A Bitter Field

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘ G ot him,’ Gibby Gibson cried when he came off the phone to Colonel Dolezal, before he wondered what he was getting so excited about. ‘Your friend Barrowman crossed a checkpoint going towards Karlovy Vary two days ago in the company of an American female and I have even got the make of motor he was driving.’

‘Not short of a bob or two,’ McKevitt remarked when he saw what that was. ‘A bloody Maybach Zeppelin, for Christ’s sake. Any idea who the lass was?’

‘Journalist apparently, she had accreditation papers but the name has not come through.’

‘Saturday — we must have missed him by a whisker.’

‘Rotten luck that,’ Gibson replied insincerely.

‘She had to come from Prague, Gibby.’

‘You’d think so. Most of the journos stay at the Ambassador.’ Picking up the telephone Gibson added, ‘And there can’t be too many who are female.’

Annoyingly, McKevitt was drumming his fingers on Gibson’s desk as he made the call but it did not take long to establish who the lady was and the fact that she was not presently in residence, but given Gibson was talking to reception, and not the concierge desk, that was all he got.

‘She must have left some form of contact address,’ Gibson insisted, his eyes going to the ceiling, given the time he was obliged to wait until the reply came through; they did not stay there when he was told.

McKevitt was equally surprised and he had read the latest briefing before he left London. ‘Cheb! That’s where Henlein had his headquarters, isn’t it, and that other bugger Frank?’

Gibson nodded and waited for the obvious follow-up — like what was their man doing going there? — but it did not come. Instead he picked up the phone again. ‘Should I tell Dolezal we’ve found him?’

‘No!’

‘Noel, he will have men searching hotel registration cards all over the place to no purpose. You can’t just leave him in the dark.’

‘We’ve let him think our man’s a spy. If we tell him, who will pick him up? Not us.’ Still drumming his fingers, McKevitt went into deep thought, the conclusion surprising the station chief. ‘I need a car, Gibby, and some cash.’

‘You’re going after Barrowman yourself?’

‘I am, but I doubt that’s the bastard’s real name. Tell me, what’s the situation with weapons?’

‘You mean-’

‘Look, this man is dangerous, Gibby, and he has to be stopped.’

‘From doing what, Noel?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Is that because you don’t know?’

‘Have you told your team about closing down the station?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘Who in the name of Christ do you think you’re talking to?’ The question was on Gibson’s lips: why have you not been in touch with base? But it died there, not least because McKevitt was not finished.

‘You should be packing your bags, Gibby. And don’t think it will go unnoticed that I had to come here to sort out a problem that you should have seen to.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘No,’ McKevitt sneered, a very necessary adjunct to his bluff, ‘you don’t, which makes me think it might be time you retired. Now get me the use of an embassy car and a pistol with some ammo.’

‘Sorry, Noel, that is something you will have to do yourself.’

The sun was shining, the hood was down in the Maybach, though being autumn the air had a chill in these high elevations that required Corrie to wear a headscarf and Cal his hat. But it was pleasant driving at a relaxed pace, quite often through thick forests, even if right behind them came a car, a tiny Hanomag, with two Brownshirts crammed into it, tasked to watch where they went.

The temptation to look in the boot when the car was brought to the front of the hotel had to be resisted and there was nothing in the passenger compartment that was in anyway untoward. He would just have to wait for an opportunity and to do that the first task was to lose the tail.

‘Have you got used to being on the wrong side of the car yet?’

‘Let’s just say I don’t think I’m going to die.’

‘Good.’

Cal hit the floor with the pedal and the V12 engine responded immediately, Corrie crying ‘Jesus!’ as she was thrust back in her seat. There were no straight roads in these parts and they were not generous in width, which made the sensation of speed all that much greater, exaggerated as the tyres screeched round the bends.

As soon as the tail was out of sight, Cal was looking for a junction or at least where the road split, and that came at a fork, he taking the uphill line because it affected him not at all, but that near-toy car with two big blokes in it would struggle to keep up any speed at all. For all they were moving up a steep hill, the trees still hemmed them in.

At the top of the hill there were two bored-looking sentries in grey-green Czech uniforms standing before an entry into the woods shut off by a wire gate, but the approach of the car brought them to life and their slung weapons came off the shoulder just as the trees thinned to one side to show an extensive panorama.

Inside those trees there had to be some of the Czech defences, and on this kind of elevation and with the open ground below the hilltop, Cal assumed heavy artillery, which would be in a well-defended concrete cupola surrounded by pillboxes.

He slowed right down and went by at a crawl; these conscripts, which is what they looked to be, were likely to be trigger-happy and he had known men killed by not paying enough attention to another soldier’s nerves. The speed also allowed him time to assess the field of fire he imagined the weapons could strike; that panoramic view looked as though it extended right into the Third Reich.

Past that and descending he really gave the car full throttle and soon they were racing through another dense tree belt so narrow occasional branches hissed along the side of the car and one or two hit it with a crack; if it had a serious purpose, driving like this was exhilarating.

Corrie showed no sign of fear; in fact, when a bit of straight road allowed him to look at her it seemed as if her eyes, staring straight ahead, were alight, her mouth was slightly open and her breathing seemed faster than normal — she was excited and enjoying the thrill as much as he was.

Sighting another ungated path into the trees he pulled hard over and shot up the lane, which had her sliding across the front leather seat to his side, coming to a halt with her body jammed against his. He could sense her, and the way her breath was still heaving was too obvious to miss, so spinning sideways he threw an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close.

She made no attempt to avoid being kissed, there was no stiffness or resistance and, as his tongue slipped between her teeth, he also knew that whatever else Corrie Littleton had done in her life, this was not the first time such an embrace had happened to her; she had been kissed before, because her tongue was also pushing forward to meet his own.

‘Is this why we came for a spin?’ she asked when they broke contact.

‘Would you be angry if it was?’ She shook her head. ‘Neither would I.’

‘That’s a helluva thing.’

‘I have work to do.’

‘You betcha,’ she said, her hand grabbing the back of his head, knocking off his hat and pulling him in till their lips were locked together again, and this time there was a trace of a moan, and whatever it is that signals from one human to another that they are willing was in Cal’s nostrils now.

‘You an outdoor girl?’ he asked.

She knew what that meant. ‘Heart and soul, Doc.’

‘There are a couple of rugs on the back seat.’

‘Is that planning?’

‘It’s a luxury car.’

‘Maybe they are in the wrong place.’

‘A walk?’

As she nodded he switched off the engine and Corrie took his hand to be pulled out of the driver’s door, which she held tight till Cal got the rugs out, there for rear seat passengers to cover their knees to keep out the cold.

‘You all right with this?’ he asked, his own voice now slightly hoarse. ‘There might be soldiers about.’

By way of a reply she led him away from the car and into the trees, holding his hand tightly — a pressure Corrie kept up until they came to a small clearing covered in fallen leaves. She looked at him and he nodded, then detached himself to spread out the rugs one on top of the other. Cal lay down and pulled her with him and immediately they were locked in an embrace.

He knew by what followed that Corrie Littleton was no firsttimer; she knew the body parts that mattered on him as well as he knew those that excited her and was uninhibited at seeking them out. The usual awkward gremlins getting out of clothing were met with the kind of intimate laughter that comes with slightly embarrassed struggles.

In these trees there was minimal sunlight and it was not really a warm day, but racing blood made up for any chill, that and activity that started slowly and rose in pace as both parties to this lovemaking extracted maximum pleasure from the act. When it was over, her bird-scattering screams had subsided and the breathing had settled a touch, she spoke into his shoulder in a small voice.

‘I hope you’ll still respect me, Doc.’

‘Don’t see why I should, I didn’t before.’

Her laugh filled the air and seemed to echo off the trees. ‘Callum Jardine, you are a piece of work.’

‘Which reminds me why I came,’ he whispered in her ear.

That set her off again, pealing laughter, which had Cal thinking this was a wholly different person to the one he thought he knew and he preferred it that way.

‘Can we just stay here for a few minutes?’

‘What makes you think I have the guts to say no?’

They lay for some fifteen minutes, not talking a lot but sharing whispered intimacies, until eventually Cal rose up and hauled her willingly to her feet. Hand in hand, once they had sorted out their clothing, they walked back to the car, each with a rug, and once they were seated in the front Cal asked her to get the maps and camera out of the glovebox.

‘It suddenly occurs to me we could have wandered into a minefield.’

‘Bang,’ she replied, as he handed her the camera.

‘What are you like as a photographer?’

‘As good as you are as a lover, Doc.’

Now it was his turn to startle the birds with his laughing.

It took a while and some map reading to get back on to the road to the town the Czechs called As, with many stops on the way: after tight bends, places where the road narrowed or where it was heavily enclosed by trees which, felled by blast, would block it completely — all possible points at which to spring an ambush.

At each one Cal took photographs, with Corrie insisting that he stand back to be snapped as well, and at no time did she enquire what he was up to; it was as though by making love their entire relationship had altered massively. She was happy and made no secret of it.

Asch was a pretty place nestling in rolling hills and surrounded by good rolling pasture. The houses, where they were not just grey stone, were painted in rose-pink and yellow and the style was similar to Cheb, with the tall steep-roofed buildings joining one another in long terraces.

The attempts to talk to what locals they came across were not a success: approaching anyone, even when Cal spoke to them in German, showed that they were an insular bunch not too keen to answer Corrie’s questions, some so nervous it was as though the mere act of talking to strangers would endanger them.

‘He might not have invaded,’ Cal ventured, ‘but it feels like Hitler’s here already.’

They found Henlein’s house by endless asking, as if they were tourists, Corrie’s notebook put away, and the first obvious fact was that, like the Victoria Hotel, it was guarded, in this case by two armed dolts who refused to believe Cal’s explanation and refused to allow him to use his camera. If they wanted photographs of the house they must get that from the owner.

‘Time to go back and meet the big cheese.’

As she slid into the passenger seat, he finally went to unlock and look in the boot. There was a small wooden box there, one big enough to hold a couple of pairs of shoes, covered in a cloth, with a faint smell he recognised — the almond odour of slightly sweating nitroglycerine in the Nobel 808. The cloth once moved showed a pair of impermeable gloves over a packet of the green flexible explosive, a couple of detonators, a coil of wire, and underneath that a battery-operated plunger.

‘You OK?’

‘Yes,’ he shouted back cheerfully, but he was not, he was concerned at what he was going to be asked to do. As he locked the boot lid he added, ‘You want to drive?’

‘Do you want to live?’

Unintentionally that was a very apposite question.

The delay in reacting to Gibson’s despatch was caused by Sir Hugh Sinclair giving his weekly briefing to the Home Secretary, which took up half of his morning and meant he did not read it till he arrived back, and when he did so it was buried under a collection of other cables from stations around the globe. Miss Beard, his faithful and long-serving secretary, had not heard him curse often, but she heard it now.

‘Get hold of Peter Lanchester at once and tell him to come immediately, then come back to take a message to be sent to Prague.’

Miss Beard was writing when Peter arrived, with Quex dictating that no action was to be taken in respect of either man, though all he knew of Nolan was that he was backup for Barrowman/Jardine, and they were to stay well clear.

‘Get that off as a flash message as soon as it is coded,’ Quex growled, turning to Peter Lanchester when she exited and throwing the cable across the desk. ‘I don’t know what McKevitt is up to but he has somehow dug out Jardine.’

‘The man’s a bloody menace.’

‘Never mind that, get down to Documents and have them issue you a diplomatic passport, we’ve no time for visas and the like, I want you over there babysitting Jardine and making sure McKevitt goes nowhere near him.’

‘He wouldn’t block him, surely, if he found out what Jardine’s after?’

Sinclair was thinking of his wigging from the PM again; as well as scarcely concealed desperation to avoid a war, he was now, it seemed, talking of going to Germany to meet Hitler face to face; it did not bode well.

‘I would not put it past him, and besides, he must not find out. You can travel by train tomorrow, I hope, from Paris and that will take you directly to Eger.’

‘Of course. But, sir, there must be more to this than meets the eye. McKevitt seems to be out of control.’

‘The problem is he’s not under my control at present, but out of that entirely he is not.’

Peter waited for him to expand on that, but he waited in vain.

Both he and his boss would have been even more alarmed had either been aware that, as they were talking, McKevitt was on the embassy secure line to Sir Thomas Inskip confirming that there was an operation taking place in Czechoslovakia the nature of which he was unaware and, ipso facto, so was the Government.

‘What do you suspect?’ asked a surprised Minister of the Crown, who hardly expected a call from such a location.

‘I am still in the dark about that, sir, but there is no question that it is dangerous and possibly downright illegal.’

‘And you have gone to Czechoslovakia to pursue this?’

‘I have,’ McKevitt lied — he was not going to admit he had been sent. ‘Worse, Sir Hugh Sinclair has decided to shut down the station, an idea he says he discussed with the PM to avoid anything happening to exacerbate tensions.’

‘That, if I may say so, McKevitt, does not square with what you have just been telling me.’

‘No, he’s playing some deep game all right. What I need to kill it off is the authority to override Sir Hugh, and only Mr Chamberlain can grant that.’

Accustomed to giving advice to clients as a top-flight lawyer, Inskip knew that would never be forthcoming because it had no validity unless it was in writing, and he doubted Chamberlain was fool enough to even contemplate such an instruction.

He also knew that anything he said on this telephone was strictly between him and the caller, while it seemed to him important that McKevitt should proceed; why should he not take the reins and act on his own initiative?

‘I can try to get that for you, but it would take time. Do we have time?’

‘I would say it would be tempting providence to think we have.’

Code, Inskip thought, for you have no idea of that either. ‘It may be you have to act on your own until I can get the PM’s ear and he’s away on a fishing holiday.’

‘That exposes me, sir, and I may have to act in a manner that could be seen as prejudicial.’

‘If you deem it necessary then you must do so, and you know I will back you, McKevitt, if there’s an enquiry.’

‘Do I have permission to keep you informed?’

‘A splendid idea, and I will liaise with the PM about the matter. In fact I will send him a message this very hour.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Phone down, Sir Thomas sat and pondered, reverting to his original conclusion that no such written instruction would come from Neville Chamberlain even if he knew what McKevitt was up to and approved. This was a situation in which he could act as a conduit, and if it proved to have merit he would gain credit; if it was pie in the sky, and it very well could be that, then he could discount all knowledge of it.

As to sending a message to the PM, the poor man was on a well-earned holiday, peacefully fishing; it would not be the done thing to impinge on that. Besides, he had plenty on his desk as the Minister for Defence Procurement, not least the latest costings for the new fighter just introduced to RAF service.

The price of building these planes was going up to over twelve thousand pounds per item, and though the people who flew the Spitfire claimed it was a wonder-plane, there was no evidence that it would match whatever other nations were producing, not least the Germans. It could, in aerial combat, turn out to be a dud.

‘As long as you don’t blame me if it’s not,’ he said to himself.

When the pair came back to the hotel from their spin the Ice Maiden was waiting for them, and judging by the look she gave Corrie, it was all her fault that they had lost their followers.

‘That was very wrong of you to run away from those we have given the task of protecting you, Frau Littleton.’

‘We don’t need protection, surely,’ Cal replied, ‘and we did want to see some of the country.’

‘The Czech army is out there and has been known to shoot anyone who they think is spying on their defence works.’

The temptation to say “That must include half the Sudetenland population” had to be suppressed. Then, as she had done so many times before, she smiled at Cal and turned her body just enough to exclude the other woman.

‘But you are back, Herr Barrowman, and safe and that is all that matters.’

That changed when Cal got a peck on the cheek from Corrie; the smile was gone in an instant, before she added with sweet cruelty, ‘And we had such a lovely drive, Fraulein.’