discovered when they began to search the offices. Right now they were starting to assess all the office files.
‘They’ve already searched the accommodation and allowed us back into our rooms and given us the run of the rest, bar Henlein’s bit. Everyone who worked here is either hiding in their cellar or has fled to Bavaria. So, we help ourselves, which means we will not stint on quality.’
In the end, because they were such patriotic Teutons in the Victoria, they had to settle for a couple of bottles of very good German Sekt and Jimmy, rather lightweight when it came to alcohol, after three glasses of sparkling wine was in a very jolly mood when he finally left to find a camera shop.
Noel McKevitt had gnawed on how to proceed since he saw Peter Lanchester disappear, because it had finally struck him how much he was out on a limb here on his own; he was beginning to curse himself for the way he had told Gibby Gibson that the station was shutting down.
Could he get some of the lads up here to help him? The only way to find out was to call the legation, and that meant abandoning his watch on the hotel. Given there was no alternative he dived into the station and found a phone, at first getting shirty with the Czech operator who pretended not to understand his German when he asked for the number.
‘Gibby, it’s Noel. I need your help up here. How many of the lads are still available?’
‘None.’
‘Wha’d’yer mean “none”?’
‘Orders from Quex in person: stay still, do nothing.’
‘The bastard.’
‘Come in, Noel, come back to Prague.’
‘You think I should?’
‘I think you’ve got to, I’m afraid.’
He did not respond immediately, because he was wondering why the old sod had issued that order and there was only one explanation: it was to try and stop him finding out what he was up to. If there had ever been any doubt it was serious enough to threaten the man’s career, that laid it to rest, and now it looked as though Quex was trying to turn the tables on him. If he went back to Prague he would be bundled back to London in disgrace.
‘You’re right, Gibby. I’ll have a bit of a bite to eat and start heading back.’
Then he hung up, went back to the cafe and bought himself a Pilsner; he would have to do it alone. The problem was first to find out the identity of Barrowman, then connect him to Peter Lanchester. He had to be another SIS agent, one of those Quex had recently brought back in.
It did not take a genius to work out there was only one way to do it, so he drained his beer, left the cafe and headed for the centre of town.
Peter, standing by the Maybach and fingering the signature, was impressed. ‘Cal, this is gold dust, do I get told how you got it?’
‘That will be two dinners you owe me.’
Seeing the look on Peter’s face he laughed, then he told him the story. The folder went back under the seat and the car was locked and they went out into the alley, not without a good look because, as Peter reminded him, McKevitt was on the loose somewhere and he might well be in Cheb.
‘Is that secure, that car?’
‘Yes, and don’t ask why.’
Jimmy was struggling; he only had a little German, zero Czech, was slightly tipsy and the man in the camera shop had no English — he was also impatient because another customer was waiting.
‘D’yer need any help, son?’ Noel McKevitt asked. ‘I have the German if it’ll help. Most folks around here speak two languages.’
‘Golly, what luck. I want the film developed, which he understands, but I don’t want the shots at the beginning. I’m afraid my expenses don’t run to paying for photos I don’t need.’
‘Expenses, is it?’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy replied, with no shortage of pride, ‘I’m a journalist and I managed to photograph the Czech army attack and take the Nazi HQ.’
‘Why, isn’t that grand.’ McKevitt reached past and picked up the Walz 35 mm camera. ‘I’d’ve thought you would have had a bigger camera than this, you being a journalist, and all.’
‘Oh, it’s not mine,’ Jimmy slurred, ‘it’s Mr Jardine’s.’
‘Jardine,’ McKevitt said slowly. ‘I’m sure I know a fella by that name.’
‘Callum Jardine?’
It was like a set of toy bricks falling into place to make a whole: La Rochelle, Lanchester, those machine guns; if Callum Jardine was a man who operated in the shadows, those did not extend to an organisation like the SIS. There was no mystery now as to who Barrowman was. There were still gaps to fill, but they would come when Quex was put out to grass and he had his chair.
Too experienced to let any of that show, he rattled off in German what this young man wanted, then when the shop owner replied, smiled at him and said, ‘They’ll be ready next week.’
‘Oh no,’ Jimmy protested, ‘I want them today.’
‘Best dig deep then, son.’ The face fell but not for long; he would get well rewarded for his story and anyway this stranger was talking. ‘Did I not see you outside the Victoria Hotel this morning, son?’
‘Yes, that’s where Mr Jardine is staying.’ He peered at McKevitt. ‘And I’m sure I saw you as well.’
‘Well, I’m not sure your Jardine is the same fella, but maybe I’ll drop in and say hello.’
‘Shall I tell him?’ Jimmy asked, thinking it was the rather loud sports jacket that he remembered more than the face.
‘No, I might be wrong and if I’m not, well it will be a fine surprise.’
‘Right, Jimmy, the garage,’ Cal barked, heading for the rear exit, leaving Corrie and Vince in the lounge to reminisce about Ethiopia. Peter had gone off to send a cryptic message to Quex to tell him not to fret. ‘You get one look at this, make your notes and that’s it.’
‘What happens to the original?’
‘None of your business, just get your stuff in the paper and make yourself a star reporter.’
Jimmy used the passenger seat and when he had finished his note-taking he was ushered out into the alley. The document was hidden and the car locked before Cal emerged to join him.
‘You going back to Prague in that?’ he asked. Cal nodded. ‘Any chance of a lift?’
‘There’s four of us already,’ Cal replied; then he had a thought. ‘My friend Vince came up in an old Tatra, you can have that to drive back. I take it you can drive?’
‘You have to in my job, nowadays, but who can afford a car?’
McKevitt had found the alley just by walking around the block, the back door guarded by one policeman who, when he made his second passage, looked at the man carrying the briefcase as he walked up to him, his hand going inside his checked jacket and coming out with a blue-and-gold-covered passport, addressing him in good if accented German.
‘British legation, come to see some of my nationals.’ Confidence is the key in a situation like this one; the Ulsterman actually put the passport in the man’s hand so he could examine it. ‘None of them hurt in the fighting as far as I know, but I need to make sure.’
He could have gone in the front door, which was also now guarded by only one policeman, the army having withdrawn, so there seemed no harm in letting him pass, given the only other people in the hotel were from Internal Security, rifling, he had heard, through a mountain of files.
The people who had passed him previously had done no more than go to the garage and back again, so, not anticipating any danger, he nodded and handed the passport back. McKevitt gave him a cheery wave and went through the door, while the policeman, a bit bored in truth, turned to watch him disappear through the door.
He only felt the tickle of the wire for a split second before it was pulled tight, then it was choking him, a knee
