The Prague Ultimatum

by James Silvester

  “Franz Kafka spent time around these parts, didn’t he?” Stone asked.

  “Yeah, why?” Williams frowned.

  “Because I’m beginning to feel like I’m trapped in one of his nightmares,” Stone laughed. “We’re struggling to keep the country inside the boundaries of a political Union that resents its very existence and actively works against it. Did I turn over two pages at once?”

  “It’s The Institute we’re fighting,” Williams replied, “not the body of the EU itself. Just because the bureaucracy is against us doesn’t mean the principle isn’t worth fighting for; if we can neuter The Institute, chop the head off the snake, we stand a good chance of re-shaping the Union, getting rid of the shite and baggage. We might even stand a chance of getting Britain back inside before the economy well and truly dies on its isolationist backside.”

  Stone laughed. “If the papers back home heard you they’d accuse you of being a bitter Remainer unable to accept the democratic will of the people.”

  The barb, light hearted though its delivery was, irked the Scotsman, who turned his ferocious gaze on the Captain.

  “This might be a hard concept for the military mind to understand, Captain, but it is entirely possible to both accept something and to loathe and despise it utterly at the same time. I accept Brexit like I accepted my cancer diagnosis: I might have to acknowledge its existence but it doesn’t mean I have to wave a Union Flag and sing Rule Britannia while it fucking eats me alive.”

  Stone struggled to contain his laughter at Williams’ choice of words, holding his hand up in mock surrender to the foulmouthed tirade.

  “And in any case,” Williams continued, “democracy only works when your population doesn’t know more about the cast of the latest reality TV show than it does about the fucking issues it’s voting on.”

  Stone guffawed out loud, Williams too eventually allowing his misanthropy to crack into mirth, as though the pair were the only two capable of seeing the ludicrousness of the world they found themselves trapped in.

  “Mind you,” Stone laughed, “given some of the candidates we’ve seen recently, democracy has practically become the new reality TV.”

  “Aye,” Williams nodded, with something approaching sadness in his eyes and his brief moment of laughter subsiding, “you’re right.”

  He straightened up and stretched the stresses of the day from his back, a deep and lengthy yawn overcoming him.

  “But at least,” he began, as the pair shuffled away down the path, “with our friend Mr Salam in custody, we can give the viewers a hell of a show.”

  TWENTY

  “THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE she could do, they had her over a barrel and she knew it.”

  A quiet bitterness haunted Captain Stone’s voice which the sincerity of his words did little to counter. There had indeed been nothing Svobodova could do in the face of the ‘give in or be given up’ ultimatum delivered by her American friends, but that knowledge in no way masked the astringent flavour of the pill she, and by extension he, were now swallowing. The headlines screamed it, the TV reports debated it and Stone watched it unfold from his vantage point in the south east of the city, where the dirty, white walls of the High Court stood, topped with its orange roof and connected via secure, underground tunnel to the bustling and overcrowded Pankrác Prison; the prisoner was to be transferred to American custody. No extradition hearing was required, the US media stated, as the agent who took the prisoner down was part of a pre-arranged joint operation between Czechoslovakia and the US. A useful little lie which Svobodova had little choice but to back up.

  “Fucking Yanks.”

  Stone almost allowed himself to smile at Williams’ now familiar display of contempt, but his own impotent frustrations kept his face defiantly rigid.

  “He was mine, I had him,” the Scotsman continued sourly, “I just needed more time.”

  “We got some leads out of him,” Stone tried to placate his associate, somewhat insincerely as they stood in the car park of the court, away from the jostling and jeering crowd of protestors, awaiting the prisoner’s journey through the tunnel and out of the court to the waiting transport, “the Myska connection looks a hell of a lot more provable now.”

  “With the only witness strapped up and on his way to enjoy trial by TV in America? Fat lot of good that’ll do us. By the time he’s wearing his orange jumpsuit and having his face plastered on trailers between re-runs of Columbo and Desperate fucking Housewives, Svobodova will be out of power, the lunatics will have taken over the asylum and European governments will start toppling like a game of Domino Rally. A couple more days and I could have got the whole damn story from him!”

  Williams’ indignation was as passionate and deeply felt as the Captain’s own and it had burned since Svobodova’s intervention the previous evening which repeated through his mind now. He and Williams had returned the prisoner to his solitary cell at Pankrác, his wrists freshly stitched and bandaged from the MI6 man’s assault, to find Abelard looking pensive and Svobodova herself waiting there in the shadows. Her face had displayed none of the stresses Stone had become accustomed to, but neither was there any trace of the warmth he had all too briefly glimpsed, instead her features were cradled by a mask of grim resignation.

  Pausing only to briefly and tersely express her distaste at the sight of the bandages, she had overridden the objections of the pair and her security detail and insisted on speaking privately with the prisoner in his cell. The duo, joined by an angered Radoslav and frustrated Professor Abelard had watched intently on the monitors as she had stood in accusatory silence mere yards apart from the man who had tried to kill so many of her people, with only a solitary guard outside the door. The tension in the cramped control room had been almost opaque; a ghost-like atmosphere enveloping all present as they waited for the Prime Minister to fracture her silence with her country’s erstwhile attacker. The only words had been a whispered warning from the Professor that they would not like what Svobodova had to say, as she slipped her fingers into Stone’s.

  The politician had eventually spoken, explaining to the man that she had wanted to look into the eyes of someone who could attempt such an act as he, and try to determine if any trace of humanity lay behind them. She had told him he was not the first killer she had met, but he was the first to look at her with only emptiness in his face; no fear, no regret, no hatred, just a desperate nothingness. And it was then she had dropped her bombshell; with the briefest of apologies and a lament that there was nothing that could be done, she had explained that the prisoner was to be handed over to American authorities and transferred to the United States, whereupon a link to active terrorist cells would be proven and he would doubtless be convicted of innumerous crimes against that country. She had delivered her news frostily, her message to the point and un-conversational, and once delivered she had turned on her heel and exited, not caring to observe the failed killer’s reactions.

  She had exited the cell and walked directly into a verbal barrage from the furious trio; a storm she had weathered with typical stoicism.

  “Madame Prime Minister, I really must object,” Stone had begun, before being interrupted by the glaring Williams.

  “That’s putting it fucking mildly!” The Scotsman had been apoplectic and paid little heed to deference or the level of her office. “I really must tell you you’re being a fucking idiot! After all your services went through to capture him, and after the fucking day from hell the good Captain and I have been through today, you’re going to hand him over to that fucking trigger happy band of rent-a-smile morons to be tried in front of a studio audience with a lawyer sponsored by Doritos? It’s fucking lunacy What a fantastic arrangement, what leadership, what…”

  “Mr. Williams!” She had interjected, cutting him off in mid-flow, the fierceness in her voice matched by the expression she adopted, “you do not have to like the arrangement…”

  “I don’t!”

  “But neither do you have any need t
o discuss it. For the record, I did not like the arrangement between Jonathan Greyson and yourself to have me believe you were in Brno when you were in fact shadowing Captain Stone all over the city. The decision is made and tomorrow morning the prisoner will be transported from here to the US Embassy for formal handover. I am grateful for your efforts in gathering information from him and ask that you kindly use it to further your investigations with Captain Stone, now if there is nothing else gentlemen, I think this is a suitable moment for us all to get some sleep.”

  She had turned to leave, Radoslav falling dutifully into place behind her while scowling his displeasure to Stone who nodded in reciprocation.

  “Prime Minister,” he’d called after her.

  “Not now, Captain Stone, thank you,” she’d replied without breaking her step.

  “Miroslava!”

  The presumption had had the desired effect of stopping her in her tracks and she had paced slowly back towards the military man, who walked forward to meet her, leaving the silently fuming Williams and the worried Abelard behind him.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he’d earnestly whispered, “you don’t have to give in to them, you could make a stand, you could…”

  “I know,” she’d answered in similarly quiet tones, the look of resignation returned to her face, “and were it as simple as that and I were the only one to suffer the consequences of such an action, then I would do it without reservation. But reality is hard, and I will not allow my people to fall back into adversity because of my own intransigence.”

  She had looked past him at Williams and Abelard, the Scotsman muttering profanities not entirely under his breath and casting occasional glances of frustrated impotence at the politician. Her eyes back on the Captain, he had seen a desperation in her eyes, as though pleading for understanding and he began to feel his anger slowly dissipate in response.

  “I am sorry,” she had whispered, “truly, I am.

  “But why? Why now?”

  If Stone hadn’t had known better, he would have sworn he’d seen tears in her eyes as she’d weighed up her answer before replying with sincere candor.

  “Because when they point the gun at me, I am strong enough to resist them still, but when they turn it on my people, I am as helpless as a Mother desperate to protect her children.”

  With that she had turned swiftly on her heel and set off down the corridor, leaving only the sound of her footsteps and William’s cursing to play in his ears.

  Stone had replayed the conversation over and over in his head after returning to his apartment, his desire to curse the bad luck which seemed intent on pushing away every chance of achieving his aim almost as soon as it arrived, delaying his yearned for reunion with his boy, somewhat alleviated by the presence of Natalie. She had spent what seemed an age massaging the stressful aches from his shoulders while whispering sweet words of reassurance to him, the gentle intensity of their lovemaking emphasising her palpable concern for him which he hoped she knew was reciprocated. That morning they had risen, showered and dressed quickly, Natalie taking a piece of toast on the go while Stone left a quick voicemail for his son before they had descended together in the lift and stepped out to the reluctantly awakening street and heading to their separate duties; Natalie’s involving another early start with Svobodova while Stone had met with Williams and travelled to the prison.

  “It’s time.”

  “What?” said Stone, his mind returning to the present.

  “Salam,” answered Williams, the spite heavy in his voice, “he’s on the move.”

  Stone looked to where the Prison transport truck, unceremonious and grim in its dull off white, replete with superfluous green stripe began to back towards the steps of the High Court building to the accompanying jeers of the spectators. The main doors to the court opened and black suited operatives took up position on either side as though preparing the way for royalty. Stone frowned when the prisoner did not immediately appear; the wrinkles deepening further still when a stretcher was carried into the view, down the steps with Salam strapped securely onto it, his face underneath the obligatory towel such occasions demanded.

  As the stretcher was hauled down the steps towards the waiting truck’s open rear doors, Stone jogged over, Williams close behind him.

  “What the hell is this?” the Captain demanded, approaching the lead operative at his position by the truck doors, “he isn’t Hannibal bloody Lecter.”

  “The Americans insisted on it,” the begrudging response came as Salam’s stretcher was firmly slotted into place. “They want to be sure he doesn’t escape.”

  The straps were so tight there would be little chance of that, and the gurney was quickly secured in place and sealed behind the heavy metal doors; the gates of the courtyard opening to allow the truck to take its place in the bizarre cortege that awaited it. Shining new police cars took up their positions at the head and rear of the procession with the truck in between, flanked by sleek and quick police motorcycles; the jeering of the amassed crowd quickly drowned out by the passionately whining sirens. Stone accepted the offer of a ride in Williams car, every bit as aged and weathered as the spy who drove it, to follow the transport and ensure no chance of escape, and they pulled swiftly onto the road behind it.

  The journey from the prison to the US Embassy in Malá Strana was a twenty-minute ride in good conditions and the route had been cleared in advance, but the grim parade had travelled for significantly less than that when Stone first noticed the problem. An innocuous family car, insignificant in a rusting dull blue came into view as the procession approached the turn for the Mánes Bridge and kept a respectful distance until the first police car began to turn.

  Stone, with the observation skills so necessary for his trade, saw the car begin to pick up speed, and in his mind he saw what was about to happen before it did, his body having time only to mouth a useless expletive before the bland, inoffensive vehicle struck the police escort smack in the side, hard. Chaos ensued as the truck swerved to avoid the twisted mass of metal, only for the rear door of the blue car to kick open and a masked, black clothed man lean out, a shotgun firmly in his hand.

  The first blast tore its way through the front driver’s side wheel of the tuck, sending it into a hazardous skid. A second blast dealt with the rear wheel and the truck tipped at speed onto its side, the screech of speeding metal across tarmac drowning out the screams of onlookers who ran panicking in every direction, inhibiting the aim of the armed police escorts who ran towards the disabled truck. One of the police had leapt from his motorbike, bravely attempting to tackle the gunman, only for its butt to be swung against the side of his head by the attacker, who clambered onto the felled vehicle and fired a third heavy shot into the small and thinly barred tinted windows, peppering the air with shattered glass and twisted metal.

  As soon as the car had struck, Williams had accelerated into the scene, while the remaining police threw themselves into the battle, two managing finally to wrestle the gunman onto the ground, only for a further attacker to run from the neglected wreckage, a glass bottle in his hand from which a flaming rag trailed. Throwing himself from William’s car, Stone pounded behind him, hurling himself at the attacker’s legs in a rugby tackle the lads in RTR would have been proud of and bringing the man to a fall on the hard surface. He was just too late; the toppling figure having hurled the bottle into the hole blasted into the truck’s window by his associate moments before and from which a plume of smoke and flame now burst. Scrambling to his feet, the Captain ran to the felled truck, pulling uselessly at the locked rear doors while the flames grew wilder.

  “Fucking open!” he screamed at them, they defiantly refusing his order. Still he pulled until Williams appeared behind him, his bony fingers digging into him and pulling him away.

  “Come on man!” Williams was shouting, “it’s gonna go!”

  With a climactic, anguished bellow of rage, Stone ran with his colleague away from the spreading f
lames, the pair throwing themselves to the ground as the prison transport finally exploded in wrathful, incandescent fury. Pulling himself up to his knees, Stone grimaced at the burning shell in front of him, the thought of the dead prisoner inside it and the transfer which would never now happen. This was a catastrophe, and even as the two men who had caused it were dragged unceremoniously into custody to the sound of screams and sirens, Stone realised that even the heat of the explosion would be no match for the rage of the Americans that would shortly be visited upon Svobodova. And he hoped against hope that Czechoslovakia would survive the fall out.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “AND SO THE EXCUSES ARE MADE. Ladies and Gentlemen; we are alone.”

  And alone they were. President Černý’s words may have been tinged with a melancholic dramatism, but it was one which was sorely deserved.

  The response of the World to the attack on the bridge had been as instant and severe as anyone could have expected; as though Czechoslovakia were a habitually errant child who had tried the patience of its parents once too often and was now suffering the consequences. Scarlet’s threat or ultimatum, call it what you will, was as good as implemented the moment the blue car revved its engine; NATO announcing formally that Czechoslovakia’s membership was suspended with immediate effect pending legal scrutiny. The move was mirrored instantly by the EU; the Institute for European Harmony, Svobodova supposed, taking full advantage of its opportunity to inflict further punishment. Both moves were presented to the media as unconnected to the Abdul Salam issue, their timing purely coincidental. Whether or not anyone believed that was immaterial; nothing could alter the fact of the country’s new found isolation.