Silesian Station

The Ostrava Freight

Russell's train pulled in to Masaryk Station soon after seven in the morning. Or what had been Masaryk Station - the nameboards had been removed and not, as yet, replaced with something more suitable. In all other respects, the concourse looked much the same. There were no German soldiers on display, no leather-coated myrmidons. Russell walked out through the gabled glass facade and turned left. At the far end of a shadowed Hybernska Street the famous Powder Gate basked in the morning sunlight.

He headed down Dlazdena Street towards the centre of the New Town. The side streets, he noticed, all bore bilingual signs in Czech and German, save for Jerusalem Street, which had no sign at all. The large synagogue halfway down was still standing, which seemed a good omen. He would have to visit it before he left.

Jindoisska Street was festooned with swastikas of varying sizes, the largest reserved for the central post office. Something else was different too, but he only realized what it was when a large sign told him that 'Prague is now driving on the right'. In more ways than one, he thought.

Reaching the long sloping boulevard that the Czechs, for reasons best known to themselves, called Wenceslas Square, he turned left. The Hotel Europa was a hundred metres up the hill, a uniformed bellboy doing what looked like a tapdance on the pavement outside.

A French friend had recommended the Alcron Hotel on the dubious grounds that the Gestapo kept a large suite of rooms there, and that, in consequence, the hotel's telephone lines were less likely to be monitored. Since Russell had no intention of using a hotel telephone for anything more than ordering breakfast he felt able to forego the delight of swapping small-talk in the lifts with the local boys in black. He had, moreover, always wanted to stay at the Europa, an art nouveau masterpiece from the old Habsburg Empire days. The Habsburg civil service might have been less than successful at running a modern state and economy, but few ruling classes had been more single-minded when it came to indulging themselves. And given the choice, who would turn their back on a hotel facade crowned with gilded nymphs?

The bellboy tapped his foot one last time for luck and took Russell's bag. The receptionist was half-asleep, but managed to find Russell's reservation and key. A gilded lift took him and the bellboy up three floors, and a red-carpeted corridor brought them to a lovely high-ceilinged room at the front of the hotel. Russell handed over the few small coins he'd had since March, and asked if the hotel changed money. Yes, the boy said from the doorway, but the Thomas Cook on Na Poikopi offered a better rate. So much for loyalty.

Russell's appointment at the American legation was for ten o'clock, which gave him a couple of hours. He could walk to the Little Quarter, he thought. Through the Old Town and over the Charles Bridge. But first, breakfast. He could see from his window that most of the cafes on the Square were open for business, and sitting outside seemed preferable to the hotel restaurant, no matter how ornate the decoration.

A kiosk at the nearest intersection had a selection of Czech titles, yesterday's Beobachter, and a Daily Express from the previous Friday. He bought the latter, settled himself in the nearest cafe, and explored the world as seen from England over coffee and strudel. There was a society wedding in Mayfair, a thirty stone man crammed into the back of a Ford Prefect, and a spread of sepia photographs from the Indian Mutiny. The new League season was about to begin, and the paper's football correspondent was tipping Wolverhampton Wanderers to win the First Division title.

The cafe slowly filled around him, and the trams seemed to clank across the nearby intersection with increasing frequency. A trio of German officers walked by, slapping gloves against their thighs with alarming appropriateness, and Russell examined the faces of the Czechs they passed. Expressions of disdain, mostly. A touch of fear. No liking or love, that was certain.

He paid for his breakfast and walked down to Na Poikopi. Thomas Cook was next door to the Deutsches Haus, which was advertising a German Culture Week with several giant posters of aryan composers. The exchange desk was opening as Russell arrived, and the young Czech woman's demeanour switched from sullen hostility to warm friendliness the moment he showed his American passport.

'Journalist,' she murmured in English, reading it under occupation.

'Yes,' Russell agreed.

'You write about my country?'

'Yes.'

'And the Germans?'

'Yes.'

'That is good,' she said, as if the subject admitted of only one viewpoint.

The subject probably did, Russell thought, as he crossed Na Poikopi and took the nearest of the narrow streets burrowing into the Old Town. There were fewer people than he expected, and the main square was almost empty. Russell circled it slowly, reminding himself how beautiful the surrounding wall of buildings was, and trying to ignore the Culture Week posters that hung from many of the first floor windowsills. He discovered he was ten minutes too late for the hourly procession of apostles in the Town Hall clock.

The winding Karlova Street brought him to the river. Two bored-looking German soldiers stood sentry by the Bridge Tower, but the only traffic on the bridge was a single horse-drawn cart piled high with school desks. Above the far bank, the Little Quarter and its crowning castle rose to meet the blue sky.

Russell walked slowly out, examining the statues that lined both para-pets. The river hardly seemed to be flowing; the whole scene seemed bathed in slow-motion tranquillity. The tram gliding across the downstream bridge seemed a different machine from the one that clanked its way around the city. Even the castle looked almost benign.

Still, looking up, Russell could understand Kafka's anxiety. The sheer size of the place was intimidating. In the days following the occupation in March one English paper had carried a picture of Hitler peering anxiously out from one of the windows, as if he was worried that someone was out there with a hunting rifle. No such luck.

Russell resumed his walk. There were another two German guards at the far end of the bridge, and more German uniforms and vehicles on Kampa Island. With twenty minutes to spare, Russell downed another coffee on Mostecka Street before continuing up the hill to the American Legation. This was housed in the former Schoenborn Palace, a four-storey building in shades of beige halfway way up the southern side of Trziste Street. A stone portico surrounded the front doors, topped by the sort of balcony the Duce favoured for ranting. The large Stars and Stripes seemed exotic in such surroundings.

Russell had barely given his name to the receptionist when a young, be-spectacled man with short dark hair came almost tumbling down the stairs. 'Joseph Kenyon,' he said, shaking Russell's hand. 'I thought we might talk outside.'

'Outside' was a series of terraced gardens rising to an orchard. Beyond this, at the very top of the slope, sat an ornate pavilion. The two benches in front offered a wonderful view across the roofs of river and city.

Kenyon himself, as he explained on the walk up, was not so much a diplomat as a political observer, left behind with a skeleton staff now that the occupation had rendered a full embassy inappropriate. There were enough emigration requests to keep his colleagues busy, but not much new for him to observe. 'I can't say I've seen that many occupations, but I have a feeling they follow much the same pattern.'

'So how are the Germans behaving?'

'As you would expect. I can't imagine they anticipated any kind of welcome - well, maybe a few fools did - but it's been four months now, and they've made no real effort to win the Czechs over. Most of the time they seem hell-bent on antagonising them.' Kenyon recounted a story doing the rounds about a Czech from the Sudeten area in the north, which was now part of the Reich. The man's dying mother lived in the Sudeten area in the south - also part of the Reich - and he had asked permission to drive across the Protectorate to visit her. Since he couldn't produce her doctor's certificate, permission had been refused. The man had been forced to drive all the way around the Protectorate, about three times as far. 'I don't know if the story's true,' Kenyon said, 'but it sounds like it could be, and I'm sure most Czechs would believe it.'

The American pulled a packet of Chesterfields from his shirt pocket and offered it. 'Sensible man,' he said when Russell declined, but still lit one for himself with evident pleasure. 'They've really buggered up the language business. First off, they gave the impression everything would be in German, but soon realized that wouldn't fly - I think the ordinary Czechs' refusal to understand anything a German said to them was the crucial clue. So then they started pushing for what they call linguistic parity - everything in both languages with the German version on top. And that's not working either. The Germans have announced that eighteen terms - not seventeen or nineteen, you understand - are untranslatable from German to Czech. These include Fuhrer - which I suspect the Czechs can do without - and Bohmen und Mahren - which we call Bohemia and Moravia. So the Czechs are not allowed to refer to their own country in their own language. Nice, eh?

'And there's the usual cultural bias - Beethoven and Wagner are God's gift, Dvorak and Smetana not fit to tie their shoelaces, etcetera, etcetera. Plus the more serious stuff. The Gestapo have set themselves up in the old Petschek Palace on Bredauer Street, complete with special courts and guards in black. It's rumoured that the basement and top floor are both used for torture, but no one's emerged in one piece to confirm it.'

'There is resistance then?'

'Some, and it'll grow. The Czechs are still getting a kick out of booing Hitler in cinema newsreels and passing Germans their Beobachter face down, but they'll graduate to higher things.'

'What about the local Nazis?'

Kenyon made a dismissive gesture. 'Several groups joined together and called for wholehearted collaboration, but not even the Germans took much notice. The Gestapo did fund one bunch of Moravian fascists. Mostly criminals, led by a Brno brothel-keeper. Turned out the only thing they were good at was beating up Jews.'

'Not a talent the Gestapo dismisses.'

'No, I guess not. But maybe they like their monopoly.'

'How are the Jews doing?'

'It could be worse.' About five thousand Jews had been detained in a special camp outside Prague, and the screw was slowly being tightened on the other fifty thousand. The Jews were being pushed out of business, forced to declare their assets - 'all the stuff that happened in Germany a few years ago.' But there was no reign of terror, not yet at least. An SS Hauptsturmfuhrer named Eichmann had been put in charge. He had arrived a few weeks earlier and set himself up in a confiscated Jewish villa in Stresovice. 'But he hasn't shown his hand yet,' Kenyon said, carefully flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the gravel path. 'Last month the Gestapo organized an exhibition at the Deutsches Haus, 'The Jews as Humanity's Enemy' or something like that, and issued unrefusable invitations to the local schools and factories. All the usual garbage - oily Jews counting their shekels, ravishing aryan virgins, baking their Passover bread with the blood of Christian children.' Kenyon shook his head, and stubbed the cigarette out with a twist of his heel. 'Do any of them really believe it, do you think?'

'Those that aren't stupid enough are twisted enough. How are the rest of the Czechs dealing with it?'

'Better than the rest of the Germans, I'd say.' It was a mixed picture, though. The Czech administration was trying to soften the blow by drafting much weaker anti-Semitic legislation than the Germans wanted. It was confiscating Jewish property, but mostly as a means of keeping it out of German hands. 'Ordinary Czechs, it's hard to tell. There are more segregation laws coming in August, and it'll be interesting to see how they react. It could be wishful thinking, but I suspect that ordinary Czechs will try and ignore them. Anti-Semitism has never been much of a force in this country, and supporting the Jews will be another way of holding a finger up to the Germans.'

'Gestures won't help the Jews.'

'Not in the long run, no. But what's happening here is good news as well as bad. The Nazis had a choice when they came in - win the Czechs over or really frighten them to death. They've fallen between two stools so far, but that wasn't an accident. The plain truth is, both options are beyond them. They've got nothing real to offer the Czechs; the only way they can win them over is to give them their country back. They can try frightening them to death, but that won't work for long - it never does. There's already passive resistance, and it'll get more active. Not tomorrow, but eventually. The Czechs know they can't drive the Germans out on their own, so they'll wait until Hitler has his hands full elsewhere. The Czechs can't wait for a European war, and who can blame them?'

No one, Russell thought, though the millions doomed to die might want a say in the matter. He now realized the reason - and wondered how he could have missed it - for Cummins's insistence on his coming to Prague. His editor had realized, consciously or otherwise, that this was the template for what was to come. 'I'm seeing the German spokesman at three,' he said. 'I think I'll ask him what conquerors have to offer their conquests.'

'If you're looking for official responses, I can probably get you an interview with a member of the Czech government.'

'I am - it's what officials don't say that's usually so revealing.'

They walked back down through the gardens and in through the back door of the Legation. Kenyon's office was on the first floor, overlooking the street. He picked up the phone, tried a few words of Czech and quickly reverted to English. 'Two o'clock?' he asked Russell, who nodded. 'In the Cabinet Room. He'll be there.' He hung up. 'Karel Mares - he's the Acting Prime Minister - will give you ten minutes. Do you know where the Cabinet Room is?'

'In the Castle? I'll find it.'

Kenyon nodded. 'Now, your other business here.' He took a small folder from a desk drawer, extracted a single sheet of paper, and passed it across. There were three names, two with telephone numbers, one with an address. 'These are all supplied by a Czech exile in the States, Gregor Blazek.'

Russell copied the names and numbers into used pages of his reporter's notebook, adding letters to the former and scrambling the order of the latter to a prearranged pattern. The address he memorized. 'What was Blazek's political affiliation when he was here?' he asked.

'Social Democrat. He only left in February, so the information should be up to date. I haven't done any checking, I'm afraid. I'm not supposed to know anything, or do anything.'

'Do you know where Blazek is living now?'

'Chicago, I think,' Kenyon said, checking the file. 'Yes, Chicago. I assume you've been given some guidance as to how to approach these people.'

'Oh yes.' Russell slipped the notebook into his inside pocket and got to his feet. 'Thanks for the help,' he said, extending a hand. 'And for the analysis.'

'Remember,' Kenyon told him, 'this building is still American territory. If you should find yourself in sudden need of a bolthole,' he explained, somewhat unnecessarily.

'Thanks,' Russell said. He could just see himself toiling up the hill with the Gestapo in close pursuit.

He walked back down to the Little Quarter Square and sat at an outdoor restaurant table opposite the St Nicholas church. The plate of pancakes on the adjoining table smelled as good as they looked, so he ordered an early lunch to go with the glass of wine. The pancake-eater, a middle-aged Czech man of prodigious size, gave him a congratulatory beam. Russell took Kenyon's piece of paper out to study the names, seeking some arcane clue as to which might prove the safest one to start with. When a shadow crossed the paper he looked up to find two German officers taking the adjoining table. He put it away.

The pancakes were delicious, and the Germans were still waiting for the waiter when he finished. From little acorns...

He took a tram back to the New Town, alighting on Na Poikopi at the bottom of Wenceslas Square. He walked on to the post office intending to use one of the public telephones there but had second thoughts when he noticed German uniforms in a room behind the counters. Masaryk Station, he decided. Secret agents always used stations.

The booths in the corner of the concourse seemed ideal. He took the last in the line because it offered the widest angle of vision, and rummaged through his pockets for the right coins. After dropping and recovering the piece of paper, he spent several seconds deciding which of the two numbers to call, in the end plumping for the second - the name that went with it was easier to pronounce.

A woman answered.

'Oto Nemec?' he asked.

A garbled burst of incomprehensible Czech.

'Oto Nemec,' he said again. 'Is he there?' he asked, first in English and then in German.

There was a loud click as the woman hung up.

Russell did the same, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. The Americans hadn't mentioned the possibility of language difficulties, and he'd foolishly assumed that they knew the contacts spoke English or German. He had committed the cardinal sin - expecting intelligence from Intelligence.

He dialled the second number. It rang a long time, and he was about to hang up when a hesitant male voice mumbled an answer.

'Pavel Bejbl?' Russell asked.

'Bejbl,' the man answered, correcting his pronunciation. 'I am Bejbl.'

'Do you speak English?' Russell asked. 'Sprechen zie deutsch?'

'I speak German.'

'I'm an American. Gregor in Chicago gave me your name.'

'Gregor Blazek?'

'Yes.'

There was a pause. 'Have you a message for me?'

'Yes, but I need to deliver it in person. Could we meet?'

Another pause, longer this time. Russell could hear a whirring noise in the background - a fan, probably. 'Today?' Bejbl asked. He didn't sound enthusiastic.

'Around six? You pick the place,' Russell said, in an instantly regretted attempt at reassurance.

'Do you know Strelecky Island?' Bejbl asked, suddenly sounding more decisive.

'No.'

'If you're looking from the Charles Bridge, it's just upstream. The Legii Bridge goes over it - there are steps on the southern side. There are benches at the northern end of the island. I'll be there at six-thirty.'

Russell could picture the spot. 'How...' he began, but the line had gone dead. He hung up the earpiece and re-examined the piece of paper. The third potential contact - Stanislav Pruzinec - lived in Vysoeany. Wherever that might be. Russell went back out onto the concourse and read through the platform departure boards, finding what he wanted above the entrance to Platform 2. Vysoeany was the fifth stop out on the line to Hradec Kralove.

A train was waiting, but so was the Acting Prime Minister. Tomorrow, he told himself. If he had the time. And sufficient inclination.

It was almost half-past twelve. He took a tram back to Wenceslas Square and walked up to the Europa. He felt depressed by the future that Kenyon had unrolled for him, the sheer unrelenting predictability of it all. Wars between classes might just replace one set of pigs with another, but they had some underlying point to them. Wars between nations, as far as Russell could see, had absolutely none.

The receptionist was reading Kafka's Metamorphosis.

'Enjoying it?' Russell asked in English as he took his key.

The man shook his head in wonderment. 'What a writer!'

'He used to work near here, didn't he?'

'You do not know?' The man scurried out from behind his desk, gesturing for Russell to follow. He crossed the road, still wildly waving an arm, and when Russell joined him in the wide central reservation pointed down towards the next intersection. 'That building on corner. He work there. See window on corner, third floor. Our greatest writer! Europe greatest writer! And he wrote about America too!'

Russell imagined Kafka hunched behind the glass, racoon eyes staring out. The man had been writing about Nazi Germany and Stalin's Russia before they even existed. Small wonder he got depressed. 'A great writer,' he agreed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. 'Thank you for showing me.'

Up in his room, he took out the piece of paper and set about memorising the various names and numbers. Once he had done so he tore the sheet up and flushed the pieces down the lavatory in the adjoining bathroom. Studying his appearance in the mirror, he decided a tie would probably go down well with the Acting Prime Minister and whichever noxious flunky the Nazis had waiting for him.

One tram took him back across the river, another carried him up and round the Castle hill. The Cabinet Room took some finding, as if the Czechs had deliberately hidden it from the Germans, and Karel Mares was waiting for him, checking through a box of papers on a corner sofa. He looked bone-weary, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. Many of his answers to Russell's questions showed a well-honed appreciation of how quickly conquered peoples learn to read between the lines.

'I must point out that the banning of national songs in cafes and bars only applies to provocative songs,' he said halfway through the interview.

'But aren't all national songs a provocation to an occupier?' Russell protested.

Mares just shrugged and smiled.

Russell asked him why he had warned his people against acts of resistance.

'Our people are used to open discussions and passionate debate,' Mares said, 'but we are living in a different world now. We must get used to this new world before we...well, before we decide what our political contribution will be.' The glint in his eyes suggested Guy Fawkes as a possible model.

Cheered by the encounter, Russell sat enjoying the view for a quarter of an hour before walking across to the Reichsprotektor's office in the Czernin Palace. After thirty minutes in the usual anteroom, stuck in front of the usual unforgiving portrait, he was taken to meet Gerhard Bimmer.

'I am permitted to speak for Reichsprotektor Neurath,' Bimmer began, as if there were others who wished to do so, but lacked the necessary authorisation. 'But I can only spare you ten minutes,' he added, somewhat untruthfully as it turned out.

Russell's use of the word 'occupation' opened the floodgates. Germany, Bimmer claimed, would rise to the challenge. The Czechs had behaved abominably to the Sudeten Germans, but the Germans would forgive them. More than that - the Germans would return good for evil, would win them over to the advantages of belonging to the Reich.

'Which advantages would those be?' Russell asked innocently.

Bimmer grunted with surprise. 'Power, of course. A seat at the table where the great issues are discussed. The Fuhrer offers everyone the chance to help build a stronger, purer world. A hard task of course, but so rewarding.'

'You seem to be offering the Czechs a share in the burden of empire,' Russell suggested, and soon wished he hadn't. Bimmer started off in another direction, through a seemingly endless catalogue of British sins, which ended, somewhat incongruously, in a listing of every German vessel scuttled at Scapa Flow in 1918.

Russell thanked him profusely and took his leave. He had a couple of great quotes, but who would believe a high-ranking government official could be that dumb? He would have to invent something more credible. It might be bad journalism, but made-up interviews with Nazi officials were so much more enlightening - and so much easier on the journalist - than the real thing.

There were almost three hours to kill before his meeting - his treff, as the Soviets would call it - with Pavel Bejbl. He walked slowly down through the Little Quarter and ambled out across the Charles Bridge, enjoying the sun-shine and the views. The beer garden on the far bank looked like a suitable place for getting his article in order. Two German officers were abandoning a table above the water's edge as he arrived, and the waiter wasted no time in removing their glasses. They were probably kept on a separate counter for spitting in.

He wrote steadily for an hour, conscious that he still lacked the crucial ingredient - material from ordinary Czechs. The beer garden steadily filled as the nearby workplaces emptied, and he eventually found himself sharing the table with two young women. Their English was as bad as his Czech, precluding any meaningful conversation. He listened as they chattered happily away in their incomprehensible tongue, and supposed that for them, and thousands like them, the occupation was nothing more than an occasional inconvenience. If you spent your days in an office and your evenings and weekends with your lover or family, what did it matter who ruled from the Castle?

It was another clear, warm evening. Strelecky Island was around four hundred metres away across the slow-moving Vltava, and he could see the benches under the trees on its northern end. Why had Bejbl chosen that place for their meeting? It looked a good place for a private talk, assuming the Gestapo weren't sitting in the trees. It also looked like a good place for a trap. From where he was sitting, there seemed only one way in and out. And a lip-reader with a telescope on the opposite bank...

Get a grip, Russell told himself. Lip-readers! He wouldn't even be saying anything incriminating, or at least not obviously so. The Americans had coached him thoroughly on the innocent message he brought from Gregor - how well he was doing in Chicago, the good wages and new car, but home-sick of course, so any news of his old friends and comrades would be most welcome. Did so-and-so know how they were doing?

If so-and-so had no idea, then that was that. If he knew - and sounded sympathetic - then it was on to the next, slightly less innocent step. And so on.

It was a few minutes after six. He paid for his drinks and made his way down the riverbank to the Legii Bridge. The German guards at the eastern end were sweltering in their uniforms, gazes seemingly hooked on the inviting waters below. Russell crossed in front of a bell-ringing tram and walked out towards the island. As he'd feared, the steps that Bejbl had mentioned were the only way onto the island. He stopped for a moment, reminding himself he had nothing to fear. Why would anyone trap him? He had done nothing illegal, not yet anyway. In the last resort he could always reveal that he was working for the SD. Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth wouldn't let him down.

He trotted down the steps and turned left under the wide bridge. The island tapered to a blunt point some 150 metres ahead of him; the path that followed the water was shaded by oaks and, at the tip, a copse of white willows. Only the furthest bench was empty, the others occupied by two courting couples and a woman with a child. Russell sat down and stared back across the river at the beer garden he had just left.

Bejbl arrived ten minutes later. He was a thin, shortish man of about forty, his still-boyish face framed by floppy fair hair. He was wearing office clothes: a dark suit that had seen plenty of wear, a pale blue shirt and dark blue tie, badly-scuffed shoes worn at the heel. He sat down at the other end of the bench, pulled a half-smoked cigarette out from behind an ear, and lit it with a silver lighter. 'I am Bejbl,' he said softly in German.

'Thank you for coming.'

'What is your name?'

'John Fullagar,' Russell said, pulling his mother's maiden name out of the ether. How had he forgotten to prepare a false name for himself?

'You have a message from Blazek?' Bejbl asked. He was sitting forward on the bench, elbows on knees.

'Yes.' Russell went through his spiel, ending with the request for news from home.

'We are doing fine,' Bejbl said, flicking the cigarette stub away. 'Considering the situation,' he added.

'That is bad?'

'Of course it is bad.'

'Gregor would like to help. He and his friends in America.'

Bejbl smiled, leaned back, and loosened his tie. 'How?' he asked.

'With whatever you need.'

'Ah.'

'Are you interested?' Russell asked.

'Of course, but I cannot answer for the P... for the others.'

'Who can?'

'The man you need to see is on the Germans' wanted list, but I think I can arrange a meeting.'

'Tonight?'

'Tomorrow, I think. How can I contact you?'

'You can't,' Russell said, realizing he was registered at the Europa under his real name.

Bejbl took it in his stride. 'Be in the Old Town Square at ten tomorrow night.'

'All right.'

Bejbl nodded, got to his feet, and walked off towards the bridge.

Russell let his head fall back and let out a large sigh. He hadn't felt any warm glow of trust surrounding them, but why should there be? For all Bejbl knew, he was a Gestapo plant. Look on the bright side, he told himself. He had made contact, apparently with the right person. What more could he ask for?

Food, for one thing - it had been a long time since the potato pancakes. He gave Bejbl another couple of minutes, then followed him back onto the bridge. A tram from the western end took him back to Na Poikopi and Lip-pert's, supposedly the city's finest restaurant. The food and decor were certainly excellent, but the predominance of German uniforms among the clientele added nothing to the general gaiety. Russell ordered Moravian wine as a show of solidarity, and was informed that only German wines were now being served. The pianist in the corner had taken the hint, and was sticking to Mozart and Schubert.

It was dark outside when Russell emerged. Wenceslas Square was displaying almost American levels of neon. Feeling decidedly full after four courses, Russell strode slowly up to the King's statue and back again. There were a couple of short, blonde streetwalkers in high heels outside his hotel, and he watched as two off -duty German soldiers walked past them. The girls seemed to shrink, as if they'd temporarily switched off their allure, and the men seemed to hurry their steps, perhaps frightened of where foreign temptation might lead them.

The lights were burning in Kafka's office, Russell noticed. A whirling figure appeared in the window, and for a moment he imagined the great writer pacing madly to and fro, arms hurled aloft in despair. It was only a cleaner though, brushing a large feather duster across the stacks of files.

Having forgotten to pull the curtains, Russell woke next morning with the sun full on his face. The cafe proprietors across the street were already drawing up their big front windows, and he decided to forego the dark hotel breakfast room for a large milky coffee in the bright morning light. After buying both Monday's Daily Express and Tuesday's Volkischer Beobachter from the nearby kiosk, he left the former out as bait for passing English-speakers and scoured the latter for Slaney's predicted escalation of hostility towards Poland. There was more trouble in Danzig, but mostly of the Poles' making. Hitler was probably still in Bayreuth.

Czechs at nearby tables were chattering away, and Russell felt more than a little frustrated that he couldn't understand a word they were saying. His English paper only snared one victim - a young Brummie who craved the latest cricket news from home. His West Midlands firm used a Czech supplier for some of their machinery, and he had been dispatched to sort out their increasingly erratic deliveries. The Czechs had told him it was all the Germans' fault, and the Germans, though polite, had been singularly unhelpful. His impression of Czech attitudes to the occupation echoed Kenyon's. 'Resignation, mostly,' was his verdict. 'They're just waiting for a war to shake things up.'

The young man went off to do some sightseeing, and Russell was unable to find a good reason for further postponing his trip to Vysoeany. He reached Masaryk Station with ten minutes to spare before the next departure, but only climbed aboard when the whistle shrilled. He was almost certain that he wasn't being followed, but the last time he'd played poker a similar level of confidence in a high straight had proved sadly misplaced.

The train - a few grubby suburban carriages pulled by a wheezing tank engine - slowly rattled its way across an industrial landscape of factories, goods yards and weed-infested carriage sidings. It seemed hotter than ever, and Russell opened a window, only to receive a shower of smuts for his pains. Vysoeany Station was in a cutting, its booking office up on the bridge which carried the street above the tracks. He showed the address to the ticket collector, who gave him a long cool look before miming some rough directions.

The street outside boasted a couple of cafe-bars and one shop, but high factory walls hemmed them in. He turned right as directed, and right again between two industrial premises, one churning out noise, the other smoke. A couple of workmen sitting on the back of a lorry, legs hanging over the tail-gate, watched him with what seemed a grim intensity. His wave of acknowledgement received a single syllable response. He had no idea what the syllable meant, but the tone was less than friendly.

An iron bridge over a small black river brought him into a residential area - streets of small houses and yards divided by cobblestone alleys. According to his piece of paper Stanislav Pruzinec lived in the second. He walked down to the relevant number, and took a look around. Three women were watching from out of their respective windows. He knocked, and a fourth woman came to the door. 'Stanislav Pruzinec?' he asked, and when this produced a blank stare he showed her the name in writing. This elicited a torrent of Czech, none of which sounded welcoming.

He was turning to leave when an angry-eyed young man appeared at his shoulder. Russell tried English on him, and then German. That got a response, but not the one he was hoping for. The young man smiled grimly, and called out something over his shoulder in Czech. 'I am American,' Russell said urgently, having remembered in time that Britain's betrayal at Munich was far from forgiven. 'American,' he repeated. 'Gregor Blazek.'

This produced another torrent from the woman, but also engendered a sliver of doubt in the young man's eyes. Time to withdraw, Russell told himself. He started backing away, smiling all the time, making what seemed like placatory gestures. No one had responded to the young man's shout, and he himself seemed unwilling to go beyond scowling. Russell turned his back on them and walked away as swiftly as he could, ears alert for the sound of pursuit. Once he turned the corner he broke into a run, only slowing once he had crossed the iron bridge. The men on the lorry had vanished, and he met no one else on his walk back to the station. He sat down heavily on the only platform seat, sweating profusely.

After about fifteen minutes a trickle of prospective passengers began descending the steps, a few minutes more and another grimy locomotive puffed wearily into the station. At Masaryk Station he treated himself to a bratwurst before walking back out. He was still sweating, but so was everyone else; the street was like a steambath.

A cold beer, he thought, just as the right tram ground to a halt at the station stop. Ten minutes later he was sitting in the riverside beer garden, at the same table he'd occupied the day before. The sky was hazier, and dark clouds gathered above the Castle as he worked his way through two bottles of Pilsen. He and Paul had stood gazing at an El Greco storm in the Metropolitan Museum of Art only a few weeks earlier, and here was nature's version.

The first fork of lightning seemed to plunge into the castle, as if some resident Nazi wizard was draining power from the cosmos. A few seconds later the thunder cracked and rolled, and the sky lurched further into gloom. For several minutes Russell and the rest of the beer garden's customers watched the storm draw nearer, until a wall of rain swept across the Vltava, driving them all indoors. Already half-soaked, Russell worked his way round to the tower at the eastern end of the Charles Bridge and stood in the archway watching the storm crackle and flash its way over. As the sky lightened in the west, the thunder faded to a distant growl, and a faint rainbow glimmered above Strelecky Island. The rain slowed and stopped, and soon the sun came out, lighting the terracotta roofs and copper green spires of the Little Quarter.

He headed back towards his hotel, stopping en route at the large book shop he had noticed the previous day. It took some time - and some linguistic assistance from the proprietor - before he found a book that suited his purpose.

Back at the Europa he took off his wet clothes and stretched out on the bed. The trip to Vysoeany had been a disaster, but he could hardly blame Blazek or the Americans for the quality of their intelligence - if they'd had an up-to-date picture of what was happening in Prague his own visit would have been unnecessary. It was just one of those things. He didn't think he'd been in any real danger, but he wouldn't want to go through those few seconds again. 'Beaten to death by Czech patriots' was not what he wanted on his tombstone.

He spent the afternoon drifting in and out of a pleasant snooze, then lay in a nicely tepid bath for another half an hour. One out of three wouldn't be bad, provided Bejbl turned up at their rendezvous later that evening.

Soon after seven he walked down to reception, where his Kafka-loving friend was just coming off-shift. 'Can you recommend a restaurant?' Russell asked. 'Preferably one without Germans.'

The man could. A small restaurant, not expensive but wonderful food, only ten minutes away. It was on his way home if Russell needed a guide...

They crossed Wenceslas Square and walked down Lepanska Street, passing the Gestapo-favoured Alcron Hotel. Russell asked the man about the occupation, and received as Kafkaesque an answer as he could have hoped for. The next war would be all about bombing from the air, the man said. The lucky cities would be those which surrendered promptly, because there'd be no point in bombing them. And Prague had shown remarkable foresight in getting itself occupied before the war even began.

He might be right, Russell thought. He was certainly right about the restaurant, a snug little family affair with six tables indoors and another four filling a small foliage-screened yard. The service was friendly, the food delicious, the Germans nowhere to be seen. His meal finished, Russell sat with a small glass of juniper-flavoured Borovieka, wondering what Effi was doing that evening.

He emerged from the restaurant soon after nine. The streets were wholly in shadow, the last rays of the sun gilding the highest chimneys. The sky was still blue when he crossed Na Poikopi and entered the Old Town, but the yellow streetlights had already been switched on in the narrow streets and alleys. A Gestapo car was parked on the cobbles of the Old Town Square when he arrived, but drove off soon afterwards, its painted swastika a lurid splash in the half-light.

There were more people around than Russell expected, some sitting in the outdoor cafes, others orbiting the square like deck-circling passengers on a cruise ship. He took a seat facing the huge and wonderfully-named Church Of Our Lady Before Tyn, and settled down to wait for Bejbl. A few stars were becoming visible in the rapidly darkening sky.

The ten o'clock appearance of the Town Hall clock disciples had just ended when Bejbl emerged from the alley beside the church. There was no hesitation about him. He strode out into the open, scanning the square until he caught sight of Russell, then walked straight towards him, lighting a cigarette as he did so.

'Let's go,' he said after shaking hands. 'This way.'

Bejbl led them around the front of the Town Hall and into the alley opposite. A couple of turns took them past a small church and outdoor cafe and into a longer, yellow-lit passage, empty of business or people. Light and sound seeped out of the upstairs windows, but there were few windows on the ground floor, only heavy-looking doors.

The words 'rat' and 'trap' sprung to mind.

Bejbl veered right into another alley, and this time there was life ahead, a car going by, the sound of someone laughing.

'Here,' Bejbl said, stopping outside a nondescript-looking double door. He glanced back up the alley and rapped softly on the wood. A few seconds later the left hand door swung open. 'In,' Bejbl said, giving Russell a helpful shove.

He found himself in a small courtyard, facing a man of considerable size. 'I am Tomas Hornak,' the man said, offering a rough hand for a brief shake. He was wearing workingman's overalls and a large cloth cap, which seemed to be losing the struggle to contain his shock of dark wiry hair. Deep-set eyes shone in a chubby face.

'I am John Fullagar,' Russell said, taking in his surroundings. The courtyard contained several sets of iron tables and chairs, and a number of plants in large tubs. Two strings of multi-coloured lights supplied what meagre illumination there was. There were two other doors.

'Please, the seats are dry. You will drink something? A beer? Something stronger?'

'A beer would be nice,' Russell said. He chose a seat and sat down.

Hornak said something to Bejbl in Czech, and the smaller man disappeared through one of the other doors, spilling cafe light and noise as he did so. 'I have reserved the garden for us,' Hornak said, spreading his arms to indicate that all this was theirs.

It felt like the bottom of a well, Russell thought, as he looked up through the coloured lights at the small circle of sky.

'So how is Gregor?' Hornak asked, settling his bulk onto another chair.

'Doing well, I believe. I've never actually met the man. I'm just here to pass on his messages.'

'And he wants to help his old comrades?'

'His American friends want to help,' Russell clarified. 'Your English is excellent,' he added, wondering where he'd learnt it.

'I had some good English friends,' Hornak said non-committally, just as Bejbl returned with two bottles of beer and a second glass. He put them down on the table and went back into the cafe.

'And why do Gregor's American friends want to help us?' Hornak asked.

'Because there's a war coming, and they want all the allies they can get.'

Hornak smiled at that. 'Well, you have come to the right people.'

'I hope so. You know who I represent. Who exactly are you speaking for?'

'We are the only organized group...'

'Who is "we"?'

Hornak gave it some thought. 'The Left,' he said eventually. 'Social democrats like Bejbl. And Gregor Blazek, come to that. Communists as well. Even a few Liberals of the old school. We are all together this time.'

'How organized are you?'

'How worthy of support, you mean. You will not find anything better in Prague - we have been preparing since the betrayal at Munich.'

'Have you lost many to the Gestapo?'

'Some. Like I said, we are organized. There are several hundred of us in the city, but nobody knows more names than he has to. Sometimes we have to cut off a limb to save the tree, but another always grows.'

The classic cell structure, Russell thought. He had fallen among comrades.

'So how does the American Government mean to help us?' Hornak asked.

'What is it you need?'

'At the moment, nothing. For now we just try to annoy them. Let their tyres down, cut their telephone wires. Anything more will be suicide - we know this. But when the real war begins, well, we shall see. I think the Germans will be very successful - the Poles won't last more than a few weeks.' He laughed. 'Which will serve them right, yes, for joining all the other jackals and stealing a part of our country from us. But the Germans - the more successful they are, the harder their task will become. Because each battle will cost them soldiers, and each conquered country will need a garrison, and they will get weaker, not stronger. And that is when we shall start fighting them, and when we will need help from outside - the explosives and the guns.'

'America will provide these things.'

'Yes? But how will they get these things to us? We are already surrounded by enemies.'

'Air-drops, I suppose, once radio communications have been established. I'm not here to set anything up - I'm just here to make contact, find out what you need, and how you can be reached in the future. We need a dead letter drop, an address and false name to write to. You understand the book code?'

'I think so, but tell me.'

'Both parties have the same edition of the same book,' Russell began, with the distinct impression that he was teaching Stalin's grandmother to suck eggs. 'Words are picked out by numbers. So 2278 would be either page 2, line 27, word 8 or page 22, line 7, word 8 - whichever makes more sense of the message. You understand?'

'It seems simple. Have you chosen a book?'

'The Good Soldier Schweik, fourth edition in Czech. That's the current edition. I bought one in the big bookshop on Na Poikopi this afternoon - they had several copies. You must buy one, and I'll send mine back to Washington.'

'All right.'

'Now all we need is a name and address.'

Hornak thought about it for a moment. 'Here is good,' he said at last. 'The Skorepka Cafe. Milan Nemecek.'

Russell could see no risk in writing it down for memorising later.

'Is there anything else?' Hornak asked.

'I don't think so,' Russell said, returning the pencil stub to his shirt pocket and rising to his feet. He doubted whether anything would come of this meeting, but a possibility had been created. Which had to be worth something.

This marginal sense of achievement lasted about ten seconds. As the two men shook hands, both recognized the swelling sound of vehicles. Hornak stood there, still holding Russell's hand, as the cafe door burst open, revealing Bejbl's silhouette. 'Gestapo,' he hissed, and slammed it shut.

'This way,' Hornak said urgently, reaching for the third door. It opened into an unlit corridor, which led to another small courtyard, another set of double doors. Hornak opened one of these, put his head round the corner, and gestured Russell to follow him out. They were in a long, curving alley lit by yellow lamps. Hornak headed right, away from the shouts and running motors. 'Quietly,' he told Russell, settling into a brisk walk. They had only gone a few metres when two shots rang out, followed by a single shriek and more shouting. Both men jerked round, but the alley behind them was empty. As they walked on, a little quicker than before, the lighted windows above them winked out in sequence, like letters in a neon sign.

They were no more than ten metres from the end of the alley when a voice from behind them screamed, 'Halt!' Two German soldiers were jogging down the alley towards them. They were about sixty metres away, Russell reckoned. And their rifles weren't raised.

'Run,' Hornak said, taking off with an alacrity that belied his size.

Russell hesitated for a split second, and took off after him, sprinting through the narrow archway at the end of the alley. No shots followed.

Hornak was ahead of him, barrelling down a long and depressingly straight alley. Feet pounding on the cobbles, Russell's brain still had time to do the mathematics - the Germans would have around thirty metres to kill them in. Four seconds maybe. Oh God.

He strained every muscle to go faster, petrified that he might trip on an uneven cobblestone. The street seemed to end in a solid wall, or was that an archway in the corner? Hornak was still plunging onwards, his boots crashing down on the cobblestones. The urge to turn and look back was almost unbearable.

It was an archway. Twenty metres, ten, and a window in front of him shattered, the sound of the shot reverberating down the alley a millisecond later. As he swerved under the arch, two more bullets thudded into a wooden doorway. The bastards had missed him!

He was running past the church and cafe he'd noticed on his walk with Bejbl. The last few cafe customers had been brought to their feet by the shots, and were now standing by their tables, like sculptures of uncertainty.

Another archway brought them to an intersection. As they raced across it Russell could hear the sound of other running feet. From more than one direction.

The alley opposite was the narrowest yet, curving this way and that under the dim yellow lamps. The spires silhouetted against the starfield belonged to Our Lady Of Tyn, Russell realized - they were heading towards the Old Town Square.

Another turn, another thirty metres, and they were running across it. Russell half-expected to see the Gestapo car from earlier parked mid-Square, but the only occupants were Czechs turned to stone by his and Hornak's dramatic appearance. As his feet rapped across the cobblestones, Russell saw them drag themselves into action, moving towards the nearest exits with increasing purpose.

Hornak was heading for the left hand side of the church, and the alley from which Bejbl had emerged two hours earlier. They reached it without shouts or shots, and Russell risked a swift look back. The pursuit was nowhere to be seen - had they shaken it off in those last few alleys before the square?

Hornak was turning into another alley and slowing to a jog. He was breathing heavily, Russell realized, but there was a grim smile of satisfaction on his face.

One more alley and he slowed to a walk. Russell gratefully followed suit, feeling the stitch in his side. His own breathing was more laboured than Hornak's, and his heart was racing. He promised himself he would use the car less often when he got back to Berlin. If he got back to Berlin.

'Now we must look like innocent people,' Hornak ordered.

A succession of empty streets brought them within sight of a much larger thoroughfare. Two people walked across the opening, a man and a woman arm in arm. Ordinary life, Russell thought, but the relief was short-lived. The sound of an approaching vehicle had both men scurrying for the shelter of a shadowed doorway, and they watched as a car drove slowly past on the main road, its side-painted swastika gleaming in the yellow light.

It was cruising alone, and had vanished by the time they reached the wider street. Russell followed Hornak across, wondering, for the first time, where they were headed.

'Not far now,' the Czech replied.

A few minutes more and the familiar canopy of Masaryk Station appeared in front of them.

'I know where I am now,' Russell said. 'I can get back to the hotel from here.'

'No, please,' Hornak said. 'We must find out what happened. My office is just a short way. Please.'

Looking back, Russell found it hard to believe how meekly he bowed to the Czech's insistence. The only reasons he ever came up with were simple curiosity and good manners, neither of which, in retrospect, seemed worth risking his life for.

They turned left into the long yard adjoining the station. A couple of inlaid sidings ran the length of the yard, and a short rake of tarpaulin-covered wagons were stabled beside one of the small cranes. A line of parked lorries stood between them and a row of darkened offices and storehouses.

It suddenly occurred to Russell why Hornak had insisted on his presence. 'We must find out what happened,' he had said. Someone had tipped off the Germans about their meeting. And as far as Hornak was concerned, he was a prime suspect.

His heart lurched a beat or two. Turning and running seemed ridiculous, but so did happily walking into peril.

'This is it,' Hornak said, as they reached what was almost the last door in the row. The Czech pushed it open, and invited his companion in. It was all very friendly, but Russell had the distinct impression that refusal was never an option.

Hornak shut the door behind them and closed the shutters before turning on a desk lamp. Filing cabinets filled the spaces between three desks; railway diagrams and a Picture Post gallery of Greta Garbo pictures adorned the walls. 'We shall wait here. It won't be long.' He walked across to the sink, ran some water into a tin kettle, and placed it on an electric ring. 'Tea will be good,' he added, as if to himself. 'We have had a shock, I think.'

Russell watched Hornak scoop tea into a pot, rinse out a couple of enamel mugs and check that there was still some sugar in its tin. 'Where did you meet your English friends?' he asked.

Hornak hesitated a few moments before answering. 'In Spain,' he said eventually.

'The International Brigade?'

'Yes. Almost two years. I came back in '38 to fight the Germans, but the British and French sold us out. In Spain too, come to that.' He moved the kettle slightly on the electric hob. 'You sound more English than American,' he added, with only the slightest hint of accusation.

'My father was English. My mother's American.' The temptation was there, but Russell resisted telling his life story. This didn't seem the time to start explaining his residence in Hitler's Germany.

The kettle was boiling. Hornak poured water into the pot and stirred it with a large spoon. A stained piece of cloth provided a strainer, and after adding two huge heaps of sugar to each mug he carried one across to Russell.

'So how did you come to do this work?' Hornak asked, leaning back against a desk and carefully sipping at the scalding tea.

'I'm a journalist. We get asked to help. Times like these, it's hard to say no.'

'I am sure many do.'

'Maybe,' Russell agreed non-committally. Was Hornak complimenting him on his commitment or doubting his story? He took a sip of the sweet tea and burnt his tongue.

'And you believe the Americans are serious?' the Czech said.

'Serious, yes. But whether they know what they're doing, I'm not so sure.'

Hornak raised an eyebrow. 'Should you not be?'

Approaching footsteps saved Russell from answering. It was Bejbl. A single interrogative syllable from Hornak unleashed a torrent of Czech, none of which Russell understood. Bejbl had given him a single dismissive glance, which seemed like good news.

It was. 'We have caught the informer,' Hornak eventually told him in English. 'He was in the cafe and saw me arrive. He was seen using the public phone around the corner. Calling Petschek Palace.' Hornak came over and gave Russell a pat on the back, as if he was congratulating him on his acquittal. 'And the Germans are all over the New Town,' he added. 'So it's a good thing you came with me.'

Bejbl was talking again, having poured himself what was left of the tea. Hornak offered Russell a further translation. 'The informer claims the Gestapo have threatened to take his sister.'

'What about the shots?' Russell asked.

Hornak asked Bejbl, and translated the answer. 'A man was shot in the leg. He panicked and tried to run. Not one of our people,' he added dismissively. He put his empty mug down. 'We are going to see the informer now. A walk up the line, not far. I think you would be wise to come with us. Give the Germans time to pick up a few suspects.'

It seemed like a good idea, or at least the better of two bad ideas. He might get to judge how effective Hornak and his people were. 'All right,' he said.

They let themselves out into the silent yard and walked along beside the rails to the bridge beyond the station throat. Hugging the walls of the short cutting beyond they emerged into a wide expanse of tracks, carriage sidings to one side of the running lines, a large goods yard to the other. A creamy three-quarter moon had risen behind the hill ahead, edging the rails with pale light. One line of carriages was lit up, cleaners at work within, and a locomotive was at work somewhere in the goods yard, its occasional stuttering puff s interspersed with the clanking of buffers. Hornak and Bejbl walked on up the slight incline, talking softly in Czech. A brightly-lit signal box lay ahead, and as they passed it the signalman leaned out of his window to share what sounded like a joke.

A locomotive came under the bridge up ahead. It cut across their path and into the goods yard, the faces of its crew bright orange in the firebox glow. The engine seemed to be free-wheeling, not so much expelling steam as leaking it.

They walked under another bridge and round behind a line of stabled engines. A small door opened into a large brick building, where a ring of silent and enormous-looking locomotives faced each other around an indoor turn-table. Another door led into a repair shop, where two more engines stood astride deep inspection pits. A final door and they were out in the open again, heading for a small building with a large chimney. Mounds of sand were piled either side of it, and a young man with a cloth cap was waiting by the entrance, a burning cigarette cupped in one hand.

The interior was larger than Russell had imagined, and surprisingly light given that the moon and a single bare bulb supplied the only illumination. There were three other men inside. Two of Hornak's men were just behind the door; the informer, an ordinary-looking man of around thirty with short dark hair, thin moustache and glasses, was standing in the sand-drying pan. He was visibly shaking, and the sight of Hornak did nothing to calm him down. Hornak's first question evoked a long but surprisingly passionless answer, as if the man had already lost hope.

Hornak turned to his four comrades with a query. Any reason to spare him? was Russell's later guess. Now he saw only the nodding heads, heard the involuntary whimper of the condemned man.

Hornak looked at his watch and said something that started with the Czech word for 'ten'. One of the others started talking, and soon they were all at it, apparently oblivious to both Russell and the informer.

About ten minutes had gone by when the sound of a train reached his ears. As it grew louder, Hornak put out his hand, and one of the others handed him an army pistol. Hornak walked onto the sand-dryer and said something to the informer. He started to protest, but suddenly the energy seemed to drain away from him, and he sunk to his knees. The train was almost on them now, rasping and roaring its way up the slope. Russell saw Hornak pull the trigger and saw the body jerk forward, but he hardly heard the shot.

He just stood there, tongue suddenly dry in his mouth, watching the dark blood seep into the sand. Outside a long line of wagons clanked by, the frenetic breath of the locomotive fading into the distance.

'Jan here will see you get back to your hotel,' Hornak shouted over the din. 'He is a student - speaks good English. And his brother is a taxi driver.' He shifted the gun to his left hand to offer his right.

Russell shook it, but his eyes betrayed him.

'We shall look after his sister,' Hornak said simply. He gave Russell one last penetrating look, and turned away.

'Come,' the young man said, and led the way outside.

The last of the wagons were rolling by, a guard with a glowing pipe standing out on his brake van's veranda.

'How far are we going?' Russell asked once the din had begun to recede.

'Only a few minutes,' Jan said. 'A bad business,' he added, as they climbed the steps towards the road.

'Same time every night,' Russell said, more to himself than his companion.

'The Ostrava freight? It always leave at one. Night-workers use it to check their clocks.'

They walked on.

'What was his name?' Russell asked after a while.

'Zameenik.'

'What will they do with the body?'

The young man gave him a surprised glance, as if this was a particularly stupid question. 'Burn it in a locomotive.'

Jan's brother Karel was due to start his shift at six, and his wife refused to wake him before five, so Russell slept for a couple of hours in one of the parlour armchairs, long enough to stiffen up without feeling noticeably rested. Karel was obviously several years older than Jan, and a good deal heavier. He seemed remarkably cheerful, though, for someone who started work at five in the morning. 'What's the story?' Jan asked. 'If we get stopped, I mean. Where did we pick you up?'

'Do you know anyone in America?' Russell asked. 'Or England?'

'A cousin in London, I think.'

'Say I brought you news from him, and stayed the night.'

'What news?'

They concocted a story between them as Karel drove the Skoda towards the city centre, but didn't need it: the streets were still mostly empty of Czechs, and the Germans had apparently tired of driving round in circles.

Russell walked through the doors of the Europa with some trepidation, half-expecting leather coats in the lobby. There was only a dozing receptionist though, and Russell managed to extract the room key from its hook without waking him. He used the stairs rather than the squeaky lift and let himself into his room. No one was waiting for him. The Gestapo was either ignorant of his participation in the previous night's fun and games, or they were still gathering witness statements. No one in the cafe had seen him, he told himself. The pursuing Germans hadn't seen his face. The chances of being recognized and reported by a Czech passer-by were infinitesimal.

That said, a swift departure from Prague still seemed the prudent course. There was a train at nine, he remembered.

He took a bath, packed, and stood by the window watching the traffic increase. At eight o'clock he went downstairs to check out. The day receptionist was busy with a pastry and had a huge cup of coffee steaming beside her. She took Russell's crowns, stamped his bill and handed him a crumb-flaked copy.

The sky outside was an innocent shade of blue, the temperature close to perfect. He walked down Jindoisska and Dladzena Streets to Masaryk Station, and finally found a German-speaking clerk willing to change his ticket. Out on the concourse he watched prospective passengers walk to their trains with no apparent scrutiny. The usual pair of German soldiers were chatting by the entrance, but there was no sign of the Gestapo.

He boarded the train a couple of minutes before departure, and settled himself in an empty first class compartment. Two German officers swam into view, giving his heart an unwelcome jolt, but moved on to claim the adjoining compartment. They were going home on leave, Russell overheard, and pleased about it.

The train jerked into motion, and Russell sat by the window, retracing his walk from the night before. Both goods yard and locomotive depot were hives of activity, one locomotive pumping smoke as it eased forward in the shed yard. He couldn't help wondering whether it was just burning coal.

He thought about Hornak, and about the Americans. Could the people he'd met in New York really be thinking beyond a war that hadn't even begun? Were they really so worried about the communists? And more to the point, did they really believe that there were people out there who would fight Hitler for them, and then turn round and save them from Stalin? If so, they were dreaming. As far as Russell could see, the only people in Europe with the stomach for a fight were the communists.

Not his problem, he told himself. Hornak and the Americans would doubtless get whatever they could from each other, and any benefit the rest of the world derived from their arrangement was up to the gods. He gazed out of the window at the Bohemian countryside until his eyelids began to droop.

He was woken by an official at the new and largely specious border between Reich and Protectorate, but not required to leave his seat. As the train wound its way round the curves of the upper Elbe he noticed the stream of overladen lorries heading into Germany. How to win friends and influence people, he thought. Stage One - invade their country. Stage Two - steal everything they owned.

The train pulled into Dresden soon after eleven-thirty, and Russell decided on impulse to break his journey. He checked his suitcase into the left luggage and took a cab to the city's Museum of Hygiene. Several years earlier a friend had told him how wonderful it was, and now it seemed like something he could bring his son to one weekend, something German which they could both admire and share.

Walking through the rooms he could see what his friend had meant. There were imaginative exhibits on anatomy, physiology and nutrition, a life-size transparent man whose organs lit up when the appropriate button was pressed. There were models demonstrating muscular movements, a room devoted to vocal organs with an explanation of how tones and timbres were produced, an apparatus for testing the lung capacity of any visitor willing to blow through a cardboard tube.

There was also, as Russell discovered on turning a corner, a new group of exhibits, put together with the same loving care and painstaking attention to detail as all the others, explaining the biological inferiority of the Jew.

He turned on his heel and sought the way out to fresher air.

Another cab carried him back to the station, where a Berlin train was waiting to leave. As it gathered speed towards the capital he sat back, eyes closed, and watched Zameenik's body pitch forward into the sand. The war has already begun, he thought. And everyone has lost.