The letter signed, he left the envelope at the desk to be posted. Then it was off to the Savoy Grill, one of the two books he had bought in hand, to tie up any loose ends and buy Peter a lunch he certainly felt he owed him from La Rochelle.
As usual, as he crossed the panelled dining room to join him, passing the mirrored pillars, several sets of eyes noted his arrival and followed him; if there was one thing that never seemed to fade it was the notoriety of his being a killer. Odd that for once, after composing his letter to Lizzie, it made him feel euphoric, not angry, and instead of glares being aimed at interested female glances they got winning smiles.
Peter waited for Cal to be seated before speaking, and was discreetly quiet when he did so. ‘As far as I know your name is still not in the frame for what happened in La Rochelle.’
‘Where you saved my bacon,’ Cal replied with a beaming smile that actually surprised his companion. He took a menu and the wine list and surprised him even more. ‘So perhaps we should push the old boat out. Call it a reward for all that labouring you did on that barge in the harbour.’
‘I still feel a twinge in my lower back from that toil, Cal, and it has done nothing for my golf swing. I have concluded I was not born for honest toil.’
‘Have you found out anything at all?’ Cal asked, his head buried in the wine list.
Peter had rehearsed the answer, determined to ensure that Cal saw there was a high degree of uncertainty in what had emerged from the enquiries of his boss, with the added caveat of the need to protect a service of which he was now part.
What did emerge made absolute sense of the delay in talking to the man Quex had mentioned, which led Peter to think there must have been suspicions about the fellow prior to what had so recently occurred.
‘It has been narrowed down to those who had access to the intelligence from Brno, then run that against their known affiliations and interests etcetera. No proof, of course, there never can be, but our eye has alighted on the fellow who runs the Central European Desk.’
‘Named?’
‘Sorry, old chum, no can do for reasons of security, but I can tell you he’s an Ulsterman and staunch Unionist, with all the neuroses that go with that patrimony.’
‘I take it he is now being watched?’
‘Monitored, but discreetly, and I am going to have a chat with him myself in a day or two.’
‘Monsieur?’ asked the sommelier.
‘A half of the Chablis Fourchaume to start and a bottle of the 1920 Richebourg.’
‘I say!’ Peter responded, before seeking to curtail his response; he did, after all, want the sommelier to think he drank wine of that quality all the time. ‘Must say you seem rather cheerful, old boy.’
‘With good cause, Peter; I have just initiated a formal separation from my wife. Not a divorce, she won’t agree to that, but I feel as if I have broken some evil spell which has been cast on me for many years.’
‘She’s still a fine-looking filly.’
‘Feel free, Peter, I’ll give you her number if you like.’
‘Too dangerous, old boy, whatever you say. I don’t want to end up as another notch on your bedpost.’
There was a bitter tone to the reply, in contrast to Cal’s initial light mood. ‘The notches there are not mine, Peter, they are all of them hers.’
No doubt because a change of subject was politic, Peter pulled an envelope from his inside pocket.
‘These are the names of our operatives in both Prague and Berlin, plus a code to effect an introduction. I know you want to stay out of their orbit, but it might be necessary to invoke their aid and they do have the means to get to me quickly, or you out in a hurry, if that is required. Usual drill, old boy, memorise and destroy.’
‘Am I allowed to share these with Vince?’
‘So you are taking the estimable fellow with you?’ Peter asked, with just a slight trace of pique that such a fact had been kept from him till now.
‘I have to trust someone, Peter, and since I can’t trust your lot-’
‘All right, I get your point.’
Cal passed over the book, of which he had another copy, a collection of short stories by Chekhov, handy because in Russian literature there was the constant use of obscure letters in names and place designations that made it hard for anyone to get a handle on, quite apart from the fact that as a means of sending coded messages, without a copy of the book it was near-impossible to decipher. There was no requirement to explain; they needed to be able to communicate outside normal channels.
‘Usual drill, Peter, story number first, page number in that story second, then the line and the letter reading right to left. I will let you know my location by telegram on arrival and only use it if absolutely necessary. Stories are worth a read too and short enough for you not to nod off. Now, shall we order?’
Lunch was Dover sole followed by a fine porterhouse steak, but the highlight was the choice of wine, the dusty bottle brought to the table to be examined, before being taken off for decanting. The cork, long and so deeply stained to be near black, was presented to show there was no rot, then the sommelier used his little silver cup to taste it before Cal was allowed some in his glass, that followed by much sniffing and swilling to aid the Burgundy to open out.
A nod saw both glasses filled, with Peter copying the tasting ritual. Rated as among the best wines in the world, a Domaine de Romanee-Conti was not something to be consumed in a rush, so the two lingered there for some time, reminiscing and planning.
Tempted as Cal was, there was no point in taking Vince Castellano for anything like a similar meal in Paris; he was not in favour of eating what he called ‘foreign muck’ and besides, there was no time, given they had airline reservations on a busy route that now provided the only convenient way into Czechoslovakia that did not involve a massive detour. It was a taxi from Gare du Nord to the airport, followed by a long wait to be processed through to a flight that only carried fourteen people.
Anxious French customs officers were behaving as if Cal and Vince were entering the country, not leaving, which perhaps only served to underline the nervous nature of everyone in Europe when it came to Czechoslovakia. Passports were scrutinised, luggage carefully examined, with both Cal and Vince staring at the man carrying out the latter task with the bland indifference of the seasoned traveller.
The country was of particular concern to France, who had had a strong hand in its creation, the same applying to Poland — building up allies on its eastern front to contain Germany, which was bound to be resurgent, had been its most serious political objective after reparations when negotiating the Treaty of Versailles.
She had also spent two decades and much treasure training the Czech armed forces and building their defences; indeed there was still a military mission in Prague under a senior French general, that to give credence to a treaty of mutual protection that included Russia — a pledge to come to their aid if they were attacked by Germany and, of course, vice versa. Easy to sign, it was a damn sight more difficult to honour in the prevailing climate.
The daily newspapers they had read on the way over the Channel showed the rhetoric was being ramped up in Berlin as the delegate members headed to Nuremberg for their Tenth Party Congress, to be called, since they had taken over Austria in their manufactured coup, the ‘Rally of Greater Germany’.
The whole of this was being faithfully reported as a wondrous event by the right-wing dailies, most notably Lord Rothermere’s Daily Mail. In essence, if more measured, many of the others were not far behind, only the News Chronicle and the Daily Herald showing natural doubt, and the Manchester Guardian outright disgust.
All reported the rants from Hitler and Goebbels in the build-up to the Congress, about the supposed atrocities being committed by the Czechs against the poor beleaguered Sudetenlanders, whose only desire was, naturally, to be allowed to live their lives according to their own lights.
There was still no mention of any desire to be reunited with their brethren across the border, though Cal suspected from his briefing that was now the aim of Konrad Henlein and the Sudetendeutsche Partei, which he led, even if, as he did, he continued to deny it.
He had lived in Nazi Germany long enough to know the value to the state of the big lie: scream ‘atrocity’ loud enough and often enough on the radio and in the press and even the most sceptical observer begins to see reasons to believe it to be true, especially if there are no outlets to present an opposite point of view.
If that had been true in a country where the totalitarian reality stared one in the face, how much more effective was it in those supine democracies where the populace could barely comprehend the awful truth of National Socialism, people who would also, very likely, struggle to point out Czechoslovakia on a map.
