Taking in the ornate spectacle of the hall, he looked down to a box opposite, in which had appeared a balding, burly, though immaculately dressed man, flanked by two men burlier still, but who wore their dinner jackets rather less well. Watching him take his seat, Greyson lowered his chin and spoke softly, into his lapel.
“Konstantin.”
“Jonathan,” came the response into Greyson’s ear, the newcomer’s eyes flashing up towards his box.
“It was kind of you to accept my invitation at such short notice.”
“It was kinder still to accept your equipment; I would feel more secure with Russian hardware.”
“I doubt the rest of us would.” A third voice, infused with the unmistakeable accent of North America, joined the pair; Greyson and Konstantin’s eyes turning towards another box in which sat a strikingly handsome man with greying hair, alongside a slim, middle aged woman in a black velvet dress, whose own eyes remained firmly on the stage.
“Now, now, Benjamin,” said Greyson, “let’s not get off to a bad start, as clandestine meetings go this is an historic moment, it’s just a shame we can’t have any photographers present.”
“That’ll come later,” replied Benjamin Scarlett.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Konstantin cautioned. “Are we all here?”
“No,” replied Scarlett, “It seems our host is missing. Where is the redoubtable Ms Svobodova?”
“Ah, yes, Ms Svobodova,” Greyson said, “I’m afraid she’ll be a little late this evening. She’s been compelled to attend a last minute event with Karol Černý; election politics you understand.”
“Nothing too time consuming I trust?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” replied Greyson. “I’m sure it’ll go off with a bang.”
The stocky Greek sat behind the steering wheel with his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He had been in position for hours, a short distance from Svobodova’s party headquarters, patiently awaiting notification, and nothing could move him from his position. He was a professional. Glancing at the display on the dashboard, he saw the time click to 19:59. Černý’s car would be waiting. He turned the ignition key in his own vehicle and sat straighter in the seat, listening to the soft purr of his engine ticking over. 20:00. He placed one hand on his steering wheel, and with the other pressed onto his earpiece, the faintest twinge of anticipation tweaking his gut. 20:01. He continued to wait, anticipation giving way to an equally minute dose of annoyed impatience. 20:02. A crackle of static in his ear, followed by a distorted voice demanding his attention. “τώρα,” it simply said.
“Vai,” he responded and turned his head toward the street the car would be coming from. Almost immediately, the long, black car glided into view, the tinted windows not sufficient to disguise the presence of Černý and the target in the back. A quick, but detailed glance confirmed Černý’s claim of no security; at least none that was obvious, and he pulled smoothly into place behind the car.
He followed it in silence as it swept through Prague and out, north-west, toward its destination, his progress unhindered by the light traffic on the road. He allowed himself to briefly re-run the arrangements in his mind once more; it would be smooth, uncomplicated. He had conducted similar operations on countless other occasions and he did not anticipate any problems this time. It was logical self-assurance, borne not from arrogance but a supreme confidence in both his own abilities and those of his colleagues, and he allowed the smallest fraction of pride to take hold within him.
Černý’s car followed the expected path without deviation, and with each mile travelled the Greek’s confidence in the operation’s success grew. Before long they reached the turn off for Lidice and he drew closer behind his target, to press it forward and limit the opportunities for escape. The Child’s instructions were absolute; the operation must take place outside the border of the village. For that to happen, the Greek was reliant on his colleague, and he felt an unwelcome pang of nervousness return as he awaited the intervention. He need not have worried. As Černý’s car reached almost the very edge of the village, it screeched to a halt, the driver blinded by the beaming headlights suddenly activated by the stationary car in front of him. The Greek’s brow furrowed; this was the point of no return.
Slamming the brakes of his own vehicle, he spun it around behind Černý’s to block any chance of reverse, and kicked open the door, climbing out and drawing the gun from his inside pocket in one smooth movement, his actions mirrored by his colleague from the stationary vehicle. Everything had gone to plan, and the Greek focussed on his march to Černý’s car for the final stage. Grabbing the handle he threw the heavy door back and looked into the blackness for the target: Svobodova. The hysterical woman sat, blanketed by the darkness in the car, screaming at the unexpected intrusion. He reached his gun into the car and squeezed the trigger.
The shot thudded into the roof of the car and, for a moment, confusion raced through the Greek’s mind. The old man, Černý, had taken hold of the Greek’s arm and forced it upwards, deflecting the shot away from the target. In his other large, bony hand, he cradled a weapon of his own, pointed at the Greek. The strength in the aged arm was astounding, capturing him totally off guard, while the fierceness in the indignant, staring eyes burrowed through even the Greek’s metallic resolve. He struggled to process the information and his focus barely returned in time for him to push the old man’s gun arm sufficiently away for his shot to miss. Regaining his clarity of thought, he wrenched Černý’s gun from his hand and slammed its butt into the aged politician’s head, smashing him into a daze, and then re-aimed his arm at the still screaming target and began to shoot. Bullet after bullet tore through the defenceless body, silencing its screams and decorating its heavy coat a deep, speckled red.
The orders were clear. Svobodova was the target, the driver irrelevant, and Černý was not to be harmed, yet. The Greek leaned past the dazed Černý and put his fingers under the target’s neck, searching for any trace of a pulse. Satisfied, he withdrew from the car and nodded to the spectral figure that stood just inside the village boundaries in front of the motionless car, subtlety crossing itself at the fresh carnage. The Greek had done his job. She was dead.
“Where is she Jonathan?” Konstantin pressed, irritation rising in his voice. “Much as I enjoy an evening at a classical concert, the orchestra is not the reason I agreed to attend.”
“Likewise,” Benjamin echoed. “The appetizers are all here but we all seem to be waiting on the main course. I hope you’re not jeopardising the Special, Jonathan.”
“If the Special you refer to is The Special Relationship between our two great countries, Benjamin,” Greyson replied, a dark smile on his face, “we all know that it is most akin to the relationship a dysentery patient shares with his lavatory, with the UK as the receptacle of choice. Gentlemen I assure you, Ms Svobodova will be here presently. Meanwhile I notice that the concert is about to begin, so I respectfully suggest we enjoy the talents on show until her arrival.”
The murmur of agreement momentarily settled Greyson’s nerves, but they soon returned as he sat back and turned his head to the stage. The plan was in place, the preparations made; now where was she?
“Bring them here!” The Child demanded.
The Greek grabbed Černý roughly, dragging him through the car door and holding him upright. To the Greek’s enormous surprise, he felt the old man straightening of his own accord and begin walking the few steps into the village, looking straight ahead at The Child the whole time. Deciding he was tired of being surprised by a relic, the Greek gave Černý a resentful push, before walking past him and taking his position to his master’s right. His colleague had dragged the chauffer from the car, who now knelt in the mud, obviously terrified.
The Greek was forced to admire the resolve in Černý’s face as he stared resolutely into the eyes of The Child, presenting quite the picture of the archetypal offended aristocrat. Neither man spoke, preferring instead, it seemed to the Greek,
to size each other up. The spark of annoyed impatience re-entered his gut and quickly grew larger. His practical mind required orders, a process to work through and a goal to push towards, and it quickly stagnated when left without a task. Besides which, it was cold and getting colder, and a peel of not too distant thunder rumbled in the air, accompanied by the cold flicks of intermittent rain.
It was the thunder that stirred Černý into speech, never once moving his eyes from The Child.
“Perhaps we should move inside,” he said. “Rainstorms and cold night air are no places for old men.”
Ignoring the suggestion, The Child spoke with an unusual frustration in his voice. “Your resistance was unexpected Mr Černý,” he said. “It seems that Sir Roger neglected to reveal the full intent of this meeting.”
He offered a brief glance to the car’s bullet riddled and blood stained back seat; its remaining occupant slumped out of view. The merest hint of distaste haunted the deep lines on the old, weathered face, and he quickly returned his stare to the defiant politician.
“In any case, the deviation was far from consequential. My condolences for your loss,” The Child said, coldly sincere. “Be assured that her passing was an unfortunate necessity for the greater good.”
“I’m quite sure,” spat Černý with measured contempt.
The confidence in Černý’s voice unsettled the Greek, who was surprised to see his reaction mirrored in The Child’s own features. He had never known The Child to be anything other than in total control, but this night was different; as though the smallest of chinks had appeared in this iron man’s armour, and it made his stomach twist in a wholly unfamiliar nervous uncertainty.
“I had hoped that you would see sense enough to understand the necessity of your countries’ continued separation and take your place as Czech President, under our guidance. But you have denied yourself that reward.” The Child spoke with what appeared to be a genuine sorrow. “I am disappointed in your decision and in the foolish way you chose to exercise your objections. Did you seriously expect to overpower us with just yourself and an antiquated firearm?”
Černý remained resolute. “I would apologise for your disappointment,” he said, “but it would be entirely insincere. And as for my expectations, in truth, no, I didn’t expect to overpower you; but I hoped I could delay your actions until you understood the full picture.”
An eyebrow raised on The Child’s face at Černý’s words, which were followed by the frantic movement of his other subordinate, waving feverishly at The Child with one hand, the other pressed to his ear.
“What?” the aged figure snapped.
“Sir,” the operative said, his voice trembling, “she is at Smetana Hall!”
Realisation dawning on him, The Child motioned to the Greek to continue holding Černý and the kneeling driver at gunpoint, and signalled the other operative to move with him to the car. The operative swung open the door and reached inside to switch on the internal light. There before them, on the torn leather seat laid the bullet riddled body of Daleka Hedvikova.
“My condolences for your loss,” Černý shouted from his position. “Be assured that her passing was never a necessity but the natural consequence of men who think they are gods, shooting into the dark in the hope of favourable outcomes.”
At Smetana Hall, all eyes turned from the beauty of the music being played on the stage, to the beauty of the late arrival as she entered her box. Her hair long, her face radiant, dressed in a burgundy velvet evening gown and fine silk scarf, she smiled regally to the crowd and sat down, turning her head back to the stage when the musician’s tempo had risen with her arrival.
“Gentlemen,” said Miroslava Svobodova into her scarf, “it seems that rumours of my lateness have been greatly exaggerated. Shall we begin?”
“This is not the first time someone has pointed a gun at me,” Černý said calmly, “and it has yet to impress me. Either pull the trigger or put it away.”
“I had no wish for the trigger to be pulled on you.” The Child appeared rattled, having taken an age to respond while the rain began to fall around them. “But neither had I wished it pulled on Ms Hedvikova, who would now be unharmed were it not for your intervention. I must ask for full details of your ill-advised plan, before your own termination.”
“I would have thought it obvious.” Černý, fearless, released his information with every ounce of spite, resentment and superiority he could muster, enjoying the glow of his knowledge. “You had sent Ms Hedvikova to me previously in an unwise attempt to turn my head. I merely allowed her to believe she had been successful and asked her to join me in secret to take the discussions further. She of course agreed. At the same time, Sir Roger contacted you to arrange this meeting, informing you that he had tried to explain from his own experience the uselessness of fighting your Institute, but that no-one would listen to him; except me, consumed as I was by my own resentment at Svobodova’s rise. He informed you I would request Svobodova’s company at a phantom election photo call here, at which point she would be yours and I would be another of your pawns. I imagine it was hard for you to resist.”
“And who is Svobodova meeting with now, in Smetana Hall?”
Černý fell silent, staring ahead.
“You will not answer?”
More silence.
The Child nodded, his aggression replaced with regret. “Then it seems,” he said, “that our association is over before it began.” He turned slightly to the Greek and curtly nodded his permission.
A sense of satisfaction that there would be no more surprises enveloped the Greek before he turned to Černý and steadied his aim. His practical mind had never felt emotion during a kill, but he quietly admitted that this was one shot he would enjoy. His satisfaction turned back into resentment as Černý refused to close his eyes, instead staring at the man who would be his killer with a look of unashamed superiority on his face. Inwardly furious, the Greek began to press the trigger.
CHAPTER 23
THE NOISE FROM THE GUN cannoned around the field, scattering birds and echoing the thunderous peels that rolled across the valley. But Černý remained standing, unmoved, the faint hint of a smile on his lips.
The Child, his composure intact, looked at Peter Lowe, who stood before him dressed in the muddied uniform of a chauffeur, smoke drifting from his gun into the night air. To The Child’s right, his Greek operative was kneeling, clutching his gun arm in pain as blood trickled from the wound through his fingers. Peter saw The Child wince as the blood touched the soil, an unwelcome show of pain on the old, lined face. The Child’s remaining associate quickly recovered himself and reached for his own weapon, only to be shouted down by the authority in Peter’s voice.
“Drop it!” the Englishman said, his gun arm unwavering and his stare fixed. “Kick it over here.”
The man looked to The Child who nodded approval without taking his eyes from Peter.
“And your friend’s.” The man moved slowly over to his colleague, carefully scooping up the gun which lay discarded at his feet and throwing it and his own weapon, towards Peter’s feet.
Peter indicated to Černý to move behind him and the old man complied.
“Go,” Peter said. “Go and join Mirushka, go and win that election.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll be fine. Just give her my love. All of it.”
The Statesman turned, spying the furthermost car, the warm purr of its engine still audible.
“Mr Lowe...,”
Peter glanced at the old man who, for the first time, looked at Peter with something other than contempt. A strong, aged hand clasped Peter on the shoulder.
“You are far from the only person to feel shame at their past actions, and you are right to be ashamed of your own. But far fewer find second chances are afforded them; don’t waste yours.” Černý turned and walked to the car, sliding in and moving away from the village and back towards his electoral future.
Hearing the car’s depature, Peter gestured with his gun arm in the direction of the stone path. It led up to a metal sculpture which stood a short distance away, framed by the trees and cradled in the darkness. “Now move.”
The Child’s two hard men were the first to react, the wounded one helped by his furious colleague, but The Child himself remained motionless, the hint of pain on his face now joined by undisguised contempt.
“You too,” Peter repeated his command, “move”.
Again The Child remained still.
“Why?”
Peter revelled in the power he held over the creature who had filled so many people with such dread for so long, and he was damned if he was going to allow him the self satisfaction of facing death with fortitude. He stepped closer, a smile of victory on his lips, the knowledge that his was the job to vanquish the beast, and he growled his answer through gritted teeth.
“So that you go back and face them before you die.”
The Child broke his stare to glance up the path to the gloomy monument and, Peter thought, he gave a faint, and involuntary shudder as though someone had walked over his grave. The Child resisted still further, his voice though shaking just slightly, as though scared to permit the emotion behind it from showing itself.
“Is nothing sacred to you?” The contempt on his face had by now turned into a disgust which Peter could almost feel, but he would not allow himself to be dissuaded from his target.
“I murdered a hero in the pews of a church for you,” Peter said, “so, no, nothing’s sacred in this world anymore. Move.”
This time, the thin, darkly clad figure began to move along the path, passing his operatives who had stood waiting for him, and up towards the statue. Just before he reached it, his men caught him up and Peter gave orders again.
Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller! Page 21
