The thought could not be avoided: he’s heard about my request to search for new arrivals and he wants to put the mockers on it to give his man, and now I am convinced there is one in place, a free run.
‘Only it has to be done with maximum discretion, Noel, and we cannot risk even a coded cipher. So I want you to go to Prague yourself and close down the operations there. It must not, I repeat not, be revealed to either the press or the Germans that we have done so.’
‘To ensure discretion will take time. Embassy folk have wagging tongues.’
‘Yes, it will, though shipping the extras back should be straightforward.’
‘When do you want me to go?’
‘I would have thought soonest done soonest mended, wouldn’t you? You can go in on a diplomatic passport, so I would like you to drop everything else and travel as soon as you can.’
McKevitt made a good fist of looking thoughtful, but he had come to one conclusion while Quex was still talking. ‘It might be best to get everyone out as soon as possible, over a day or two, including the regulars, and stay around to clear up anything outstanding myself.’
‘Good thinking, I’m sure with you there any risks will be sealed down tight.’
Making his way back to his own office, McKevitt was nearly laughing. The old man had just handed him the keys to unlock his suspicions and, while he was there, he would find out what was going on and put a stop to it, but not before he had laid at the door of those who needed to know the truth that Sir Hugh Sinclair was not only losing his touch, he was actively thwarting the policy of those who employed him.
Odd that Quex was happy too, for Jardine, by the time McKevitt got there, would be long gone from Prague and the Ulsterman had no way of connecting anything to him, doubly so given he was travelling under an assumed name.
The man might seek to stir things up but that would only play into Quex’s hands, and if it all went up in the air and an incident did occur, how could he carry the can for anything, when the head of the relevant section was on site and in control?
For all Veseli’s certainties it was an anxious two days and a testing exchange of telegrams before on the Saturday morning the invitation came from Henlein’s press office to say the visit was on and that two rooms were waiting for Corrie in the Victoria Hotel.
Moravec phoned Cal to confirm, again without using either his name or hers, that Corrie would be given full access to the SdP leader on the Sunday. Cal then called the Ambassador Hotel and alerted Corrie that he was on his way and for her to be ready to move.
Throwing economy to the winds — it was Moravec’s money after all — Cal had hired a really luxurious and very powerful German-made car, a dark-green Maybach Zeppelin with a soft top, a V12 engine and a top speed that exceeded a hundred miles an hour if you had the courage to push it hard.
It was also a very weighty car which, apart from a tank, would smash to bits anything it hit — if he had to run he wanted to do so in something hard to catch and impossible to knock off course. He had also bought a good camera, a long lens and several rolls of film, as well as a hunting knife which he would just leave in the car to be found if anyone wanted to search; hiding it would only make it seem suspicious.
‘I like the bins,’ Vince said, when Cal tried on the pair of rimless spectacles he’d bought. ‘You’ll look a bit like Himmler now you’ve got your barnet cut short.’
Cal ran a hand across his now-short red-gold hair, then nodded to the telegram he had compiled for Peter Lanchester, lying by the open book of short stories.
‘I don’t know why I bother with coding messages. I could get you to telephone Peter and talk to him in cockney.’
‘Only one problem, guv, he wouldn’t understand a bleeding word I was saying to him.’
‘True, I struggle enough.’
Cal had begun splitting the notes in his money belt; half he would leave with Vince and the rest he would take. His friend had a simple way of keeping the currencies separate: they went into different pockets.
‘You say you’re going to get tooled up when you get to this place.’
‘That’s the deal, I’ve asked for a Mauser.’
‘A bloke doing the job you’re supposed to be at would not carry a shooter.’
‘He’s about to become a reformed character.’
‘One who’s out on a very long limb, guv, and as for involving Corrie, well…’ The undertone of what Vince was saying came down to the fact that he was unhappy about being left behind. ‘She’s a game bird, but this might be pushing it a bit.’
‘She will have instructions to dump me if I’m exposed, say that I used her.’
‘Corrie won’t do that, guv.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ Vince replied with slow deliberation, ‘she fancies you.’
‘Rubbish. I’ve got to send that telegram to London,’ Cal responded, ducking the implications of that statement. ‘I’ll get dressed, then let’s get my own bag packed and into the car.’
‘You taking all the documents?’
Vince was referring to those hidden in the Tatra.
‘No point, and if they were found they would only get the noses sniffing for more. You sure of what to do if the balloon goes up?’
‘How many times do you want me to tell you?’
Vince had instructions, if the emergency was so dire as to be irresolvable, to think only of himself, to go to the Jewish Emigration Centre and find Elsa Ephraim, using Cal’s name and that of Monty Redfern — she would know how to get him out to safety if he could not use either of his own passports, and given the money he was holding there was always bribery.
‘Just as long as you remember not to try and come and get me.’
Leaving his backup man in Prague was essential to maintaining that vital link with London, and the temptation to move him closer to the place where Cal would be operating had to be put to one side. There was still a deep nervousness about leaks or even active disruption from the offices of MI6 and nothing Peter Lanchester had sent so far indicated such a threat had been either positively identified or neutralised.
There would have been more alarm had it been known that a man from the Prague station, one of those brought in from Bucharest, was trawling the hotels with a Czech interpreter for a list of guests from the United Kingdom, with an emphasis on those newly arrived; an attempt to save time by checking the flight manifests of the Czech airline, the quickest way in, had been rudely rebuffed.
Having been at it for two days and starting with the luxury places, it was Saturday before he got to the Meran, and he and his man entered just as Cal and Vince exited carrying the canvas bag.
The Czech made for the desk, the MI6 man standing back, where he went through the routine of being jolly with the man at reception, agreeing that times were bad for everybody except those with rooms to let, before asking if there were any people staying who might need his services as an English interpreter.
That was not an absurd thing to ask; Czech was a Slavic language that only the locals spoke and even then it broke down into several dialects and that was before you got to Slovak, Ruthenian and Hungarian.
It had no international presence, so that any visitor from any country, especially Britain and those with Latin-derived tongues, struggled to get the bus or tram, never mind do business; even fellow Slavs from neighbouring countries would have to strive hard to be understood.
The reply he got, that of the only two British guests staying, one, a Mr Barrowman, certainly spoke fluent German, was responded to with initial disappointment, though he did ask about the other, only to be told the receptionist had never exchanged a word with him, but he could if he had to — thankfully he spoke a bit of English and French.
‘Been here long, have they, ’cause they might have picked up a bit of Czech?’
‘A week… or was it Tuesday they checked in? Not sure.’
‘Been here before?’
‘No, they made the reservation from London, though by telegram, so they must know Prague well.’
‘Still, friend,’ the interpreter said, pacing out his questions so that it did not seem like an interrogation. ‘Even
