“You haven’t heard the worst of it yet.”
“There are other witnesses here?”
“No, but I’ve just read a couple of statements. It seems the late Sergeant Hendry and your friend with the shakes over there got wind that some of the crew were heading out last night on ‘Terror Patrol’. ”
Stone grimaced at the expression, having heard similar stories from other parts of the world.
“Terror Patrol,” he spat.
“Aye, a few of them suited and booted in their best Army Surplus fatigues, stocked to the gills with knuckle dusters and night sticks, roaming the streets looking for ‘terrorists’, or anyone who fits the general shade on their colour chart. Your comrade in arms and his mate found out about it and went out to challenge them, getting a sound beating for their trouble, with the Sergeant coming off worst of all.”
Stone gave up any effort to contain his anger as he assimilated William’s words and he swung his fist against the tank’s metal shell, cursing at once as the pain surged through his arm.
“I want every one of the bastards in chains and charged as accessories to murder!” He shouted his demands in the general direction of the still angered Detective, who glared fiercely back at the Captain, while Williams gave a short contemptuous laugh.
“Yeah? And I want to be rocked to sleep every night in the bosom of a Valkyrie Maiden with a bottle of single malt plugged intravenously into my veins. You have no fucking power to demand anything here, Captain Marvel, so just keep your fucking emotions in check.”
Stone glowered at the Scot and opened his mouth to angrily retort but was cut short before he could begin.
“Emotions man,” Williams scolded, “that’s not why we’re here! You said you had suspicions about the crew, does this bear them out and is it useful to us?”
“I don’t know, maybe… yes.”
Stone filled his lungs, trying to balance out his chemistry and regain composure while a short man dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved shirt opened almost to his slightly rotund belly broke free from the crowd and headed towards them, bellowing at the pair.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Stone and Williams crossed to the barrier as he approached, Rado falling in behind them as they took in the sight of the curious newcomer in all his perverse glory.
“Are you in charge here?” the squat man asked with an unmistakeably American inflection. “How long are you guys gonna be?”
Stone balked at the blatant disrespect on show and stepped forward to offer his own choice remonstrations, but met with the surprisingly gentle touch of Williams’ hand on his arm, the Scotsman greeting the man with an enormous smile.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he intoned with breath-taking sincerity, “this road is likely to be closed to tourists for the rest of the day at least; we’ve had a murder here you see? The guy on the floor over there isn’t just lying down on the job while using a bottle of ketchup as a pillow, so unfortunately that means you and whichever entourage you’re touring with will have to find a different part of the city to be insufferable in today, ok?”
The angered face turned a glorious shade of crimson at Williams’ condescension, but no indication its owner was prepared to back down.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Oh, now give me a minute,” Williams eagerly replied like a moth to the proverbial flame, “you look like you could find work as a stunt double for Michael Moore, even with your designer specs which you probably don’t even need, but you sound more like that blustering, uncultured noise my car makes when it backfires… Got it! You’re Fred Flintstone’s less successful brother!”
“Very, fucking funny,” the man slowly intoned, his grip on his anger evidently not very strong and his gaze fixed firmly on Williams. “Just in case the Entertainment News reaches as far as Scotland, you might recognise my name: Jonah P. Reynard.”
Stone knew the name well, as did many people with an interest in film; Jonah P. Reynard, one of the brightest directing talents to emerge from Hollywood in the past ten years; a visionary radical, with a string of successes behind him, only inches separated them now as the film maker assimilated Williams’ barrage.
“The Director?” Williams looked around, shock on his lined face, “Well thank God you’re here! You really couldn’t have come at a better time Jonah, you see, there’s a movie being filmed in Prague right now as it happens and by all accounts it’s going to be shit.”
“Shit, huh?” Jonah repeated, a sarcastic smile on his face. “Well then I’d better get to work improving it. I have two trucks full of equipment stuck up the road, waiting to be unloaded and a coach full of actors who get paid for every day over schedule that this movie lasts. You guys are in the way of my shoot and you are costing me time and money.”
“This is a murder investigation.”
“There’s nothing to fucking investigate!” Jonah’s voice rose, his anger finally overcoming his restraint. “A couple of guys had a fight, one ended up with his ticket punched instead of just his head. You have witnesses, you know who you’re looking for, so get the stiff in the ambulance, clean up the cobbles and open the fucking scene, I have a film to make!”
Williams shook his head and lowered his voice.
“You know, I’ve never been one for public displays of emotion or an abundance of sympathy, but you sir, are one insensitive bastard. That’s your employee lying dead there.”
“And there’s plenty more where he came from,” Jonah replied in an equally quiet tone. “Look, if a couple of guys on the crew want to get themselves wasted and fight to the death on some backstreet in Prague, that’s their business; I don’t expect it to interfere with my film.”
“Where did you source the tanks?”
“What?”
Jonah looked towards Stone, hitherto silent but who now repeated his question accompanied by a frown of fearsome intensity.
“The tanks, where did you find them?”
“I don’t know, that was down to props; they came from a few places I think; museums, private collections, a few brought over from Russia…”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many tanks? I’ve seen at least seven since I’ve been in the city, how many do you have in total?”
“What does it matter? Twenty-five, I think. Look, when can you open the street for filming?”
Stone weighed up the man before him and the callous disregard he displayed for the dead Sergeant Hendry, screwing his face up as he replied.
“I don’t know,” he spat, “it could be days.”
“Days?! Come on man, we’re making history here!”
“Well you’re certainly not presenting it,” Williams interjected again, his mischievously cruel smile returning.
“Excuse me?” Jonah snapped, taking the bait in full.
“Well everyone knows that accuracy is the first victim of most Hollywood epics,” Williams grinned, “How does this one end for example? Does the US Cavalry leap across the Vltava and rout the invading forces?”
The Director stepped closer, his face a curious shade of red, his finger pointing into Williams’ still benevolently smiling face.
“Now you look h…,”
“What’s next on the filming agenda? A Waterloo spectacular with Wellington’s army rescued at the last minute by a fleet of Apache helicopters? Or maybe a Biblical Epic, with a group of daring young Americans nailed to a cross for our sins?”
Williams’ smile was sincerity itself and Stone could no longer resist his own grin, which pulled defiantly at the corners of his mouth, looking across to see Rado struggling with a similar concern. The short man in front of them narrowed his eyes, chewing on his gum slowly.
“Ok,” he said, “I get it. Everyone loves a comedian. You just be sure to go back and tell your bosses that I have millions of dollars in people and props tied into this movie, and I intend to suit for full recovery of any overspend we incur as a result of
your ‘investigation’, ok?”
“Oh, the bosses will be delighted to help,” Williams smirked.
“Will they?” snarled Jonah. “Well I’m sure they’ll be equally delighted to foot the bill for the additional security the Producers and I are gonna draft in to protect our investment; all of a sudden this place doesn’t feel too safe, you know what I mean?”
Spitting his gum to the ground at Williams’ feet, Jonah turned on his heel and swaggered back towards his turf, plunging into the still growing crowd and heading back towards the sanctuary of his entourage.
The smile dropped instantly from Williams’ face, reverting to is default setting of generalised wrinkled contempt.
“Fucking Yanks,” he spat.
The duel over, Stone turned away and headed back through the police line and up to cross the Vltava, Williams and Rado following swiftly.
“Did you find the information you wanted Captain?” The emotionless security man quizzed as they walked, Stone shaking his head in reply.
“If only,” he sighed, “the man I came to speak to is the one that’s lying dead on the pavement. Do you think you can have a word with police? Make sure anyone involved in this ‘Anti-Terror Patrol’ last night is hauled in? If they’re made to feel a bit uncomfortable then maybe we can dissuade anyone else from trying the same trick.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the professional young man nodded. “If that’s all for now, it’s time I returned to my duties. Sir.”
He offered a respectful incline of the head towards the pair and split away, speaking quickly into a radio that had appeared in his hand.
“Damn it, Williams, I thought I was onto something,” Stone cursed, “I thought today was Jackpot day.”
“Yeah,” nodded the Scot, “a bit like betting your savings on the Grand National only for your horse to die at the first fence.”
“Have a word with yourself,” Stone chastised the callous Spook, “a man’s dead back there; you don’t need to be a crass bastard your whole life.”
“I’d rather have a word with Myska,” Williams responded, unperturbed by Stone’s disdain and stopping the Captain in his tracks.
“Oh really?” he answered, “and say what exactly? ‘Good Morning you fascistic sack of shite; we think the violence in this city all leads back to you’?”
“You sound like my fucking Mum,” Williams retorted with feigned surprise on his face, “and why the hell not? You’d be surprised what a good old fashioned beating can produce if you put your mind to it.”
“A confession under duress is no confession at all.”
“So you say, but it’s worked like a dream elsewhere; you and me go over to Myska’s Party Headquarters, have a wee chat with the horse’s mouth then we kick seven shades of shit out of it and ask again.”
“I’m a soldier, not a damn spook; that’s not how we do things.”
Stone turned away, almost feeling Williams’ scowl on his back as he shouted after him.
“Well excuse me, Captain fucking Britain,” he sneered, “don’t let an escalating crisis we have no leads on how to prevent sway you towards understanding the necessity of cruelty. Is it two sugars you take with your cup of self fucking righteousness in the morning? Shit’s hitting the fan here and you and me need to find out what’s going on and how to stop it and if that means a wee game of fisticuffs with a Blackshirt then all the fucking better!”
“We have no evidence!” Stone span around, exasperation on his face and his arms spread out wide as though proving to Williams that he held none on his person. “And if we go roughing Myska up without any and he walks straight in front of the cameras saying ‘look what Svobodova’s street squad did to me’, or worse ‘look what those damn immigrants did to me’, what do you think will happen?! You think the shit’s hitting the fan now? If I let you march into his office with your bony fists flying, you’ll make it a thousand times worse!”
“If you ‘let me’?” Williams screwed up his face at Stone’s phraseology. “Listen, my morally untarnished friend, you have absolutely no fucking power over me…”
He was stopped mid rant by the ring of Stone’s mobile phone and the Captain raising his hand while he answered it, the Scotsman’s well furrowed brow creasing further still in frustration at his wait.
“Well,” Stone began finally, after bidding signalling his agreement to the caller and pocketing his phone, “not that this hasn’t been a delightful chat but we’ll have to pick this up again later. I’ll call you; try not to beat anyone up in the meantime.”
He turned away from the belligerent older man, picking out his landmark and planning a route.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Castle,” Stone answered over his shoulder, “I’ve been invited to an audience with the President.”
FOURTEEN
THE PAINFUL CREAK in the old man’s knees was obvious to all in the room, but none allowed their concern to display visibly on their faces.
As soon as he had arrived at the Prague Castle gates, Captain Stone had been ushered through a myriad of corridors and levels by efficient if unsmiling security, until he stood outside an imposing, grand doorway, upon which his escort knocked reverentially.
Bade entry, Stone had stepped into a voluminous suite which reminded him instantly of the glittering opulence of the Golden Room in which he had first met Greyson, although the finery of this environment was arguably more tastefully understated. In front of him to his left he saw Svobodova and Natalie rising from their chairs to acknowledge his presence, while behind the expansive desk of varnished oak directly ahead sat a groomed and well-tailored figure of venerable dignity: Karol Černý. A leading figure of the Reunification movement several years earlier, and a one-time rival of Svobodova for the Party Leadership, he was known by all today as her staunchest ally in domestic politics as well as for his status as the wise and noble President of the new Czechoslovakia.
In truth, Černý’s visage was one with which Stone had long been familiar; it having adorned numerous black and white photographs from the 1968 invasion, facing down Russian tanks alongside the late Herbert Biely. Though elderly now and visibly frail, the man was a genuine holder of the overused label of ‘hero’, and the Statesman’s insistence on rising to his feet to greet the Captain made the soldier shift uncomfortably.
“Please, Sir,” Stone began, “there’s no need to stand on my account.”
Černý paid no heed, walking with an unsuccessfully disguised discomfort towards the soldier, his hand painfully extended towards him; Stone grasping it in sincere gratitude.
“There is every need Captain, when it is to welcome a new friend. I thank you for your efforts to help my country.”
“I’m grateful for your sentiment, sir,” answered Stone, uncomfortably, “but I’m unsure as to how much help I’ve actually been.”
“Nonsense Captain,” the old man spoke in beautifully accented English, his smile paternal and almost affectionate, “Madam Prime Minister has impressed upon me the value of your advice, even when another path is preferred.”
Stone felt a pang on embarrassment and shot a look at Svobodova, who smiled in return; a silent reassurance that no ill feeling remained after their disagreement at the Rudolfinum.
The aged President gestured for Stone to fully enter the room and sit down, then returned to his desk, standing at the window behind it which overlooked the City as it basked in the glorious rays of the mid-morning sun; every one of the spires within the ancient conurbation stretching high, as if in silent competition with each other to touch the highest cloud or stroke the belly of the sun.
“I am an old man, Captain Stone,” Černý mused, gazing out at the sight, “and with advanced age come long memories and deeply held fears. Did you know that in just a few short days it will be exactly fifty years since the Russians came to end our Spring?”
“I did, Sir,” Stone confirmed, “I doubt history will ever forget it.”
A g
entle laugh issued forth from the old man, unaccompanied by condescension.
“History may not forget it Captain,” he agreed, “but I fear that too many of the people of today have forgotten about history. Time and again, throughout the world, the same mistakes that brought so much pain in the past are repeated by new generations; bringing misery anew to so many, but still the lesson is never fully learned.”
“We are at a crisis point, Captain Stone,” Svobodova spoke up from her chair alongside him, “the murder scene you attended this morning was only the tip of last night’s iceberg; these ‘anti-terror patrols’ have been appearing all over the country, attacking anyone who ‘fits the profile’. And more worrying still is the intimidation. There is a refugee hostel in Poprad; last night it was surrounded by men wearing camouflage and ski masks, who just stood there, in silence, staring in through the windows…”
“Didn’t the police put a stop to it?”
“They dispersed them eventually, but they are becoming over stretched; if the number of incidents continues to rise then it raises the grim prospect of our having to call in the armed forces to keep control of the streets.”
“Which, of course is exactly what Myska wants,” interjected Abelard, “so he can use it to make the case that the government cares more about the well-being of immigrants than it does its own people.”
Stone shook his head as he felt his anger begin to rise.
“And with so many incidents, we still can’t prove the connection to Myska’s campaign? Unbelievable.”
“It’s not that simple,” Svobodova replied, “we have a number of people in custody who we know show up at his rallies; those faces in the folders I showed you. But they aren’t official Party members so even when I go on camera and condemn his message for attracting this type of person, he can legitimately say it’s nothing to do with him or his Party.”
She lifted the shot glass she held to her lips and knocked it back.
The Prague Ultimatum Page 15