'Now we must look like innocent people,' Hornak ordered.
A succession of empty streets brought them within sight of a much larger thoroughfare. Two people walked across the opening, a man and a woman arm in arm. Ordinary life, Russell thought, but the relief was short-lived. The sound of an approaching vehicle had both men scurrying for the shelter of a shadowed doorway, and they watched as a car drove slowly past on the main road, its side-painted swastika gleaming in the yellow light.
It was cruising alone, and had vanished by the time they reached the wider street. Russell followed Hornak across, wondering, for the first time, where they were headed.
'Not far now,' the Czech replied.
A few minutes more and the familiar canopy of Masaryk Station appeared in front of them.
'I know where I am now,' Russell said. 'I can get back to the hotel from here.'
'No, please,' Hornak said. 'We must find out what happened. My office is just a short way. Please.'
Looking back, Russell found it hard to believe how meekly he bowed to the Czech's insistence. The only reasons he ever came up with were simple curiosity and good manners, neither of which, in retrospect, seemed worth risking his life for.
They turned left into the long yard adjoining the station. A couple of inlaid sidings ran the length of the yard, and a short rake of tarpaulin-covered wagons were stabled beside one of the small cranes. A line of parked lorries stood between them and a row of darkened offices and storehouses.
It suddenly occurred to Russell why Hornak had insisted on his presence. 'We must find out what happened,' he had said. Someone had tipped off the Germans about their meeting. And as far as Hornak was concerned, he was a prime suspect.
His heart lurched a beat or two. Turning and running seemed ridiculous, but so did happily walking into peril.
'This is it,' Hornak said, as they reached what was almost the last door in the row. The Czech pushed it open, and invited his companion in. It was all very friendly, but Russell had the distinct impression that refusal was never an option.
Hornak shut the door behind them and closed the shutters before turning on a desk lamp. Filing cabinets filled the spaces between three desks; railway diagrams and a Picture Post gallery of Greta Garbo pictures adorned the walls. 'We shall wait here. It won't be long.' He walked across to the sink, ran some water into a tin kettle, and placed it on an electric ring. 'Tea will be good,' he added, as if to himself. 'We have had a shock, I think.'
Russell watched Hornak scoop tea into a pot, rinse out a couple of enamel mugs and check that there was still some sugar in its tin. 'Where did you meet your English friends?' he asked.
Hornak hesitated a few moments before answering. 'In Spain,' he said eventually.
'The International Brigade?'
'Yes. Almost two years. I came back in '38 to fight the Germans, but the British and French sold us out. In Spain too, come to that.' He moved the kettle slightly on the electric hob. 'You sound more English than American,' he added, with only the slightest hint of accusation.
'My father was English. My mother's American.' The temptation was there, but Russell resisted telling his life story. This didn't seem the time to start explaining his residence in Hitler's Germany.
The kettle was boiling. Hornak poured water into the pot and stirred it with a large spoon. A stained piece of cloth provided a strainer, and after adding two huge heaps of sugar to each mug he carried one across to Russell.
'So how did you come to do this work?' Hornak asked, leaning back against a desk and carefully sipping at the scalding tea.
'I'm a journalist. We get asked to help. Times like these, it's hard to say no.'
'I am sure many do.'
'Maybe,' Russell agreed non-committally. Was Hornak complimenting him on his commitment or doubting his story? He took a sip of the sweet tea and burnt his tongue.
'And you believe the Americans are serious?' the Czech said.
'Serious, yes. But whether they know what they're doing, I'm not so sure.'
Hornak raised an eyebrow. 'Should you not be?'
Approaching footsteps saved Russell from answering. It was Bejbl. A single interrogative syllable from Hornak unleashed a torrent of Czech, none of which Russell understood. Bejbl had given him a single dismissive glance, which seemed like good news.
It was. 'We have caught the informer,' Hornak eventually told him in English. 'He was in the cafe and saw me arrive. He was seen using the public phone around the corner. Calling Petschek Palace.' Hornak came over and gave Russell a pat on the back, as if he was congratulating him on his acquittal. 'And the Germans are all over the New Town,' he added. 'So it's a good thing you came with me.'
Bejbl was talking again, having poured himself what was left of the tea. Hornak offered Russell a further translation. 'The informer claims the Gestapo have threatened to take his sister.'
'What about the shots?' Russell asked.
Hornak asked Bejbl, and translated the answer. 'A man was shot in the leg. He panicked and tried to run. Not one of our people,' he added dismissively. He put his empty mug down. 'We are going to see the informer now. A walk up the line, not far. I think you would be wise to come with us. Give the Germans time to pick up a few suspects.'
It seemed like a good idea, or at least the better of two bad ideas. He might get to judge how effective Hornak and his people were. 'All right,' he said.
They let themselves out into the silent yard and walked along beside the rails to the bridge beyond the station throat. Hugging the walls of the short cutting beyond they emerged into a wide expanse of tracks, carriage sidings to one side of the running lines, a large goods yard to the other. A creamy three-quarter moon had risen behind the hill ahead, edging the rails with pale light. One line of carriages was lit up, cleaners at work within, and a locomotive was at work somewhere in the goods yard, its occasional stuttering puff s interspersed with the clanking of buffers. Hornak and Bejbl walked on up the slight incline, talking softly in Czech. A brightly-lit signal box lay ahead, and as they passed it the signalman leaned out of his window to share what sounded like a joke.
A locomotive came under the bridge up ahead. It cut across their path and into the goods yard, the faces of its crew bright orange in the firebox glow. The engine seemed to be free-wheeling, not so much expelling steam as leaking it.
They walked under another bridge and round behind a line of stabled engines. A small door opened into a large brick building, where a ring of silent and enormous-looking locomotives faced each other around an indoor turn-table. Another door led into a repair shop, where two more engines stood astride deep inspection pits. A final door and they were out in the open again, heading for a small building with a large chimney. Mounds of sand were piled either side of it, and a young man with a cloth cap was waiting by the entrance, a burning cigarette cupped in one hand.
The interior was larger than Russell had imagined, and surprisingly light given that the moon and a single bare bulb supplied the only illumination. There were three other men inside. Two of Hornak's men were just behind the door; the informer, an ordinary-looking man of around thirty with short dark hair, thin moustache and glasses, was standing in the sand-drying pan. He was visibly shaking, and the sight of Hornak did nothing to calm him down. Hornak's first question evoked a long but surprisingly passionless answer, as if the man had already lost hope.
Hornak turned to his four comrades with a query. Any reason to spare him? was Russell's later guess. Now he saw only the nodding heads, heard the involuntary whimper of the condemned man.
Hornak looked at his watch and said something that started with the Czech word for 'ten'. One of the others started talking, and soon they were all at it, apparently oblivious to both Russell and the informer.
About ten minutes had gone by when the sound of a train reached his ears. As it grew louder, Hornak put out his hand, and one of the others handed him an army pistol. Hornak walked onto the sand-dryer and said something to the informer. He started to protest, but suddenly the energy seemed to drain away from him, and he sunk to his knees. The train was almost on them now, rasping and roaring its way up the slope. Russell saw Hornak pull the trigger and saw the body jerk forward, but he hardly heard the shot.
He just stood there, tongue suddenly dry in his mouth, watching the dark blood seep into the sand. Outside a long line of wagons clanked by, the frenetic breath of the locomotive fading into the distance.
'Jan here will see you get back to your hotel,' Hornak shouted over the din. 'He is a student - speaks good
