CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sound of breaking glass was almost immediate and as Cal ran towards the square he could see, in the intervening streets, small knots of Brownshirts busy attacking what he supposed must be Czech homes and businesses, so occupied they ignored him. When he got to the old marketplace, the central square was still crowded but now with a mob baying for what they saw as justice for an oppressed minority.
Veseli stood out easily, his head and forage cap visible from a distance, and Cal made straight for him, barging through a crowd that had no desire to ease his passage, passing open yelling mouths chanting either indistinct Nazi slogans or curses aimed at their Czech neighbours and foreign devils, clearly still under the spell of the euphoria created by Hitler’s speech.
They were facing some hothead who had got himself hoisted above the crowd and was waving a swastika, trying to make himself heard above the din. Cal knew by his contorted face and that flag he was not trying to calm them down but seeking to fire them up to commit some kind of anti-Czech pogrom.
He got to Veseli eventually, standing tall and looking fierce, to find Corrie close by in the company of Jimmy Garvin, the look of fearful greeting in both their eyes evidence of how uncomfortable they found it to be surrounded by a mob of excited ideologues slipping rapidly out of any sense of self-control.
It was hard to believe they could make more noise than previously but the truth was assailing his ears, making it hard to hear what was being shouted at him, and Veseli had to wait till he got closer and repeated himself to be understood.
‘Herr Barrowman, you must get Miss Littleton back to the hotel and keep her there.’
‘Can you give us an escort?’
‘No, I cannot be seen to.’
That was followed by an exchange of looks that told the Czech agent that the safe had been successfully blown and it was testament to his ability to control his emotions that he did not smile.
There was no time to argue about protection, so Cal grabbed Corrie’s arm and yelled to Jimmy to stay close, then began to elbow his way back in the direction from which he had come, finding himself more than once faced with some slavering and fist-shaking German, of both sexes, disinclined to allow them passage; it would have been impossible had he not spoken their language and even then it was not easy.
More than once he was tempted to let go of Corrie and give one of the men an uppercut but there were two constraints on that: first, he might lose her in such a packed crowd, and secondly, if he struck one of these maddened bastards he might find he had to fight them all; that was the way of mobs.
It began to thin towards the rear, they were all facing that flag-waving lunatic, but now there was a bit of clear space they found themselves being eyed suspiciously, which Cal countered by yelling ‘ Sieg Heil! ’ and throwing out his arm, getting a like response every time.
Looking back, he saw Jimmy Garvin had been grabbed by a burly local dressed in lederhosen and was being shaken. The temptation to abandon the little sod was one that had to be buried; he knew too much, and added to that was an inability to stand by and watch anybody being bullied by anyone, anywhere.
Putting both hands on Corrie to keep her still, that accompanied by a hard look, he went back to help the cub reporter who, foolishly, was yelling in English, which was probably what had got him into bother in the first place.
Cal yelled in the man’s ear to ask him to let the boy go, only to have him turn and spit in his face. The head butt might be known as a ‘Glasgow kiss’ but it was a fighting strategy close to every Scottish schoolboy’s birthright. Cal’s forehead hit the German nose right on the bridge and the blood was immediate, as was the way he dropped the struggling Jimmy.
Cal stepped back to give himself room and planted his foot hard in the assailant’s leather shorts before grabbing a bewildered Jimmy and telling him to get moving, the one obvious danger being that the assault had not gone unnoticed. This being a situation that would not be solved by a Nazi salute, Cal hauled out his hunting knife to warn anyone against interfering.
‘Corrie, get moving and run,’ he shouted, backing away from a trio, who with knotted and furious faces had come to their comrade’s aid. ‘Get to the hotel and stay there.’
There were other shouts and they were coming from a group of men closing slowly in on him and he could not fight them all. Added to that, the blood-spattered fellow he had hit was groggily getting to his feet, swaying and in pain, revenge in his eyes.
He could outrun them and so probably could young Jimmy Garvin, the problem was Corrie and the shoes she was wearing, which had heels, not high, but were very much not the kind of footwear conducive to flight. He had, of course, not considered that she might come to the same conclusion.
The scream of ‘Run, Cal!’ came from behind, but what told him it was possible was first one of her shoes, then the other, flying past his ear, both aimed at German heads. They did nothing but impose a minor distraction but that was enough for him to turn and go, glad to see that she had not waited but set off and opened up a bit of a gap.
It might not have worked but for a burst of rapid gunfire which broke out. Cal thought it ahead of him, but in a built-up area with the sound able to reverberate there was no way of being sure, though looking back he saw the noise had imposed a check on the pursuit, either out of confusion or the notion of being shot had cooled their Nazi ardour.
Whatever, it created enough of an opening to give him confidence he could get to the garage and root out that Mauser, where if he did and they were still following he would not hesitate to shoot to kill. Looking back in the direction he was heading Cal saw that Jimmy was not being brave; he was well ahead of Corrie, his knees pounding, and the distance was opening, which if he carried on would take him to the station square.
‘Corrie, down that alley on your right!’ His free hand was in his pocket rooting out his keys. ‘Go in the back door, it’s quicker.’
The firing was sporadic but constant now, single shots that indicated maybe some of the Czechs were fighting back, but of more concern was that a couple of those in pursuit had not been fully deterred, and even over his own breathing he could hear their boots on the cobbles and worryingly they seemed to be getting closer.
About to dive into the garage, the sound of a revving engine echoing in the cavernous building slowed him enough to stop him being knocked over; a car shot out of the doorway, proving clearly Henlein was not the only one fleeing Cheb, but thankfully the car give him a breather because as it pulled out it went in the direction of his pursuers and they too had to slow to avoid a collision.
They had stopped in the doorway by the time he got the car door open, two well-built brutes and one of them had a club. In silhouette he could not see their faces but he guessed they would be smiling at the fact that he was probably trapped. Quickly he knelt, pulled out the Mauser and stood again, the weapon hidden behind the car door.
One of the pair was cursing him, his breath heaving from his exertions, but over that, also amplified by the nature of the building, was the sound of a club slamming into his palm. The words were chilling: not only were they going to beat him to a pulp but they intended to string him up to a lamp post, having cut off his balls and fed them to the dogs.
Callum Jardine was not by nature a cold-blooded killer; in the heat of the moment he would shoot a man to preserve his own life but rarely had he shot anyone out of hand. Had they not promised him the fate they promised they might have suffered less but their words marked them out as the kind of Nazi thugs he hated most, the kind that would beat an innocent person, a Jew or a dissenter, to death in full public view.
He lifted the Mauser, laid it on the top of the door to steady it, and said softly, ‘ Sieg Heil, meine Kameraden. ’
Then, at a range of a few feet, he put two bullets into each, filling the garage with echoing sound and sending their bodies hurtling back towards the door. As the echo faded the only sound left was of that club rolling along the concrete floor.
Going through to the front of the hotel, he thought at first it was deserted; certainly the lobby was, looking incongruously peaceful given the continuing sounds of sporadic gunfire from outside. It was almost with a sense of comedy that he palmed the bell on the reception desk, the one used to summon luggage-carrying minions.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Corrie was standing in the doorway to the lounge, barefoot and holding a Martini
