“Nothing,” was the response, “I’d just say you were a bloke doing his job. Just another murdering bastard wandering around Europe, killing suits because that’s what some bigwig paid us to do. You’re a killer.” The last words were snapped at Peter, like the crack of a pistol. “Don’t ever forget that, and don’t try to fight it. You might be trying to do your best Jesus impression these days, but even if you grow a beard and walk across the Vltava, you’ll always be a killer, and you’ll kill again before you die.”
“Not anymore.” Peter turned away from the stranger’s penetrating stare and lightly jingled the keys in his pocket. “And I’m not going to kill Mirushka so you can go and tell The Child to stick that idea where the sun doesn’t shine. She’s protected now.”
“By you?” The response was sneering, loaded with contempt. “The only way you can truly protect her is to kill me. Me and everyone who comes after me. Have you still got that in you Saint Peter?”
Peter’s anger bubbled and he spun around, ready to unleash a barrage of hateful remonstration, but the stranger was gone. A quick glance from left to right produced nothing and Peter knew it was futile to try and track him now; it would be as pointless as anyone trying to follow Peter. Guys like them knew how to disappear.
Peter spat the spent cigarette to the cobbles and cursed silently. For the first time in days he felt like he needed a drink, a real drink. Adrianna’s death in the ‘accident’ and Mirushka’s reaction to it had been stressful enough, but now after seeing McShade again and with the concrete affirmation that the threat continued to be very real, his resistance to the hard stuff began to crumble. Such things were not meant to be dealt with sober and he felt himself moving in the familiar direction of Smokin’ Hot, stopping only when the buzz of his phone tingled against his cold leg. He reached into his pocket, intending to rattle off a quick response to Mirushka, but froze when he saw the display. The message lay there, unopened but bursting with potential. It had come from Remy Deprez.
CHAPTER 17
PETER LOATHED THE CHARLES BRIDGE. Not the bridge itself which was beautiful, but the endless hordes that swarmed across it each day from first light until dusk. He hated the gangs of drunken, British stags bullying their way past elderly tourists and shouting boorish profanities at the girls leaning over the sides. He hated the pickpockets who walked subtly behind their prey, waiting for the half chance to slip away a purse or phone and disappear into the heaving throng with their takings while the endless line of Baroque Saints gazed ponderously at the blemished souls below.
But that was in the daytime. At night the Bridge was deserted of souls save for a scattered few delighting in the unspoiled views, and on this night even they were absent. The sight before Peter was one of postcard beauty; the illuminated Bridge Tower standing imperious guard before the cobbled stone walkway which stretched over to the twin towers of Mala Strana – the Lesser Town. It was as though the city had been plucked up, dusted free from drunken revellers and planted in the middle of a gothic fairytale; one of castles and clock towers and creatures lurking in the shadows.
Peter had come to see such a creature tonight, but even as he stepped out from the darkness and onto the bridge he did not fully understand why. Here he was, on open ground, far away from Mirushka’s own security and utterly exposed purely on the basis of a texted promise from a man he had humiliated. The message had been brief and simple; ‘Charles Bridge, 20:30. Please’.
Peter had not responded and had at first continued his journey to Smokin’ Hot before turning and heading for the bridge. As he started through the illuminated stone archway, Peter began to question, for the first time while sober, his own sanity. He had questioned it on and off for as long as he could remember, but so did most men when the bottle was empty and their heads were resting painfully on the pillow of the latest bar room pick up. But now Peter’s thoughts were free of slivovice and he struggled with the notion that coming here tonight proved only that he was suicidal, mad, or both.
He rolled the thought around his head; the thought of the beautiful young leader, an arm’s reach from history, assailed from all angles by the murderers who claimed to know better, murderers whose number included Peter only days before. He couldn’t die tonight, not yet. Mirushka was his mission now, his crusade, his contrition.
Peter looked over his shoulder in the direction he had just come from. There was no sign of Deprez but Peter knew he would be there; skulking in some shadow or other, waiting for his ‘dramatic entrance.’ He coughed in contempt of these theatrics and searched his brain once more for an answer as to why he had come. Since the incident at the Clock Tower, a part of Peter had been in shock, not at the assault inflicted on his one time comrade, but one born of the pity he had felt for him as he sat broken on the wet floor. And the realisation hit Peter that he had come precisely because of that pity; that at some level, buried under decades of resentment, hatred and anger, he still cared for his friend of old. The thought stopped Peter in his tracks and he went back and forth as though he were a worried auditor hastily double checking his figures and reaching the same inescapable conclusion; he had come to save Deprez. Resentment rose within his gut as Peter’s mind screamed a defiance that his gut would not accept.
The Baroque statues looked down in silent agreement with Peter and he turned his head to look at the one closest to him; a thin figure carrying a crucifix and a golden feather and wearing a halo of five golden stars around his head. The figure held his head to one side and wore on his face a look of concerned forgiveness.
“John of Nepomuk,” said Remy Deprez who suddenly stood a few yards behind Peter, “Czech national saint and martyr to imperial interferance. Thrown from the Charles Bridge and drowned at the orders of Wenceslaus King of the Romans in 1393.”
Peter had swivelled in surprise when hearing Deprez’s voice but stopped still and mirrored the Frenchman’s clamness.
“Mate of yours was he?” Peter spoke in a low begrudging voice and turned his head back toward the statue.
“I love this country Peter,” Deprez responded. “It’s good to know about the place one lives. And dies.”
Peter turned back to Deprez thinking to offer a comeback but stopped himself. He looked closely at his adversary. To look at him would not suggest that he was suffering any after effects from the confrontation in the Clock Tower; his black suit and overcoat were as immaculate as usual while noticeably the strain that had been a permenant feature of his face for years had vanished, replaced by a look of surprising contentment. Peter even thought he saw some colour in the normally deathly pale cheeks.
“What do you want?” Peter was disinclined to engage in small talk.
Deprez lifted his hand, to halt any verbal or physical barrage. “The Child has arrived in Prague to personally oversee the completion of the project and ensure a smooth transition.”
“Transition to what?”
“Transition from my leadership to someone else’s.”
The Frenchman’s voice was softer, weaker than Peter remembered and he understood why. “So what’s going to happen to you?” Peter asked, half predicting the answer.
“I have been offered re-assignment or…”
Peter knew what the other option would be.
“I’m sorry.”
Deprez smiled. “It is I who should apologise. I wanted to tell you in person, I’m not sure why.”
“And I’m not sure why I came. But here we are.”
“My reassignment, of course, depends on one thing.”
“You killing me?”
“Oui.”
“Good luck with that.”
Deprez smiled, a sincere smile devoid of arrogance or sneer.
“I’m not going to kill you Peter, I won’t even try. You were right.” Deprez looked away, across the Vltava, leaning his gloved hands against the stone wall. “I thought I was keeping myself clean by never going through with a kill myself, never directly ordering a murder. I thought that kept me
somehow above it all, above people like you. But in truth, you towered above me.”
Peter joined him in looking out across the river.
“None of us can hold our heads particularly high.”
“Well I intend to hold mine a little higher in death.” He turned back to face Peter.
“I apologise to you for my actions. The only compensation I can offer is to refuse to take your life as ordered.”
Peter shook his head, the passionate spontaneity which fuelled his last encounter with Deprez absent, replaced by a speechlessness he could only break by stating the obvious.
“They’ll kill you.”
“Oui,” said Deprez, “but they have been killing me for years my friend, every time they looked at me and every time they spoke to me, their hands gripped my throat a little tighter.” He spoke Peter’s own words back to him without anger or malice, merely with peaceful acceptance. “At least now they can finish the job.”
Deprez reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gun which he held loosely pointed at Peter.
“What’s that for?”
“Effect. You should go,” he told Peter. “My intentions will soon be clear and I’m sure you can guess what the reaction will be.”
Realisation struck Peter and he looked sharply around.
“You’re being shadowed?”
“It would be naïve to suspect otherwise. Either way, there is no need for you to stay.”
His voice was backed by the inebriated song of a staggering group of Brits, shuffling up from Lesser Town, still some distance from the pair but their voices growing louder by the second.
“Run,” said Deprez. “Through your countrymen over there; at least you’ll be a moving target.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Then you will leave Ms. Svobodova defenceless. You have your own path Peter, this is mine. Goodbye my friend.”
The stumbling collection of drunks was getting close enough to fill their ears with profanity but neither man responded or even registered the innuendo. Peter, a curious desperation sweeping over him, tried one last time to halt his former controller’s intentions.
“Remy…”
Before any further word could leave Peter’s mouth, the Frenchman had raised the small gun in the air and hurled it into the river below, a tell-tale red light appearing on his chest almost before the weapon had hit the water.
“Go.” Remy whispered the word with a smile, just as the group of drunkards reached them, announcing their arrival with exaggerated effeminate whistles, which turned to cries of shock as a bullet whooshed through their number, skimming the bridge as it went. With an agility he could scarcely believe he still possessed, Peter spun around and ran through the close knit, intoxicated huddle, knocking several roughly aside as he sped into Lesser Town and disappeared into the darkness. The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance accompanied by the cries of the startled stag party now panicking and scrabbling to safety.
Remy stood silently alone awaiting his fate.
“Notre Père, qui es aux cieux,” he whispered as he turned to face the tower from where the shot had been fired. “Que ton nom soit sanctifié.” Walking forward slowly he outspread his arms, inviting his martyrdom. “Que ton règne vienne…”
The shot flung him backwards against the statue and he twisted his eyes to meet John of Nepomuk’s and smiled. With a tremendous effort he turned back toward the tower, dark red staining his crisp, white shirt.
“Que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel,” he said through his grin. With the second shot he spun again and toppled over the side of the bridge, slipping quietly into the depths of the Vltava, where he sank, silent and un-complaining, through the velveteen waters.
It was several hours later that Peter marched down the hotel corridor to Mirushka’s suite, to be met by Rado’s furrowed brow, his expression hardening further when he saw Peter’s own face.
“What’s up?”
Peter never broke stride, flinging the door open. “I’m getting her out of here.”
In front of him at the writing desk sat Mirushka, a velvet dressing grown flowing around her. She jumped in shock at Peter’s entry.
“Láska moja,” she said, getting up from her chair and moving to embrace him, “where have you been?”
Peter resisted the temptation to relax into her arms and held her gently at the hips.
“Get dressed, you’re not staying here tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going anywhere!”
“They killed him Mirushka!” Peter knew his voice was louder than he would have liked and tried to control the crack he could feel lying in his throat. “They killed him in front of me.”
“Who?” Mirushka asked, confused.
“Deprez,” Peter shook his head, the adrenaline hampering the collection of his thoughts. “Remy. He was supposed to kill me but he wouldn’t do it, so they…” Peter’s voice was becoming higher and his breathing shorter and he silently swore at his display of weakness.
Mirushka lifted her hands to his face, cupping it delicately and speaking in her soft, patient tones.
“Calm down Miláčku. Tell me, what happened?”
Peter explained his movements since the meeting with McShade that day; the encounter with the man in the square, his replacement and the subsequent message from Remy to meet at the bridge. She chastised him for his foolishness in attending, to which he nodded in agreement, but when he got to the point of Remy’s death he fell into momentary silence.
“He refused to do it,” he said after a quiet scramble for words, “so they killed him.”
“He sacrificed himself?”
“Some kind of ultimate act of contrition I suppose…”
“Contrition?”
Peter opened his eyes to his lover, “It’s an old word, and it basically means deep regret at past wrongs, religious penitence, that kind of thing.” He shook his head clear once more and broke free from her arms.
“Anyway, it means they’re coming for you now, we’ve got to get you away. Rado!”
Radoslav appeared at the door, only for Mirushka to hold up her hand.
“Miláčku,” she began, “I understand your pain, but I will not give in to paranoia. I have absolute faith in Rado, his team and in you.”
She gestured Rado to leave and walked through to the bedroom, while Peter looked on in stubborn frustration.
“You’re being reckless!” He hissed.
“I hadn’t realised that going to sleep in one’s own bed was considered an especially reckless activity,” she gently answered over her shoulder.
Peter glowered back. “That’s just what Herbert thought about taking his insulin, that’s what Dubček thought about chauffer driven cars!”
Mirushka breathed deeply and smiled, acknowledging Peter’s heartfelt concern without condescension.
“Láska moja,” she began, “I thank you for your concern but this is where I’m sleeping tonight. I would like it if you lay next to me but if you think that is so very dangerous then feel free to go elsewhere.”
“I’m staying here with you.” He followed her into the bedroom where she dropped her robe to the floor and climbed between the sheets, clamping her tired eyes shut. Switching off the light, he let his eyes get used to the dark while he undressed himself, before perching, cross legged on the bed beside her, his muscles drained and aching but his mind unable to rest. Eyes red and wide he stared into the darkness, waiting for what he was sure would soon come.
Though his eyes still stared, stinging and unblinking, several hours later, it was his ears that first alerted him to the danger. The tiniest of clinks on the window glass was enough to break Peter’s stare, cocking his head to one side and straining for an encore. As it came, he slid, silently from the bed and stood, naked and barefoot next to the long, velvet curtain, the fibres of the drape brushing against his unshaven cheek as he tracked the sounds behind it. The unrested stresses withi
n him had built hour upon hour, flooding his mind with adrenaline and flushing from it all traces of patience and strategic analysis; instead he stalked his prey on instinct and the primal desire to fight and protect, always keeping the sleeping body of his lover within his field of vision, until finally, as he’d expected, the edge of the drape was pushed gently aside by a silent, steel barrel which raised slowly and deliberately towards the bed.
Letting forth a guttural cry, Peter reached through the gap and grabbed the arm of the would be shooter, pulling it and the man it was attached to through the curtains and hurling him onto the bed. His tired muscles burned in protest but Peter ignored the pain and before the figure could recover, Peter was on him, throwing him from the bed to the floor, away from his now woken lover, who scrambled to the edge wrapping the sheets around her. His feral rage consuming his reason, Peter willingly surrendered to thoughtless instinct and swung blow after blow against the attacker, releasing all of his tension and all of his guilt upon the man who wriggled and grappled in vain to throw off the animal who clung to his flesh.
The door to the room smashed open and Peter became aware of Mirushka’s screams and of Rado shouting in Slovak. Looking up, the haze cleared from Peter’s eyes enough for him to make out the sight of Rado pointing his weapon at the man struggling beneath him.
“He’s mine!” Peter shouted in a bestial roar.
The man was strong and Peter pushed his smarting, exhausted muscles to tearing point to hold him down and claw himself into position behind him.
“It’s you isn’t it?” Peter shouted at the figure writhing in his arms, “I know it’s you!” He ripped at the black mask covering his opponent’s face and yanked at it, his fingers gouging into the eye holes for a better grip and to further weaken the man behind them. Finally succeeding in tearing the black cloth from his face, Peter wrenched the man’s head upwards so he could stare down from above into his enemy’s eyes. The man in the square. Peter had expected no other but the moment of recognition stilled him for just the quickest of seconds.
Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller! Page 16