Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  Up in his office, President Čurda chewed on his thumb as he watched the play unfold below. Behind him, the nervous young aide pressed.

  “Is the election to be postponed Sir?”

  The President continued to chew.

  “Sir?”

  It was much later that night, long after the polls had closed and the declaration of victory a formality, that The Greek, his arm freshly bandaged, caught up with Ivan and slid a knife into his kidney. He admired his new target. He had been quick to discard his uniform and make an effort to blend in with the tourists. But though he did feel some pity as he clamped his hand over the surprised mouth, alas, he had been spotted too quickly and The Child dictated that all failures must be punished. He bundled the dying man into the boot of the waiting car and set off to the river. Pulling him out, the effort making his sore arm sting in objection, he heaved him unceremoniously into the water, standing back to catch his breath.

  The Greek staggered forward, as though he had been punched hard in the back, and he looked in incredulity at his feet, searching for the source of his stumbling. Then another punch, and another, and he fell head first into the freezing river. Shock tore the breath from his lungs and he gasped as the bitter cold was matched by the searing, painful heat which burned a trail inside him from the three punches. He tried desperately to kick but his legs no longer responded, and he strained to lift his head from the depths. Straining his blurring eyes in the darkness, he saw his target bobbing alongside him, weak, his resistance to the river almost exhausted. With a tremendous effort, the Greek reached out and grabbed hold of his victim, who responded in kind, pulling a heavy arm around the shoulders of his killer. Seeing the faintness he was feeling mirrored in the flailing man’s eyes, the Greek pulled closer to him and pressed his lips tightly to his cheek. “συγνώμη.” He wheezed to his victim, who tightened his own grip around his new comrade, in mute acceptance of his apology. The victim and murderer clung tighter to each other for comfort and in fear, as their thrashing stopped, and the dark, cold waters of the Vltava closed over their heads.

  On the shore, watching the scene unfold with a bitterness in his mouth, The Child crossed himself in brief respect of another fallen at his command. His operative quietly slid his silenced weapon inside its holster and turned back to his master, who gestured him to start the car. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the keys thrown at him by Peter, weighing them in his hand for a moment before hurling them far and deep into the waters.

  The bitter cold masking the dampness in his eye, The lost Child of Lidice turned and walked briskly back towards his waiting ride, as the last drops of the season’s rain began to fall.

  CHAPTER 27

  RASTI WAS IN A DAZE from the second he read the paper. Not because of the triumphant headline saluting the victory and extolling the virtues of the now impending reunification. Not even because of the sizeable column inches devoted to Svobodova’s car. Only after reading, at the bottom of the third paragraph, the name of the aide killed did Rasti become numb.

  “Peter Lowe,” it read in Czech, “a Relationship Manager seconded to Svobodova’s staff from the Institute for European Harmony, was believed to be travelling alone in the vehicle at the time of the explosion.”

  Rasti’s heart plummeted like a boulder in the ocean and a haze blanketed his senses to all around him. His eyes on auto pilot, Rasti somehow managed to stumble through to the next few words.

  “Ms Svobodova has been said to be deeply upset by Mr Lowe’s death yesterday and told reporters that Mr Lowe had been an, ‘exceptional man who could not have shown any greater love for the Czech and Slovak republics. Neither the new Czechoslovakia nor I will forget him’. Police say there was no trace of the driver’s body in the wreckage and they are anxious to locate…”

  Rasti’s eyes blurred and he found himself swallowing ineffectively against the lump lying defiantly in his throat. He walked out of the restaurant into the bright daylight, his body oddly aching and his mind as distant as if he had enjoyed too many beers on a warm day. As he walked, the soft blues drifting out from his bar was overwhelmed by the sound of cheering. People were running past him from every side towards the noise, all laughing, shouting, some slapping him on the back and urging him to hurry up. Hurry up to what Rasti didn’t know but he kept on walking, following the stragglers through the cobbled maze of Old Town until he reached the bottom of Wenceslas Square. There he saw why the people cheered.

  A multitude had gathered. As if following some collective homing instinct, the people had gathered here where they had always gathered on momentous days. They had been here in the Spring, they had returned for the Revolution and now they came again at the dawn of their future; a unified future. His mind still dazed, a smile came slowly to Rasti’s face and the grief in his heart gave way to the beginnings of joy. The square was alive again in the fresh morning air. Rasti raised the paper he still clutched in his hands and looked at the headline – an echo of the great Herbert Biely, ‘A Family Reunited, A Future Shared!’ it declared and the lump in Rasti’s throat melted into a hearty laugh. Peter had done this. After being so nearly destroyed by the deeds of his past, Peter had done this! A people were one again, rejoicing in the streets, overcome with a joy and an optimism not felt since that golden day in 1989, and Peter had given his life for it to happen. Rasti knew it to be true. Pushing his bulky frame to the front of the crowd, Rasti looked up at the grand frontage of the Melantrich building where years before Václav Havel had brought Alexander Dubček out onto the balcony to acknowledge the crowd. Today, Miroslava Svobodova would soon stand on that same balcony, waving to her ecstatic supporters below and Rasti’s smile became a grin. Looking back down at his newspaper, his bottled up emotion, that intoxicating mixture of grief and jubilation, burst forth. The paper was hurled into the air and he threw his head back and cheered, a long, passionate cry of anguish and joy, subsiding to a calm peace. As the shouting and laughter continued around him, Rasti closed his eyes and smiled, offering a prayer for his friend Peter, his hard drinking, foul mouthed, secretive, blues loving friend. Rasti thanked God for him and for the good that Peter eventually, after so long in the dark, had done.

  “Well done mate,” Rasti whispered quietly, “I’ll open a bottle for you tonight.”

  Mirushka stood just inside from the balcony of the Melantrich building, a simple net curtain separating her from destiny. Karol Černý stood just behind her, to her right hand side, having refused her request to go ahead of her to thank the people. “It’s you they want to see,” he had said, like a grandfather, proud of his descendant. “The future has arrived, and it needs a face.”

  Inhaling deeply, she crossed herself and began to move forward, only for Rado’s voice to distract her.

  “Ma’am!” His cry was barely audible over the roar of the crowd coming through the open balcony doors, but was enough for her to stop and turn. Rado stood by the room’s entrance, his head bandaged from the blow that had incapacitated him the night of the attack, flanked by two newcomers; the first of which Mirushka instantly recognised as Herbert Biely’s adult son.

  “Jozef!” She exclaimed, smiling at the unassuming, conservatively dressed fifty-something. “How wonderful of you to be here! You must come with us on to the balcony…”

  “No, thank you Mirushka,” he quickly interrupted, which offered no surprise. Jozef possessed his father’s natural modesty, but none of his desire for political attention. “I apologise for interrupting, but my father wanted me to introduce you to someone.” He nodded to the second figure, a grey suited middle aged man whose hair and moustache precisely matched the colour of his suit.

  “This is Branoslav Kral, lawyer and executor of my father’s will.”

  Mirushka was puzzled but nodded a greeting to the strange little man who stood possessively clutching a leather bound document, and who seemed remarkably un-intimidated by his presence in a room of dignitaries during a momentous occasion. Without hesitation, he st
epped forward and held out the document to Mirushka.

  “Herbert Biely stipulated that in the event of his death, the content of his will not be made public until after the election, and that then it should be released to the leaders of the party.”

  Taking it from him, her puzzlement continued. “Well thank you,” she said, “but can’t this wait until later? We have one or two things to attend to this morning.” The still rising volume of the crowd stifling her words.

  “I think you should read this before you go out there; both of you.” Jozef addressed Mirushka and the curious Černý who stood alongside her. He continued as they opened the binding and began to read the contents within.

  “You see, father wasn’t just dismayed by the break up of the country, he was devastated by its after effects too; the corruption, the backroom deals, and the asset stripping. When he saw our heritage being robbed in bungled privatisations, and slush funds, he grew angry. That was the whole inspiration behind his movement, his business empire; investing his fortune to bring some of these assets back, and hiring people like you, Mirushka, to manage their growth, while building the party up with you, Karol.”

  The pair continued, open mouthed, to read the fine print while Jozef continued.

  “But just buying it back wasn’t enough. He wanted to turn the clock back, erase as many transactions as he could that took our assets from our country’s hands. My father was a wealthy man, he ensured that his children and family would be comfortable after he died, then planned for the bulk of his assets to go elsewhere. That plan is in your hands now.”

  Mirushka was speechless as she and Karol read the words in her the folder, each beautifully scribed character articulating Herbert’s plan in his own hand; his last gift to his country.

  “Father willed,” began Jozef, “that after his death, the complete ownership of his spa’s, resorts and land in High Tatra and around the country, revert at once to the Czechoslovak People, to be administered by the elected government of the day.”

  The two politicians were speechless, looking in turn at each other, at the document and at Jozef, who stood smiling his father’s gentle smile at them. From beyond the grave, Herbert had given them the perfect gift, and the perfect way of solidifying their victory.

  Černý’s words were almost inaudible in the ever growing noise from outside, “This was his plan all along?”

  “People accused father of flirting with the more extreme forms of capitalism after the revolution,” Jozef said, “but it wasn’t true. He just looked to enact his social responsibilities in a different way. He didn’t want anyone to know about it before the election, in case he was seen as bribing the people; he wanted the future to be decided by the strength of the arguments, not material gain.”

  Unable to speak, Mirushka simply embraced the smiling, quiet man who stood before her; kissing him once on each cheek and holding him close, as though the tighter she held him, the greater were her thanks to his father.

  Laughing gently, Jozef released himself from her grip and smiled at her. “And now,” he said, “as you say, you have one or two things to attend to today; I hope our chat will help.”

  “Yes,” Karol Černý, shaking himself free from his amazement stepped toward her, “you must tell them now; let the people know that the country is theirs again.”

  Mirushka slowly nodded her head and walked back towards the balcony doors, before stopping and turning to the old man behind her. “No Karol,” she said, the noise from below now almost unbearable, “we must tell them.” And she held out her hand to him, as she had done at the plinth only hours before.

  Karol Černý reluctantly did as Mirushka requested and joined her at the doors. A quiet gasp was his only utterance as he looked through the thin, transparent curtain in awe at the heaving, cheering multitude covering Wenceslas Square in a blanket of adulation. Tears welled in the eyes of the old aristocrat and he knew he should be reproaching himself for his unguarded display of emotion. He felt the fingers of Mirushka’s left hand gently clasping those on his right. Karol’s mind drifted back to the day decades earlier when he had stood on this very same spot with his heroes. Giants like Dubček, Havel and Biely, as they celebrated with the people the Velvet Revolution and the end of Soviet rule. And now here he was once more, himself about to be hailed a hero by the people he loved – a people soon to be one again. His voice distant and dreamlike he whispered to Mirushka, “It’s just like the Revolution.”

  Their hands clasping tightly as they prepared to step forward, Karol, not used to such sentimentality, felt compelled to offer comfort to the remarkable woman alongside him. Paying her the greatest courtesy he could think of, he lowered his head to hers and spoke in her Slovak dialect. “He truly loved you.”

  Mirushka blinked away her own tears and smiled at the gentlemanly kindness Karol offered. “I know,” she said, gripping him tighter, her eyes never leaving the ecstatic crowd below, “he laid down his life for me.”

  She relaxed in Karol’s paternal company and prayed a silent prayer for Peter and for what would soon be Czechoslovakia again. Her anguish at his death began to be surpassed by contentment that he now finally had the peace he had ached for. It was thanks to Peter that history had been made today. Thanks to his bravery, to his love and to his contrition; a contrition that had saved her from death and ensured the chance of her own redemption by leading a new Czechoslovakia into the future. And as she and Karol stepped through the curtain together to be met by their ecstatic people, she knew that by leaving behind his bitterness and violence, and showing instead the depth of his love and the extent of his mercy, Peter had found true contrition.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  January 1st 1993 saw the end of the much abused Nation of Czechoslovakia and the birth of the Czech and Slovak Republics. Despite, or arguably because of, its artificial nature, Czechoslovakia was hardly a blameless nation (and I’d struggle to name any countries who could claim that mantle), tensions between its component racial and cultural groups proving particularly problematic, but in its brief history it found itself sinned against on far more than its fair share of occasions.

  While I personally think the break up to be a great shame, others hold a different view and those interested in finding out more would do well to read Mary Heimann’s excellent review, “Czechoslovakia – The State that Failed”. Whatever one’s opinions though, what remains true is that the split was not pre-empted by a vote or referendum, nor was there any mass movement for separation, so where did the impetus for what became known as ‘The Velvet Divorce’ come from? Certainly not from Václav Havel, the legendary Czech dissident who proved so influential during the Revolution and who resigned the Presidency rather than preside over the break up.

  While, in my humble view, the separation was a mistake, it provides a few clues as to the activities of The Institute for European Harmony prior to our story.

  Peter Lowe finds himself injected into historical events, some fictional, others grounded in reality, and is occasionally guilty of stealing the thunder of others. During the demonstrations of November 17th, a Secret Police Officer named Ludvík Zifčák was found lying motionless on the floor, providing the source for the fast spread rumor of a dead student, which proved such a significant trigger in furthering the protests. For the purposes of our story, it is Peter who takes Ludvík’s place on the cobbles.

  Likewise, the tragic early demise of Alexander Dubček is shrouded in at least as much mystery in reality as in our tale. The real Dubček was indeed the victim of a car crash, caused (officially) by ‘aquaplaning’ as his vehicle lost traction while travelling at very high speed on a wet surface. The driver, Jan Reznik, who did indeed emerge largely unscathed, received a Twelve Month sentence for speeding as a consequence, while rumors and hearsay continue to abound. A useful summary of the case, including then current calls for its re-opening can be found via the archives of Radio Free Europe: http://www.rferl.org/content/article/1090401.html

  T
he Child as well borrows from history, a still more tragic one at that. In 1942, the Czech village of Lidice was accused by the ruling Nazi powers of harboring partisans and aiding British sponsored members of Operation Anthropoid, who had assassinated the hated Reinhard Heydrich. The Nazi response was the utter and complete elimination of the village in an act of nauseating inhumanity. All adult men were executed, the women were separated from their children and sent to concentration camps (the pregnant women undergoing forced abortions), while the children faced death in the gas vans at Chelmno, unless they were one of the few selected for ‘Ayranisation (taken to Germany to be adopted and raised by ‘suitable’ families’). Days later, a second village, Ležáky, suffered the same fate. Quite miraculously, these children were found and repatriated after the war, The Child however, is a victim of the atrocities who never returned home.

  The Lidice Memorial referenced in the story is really there, work beginning on it in 1969 and continuing into the year 2000. Originally the work of Czech sculptor Marie Uchytilová who completed the work in plaster in 1989, she unexpectedly died of a heart attack just one day before the Velvet Revolution of November 17th. After her passing, her husband, Ji í V. Hampl, continued to work on it alone. Operation Anthropoid also lends a name to our fictional President Čurda, the name originally belonging to Karel Čurda, a Czech resistance fighter who betrayed Heydrich’s assassins for One Million Reichsmarks and a new identity. He was tracked down and hanged after the war. Those wanting to know more about this key event of the Second World War may wish to read John Martin’s, “The Mirror Caught the Sun: Operation Anthropoid 1942”.