Stone returned to the ridge and picked up the discarded rifle. The President was still in conference below; a succession of advisers approaching him in his vantage point close by to his troops. Williams’ logic was sound, the Captain realised that; this President had proven himself an opportunist, taking quick advantage of the political dispute in Ukraine and now had arranged clandestine operations in a neighbouring country for the purposes of conquest. By taking him out now, Stone would save lives, but would lose forever his veneer of honour and nobility in battle. But his son’s future…
He slid the rifle into place, keeping his head down low and lining up the President in the crosshairs with an expert precision; there was no way he could miss.
“You win, you bastard,” he whispered to Williams as the shot thunderously tore around the valley and the President slumped forward with a hole in the back of his skull. “You win.”
“I told you I’d expected you,” Svobodova said to The Child as the old man regained control of his emotions, “And I’m glad you’re here, I have a counter proposition for you.”
“I have little time for games, Ms. Svobodova,” intoned The Child, heading back towards the ornate doors, “you have nothing with which to bargain.”
“Don’t I?”
The certainty in her voice caused him to stop and turn towards her, eyebrows raised in query.
“You have brought Europe just close enough to the edge that you can still bring it back. What if instead I were to give it a push?”
He eyed her with a fierce intensity, speaking slowly and with suspicion.
“There’s no way you could.”
“Isn’t there?”
From her handbag, she pulled a tablet, selecting a file and holding it out to The Child, who took it and looked ashen faced at what it displayed: a man, a young man, dressed in prison overalls talking at length to an investigator, answering questions and giving details about his arrival in Czechoslovakia and what led him to try to blow himself up in the Old Town Square.
Abdul Salam.
“The late Mr. Salam,” The Child acknowledged, more uncertainly than it would seem he was used to being, “I’m afraid the words of a dead terrorist will do little to sway me.”
“I’d agree,” Svobodova nodded sagely, “were he dead.”
The eyes grew fiercer still as she deposited the tablet back inside her bag and continued.
“You see, when America began to insist on our giving up Mr. Salam to their custody, Captain Stone and Mr. Williams had been on the verge of a breakthrough of such significance that I couldn’t allow him to simply disappear off to one of America’s TV show trials. They’d learned that since his arrival in the country, Mr. Salam had been repeatedly drugged with a potent mixture of cannabis and LSD; a cocktail through which one is alleged to enjoy a unique sensory experience, or so I’m told. It also has the effect, should someone take it in ignorance, of producing what can be interpreted as a ‘Spiritual Journey’. After learning so much it was inconceivable that I could simply hand him over; we needed the name of his contact, we needed to know the extent of the plot, in as much as he knew it. And so, I arranged a little incident of my own.”
For an instant, Svobodova was almost sure that the aged, skeletal features offered the twitch of a smile, before The Child responded.
“So you deceived the good Captain and his friend?” he quizzed, taking any opportunity he could to twist the conversation even slightly his way. “They risked their lives to save a man who was never at risk?”
“And neither were they,” she insisted forcefully. “The operation was meticulously planned and has given Mr. Salam the benefit of collecting his thoughts constructively and discussing them at length without the pressures of the watching world upon him; an opportunity which he has grasped with both hands.”
“Has he now?”
“Yes. And while the world has focused on the diplomatic fall out and military escalation, my operatives have located the man who guided Salam on his spiritual quest.”
The Child went paler still, choosing, it seemed, not to respond until Svobodova had said all she had to say.
“I must admit I’d thought it would be someone linked to Myska’s Party, but I suppose that was never wholly likely. Instead I was surprised to discover that he belonged to The Institute for European Harmony; a paper trail exists connecting him to your Brussels office no less.”
“One man,” The Child began, “in any organisation is easy to disown and to discredit; his capture is of no consequence. Your efforts would achieve nothing.”
“Wouldn’t they?”
“No.”
“You’re not sure…”
“No! You have nothing but wild fantasies and conspiracy theories from the mouths of terrorists; no rational person would take such claims seriously.”
“Oh, I think they would,” Svobodova countered, “especially when corroborated by the statements of so many of Myska’s Party Executive, who are even now in custody awaiting interrogation. That wouldn’t just be idle talk and speculation; there would be facts, checkable, verifiable; the kind of facts that can turn theories and fantasy into reality. Europe would begin to ask questions, of The Institute and everyone connected to it; what is this ‘institute? Who does it influence? What relationship did it have with the bombers? Is it true they armed them and set them to work across the Union?”
Emboldened, Svobodova walked closer to The Child, not with an accusatory face or a gloating demeanour, but an expression of kind and sincere concern.
“If you think Europe is ungrateful now, try and imagine what it would be like if it began to think that of its leaders.”
The Child was quiet and still and Svobodova saw the definite glint of a tear in one eye. When he spoke again, there was a weakness to his voice, as though his energy for the fight ebbed away with each word she spoke.
“You would do that?” he asked softly, “destroy Europe and everything it stands for, solely to avenge yourself on me?”
“No,” she shook her head, her expression still one of sincere worry. “I love it enough to try to save it. But you, and your Institute, are taking it away from us brick by brick.”
She stopped the recording and returned the tablet to her pocket.
“Everyone is so very keen to deliver me their ultimatums; the things I must do for them to survive. Well today I issue one of my own and you are welcome to listen. The occupation is to end, now. Russian forces are to step away from the border and Czechoslovakia’s membership of the European Union is to be revived with immediate effect. If not, while you may well get rid of me you will store greater problems for yourself in the future as this film and those like it will be spread online and e-mailed to countless journalists across the globe, all of whom will question an EU Conspiracy to murder civilians. Not wishing to be immodest, I suspect this is an occasion when the world would like to hear my side of the story.”
“You misunderstand my intentions,” stressed The Child. “I have given my life to Europe, nurtured it, watch it grow strong through cooperation and inter-reliance, achieving so many marvellous things, together in unity. But now, at the end it blindly seeks to tear itself apart, willingly giving in to the Nationalism of the past and revelling in its ignorance of history. I cannot let it end this way; my actions here will safeguard Europe’s future, safeguard its people!”
“Wrong!” Svobodova screamed in response, “you’re destroying it! Yes, Europe is crumbling and it’s doing so through the same fear with which you seek to save it! Men and women like Myska have come to the fore in ever member state, spreading their hatred; and why? Fear, fear of the outsiders, fear of the non-Europeans, fear that those different from us can never adapt to live like we do. Do you expect to fight fear with fear?”
Her insecurities danced around at the back of her mind despite the display of strength and she pressed on while he staggered on the ropes.
“If Europe is falling anyway, at least let it be from something other
than fear; then at least we can re-build it again as what it was supposed to be: tolerant, cooperative, progressive and free! Think about it, tell me deep, deep down, isn’t that the Europe you want to see? A Union which doesn’t react to terrified children fleeing bombs by pulling down the shutters and telling them to die elsewhere. A Union that doesn’t claim to want to tackle terrorism on one hand, while selling arms to the same terrorists on the other. A Europe whose member states don’t constantly look to find the fault in each other, but who works to become greater than the sum of its whole. But if that’s your goal too we won’t get there with fear.”
She was so close to him now; enough to hear the laboured wheezing he was fighting so hard to supress, as though his soul was yearning to thrash a response, and his lungs were burning to provide the oxygen to do it.
“You’re trying to build the peace by laying the foundations for war; and where those foundations exist, someone will always find a way to construct a reason to fight, no matter how ‘in control’ you feel you are, even you! Europe, for all its many, many faults has kept us safe from each other, from ourselves for decades; you have helped keep that peace, maybe more than anyone else. Don’t now be the one who causes us to lose it.”
Vice President Bok of the Russian Federation strode purposefully from the makeshift office set up behind the lines, towards the command tent where his Generals waited for their orders to advance. Everything had gone as The Child had explained, from the occupation of Prague to the single shot felling the President, which had surprised all except for Bok as it flew on its journey.
He had taken full advantage of his foreknowledge by throwing himself on the President’s body, secure in the knowledge that no further shots would be forthcoming, earning himself the title of hero for his troubles. Relishing the praise his actions earned him, he allowed his mind to wander forward a few months when, after this invasion business was behind them, he would take pride of place at his own medal ceremony and decorate himself for his bravery.
Approaching the tent, he grimaced to see the imposing figure of Konstantin, the late President’s Foreign Minister, already on the scene, straightening up as Bok approached, with the Generals behind him coming likewise to attention.
Bok detested Konstantin, who had long rivalled him for power and who continued to argue for cooperation over conquest. He allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of his rival’s imminent posting to Siberia, as he finally reached the tent in time for the sun to begin its dip over the two countries.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “we cannot afford to mourn for long, it is imperative we avenge ourselves of our loss in the only way honour dictates. Synchronise watches; I hereby give the order to advance the Army through the border with extreme prejudice and proceed to designated targets. Thank you all and good luck.”
Not a soul moved and Bok frowned in anger, staring at each of the faces in turn, some of whom looked back at him with an obvious contempt.
“I said…” he began, before Konstantin stepped into him, his face fierce and accusing.
“Mr Vice President,” he said, “The government has been made aware of a rather interesting video…”
It was a clatter of boots running towards the podium on which he lay that broke the quiet in Černý’s ears.
The sound of protesting had long since stopped, along with the quietened screams and the silenced tears. They were still there, but noiseless and deathly still, as though a People had finally done in practice what so many called for in theory and come together as one, sitting en masse in the middle of the now orderly Wenceslas Square, where they had sat since the extent of his injury became obvious.
Chaos had greeted the sound of the gun, until Černý had clambered to the still functioning PA system and begged for his People’s ears, chastising them for giving in to the violence which had claimed the minds of the people standing against them and urging them to resist by showing them instead their love of peace. He stayed with them, refusing to accept the medical evacuation his captors offered, committing instead to those trapped in the Square that he would stay with them in peace until all were free to leave or until God showed him a different route. Then he had sat, weak and bleeding, the young boy whose life he had saved attending him, while the people sat with him, where they were in the Square, some with their eyes closed, some praying; all holding hands together. Though they were quickly fenced in by the occupying regiment, there was little need for them to be. None would leave without the others.
He tried to raise his head towards the approaching feet, or at least towards the Colonel who shared the platform and to whom the sound of boots was heading, but his strength, at least physically, had long since left his frame.
Moments later, the Colonel came into view, crouching down alongside him wearing a look of embarrassed regret on his experienced face. He spoke softly and in Czech to Černý, who smiled in response and gestured to the microphone; the eyes of the Square levelling on the Colonel as he moved to it.
No grand speech came, no magnificent oratory. Instead he called his men throughout the Square to attention, surveying them all and issuing the final command of his brief occupation.
“In good order,” he said, in beautifully accented Russian, “regiment will disengage and fall back.”
Laughter, applause, cheers and a thousand other symptoms of shock broke out, sporadically at first before the entire wave of people, of every colour creed and background in the country erupted together in joy, embracing the moment and each other in an outpouring of love as the armoured units began to slowly and unexpectedly pull away and begin the long journey back to the border.
“You did it!” the young boy cried to Černý, tears in his eyes, but the President shook his head. They had done it, his people, risen above their squabbles and differences. And even if it were only for one day, it was a day they had shown the invaders and the world their resolve and their solidarity. As the sound of cheering eclipsed the retreating creak of aged war machines, he knew that at last, the People were ready for the challenge, as he was ready to pass it on, and as he smiled widely and closed his eyes for the final time, a flush of excitement warmed his final moment; he couldn’t wait to see what they would make of it.
She saw on his ancient, lined face that he was desperate to answer, desperate even to approve of her vision, but before he could speak, the double doors creaked open and an inoffensive but immaculately suited operative strode purposefully into the room towards him. The disturbance served to restore the customary steel to The Child’s face and he turned away from Svobodova, inclining his head to the newcomer who wordlessly presented him with a printed dispatch which he took and instantly imbibed.
The pregnant silence was every bit as nerve wracking as when he had first stepped through the door to confront her; that curious mix of eager anticipation and cold dread, but The Child made no attempt to break it, simply reading and re-reading the note again and again.
An age passed before he dismissed the news bearer and, stood, so solitary and abandoned in the middle of the cavernous room that she moved to place her hand on his shoulder, stunning him back into activity. He stared closely at her through his clouded and damnably tired eyes and she wondered for a moment if would ever say anything to her again, until finally, his jaw creaked open once more..
“Madam Prime Minister,” he began in his rich, deep inflections, “it would appear, that the occupation is at an end.”
TWENTY-NINE
THE HIGH MESHED FENCE came gloriously into view, granting Stone and Williams a renewed vigour as they ran and scrambled towards the safety it offered. Not a word had passed between them since Stone had taken the shot; the pair immediately going to ground as the pandemonium which greeted the President’s death was unleashed, before picking themselves up and making for the lines, desperate to keep one step ahead of the detachment which was now surely on their trail.
It was as they took advantage of their timely dose of adrenaline that Williams trip
ped and keeled over, gripping his ankle in pain.
“Come on, you old bastard,” Stone hissed, “you don’t get away from me that easily.”
Though he stooped to help the old man up, Williams resisted his aid, hauling himself up and continuing the journey, limping as he went.
“Let me help you,” Stone offered, “they’ll be right on our tail by now.”
“Aye,” Williams agreed through gritted teeth, “the knights coming to avenge the King.”
“And what does that make us? Bishops?”
“Fat fucking chance,” sneered Williams. “Like I told you before, we’re the pawns. You know, most people, most non-chess playing people that is, don’t realise all the subtle elements of the game, like opening moves or terminal gambits. Some don’t even realise that there are different types of pawn.”
“Are there really?” Stone replied, unsure that he wanted this conversation right now.
“Absolutely. You see, everyone assumes pawns to be the weak pieces you sacrifice at the start of the game, but not all of them are. Take you and me for example, we’re both pawns but we’ve made it all the way through to Endgame. I mean, don’t get me wrong, every good pawn knows that one day they’ll be hung out to dry like all the rest, but sometimes, just occasionally, a pawn can join with the King, an ‘Advanced Pawn’ they call them, and he can help put the other side into check – fucking – mate. And the truth is, Captain, that today, this pawn is advancing on its own.”
While the amused half-smile still sat on Stone’s face at this older man’s bizarre words, Williams spun around, a glint of metal in the sun betraying the presence of the gun in his hand before the silenced shot tore through the soldier’s calf.
The Prague Ultimatum Page 27
