A Bitter Field

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘ Jesus Christ, Cal, you look like an executioner with those damn specs and that haircut.’

His hair now stood up from his head in a spiky sort of way, not the first time he had worn it like that; when you are fighting in the trenches short hair is a must to help you keep the lice under control. It is the same for doing battle in hot climates or travelling through South American jungles.

‘Do I look suitably German?’

‘You sure do, but I preferred it when you looked human.’

They had just pulled out into Wenceslas Square and into a stream of traffic and trams that made Corrie edgy; she was, after all, sitting in what, in her own country, would have been the driving seat and she was used to being in control of the car.

‘Why the hell do these folk drive on the wrong side of the road, are they crazy?’

‘Time to tell you who I am supposed to be and we have to concoct a story as to how I got involved in this as well.’

She reached down to her feet and pulled up her copious handbag to extract a pad and pencil.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea to write anything down.’

‘It makes it easy for me to remember, and what do you think the chances are of finding anyone who understands shorthand English in this neck of the woods?’

Cal smiled. ‘In my game you don’t take risks.’

‘In my game you must take notes, so shoot.’

He started talking and her pencil flew, which he let go. It had the advantage of keeping her from looking out of the windscreen and ducking in terror every time a car came too near or he swung out to pass another.

Mostly it was background: the name Barrowman, his background in chemicals, not as an expert but as a buyer and seller, the need to keep that vague since it was not the kind of thing two people meeting in a strange country would go into too deeply.

‘We met in the bar of the Ambassador and I introduced myself.’ He took one of the Monty Redfern-supplied business cards from his top pocket and handed it to her so she could spell his name. ‘Hang on to that and keep it in your purse.’

‘What was the approach?’

‘You’re a woman, single and we formed a mutual attraction.’

‘Let’s hope nobody looks me in the eye when I spin that one.’

‘I invited you to dine with me, you did and we had a great evening, which ended in the bar. Use the name of the restaurant where we did eat in case anyone asks what you ordered.’

‘Hell, I can’t pronounce it, or half of what I ate.’

‘Even better, because the trick is to tell as few lies as possible — for instance, that you have not yet filed a story back to the States because you are looking for an angle that no one else has thought of.’

‘And that stuff about us being lovers?’

‘For emergencies only.’

‘Buster, the roof will have to fall in big time before that gets an airing.’

They were out in the suburbs now, which looked to be peaceful, but that did not last long because they came to their first checkpoint, Corrie making an unfunny pun about it being Czech.

The examination of papers was done with great courtesy; these young soldiers in their grey-green uniforms were conscripts, polite and, once they had perused her passport and seen the eagle, somewhat excited to meet a real American, which held them up longer than it should.

‘Those kids were sweet. I ain’t never been pointed at and called a film star before.’

‘They didn’t mean it, they’d say that to anyone from the USA.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Play on being American when we get to Cheb. Most people there will never have met anyone from outside their own area, often their own village, and everyone is enthralled by anything American. Being exotic-’

‘That’s a nice word.’

‘In your case, inappropriate.’

At the main railway station Jimmy Garvin was buying his ticket, rather excited to be going on a chase for a story without Vernon Bartlett breathing down his neck, imagining a big splash in the News Chronicle with a byline saying ‘from our special correspondent in the Sudetenland’; it might not use his name, but he would make sure no one was in doubt who wrote it.

But he had to remind himself to have a care, so he took up a position on the concourse from which he could watch the comings and goings; neither he or his mentor had any idea if Corrie Littleton was on the train, she might have been lying about that too, and given they had shared the same hotel she knew his face too well for him to be spotted.

While he was there the Paris-Prague Express arrived and disgorged its passengers. As they filed through the exit gate — their travel documents would have been examined on the train — he wondered at the purpose of those coming to Prague: businessmen, diplomats and maybe even the odd news hound too. Even his young imagination did not stretch to a desk chief from SIS.

Noel McKevitt had felt liberated ever since he left London; stuck in Broadway for five years now, he had forgotten the excitement of being out in the field. In London crowds you paid no attention to anyone unless they were striking; from the point where he had stepped aboard the train at Calais he had felt his old instincts begin to sharpen. By the time he made the Czech capital they were back and fully engaged.

It was not those who stood out in the mass you needed to spot when active, it was the exact opposite: those who blended in with the background had to be looked out for, the face that appeared too often and never looked at you directly, identified by the smallest of features, the tilt of a head, the cut of a chin, a certain gait when they moved.

In five years of sedentary work he had filled out from the slim field man he had been in Berlin, but Prague had to be awash with German agents and some of those might be the people he had sparred with previously in the German capital, and someone would have been given the task of watching the incoming express — and that was before you put devious old Quex into the mix.

Suitcase in hand, he joined the queue for taxis and shuffled forward until nearly at the front. Four places from his turn he suddenly picked up his bag and left the queue, his concentration on those lined up behind, cutting back into the station, stopping and retracing his steps, then making for the front of the station and the car he expected to be waiting for him. If it was probably unnecessary it was fun to employ the old tricks.

His lift was there: Dawson, one of the men he had sent to this station from Warsaw, standing by the rear passenger door so that it could be opened and closed quickly, his suitcase thrown on the floor. It was moving before he managed to shift to a comfortable position, weaving out into the traffic.

‘Have you got anything to cheer me up?’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘A name would be a start.’

‘We’ve got more than a hundred and we’re still trawling. It would help if we had some idea of what we’re looking for.’

Noel McKevitt was not good with subordinates, being too abrupt, too demanding; he knew he was not the type to inspire loyalty out of love of his personality, so he had never tried, but he reckoned he was respected for his ability and that allowed him to be brusque.

‘The best-manned station in Europe by a country mile and you can’t give me an answer.’

The reply came back as swift and hard as his dismissal of their efforts. ‘Before you have an answer, sir, it is usual to have a question.’

‘Just get me to the embassy.’

Time was not on his side; he could stall Quex on the grounds of the need for discretion but not for too long. The old bugger would be monitoring what he did, so he had to come up with a way of nailing his man in a way that breached the usual protocols of dealing with British subjects abroad. Having had a long and silent train journey he thought he had the answer.

‘Do we have the Czech equivalent of a police warrant card?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware, sir.’

‘Then we need to get one.’

The checkpoint soldiers outside Prague had been jolly, young and friendly but that seemed to diminish the further Cal and Corrie travelled from the capital, just as the queues to get through them got longer. That left them ample time to talk — it was a warm sunny day, the hood of the Zeppelin was down and Cal saw no need to race — in some part to reminisce, while Cal was aware of the little probing darts she threw to get information.

It took some time to realise that this was the first time they had been alone in each other’s company; in Africa there had always been people around, on the old camel route into Ethiopia upwards of a hundred warriors, in the country numerous folk and at the very least Vince Castellano and Tyler Alverson.

Without an audience to witness and laugh at her jibes, Corrie became less sharp, and since she did not rile him, Cal did not respond, while added to that they had shared experience. He was also aware and wondering why he had not noticed before that she was much more feminine than she had been either on first acquaintance or on their subsequent travels — hardly surprising; it’s not what you look for in the midst of a conflict.

It was not just the way she now dressed but also in her manner; she had always struck him a bit juvenile and added to that there was her endemic bumptiousness and strident views which she was not shy in expressing. He asked about her mother, an archaeologist he had met in Africa whom he thought crazed, and her father whom he knew she was fond of, but he was never going to get away without the classic query about his own state of matrimony.

‘I once asked Vince if you were married.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘You’d think I’d asked for the number of your safe deposit box.’

‘We boys stick together.’

‘Look, Cal, if we are going into what you say we are that is the kind of question to which I need an answer. We are supposed to have only just met but hit it off, and if I don’t know too much about that kind of deal I do know your marital condition is the kind of information people who are attracted to each other share. I need some background.’

‘Get your passport ready, we’re next.’

The man who leant through the window was no boy, he was a grizzled fully grown man with stubble and not much given to smiling as he demanded their papers in a gruff unfriendly way. There was the usual charade of looking several times at the passport photographs and then glaring at the faces, as if that could not be done in one go.

‘This one’s full of charm,’ Corrie said.

Was it the nationalities that had him grunt that they should pull over or Corrie’s plainly displeased attitude to the delay? Flippancy requires no translation. Cal suspected a bit of both, aware that the best way to make a passport checker’s day — and this had nothing to do with the country in which they operated — was to give him an excuse to hold you up and make you sweat. It was even better if you lost your temper.

Cal swung the car out of the line to pull up beside a hut that had about it the temporary look of the many they had seen and eased past without trouble. Their checker had followed them and with another grunt he made a sign that they should get out of the car, to which there was no option but to comply. Being an American, Corrie thought differently.

‘What the hell…?’

‘Quiet,’ Cal snapped, albeit he kept his voice low. ‘Just get out and whatever you do smile sweetly.’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘How does step out of character sound?’ Seeing her swell up for a response he was quick to cut her off. ‘Look, these fellows hold all the cards and they can keep us here as long as they want. Now let us do as he says.’

Forcing a smile Cal got out and went round to help Corrie do the same. Their soldier-checker gave them an unfriendly look, then walked off with an abrupt order to follow and they were led into the hut, where at a desk sat a man who was clearly, by his shoulder boards, an officer.

Their passports and Corrie’s accreditation papers were handed over to him and Grim-face left. As he did so his superior fired off an incomprehensible question.

‘ Nejesme c eske, ’ Cal replied, using an expression that had become familiar in the last few days. ‘ Mluvite anglicky? ’

The officer shook his head and even Cal was thinking he was just playing a stupid game. With the passports he had in his hand he must have reckoned it would be unlikely they would understand him — so few foreigners did.

‘Would a couple of dollar bills help out here?’ Corrie asked; at least her voice was serious.

Cal was quick to squash that. ‘If you really want to upset a Czech try to bribe him. They think it’s what other people do, not them.’ Then he turned to the man still ostentatiously examining the booklets, flicking through the pages as if enlightenment would fly out from the leaves. ‘ Sprechen Sie Deutsch? ’

He did not want to say yes — it was a matter of pride — but there was no alternative as Cal, seeing the answer in his eyes, explained who they were and why they were going north: for this fine American journalist to have a look and tell the world the problems the Czechs were having with the German minority.

Even if she did not understand, Corrie guessed he was laying on the charm with a trowel; it was in his face and it was with a slight feeling of shock that she realised she was thinking Callum Jardine was a handsome bastard, more so when he was being nice rather than being sarcastic.

Whatever he had said, the Czech officer answered with a stream of less amiable complaints that went on for some time before handing the passports back and calling for Grim-face, who was outside the door, giving instructions, she supposed, to let them through the barrier.

‘So what was all that about?’

‘Just a general warning not to trust the Germans to tell you the truth.’

‘He took a long time saying it.’

‘There was more, and none of it flattering.’ Cal waved to the men lifting the barrier and gunned the Maybach through to admiring glances from those who dreamt of owning such a car, pointing up ahead as he did so to the gathering dark clouds. ‘Looks like we are heading for some bad weather.’

‘Yep.’

Noel McKevitt was perusing the list his men had got from the Prague hotels in the days before his arrival, marking those he thought most likely. Instinct, even if he acknowledged that he could be wrong, told him the man he was looking for would not be in any of the luxury hotels; if he were operating as he thought his target would, he would find somewhere more discreet.

He had sent for an interpreter called Miklos, who his station chief thought would fit the bill for what he wanted, being tall, well built and with a lived-in face. He was still staring at his ticks when the man arrived.

‘Sit down, Miklos.’

That was responded to nervously; whatever the Czech had been told, and it should have been little, he had no doubt been informed that this was the big chief from London he had been brought to see.

‘I need you to do a bit of play-acting, Miklos. Do you think you could pass for a policeman?’ Sensing the hesitation, Noel McKevitt was quick to add the ultimate bribe and it was not money. ‘I have made it plain in London that we cannot leave behind anyone who has worked for us if the Germans come. If they found out, that person would not live long, I suspect.’

‘No,’ Miklos replied, his seat shifting in the chair as he struggled with what he was being offered.

‘Naturally we control the passport office here and, sure, I can tell you, SIS look after their own.’

‘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.’