‘What is it you want me to do?’
The supposed warrant card, a forgery, would have been unlikely to fool anyone who spoke Czech and demanded to examine it closely, but the way it was flashed under anyone’s nose meant even the locals could be counted on to accept it as genuine, because the question they were asked was so innocuous.
Two men, one of whom did not speak, merely wanted to know the room number of the various British guests in various hotels and when that was supplied, once it was certain the person was in his room, the two men would call on them to check their passports, a natural thing to do at a time of national emergency.
That the fellow asking had talked to some of them before, in the pretence of being an interpreter, the desk clerks who recognised him took as a fitting subterfuge, particularly as the fellow was excessively polite — as befitted a policeman in a democracy and wanted nothing more from them than information the authorities were entitled to.
Miklos was relishing the task, not least because of what it was going to gain him if he could satisfy this big London chief. There was not a person in the country who did not harbour fears for what might be coming — not one, Miklos suspected, who had not at some time thought how good it would be to get out of Czechoslovakia to somewhere safe.
Mr Barrowman and his fellow guest Mr Nolan were not first on the list that McKevitt had ticked, so by the time Miklos and his companion got to Vince Castellano the act was well honed. The knock at the room door was gentle and when it opened there was Miklos smiling, with another bland-faced individual standing a couple of paces away with a clipboard and a pen.
‘Forgive me, Mr Nolan,’ he said, speaking slowly so as to be unthreatening, flashing his forged warrant card so quickly it was a blur. ‘I am from the Czech police. Please do not be alarmed, as we are doing a routine check.’
Vince knew how to soften the Old Bill: be nice to them. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘That will not be necessary, but I wonder if I could have a look at your passport?’ Seeing Vince’s eyebrows go up a fraction — everyone else had the same reaction — he was quick to add, ‘I am sure you are aware of the number of refugees trying to flee the country, many of them employing false papers.’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes, and to ensure that they do not use those of guests visiting our country we wish to have a list of the numbers, which we can hold to compare against forgeries.’
Vince, again as had others, stood for a moment in consideration of whether to comply, but the man before him was smiling and his eyes looked pleading rather than threatening, so he turned and went to fetch the required document from his coat pocket.
This was taken, examined, then passed to the silent oppo who dutifully wrote down the number against the name, and then it was passed back. ‘I believe your companion, Mr Barrowman, is not in the hotel and left with a bag.’
There was no option but to reply honestly, otherwise they might attract unwelcome attention. ‘He’s gone out of town on business.’
‘Do you have any idea when he will return?’
‘A couple of days, I think. It depends on how successful he is.’
‘Really, it is good to find you and your countrymen still doing trade with us. Might I ask what business you are in?’
‘Chemicals,’ Vince replied, noticing the other fellow with the clipboard was looking impatient.
‘You too are in chemicals?’
‘No, sports equipment, boxing rings.’
‘Then I hope you have success. Enjoy your stay in Prague, Mr Nolan, and please, I see you carry your passport with you — look after it well for it would not be helpful to anyone if it was stolen.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jimmy Garvin got to Cheb long before the car carrying Callum Jardine and Corrie Littleton, though he was unaware of the fact. All he knew was that by jumping off the train as soon as it entered the station and running for the ticket barrier he had a chance to get into a position to see if she followed, unsure what to do when he saw there was no sign of her.
He knew, having looked at his watch as the train drew in, that it was bang on time, which led him to reflect on that often-quoted saw mouthed by those idiots who admired Benito Mussolini, that ‘he had made the trains run on time’. Why was such an accolade never applied to an efficient democracy like Czechoslovakia?
Bartlett had told him about the car she had got into, so he assumed she must be coming by road, so his first task was to find himself somewhere to stay that was not the Victoria Hotel. Being a bit of a spa town, a sort of minor Carlsbad, there were quite a number of places dedicated to those taking the waters and he elected to walk to find one.
The difference outside the station — managed and run by Czechs — was palpable, the buildings flying flags showing more of the black-red-black ensign of the Sudetenland than the far fewer Czech tricolours. Added to that there was a grimness about those people he passed, their looks not aided by the wet weather, albeit, given the puddles in the road, the worst of the downpour had passed and was now just a light drizzle.
The choice of one flying the national flag was deliberate; Jimmy knew the object of Corrie Littleton’s visit and he guessed she would park herself as close to Konrad Henlein as she could.
In a place with few visitors now — no one was coming for the waters in a potential war zone — he soon realised that in the hotel he chose he was the only guest; no wonder he had been greeted and fussed over like a saviour.
In the Maybach the hood was now firmly closed, the heavy rain beating a tattoo on the windscreen with which the small wipers were struggling to cope, creating a cocoon which closed them in and seemed to make more intimate their conversation, with Corrie now talking about her upbringing.
Cal knew she came from Boston but was now treated to the fact that she had gone to Bryn Mawr, which was apparently a prestigious and famous woman-only college in Pennsylvania, right up there with Harvard and Yale.
‘But no boys?’
Corrie laughed. ‘We were told we did not need them.’
‘End of the human race.’
‘To prosper, not procreate, but we could do that too if we went looking.’
‘Did you?’
‘Once or twice.’
The tone of that response was not a joyful one, which made Cal wonder if she had been let down in her past. He couldn’t ask; he was not well enough acquainted for that and it did not fall in the need-to-know category regarding what they might face in Cheb.
‘Is that a petrol pump by the roadside?’ Cal said, peering through the rain, which was as good a way as any of avoiding that subject.
‘What, again?’
They had stopped and filled the car in each sizeable town through which they passed — an eight-litre V12 engine used a lot of fuel — but that was not the reason; Cal liked as full a tank as possible on the very good grounds that you never knew when you were going to need it.
Corrie had broken him down earlier by refusing to be diverted, and in truth he could see that she needed the background she claimed, and he had to admit being married and the circumstances of his attachment. Oddly, like his last days in London, he found his wife a subject he could now discuss without the onset of gloom.
‘I was young and going off to war, Lizzie was beautiful and…’ Cal paused. ‘You have to be facing that kind of thing to know what drives men and women to rush into matrimony.’
