circle of sky.
'So how is Gregor?' Hornak asked, settling his bulk onto another chair.
'Doing well, I believe. I've never actually met the man. I'm just here to pass on his messages.'
'And he wants to help his old comrades?'
'His American friends want to help,' Russell clarified. 'Your English is excellent,' he added, wondering where he'd learnt it.
'I had some good English friends,' Hornak said non-committally, just as Bejbl returned with two bottles of beer and a second glass. He put them down on the table and went back into the cafe.
'And why do Gregor's American friends want to help us?' Hornak asked.
'Because there's a war coming, and they want all the allies they can get.'
Hornak smiled at that. 'Well, you have come to the right people.'
'I hope so. You know who I represent. Who exactly are you speaking for?'
'We are the only organized group...'
'Who is 'we'?'
Hornak gave it some thought. 'The Left,' he said eventually. 'Social democrats like Bejbl. And Gregor Blazek, come to that. Communists as well. Even a few Liberals of the old school. We are all together this time.'
'How organized are you?'
'How worthy of support, you mean. You will not find anything better in Prague - we have been preparing since the betrayal at Munich.'
'Have you lost many to the Gestapo?'
'Some. Like I said, we are organized. There are several hundred of us in the city, but nobody knows more names than he has to. Sometimes we have to cut off a limb to save the tree, but another always grows.'
The classic cell structure, Russell thought. He had fallen among comrades.
'So how does the American Government mean to help us?' Hornak asked.
'What is it you need?'
'At the moment, nothing. For now we just try to annoy them. Let their tyres down, cut their telephone wires. Anything more will be suicide - we know this. But when the real war begins, well, we shall see. I think the Germans will be very successful - the Poles won't last more than a few weeks.' He laughed. 'Which will serve them right, yes, for joining all the other jackals and stealing a part of our country from us. But the Germans - the more successful they are, the harder their task will become. Because each battle will cost them soldiers, and each conquered country will need a garrison, and they will get weaker, not stronger. And that is when we shall start fighting them, and when we will need help from outside - the explosives and the guns.'
'America will provide these things.'
'Yes? But how will they get these things to us? We are already surrounded by enemies.'
'Air-drops, I suppose, once radio communications have been established. I'm not here to set anything up - I'm just here to make contact, find out what you need, and how you can be reached in the future. We need a dead letter drop, an address and false name to write to. You understand the book code?'
'I think so, but tell me.'
'Both parties have the same edition of the same book,' Russell began, with the distinct impression that he was teaching Stalin's grandmother to suck eggs. 'Words are picked out by numbers. So 2278 would be either page 2, line 27, word 8 or page 22, line 7, word 8 - whichever makes more sense of the message. You understand?'
'It seems simple. Have you chosen a book?'
'
'All right.'
'Now all we need is a name and address.'
Hornak thought about it for a moment. 'Here is good,' he said at last. 'The Skorepka Cafe. Milan Nemecek.'
Russell could see no risk in writing it down for memorising later.
'Is there anything else?' Hornak asked.
'I don't think so,' Russell said, returning the pencil stub to his shirt pocket and rising to his feet. He doubted whether anything would come of this meeting, but a possibility had been created. Which had to be worth something.
This marginal sense of achievement lasted about ten seconds. As the two men shook hands, both recognized the swelling sound of vehicles. Hornak stood there, still holding Russell's hand, as the cafe door burst open, revealing Bejbl's silhouette. 'Gestapo,' he hissed, and slammed it shut.
'This way,' Hornak said urgently, reaching for the third door. It opened into an unlit corridor, which led to another small courtyard, another set of double doors. Hornak opened one of these, put his head round the corner, and gestured Russell to follow him out. They were in a long, curving alley lit by yellow lamps. Hornak headed right, away from the shouts and running motors. 'Quietly,' he told Russell, settling into a brisk walk. They had only gone a few metres when two shots rang out, followed by a single shriek and more shouting. Both men jerked round, but the alley behind them was empty. As they walked on, a little quicker than before, the lighted windows above them winked out in sequence, like letters in a neon sign.
They were no more than ten metres from the end of the alley when a voice from behind them screamed, 'Halt!' Two German soldiers were jogging down the alley towards them. They were about sixty metres away, Russell reckoned. And their rifles weren't raised.
'Run,' Hornak said, taking off with an alacrity that belied his size.
Russell hesitated for a split second, and took off after him, sprinting through the narrow archway at the end of the alley. No shots followed.
Hornak was ahead of him, barrelling down a long and depressingly straight alley. Feet pounding on the cobbles, Russell's brain still had time to do the mathematics - the Germans would have around thirty metres to kill them in. Four seconds maybe. Oh God.
He strained every muscle to go faster, petrified that he might trip on an uneven cobblestone. The street seemed to end in a solid wall, or was that an archway in the corner? Hornak was still plunging onwards, his boots crashing down on the cobblestones. The urge to turn and look back was almost unbearable.
It was an archway. Twenty metres, ten, and a window in front of him shattered, the sound of the shot reverberating down the alley a millisecond later. As he swerved under the arch, two more bullets thudded into a wooden doorway. The bastards had missed him!
He was running past the church and cafe he'd noticed on his walk with Bejbl. The last few cafe customers had been brought to their feet by the shots, and were now standing by their tables, like sculptures of uncertainty.
Another archway brought them to an intersection. As they raced across it Russell could hear the sound of other running feet. From more than one direction.
The alley opposite was the narrowest yet, curving this way and that under the dim yellow lamps. The spires silhouetted against the starfield belonged to Our Lady Of Tyn, Russell realized - they were heading towards the Old Town Square.
Another turn, another thirty metres, and they were running across it. Russell half-expected to see the Gestapo car from earlier parked mid-Square, but the only occupants were Czechs turned to stone by his and Hornak's dramatic appearance. As his feet rapped across the cobblestones, Russell saw them drag themselves into action, moving towards the nearest exits with increasing purpose.
Hornak was heading for the left hand side of the church, and the alley from which Bejbl had emerged two hours earlier. They reached it without shouts or shots, and Russell risked a swift look back. The pursuit was nowhere to be seen - had they shaken it off in those last few alleys before the square?
Hornak was turning into another alley and slowing to a jog. He was breathing heavily, Russell realized, but there was a grim smile of satisfaction on his face.
One more alley and he slowed to a walk. Russell gratefully followed suit, feeling the stitch in his side. His own breathing was more laboured than Hornak's, and his heart was racing. He promised himself he would use the car less often when he got back to Berlin. If he got back to Berlin.
