Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  “This village has seen murder enough,” he said.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I THINK,” BENJAMIN PONDERED, “that there is an argument to be made that a natural consequence of the US government’s purchase of 28 L-159 planes from the Czech Republic last year would be for a permanent military presence in a new Czechoslovakia in the interests of mutually developing the successor programme. Strictly for research purposes alone you understand.”

  “Nyet, nyet, nyet!” Konstantin’s reaction was emphatic and wholly expected by all. “More transparent attempts to bring American forces to Russia’s doorstep, just like your Missile Defence scheme a few years back. You cannot expect us to agree to this?”

  “And you cannot expect, my dear Konstantin,” replied the soft tones of Mirushka, “for the people of a new Czechoslovakia to sleep soundly in their beds, knowing that an expansionist Russia moves ever closer with every step it takes into the Ukraine? Our memories are long and the people have not forgotten the speed with which our Russian friends arrived to ‘help’ us in 1968. They might well feel altogether safer if our new agreement with America were extended to include shared military projects. Strictly for research purposes of course.”

  The conversation had gone well and though orchestrated by Greyson it had been Svobodova who had dominated proceedings. Britain and the new Czechoslovakia would extend their European partnerships, not only sitting together in Parliament but supporting each other in the Council and the Commission, delivering an East-West dynamic unexpected by the Institute. In addition, a joint US/UK investment programme would begin in the new country, with several leading Western companies ‘positively encouraged’ to take advantage of the generous tax arrangements on offer, while imports from both countries would significantly rise. The only stumbling block was the Russians, with Svobodova insisting on an increased US military presence as a safeguard against any temptation for the ongoing Ukraine situation to move westward, and Konstantin’s insistence to the contrary.

  “There is no expansionism!” The Russian’s frustrations were becoming difficult to mask, despite the orchestral fervour below. “In the Ukraine we have liberated our own people, at their request, from the rise of fascist tyranny; how can there be any objection to that?”

  “How indeed?” asked Greyson. “But perhaps there might be a solution, if your President were to acknowledge his somewhat heavy-handed approach to the crisis and make a public declaration to the new Czechoslovakia, and the EU as a whole, that there would be no movement further west, and that efforts towards a peaceful resolution will be redoubled.”

  “Ah,” picked up Benjamin, “now in those circumstances, our President may well see his way clear to downscaling our support in the region to having simply an economic focus rather than military.”

  “You have authority to speak for the President?”

  “It would be more appropriate,” all eyes turned towards the American box, where the woman seated at Benjamin’s side had broken her silence, “to say that the President has authority to speak for me. And yes, important though the benefits of joint military research are to the US, there is something to be said for the argument that more guns equal more opportunities to use them.”

  “Tell that to the NRA,” sniffed Konstantin.

  “However,” the woman continued, “were we to make such a concession, we would need to be sure of Russia’s intentions towards the region as a whole.”

  Konstantin folded his arms in resentment.

  “Out of the question,” he snapped. “Any alleged ‘aggression’ or ‘expansionism’ by Russia in Ukraine is merely a matter of perspective. For more than a decade we have seen the effects of Western ‘aggression’ the world over; in Iraq for example, and Afghanistan. It seems that one country’s ‘expansionism’ is another’s ‘intervention’. And I see no need for a Russian apology in the noticeable absence of one from the West.”

  “Well the United States will categorically not apologise for those events.”

  “Stalemate then,” sighed Svobodova, a bitter disappointment in her voice.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  All eyes turned to Greyson.

  “You see, the British government, in which I am proud to serve, was only very recently elected and, like our American cousins, we absolutely will not apologise for events we had no part in orchestrating.” He adjusted himself in his seat, taking up a position of obvious comfort.

  “But this government didn’t orchestrate those events to which Konstantin refers. Suppose, in return of course for a Russian Statement admitting an over-zealous response and guaranteeing no further encroachment, that my government made no effort to halt action against the person who was responsible.”

  “You mean..?” Began Svobodova.

  Greyson nodded. “You see, I’m told that the gentleman in question will be in Switzerland next month delivering a lecture on his efforts to achieve peace in the Middle East. Now, if some neutral body were to file war crimes charges with the proper international authorities, and some other neutral official were to see to it they were served during the conference, well, it would be inappropriate for us to stand in the way of the justice system, wouldn’t it?”

  Konstantin smiled. “Oh it would, quite inappropriate. But such a case could drag on for years; are you certain you are prepared for the inevitable public washing of your dirty laundry?”

  “The laundry isn’t ours, we are a new administration. And who knows? The case might never even make it to court, but the attention will redress the balance in a way favourable to you and it will have the added bonus of keeping his column inches focused on his own transgressions rather than my government’s record.”

  Konstantin grinned. “Upon reflection you know, I can see how the world might have viewed our actions as a little rash. Perhaps a properly worded address by the President might help alter that view, yes?”

  “As long as there is no suggestion of any other ‘neutral bodies’ hindering US operations, then we agree.”

  “Here as well,” smiled Svobodova. “And Jonathan, can you ensure that your Prime Minister will agree to the investment programme?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” grinned Greyson, “I’ve already drafted his statement announcing it as the result of his own tireless efforts. As soon as we’re done here it’ll be released to the press which means he should have the pleasure of reading about it when he has his breakfast in the morning.”

  “Well then, ladies, gentleman,” announced Benjamin as the orchestra played their final note and the audience stood as one to applaud, “I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  McShade had satisfied himself that he’d sown the seeds of fruitful alliance as best he could, but still sat staring from his office window into the courtyard below with a nervous unease in his stomach. Greyson was leading the meeting, McShade insisting that he prove himself worthy of the office he held, but still his guts knotted and twisted in uncertainty as he stared repeatedly at the clock, cursing himself for not attending and then damning his own arrogance. Such was his preoccupation that he failed to notice the entrants to his room until the dreadfully familiar voice rung in his ears.

  “I see the years have not diminished your appetite for interference.”

  McShade spun around, shock on his face as he stared at the creature before him; the hair was a little whiter perhaps, the skin a trifle gaunter, but the eyes were every bit as alive as they’d been all those years ago.

  “Nor yours for theatrics. I take it from your presence here that Mr Lowe neglected to avail himself of the opportunity I presented.”

  “Quite so,” confirmed The Child, one of his minders close behind. “My sympathies by the way; it must be frightfully inconvenient to go to the trouble of arranging a funeral, only for the corpse to refuse to show.”

  McShade gave a wry smile, not doubting for a moment the hostility that lay behind The Child’s avuncular words.

  “No doubt a replacemen
t cadaver will soon be available.”

  “No doubt. But first I wanted to know why.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Outside of my own curiosity, no.” A note of whimsy infected The Child’s voice and a hint of what looked like regret glinted in his eye. “I had such high expectations for you in the beginning, you had steel, drive. You understood the realities of necessary cruelty for the greater good. But then, like so many others you developed a conscience. Had you the courage of your convictions decades ago you would have accepted the somewhat lenient discipline we meted out and returned to the fold, taking your place as Prime Minister when we engineered the opportunity. But instead you hid in the background, preferring to have your ego massaged rather than take the necessary actions, shying away from the only real contribution you have ever made: the creation of The Institute.”

  “Your ‘necessary cruelties’ damn near bankrupted my country!” McShade spat the words in anger, any vestiges of banter eradicated.

  “And so you sought to redress the balance now, so many years later, for revenge?”

  McShade laughed out loud, his anger composed. “Would you believe for redemption?”

  “Were I talking to anyone but yourself, then possibly.”

  “Well it’s something that’s been playing on my mind recently; whether it really is possible to atone for past mistakes.”

  “It seems Mr Lowe’s disease is contagious. It seems also that Britain’s young Foreign Secretary has discovered his inner fire in recent days. I wonder where he got the inspiration?”

  “Who can say?”

  “Well, whatever the source it will be a short lived flame; it’s always such a shame when so promising a career is cut short ahead of its time.”

  “Leave him alone!” McShade spat in fury, but it didn’t so much as dent The Child’s coldness.

  “Control is maintained through discipline,” The Child said, his voice still un-moved. “The Institute administers discipline for the good of the Union. Greyson is at this moment conspiring with other bodies against us; a meeting arranged through your influence, Sir Roger. By his own actions he has made himself a target. He ignored the warnings, he ignored the order from his Prime Minister to return. To allow him to escape punishment for his interference would be an unprecedented dereliction.”

  McShade stood feet apart from The Child, fatalistic, his strength exhausted. There was no way out of this for Greyson, The Child would take action.

  “Then I suppose,” said McShade, calmly, “you should focus your discipline appropriately.”

  CHAPTER 25

  MIRUSHK A’S EYES BETRAYED HER DISTRACTION as she bade what she had so wished to be a fond farewell to Jonathan. Her head was full of Peter; of conspiracies and elections and fury and love and politics and passion. Mirushka gently held Jonathan’s arms and kissed him quickly on each cheek, a muttered, “Dobrú noc,” her only words. It had taken all her strength to stay focussed for the crucial talks and this wasn’t the time for childishness. He looked about to say something but stopped himself, understandable she thought given her demeanour. Instead, a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

  “Ms. Svobodova,” he began, his smile widening as she focussed on him.

  “Mr. Greyson,” she quietly replied.

  “If the new Czechoslovakia possesses the strength you have shown today, she shall be a most valued partner,” he said before adding in a softer, more delicate tone as he dipped his head inside the car, “as indeed are you.”

  Immune to his flirtations, Mirushka fought back the tear welling defiantly in her eye and watched through as Greyson’s car swept from before her with the warmest of purrs.

  Her fingers reached into her small handbag and fished out the watch, pressing open the lid of Peter’s gift before she cursed again, admonishing herself for her inability to even check the time without thinking of him. She hurriedly closed the watch and deposited it back into the darkness before shutting her eyes and filling her lungs with the deepest of breaths. Her mask restored, she nodded to the chauffeur, Ivan, waiting stiffly beside her own limousine. The immaculately dressed driver opened the door and stood, ever patient, waiting for her to take her seat. Mirushka lifted her eyes and muttered thanks as she stooped into the blackness inside, her addled mind only briefly querying why the man was sweating so much. She sat down and the door closed gently shut behind her. With her thoughts now free of the constraints of the talks and unwilling to stay focussed, Mirushka cradled her head in her hands and surrendered to her tears. She sat in morose seclusion, embracing her freedom to weep as the engine started and the car moved forward, flanked by the usual motorcycles. And such was the intensity of her weeping, that it wasn’t until she saw the motorcycles peeling away while her limousine took the road heading out of Prague, that she realised the obvious omission; that Rado was not in the car with her.

  In the seat of his own car, Greyson sat back and poured himself a large, large scotch with which to toast his success and allow the warmth of justified self-satisfaction spread through his body. He felt every inch an architect and emperor combined, and every inch of him revelled in the new role, albeit the orchestrator of an empire whose existence was secret. The story for the public was leaked, the Prime Minister now committed, whether he liked it or not. Damn him, thought Greyson, from what he had learned the PM was either in league with The Institute or else scared into uselessness by them. Well now it would be different. Greyson had tied him into his own dealings and the PM could either enjoy the ride with him or scurry off and bury his head in the sand.

  “That was for you Caroline,” he said, knocking back the drink, relishing the burn of its passage to his gut.

  The journey to the embassy was mercifully short and Greyson lifted the bottle to fill his glass again just as the car pulled into the courtyard, but his movements were stopped by the deafening smash which greeted the car as it pulled to a halt.

  A flash of black, white and pink, accompanied by glittering shards of glass like stars in a night sky, fell from a top floor window, from McShade’s window, smacking down hard on the cobbles below.

  Heaving the door open, Greyson leapt from the car and slid on his knees to the broken shape on the deck, a small crowd of shocked onlookers gathering quickly around him. As the young man howled, the figure’s arm moved, the cold hand clamping onto Greyson’s own with a fierce intensity.

  “By my count,” McShade began, gasping air into his perforated lungs between words, his voice weak and growing weaker, “this makes for Prague’s Third Defenestration.”

  Greyson could not hold back his cry, squeezing the dying man’s hand and shouting useless requests for him to ‘hold on’. McShade did hold on, and, though each word brought fresh pain, drove himself to shush the younger man and speak again.

  “It appears I am your final warning,” he wheezed, “but you should ignore it. It’s up to you now,” he said, “you young bloods. Make it count, take the fight to them and don’t let them stop you. I know you can do it.”

  Greyson shushed him in return, reaching out with his other hand and stroking McShade’s head. The old man managed a last, ironic laugh.

  “You know? This is exactly what I sought to save you from, and it isn’t any less painful from this side.” He reached up, achingly with his free hand, cupping Greyson’s face. “I always loved you Jonathan, my precious boy.”

  The hand slipped from Greyson’s face and the vice like grip of his other weakened, the fingers slipping finally to the ground.

  “I love you too,” Greyson wept. “Goodbye Dad.”

  It was the panic steadily growing in her stomach which most upset Svobodova. There was no escape for her now, she knew that and in truth had been prepared for as much for some time, yet her body’s reaction offended her, robbing her of her intent to face her fate with as much dignity as possible.

  There was no Peter, no Rado, the police were gone. The tinted windows and the black night sky ensured no-one could see her t
hough the glass, even should she gesture for help; and in any case, what help could anyone give her? Her driver of so many years, Ivan, steered the car onwards, the dividing screen between them stubbornly raised, her phone, left in the car before the meeting, on the wrong side.

  The seductive temptations of the city’s lights were receding faster into the black until they were only a mischievous glint in the night’s eye, before the black woods blocked even that view and the car sped further into the deserted hillside roads, heading, no doubt, for the crash which Svobodova now thought inevitable.

  Clenching each facet of her body, she pressed herself back into her seat, whispering a thousand confessions and screwing her eyes closed tighter as the car ran faster, faster, until – nothing.

  She dared herself to open an uncertain, curious eye as their velocity dropped to a sudden zero, accompanied by the sound of Ivan’s door being flung open. Before the treacherous driver could exit however, another shape, a person, flew from nowhere, leaping through the open door and knocking Ivan back inside before he could set one foot out; the pair disappearing out of view. The sounds of the struggle were evident, as was the rocking of the car, but the screen left Svobodova blind to the outcome, until at last she heard a cry and the passenger side door opened, Ivan again seeking to make his escape, this time successfully. She pressed her face to the glass, watching her Judas trip, stumble and blunder into the woods, hampered both by the blackness and the aftermath of his struggle.

  She turned back quickly, banging on the dividing screen, screaming in her native tongue for the identity and intent of the newcomer. At first silence, until a crackle on the speaker back in her chair followed by a word, a solitary word, one spoken in a voice she had thought she would never hear again.

  “Miláčku.”