Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  “Láska,” she finally acknowledged, her head still facing away, gazing up at the Eiffel-like tower before them. “I’ve had a message from Mr Greyson, just now.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “He’s arranging something last minute, at the concert tonight. Apparently Sir Roger has convinced the Americans to talk and perhaps the Russians too…”

  “Going to share a bucket of popcorn are you?” Peter regretted his words; it was not time for humour.

  “Maybe we can share words instead,” she quietly responded.

  “Maybe. What made Greyson change his mind? He didn’t seem very keen at the meeting.”

  Mirushka hesitated and Peter saw her head drop slightly.

  “The girl,” she stuttered, “the one with him at the meeting.”

  “Bland?”

  “Yes. She’s dead.”

  Peter’s fallen heart sunk lower still. He stood, unmoving, allowing the cold to bite and scratch at his skin, permitting his arthritic knuckles to throb unclenched.

  “Another one,” he finally whispered.

  “Another one.”

  “I have to go Mirushka.” His words were soft, honest; a dignified plea for understanding, for permission.

  “You don’t love me?”

  “Oh God, Mirushka, I love you more than I know how to say; so much that I have to go.”

  Still she refused to face him, as though only hearing the words, not seeing the man saying them, would bring less pain.

  “You can’t go,” her voice began to shake, “you are my protector now, remember?”

  “I do. And I need to protect you the only way I can. Adrianna, Remy, Bland, how many more have to die before I admit what I am and use it to save you? I can’t let it go on Mirushka, and I can’t let you suffer the consequences of my actions.”

  “Isn’t that my choice?”

  “It’s a choice I can’t let you make. I was kidding myself; there’s no redemption for me, there’s a reason I was chosen for this work. It’s time I accepted that, it’s time I accepted who I am. At least by doing that I can save you from the same fate.”

  “It isn’t fair, this isn’t right.”

  “No. You know, you were right, back in the restaurant. I could never understand why she left me, why she said she had to give me the freedom to find someone else, but maybe I do now, because I love you enough to give you the same.”

  “That’s not a freedom I asked for or want.”

  “But it’s the best thing I can do for you now.”

  “That just makes it worse!” She turned, finally, and ran to him, throwing her arms around him and sinking into his embrace.

  They stood there for a precious few moments, unconcerned by the scrambling of photographers or Černý’s distasteful glance. An aide’s voice called the two minute warning for the Q&A to begin and people began shuffling to their positions.

  “I don’t know how to say goodbye,” Mirushka whispered tearfully into Peter’s ear.

  “Just win,” he answered, surrendering to the crack in his own voice. “Win and remember me.”

  He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her.

  “I love you,” Mirushka whispered as the aide shouted for her attendance.

  “Lubim ta,” he replied.

  She slipped from his arms, their fingers lingering together, prolonging their contact for a few precious seconds before turning and striding purposefully, confidently, back to her stage; the uncrowned Queen, moving ever closer to her coronation.

  Peter watched her take her place alongside Černý, holding her court in the palm of her hand, and he turned away from his love, away from his redemption, descending down the autumnal Petrin Hill into perdition’s flames.

  Before entering the inferno, there had to be time for one last apology, one last stop, a final respite before the burning commenced. Striding across the square Peter queried his own sanity as he reached his destination. He couldn’t put his finger on why he went back here of all places. In the weeks since Herbert’s death, he had barely been able to glance in its direction, not only because of his shame but a nagging illogical fear of being struck down by some divine rage. Nonetheless, there Peter sat in ponderous silence on the back pew of the Church of Our Lady before Tyn. The seat on which Herbert had died had become a shrine, separated from the rest of the row by red velvet cord and adorned with flowers, hand written cards and other tributes. Peter sat in contemplation, allowing the thoughts that had diminished in his time with Mirushka to begin slowly claiming him again.

  “I got your message.”

  Peter glanced up into Rasti’s oddly nervous face, giving it a slight smile.

  “Alright mate?”

  “What’s wrong with meeting at the bar?”

  “Not a fan of the venue?”

  “It’s just been a long time.”

  Rasti squeezed onto the pew next to Peter and joined him in staring at Herbert’s makeshift memorial. A few moments passed before the big Czech spoke again, his voice soft, concerned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Peter laughed. “What’s right mate?”

  “Woman trouble? You certainly know how to pick them, Peter.”

  Peter slapped his hand down on Rasti’s leg, grateful for his friend being there. “That’s just it Rasti. I didn’t pick her, she was picked out for me.”

  Rasti raised his eyebrows but Peter offered nothing more, changing the subject as he continued to stare at the flowers a few rows in front.

  “What would you do if you knew you going to die Rasti?”

  “I don’t know,” the big Czech answered, the question taking him by surprise, “probably pull the pants out of my arse and order another drink. Why, what would you do?”

  “Don’t know,” Peter mused. “I think I’m finding out now, but pretty close to the top of my list would be saying sorry to a friend for never being honest with them.”

  Rasti stayed quiet, letting his friend speak.

  “I told you I was a manager at an EU think tank. The truth is I killed for them, for a lot of years; when I used to come and get pissed with you because I’d had to sack someone, it was really because I’d killed them. And the longer it went on, the more I’d drink and the harder I’d lean on you to pick me back up again.”

  Still no words came from the former priest, his silence, Peter hoped, more intended to keep him talking than it was symptomatic of resentment and horror at the revelation. Fearful of what his friend’s reaction might be, Peter pressed on.

  “When I did my first job for them, I thought we were the good guys, I really did; the guys who did the jobs the police weren’t allowed to do. That’s how they trapped you. They sent me to a brothel in Brno, telling me it was full of trafficked girls. I was supposed to get the girls out and take care of the gang masters because the courts couldn’t be trusted to deal with them. So I did. My controller drowned me in compliments, telling me what a hero I was and what a difference I’d made, and man did I lap it up. I had nothing in Britain, but here? I was the cat with the cream. But then I found out about another den in Prague using trafficked girls so I ran off to my controller, ready to ride in all guns blazing, and do you know what he said? ‘Irrelevant’. He didn’t even look up from his desk. Well I got on my high horse asking how could it be irrelevant when he’d had me go in and sort out the last place? It turned out the first brothel was secretly owned by a German politician who’d upset the Institute and they had me turn it over to teach him a lesson. This new place had no bearing on Institute operations so was of no consequence to them; instead I was to take out the German while he was on a trip to Prague because he hadn’t taken the hint and was still acting up. Then the bastard offered me a glass of champagne to toast my new mission. I blew my top, said I wasn’t just some gun for hire, that I’d thought we were supposed to be looking out for the underdog and I threw the glass against the wall. That’s when the shit got real.”

  Peter paused, Rasti remained silent, having fallen b
ack, Peter realised, into his old role of confessional priest, with Peter in the role of the penitent sinner.

  “So I gave in. Totally. But they gave me a concession; kill the German as ordered and I could take out the brothel. I found him, no problem; a proper sleazy character. I put him in the boot of his car and drove up to the whore house. Once I’d got the girls out I burned the place down with the gang inside it, the German too. It wasn’t pretty. Outside, one of the girls crawled up to me and took off this gold cross she’d had around her neck and just knelt there, holding it up to me.”

  “Did you take it?” Rasti broke his silence, still staring ahead.

  “How could I?” came the response. “Not after what I’d just done, after how I’d agreed to live. I could barely even look at it. I just told her that if I’d ever been anyone’s knight then my armour was pretty soiled these days and she should save her gratitude for someone who deserved it. Then I left.”

  Peter drew the church’s scented, incense heavy air deeply into his lungs, at once curious and fearful of what his friend’s response would be. None came, just more silence, save for the wooden click of rosary beads that had suddenly appeared in Rasti’s hand.

  “That was years back, before the revolution. There are times I think I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve killed since then, and others when every single one of their faces parades in front of me and I can’t breathe. But still I carried on, until it was her turn. Then I stopped.”

  Their eyes remained fixed on Herbert’s tribute, Rasti’s toying with the Rosary the only movement between them. The big Czech spoke at last.

  “What changed?”

  “Herbert, I think. He was one of mine. But right at the end, he gave up his chance to turn me in. He could have called to his guards, people would have known it was murder and his legacy would have been secured, but he didn’t. He just whispered a passage of the bible to me.”

  “Which passage?”

  “Greater Love hath no man than this…”

  “That he lay down his life for his friend.”

  “Yep, and that’s what he did. Sacrificed his chance to ensure his life’s work was achieved so that I had a chance to sort myself out.”

  “And did you?”

  “I tried mate, I really did. I told Mirushka everything and she forgave me, can you believe that? She forgave me! And I’ve been trying my best to save her ever since, get her through the elections. But all around me people keep dying. That helicopter crash, remember? That was meant for Mirushka but young Adrianna got killed.”

  “I thought that was an accident, the TV reports said it was a mechanical malfunction.”

  “The report wouldn’t say anything else, but it was my lot, you can be sure of that. And then after her, my old controller decided to let himself be murdered rather than do me in, and now that bloody politician, Bland, all dead.”

  “But not at your hand.”

  “They might as well have been. Even when I turn my back on that world, people close to me keep dying. But what’s worse is that even though I’ve been trying to be a good man I’m still a monster. There was a guy, my replacement, he came for Mirushka one night but I stopped him; I had my arm around his throat ready to kill him before one of the guards shot him. And for a moment, all I could concentrate on was how angry I was that someone had taken away my prey.”

  Finally Rasti moved, turning his head towards Peter who looked back, his eyes full of apology. The Czech’s typical smile was absent but instead, he raised one powerful arm and wrapped it around Peter’s shoulders, drawing him into his chest, cradling him tenderly.

  “You tried to change, Peter, that’s what’s important.”

  Peter made no effort to resist the embrace, grateful for the warmth of his friend and the gentle rhythm of his heart beat.

  “I let you down mate,” he said. “I’ve spent years relying on you to cheer me up enough to go out and do my job again.”

  “You didn’t tell me your job. I didn’t ask questions, I was your friend. I still am.”

  “A friend to a murderer?”

  “It’s probably better than anything I did as a priest.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a moment, Peter stayed relaxed into the embrace before straightening up and looking ahead once more.

  “The thing is Rasti, I’ve still got to save her and there’s only one way I know how to do it, and there’s only one way that can end.”

  Rasti looked down. “I see. So why come to Church? To confess past sins before going out to repeat them?”

  “I know the score Rasti,” Peter sighed. “I’m not some terrorist who thinks he can bomb a pub then nip to confession and think everything will be ok, or blow up a restaurant full of tourists, say ten Hail Mary’s and walk merrily home. I know damn well what I do is wrong and I know damn well there’s no redemption for me if I go through with it.”

  “Peter,” Rasti began, his voice betraying paternal concern, “I heard a lot of confessions in my time and I know when people are genuine and when they’re paying lip service. In fact, that’s why I was asked to leave the priesthood.”

  “Really?”

  “It turned out that dragging people from the confessional box and kicking them down the street to the police station after they’d made unrepentant admissions of paedophilia was frowned upon by my superiors as a ‘violation of Confessional Sanctity’. We agreed to differ on that point. Luckily I knew how to cook.”

  Peter laughed out loud, causing the few scattered worshipers to turn and scowl in his direction.

  “Good for you mate,” he said. “Sounds like you made the right choice.” He looked up, away from the flowers and the imposing crucifix which had hung before him the night of Herbert’s death. “But I haven’t got any choices; I guess I came here to just say sorry and thanks for trying.” He stood up and hurried to the door, turning back to Rasti. “And I’m sorry Rasti, sorry for getting you involved and sorry for not being a better friend, but there’s no way out of this for me.”

  He hurried through the doors and out into the street where the rain had begun once more to pour, hammering down onto his head, the sudden cold robbing him of breath. He heard the sound of Rasti scrambling to catch him and soon felt the big man’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Peter!”

  “It’s no good Rasti, I’ve no choice!” He shouted the words over the sound of the falling rain and scurrying tourists, and the chef shouted back, matching Peter’s passion.

  “Everyone has a choice! Do you want to change or don’t you?”

  “Of course I want to, but if I don’t go through with it she dies and the election is off, I can’t let that happen when I’ve a chance of stopping it!”

  “Not if you only rely on yourself!”

  Rasti grabbed Peter by the lapels, the Czech’s strength taking him by surprise, and pushed him into a small stone alcove.

  “Peter,” Rasti kept hold of the Englishman, staring directly and intently into his eyes, “I don’t have any magic words for you, I don’t know what you can do to alter events, but I know that I’ve fucked up more than a few times in my life and usually because I was too arrogant to ask for help.”

  “There’s no-one who can help me mate,” Peter protested.

  “Maybe not down here.” Rasti pushed Peter down into a crouch, sliding down to join him and fishing in his pocket while rippling pools built up in the cobbles beside them. He pulled a small, half baguette from his deep pocket, crossed his hand over it then tore a piece off and held it out of Peter.

  “The Body of Christ.”

  “You what?”

  “Broken for you.”

  “You’re not a priest anymore and does this even work out here?”

  “Better here than anywhere, better now than anytime. Take it!”

  Peter, flustered, confused, took the proffered, soggy sandwich, chewing it quickly. Stuffing the remainder back into his pocket, Rasti reached into his coat again and produced a hip fla
sk, hurriedly crossing it again.

  “The Blood of Christ.”

  “Mate, I’ve not done this in years…”

  “Shed for you!”

  Peter took the flask and knocked a shot back; the familiar warmth of the spirit inside making its way into his body.

  “Mate,” he said, breathless from the alcohol, “what was the point?”

  “It gives you something else to think about, a reminder to yourself that you want to change and that someone else has got your back.” Rasti grinned. “Don’t just rely on yourself Peter, be the guy you choose to be, not what you think you have to be.”

  Peter grinned back at his rain soaked friend.

  “Rasti,” he laughed, “who keeps a sandwich in their coat?”

  “For emergencies; you never know when you’ll get hungry.”

  Peter reached his hands up to his friend’s shoulders, Rasti reciprocating; the pair leaning their foreheads against each other’s as the rain continued to fall on them.

  “I love you man,” said Peter.

  “Right back at you.”

  “Goodbye Rastislav.”

  “Goodbye Peter.”

  Rasti stood straight, giving his friend one last smile, then turned and walked away, rain pounding off him, back towards his bar and restaurant, back towards the sanctuary Peter could no longer run to. Peter watched him disappear then turned and set off to arrange his destiny, uncertain once more if it would see him damned or redeemed.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE GLOWING RADIANCE of the Smetana Hall in Prague’s Municipal House surpassed even its own high standards as the highest of high society gathered for The Concert of Celebration; an evening of works by Czech composers, suggested some time before by President Čurda and, coincidentally, arranged for the night before the election. Those same composers stared down from their portraits at the tuxedoed and elegantly gowned patrons filing into the magnificence of the hall, with its imposing organ and intricate sculptures.

  Into the foyer strode The Rt. Hon Jonathan Greyson, alone save for his new security detail, and carrying with him an air of confidence a few notches above what was typically necessary to be a successful politician, and far above that usually displayed by a chastened one. Instantly recognisable to swathes of the audience, many of whom populated the city’s various embassies by day, he deftly and skilfully accepted the brief condolences on the loss of his colleague and made his way into his box.