The Prague Ultimatum

by James Silvester

  “Captain Stone?”

  Stone spun around to the voice’s owner and accepted the hand of the woman before him. Young, probably mid-twenties Stone estimated, her long brown hair was pulled back into a severe pony tail which complimented the wholly professional look her white shirt and black suit afforded her. Her grip was strong, her tone commanding, with a military inflection. Stone immediately felt his frustrations retreat.

  “It’s a pleasure sir,” the young woman continued, “this way if you please?”

  Stone acquiesced and followed her through the courtyard, pleased at last for the return of a military rigidity to his situation.

  “You’re English?” He asked her, she nodding in response without breaking stride.

  “Actually, Sir, I prefer to say British, while I still can anyway. My Mother is from East Kilbride and my Father from Bristol.”

  “Well that’d do it,” Stone conceded, “at least until the next referendum muddies the water again.”

  They stopped at a large but inconspicuous wooden door, built into the solid stone wall of the castle and the young woman moved to knock, the Captain stopping her as she did so.

  “He’s in here is he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who with?”

  “Alone. You have been briefed haven’t you sir?”

  “I have not.”

  She frowned at the failure.

  “Apologies sir, an oversight I’m sure. If you’d wait here a moment, I’ll make sure he’s ready for you.”

  “Thank you, erm….?”

  “Moore, sir. Flight Lieutenant Charlotte Moore, 33 Squadron.”

  “You’re a long way from RAF Benson.”

  “Special secondment, sir,” she replied, “I looked after him during his last trip to Syria and he requested I be assigned to his personal detail.”

  “There seems to be a lot of that going on at the moment,” he chuckled, somewhat cynically. “Thank you Flight Lieutenant Moore.” Stone offered her a warm smile, his temperament at least partially restored by the familiarity of an efficient military persona. She nodded a reciprocal smile, knocked on the door and went in, emerging a moment later to swing the heavy oak door fully open.

  “The Foreign Secretary will see you now sir,” she said, gesturing for the Captain to pass her and enter the room, before stepping out and closing it behind him.

  On the other side, Stone found himself in surroundings which at once epitomised and undersold the description ‘Golden Room’. Large, spacious, the room was carpeted with a thick red and black patterned shag, upon which stood all manner of grandly aurelian furniture, proudly beaconing its own ornateness to the newcomer. The walls, where not adorned with ancient portraits and lovingly preserved Coats of Arms, carried instead gilded patterns which intricately knitted brightly together the full height of the room and across the wooden ceiling. At the far end of this shining treasure cave sat a man, contrasted from his surroundings by the forebodingly dark suit which he wore tieless as he scribbled notes at the resplendent desk, his head down and revealing the tell-tale signs of a hairline beginning to thin. Stone recognised the man instantly, from TV reports, newspapers and from meticulously stage-managed war zone briefings to the troops: The Rt. Hon. Jonathan Greyson MP, Her Majesty’s Foreign Secretary.

  “What do you know of Oscar Myska, Captain?”

  The heavy door swinging closed behind Stone had triggered the question, the politician’s eyes remaining on his papers, his scribbling uninterrupted.

  Stone frowned, sensing a return of his frustrations. While he had been unsure of the reasons behind his summoning, this was not the reception he had expected and he was loathe to remain in the dark playing twenty questions to a politician’s rules.

  “Only what I read online, Sir.”

  He spat the last word, in the time-honoured manner of a soldier wishing to apprise a superior of his contempt, hoping for a quick end to the charade.

  “Not a fan of the papers eh?”

  “You could say that after recent events. Neither am I a fan of having my time wasted. Sir.”

  The last response had the desired effect, Greyson lifting up his head and offering Stone a small smile. Stone stood some feet away from the desk, taking in the man before him as he would an enemy in the field, and he quickly determined that this was no fellow warrior before him. The face was thin, carrying more lines than a man of Greyson’s age may hope for, particularly across the forehead which furrowed with an obvious stress, betraying the attempted smile at the corners of his mouth.

  “And nor should you be,” the politician eventually conceded. Greyson gathered his papers into a shining leather briefcase and stood and walked out to face Stone, leaning on the desk in front of him.

  “You’re here Captain, because I need your help.”

  “My help, sir?”

  “Your help.”

  “The help of a shamed man? Of a disgrace to the uniform, sir?”

  The rich velvet of Stone’s voice in no way diminished the bitter cynicism of the words he flung at Greyson, words which had been aimed at Stone by the Committee, days earlier. The Captain noted the embarrassed twinge on Greyson’s face and enjoyed it, twisting the knife to see more.

  “I’m at a loss to see how a fallen hero such as I could help you sir.”

  Captain Stone looked into Greyson’s eyes and yearned to hate him, to see in them the reflections of the ignorantly self-righteous members of The Commons Defence Committee, who had hauled him over the coals days earlier, but he could not.

  Then, Stone had sat resplendent in his dress uniform, his unparalleled collection of decorations capped by the dull crimson and bronze of the Victoria Cross earned through blood at Port Stanley, while his interrogators sought to eviscerate him. With a steady, unbreakable stare he had gauged them, not a single one escaping his disdain and each contemptible in their own way. Expensively attired Tory faux patriots, who would wrap themselves in the Union Flag before voting to slash the Forces, sat alongside Trotskyite Revolutionaries who hid their convictions and their hatred of the military behind tasteful suits and MPs’ salaries. Each of them professed to know what was best for the defence of the country; none had ever served her at the front. Calmly, Stone had listened to their loaded questions, respectfully he had answered them, stoically he had refused to concede to their pointed twisting of his words as the journalists scribbled and the hot cameras whirred around him, as loud and as bright, it had seemed at that moment, as any battlefield explosion.

  Did the Captain accept that he had wilfully disobeyed orders? Yes. Did he accept that his actions resulted in the tragedy? No. Would the Captain agree that his actions could be construed as cowardice? Emphatically not and were these the days of Wellington, such a question would result in the offer of a duel.

  The barely concealed panic on the squirming MP’s face as the comment was hastily withdrawn had briefly cheered Stone, thought it didn’t halt the avalanche of arrogant condescension streaming from the Committee’s lips. Try though he might, Stone saw none of the same arrogance in Greyson’s eyes, only the strain of a man buckling under the weight of a thousand unspoken pressures.

  “Oh come on man!” The exasperation in Greyson’s voice was obvious and indicative of the stresses his face suggested he was under, “You can’t have expected there not to have been an enquiry? London ground to a halt! The Markets, hardly at their most stable since Brexit, tumbled, share prices dropped, for God’s sake, they were lying the dead out on pavements!”

  Greyson covered his mouth as though offended by his own display of temper, and Stone grimaced in mute acceptance of the implied apology the politician waved at him.

  “I expected an enquiry, sir, I expected hard questions. I did not expect to be scapegoated by my own country.”

  A cold silence, heavy with unspoken mutual accusation burned between them for a moment, neither man wishing it to break before emotions were better restrained.

  Finally, quietly, with an
air of tiredness in his voice, Greyson moved to speak.

  “Well, successfully completing the job I have for you might go some way to compensating you for your trouble.”

  “I am not interested in compensation…” Stone began what he imagined was his predictable response, before an irritated Greyson cut him off.

  “Exoneration,” he snapped, “Full, complete. Re-instatement to active service with a promotion to Major, no more than you deserve with your history. God knows you’ve been a Captain long enough.”

  Stone’s silence this time came from his shock at Greyson’s words, rather than anger at the establishment he represented. He hadn’t expected this, not after the bile flung at him by Committee, and he struggled for a moment to assimilate it. Promotion he could do without, but exoneration, the return of his honour was a priceless temptation; his son, his precious boy so opposed to the cruelties of modern war, could be proud of him again.

  “I’ve no wish for a Majority,” Stone finally said, honestly, “With all due respect I’d prefer to return to my Squadron.”

  “Out of the question,” Greyson shook his head, “We can’t have you running in and out of combat zones after what happened…”

  “The men and women in that Squadron rely on me sir. Frankly after the way the committee went for me, I don’t trust anyone else to take care of them in the aftermath. Important though exoneration is to me, if it were to come at the expense of those under my command then...”

  “One month,” Greyson interrupted, snapping, “one month with your Squadron, away from combat, then you accept promotion and take an administrative position at Sandhurst. Final offer.”

  Stone stared hard into Greyson’s eyes, sure that this really was the final offer, but not wanting the politician’s nerves to settle with an immediate acquiescence.

  “So,” the Captain eventually replied, “Oscar Myska.”

  The half-smile on Greyson’s lips stretched fuller for a brief moment, before giving way to rigid professionalism as Stone continued.

  “Half-British, half-Czech and a man with the dubious honour of being known as ‘the respectable face of the extreme Right’ across Europe. No criminal record, no history of violence and he’s never been tainted by association with the skinheads or Neo Nazis, but he nonetheless professes a similarly unpleasant message.”

  “Quite.” Greyson picked up the tale, arms folded, “Certain of his entourage have even been known to claim his direct, if illegitimate, lineage from Oswald Mosley, would you believe?”

  “Is that true?”

  “Anything’s possible but it would be hard to prove. It certainly lends more credence to his ‘One European Nation’ platform though.”

  “One European Nation?”

  Greyson turned to the crystal decanter on the desk, pouring generous measures from it into two glasses and handing one to Stone, who stepped forward to accept it.

  “After the Second World War,” Greyson began, “Europe’s remnant fascist groups struggled to adapt to the continent’s somewhat understandable rejection of their ideology. Many simply died a death or devolved into the insignificant groups of thugs you see today, beating up immigrants and painting swastikas on gravestones. Some though, Mosley being one, tried rebranding themselves under the principle of a Europe as one unified nation.”

  “And how successful was that?”

  “Not very. Aside from the fact that none of the composite groups ever fully agreed with each other, once it became clear that their new vision was for an Aryan Europe with mass deportation of blacks and Jews, the novelty quickly wore off.”

  Stone knocked back his drink and placed the glass on the desk.

  “I hadn’t noticed any of that on Myska’s website.”

  “No,” Greyson agreed, “but he’s clever, and he’s played the migrant crisis like a dream. For the most part he’s resisted attacking refugees themselves, he says it’s all Europe and the World’s fault for putting people into a position where they’re forced to seek refuge within ‘incompatible cultures’. His party have even set up charities in Libya and Syria among other places, ostensibly to help people stay and rebuild in their own countries, but in reality setting the scene for wholescale repatriation.”

  “How very noble,” Stone replied.

  “Quite. The effect being of course that he can distance himself from the more extreme vitriol out there and present himself as a kind of perverse humanitarian, while being sure that people know he hates any idea of diversification and that his core supporters will be busy putting his real message about in slightly less eloquent tones.”

  Stone grimaced, he knew the type well; the sneering face of middle class respectability who could spread hatred and fear so much more thoroughly with words than the average thug could with fists. It was the words of the so called ‘mainstream’ rather than the boots of criminals which kept this evil alive. Beautifully vocalised warnings of ‘unknown hordes’ and ‘rivers of blood’ created more panic than a dog turd through a letterbox ever could, because the educated, professional voices legitimised the fear, made it allowable, desirable, to mimic the intellectually determined cruelty. The first time the words were used against him in the playground, Stone had understood this, and since that day he had heard them used by embittered ideologues, backbench opportunists and boorish clowns in pinstripe suits. The only difference was the people they were aimed at.

  “He sounds an unparalleled delight,” Stone replied. “But with respect sir, why is this Britain’s concern? The Article 50 process is under way, we’re disengaging from Europe, why are we unduly Interested in the activities of a Czech MEP, however unpleasant he sounds?”

  Greyson smiled his strained smile as though once more expecting Stone’s objection.

  “Because as far as British interests go Captain,” he began, “the EU represents our very own Hotel California – we can check out any time we like, but we can never leave, not completely anyway. Our interests are inexorably intertwined with theirs, even if the more hard line of the government get their way.”

  “But surely Brexit…?”

  “Brexit was our punishment,” Greyson snapped in obvious irritation at the truth of the revelation.

  “Three years ago, certain members of the government aided the Czechoslovak reunification campaign and helped prevent an assassination attempt on Miroslava Svobodova. As a result, you and I currently stand in a reunified country with Ms Svobodova at its Head. The Institute for European Harmony, the body responsible for the security of the Union, didn’t take too kindly to our interference, hence the Prime Minister being forced into offering a referendum he would lose, compelling him to resign, banishing Britain from Membership and forcing us to deal with the economic and social fall out of the last couple of years.”

  As Greyson’s matter of fact delivery sunk in, Stone felt the familiar rise of his contempt for the political class. He was a soldier, an honourable man, or at least he liked to think so, he faced his enemies head on, on the battlefield, where loyalty to one’s comrades mattered and survival was far from assured. It was everything that politics wasn’t. Backroom deals, dodgy dossiers, corrupted elections and now assassinations? The Captain reined in his anger to properly process Greyson’s words.

  “The Institute for European Harmony? Never heard of it.”

  “Not many have. Ostensibly it’s a Think Tank, but you’d be better to think of it as sort of combined European FBI and CIA,” Greyson agreed, smiling gently. “Far less official but every bit as far reaching. It’s their job to keep Europe on track.”

  “So why would they throw Britain out, surely losing a member state weakens their overall position?”

  “You’d think so, but like I said it’s our punishment. We get economic turmoil and are still dependent on Europe, only now we have none of the power and no right to veto anything; the project can move on unhindered. But, we think they’ve miscalculated.”

  “How so?”

  “Race.” Greyson offered the w
ord simply and quietly. “If Brexit has been successful at anything it’s in galvanising the extreme Right both at home and across Europe, hence our interest in Myska. With the migrant crisis on-going and this latest bout of terrorist attacks across the continent, not least the attack last year in Prague, his sudden rise to prominence really couldn’t have come at a worse time. We’re worried that The Institute might try and use the instability to unseat Svobodova, or otherwise do away with her, and replace her with someone less favourable to Britain - God knows we need all the friends we can get these days. I need you to go to Prague, get a feel of the atmosphere, see if you can link Myska to any of the violence and unrest. If we can do that, we can discredit him and cut off the march of the extreme Right before it gathers any more momentum, and if we keep Svobodova in power we’ll have an influential ally while we work out what the hell our Brexit economy is going to look like.”

  “That’s it? Just go to Prague and see what I can find out?”

  “For now. Think of it as reconnaissance work.”

  “With respect sir, I’m a soldier, I reconnoitre battlefields. Skulking around in dark street corners sounds more like a job for MI6.”

  “I can’t trust MI6!” Greyson’s irritation was palpable. “The Institute have been operating within government for years and frankly MI6 is compromised. The only operative they have who I can be sure of is already on the ground but I need more and have no-one else I can trust! I can’t second a serving Officer to this kind of duty, it would be too suspicious, so that makes you, Captain, the ideal candidate for the job. And anyway, you’ll still be reconnoitring a battlefield, just one of a different type.”

  There was a sincerity, almost a panic in Greyson’s voice which overrode Stone’s distaste, almost enough to sway him by itself, but the soldier’s thoughts kept returning to his son and the restoration of his honour. Greyson was reaching out to him, the veins in his thin arm pronounced and strained, the palm open, desperate to clasp around Stone’s. Shrugging away the last of his doubt, Stone obliged, shaking the politician’s hand with a calculated and deliberate strength.