The Prague Ultimatum

by James Silvester

  “Indeed,” nodded Greyson with ill-disguised sarcasm, his ego quite obviously far from pricked.

  Williams clattered his spoon into his empty bowl, pushed it across the wooden table, took a mouthful of ale and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs.

  “You’re always so busy worrying about the fucking Yanks,” he said with disdain, “I’m telling you The Institute is the problem here.”

  “Look,” interjected Stone, “you obviously still need me involved in this or we wouldn’t be sat here now. I need to know who and what I’m up against and what precisely you want me to do about it; not some vague statement about ‘observing’ some Czech MEP, but actually what you want me to do, and what exactly this Institute is.”

  The billowing stench from William’s cigarette enveloped Stone, his brow furrowing to protect his eyes from the sting.

  “And haven’t you ever heard of electronic cigarettes?” he coughed.

  “If I wanted to walk around spaced out with a dildo hanging out of my mouth, I’d take a rohypnol and make a pass at a lesbian. I’ve seen people sucking on less comical bongs.”

  The wrinkled man emphasised his point, drawing in a huge chest full and exhaling luxuriously.

  “Besides,” he said, nodding towards Greyson “it’s only fair to let the cancer have as equal a chance of finishing me off as this prick.”

  “Charming to the last, Mr Williams,” grinned Greyson, “although I think you’re wrong about The Institute on this occasion.”

  “Whether he is or not,” said a frustrated Stone, “I’d like to know more about this ‘Institute’; for starters who’s behind it?”

  A flutter of discomfort flitted across Greyson’s face, cracking the veneer of confidence he had projected to that point.

  “Like I told you in Bojnice,” he began, “The Institute is a clandestine grouping aimed at ensuring the security of the Union; the person with the most direct control over it is a man known as ‘The Child’. There’s very little known about him other than the fact that he’s ruthless in the pursuit of his goals, which he considers to be for the greater good; he’s not interested in money, power or personal empire building as such, just in the continued unity of Europe. He must be a fair age by now…

  “That sounds about as blank a canvas as you can get. Is there anything we do know about him?”

  Greyson shrugged, dragging on his own cigarette; appearance no longer dictating he conceal the habit, and paused for a moment to savour the burn in his lungs.

  “There’s very little documented,” he finally ventured, “my Dad kept some papers, diaries and the like from his career, I’ve been going through them since his death, this ‘Child’ is mentioned a few times.”

  Stone nodded in a brief display of respect, remembering the Headlines when Sir Roger McShade, a controversial figure and Greyson’s largely absent father had died, ironically enough in Prague, a few years back. Suicide so the papers had claimed, but something in Greyson’s face brought a flicker of doubt to Stone’s mind as to the cause.

  “What do they say?” the soldier finally asked.

  Greyson exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s mostly anecdotal from various sources over the years. We know he came over from East Germany in the Fifties, we’re not sure exactly when. There were rumours he murdered his adoptive parents before he ran, though they were never corroborated. Intelligence at the time was somewhat patchy and the Stasi files uncovered since the Wall came down are only so useful.”

  “Murdered his parents?” Stone frowned, almost as much because the others present did not share his instinctive revulsion, as because of the revelation itself.

  “So they say,” Greyson nodded, apparently revelling once more in his role as gruesome story teller, “But if it’s any consolation they wouldn’t have been very nice people. He was a Lidice child, you know? It was one of the Czech villages that was destroyed by the Nazis during the war after Operation Anthropoid. Ležáky was another one. That’s where he gets his name from; he was selected for ‘Ayranisation’ and sent to a suitably loyal SS family to raise him. After the war, the Red Cross set about finding the kids and returning them to what was left of their real families, they were very successful too, in all but one case.”

  “No prizes for guessing which,” Stone remarked.

  “Quite. It’s not too much of a stretch of the imagination to think that one day he found out the truth.”

  “Well aside from an unlikeliness he’ll attend any cosy family get togethers in Bavaria, that doesn’t tell us much.” Williams pulled the spent cigarette from his own mouth, stubbing it in the rapidly filling ash tray under his nose.

  “No,” Greyson agreed. “After that he went under the radar for a while, eventually wound up with the reputation for doing the kind of dirty work in West Germany that made him the front runner when The Institute was being created. He was instrumental in bringing down the Wall and there are certain references to his activities here during the Velvet Revolution. There’s even a suggestion he was involved with Richard Grave for a while…”

  “Grave, the defector?” Stone raised his eyebrow at the name, remembering the whispered stories of ‘The Grave Affair’ from his youth, while Williams’ scowl further deepened.

  “The same,” Greyson confirmed, “but Dad’s notes from that period are pretty sporadic. That was in 1989, and then the notes become more sporadic throughout the Nineties. When Dad left the Commons in 1997 the references dried up completely, but what is obvious is that The Institute went undercover, fast becoming autonomous and separated from the intelligence agencies that spawned it. Before long they’d begun infiltrating the host agencies of each Member State and took a de facto control of European Affairs. To this day, those politicians that know about it generally choose to go along with their objectives, or else ignore it and try to convince themselves it doesn’t exist.”

  “Why so keen?”

  “Let’s just say there’s been some tremendously bad luck when it comes to ‘unfortunate accidents’ among a fair few of the elite over the past decades,” Greyson sighed.

  “Accidents my arse,” scowled Williams.

  “Quite. But as I said, I think the Institute have miscalculated in their rush to unsettle Mirush… I mean Svobodova; Myska’s plans are hardly what you’d call ‘in line’ with The Child’s. They might both want a united Europe, but Myska’s slightly more Aryan tastes are the antithesis of what The Institute claims to stand for; whatever else The Child might be, he’s no racial demagogue. I’m far more concerned that they’ll use the crisis to simply cut Czechoslovakia loose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Institute survives on discipline and fear; Czechoslovakia went against them with the decision to reunify hence their efforts to undermine Svobodova. But if it looks like the only beneficiary of that action will be the Far Right, then it might make more sense to simply let Russia subsume them all over again.”

  Stone’s contemplation of the words was interrupted by a graceful but sudden and unexpected movement in the corner of his eye. A feline shape, silver grey, elegant and just large enough to brush an average man’s hip hopped down from a stool by the bar and strode into the light of the beer garden, idling past Stone’s leg and through a small metal flap in the caged area behind him, disappearing nonchalantly into the greenery.

  “Was that a puma?” Stone asked, puzzled at the lack of reaction from his two companions, “what’s the owner doing giving it free rein of a bar?”

  “That’s nothing,” said Williams, drawing on his fresh cigarette, “you should see the reaction when he takes it to Tesco.”

  He swallowed large gulps of his ale, wiping his mouth with a dirty sleeve.

  “Whichever way you look at it,” he intoned, without looking at anyone in particular, as though he were debating with the dark recesses of his own consciousness, “the Institute are losing their grip; at one time arseholes like Myska would have be
en only slightly more irritating than a blocked toilet in need of a plunger while the refugee crisis would never have got this far. In the old days, The Child would have knocked some heads together and found a solution, but today’s summit meetings resemble a convention for late middle aged parents still discussing how to programme the VCR when everyone else has moved onto the Cloud. If you ask me, The Child’s lost the fucking plot.”

  “That’s as maybe,” Greyson conceded, “but if true only makes Czechoslovakia’s situation worse; there’s no telling what the old bastard will do if he thinks he’s backed into a corner.”

  “Well rather than wait to find out, it’s even more important that we dig up some hard evidence connecting Myska to the violence. Everything I’ve seen so far is screaming ‘Red Flag Op’ to me; a fucking terrorist attack just when it would benefit Myska? Rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Convenient it might be, but it doesn’t automatically point to a Red Flag,” Stone responded, thoughtfully. “The terrorists goal, assuming they are genuine terrorists for a moment, is chaos and war; they’re not interested in seeing tolerant, inclusive politicians elected, they’ve no interest in dialogue or compromise. A divisive leader like Myska is exactly what they want and need to keep the flames of division burning; every word that comes out of their mouths only helps the poison spread further.”

  “You said ‘assuming they’re genuine’,” Greyson cut in, frowning, “why wouldn’t we make such an assumption?”

  “The methods are different this time,” Stone answered, touching the scar on his temple. “The bomb in the bin at the concert for example and even going back to the first attack last year; I find it hard to believe that a genuine fundamentalist of the kind I’ve experienced would get their timing so badly wrong as to allow a building full of potential victims to escape. Something just doesn’t stack up right for me. And there’s something else, I just can’t quite put my finger on…”

  “All the more reason to suspect Red Flag!” Williams’ frustration was abundantly clear to his colleagues, the Scotsman spitting the words in almost a fury. “And while you’re scrambling around looking for somewhere to put your finger, The Great White Hope is out there planning his next big event.” He nodded his frowning head towards Greyson. “Can you not persuade your girlfriend to allow some evidence to be ‘creatively manufactured’?”

  “Ha!” Greyson laughed out loud, inadvertently spitting his mouthful of beer back into his glass. “Hardly,” he answered, “I’m rather afraid Mirushka is the very essence of political morality; if she’s to take punitive action she demands evidence. And in any event, she isn’t my girlfriend.”

  The MP flashed a hint of what looked like a bashful grin, before catching Stone’s eye and sheepishly looking down to reorder his demeanour.

  “How has she been holding up in all this?” Greyson eventually returned his, somewhat hesitant, eyes to the level of the Captain’s, who offered him nothing in the way of sympathy with the intensity of his stare.

  “Mirushka?”

  Stone employed Svobodova’s nickname with a voice dripping with enough scorn that even Williams stifled a wicked grin.

  “Svobodova,” Greyson answered, clearly resentful of the joke at his expense.

  “Well, considering,” Stone answered, narrowing his brow, “and it can’t have been easy. I’m told that tourism is holding up reasonably well and there aren’t exactly reams of people waiting to cancel their bookings, but it’s fair to say there’s a great deal more tension in the country, here particularly, than I’m led to believe is usually the case. At least, that’s what Natalie told me.”

  Stone’s mention of Professor Abelard was deliberate and even, he thought, a little cruel, but no more so than the man before him deserved, even if the only chance, however slight, of the soldier’s exoneration lay in the politician’s hand.

  “Natalie?”

  Greyson quietly repeated the name, a shade of resentment at Stone’s obvious familiarity visible on his features.

  “Yes, she told me over breakfast the other morning,” Stone drove the dagger home, his affections for the woman who had provided him a brief glimpse of the damage this man had caused her overriding his sense of fair play, until he remembered his own less than chivalrous behaviour over the past couple of days. “She’d gone over the reports from the Tourism and Heritage Ministry. And of course, the filming is keeping the country firmly in the international eye; although we’re told that given some of the attacks recently they’re taking on extra security.”

  “I doubt they’ll bring on enough people to keep history secure from the fucking film studios.”

  Stone and Greyson turned their eyes to Williams who had voiced the contemptuous words while balancing a stained beermat on the edge of the wooden table, flicking it upwards and catching it in his thin, cadaverous fingers.

  “What the fuck do Yanks know about history?” the untidy man grumbled as he flicked his beermat again. “The complete span of their fucking country is two hundred years; I’ve had longer fucking bowel movements.”

  “Anyway,” Greyson frowned, “might I suggest that the two of you become better acquainted and co-ordinate your efforts?” He stood to leave, picking up and finishing his glass. “I’ll be getting in touch with Mirush---, Ms Svobodova, later today.” He shot another awkward glance to Stone who stared back with all his years of military deference. “It’s safer for all concerned if I stay out of the limelight for a while; there’s no need to fan the flames any harder.”

  “I need a new flat.” Williams piped up, ignoring the conversation’s change in direction and introducing his own, “I don’t want to have to bunk up with Captain Marvel and his Professor friend, I’d feel left out.”

  This time Greyson refused to rise to the bait, briskly responding by confirming that there would be funds in his account before the end of the day and he should make his own arrangements from there before linking up again with the Captain.

  “Actually, speaking of the film, there’s one or two things I wanted to check with the crew. I’ll check the location diary, perhaps we can meet there later?” Stone asked the question with a certain degree of awkwardness, at Williams’ casual exposition of the Captain’s recent sleeping arrangements.

  “Agreed,” the Scot nodded. “Here’s my number, bell me when you want to get down there.”

  He slid from between the Soldier and the former Secretary of State and without another word, disappeared into the dimly lit bar interior; the click of his shoes on the steps assuring them of his ascent to the street.

  Stone moved to follow but Greyson caught him gently by the arm; the soldier pausing to observe the MP, his head tilted to the side.

  “Captain Stone, a question if I may?”

  “Yes?”

  “Professor Abelard, Natalie. Are you sleeping with her?”

  The bluntness of Greyson’s question surprised Stone, but not enough that he didn’t know how to answer.

  “I’m not sure where you learned your manners, Mr Greyson,” he said, “but it was evidently at a different establishment than I.”

  He moved to leave once more but was again stopped.

  “You realise she’s my ex-wife?”

  Stone could see no aggression or even hostility on the politician’s face, but neither was there any trace of warmth, and while the question was not exactly wholly unexpected, he was damned if he was about to dignify it with an answer.

  “Then I would have thought that your divorce renders her social calendar little of your business.”

  The suggestion of a half-smile arose, though Greyson’s eyes remained resolute.

  “An honourable man,” he said, “and entirely correct of course. But a word of warning Captain: these are dangerous times and you are observing some particularly foul people. I don’t think there’s any need for her to become too involved in your investigations; after all I’d be greatly displeased were anything untoward to happen to her.”

 
“Whereas I am conveniently expendable, I presume?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Greyson replied, “you’re every bit as vital to completing the objectives…”

  “Yes, well, Natalie is her own person,” Stone interrupted, eager to save himself from any more guarded political platitudes, “she makes her own decisions and she’ll be every bit as involved in ‘completing the objectives’ as she chooses to be. And from what I know of her, God help anyone who suggested otherwise. I will say this though…”

  He leaned closer in, speaking softly into Greyson’s ear, his words delicate but delivered with just a subtle hint of threat, enough to make Greyson know where he stood.

  “Natalie was brought onto this merry-go-round by you, Mr Greyson and you alone, presumably using the same mixture of duty and emotional blackmail you used to bring me here. And while I would move heaven and earth trying to prevent anything from ‘happening to her’, as I’m sure she would for me, it would be worth remembering who persuaded her to take her seat in the first place; just as it would prove useful to understand that concern for a person’s welfare is perhaps best expressed before they’ve made the decision to leave you.”

  Stone didn’t wait for an answer, turning immediately away from Greyson and heading into the pub and up the steep angled steps into the hot afternoon. He disliked cruelty and he knew it was unwise to bite the hand that still offered to feed him, questionable pickings though they currently were. But what drove Stone to do so, even more than the patchy details Natalie had offered of their life together, was the shame he still felt at having not made the effort to prevent his own marriage from collapsing; a mistake he felt he was in danger of repeating through his behaviour in recent days. And with Williams’ chief concern at the moment being a new roof over his head, Stone had the time to rectify his mistake; if, that was, the Professor was still ready and willing to talk to him.