stemmed from our own organisation, but that does not, even if it points us towards one person, nail it down and it has to be that before I can even think of acting upon it.’
‘How in the name of all that’s holy did he find out I was going to La Rochelle when the communication I sent was to you and for your eyes only?’ It was necessary to add quickly the only other person who should have seen it. ‘It’s certainly not your secretary.’
‘No, if Miss Beard was to be leaking secrets the whole nation would collapse. It has to be coded and decoded, does it not? It might be an idea to find out how long the cipher clerk in Paris has been in his job. For instance, was he there a decade ago when McKevitt was station chief?’
‘It could be this end, sir, he does tend to put himself about, I’ve found.’
‘Which means one of six people could have tipped McKevitt off.’
‘Only two are on duty at any one time.’
‘So we need the duty roster and a copy of your signal.’
‘Which as soon as we request it will alert whoever is the culprit, if indeed anyone is.’
‘I fear you are in for a tedious time, Peter, for to avoid that we must look through many days of transcripts to avert suspicion.’
‘I’ll need your written permission, sir. A lot of what I will be reading is bound to be outside my clearance level.’
‘As a way to seek to pass the buck, Peter, that was very neat, but not neat enough. I am far too old and far too busy to undertake such a task. Be so good as to fetch in my secretary and I will happily upgrade you.’
To get to the leader it was necessary to pass through the lobby, coming down the staircase that led to their rooms and taking the other up to the suite of offices where the leader worked, his the room overlooking the other side of the canopy.
Konrad Henlein was not as either Corrie Littleton or Callum Jardine expected, a strutting bully and obvious fascist. Every time Cal had seen a photograph of him he had been dressed in some kind of uniform and at some quasi-military occasion or a party rally. In his office he was dressed in a tweed jacket, twill trousers and was wearing a cravat in an open-necked shirt; he looked more like an English country gent than the leader of a rabid bunch of thugs.
That extended to his personality, which was mild-mannered and pleasant, his voice soft, with more than a tinge of Austrian in the accent. He smiled easily, and with his spectacles on, a rather bland face exuded a sort of schoolmasterly air. Thinking back to the report he had read, penned by Sir Robert Vansittart, it became clear why he had seemed to represent no threat.
Corrie, on being introduced, got an old-fashioned kiss on the back of the hand, Cal a manly handshake before they were invited to sit down in comfortable chairs in front of a set of large windows that looked out over the square.
What followed was a general set of enquiries as to the comfort or otherwise of travel by sea, air and car, as well as questions about America, Corrie’s replies translated by the Ice Maiden, which lasted until coffee was served.
The snapping banners and scudding clouds outside took a lot of Cal’s attention — there was quite a strong wind blowing — and he tried very hard not to look at the large safe which dominated the corner of the room, inside which he assumed was what Henlein had brought back from his talk with Hitler.
The place was simply furnished: dark wooden desk, the safe, another table with a big wireless sitting on it, several upright chairs, maps on the wall and lots of photographs of Henlein with various famous people, a lot of them politicians.
‘Sir,’ Cal said in German, ‘I think it would be best if you speak in short sentences that I can translate for Miss Littleton, given the way the two languages differ.’
‘As you wish, Herr Barrowman. We do want to get things correct.’
Cal was wondering if Hitler was like this in private, for there was a very good chance this man had modelled himself on the Fuhrer. Having only ever seen the Austrian Corporal ranting on newsreels it was hard to imagine, but it might just be the case. It made little difference; he still wanted to put a bullet in his forehead.
That had to be put aside and Cal, using Corrie’s notes, asked the first question, which was about the problems that existed for ethnic Germans in a state run by another nationality, the big blue eyes of the Ice Maiden fixed on him when Henlein began to reply, her lips pursed as she made sure he translated correctly, interrupting once or twice on some minor point. When she was not looking at him, her eyes were fixed then on Corrie’s flying pencil, as if it was spouting Czech propaganda.
In truth what they were getting was the same line that had been trotted out for a decade, albeit without any of the venom normally used by the kind of speakers who were all taking their turn at Nuremberg. The ethnic Germans were pure of heart and purpose, good citizens but denied what was their due by spiteful Czechs who were repaying them for hundreds of years of Austrian domination.
All they asked was to live in peace in their own lands and control their own destiny and any notion of wishing to be united with the German Reich in another Anchlu? was a Czech lie to which, unfortunately, many misguided people in the democracies subscribed.
How he wished they would come and see for themselves. It was difficult to keep a straight face sometimes, though Henlein and the Ice Maiden had no such problem, because what they were being told lay at total odds with what both had witnessed the previous night.
When Corrie alluded to that, in a gentle way that irritated the Ice Maiden but drew Cal’s admiration, Henlein was all sorrow; these things came about through the intransigence of the Prague government. By failing to give the Sudetenlanders their rights they allowed hotheads to gain ground. Everything they had seen was the fault of the Czechs.
‘He’s a smooth bastard,’ Corrie whispered as they were shown out after the first session.
‘If you use the same words over and over again, year after year, they come out pat and who knows, maybe you come to believe they are true.’
‘We eating here?’ she asked, gloomily, as they looked into a dining room full of the same kind of people they had sat with the night before.
‘No, let’s get some air. There have to be other places in town.’
‘Christ, that was quick,’ Noel McKevitt said as Gibby Gibson handed him the response from London, which lifted his mood.
He had a frustrating morning meeting with the military attache about that false End User Certificate, in which he had learnt nothing he did not already know and was in a bit of a mood because of it. It seemed the dolt had not even bearded the relevant Czech ministry and demanded an explanation.
From being cheered by the speed of response, that evaporated when he saw that it had come from Broadway. ‘You sent this through the office?’
‘Yes, it was bound to be quicker.’
Noel McKevitt was wondering how many people would have been apprised of that and how high it would go. ‘I would have been happier if you’d told me, Gibby.’
‘And I, Noel, would be happier to be getting on with my proper job.’
‘Your job is to do what I tell you.’
‘But you’re not telling me, are you?’
Not having mentioned that the station was going to be closed down yet, that waspish reply allowed McKevitt the pleasure of doing so now and he told Gibby Gibson with no attempt to soften the blow to a man who was bound to wonder what this meant for his future career.
‘So once this job, my job, is complete, old cock, it’s pack your bags and back home for you and your 2IC, Bucharest and Warsaw for the others.’
‘That’s mad.’
‘Tell Quex, Gibby, not me,’ McKevitt replied with a cold stare, ‘the orders come from him.’
Turning to the list, the name of Nolan stuck out as the only one where there was a query, given the owner had applied for a replacement, claiming his original had been lost, and the name on the document should be a Mr Laycock of 156 Fulham Palace Road, London, address and distinguishing mark supplied. All the other numbers were
