The Prague Ultimatum

by James Silvester

  Stone saw the slightest flash of anger in Abelard’s eyes at Svobodova’s words, but she made no attempt to remove her hand.

  “But,” Svobodova continued, “I am a woman; a woman who has herself been betrayed and who remains in mourning for the love of her life. However charming Jonathan could be, however attractive he surely is and however much I enjoyed his company; it wasn’t enough to overcome those things. I didn’t want you to go without knowing that.”

  She finished her unexpected confession and a brief silence hung between them while the Professor took in all that was said. After a brief moment, Stone saw her gently squeeze Svobodova’s fingers in return, stroking her hands with her thumbs.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and sincere, “Miroslava.”

  The women shared a smile, before Svobodova eased her hands away and returned to the inner sanctuary of the bar; Abelard relaxing into Stone’s protecting embrace.

  “Are you ok?”

  “Yes,” she exhaled, truthfully, “I think I am. Goodnight Lincoln; call me in the morning please? It’ sounds like tomorrow’s challenges are going to be pretty unique, and I’d like to help if I can.”

  “Of course,” he replied as she turned back to the door, “Natalie wait…”

  She stopped in the doorway and he stepped closer to her.

  “Listen, Natalie,” he stuttered, “you’ve been brilliant to me since we wound up here, more brilliant than I think anyone has before, or at least in a bloody long time… Shit, I’m not very good at this am I?”

  “You’re doing better than you think,” she laughed.

  “Well I just want you to know, in case anything happens tomorrow, that, well, I…”

  She stepped forward, pressing her lips warmly against his.

  “I love you too.”

  She quickly went through the doors, affording him a brief, but sincere smile over her shoulder, reassuring him of the truthfulness of her words as she disappeared into the darkness of the street; the Captain’s elation stumbling as Williams bounded up to him.

  “Captain,” he said, touching Stone’s arm discreetly, “a word.”

  Stone followed him out of the building and looked up at the illuminated spires towering above and illuminating the streets of Old Town, Williams claiming his attention once more with a curt grunt.

  “Listen, you heard what she said in there; tomorrow, you and me are paying a visit to the friendly neighbourhood fascist, right?”

  “Right?”

  “Well I need to know you’re not going to pussy out on me when we get there.”

  Stone’s face displayed his instant resentment at Williams’ insinuation and when he replied his voice low and growling.

  “I didn’t ‘pussy out’ in Syria, Mr. Williams,” he snarled, “nor in Iraq, nor in Afghanistan, nor in any of the God forsaken shit holes I was sent to on the back of ‘intelligence’ from the likes of you; right back to the Falklands where I fought so damn hard they pinned medals to my chest after ‘intelligence’ said Argentina wouldn’t dare invade.”

  “Oh yes, very impressive,” Williams sneered dismissively. “Listen; I’m not arsed about how hard you fight when your uniform’s on and your arm’s too tired to wank at night because of all the saluting. Tomorrow we’re not doing things by the book with a nod to Queen and Country. I need to know you’ve got the balls to beat a confession out of an unarmed man because that’s what the world needs you to do. Well?”

  Stone’s anger turned quickly into a contemptuous laugh.

  “You fucking spies,” he spat, “Christ knows how any of you on whichever side ever sleep at night. Do any of you have the first fucking idea what it means to face your enemy with honour, on a level playing field? None of this shit was in the deal the Magical Disappearing Greyson put on the table to me. Simple reconnaissance was my role, enough to give Svobodova something on Myska and help stabilise her position, then I was supposed to be back home with my boy by my side, toasting my exoneration. I was an idiot to think it would be as simple as that with you cloak and dagger bastards running the show.”

  Though Stone kept his back to Williams, he could feel the Scotsman’s indignation grow with every passing second until his lament had finished.

  “Oh, well my apologies Captain, Sir!” The typical thick sarcasm in the voice was joined with a heavy mixture of resentment and pent up aggression, as its owner stepped close into Stone’s shoulder to project his venom at close range. “It completely passed me by that I was dealing with the elevated ideals of the mighty; don’t let me stand in your way, by all means fuck right off back to Syria and have your arse blown off for Britain with your conscience clear of difficult decisions, pragmatic reasoning and any and all fucking responsibility! Off you pop now, go fade into irrelevance with the rest of your squaddie chums.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Stone turned his head at the barb, observing the raging spy in his peripheral vision.

  “You fucking heard me,” he said, “you might have had a genuine role once but all you are these days is a representation of the Prime Ministerial bollocks.”

  With precipitate alacrity, the Captain reeled around, clasping his abuser by the throat and thrusting him against the crumbling concrete of the wall behind him, holding him there in an inflexible posture, and staring into the older man’s eyes with a ferocity which would halt the hounds of hell in their tracks.

  “Between you and me,” Stone seethed, “I’m getting a bit sick of your opinion of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Would you care to re-phrase your last comment?”

  If there was fear or even discomfort inside Williams he refused to allow it to display on his face, his own equally combative eyes resolutely returning Stone’s glare, before being complimented by a cynical, almost malicious grin.

  “You,” he began quietly and patiently as though lecturing a small child, “and your comrades in arms, are the equivalent of the Prime Minister’s fucking testicles.”

  He was rewarded with a renewed squeeze around his neck and the sight of Captain Stone’s other arm coiling ready to deliver what would surely be a knockout blow, but if the military man’s intention was to intimidate, it was a sadly fruitless hope as William’s unsettling grin became a disturbing, almost unbalanced laugh, distracting Stone long enough to delay his assault.

  “You really are one arrogant prick, you now that?” he chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, so am I, but at least I’m not labouring under the misapprehension that I’m any better or worse than you.”

  “It was people like you, you fucking Spooks with your worthless intelligence that got us stuck in Iraq for eight years,” Stone spat with unbridled enmity, “that kept me away from my boy when it mattered most, beached in Middle Eastern deserts looking for WMD instead of holding his hand on the way to school.”

  Stone unleashed his fury on his quarry as though the throwaway comment had burst the damn of his pent up rage and he was unable and unwilling to stem the flow.

  “And it was people like you, bastards like you, who told us the Russians were miles behind in Syria when the call came in to take the town, then washed their hands and disappeared when everything went tits up. And now, again, all you wannabe James Bonds have had us obsessing over terrorists, some real and most imaginary, while all the time the threat was coming from elsewhere and now another country is about to fall into war because of it. All you and your kind know how to do is deceive, twist, obscure, like this is all some big fucking game to you. I’m a soldier, I face my enemy on the battlefield, one on one, I look them in the eye when I kill them and if I make any kind of mistake on the ground, you can bet your wrinkled arse I will damn well stick around to sort it out. And the truth is I’ve more in common with each and every enemy soldier I’ve taken down over the years than I ever had, than I ever could have, with a fucking Spook.”

  His energy spent from his verbal assault, Stone closed his eyes and heaved air into his lungs, the outpouring ending as suddenly as it began. He unco
iled his arm and dropped his clasp from Williams’s throat, joining him against the wall, both men sliding down the graffiti adorned structure until they sat at its base, their legs stretching out across the cobbles.

  “You’re shouting at the wrong guy,” Williams sighed quietly, watching the tourists mill, far away towards the square. “You didn’t need to keep volunteering for duty; you can’t blame your parenting hang-ups on me. Believe it or not, I really am on your side, and like it or not this all is some kind of game, that’s exactly what it is. But it’s not Spooks making the moves, it’s not soldiers either, we’re both just the fucking pawns, launching ourselves against the onslaught and hoping for the best. I’m no better than you, I’m no worse either; we’re both just beholden to the Puppet Master.”

  “Maybe we should run for office,” Stone pondered aloud, only half joking. It might be nice to rub shoulders with the Mighty for a change.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t let the likes of you in,” Stone replied, with an equal degree of seriousness, “and not because of your skin tone either. That’s why I called you lot the PM’s balls, you know?”

  “Go on then,” Stone smiled despite himself, “explain away.”

  “Well war is how these fucking elitist career politicians measure their masculinity these days, isn’t it? They all want the glamour of military success but the prospect of actually serving on the front isn’t too appealing, so when the press start questioning if they have the stomach for the job, not least when there’s a woman in charge, they all start voting for wars they’ll never have to fight in. They spread a bit of fear, throw around a few vague warnings of ‘foiled attacks’ to get everyone nicely onside, then they get their armies out for the lads and to hell with the consequences, and everyone stands back and admires how strong they are. It’s kind of like gambling with someone else’s money.”

  Stone nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the Scotsman’s argument.

  “Makes sense,” he acknowledged.

  “Ah, but nowadays, it’s not so easy. People have long memories, even the Reality TV loving morons back home. They know Iraq and Afghanistan cost a lot in money and lives, some of them pay attention to words like ‘War Crimes’ and some have even latched onto the fact that if we start bombing the likes of Syria and Libya, then more of those brown people with the funny clothes and the unreasonable goals of fleeing death start turning up and there’s not as many free seats on the bus. It’s harder to start a war, but governments still need to spread the fear; it keeps people nicely in check. What’s the next best thing? Trident. A placebo which we can never use without killing ourselves but we absolutely must have because, you now, the world is a dangerous place and all that. And so the elite have a new toy, the people are nicely subdued and you my friend are slowly replaced in the thrills department by a Two Hundred Billion pound vibrator.”

  The chuckle in Stone’s tired throat grew into a hearty laugh which Williams eventually joined in; the pair sat untidily on the street, enjoying their moment of self-mockery.

  “You’ve not much faith in ‘The People’ seeing through all this, then?”

  Williams scoffed. “Ha! If only,” he said. “The only real difference between the governments you despise and these ‘The People’ you venerate is degree. What’s the difference between a government announcing the abolition of jury trial and the presumption of innocence, and your average Joe in the street sharing some poor fucker’s picture all over social media because a bloke in Cleethorpes he cut up at the lights claims they’re a pedo? Or a horde of keyboard warriors forcing some girl out of business because a Trophy Wife in Ealing says she looked at her dog funny? Ask yourself that the next time you click like & share.”

  The Scotsman heaved himself to his feet and offered a hand to the Captain, pulling him up alongside him.

  “Fuck it, I’m going to get some sleep. We’ve a battle on our hands tomorrow Captain; best not to face it tired.”

  “Few die well that die in a battle,” Stone smiled as he turned away to head back inside the bar, “Goodnight you old bastard.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE NEXT MORNING BEGAN EARLY, with Stone’s head a little light from the perhaps one too many shots he’d enjoyed the previous night, and he re-capped events as he stood in the shower, the hot downpour washing the dizziness from his brain. Greyson had indeed arrived, silently and without ceremony, and after the most uncomfortable of handshakes with the Captain had joined Svobodova at her table. The two instantly engaged in heated discussion, leading Stone to head outside for a sobering blast of fresh air. Alas, he hadn’t found the solitude he craved but instead was joined by the bar’s peculiar owner, Rasti, who’d seemed pleasant enough company until the fact of his previous career as a priest came up; Stone insisting it was nothing personal, but that his recent experience with priests hadn’t filled him with comfort. Rasti likewise insisted no offence was taken and that he had similar reservations about soldiers, but was pleased now to have an opportunity to amend his opinion. As they’d talked, Stone found himself warming greatly to the gentle man with his self-deprecating humour, who hadn’t even balked when the Captain explained that two decades of fighting extremists in deserts had left him somewhat suspicious of religion, a suspicion only exacerbated by the placard waving imbeciles back home who preached little but hell fire and condemnation.

  “Oh, I agree, absolutely,” Rasti had nodded, “believing in some big magic guy in the clouds is completely fucking illogical if you ask me.”

  Stone followed up by quizzing if he’d left the priesthood after losing his faith, and was somewhat surprised when the answer came that no, he’d left because he’d found it. He’d realised one day that he was so busy trying to do things the priesthood’s way, ascribing to traditions and rituals that he’d taken his eyes off God, and so he’d left and confined himself to trying to live for his faith and not his religion, because faith wasn’t about logic, and that he got it wrong plenty of times on the way.

  Enjoying his new friend’s tale, Stone had lamented that so few chaplains in his experience could demonstrate in a month of Sundays the wisdom Rasti had in five minutes, preferring instead to condemn those who didn’t believe exactly as they did. Rasti’s answer of, “Sheep and goats,” had surprised him, before the chef elaborated.

  “It’s from the gospel of Matthew,” Rasti had begun, nestling himself comfortably against the wall of his bar. “At the Last Judgement, Christ separates all the people of the world into the ‘sheep’ and the ‘goats’, the sheep being ‘the Righteous’, those who fed and watered Him when He was hungry and clothed and sheltered Him etc., and the goats being those who didn’t. Now, the Righteous are confused and ask when it was they fed or clothed Him, and the un-Righteous ask when they didn’t do the same, and Christ says to them, ‘any time you did these things for the least of my brothers, you did it for me.’ Or not.”

  “Nice story,” Stone had answered softly.

  “I always had trouble with the idea of God banishing all unbelievers when I was a young man. I worried what would happen to my friends, to my family if they weren’t as pious as me, you know? And then reading that passage one day I started to think that maybe I didn’t have to get so bogged down in doctrine and theology to do God’s work, maybe it was more important to just live for Him, to get out there and just try my best. Maybe there are more people than the churches or the synagogues or the mosques or wherever realise, who are getting to Heaven ahead of them by doing that; just trying their best to live right. And when I started to think that, I felt warm and clear for the first time in a long time, and I began to realise that those friends and family I worried so hard about would be alright, that they’d be waiting for me at the end.”

  Against all his expectations, the conversation cheered Stone and he’d walked back to the apartment that night with his mind and heart clearer than they’d been in some time, before slipping into a deep, if slightly intoxicated sleep before his early morning alarm had awoken him to his d
izziness. Now dressed and his head settled, Stone lifted the picture of his son to his lips and set out into the early morning blackness; the final vestiges of night jealously defying the impending onset of the sun’s warming rays. Williams was already outside and the two of them travelled together to collect Professor Abelard from her own apartment before they continued on towards Prague Six and the headquarters of Oscar Myska and The Slavic Party for Europe. The building itself was far from the most impressive in the City; a simple, bland affair, nestled in the bosom of Pod kaštany, across the street from the foreboding Russian Embassy. It was made all the more threatening by the presence of a twin pair of T54 tanks taking pride of place outside the main Embassy gates, around which a tired looking production crew were busily setting up for a shoot; the surly Director of a few days previously stomping around the scene and barking orders.

  As the sun decisively won its battle with the night, the trio breakfasted in a small bakery down the street; the pit of Stone’s stomach churning at the thought of food so early in the day and confining him to the consumption of strong, black coffee of which he drank several. They stayed there in silence for over an hour, observing several arrivals and departures but no sign of the man himself. Until at last, after what seemed a coffee fueled eternity, the familiar black car crept into view, pulling up outside the building, with Oscar Myska stepping from the back, giving a brief glance over to the film crew and heading inside. The arrival initially sparked only the order of a further round of coffee and croissants as they allowed the politician to settle into his daily routine, before Williams eventually rose from the table, wiping pastry crumbs from his mouth and washing them down with the last of his coffee.