Writing for Fun
May 2017
The Road To Hell - Pete Norman
It was all wrong.
George had selected the Old Town Square specifically because it was frenetically busy – busy with locals hurrying from one crisis to another and busy with tourists wandering aimlessly around, taking in the sights and patronising the cafés which formed a ring of caffeine around the historic square. He was not familiar with Prague so he had reconnoitred most carefully and he had finally selected the Café Platýz. It was completely unremarkable and appeared to blend in with a satisfying degree of anonymity. From here, while he waited for his rendezvous, he would have an unobstructed view of the immense square in its entirety – the golden rule in his game was to see everything but to remain invisible. However, this was turning out all wrong.
It had been overcast when he had first come here but now from a cloudless sky the late morning sun was burning down from the other side of the square, threatening to melt the very flagstones, searing into his eyes and rendering him almost totally blind – over half of the square was lost in a sea of white. Under any other circumstances he would have called it all off without hesitation but it had taken him so long to arrange and the negotiations had been so difficult that he knew he had just this one chance and he had no option but to run with what he had – wrong or not.
For more than an hour he sat, sipping at his coffee, a well thumbed copy of the latest Dan Brown novel resting lightly in his hands. With a casual ease well practiced over the years he maintained the outward appearance of one relaxing in the sunshine but in reality he was constantly scanning the huge square over the spine of the book. To keep track of the time he ignored his watch – that was far too obvious – instead he took an occasional glance towards the clock on the Church of St James and watched as the huge hands crept at glacial speed around the ornate face.
The man was late. The meet had been set for 11:45 – an irregular time specially chosen by the intermediary for an irregular purpose – but the church clock was close to chiming midday.
The man was late.
George let out a sigh of frustration – this had taken him months to organise and there was now no time left to repeat the process. He had run out of options, all he could do was to wait just a little longer in the hope that the man, perhaps in his paranoia, was watching him from a distance to ensure that he truly was alone and that there was no risk of entrapment.
He turned to catch the waiter's eye to order another coffee but at that very moment a figure appeared from the shaded depths of the café behind him. The man looked to be in his late sixties and painfully thin with his carefully groomed hair much too evenly black to be natural. His grey suit was faded but the jacket was fully buttoned, which looked a little out of place on such a warm day. Everything about the man was wrong.
George turned back, his heart thumping almost out of control, trying to retain the air of normality as he waited for the man to emerge.
The man walked directly past his table, a copy of the Prague Post folded under his arm, a faint wheeze announcing his presence moments before he arrived. He stopped, bent double and coughed, his right elbow colliding with George's shoulder.
'Omlouvám se.' The man made an apologetic gesture and walked out into the square. George watched as a small piece of card, no bigger than a business card, slipped out of the folded paper onto the cobbles beneath his feet.
He reached down and picked it up.
The card was blank except for three digits written in bold black letters: M.2.5.
George froze, icy tendrils trickling down his spine. This name was known to but four people in the world and this man was most certainly not one of them. Richard had been the one to suggest the nickname when they were all first posted to the Capital Security Department – he had said that as their main task was to be the security of everything within the M25 motorway, then what better name could there be for an M.I.5. department but 'M.2.5'.
The man was making his way across the square at a slight angle towards the far corner. George slipped his novel into his jacket pocket, slid a couple of small notes under his saucer and stood up. He did not want to make it obvious that he was following the man so he set off directly up the centre of the square, matching the man's speed and keeping him in the periphery of his view.
He was constantly scanning the area to ensure there was nothing obvious in the direction the man was heading and that there was no one following. The square was quite large and with the path he had chosen the distance between them was growing with every step he took.
He subtly changed direction so that he could head the man off when they reached the corner but just as he did so the man turned to his right and disappeared down a narrow passageway between two buildings. George quickened his pace and headed for the opening.
It was barely five feet wide and it ran for the full depth of the building – some twenty yards – before it opened up into a small yard which appeared to be a service area at the rear of the cafés. He took a moment to think before he followed as it was obvious that as soon as he entered the square he would be completely vulnerable to attack from both sides. He slipped a small silver automatic from his jacket pocket and moved cautiously along the passage.
The man was nowhere in sight and there was no sign of anyone else in the square. He moved slowly forwards until he reached a point six feet from the end where he stopped, his ears straining for the slightest sound, but apart from the faint murmurs of city life coming from the Town Square behind him there was nothing. He dropped to a crouch and ran the last few yards as fast as he could, spinning around as he entered the yard, the barrel of the automatic traversing . . . a completely empty wall. With the element of surprise gone and with no attack having taken place he slowly turned around and there, leaning casually in the shadow of a recessed doorway with his hands in his pockets was a tall man in a pin stripe suit.
The man stepped forwards. 'Hello, George, you look as if you've seen a ghost.'
George froze. The voice was unmistakable and the man was certainly no ghost – William was the coordinator of M.2.5 – but what in God's name was he doing here? William stopped a few feet away from him – the regulation 'safe distance'.
'You know, I am so disappointed with you, George. You are playing a very dangerous game.'
George switched from confused to hostile in a heartbeat. 'What are you doing here?'
William opened his jacket to show that he was unarmed and then gestured towards the automatic that George was still pointing in his direction. The gun was lowered and then slipped back into its holster out of sight.
William nodded his gratitude. 'What am I doing here? Why, it appears that we have a mole in the department and I have been tasked with rooting him out.' 'A mole? You can't be serious – there are only four of us and Richard and Martin I would trust with my life.'
'Then that only leaves you and me, dear boy.'
George took a step back. 'Well, it most certainly is not me . . .'
William smiled. 'Now, you have asked me what I am doing here – perhaps out of common courtesy it is time that you explained yourself .'
George's mind was racing. He knew that he had gone out on a limb when he had set up this meeting and that is why he had decided to keep the other three in the dark – he had thought it prudent not to divulge the details until he had something concrete to say. However, with his back up against the wall he now had no other option. 'I was contacted by someone I had not seen for a few years. A good contact who has been most helpful in the past. He said that he had something 'interesting' for me and invited me to Prague to meet someone.'
William nodded slowly as if he was somehow accepting the story at face value and stepped forwards. He gestured towards the passageway and to the Old Town Square beyond. 'Shall we walk?'
George fell into step beside him wondering just where this was all leading and what other motive William might have; wondering what had happened to the man he was supposed to be meeting; wondering just how William had known he was going to be here . . .
Just before they reached the passageway George stopped. 'I am not a mole William, you have to believe me.'
William smiled but there was no warmth in it.
George felt a sudden stabbing pain in his leg. He looked down in disbelief as William took a step back out of reach, the tip of his shoe glistening in the sunlight. 'You kicked me . . . Christ, that hurts!'
'Don't worry, dear boy, it won't hurt for long – I promise.'
George felt his legs collapsing beneath him and he dropped to the ground.
As George felt his life ebbing away the last thing he heard was, 'If it is not you and if it is not the other two . . . then I suppose it must be me.' There was a cruel laugh. 'But after today I expect that everyone will believe that it is you.'