explained to him what he wanted him to do.
‘I shall be holed up at the Bayerischer Hof in Bamberg and you can keep me posted by telegram, and if it’s really hot stuff, use the phone.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘ Jesus Christ, Cal, you look like an executioner with those damn specs and that haircut.’
His hair now stood up from his head in a spiky sort of way, not the first time he had worn it like that; when you are fighting in the trenches short hair is a must to help you keep the lice under control. It is the same for doing battle in hot climates or travelling through South American jungles.
‘Do I look suitably German?’
‘You sure do, but I preferred it when you looked human.’
They had just pulled out into Wenceslas Square and into a stream of traffic and trams that made Corrie edgy; she was, after all, sitting in what, in her own country, would have been the driving seat and she was used to being in control of the car.
‘Why the hell do these folk drive on the wrong side of the road, are they crazy?’
‘Time to tell you who I am supposed to be and we have to concoct a story as to how I got involved in this as well.’
She reached down to her feet and pulled up her copious handbag to extract a pad and pencil.
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea to write anything down.’
‘It makes it easy for me to remember, and what do you think the chances are of finding anyone who understands shorthand English in this neck of the woods?’
Cal smiled. ‘In my game you don’t take risks.’
‘In my game you must take notes, so shoot.’
He started talking and her pencil flew, which he let go. It had the advantage of keeping her from looking out of the windscreen and ducking in terror every time a car came too near or he swung out to pass another.
Mostly it was background: the name Barrowman, his background in chemicals, not as an expert but as a buyer and seller, the need to keep that vague since it was not the kind of thing two people meeting in a strange country would go into too deeply.
‘We met in the bar of the Ambassador and I introduced myself.’ He took one of the Monty Redfern-supplied business cards from his top pocket and handed it to her so she could spell his name. ‘Hang on to that and keep it in your purse.’
‘What was the approach?’
‘You’re a woman, single and we formed a mutual attraction.’
‘Let’s hope nobody looks me in the eye when I spin that one.’
‘I invited you to dine with me, you did and we had a great evening, which ended in the bar. Use the name of the restaurant where we did eat in case anyone asks what you ordered.’
‘Hell, I can’t pronounce it, or half of what I ate.’
‘Even better, because the trick is to tell as few lies as possible — for instance, that you have not yet filed a story back to the States because you are looking for an angle that no one else has thought of.’
‘And that stuff about us being lovers?’
‘For emergencies only.’
‘Buster, the roof will have to fall in big time before that gets an airing.’
They were out in the suburbs now, which looked to be peaceful, but that did not last long because they came to their first checkpoint, Corrie making an unfunny pun about it being Czech.
The examination of papers was done with great courtesy; these young soldiers in their grey-green uniforms were conscripts, polite and, once they had perused her passport and seen the eagle, somewhat excited to meet a real American, which held them up longer than it should.
‘Those kids were sweet. I ain’t never been pointed at and called a film star before.’
‘They didn’t mean it, they’d say that to anyone from the USA.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Play on being American when we get to Cheb. Most people there will never have met anyone from outside their own area, often their own village, and everyone is enthralled by anything American. Being exotic-’
‘That’s a nice word.’
‘In your case, inappropriate.’
At the main railway station Jimmy Garvin was buying his ticket, rather excited to be going on a chase for a story without Vernon Bartlett breathing down his neck, imagining a big splash in the News Chronicle with a byline saying ‘from our special correspondent in the Sudetenland’; it might not use his name, but he would make sure no one was in doubt who wrote it.
But he had to remind himself to have a care, so he took up a position on the concourse from which he could watch the comings and goings; neither he or his mentor had any idea if Corrie Littleton was on the train, she might have been lying about that too, and given they had shared the same hotel she knew his face too well for him to be spotted.
While he was there the Paris-Prague Express arrived and disgorged its passengers. As they filed through the exit gate — their travel documents would have been examined on the train — he wondered at the purpose of those coming to Prague: businessmen, diplomats and maybe even the odd news hound too. Even his young imagination did not stretch to a desk chief from SIS.
Noel McKevitt had felt liberated ever since he left London; stuck in Broadway for five years now, he had forgotten the excitement of being out in the field. In London crowds you paid no attention to anyone unless they were striking; from the point where he had stepped aboard the train at Calais he had felt his old instincts begin to sharpen. By the time he made the Czech capital they were back and fully engaged.
It was not those who stood out in the mass you needed to spot when active, it was the exact opposite: those who blended in with the background had to be looked out for, the face that appeared too often and never looked at you directly, identified by the smallest of features, the tilt of a head, the cut of a chin, a certain gait when they moved.
In five years of sedentary work he had filled out from the slim field man he had been in Berlin, but Prague had to be awash with German agents and some of those might be the people he had sparred with previously in the German capital, and someone would have been given the task of watching the incoming express — and that was before you put devious old Quex into the mix.
Suitcase in hand, he joined the queue for taxis and shuffled forward until nearly at the front. Four places from his turn he suddenly picked up his bag and left the queue, his concentration on those lined up behind, cutting back into the station, stopping and retracing his steps, then making for the front of the station and the car he expected to be waiting for him. If it was probably unnecessary it was fun to employ the old tricks.
His lift was there: Dawson, one of the men he had sent to this station from Warsaw, standing by the rear passenger door so that it could be opened and closed quickly, his suitcase thrown on the floor. It was moving before he managed to shift to a comfortable position, weaving out into the traffic.
‘Have you got anything to cheer me up?’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘A name would be a start.’
‘We’ve got more than a hundred and we’re still trawling. It would help if we had some idea of what we’re looking for.’
Noel McKevitt was not good with subordinates, being too abrupt, too demanding; he knew he was not the type to inspire loyalty out of love of his personality, so he had never tried, but he reckoned he was respected for his ability and that allowed him to be brusque.
‘The best-manned station in Europe by a country mile and you can’t give me an answer.’
The reply came back as swift and hard as his dismissal of their efforts. ‘Before you have an answer, sir, it is
