The Prague Ultimatum

by James Silvester

Stone continued to grin at the bluntness of the Professor’s words, nodding along in faux acceptance of her analysis.

  “So, you’re saying I love her enough to bring her to the edge of destruction?”

  “If you like.”

  The Professor’s response was as cold and concise as Stone imagined her lectures were, devoid of the joviality that had marked their conversation to that point and, he supposed, offering a glimpse of the anguish gone through during her own divorce and her own current feelings about Greyson. He ignored the new inflection, eager to extend the relief from tension their exchange had granted him.

  “Well each man kills the thing he loves, or so Oscar Wilde reckoned,” Stone chuckled.

  “Maybe not quite kill, but nearly.”

  “And I thought I was supposed to be the morose one,” he laughed, tipping his own glass to his lips.

  “It’s true though,” she grinned in return, “That’s why human beings hate to be single; no matter how many family or friends we might have around us, without a partner, or ‘significant other’ or whatever, we can never truly shake the feeling that if we disappeared into the ether, it really wouldn’t take too long for everyone to get over us and get on with their lives, maybe occasionally ‘sparing us a thought’. When what we really want, if we’re honest with ourselves, is for our loss to mean something terrible, something devastating; maybe even so devastating it could destroy.”

  Though her smile had returned, it remained several degrees below warm and Stone felt the focus in her eyes drifting, enough to make him seek to regain her attention by clinking his glass loudly to the table.

  “Not the most selfless of adverts for romantic love,” he quietly responded, mirroring her smile’s reduction in width, though unwilling to match its new coldness.

  “No,” she agreed, “but near destruction can be a good thing. It allows one to rebuild; create something stronger from the same raw materials, something better…I must admit though, I was always terrified of getting my heart broken, I suppose I’m lucky I made it this far before it happened.”

  “You should never be scared of a broken heart,” Stone responded, “pain just reminds you you’re alive, builds character.”

  “So it damn well should build character,” she snapped the words, “it crushes the old one after all. I’m not the woman I used to be. I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore…so much for love.”

  Stone smiled warmly back at her. That this woman who only a few hours ago was so cold and yet was now so open puzzled him, as did his own willingness to respond in kind when he would typically dry up and retreat within himself rather than engage in such conversations. This had been a strange couple of days, stranger no doubt for the Professor with her added emotional involvement. He supposed that her recognising him as a kindred fish out of the bowl and latching onto him was essentially a coping mechanism to get through an uncomfortable assignment. Well that was fine with him, it seemed like a damn fine strategy given the circumstances and despite himself, Stone was beginning to greatly enjoy her company and saw no reason to limit it when they would likely be stuck here for God knows how long.

  Draining the last of his drink, he met her eyes.

  “Maybe you’re right, maybe love and romance is intrinsically selfish, but that doesn’t mean all love is.”

  “No?”

  “No. Parental love, when it’s done right, is just about the most selfless emotion you can experience.”

  She laughed at his remark, though a little cheekily and without condescension.

  “Really? I don’t know, I’ve always thought that people have children because they want them; it seems a pretty selfish desire to me, to force existence on someone without their consent, just because you like to cuddle babies or fancy a spare kidney on hand in your old age.”

  He smiled his own melancholic smile in response, his rich voice deep and soft, but his brow betraying his intensity.

  “Well maybe you’re right, but I swear, once that child is born and it looks at you with pure, utter trust in its eyes, you realise that everything you thought was love before was nothing compared to this, this wondrous, terrifying feeling that grabs hold of you and won’t let go.”

  He kept his eyes on hers, to enforce the passion of his gentle words.

  “It’s all consuming, it burns perpetually inside every inch, every fibre of you. Marriages can break up, relationships crumble but nothing, no slight, no wrong, no insult, no argument, no betrayal will ever diminish the love you have for this beautiful child. And when they grow and they want to spread their wings, ignore you, when you for a time stop being their most valued source of guidance and encouragement, it never stops for you. And even when, in their youthful, righteous passion they lash out against you and the things they think you’ve stood and fought for, when they reject you in some impetuous rush to find their ‘own way’ in the world, even then, there is not one torture, not one solitary agony you would not eternally endure, just to save them a moment of pain…”

  Stone paused to quell the lump rising in his throat and blink away the threat of tears.

  “And that’s real love.”

  Her eyes hadn’t moved from his as he spoke and she remained in silence for what seemed like an age, as though she was mulling over some great conundrum, the corner of her mouth raising slightly as she stared. Eventually, she picked up her glass and drained it of the last vestiges before standing and throwing her light jacket over her shoulders.

  “Come along Captain,” she quietly said. “We don’t want to keep the Prime Minister waiting.”

  The veil of professional silence which the Professor had worn earlier in the day enveloped her once more as they journeyed together to Svobodova’s office, reinforcing Stone’s view of his companion’s coping strategies. Not that he minded the silence, it gave him chance to mentally prepare his report on the day’s events in a more concise and orderly fashion in readiness for what he expected would not be so avuncular an inquisition as he had just enjoyed with Abelard. His apprehension proved well founded as he sat before Svobodova’s desk recounting the tale of the bearded man and his ill-fated attempt on Stone’s life with military precision, devoid of emotion or exaggeration, while Svobodova herself listened intently, exhaustion deeply apparent in her eyes.

  “I must apologise Captain,” she began after pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts, “for your less than warm welcome to our country. You are injured?”

  “I’ve had worse,” he answered. “What hurts more is not knowing who he was, other than recognising him from your folder. It does though tell me straight away that Myska isn’t quite the squeaky-clean man of the people he makes himself out to be.”

  “You’re sure Myska is connected to him?”

  “Undoubtedly. I doubt very much that this guy was the only muscle on the scene, looking for undesirables. I suppose the best word for them is ‘bouncers’.”

  “That would be pretty standard for any extremist movement,” Abelard interceded from her chair alongside Stone. “In the old days, they’d be wearing black shirts and jackboots but it makes sense in a movement that defines itself as separate to and above all that kind of thing to make their security arrangements more ‘unofficial.’”

  “That old ‘plausible deniability’ chestnut again,” Stone added.

  “Korva..,” Svobodova swore under her breath, “More’s the pity you couldn’t bring him in for questioning, if we could have established that link between Myska and the violence…”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Stone snapped a little too defensively, “and there was no way for me to stop the man who did.”

  “I know, I know, I’m not blaming you Captain Stone.” Svobodova stood up from behind her desk and opened the cabinet behind her, taking out a glass bottle and three small shot glasses, deftly pouring the clear liquid from the bottle into each of them. “Believe me, I’ve already viewed the CCTV footage, you had a lucky escape.”

  She handed a glass each to S
tone and Abelard and knocked her own straight back in one go. Stone did likewise and grimaced at the unfamiliar, harsh taste burning its way down his throat, while a quick glance at the Professor confirmed her similar reaction.

  “But it begs the question, not only who was your assailant, but who was your guardian angel?”

  “Greyson said he had a man, an operative on the ground here, does it look like him?”

  “Jonathan isn’t in the habit of introducing me to his agents,” Svobodova shook her head, “save for seeking my consent for their presence, but as far as I’m aware he is in Brno investigating Myska’s Party funding...”

  “Well whoever he is he must have been tailing me since I arrived last night, which means both he and Myska know I’m here and presumably why. My late bearded friend had me marked from the start and not just because of my colour.”

  “You don’t think…?”

  They turned to Professor Abelard who shook her head at her own brief words.

  “Go on,” Svobodova urged, gently.

  “I was going to suggest the man who saved you could belong to The Institute.”

  Stone raised his eyebrow at the possibility while Svobodova sat heavily back into her chair as though mention of The Institute swept a fresh wave of melancholy over her tired features.

  “Think about it,” Abelard continued, “we know The Institute uses operatives from all over Europe, we know they’ve tried to interfere in Czechoslovak affairs before. Is it beyond the realms of possibility that they are equally concerned about what Myska might be up to and have their own man on the scene?”

  “Why would he interfere to save me?” Stone queried.

  “Well from the way Jonathan described them to me, and from you own experiences Ma’am,” she nodded to Svobodova, “they sound essentially pragmatic in nature within the boundaries of their overall objectives. If you’re here doing the legwork for them, why would they hinder you? And for that matter why would they let anyone else hinder you? Far better from their point of view to let you get on with digging the dirt while they watch from the sidelines.”

  Svobodova refilled her glass, smiling slightly at both Stone’s and Abelard’s polite refusal of a second drink.

  “Well it’s a theory, certainly,” she mused, “and one that fits the facts as we have them. You might very well have your own Institute Protector, Captain Stone.”

  “I’ve had more comforting thoughts,” Stone huffed, “but who knows? Maybe he’ll get the chance to save my life again; Institute Guardian or not, I have to get closer to Myska, find some way of getting you that positive link if I’ve any hope of Greyson making good on his promises.”

  Svobodova’s eyes dropped to her desk at the frustration in Stone’s voice and the military man shot a glance to Abelard, whose own gaze had likewise dropped, instantly regretting allowing his annoyance to show. Though they had been in his life for only a few hours, Stone had instantly respected and admired Svobodova and Abelard for their respective strength and intelligence and he had no wish to add further discomfort to what must be a difficult situation for both women.

  “Anyway,” he said, breaking the awkward silence, “enough of that for now, it’s been a long day.”

  “Yes, of course, you must be exhausted. You get some sleep and we can talk again in the morning.”

  She walked them both to her office door, her smile returning. “And thank you both of you again for all your help today, I can’t express how much I appreciate it.”

  “It’s nothing,” Stone said quietly, ducking through the grand door, “Good evening.”

  He turned back in time to see Svobodova stopping Abelard by the door and clasping her warmly by the hand. The Professor reciprocated and smiled back at the politician, the two women briefly pausing in an unspoken moment of understanding before Svobodova delicately pulled away and retreated behind the closed door of her office.

  “Well,” Abelard began, her professional persona beginning to melt once more as she caught up with Stone, “an interesting first day on the job. I suppose I’d better find a supermarket and get some supplies in; we might be here a while.”

  “You can’t have had much sleep,” Stone responded, “early night for you, is it?”

  “Actually,” Abelard countered, her wicked smile beginning to show itself, “I wondered if you fancied getting another drink?”

  SIX

  AFTER BRIEFLY PARTING TO FRESHEN UP at their respective abodes, the pair had returned to the gothic beauty of an Old Town Square, nervous laughter punctuating their ill-informed debate as to which of the myriad of narrow cobbled streets they should elect to explore. The Professor sported a knee length black cocktail dress, perfect for the warm Prague night, while Stone himself was dressed in dark jeans and a casual jacket over a navy blue cotton shirt. The nervous laughter continued as they walked, arms linked, past an array of gaudy souvenir shops, offering a seemingly infinite assortment of crystal ornaments, amber jewellery and painted wooden marionettes in between the racks of t-shirts, towels and postcards, all stamped with the unmistakeable image of the Prague skyline under stylized Czech lettering. All around them, the early evening streets offered the delights of tourist friendly consumerism; stalls, eateries and museums of everything from Communism and sex to medieval torture.

  They had continued walking until the river was in sight, the foreboding majesty of the imperious Tower guarding the entrance to the Charles Bridge just across the road from them. Running out of choices as they neared the end of the street, Stone had spotted the elaborately framed and inviting entrance of what looked like a wine bar, tucked discreetly between buildings, lights illuminating its four-storey stretch to the sky.

  Stepping through the door, Stone took in the bustling ambience of the small bar area and the fully occupied tables around it. The white walls were adorned with a variety of racks, each housing a multitude of bottles of various shades of red, while corners and crevices were filled with deep, tall refrigerators housing an array of whites, roses and champagne.

  Touching the Professor’s waist, Stone began to guide her further into the bar, only to be stopped in his tracks by the protestations of an immaculately dressed waiter who moved quickly towards them, waving his arms.

  “No room, sorry!” A tinge of desperation was evident in the waiter’s voice as he approached them.

  “You must have something,” Stone offered his most charming smile and his hand to the waiter, who swiftly and surreptitiously pocketed the note it contained.

  “You wait downstairs,” he smiled, “in the club. I call you, twenty minutes.”

  He gestured towards an alcove away from the bar, through which Stone saw a deep staircase descending into blackness.

  Nodding his agreement, Stone and the Professor made for the steps, thumping dance music greeting their descent, and they emerged from a small stone tunnel into a vast basement area, filled with an ambience and a clientele totally at odds with the venue they had stepped down from seconds earlier. A bar, fully stocked with a wide array of beers and spirits stood at the back of the main room, while alcoves in the wall offered views of a stage in a lower basement a few steps away, around which casually dressed and highly inebriated punters were eagerly gathering.

  Stone smiled at the contrast with the upper level and was pleased to see his expression mirrored in the Professor’s face.

  “Well, twenty minutes shouldn’t be too long,” he grinned, shouting over the thump of what was evidently passing for music.

  “A lot can happen in twenty minutes,” Abelard grinned, mischievously, “I’ll have a spritzer please.”

  Stone returned from the bar to find Abelard seated in one of the alcoves overlooking the stage and passed the glass to her as he sat down.

  “Cheers!” The Captain clinked his pint glass against the spritzer and shouted the word, just in time for the tuneless noise to stop, giving way to murmured chatter and the drunken laughter.

  “Well thank God for that,” he laughed.


  “Not a music fan then?”

  “Oh, that was music?” Stone replied, “I thought someone had just had a stroke and collapsed on a mixing desk.”

  She laughed at his comment and took a sip from her drink.

  “Not quite your cup of tea, in other words,” she grinned, “maybe the younger generation would appreciate it a little more.”

  Stone’s smile dipped a little and he dropped his eyes to his drink for a moment.

  “I’m sure my lad would love it,” he sighed.

  Abelard’s face betrayed her concern and she reached out to put a hand on his knee.

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” she said gently. “A single dad, trying to balance parenthood with a military career? It can’t have been easy. You should give yourself more credit.”

  He patted her hand in return, looking up again and smiling.

  “No-one will ever convince me I was a good enough father,” he sighed, “you try your best, you work hard at it, you do everything because you think it’s the right way to do it, or hope that it is, but really you haven’t a clue, you’re just winging it.”

  “If you ask me, that’s true of the whole adult world,” Abelard laughed, “we’re all just winging it.”

  It’s funny,” he said, “I used to have all these grand designs of what I’d be like as a parent, I’d always imagined I’d be like one of those hippy parents you see around, you know? No slapped backsides, no raised voices… But it didn’t turn out that way. I’ve slapped when a stern word would do, shouted when a hug was needed and I’m not sure I ever learned from my mistakes. I was every bit the disciplinarian old bastard I always swore I wouldn’t be.”

  “That’s the soldier in you,” Abelard replied cheekily, her reciprocal smile helping Stone relax further into her company, countering the unwelcome memories which scurried cruelly through his mind.

  “Ah, the soldier in me…” He looked at her, suddenly intensively, eager to ensure her full understanding. “Did you know I’ve been a soldier since the Falklands? That’s when they pinned the Victoria Cross to my chest and called me a hero. I’ve lost comrades, lost blood on more battlefields than I can remember. In the old days, it was the thought of honouring my father that got me through, but then, he was born. And every tour, every conflict that came along, was only tolerable by the thought of going home to see him, my darling boy. And finally I’d return home from the fight, every vein just bursting with the urge to hold him, love him, but all I’d end up doing is shouting, disciplining him, trying almost desperately to make sure he ‘grew up right’…”