The Fall of Night

Chapter Thirty-Five: Rats and Sinking Ships

Moscow, Russia

The terminal was dark and cold.

Prime Minister Zdeněk Kundera of the Czech Republic waited with as much patience as he could bring to bear on the situation. A kindly, almost scholarly man, Kundera knew that he was not cut out for the interplay of political power and naked violence that determined the future of most of the world, but then, the Czech Republic had never intended to play a major role in the world. The Czech Republic had been willing to commit itself to the European Union, but it had never imagined that it would be called upon to fight a serious war; commitments to peacekeeping missions and the occasional EUROFOR operation had been the limits of its involvement… until the 1^st of June.

Kundera remembered the terror as missiles had crashed down into Prague, only sheer luck keeping him safe as buildings had shattered around him and the remains of his close-protection detail struggled to get him to safety. That had been found on a military base that had been lucky enough to survive almost intact; Kundera had found himself Prime Minister in the middle of a war. The President was dead; nearly a third of the Czech Armed Forces had been wiped out in the opening shots. Kundera had struggled to try to pull a defence together, but it had seemed futile; the sheer violence of the Russian attack into Poland and later Germany had stunned him. He knew where he was debating in Parliament, or making points in front of the cameras; he was completely out of place in a war zone. Russian aircraft were flying in and out of his airspace, and he was unable to issue orders…

And then the Russian Ambassador had appeared. Kundera had never liked the Russian Ambassador; he was too… slick, with an ‘I know something you don’t’ attitude that grated on Kundera’s own sense of the appropriate. It had been obvious since the missiles had fallen what he had known that Kundera hadn’t known… and his role in the disaster that had overtaken the Czech Republic was obvious. Polish refugees were flooding into the Republic’s territory… and Russian soldiers wouldn’t be far behind.

“Go to Moscow,” the Ambassador had said, after an agonising session of insincere pleasantries and half-hidden gloating. “They’ll meet you there, perhaps offer you something you want, an end to the war you didn’t expect.”

Kundera had stared at him, wanting to throw it back in his face and not quite daring. “Or what will happen to the Republic?”

The Ambassador had leaned forward. His breath smelt terrible… or was Kundera imagining it? He had never considered that he would be in the position, one day, of accepting or rejecting what was an ultimatum in everything, but name. Russian forces were only ten kilometres away from the Polish border; his military officers had warned him that they could be halfway to Prague within a day, and the Czech Republic had nothing that could stop them. Kundera knew that he had no choice, but to listen; he just wanted to block out the screams.

“They’re prepared to offer you a place in the new world order,” the Ambassador had whispered. There was nothing subtle about it at all; there was none of the nuances and polite inanities that Kundera knew and loved. “If you refuse the offer, as generous as it is, your country will not like the second offer at all.”

And so Kundera stood on the tarmac in the dark, waiting. He understood the reason, of course; his briefers had worked desperately to brief him on what the Russians might do to convince him that further resistance, such as it had been, was futile. The wait was one reason, a less-than-subtle way of informing him that President Aleksandr Sergeyevich Nekrasov did not consider him important enough to arrange for either rooms, or an immediate meeting. The cooling metal of the aircraft that had flown him to Moscow, escorted all the way by Russian fighters, ticked in the night; the crew remained inside, wondering if they would ever be allowed to leave again.

Kundera waited…

A black car detached itself from the shadows and headed towards him. Kundera refused to allow himself to show fear as it came to a halt near the aircraft, the rear door opening to reveal a strikingly beautiful woman with long blonde hair and an almost perfect body. Her eyes were cold and distant, however; she eyed Kundera as if he were a mouse and she were a cat. Kundera kept himself calm; the woman, whoever she was, wouldn’t be the one making the decisions.

“Welcome to Moscow,” she said, in flawless Czech. “I am Colonel Marina Konstantinovna Savelyeva, aide to President Nekrasov. I have been ordered to escort you to his presence at once.”

“Thank you,” Kundera said, calmly. A Presidential Aide could hold vast influence, but she wouldn’t be the official face of the Russian regime. “I look forward to meeting him.”

Marina opened the door for him and motioned him into the car. The inside of the car smelled leathery, a smell that reminded him oddly of the car he’d used on his wedding day. The vehicle itself hummed almost silently as Marina sat next to him, commenting from time to time on places within Moscow; the city seemed to be almost bursting with curiously ordered life. On one corner, a blue European Union flag was being burned; American and British flags were already being prepared for a burning. Kundera realised that he was being shown everything purposefully; the Russians were trying to intimidate him.

It was working.

“As a mark of respect for your status, we have decided that you can pass through the security checks,” Marina informed him. Kundera heard the almost-hidden mocking in her tone and winced; it was a blatant slap in the face, a reminder that the Russians didn’t take him or his country seriously. “I will take you directly to the President in the War Room.”

Kundera had never visited the Kremlin before and, after hearing about some of the humiliation that Czechoslovakian leaders had suffered there, had never wanted to visit in his life. Marina’s brief tour of the strange, very… Russian building hadn’t been reassuring; the building was almost alien to his eyes, a strange mixture of different elements, all devoted to power. Marina’s running commentary had surprised him; some of the artworks on display had been looted from the Warsaw Pact countries and long believed lost. The Russians had had them all that time.

“This is the War Room,” Marina said finally, as two doors opened in front of them. The room was dominated by a massive plasma screen, showing Europe… with a massive wave of red light moving over the continent, heading west. Marina said something, but Kundera missed it almost completely; the sight before him terrified and awed him. If it was reliable, Denmark and over half of Germany had fallen, and there were Russian advance teams as far west as France and Norway. He knew, now, that a global shift in the balance of power was taking place; Russia had shattered Europe for the foreseeable future. Even if the European forces rallied…

“Perhaps the Prime Minister would care to hear a briefing from my military leaders?”

Kundera turned, slowly, and came face to face with President Nekrasov. The leader of the Russian Federation seemed more amused than anything else with Kundera’s sudden paralysis; he didn’t seem inclined to make a diplomatic incident out of it. Then, Kundera reasoned, why should he? He already had most of Europe in the palm of his hand. He hardly needed an excuse to send the Russian Army into the Czech Republic.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Kundera said, after a long moment. “I understand what is happening.”

“Splendid,” Nekrasov said, his Russian seemingly soft, but with a hint of pure steel underneath. The presence of four bodyguards paled as Kundera took in the sight; there was no mistaking the leader in the room. If they had all been naked, still there would have been no mistaking it; Nekrasov was the master and they all knew it. “We will repair to one of my private rooms and discuss… matters.”

Kundera followed him into a smaller room, trying to grasp an image of Nekrasov in his mind; his sheer personality swallowed up little details like face and body. Nekrasov was shorter than he had expected, or than he had seemed on the photographs that had been sent around the world after his rise to power. His stocky body was topped with a head of white hair, almost as white as snow. His handshake, as he waved Kundera to a seat, bespoke hidden strength.

This is a very dangerous man, Kundera thought, as Nekrasov took a seat facing him. Marina stood at the rear of the small, comfortable room, her hands crossed below her breasts; the bodyguards remained outside the room. I can’t relax, not even for an instant…

Nekrasov played the gracious host. “Would the Prime Minister care to dine with me?” He asked. He sounded almost jovial. “Or perhaps something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Vodka? We even have some fine wine that the President of France sent me last year, if you would prefer it…?”

“No, thank you,” Kundera said. “I would prefer to get down to business.”

The transformation was frightening. The jovial host vanished, to be replaced with a cold-blooded calculating soul, eyes studying Kundera as if he was a hunted animal. Nekrasov stared at him for a long moment, perfectly calculated to unnerve, perhaps even unman, him, before nodding slowly and leaning back in his chair. It was a chilling display The knowledge that Nekrasov could do almost anything he liked terrified Kundera to the very depths of his soul.

“Let me discuss military realities,” Nekrasov said, very softly, but no less menacing. “I have ten divisions in a position where they can roll into your country and brush your defenders aside. I have hundreds of bombers that can be over Prague in an hour, reducing your capital to rubble, and you are powerless to prevent it. I have a large occupation force of FSB soldiers who will occupy your country and ensure that the Czech Republic takes its orders from Moscow and Moscow alone.

“These are the parameters of our conversation,” he said, after a chilling pause. “I would like you to bear them in mind at all times. It will make this so much easier.

“We started this war for various reasons, partly to gain revenge for various European acts that were against Russian interests, partly to gain access to European resources that we need for the future. The military balance of power is so firmly on our side that we can guarantee the occupation of Europe as far west as the Pyrenees within a month at most. The shift of power is impossible for any state, even America, to alter; the balance of power is firmly in my favour. Do you understand me?”

Kundera stared at him, feeling as if he had been bludgeoned to death with a club. There was no diplomacy, just a calm recital of military power; the threats unstated, but barely hidden below the surface. There was no need to spell out the ‘or else’ — a little imagination suggested possibilities that would be too nightmarish for anyone to grasp. The Czech Republic was at his mercy.

“I understand you,” he said, softly. “What do you want?”

The genial host was back. “Splendid,” he said. The cold-blooded strategist returned. “The choice is simple; the first option is that you agree to sign an alliance with the Russian Federation, bringing the Czech Republic into a new alignment with Russia. The second option is that you refuse… in which case, those ten divisions will roll into Prague and impose our own order.”

Kundera felt cold. “I would need more information,” he said. “What would be the terms of the alliance?”

Nekrasov smiled, once again the genial host; Kundera wondered — and then pushed the thought aside because it was too terrifying — if Nekrasov was mad. He switched between friendliness and coldness with terrifying speed… and he controlled a vast country. Kundera’s mind refused to escape that thought; it kept running around in his head.

“It’s quite simple,” he said, after a moment. “You would permit us to take what steps we deemed necessary when it comes to securing the territorial integrity of the Czech Republic. Your forces will assume a subordinate position to our own and accept orders from our commanders, assisting us to move forces through your territory into Austria, should it become necessary, and also prevent your people from blocking the roads, unless you want us to do it…?”

Kundera shook his head.

“Your foreign relations will be placed firmly in our hands and all other alliances will be dissolved,” Nekrasov continued. “You will continue to hold internal authority, but we will have the right to veto or suggest laws as we choose. You will permit us to take what steps we choose against those of your people who practice the Islamic faith. In time, your factories and people will become part of a new economic alliance, devoted to rebuilding the continent and once again creating a powerful European force.”

Kundera tried for an even tone. “And what will you do for us?”

“We will ensure that your government remains in power,” Nekrasov said, still genial. “Should your people refuse to carry out some of the steps we might take against the Muslims, we will be quite happy to carry them out for you; I’m sure that many of your people will welcome them. We will even consult with you before we use any of our new rights.”

The words didn’t disguise the reality; Kundera knew exactly what he was being told — cooperate and collaborate, or your country will be crushed. The vague comment about ‘consultation’ meant nothing; once there was a Russian army in the middle of Prague, the Czech Republic’s independence would be at an end. He licked his dry lips, carefully marshalling his thoughts; he wanted to be clear on a few details before making any final decision… as if he held that right still.

“I have three conditions,” he said, carefully. Nekrasov said nothing, only watched him as a spider might watch a fly, trying to escape a web. “The first one is that you do not require Czech soldiers to take part in any offensive operations against our allies… our former allies.”

Nekrasov nodded. “That should be acceptable,” he said. There was a darker hint in his voice. “Next?”

“Second,” Kundera said slowly, “I want a guarantee that Russian soldiers will behave themselves in the Czech Republic. The behaviour of Russian soldiers during the Cold War meant that there could be no lasting bridges built between us and you; they looted and raped at will.”

“I will ensure that the commanders in the field know that such behaviour will not be tolerated,” Nekrasov said, after a long bitter moment. “It is a shame that Alex was not interested in such a posting; he can be relied upon in such matters.”

He shook his head slowly. “Very well,” he said. “So… what is number three?”

Kundera almost lost his nerve. “I do not want you to commit genocide against the Muslim population of my nation,” he said, taking a deep breath. He had a grim suspicion that that would be one of the demands that could not be discussed, or modified. “I have responsibilities to them as well as the others in the Republic.”

Nekrasov looked at him for a long moment. “You have tolerated the… vermin who were responsible for atrocities like Belsan, Stalingrad and worse in my country,” he said. “The problem that faces both the Americans and ourselves took root in your countries; just ask the French if you don’t believe me. Do you believe that we will pass up a chance to get at them and burn the cancer out?”

“You’re talking about living people,” Kundera almost cried. “They’re flesh and blood, not… cancer cells in a living body. They’re people too…”

“So were the children that died in Stalingrad,” Nekrasov said. It was the cold-eyed one who looked down at him. “That is not up for discussion; we will not kill them all, but we will ensure that they can do no further harm. Will you sign the agreement?”

Marina produced a sheet of paper from a hidden printer. Kundera scanned it rapidly; it had been updated already to reflect his requested compromises… all except the Muslim one. He looked into Nekrasov’s eyes and saw his future; he could sign, serve, and do the best he could for his country, which would become merely a subordinate state of the Russian Empire, or he would never return from Moscow. A Russian occupation government would move in, take over, and do whatever it liked to the helpless civilians caught in their grasp. He could try to do what he could to help his people, or he could make a stand on a point of principle… and make no difference whatsoever.

Nekrasov was waiting patiently. “I agree,” Kundera said finally. The document was written in both Russian and Czech; he read them both and noted that they were the same. The bitter taste of ashes was in his mouth. He had gone to Moscow as Head of Government of an independent state; he would return as a Russian pawn. There was no longer any choice at all. “Where do I sign?”