“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?”
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Way Home
Wars are not won by retreats
Brussels/Ostend, Belgium
“Wake up, sweethearts,” a voice called from outside the door. “It’s time for breakfast!”
Colonel Seth Fanaroff rubbed his back as he pulled himself off the floor and to his feet. The brothel they had found had accepted their story that they were lovers — in defiance of various US Army regulations on fraternisation — and had been quite happy to take American dollars once they had established a link-up with an American bank. The catch was that they had to share a room, and, as a gentleman, he had insisted on sleeping on the floor. Being a gentleman was starting to look like a really bad idea.
“Time to get up,” he called, gently poking Captain Saundra Keshena in the shoulder before averting his gaze as she sat up, hands reaching for the pistol she had concealed under the pillow. She had been having nightmares about the desperate flight through the city to the brothel in the Red Light district; Fanaroff, who had been through several wars and dangerous situations, had taken it more in stride. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
It was a lie, he thought; they had managed to get back in touch with the States, only to be told to sit tight and wait. They were the only two Americans, it seemed, to have survived the fall of the embassy; the United States would be looking for a way to extract them, but Fanaroff wasn't hopeful. The best plan he had so far was to wait for the Russians to arrive, make themselves known to the Russian commander, and ask for reparation. The Russians might have returned the crew of the ABM stations, but he didn’t know if they would be willing to repatriate two lone Americans in a city that had descended into chaos. Brussels was a confusing mass of factions; he didn’t understand even how the water supplies had come back on, let alone how the city intended to survive the next few weeks. Large parts of the city had burnt in that first terrible day.
He splashed a little water on his face; the madam — Madam Rose — had insisted that they conserve water as much as possible, even to the point of filling bathtubs with the liquid and forbidding more than basic washes; who knew what would happen to the water supplies in the future? One of the other groups, an Islamic group that had managed to establish itself, had attacked the Red Light district in a fit of holy zeal… and the criminals had kicked them out with extreme violence. The Red Light district held some of the nastiest characters in Brussels… and they had been, in their own way, patriotic. Every man was against his neighbour, but it was every inhabitant against an outsider; the police had never come into the Red Light district on official business. It wouldn’t have been healthy.