genuine. He toyed with the notion of sending for a copy of the photograph but that would take too long.
‘Where’s the Meran Hotel?’
‘Wenceslas Square.’
‘Get me a car and some backup, I’m going there.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Noel, but the folk you want to back you up are all out doing what you wanted already.’
‘Then it will have to be you and me.’
‘What about an interpreter?’
‘We don’t need one, the bloke we’re going to call on is English.’
Gibson grabbed a copy of the hotels his other men were calling on that day. ‘The people you might want to question don’t speak English, so let’s find Miklos first.’
Cal extended the walk around Cheb in search of a meal as much as he could, passing several possibilities, trying to memorise the layout of the place and relate to the pictures he had seen. One of his stops was outside the Nazi Party HQ, much more formidable in fact than shown in the photographs.
It had steel doors with firing slits and shutters of the same kind for the windows; they at least were not going to take any chances if the Czechs came for them. They would not succumb to mere rifle fire — they would need artillery.
A wide loop in what was not a large town centre finally brought them back to the hotel square and Cal then chose the station cafe right across from the Victoria for a bite to eat, which had Jimmy Garvin, who was sitting indoors, scuttling away to try to remain unseen, ducking out of the door and scooting towards the station entrance. Sadly, nothing catches the idle eye quicker than movement and Corrie spotted him.
‘So there’s another reporter here?’ Cal said.
‘Sure, but why is he avoiding me?’
‘Probably best I don’t answer that.’ That got him a thump on the arm, which only deepened his grin. ‘Anyway, let’s see if they do a sandwich.’
‘You’re not planning on an outside table?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s blowing a gale.’
‘We’ll be OK.’
‘You might, I’ll freeze.’
‘Don’t they have wind in Boston?’
‘They do, and people of sense avoid it.’
He had to accede even if he did not want to; there was no way he was going to tell Corrie of his intention to study the exterior of the Victoria Hotel, the numbers going in and out and how the guards behaved — he also hoped to be there when they changed.
Frustratingly there were no tables by the window, but as soon as one was vacated he picked up his food, moved, and since his concentration was taken by the front of the hotel, he sat in silence.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Corrie finally said.
‘I was just thinking about what Henlein said this morning and how he lied so easily, and with that nice-old- man smile on his face. Then when you look over there at those two Herberts standing outside the front door with their feet spread and a glower for anyone passing you wonder what makes them tick.’
‘Power.’
‘Yep, even a tiny bit is enough.’
In truth he was thinking that even the hotel would be hard to attack; it was in a terrace, which meant a frontal assault on the door was the only option and that was after you had crossed a wide open space large enough to give those inside, forewarned, a very good chance to get out the back doors where there was very likely an alleyway.
The next thought was how he was going to get round the back to check it out without causing suspicion; it was not, after all, what a man like him would do, wander into some narrow passage going nowhere. It was one of those situations where the presence of Vince would have been handy.
‘Guards changing,’ Corrie pointed out.
A party of Brownshirts approached and with much rigid arm raising, shouting and stamping they performed a farrago of a military drill, which would have been comical to Cal if he did not know the nature of the berks doing it. He had seen men like them taunt and beat up Jews in full view of their fellow citizens, who even if they wanted to, dared not interfere.
Often they would assault anyone who showed insufficient enthusiasm in their salutes to the name of the Fuhrer, or even some poor soul who looked at them the wrong way, sure that whatever treatment they meted out would not bring down on them any sanction — they were above the law.
‘You done?’ he asked, looking at Corrie’s unfinished food, and when she nodded he added, ‘Best have a wash and freshen up before we see the leader again.’
‘He sure has nice manners,’ Corrie said, rubbing the back of the hand he had kissed. ‘Not like some people I could mention.’
With that Cal extended his arm, which was taken by Corrie with a smile. The wind tugged at their clothes as they made their way back to the Victoria, and they separated to go to their respective rooms to prepare for the afternoon session.
There was not much difference between that and the morning, exactly the same cosy atmosphere, with slight variations on the trotted-out mantras, but at least Corrie had got into her stride when it came to sounding sympathetic because she had seen that was the only way to draw Henlein out.
And he was enjoying himself; it was almost as if being denied the kind of international publicity he clearly craved he was bathing in the sound of his own glory, repetitious when it came to his patience in dealing with the separatist problem, calling as concessions things he had done to make life awkward for the Czechs.
It was the same as what was happening across the border, the same as that speech of Goebbels: the well- honed lie that sounded reasonable as long as you stuck to it and allowed for no one to question it.
‘I feel you need more, Fraulein Littleton,’ Henlein said when the time came to end the session, impatiently signalled by the Ice Maiden, each sentence translated by Cal. ‘There are documents I would wish you to see, things Herr Barrowman could interpret for you to demonstrate how far backwards I have bent to avoid a problem turning into a crisis. Alas there is no time today, but I will ensure these things are made available to you tomorrow and then, in the afternoon, perhaps we can talk again.’
‘That would be most generous, Herr Henlein.’
‘And perhaps,’ he added, with a scholarly smile, ‘you will have outlined in some detail the article you intend to submit and we can discuss it.’
There was no choice but to accede to that and they were ushered out.
The clattering of Corrie’s typewriter was audible through her door when Cal came to fetch her for dinner, another indifferent meal, this time accompanied by the drone of the Deputy Fuhrer, Rudolf Hess. He was no man to rally the troops, in fact looking around he looked like the kind of speaker who would be able to send his audience to sleep — even Corrie knew that and she could not understand a word he said.
‘A walk?’ Cal asked when Hess had finished — they could not pull the same sickness stunt twice.
‘No, I’m bushed, Cal, being lied to all day and having to smile takes its toll.’
‘We’ll go for a little spin tomorrow morning, have a look around.’
That got him a look of deep suspicion; he was not the type for a ‘spin’, but she said nothing, just smiled and nodded and they made their way to their rooms. Cal, when he entered his, noticed his canvas bag had been moved.
He also noticed when he lifted it that it was a damn sight heavier than when he had left it at the foot of the chair, not surprising really when he saw that it had inside a Mauser pistol in a leather holster and two full ammo clips. He had to hide it quickly when there was a knock at the door, which when opened revealed standing there, in full SA kit, Karol Veseli.
‘ Heil Hitler, Herr Barrowman,’ he said, in a voice too loud given they were only a few feet apart, just enough
