minister who’d made the threat had also secretly warned Dubček to be on his guard. Apparently Alexander took this advice seriously and as a result was lying flat across the back seat of his car when it crashed, saving his life, at least in the short term, before he died in hospital some weeks later. Needless to say the Institute discovered the Minister’s involvement. Their response was Black Wednesday, devastating the UK economy on September the sixteenth. With one action Britain had been punished for its insolence and warned about the consequences of playing whistle blower. Don’t believe for one moment that these players lack resolve or will shy away from attacking those that threaten their agenda. If Black Wednesday doesn’t convince you then look at the economic catastrophes across the Euro Zone over the past few years. They’ll turn on anyone if they have to, even their own.”

  He stopped and looked across to Mirushka, Peter squeezing her hand below the table in response.

  “If the Institute is set on a policy of prevention by assassination then your only hope is to continue to delay their assault until after Election Day. If your party is elected and reunification assured then the Institute’s emphasis will change from violent prevention to persistent obfuscation. Ms Svobodova’s demise will no longer be of paramount concern to them and they will review their strategy; The Child is nothing if not pragmatic…” McShade’s voice dropped lower as he spoke the last words, but not low enough to be misheard by those around the table, giving Greyson the opportunity to get back into the conversation again.

  “A child?” he spat. “What child?”

  “The Child,” McShade replied, “is far from infantile and is the one against whom we find ourselves standing. He is the seldom seen Head of the Institute, responsible for the internal security of the European Union.”

  Greyson’s impatience lent him an ill-rooted confidence and he snapped back at McShade, “So who does he report to? I’ll open diplomatic channels and we can…”

  “He answers to no-one.”

  “But surely someone in Brussels…”

  “Who in Brussels? The Child reports to nobody because there is nobody willing to oppose him. Years back we surrendered responsibility for the internal security of the Union to The Child and slapped ourselves on the back for a job well done. Only with no-one in charge there was no-one to keep him under control, and his reputation has grown to the point where none of the European politicians who even know about him are prepared to say a word against him for fear of being classified as a threat to the Union. To The Child, Europe is a nation and the countries within it merely regions, and he has every right to make sure those regions run smoothly and don’t do anything to jeopardise the stability of the Union. To all intents and purposes, he is the de facto ruler of Europe.”

  “But what has this got to do with us?”

  All eyes turned to the young Minister for Europe, Ms Bland, who had almost shouted her question in a tone approaching petulance.

  “Svobodova has been threatened and that’s horrible, but it’s her problem. There’s been no threat to Britain, so as long as we don’t intervene we won’t fall under this ‘Child’s’ radar, no?”

  Peter felt his natural contempt for politicians rising in his gut at this nauseating display of self preservation and he squeezed tighter still on Mirushka’s hand; she stroking him with her thumb in return. Even Černý looked across in silent distaste while Greyson merely raised his hand to his tired looking face.

  McShade offered a thin smile. “Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple. Britain came under threat the moment its new Government, of which, Ms Bland, you are a member, opted to form an alliance with Ms Svobodova’s Party in the European Parliament. And the very public appearances since then of UK government Ministers supporting the prospect of reunification means you are very much already ‘on the radar’.”

  “And the meeting today, I suppose?” The anger in Greyson’s voice was sharp and pointed.

  “It would be foolish to expect your presence here to have gone unnoticed, yes.”

  Peter watched the dawning realisation that McShade, and to a large extent Mirushka and Černý, had set them up. They were already implicated of course, but the meeting ensured their submersion in the mire and he could only wait, with the rest of them, to see how they would react.

  It was Mirushka who spoke first, breaking her silence with soothing, gentle tones. “Jonathan, I know you will feel cheated, but try and see we have an opportunity to take the Institute on now, on our terms.”

  “If you don’t take this opportunity now and challenge the Institute, you will always be the victims, cowering at th
e conference table for fear of upsetting the wrong person.” McShade remained still in his chair but his voice was etched in anxiety. “The choice is yours, Foreign Secretary.”

  “No.” Greyson shook his head and rose from the table, Bland close behind him. “I’m not doing this here, not now. I need time to assimilate this.” He strode towards the door, his head continuing to shake.

  “Time is the one thing you don’t have!” McShade growled.

  “But it’s the one thing I’m taking anyway!” Greyson shouted back, wrenching the door open, pausing just for a moment to look at Mirushka.

  “I’ll be in touch.” Then he was gone, his shadow scurrying after him while the door swung gently back into place.

  “Well,” began McShade, turning to face Peter, whose eyes narrowed in response, “favour returned.”

  Many streets away, at a riverside bar by the Vltava, The Child’s diseased memories played out before his eyes as he gazed at one of the many puddles reflecting the city’s austere beauty, disturbed only by the approaching waiter.

  He detested this place. The sweet, freshness in the air complemented the wet shine on the cobbles and The Child squinted to dilute the glare. A waiter had placed two long stem glasses of deep red wine on the table in front of him. He did not have to wait long for his guest to arrive.

  The woman’s greying hair and lined face betrayed her mature years but she nonetheless carried her age more elegantly than most. Slender, but not especially beautiful in the classical sense, her magnetism came from the unbreakable strength in her countenance and the intelligence in her eyes. Wordlessly sitting, a thin hand reached out to take hold of her glass, raising it slightly in deference to the white haired, wrinkled man.

  “Here’s to order,” she proposed.

  “And those who do the ordering,” offered her counterpart.

  The toast was as old as their association, of which neither could accurately recall the age, but the sentiment remained as sincere as ever.

  “It’s of order that I wished to speak,” the woman said in her well articulated American accent. “There are things we need to discuss.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the Institute’s current attitude towards the prospect of Czechoslovak reunification.”

  The Child paused slightly, his glass at his lips. He lowered it to the table.

  “I’m surprised that our approach has come under your scrutiny,” The Child said honestly. “It’s merely the continuation of the same policy we’ve employed since the end of the Cold War; divide and control. As I recall the policy has always enjoyed enormous U.S. support.”

  The American smiled. “Indeed,” she said. “And we remain committed to it; we haven’t changed the policy, only the direction of its focus.”

  Realisation spread across The Child’s wrinkled features, coupled with a flicker of suppressed resentment at the tipped balance that now existed between them.

  “I see.” He spoke the words slowly, quietly, and lifted his glass once more to his lips, the cold eyes underneath his now more furrowed brow never leaving his associate for a second.

  The American’s expression, likewise, remained resolute and cool, her own eyes narrowed with the seriousness of their discussion.

  “That should really come as no surprise,” she said. “Europe is growing ever larger, and the calls for federalism grow louder by the day from many quarters. Even saddled with the Eurozone crisis you continue to push for greater influence, greater respect; a bigger piece of the pie for This Nation Europe to gorge itself upon. It’s only natural such an approach would give us cause for concern, even despite our occasional shared interest in other matters.”

  “That may be so,” The Child conceded, “but it most certainly is a surprise to find America blithely accepting the potential emergence of a focussed Eastern European faction; a prospect which remains as undesirable today as twenty-five years ago.”

  “To you perhaps.”

  The Child raised an eyebrow at the response while his counterpart took a deep sip from her wine before continuing.

  “Times change and we change with them or die.” The American’s voice remained resolute and perfectly calm. “In any case, it’s no longer a policy that the United States can support.”

  The American’s avuncular inflection irritated The Child and he responded with a curt, “May I ask why?”

  She took another deep drink from her glass, her eyes never breaking contact with The Child’s.

  “Would you believe because we are concerned that the democratically expressed views of the Czech and Slovak peoples are likely to be undermined by the unwelcome machinations of external bodies?”

  “No,” replied The Child simply.

  “Well how about this,” the American smiled faintly, “because we say so.”

  The Child raised an eyebrow, “That would certainly be more typical of American Foreign Policy.”

  Her thin smile grew a fraction wider, echoed by The Child’s own.

  “It’s always a pity when valued associations come to an end.”

  “Absolutely,” she concurred. “Divide and control, is a policy we have both very much benefitted from. We were happy for the Institute to instigate the split in Czechoslovakia for precisely that reason; the necessity to manage the fall out from the breakdown of Communism effectively, and prevent the formation of new power blocks in Eastern Europe. We have done that. But the situation is different now.”

  “Different in what way?” queried The Child, dispassionately,

  “The problem with enacting policies of divide and control is that sooner or later someone else will enact them on you.”

  The American, for the first time in the Child’s experience, looked uncomfortable and shifted a little in her chair. She picked her glass up and drained it of the last drops of wine, her eyes always upon her counterpart. After an age she spoke again.

  “Believe me, it gives me no pleasure at all to give you this ultimatum but it’s one you need to be fully aware of. The United States is changing its outlook toward this region and we are now silently encouraged by the prospect of reunification. We see a united country as potentially advantageous to US interests and we do not wish to see such a prospect artificially hampered.” She paused briefly. “And it falls to me to tell you that should such a project be disrupted and external pressures found to be behind such a disruption, then extreme sanctions would be imposed on the perpetrators.”

  The Child’s face was impassive. Intuition telling him that she was not yet finished he prompted her with a curt, “And..?”

  The American was equally curt. “And you sir, would be deader than the village you crawled out from under.”

  The faintest sign of distaste appeared on the Child’s lined face and then quickly vanished. He rose quietly from the table and threw his black overcoat over his shoulders as the first drops of fresh rain began to fall. He offered his hand to the American who stood to accept it and was drawn close to the old man. When the Child spoke his voice was as deep and cold as ever, but devoid of the malice one would expect from the recipient of a death threat.

  “I thank you for your advice,” he said in sincerity, the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, “but you and your associates should remember one thing; I have died once before, in circumstances more horrible than you can imagine. The prospect of doing so again does little to sway me.”

  With that he picked up and opened his umbrella against the impending downpour and set off along the cobbles, satisfied that although the American approach was disappointing, he at least had the satisfaction of not backing down to their threats. As the heavens opened and the downpour began, the Child’s thoughts turned away from the American’s threat and his memories forced their way in front of his eyes once again; memories of the old days, of the dead village and a time when a woman called him Marek.

  CHAPTER 16

  MCSHADE’S DISMISSAL OF THE MEETING was brisk and efficient, like a surgeon performing some
well-practiced routine surgery. From there Mirushka and Černý headed straight to the next box-ticking exercises on their electoral calendars while Peter, against his lover’s suggestion, took the opportunity for a head clearing walk through the rain to Old Town. It ended with him seated in subconscious homage to the dissidents of empires past at the feet of the Jan Hus memorial, as the pitter patter of the last drops of rain sounded around him. The stories of Hus’s martyrdom replayed in Peter’s mind; another of Prague’s murdered heroes, killed for championing the good of his people against the oppression of outsiders. In days of old, to sit at the statue’s feet was to silently protest against the empires that jealously claimed the city as their own. It occurred to him that he himself had long belonged to such an empire and he wondered if someone, anyone, had sat in protest against his former masters. Did they even know that empires and power blocks still claimed dominion over them to this day? And he wondered why he felt his own path towards martyrdom was starkly unavoidable. Was that what he really wanted? The injustice of being offered oblivion as a reward for deserting the horrors of his own reality snarled at Peter and he scowled in anger, dropping his gaze to the floor before closing his eyes and drifting into his memories. He had sat in this spot before, he thought to himself, so many years ago, almost as long ago as the Revolution; back in ’92…

  “So Mečiar is the better option by far; not for the Slovaks, but certainly from our point of view.”

  Peter remembered the conversation he had had with Remy Deprez on this very spot decades earlier, as clearly as if it were happening right now. The Frenchman, assigned to be mentored by the level headed Brit, had nodded eagerly along to Peter’s analyses, keen to demonstrate his own insightful abilities and understanding that should Dubček become President of a new independent Slovakia, then the entire stratagem would be undermined to the extent that there would have been little point in the Institute having arranged the partition in the first place. As it was, come January 1st 1993, Czechoslovakia would cease to exist and with Václav Havel a shoe in for the Czech Presidency, the last thing the Institute desired was the similarly revered Alexander Dubček holding court in Slovakia.