Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  “So why not take them both out?” Remy had queried of Peter, opining that with Havel the more prominent of the two he was arguably the more dangerous. Peter, always keen to encourage his subordinate, had patiently explained, without condescension, that the Americans were keen for Havel to push for NATO membership, and that taking both statesmen out would create too much suspicion and possibly even create the solidarity they wished to avoid. Ultimately, the Institute wanted there to be suggestions of a conspiracy, but one with people presuming its orchestration was from other sources. Dubček’s imminent appointments giving evidence against former KGB operatives provided just such an opportunity. Peter explained that their Head of Region, a Spaniard named Sangre, had informed him that the Institute’s strategy was in part to ensure that any future application for EU membership was motivated by a desire to ally with the Old Guard, rather than a unified eastern bloc pushing on mass for entry. While the Americans were content that such a move ensured a fractious Europe, ill-equipped to rival them as a superpower. In short, everybody wins, apart from the Czechoslovaks.

  “You mean apart from the Czechs and the Slovaks,” Remy had countered, grinning.

  Peter had returned his grin, before the mood between the two dipped and the Englishman pressed Remy to be sure everything was properly prepared.

  Remy had assured him it was, although, Peter remembered, his voice had shaken at the impending actuality of the plan. Peter’s sympathy for his friend’s discomfort had been palpable. Remy was no murderer, unlike Peter. The Frenchman was a strategist with a naturally analytical mind and it was clear that he was destined to progress to seniority in the Institute, providing he did as Sangre demanded and ‘Bought Into’ the project – in other words, got his hands dirty. In Sangre’s, and by extension The Child’s, mind, an intellectual commitment like Remy’s was useless without the practical ‘Buy In’ that a field operation brought. Dubček was to be Remy’s buy in and both he and Peter knew it.

  Peter had also known, and understood, his friend’s reluctance to murder only too well; it was a burden he had been glad to be rid of, temporarily at least, after Sangre had elevated him to the position of Controller.

  With a lack of anything positive to say, all Peter had had to offer was honesty and cold level headedness.

  “It’s got to be done mate,” he’d said simply. “You just need to make sure it’s done right.”

  Peter remembered how his words had held little comfort for his friend and he had noted how the young man was beginning to look pale, as though his body were awakening to the realities of the career it had undertaken.

  Peter had tried to restore the colour to Remy by reasserting the likelihood of the young man’s rise, offering him an arm around the shoulder and the joke that Peter would one day be answering to him, before returning his gaze to the cobbles and muttering almost to himself.

  “You can’t do this job forever.”

  It had been several days later, September 1st 1992, that Peter had hurried to Provaznická in search of the traditional Czech tavern in which he’d known Remy would be drowning his sorrows. He had skidded through the door, his eyes darting around to find the Frenchman huddled by the wooden bar, a glass of some spirit or other clutched possessively in his hand. Raising his eyes at Peter’s arrival, the drunken Remy had lifted his glass in ironic salute.

  “It went wrong.”

  And it had. All Remy’s planning, all the brilliance of his strategic mind, had been for nothing. Dubček had not died. The news had been full of little else; the statesman had been gravely injured when his chauffer driven BMW skidded off the Bratislava – Prague highway in heavy rain. He had been catapulted from the rear window as it spun and was found several meters away from the wreck; the driver was miraculously unharmed.

  “They didn’t think it was worth checking him.” Remy’s voice was tinged with sarcasm as he lifted his glass to his lips and cursed the folly of the incompetents with whom he had entrusted the execution of his plan. “They decided that he could not have survived the crash.”

  Remy had ticked off with Peter each aspect of the plan which had proceeded without impediment: The correct amendments to the car, the selection of a driver with links to the previous regime, the removal from the scene of Dubček’s briefcase ahead of his planned testimony against the KGB, the ultimate disposal of the crash evidence; all successfully or soon to be accomplished, but all ultimately let down by the singular lack of a body. Instead, the target lay in a hospital bed recovering from massive chest and spinal injuries.

  Peter had had no need to vocalise the extent of the catastrophe. If Dubček recovered he would start asking questions, he would investigate, the media would aid his investigations and their coverage of his recovery would elevate him from mere national hero status to that of a super star. And regardless of that potential outcome, Peter knew that right now, in Brussels, The Child would be seething and that the only way for him to save his young friend would be to ensure the job was finished.

  It was not until several weeks after that spirit fuelled conversation that the preparations had been completed, during which time, Dubček had drifted mercifully in and out of delirious consciousness, never cogent enough to lend voice to the general suspicions around the accident. But finally, and irrevocably, Peter and Remy, dressed in hospital whites as pale as the young Frenchman’s skin, stood unaccompanied in Dubček’s hospital room, the frail object of their machinations lying unconscious, barely a few feet before them. Peter had waited by the closed door, offering the veneer of patience but inwardly desperate for Remy to finish the job so they could make their escape. He remembered silently urging Remy to take action, watching his friend as he stood next to the bed looking down at the figure within it.

  Taking the syringe out of his pocket, Remy picked up Dubček’s arm and paused, like an unwilling David, reluctant to despatch the stricken Goliath before him, the tip of the needle barely touching the frail, almost translucent skin.

  “Come on mate, get it finished!” Peter had hissed, his professionalism offended by Remy’s procrastination.

  But Remy didn’t finish it. He had simply stood by the bed, the old hero’s arm hanging pathetically in his grasp.

  Peter’s spirits had sunk as he saw the tears in Remy’s eyes and an eternally brief silence had hung between them, punctuated only by the beeping of the machines hooked into the sedated Dubček.

  “Peter I…,” Remy had stuttered, “I’ve never… I don’t….”

  But the words didn’t come. Instead he returned his stare to the lethal syringe he held impotently in his hand.

  “This isn’t fair Remy,” Peter had snarled, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. “This isn’t my job anymore, I’m finished with all this crap!”

  “But you know how to do it!”

  Remy’s whispered pleas had sounded more desperate with every syllable; like a schoolboy anxious for his friend’s complicity before the headmaster could catch them in the act. The frustration, anger, desperation and pity erupted in a silent explosion behind Peter’s surgical mask and he strode forward, snatching the syringe from Remy’s hand and taking Dubček’s thin, bony arm from the other.

  Cleanly, professionally, knowing the situation relied on an absolute rejection of hesitation, Peter had pushed the needle under the wrinkled skin and depressed the plunger, carefully lying the offended appendage back on the crisp sheets before pausing to look at his victim’s face for the first time. Restful, serene, Peter had to shake his head clear for a moment before grabbing the still teary eyed Remy and pushing him forcefully towards the door. The final, unheard beep of the machine had signalled the end of a legend just as Peter clicked the door closed behind them. It was done.

  Their subsequent trip across the border into Austria had been as awkward a time as Peter could remember spending in the young Frenchman’s company; a silence stretching over several hours, punctuated only by Remy’s tearful apologies and expressions of gratitude, and Peter’s
grunted responses. After reaching Vienna, they had checked into a small hotel where Remy had immediately retired to bed and Peter had hit the bar and stayed there, quietly pondering why the thirst of his guilt was so much harder to quench this time. In the morning, they had travelled in silence to the office where Sangre was waiting. Peter recognised the bitter taste of resentment beginning to taunt him and quickly washed it down with a plastic cup full of tepid water. He had waited outside as Remy gave his solitary report, nervously hoping the Frenchman would not be treated too harshly; the job after all had been completed, albeit delayed, but when the door opened and Remy walked out, Peter had looked into a face that bore none of the apologetic regret of the previous day, being instead twisted into an arrogant sneer. Wordlessly, Deprez had strode down the corridor, while Peter himself was beckoned in by the quiet, almost gentle voice of Sangre.

  It was then that Peter had learned of the betrayal. Not only had Deprez claimed credit for Dubček’s murder, which Peter had expected and had been happy to go along with, but he had also pinned the blame for the initial failure of the crash on Peter himself. Sangre explained that the industrious young operative had been so dismayed at the bungle that he had investigated thoroughly and had uncovered evidence that the target had in fact been tipped off about an expected attack by elements within the British government. Although Britain had withdrawn from the Institute, its original operatives remained within its umbrella and it had been obvious to Deprez, and subsequently to Sangre, that conversations must have taken place between some such operatives and their former Ministerial patrons.

  Peter’s angry denials fell on deaf ears, but Sangre had assured him not to worry; Deprez had personally vouched for Peter’s reliability, but nonetheless, in the circumstances it was inappropriate that Peter remain as controller. Instead, Sangre felt, Deprez himself had proven his strategic understanding and operational capabilities and would be the ideal person to guide regional operations into the new era. As for Peter, Sangre felt sure that he would appreciate a return to field operations, the role to which his talents were undoubtedly best suited.

  Peter had no choice but to appreciate it, knowing what the barely veiled alternative would be, and he walked from the office swallowing hard on the first of what would be many indignities dolled out to him by Deprez. He had done him up, good and proper. All of Peter’s efforts to coach and encourage him had been rolled up and shoved up his backside in what Peter could only imagine had been a long planned exercise in self advancement. Deprez was protected now and Peter, while he may have escaped Sangre’s immediate wrath, was submerged once more in the swamp, struggling to keep his head afloat in the thick, black mire of his day job. Reaching the lift, Peter’s impotent rage exploded outwards and he roared his objections as the doors slid closed, viciously punching his right hand into the cold metal before him, before rubbing his bruised knuckles in instant regret. It was going to hurt tomorrow.

  The click of a camera snapped Peter back to the present and he glanced up at the smiling photographer in front of him, taking pictures of the young girl standing on the ridge beside him. Peter waited for them to finish and move on, rubbing his knuckles as the familiar arthritic twinge returned in the cold.

  He stood up and reached into his pocket for a cigarette; he was an irregular smoker at best, never truly enjoying it and employing the habit only as a psychosomatic aide to concentration and he cursed to himself as his lighter’s flint failed to spark. He hadn’t even noticed the leather jacketed man sit down next to him and reach into his pocket until he saw a hand extend into his peripheral vision, accompanied by the words, “Need a light?”

  “Cheers,” Peter grunted, accepting the offer, drawing the thick, cutting smoke into his lungs and hoping his new companion wouldn’t be the kind to make casual conversation. His hopes were fruitless.

  “You looked a little lost in thought there,” the newcomer opined, a lazy British accent playing on his voice.

  Peter frowned at the question but tried not to let his irritation show. “Yeah, just have a lot on my mind is all,” he replied, hoping the response would dissuade the stranger from further chat. It didn’t.

  “I know what you mean,” he began, “you must have a lot to think about right now.”

  The response was an odd one but Peter ignored it, willing the newcomer to shut up, to no avail.

  “Beautiful city, Prague,” he said, rolling his eyes over the archaic modernity of the Old Town Square. “Don’t you think?”

  Peter didn’t need to think. He knew it was beautiful. Cold, austere beauty; harsh, like that of a mother angry at the hedonistic excesses of her children. A little of the tension eased from his shoulders as he took the time to gaze around the square again and he afforded the stranger a quiet response.

  “Yeah, it is”.

  “This is my first time in Prague,” the stranger said. “I’ve always wanted to come but never had the chance. How long have you been stationed here?”

  “Since before the revolution,” Peter answered before stopping as the relevance of the stranger’s words hit home. ‘Stationed here?’ Peter cursed his stupidity and spun around, fist clenched, ready to smash down on the stranger’s jaw.

  “Don’t bother,” said the stranger, and Peter froze at the site of the gun concealed in the arm of the stranger’s jacket; small, but deadly and pointed directly at him.

  Peter looked at his new enemy, sitting nonchalantly before him, an average looking man in his mid-to-late fifties, thin skin wrinkling over cheek bones and fading blonde hair draping over a skeletal forehead. The face was gaunt, saved only by the presence of the penetrating eyes which once may have bristled with charisma, but now remained resolutely cold and clinical, offering nothing of the personality inside. A simple jacket cradled his shoulders, while a black t-shirt and dark blue jeans completed the ensemble. It was, thought Peter, like looking into the future.

  Slowly, Peter straightened up and stood facing the man, whose eyes, and gun, never wavered in their focus on him. Peter became aware of the cigarette that still hung, a little pathetically, from his lip, and he took a deep drag from it, letting the ash fall onto the cobbles. “I suppose I should thank you for a last smoke,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” the stranger reassured him, although the resolve in his stare and the authority in his voice left Peter in no doubt that he would if he had to, “I just want to have a little chat with you.”

  “Are you sure Deprez would approve?” Peter spat, contemptuously.

  “Deprez?” A smile spread over the stranger’s thin, mouth, “I don’t know anyone called Deprez.”

  Peter sat back down and tried to keep the emotion from his face as he realised the implication of the man’s last statement. If Deprez hadn’t sent him then that could only mean…

  “The Child?”

  “The Child himself,” answered the stranger, the cruel smile still on his lips.

  Peter remembered the days when the mere mention of The Child was enough to instil fear in his very soul; The Child’s presence alone confirmation that someone was to die. But instead of the sinking weight of fear in his heart, Peter afforded himself a brief smile and exhaled in satisfaction. “Good of him to show his face.”

  “Oh I doubt very much you’ll see his face,” Peter’s counterpart replied. “I wanted to talk to you before we all get preoccupied doing what needs to be done.” The note of command was still in the stranger’s voice but etched with a probing sincerity.

  “Why, will it change anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then that’s not much incentive for a cosy little chat is it?” Peter turned away and stared back out into the Square, at the early evening tourists milling around the restaurants hoping not to be ripped off, oblivious to the exchange occurring only yards away from them. A flicker of irritation furrowed the stranger’s brow and his voice took on a harsher, more direct tone.

  “Look don’t get me wrong, mate,�
�� he began, his eyes never shifting from Peter’s direction and his gun arm steady, “the situation is entirely unchanged. Both of you are going to die.” He waited for his words to register with Peter, who gently nodded his understanding. “You can’t alter the outcome, but the method is open to a little negotiation.”

  “What kind of negotiation?” Peter asked.

  “You know the kind,” the stranger had become conversational, almost avuncular in inflection. “You can die easy or hard, I do both well.”

  “Never mind me, what about her?” Peter’s anger was resurfacing and showed itself in his response.

  “Well that’s up to you,” the stranger answered, his hard gaze latched onto Peter’s eyes. “If you do the job yourself like you were supposed to then she can die the quickest, most painless death imaginable. But if you leave it to me, well…” He shrugged and stayed silent.

  “Bastard!” Peter spat.

  “I’m not a sadist mate, I don’t get turned on by hurting people. But I am a professional, and I’m conscious of the need to, incentivise you. Call it professional courtesy; a guy who’s done our job for as long as you have deserves one last chance to get his shit together.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “That doesn’t matter; we’re all the same guy. Don’t think you’re the only bugger stuck in some European shithole taking shots at politicians. I’ve been doing this job for years. I’ve taken Presidents down. And I’ve heard all about you too. How the Institute had you working in Prague years before they joined the EU, how you stirred things up at the revolution. Some people would call you a legend. Not me, though.”

  “And what would you call me?” Peter scornfully enquired, intrigued despite himself.