withholding information he feels he has no need, or reason, to pass on.’
‘You are implying that if he found out about Jardine being in Prague, he might not bother to let me know?’
Quex paused, having stated the obvious, albeit with a palpable air of disbelief.
‘As long as you keep me properly informed, we will be able to deal with any problems that arise and, I might add, McKevitt’s a clever bugger, who will reckon that anything coming from you is tainted and that will only excite his interest. Best leave him alone, Peter.’
Given the nervous state of Frantisek Moravec, the leaving of the cathedral was a damn sight more cautious than the arrival. Vince was well behind Cal as he reprised his sightseeing act on the Charles Bridge. When he stopped in front of the statue of St Elizabeth and managed to look both up and back Vince was very obviously smoking and made a point of shoving out his cigarette to flick off the ash; they had a tail.
That did not say who it was, it could be that Moravec had put somebody to keep an eye on them, but to accept that as the case was a bad idea; it was safer to think the worst, to suspect that by meeting with the head of counter-intelligence he had laid himself open to scrutiny by someone whose aims were not benign.
It also appeared that Moravec might be right: he was not able to operate unobserved in his own capital city. Cal made no attempt to identify who was doing the following — Vince had spotted him and would give him a description later — but it did mean that he would need to act upon it. Had anyone overheard the exchange in the church? Unlikely, they had spoken in near-whispers.
Sauntering on, still playing the tourist, Cal peered at buildings and statues. He had no intention of leading their man back to where he and Vince were staying, but made instead for the Ambassador Hotel, even if such a place carried with it the risk of him being recognised, being, he knew, the chosen watering hole of all the foreign correspondents.. A five-star establishment, it had a precious asset: more than one entrance and exit, which made losing a man on his own easy.
The lobby was abuzz with conversation being carried out in several different languages and, like every luxury hotel he had ever entered, there seemed to be an overabundance of well-dressed women, some, no doubt, of dubious purpose. But it was busier by far than the Savoy in London; diplomats too used the Ambassador, and right now every country in Europe felt they needed to have folk in place outside their embassy staff to tell them what was going on.
Cal moved through to the desk, engaged one of the receptionists to ask an innocent question, then went to one of the bank of lifts and allowed himself to be taken up to the fourth floor. He immediately dropped one floor and took another lift, a different one with a different operator, back down to the lobby and without looking around made for a more discreet exit, which took him through a residents’ lounge.
‘Jesus Christ Almighty, if it isn’t my old pal, Doc Savage.’
The cracked American voice, reminiscent of someone with a bad throat, might have been behind him but he knew it to be female, just as he knew who it was, though such knowledge brought him no more pleasure than the nickname she had once regularly used to insult him — the moniker of some inane American cartoon character he had never heard of or read.
Walking on and ignoring it was not an option; he had to turn round and be smiling broadly as he did so. The last time he had seen Corrie Littleton she had been in some distress, in the latter stages of a recovery from a wound caused by an Italian bomb, pale-faced and all skin and bone, not that she had ever been fulsome; he had once decided she was rangy rather than skinny.
Now she was very obviously recovered and was no longer clad in slacks and a masculine sort of shirt-blouse he remembered as standard dress, but in a smart grey suit, jacket and pencil skirt, with an expensive handbag and shoes to match. Her hair, slightly reddish on the side of auburn, which she had worn loose, was now carefully arranged under a pert hat.
‘Corrie,’ he responded.
‘Cal…’
He moved forward with speed, immediately taking her arm to push her towards a clutter of settees where they could sit down.
‘Hey, buster.’
Cal’s response came out of the side of his mouth as a desperate whisper. ‘Do shut up for once, there’s a good girl.’
‘Hell, your manners ain’t altered.’
‘Let’s sit and talk.’ She tried to resist being put on her backside but he was too strong, and he made sure their backs were to the door he had just come through. ‘And don’t use my bloody name.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s right.’ There was no need to say he was here on the same kind of business he had been doing when they first met and Cal did not bother to try and explain. Corrie Littleton might be a pain in the posterior but she was not dumb. ‘What in the name of creation are you doing in Prague?’
She responded to his low tone of voice in a similar vein. ‘Working, which I kinda guess is what you are doing too.’
‘What kind of work can you be doing here?’
‘That, from you, is typical, like a woman can’t do any work. I am here reporting for Collier’s Weekly.’
‘You’re a journalist?’
The reply had all the sarcasm he recalled so well. ‘I always knew you were smart.’
‘How did you end up doing this?’
‘Thank Tyler Alverson. I thought if he could do it, so could I, and I must say he was sweet when we got back stateside. He put me on to people who could help, though that had to wait till I had fully recovered.’
Alverson had been with them both in Ethiopia and Cal had come across him in Madrid as well, when the city was under siege. A long-in-the-tooth self-confessed hack of a foreign correspondent, he was a man Cal liked and admired; he was also a fellow who was to be found where there was anything approaching action.
‘Don’t tell me, he’s here too.’
‘As far as I know he’s in Berlin, though he might turn up in Prague to slam your guy Runciman when he’s finished pussyfooting around.’ Her raised crooked two fingers, on both hands, implied parentheses; the look in her eye was implicitly one of scepticism. ‘He’s supposed to be assessing the situation, as if we don’t know what it really means. Damn bastard’s been here for weeks and all he’s done is play footsie with the Germans.’
‘He might not have done, the situation’s complex.’
Cal replied in that positive manner, even though he did not believe his own words. He had really only said them to give himself time to think, because Corrie Littleton’s presence might present a complication. A reporter, she would be bound to want to know what he was up to, as would Tyler Alverson if he showed up.
‘You staying here?’ She nodded. ‘Room number?’
‘One of the best, 48.’ Seeing that the praise did not register, she added. ‘Overlooks Wenceslas Square.’
‘OK. I am going to leave, but I will call you.’
‘How about you give me your contact number and I’ll call you.’
‘No.’
‘I could yell out your name, let the whole world know you are here.’
‘You could, but if you want to guarantee I clam up, that would be the best way to do it. I will call — and tell Tyler if he shows up that I will talk to him too, but not to shout out if he sees me, and that goes for Vince Castellano.’
‘He’s here too?’ Her eyes narrowed in a face that was attractive, if not conventionally beautiful. ‘Sounds as if you and Vince are involved in something juicy.’
‘Or maybe nothing at all, Corrie.’
‘The Doc Savage I recall was not that kind of guy.’
For once, that nickname did not annoy him; it would allow him to communicate without the use of his name. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Give Vince my regards.’
His cockney friend was pleased with the message — he and Corrie had always got on — though Cal was less
