Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  McShade’s entire demeanour had changed to one of relaxed conversationalism. Still authoritative, still wary of the earshot of those around him, but nonetheless more genial than at any time Peter could remember, as though he were enjoying mulling over a problem of hypothetical philosophy with his erstwhile protégé.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he continued, “it’s likely you’ll still be called to make the supreme sacrifice, but by far the best option would be for you to be true to yourself and kill for her instead.”

  Again, Peter’s face began to contort into a grimace.

  “Kill?” he asked, his voice tinged with resentment.

  The focus returned once more to McShade’s manner and he leaned closer, across the table to his colleague.

  “Don’t pretend your some kind of reformed apostle,” he said, “You’ve always been a killer and it’s still inside you; I know what happened in the hotel.”

  “Who told y ----”

  “That doesn’t matter.” The older man had command of the conversation and was quick to dispel any insubordinate questioning. “What does matter is that the best way for you to help Miroslava is to use your skills against those who would do her harm. Whether you die or not doesn’t matter to The Child, you’re only a secondary target for him. And with you dead, they’ll still keep coming for her, only this time you won’t be there to help; and let’s face it, your recent history of reunions with former colleagues suggests you’re unlikely to survive another encounter.” McShade paused for a moment, to make sure, Peter supposed, that the message was taking root. “Cat and Mouse games are all very well but become significantly more difficult the more visible the Mouse. Ms Svobodova has no choice but to be visible and even if you think you can carry on playing the game with such odds against you, every cat The Child sends will be fiercer than the last, and they’ll keep coming until she is dead and the election postponed. We have a unique opportunity to prevent all that by taking the fight to them, an opportunity made possible by your girlfriend’s unfathomable decision to forgive you and keep you around.”

  McShade had drained the positivity from Peter with every word he spoke, snuffing out the tiny flame of hope that had lit inside him after their last meeting, leaving only a sweetly scented, smoky residue. Damn it, he thought, what was he even doing here? What magic words did he think McShade would have to offer anyway, even if he wanted to? No, he didn’t want to die, but he wanted to be prepared to if he had to, and killing again was poor preparation for his immortal soul. Peter’s eyes flickered as he ran the variables through his mind which was once more becoming flustered; albeit with emotion rather than alcohol.

  “Suppose..,” he stuttered, desperately reaching for an answer, any answer that could offer an alternative to McShade’s ‘kill or be killed’ mentality, “… you said The Child would alter his plans if Mirushka won the election.”

  “I said he might alter his plans,” McShade corrected him, caution in his voice, “there’s no guarantee I’m right.”

  “So what made you say he would?” Peter continued to press his point, desperate to pluck at any straw which could offer a way out of his dilemma.

  “Like I said, he’s a pragmatist.” McShade downed the rest of his coffee, “The Child doesn’t shy away from murder but he’s no sadist. I suppose if you were to give him a label then ‘disciplinarian’ would be the most appropriate. He analyses the political landscape and sets actions in motion which support his objective; often his objective necessitates the death of certain persons, but he prefers to move more subtly than that. At the moment he believes that Svobodova’s death will lead to a postponed election and the subsidence of the reunification movement, however if she wins and the countries propose to reunite then it makes more sense for him to ensure the process is procrastinated; your lady friend’s death would be little more than petty revenge; that’s not his business.”

  “He wants revenge on me,” Peter snorted, only to be met by a laugh.

  “Don’t flatter yourself Mr Lowe,” McShade chuckled, “he doesn’t care enough about you to want revenge. You are being disciplined.”

  “Pretty extreme form of discipline.”

  “Oh absolutely, but his punishments can vary a great deal. Your desire to ‘embrace the light’ and lead a pure and holy life has been massively detrimental to his plans, so it makes sense to him that an appropriate punishment would be taking that life away from you. For others it could be loss of career or…”

  “Or saddling you with responsibility for an economic disaster.” Peter allowed the jibe out against his better judgement and immediately regretted it, even despite McShade’s amused re-telling of The Child’s punishment philosophies. It had the desired effect of cutting the joviality from McShade’s voice and reminding him that Peter was not to be mocked. The older man’s expression returned to its default position.

  “Quite so,” he said, quietly.

  Peter sought to limit the damage and get back to the matter in hand. “The election is only a few days away now. If I can get her through them alive then you’re saying there’s a good chance The Child will let her live?”

  “Perhaps,” McShade agreed, resentment at his chastening touching his voice, “although punishment will undoubtedly come in some form. But why take the chance?” He leaned forward, the intensity returned to his gaze. “You’re a killer Mr Lowe. I wasn’t Dr Frankenstein, you aren’t my creation; I chose you because of what you are. Accept your nature and do what needs to be done to save her.”

  Peter once more lowered his eyes, trying vainly to avoid the ferocity of his companion’s stare. “Not any more,” he protested, “I’ve stopped all that now.”

  McShade stared for a moment before he spoke again, patiently but with headmasterly sternness.

  “When I was a boy,” he began, “my grandparents would insist I accompany them to church each Sunday. They were old fashioned, religious people and the Minister was, shall we say, something of a traditionalist, eager to fill young minds with warnings of fire and brimstone. He would tell tales of evil men, guilty of the most horrendous of sins who became sickened with themselves. Unwilling to turn to the church, they grew so desperate for relief from the horrors of their existence that they sought escape through any means necessary, even into hell itself, believing they could find some eventual release.”

  “And did they?”

  “No, because no such route exists. But like every fool in hell they spent an eternity searching in vain for something that didn’t exist, just as you do now. For a wise man, sometimes the only choice is an escape to perdition.”

  “Not a very appealing choice.”

  “But an honest one. At least in perdition one has the luxury of being true to oneself and accepting the consequences of one’s choices. There is no redemption for people like us and instead of scrambling to find some path to paradise as you burn still further on the coals, you should accept who you are and embrace the damnation it brings you, because at least you’ve saved someone else from enduring that fate in your place.”

  Peter broke eye contact as McShade recounted his story, the soundness of his proposition hammering unfairly home, so much so that he had nothing with which to counter it, save for clenched arthritic knuckles and a furrowed brow.

  “The Child may instil fear in all he encounters, but he isn’t God,” McShade pressed on, “and even though his past has been shrouded you can be sure at least that he has one.”

  Peter’s grimace showed little sign of receding. “Don’t we all,” he muttered, pointedly.

  “Indeed, but few as interesting or as unique as his. And particularly his life before The Institute.”

  Peter raised an eyebrow at the slow tease of information and the old statesman leaned closer in response, his voice low and encaptivating.

  “You have motive Mr Lowe, and with the appropriate level of thought and effort, opportunities can be manufactured, even against those such as him. The only question is whether you will allow you
r conscience to hold you back from whom you truly are or whether you will protect your great love in the only way you surely can. If not she will die, and despite Černý’s no doubt sterling efforts, her dreams will die with her. Can you think of any good reason why you would let that happen when it is within your power to prevent it?”

  McShade’s words continued to pour in their unjustly logical way and Peter clinked his spoon in his empty cup as they washed over him, eyes still averted, face still granite.

  “No,” he finally said, scooping the remnants of wet sugar from his cup before tapping them back where they lay. “No.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE PICTURE REBUKED HIM from the table of his Parliamentary office, silently mocking with brutal simplicity. Černý’s own self, coldly twisted into undignified caricature, staring back at him; an expression of misery inked onto the exaggerated features. The figure, un-lovingly clothed in scruffy, ill-fitting butler’s garb, clutched sadly to the skirt train of the regally sketched Svobodova who stood, radiant, on a podium atop a map of Central Europe; a raggedly dressed peasant poised to lower a bejewelled crown onto her head. The picture hardly needed a caption to deliver its message, but at the top of the panel flew a cherub carrying a flowing banner, bearing the inscription: ‘vel’ký partnerstva’ – The Great Partnership.

  Černý was used to satire, but this cut him to the core, not least because he recognised the truth of it. However much he may protest its exaggeration, however insistent he may be that this was his election in his country, Svobodova was the one calling the shots. She knew it, the people knew it and deep down so did he. Ignorance may be no defence but neither did awareness offer him comfort as he tried in vain to ignore the picture and concentrate on his speech.

  The knock at his door was an irritant, while his ignored instruction to go away and subsequent opening was anger inducing. He raised his eyes, his voice ready to deliver a stinging rebuke to whichever fool had entered, only for him to stare in cold surprise at the figure in the doorway.

  “Ms. Hedvikova,” he greeted her. Daleka Hedvikova, the Czech Deputy Prime Minister walked slowly but confidently towards his desk, immaculately attired, exuding the air of contemptuous sexuality that saw her hold so many men from all sides of Parliament in her grip, a number which did not include Černý.

  “Are you sure the Prime Minister would think this meeting wise?”

  “Vladimir is a fool,” she laughed, “a puppet. And so is that idiot Čurda, who thinks he pulls the strings.”

  “A discourteous way of speaking of one’s masters.”

  “But an accurate one,” the young Czech countered, a hint of irritation in her voice at Černý’s lack of attention to her. “In any case, this is the 21st Century. Why should I submit to anyone’s mastery other than my own?”

  Looking up at her, the old man took her in properly. She was certainly beautiful. Her hair, typically tied back into a severe pony tail, lay long and dark down her back, brushing her shoulders and cradling her chin. The smile on her face possessed all the mischievousness of Svobodova’s, but little of its sincerity, and was etched with a trace of cruelty. Not a hint of warmth was detectable behind the striking, calculating blue eyes. She stood, her arms resting on the rim of the chair, leaning slightly forward toward him; the neck of her blouse hanging invitingly close to his line of vision, and asked, her voice softer, for permission to sit.

  Černý, unlike Čurda or Rukavice, was no fool and kept his eyes on hers; granting her request to be seated, while declining the invitation of her posture.

  “We need to talk about the future,” she said, her voice somewhat artificially warm.

  “The election is close at hand.”

  “If it goes ahead.”

  Her words provoked a genuine reaction in Černý for the first time; of intrigue, yes, but predominantly of disappointment.

  “You as well? I’d hoped you were simply ruthlessly determined, rather than a traitor.”

  “A traitor to what?” Her smile seemed just a touch crueller, her voice a notch harsher as she responded to Černý’s jibe. “I simply believe our future lies down a different path than the one you are on, but I would be grateful of company on the journey.”

  He felt goose bumps threatening to rise on his flesh as she slid her hand gently across the desk to cover his. He looked down at her young, fresh skin, and suppressed the tingle of nerves in his hand.

  “I would have thought your ‘Institute’ friends would be company enough.”

  “There is always room for one more,” she said, her smile widening. “Why not come along for the ride?”

  “Madam,” Černý began, “while I refrain from passing judgement on those who use their wiles to prey on the weaknesses of others, I would ask you to remember that I am a stronger man than most.”

  He firmly, respectfully, withdrew his hand from beneath hers and returned it to its position before him on the desk, while a look of puzzled offence flittered across Hedvikova’s features.

  “I am old enough to be your grandfather and wise enough to know all the rules of the game. I may even have written a few in my time. I find your Institute distasteful in the extreme and its intentions with regard to this election and this country offensive, and your singular appeal, bountiful though it is, is insufficient to sway my convictions. So, if that is all, I shall bid you Dobré Odpoledne.”

  The puzzlement on Hedvikova’s face gave way to a scowl and she quickly pulled her own outstretched hand, now embarrassingly empty, back toward herself. The scowl didn’t last long, as Černý expected, and he maintained eye contact with her as her face relaxed into the cold smile that was its natural state.

  “Well thank God for that,” she said, “I’m not sure I could have gone through with it. You’re so… old.” She hissed the last word with unhidden disgust, the cold smile unchanged on her face.

  The insult, like the short lived scowl, was to be expected and Černý refused to allow her the satisfaction of having caused him offence, instead simply smiling at the spiteful creature before him.

  “An advantage of age madam is the ability to gauge whether or not certain sacrifices are worth the price.” He paused for a moment. “One imagines your own have proven frighteningly expensive.”

  This time the smile gave way to a look of vicious anger. She hissed profanities and sprang from her chair, the once seductive arm ready to strike the old man across his face.

  Černý’s own arm reached up in a flash of age defying alacrity, and his hand clamped down on Hedvikova’s wrist like a vice, holding it in the air as she slammed her other hand to the desk to retain her balance, spitting her fury at him, before breaking out into sudden laughter as she collapsed into her chair. Černý relaxed his grip on her and raised his eyebrow at the extraordinary display he was witnessing. After a moment, her laughter subsided and she wagged her finger in a show of mock chastisement.

  “Ah, Karol, Karol,” she said, “no-one has ever provoked such reactions in me as you do. You are unique sir. If only you were younger.”

  “You’re too kind.” The old man responded in mock courtesy.

  “And that is why I need you,” Hedvikova spoke, suddenly in earnest. “The election is days away and Svobodova will not live to see the votes cast. She will be dead long before and Čurda will have all the grounds he needs to justify delaying proceedings.”

  Černý stayed quiet, his face reverted to an emotionless slab, shadowed by the ridge of his high forehead, as though the darkness behind Hedvikova’s words was reflected on his features. The silence was broken by the crinkle of the newspaper, which the young woman picked up from the desk, unfolding it to reveal the hated cartoon. She shook her head in exaggerated disappointment, tutting just loudly enough for Černý to hear.

  “Make no mistake Karol, your party made the right decision in passing you over for the leadership. You are old, tired. A national hero yes, but never quite centre stage; always in Herbert Biely’s shadow, even after his death.�
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  Černý’s brow furrowed deeper as Hedvikova’s words cut into him. She was right; he had always lived in the shadow of his friend. Herbert was the country’s darling and Černý had been proud to stand behind him. But in never standing at the front, Černý had been relegated to the status of support act; a poster boy wheeled out to get the votes in. The party in Prague was his, but he was still overcast by the shadow of another. This time he owed no allegiance to the one casting it, save for her inheritance of Herbert’s mantle; an inheritance unearned, in Černý’s view, and which kept him from the recognition he deserved. Černý knew that his silence was sugar to the wasp before him, but the resentment bubbling in his throat choked his impotent protest and he remained quiet as she moved in for the kill.

  “Svobodova is different,” she said, “the face of the future, even though it is a future she will never see. She is a strong woman, who makes even the legends of old speak in her tongue; breaking the men who refused to kneel before Russian tanks.”

  Černý’s eyes dropped still further, while Hedvikova fixed hers upon him. “It must have been humiliating for you Karol,” faux concern adding a sickening quality to her voice, “a proud Czech like you, a national hero, publicly submitting to the will of a woman. A Slovak woman…”

  She tossed the paper down on the desk, to land with the offending image facing the old man. The earnest appeal in Hedvikova’s eyes had been diluted, leaving only coldness and she pressed home her advantage while she could.

  “You were weak to let her do that to you Karol, the Černý of old would never have made such a concession; the Černý who should have been this country’s Prime Minister. But you are not him anymore. You blew your shot Karol; instead of being revered as a great leader of our country, you’re just a man who stood in the shadows so long you became one yourself.”