A Bitter Field

CHAPTER TWENTY

B ack in his room Cal checked to see if it had been searched while he was out, discovering that if the person who had done the looking had not been good enough, the job had been carried out very professionally indeed.

Not a sock or a shirt was out of place and his canvas bag was exactly where he had left it, as were the things he had used to wash and shave before dinner. The letters from Redfern International Chemicals, which he had left on the dressing table, would have been examined too.

Naturally, the bed had been turned down and the heavy coverlet folded back by the room maid, a standard act in any hotel, which had made it impossible to employ the normal precautions on the door. This would also cover for any small movements that occurred with his visible possessions should the searcher make a mistake.

The small slip of folded paper he had inserted into the base of one of the drawers was just where he had left it, but missing was the single strand of his now very short red-gold hair that had been folded inside, one so small it would not have been visible unless the person doing the scrutiny was looking for it and impossible to spot under artificial light on a polished wood floor.

There was no shock attached to the discovery; he was an unknown quantity in a place where suspicion had to be rife for the sake of what they were trying to achieve. He assumed that Corrie’s room had likewise been done over while they were having their dinner and their promenade — at least one lucky person had avoided having to listen to Goebbels.

He was still not quite over the shock of seeing his supposed contact leading that parade but he had to assume that right now he was safe, just as he had to trust Veseli to make whatever moves he had in mind and they had to have been pre-planned. It was all very well being active, but sometimes passivity was the right strategy, as expounded by the creator of Sherlock Holmes.

A few things were necessary for a good night’s sleep: a heavy oak chair should be shoved under the door handle, which, if it would not stop anyone entering who really wanted to, would create enough noise and delay for him to react. His fountain pen, a Montblanc Meisterstuck, he put on the bedside table; you could get a good grip of the body, and the nib made a dangerous weapon. Next he rolled really tight a local newspaper he had brought up from the lobby, which jabbed end on into someone’s face would stop them dead and used in the right place could even kill.

Having been given a room overlooking the front of the hotel, but to one side, so he had a good view under the front canopy, Cal, busy doing his morning exercises to the sound of church bells, was drawn to the window by the sound of mild cheering and several vehicles entering the square below.

Really it was the small truck behind the big Mercedes that was making the noise on the cobblestones, open at the back and containing two files of rigid SA men in greatcoats, a dozen in number, all with rifles between their legs, while there was another car in front with what also looked like bodyguards.

The Mercedes in the middle stopped before the front door and another escort leapt out from the front to open the rear door. All Cal saw of the man who got out, to a raised arm salute, was the top of a soft trilby hat and a besuited arm responding with a lazy salute.

It had to be Konrad Henlein but the question uppermost in Cal’s mind was the size of the escort and its armament — if that was standard he would need half a company of trained infantry to ambush him, and Moravec and Veseli must know that.

Responding to the telephone he picked it up to find it was Corrie asking him if he was ready to go down to breakfast. ‘Why, do you need an escort?’

‘I just want somebody to talk to and no one speaks English.’

‘Maybe Fraulein Metzer will join you.’

‘That will not be a good start to the day, the stuck-up bitch.’

‘Maybe she’s shy,’ Cal replied, just to tease her.

‘Are you kidding me? She makes Garbo look like Mae West.’

‘Must be the hair.’

‘You know the question Mae asks? Well the gun’s in Metzer’s pocket.’

‘I’m just finishing my morning routine.’

‘No details please.’

‘And I think our man has just arrived. Ten minutes and I’ll knock at your door.’

Over breakfast Cal was given a written list of questions that Corrie thought he should ask, with Cal pulling out his fountain pen to make some alterations that changed the tone.

‘You got to sucker him, remember, be soft.’

‘After what we saw in that square last night that’s going to be difficult.’

‘It was never going to be easy.’

Next stop was a meeting with the Ice Maiden, who informed them that the leader had much on his plate — constant communications were coming in from Prague, other Sudeten towns and around the world — and he could only spare one hour at a time, but would do one in the morning and another in the afternoon.

‘It may take longer than that.’

‘Then more time will be found tomorrow.’

‘How’s your French?’ asked Quex as Peter Lanchester entered his office.

‘Not brilliant, sir.’

‘I have received this morning a communication from my opposite number in Paris, Colonel Gauche, the transcript of a conversation that was overheard between an external telephone and the chateau of a certain chap called Pierre Taittinger, dated August twenty-ninth, and it’s not about champagne.’

The paper was passed over and Peter looked at it, thinking it was much harder to read a foreign language than speak it, this as Sir Hugh continued.

‘Now it would be very easy for me to have this translated, as you know, but I think that might set running hares that would go in all directions, so as of now, I want this to be strictly

between you and I.’

Having got well past the bonjours and bien surs, as well as a long screed, which he suspected was general conversation about the state of the world, one word hit him very hard.

‘La Rochelle,’ Peter said, ‘hardly requires translation, sir.’

‘No,’ Quex said in a dry tone.

Peter was looking at other obvious words, such as je pense par camion, but the one that was most striking was his own name and what he assumed was a description, as well as the fact that he, avec deux autres hommes anglais, would arrivent par train le trente aout. Given those two facts, a watch on the railway station — La Rochelle did not have a mass of long-distance trains coming in — was all that was required to identify him.

‘The trouble is,’ Quex continued, ‘that though this tells us the communication came from outside of France, it does not say from where and it definitely does not identify the caller, who did not at any time use his name, and nor did Monsieur Taittinger.’

Peter went right to the top of the page, reading out the opening words, ‘ Bonjour, Pierre, c’est moi. Which means the voice was known to him, well known.’

‘Precisely, and does it not also imply that it is one which is quite distinctive, given the interference on such lines?’

‘What do you think would happen if we shoved this under McKevitt’s nose?’

‘He would deny all knowledge of it, quite apart from the fact that as of this moment he’s in Prague.’ Seeing the surprise, Quex added, ‘To shut the station down.’

‘That puts him awfully close to Jardine.’

‘Who has, according to your latest communication, gone up to Eger to meet with Henlein.’

‘It’s called Cheb now, sir.’

‘Don’t be a pedant, Peter.’

Sir Hugh went into a deep study, with a face that implied it would be unwise to interrupt his thoughts, and judging by his expression they were not happy ones.

‘You sure this could not have come from something Jardine did, some mistake he made?’

‘I cannot see it, sir. When I met him he was very confident he had kept things tight; he is very experienced in that game and I can tell you he is a hard character to follow and impossible to tail over weeks without him spotting something.’

‘Say you are correct, what could be McKevitt’s motive?’

‘Guns for republicans in Spain, sir, he is visceral about that.’

‘Peter, he does not know they were for Spain, nor does he know that Jardine was involved, because if he did, I would know about it, for the very simple reason he would have been letting things slip to his political friends.’

‘I did not know he had any.’

‘I did, and if I’d had any doubt, I certainly found out only the other day.’

Peter Lanchester had a look of curiosity on his face, to which Sir Hugh was not going to respond; the fewer people who knew he had been given a wigging by the PM the better.

‘Let us speculate that where we had a suspicion we now have confirmation that your problems in La Rochelle 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 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 for him to add a salute.

‘Good day…?’ Cal could not use a name.

It was instructive that as soon as Veseli’s hand dropped it went to his lips to command silence, then a finger waved to indicate the room was bugged.

‘ Standartenfuhrer Karl Wessely.’ The same sound, but Cal assumed the surname would be a different, more Germanic spelling. ‘I have come, on the instructions of our leader, to ensure that everything is in order with your visit.’

‘It is, thank you.’

Responding to a crooked finger, Cal immediately stepped out into the corridor and shut his door, hissing, ‘My room was searched last night.’

Veseli replied softly in German, ‘I know, I ordered it. Leave the keys to your car at reception when you go to breakfast tomorrow. Tell them to bring it to you in an hour.’

‘Why?’

‘Matters are coming to a head, you will see.’

‘I was going to do a recce in the morning between here and Asch.’

‘The time for that is past. We need to act quickly.’

Reaching past Cal he pushed the door open, speaking normally. ‘My Freikorps troop are having a rally tomorrow night in the central square, we would be most pleased if you and Miss Littleton would come and attend as my guest. There will be food and beer and we can listen to the speech of the Fuhrer from the Congress Hall on the radio.’

‘Delighted,’ Cal replied, managing to make it sound as though he meant it.

‘And perhaps we can talk together and I can introduce to you and your lady reporter some of my men, and they will relate to you the lies that are told daily about how we ordinary Sudetenlanders behave.’

‘I’m sure Miss Littleton would be very grateful for that.’

‘I will call for you at eighteen-thirty hours tomorrow. The Fuhrer’s speech begins at seven.’

Wessely/Veseli gave him another stiff salute and was gone, leaving Cal to wonder at what the plan was, because there had to be one and whatever was going to take place had to happen tomorrow night and he was not sure he was happy with that.