Текст книги "A Bitter Field"

Автор книги: Ludlow Jack

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The sound of breaking glass was almost immediate and as Cal ran towards the square he could see, in the intervening streets, small knots of Brownshirts busy attacking what he supposed must be Czech homes and businesses, so occupied they ignored him. When he got to the old marketplace, the central square was still crowded but now with a mob baying for what they saw as justice for an oppressed minority.

Veseli stood out easily, his head and forage cap visible from a distance, and Cal made straight for him, barging through a crowd that had no desire to ease his passage, passing open yelling mouths chanting either indistinct Nazi slogans or curses aimed at their Czech neighbours and foreign devils, clearly still under the spell of the euphoria created by Hitler’s speech.

They were facing some hothead who had got himself hoisted above the crowd and was waving a swastika, trying to make himself heard above the din. Cal knew by his contorted face and that flag he was not trying to calm them down but seeking to fire them up to commit some kind of anti-Czech pogrom.

He got to Veseli eventually, standing tall and looking fierce, to find Corrie close by in the company of Jimmy Garvin, the look of fearful greeting in both their eyes evidence of how uncomfortable they found it to be surrounded by a mob of excited ideologues slipping rapidly out of any sense of self-control.

It was hard to believe they could make more noise than previously but the truth was assailing his ears, making it hard to hear what was being shouted at him, and Veseli had to wait till he got closer and repeated himself to be understood.

‘Herr Barrowman, you must get Miss Littleton back to the hotel and keep her there.’

‘Can you give us an escort?’

‘No, I cannot be seen to.’

That was followed by an exchange of looks that told the Czech agent that the safe had been successfully blown and it was testament to his ability to control his emotions that he did not smile.

There was no time to argue about protection, so Cal grabbed Corrie’s arm and yelled to Jimmy to stay close, then began to elbow his way back in the direction from which he had come, finding himself more than once faced with some slavering and fist-shaking German, of both sexes, disinclined to allow them passage; it would have been impossible had he not spoken their language and even then it was not easy.

More than once he was tempted to let go of Corrie and give one of the men an uppercut but there were two constraints on that: first, he might lose her in such a packed crowd, and secondly, if he struck one of these maddened bastards he might find he had to fight them all; that was the way of mobs.

It began to thin towards the rear, they were all facing that flag-waving lunatic, but now there was a bit of clear space they found themselves being eyed suspiciously, which Cal countered by yelling ‘Sieg Heil!’ and throwing out his arm, getting a like response every time.

Looking back, he saw Jimmy Garvin had been grabbed by a burly local dressed in lederhosen and was being shaken. The temptation to abandon the little sod was one that had to be buried; he knew too much, and added to that was an inability to stand by and watch anybody being bullied by anyone, anywhere.

Putting both hands on Corrie to keep her still, that accompanied by a hard look, he went back to help the cub reporter who, foolishly, was yelling in English, which was probably what had got him into bother in the first place.

Cal yelled in the man’s ear to ask him to let the boy go, only to have him turn and spit in his face. The head butt might be known as a ‘Glasgow kiss’ but it was a fighting strategy close to every Scottish schoolboy’s birthright. Cal’s forehead hit the German nose right on the bridge and the blood was immediate, as was the way he dropped the struggling Jimmy.

Cal stepped back to give himself room and planted his foot hard in the assailant’s leather shorts before grabbing a bewildered Jimmy and telling him to get moving, the one obvious danger being that the assault had not gone unnoticed. This being a situation that would not be solved by a Nazi salute, Cal hauled out his hunting knife to warn anyone against interfering.

‘Corrie, get moving and run,’ he shouted, backing away from a trio, who with knotted and furious faces had come to their comrade’s aid. ‘Get to the hotel and stay there.’

There were other shouts and they were coming from a group of men closing slowly in on him and he could not fight them all. Added to that, the blood-spattered fellow he had hit was groggily getting to his feet, swaying and in pain, revenge in his eyes.

He could outrun them and so probably could young Jimmy Garvin, the problem was Corrie and the shoes she was wearing, which had heels, not high, but were very much not the kind of footwear conducive to flight. He had, of course, not considered that she might come to the same conclusion.

The scream of ‘Run, Cal!’ came from behind, but what told him it was possible was first one of her shoes, then the other, flying past his ear, both aimed at German heads. They did nothing but impose a minor distraction but that was enough for him to turn and go, glad to see that she had not waited but set off and opened up a bit of a gap.

It might not have worked but for a burst of rapid gunfire which broke out. Cal thought it ahead of him, but in a built-up area with the sound able to reverberate there was no way of being sure, though looking back he saw the noise had imposed a check on the pursuit, either out of confusion or the notion of being shot had cooled their Nazi ardour.

Whatever, it created enough of an opening to give him confidence he could get to the garage and root out that Mauser, where if he did and they were still following he would not hesitate to shoot to kill. Looking back in the direction he was heading Cal saw that Jimmy was not being brave; he was well ahead of Corrie, his knees pounding, and the distance was opening, which if he carried on would take him to the station square.

‘Corrie, down that alley on your right!’ His free hand was in his pocket rooting out his keys. ‘Go in the back door, it’s quicker.’

The firing was sporadic but constant now, single shots that indicated maybe some of the Czechs were fighting back, but of more concern was that a couple of those in pursuit had not been fully deterred, and even over his own breathing he could hear their boots on the cobbles and worryingly they seemed to be getting closer.

About to dive into the garage, the sound of a revving engine echoing in the cavernous building slowed him enough to stop him being knocked over; a car shot out of the doorway, proving clearly Henlein was not the only one fleeing Cheb, but thankfully the car give him a breather because as it pulled out it went in the direction of his pursuers and they too had to slow to avoid a collision.

They had stopped in the doorway by the time he got the car door open, two well-built brutes and one of them had a club. In silhouette he could not see their faces but he guessed they would be smiling at the fact that he was probably trapped. Quickly he knelt, pulled out the Mauser and stood again, the weapon hidden behind the car door.

One of the pair was cursing him, his breath heaving from his exertions, but over that, also amplified by the nature of the building, was the sound of a club slamming into his palm. The words were chilling: not only were they going to beat him to a pulp but they intended to string him up to a lamp post, having cut off his balls and fed them to the dogs.

Callum Jardine was not by nature a cold-blooded killer; in the heat of the moment he would shoot a man to preserve his own life but rarely had he shot anyone out of hand. Had they not promised him the fate they promised they might have suffered less but their words marked them out as the kind of Nazi thugs he hated most, the kind that would beat an innocent person, a Jew or a dissenter, to death in full public view.

He lifted the Mauser, laid it on the top of the door to steady it, and said softly, ‘Sieg Heil, meine Kameraden.’

Then, at a range of a few feet, he put two bullets into each, filling the garage with echoing sound and sending their bodies hurtling back towards the door. As the echo faded the only sound left was of that club rolling along the concrete floor.

Going through to the front of the hotel, he thought at first it was deserted; certainly the lobby was, looking incongruously peaceful given the continuing sounds of sporadic gunfire from outside. It was almost with a sense of comedy that he palmed the bell on the reception desk, the one used to summon luggage-carrying minions.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Corrie was standing in the doorway to the lounge, barefoot and holding a Martini glass that even had an olive on a stick. ‘First decent Martini I’ve had since Prague. You want I should make you one, Doc?’

‘I prefer Cal and a good whisky, but dare I say it is not safe to be standing here in the lobby right now? We’d be better off up in my room.’

‘Why yours?’

‘It overlooks the square, so we can see what’s happening.’

‘Why do I have the impression you know what’s happening?’ Cal shrugged and in doing so moved the pistol in his hand, which drew her eye. ‘I looked for you in the market square while that speech I could not understand was driving me crazy, but you were nowhere to be seen.’

‘I had a little business to do.’

‘The rod being part of it?’ she asked, looking at the weapon again.

‘It wasn’t supposed to be. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll explain.’

‘Lead on.’

He went to take her hand and lead her up the stairs but that was withheld. ‘I’ll wait for the explanation.’

‘You were in no danger, Corrie, I made sure of that.’

‘Well I have to tell you,’ she replied, her icy demeanour shattered and her eyes beginning to look tearful, ‘it sure as hell did not feel that way.’

The front door of the hotel burst open and Cal dropped to one knee as a reflex, the pistol coming up in both hands. Jimmy Garvin, looking dishevelled and as if the hounds of hell were on his tail, stopped dead, emitted a small moan and began to mouth a plea for mercy.

‘Thanks for looking after Corrie, Jimmy,’ Cal said, standing. ‘I won’t forget to tell your friends how intrepid you are.’

At least he was decent enough to look abashed as Cal commanded them to get out of the well-lit lobby.

‘No lights,’ he said as they slipped through the door. ‘Go over to the window and sit under the sill with your back to the wall.’

‘Why?’ asked the ingenuous young Jimmy.

‘Safest place when there are bullets flying about.’

He himself went to look out and the first thing he saw was a line of what had to be Czech police being deployed, taking up their positions, fully armed and lined up outside the entrance to the station, which indicated to Cal the first batch of the army would probably be coming in by train.

‘So?’ Corrie asked. ‘Do I get my explanation?’

‘Later, when Big Ears is not listening; right now we sit it out till the Czech army gets here.’

‘They’re coming?’ Jimmy asked, taking the silence as an affirmative.

‘How do you know?’

‘Do you ever stop asking questions?’

‘It’s what we do, Doc.’

‘Why do you call him Doc?’

‘Because, Jimmy,’ she replied, her tone bitter, ‘he’s a cartoon character, not real.’

How do you tell someone, especially with a third person present, that your life works in different boxes? She was feeling used and probably abused, so he went over and knelt beside her, whispering, ‘I know you’re angry and I can guess why, but just hold it all in for a while and when we’re alone I will tell you enough to reassure you that you were never in any danger.’

‘Then who was I running from?’

‘You throw your shoes at people, they get mad, Corrie.’

Her shoulders began to heave; it was funny and worthy of a laugh, but that soon turned to sobs as the pent-up fears surfaced and took over. He took her in his arms and held her close until they subsided and he got her onto the bed and told her to sleep, holding her hand until she went under.

‘Can you hear a train?’ Jimmy hissed, a few minutes later.

He was right, faint but unmistakable was the puffing of a steam engine, which grew louder until it was overtaken by the screeching of braking steel wheels. That was followed by the sound of shouting and both Cal and Jimmy watched as the troops emerged from the station to form up behind the screen of policemen.

‘Are those machine guns?’ Cal nodded. ‘Is there going to be a battle?’

‘There will be tankettes coming up the road from Liberec, artillery, and more troops as well. My guess is the Czech Government expected Hitler to declare war in his speech tonight and they intended to be on the move before he was. But the first thing they have to do is put down the locals in places like Cheb.’

‘This I’ve got to see,’ Jimmy insisted, as the troops began to march out of the square.

‘Nazi HQ, Jimmy, is where the main action will be, and don’t get yourself killed.’

As the youngster made for the door, Cal called him back. He had remembered his camera, which he now did not need, that or the film it contained.

‘Take this with you – you never know, you might get something useful.’

With the coming dawn, progress through the roadblock was finally possible and his dip plates as well as his irate insistence got Noel McKevitt priority, albeit not without a warning that there could be fighting up ahead. Delivered in German, he understood it; given twenty minutes later to Vince Castellano in Czech, all he could do was look understanding and nod silently before heading on up the road to Cheb.

There was no way of getting up any speed for either man and it was not just because of the amount of traffic, brought about by the hold-up. The army might not be moving, but by their mere presence they created endless bottlenecks, as trucks, horse-drawn artillery pieces, petrol and water bowsers, tankettes and all the paraphernalia of an army on the march did their best to tell the world they did not care how much inconvenience they could cause.

Peter Lanchester was awoken to take his morning coffee a couple of hours after they had departed Berlin, and he naturally, being British, enquired if the train would be on time. He was then treated to a level of disdain he had rarely experienced from an irate conductor, a pompous little man in his over-elaborate uniform.

In a mixture of bad and minimal English, mixed with a stream of German he barely understood, he was told in no uncertain terms that on the railway lines of the Reich, every train ran to its exact schedule.

The Paris-Prague Express would reach Eger at 11.15 on the dot. What time it would get to stations further down the line and Prague was down to the less efficient Czechs and he could not guarantee a prompt arrival there.

How Corrie slept through the din of battle amazed Cal but she managed it; the Nazis in Karl Hermann Frank’s headquarters were the most fanatical people in Cheb and would have put up stiff resistance anyway, but there was a chance they were reinforced by those SS troopers Veseli had told him about.

Machine gun fire went on for hours, into full daylight, as well as rifle shots which Cal presumed came both from within and without the heavily fortified building and which added to the clanging as bullets slammed into those steel shutters he had seen on his walk.

Slumber as she could, no one could stay that way when the artillery opened up: first the crump of the firing shell, soon followed by the blast as it smashed into concrete walls. Quietly, in between those noises and with a very necessary filter, Cal told her why he had come and how important it was that he did what he did, though he did not tell her what that was. It was really the way he had deserted her that was upsetting Corrie, especially after the intimacy they had shared the previous day in the woods and her room.

Cal knew enough about women to realise that they invested more heavily in a relationship than most men, which made them more vulnerable to the feeling that they might have made a mistake and allowed themselves to be seduced only for their bodies, not their being.

When they felt like that it was hard to find words that would provide enough reassurance, so Cal took the only way out he knew and to the sound of crumping artillery shells and pinging bullets they made love for the third time in less than a day.

‘Full marks for stamina, Doc,’ Corrie said as they lay quietly. ‘Sorry … Cal.’

‘Listen,’ he said, knowing he had been partially forgiven.

‘It’s gone quiet,’ she said. ‘That means it’s over.’

‘A bit of it is, Corrie, but it’s not over.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘I doubt the cooking staff have shown up, but we can help ourselves.’

Jimmy Garvin was weary but ecstatic, having had a wonderful view of the assault on Frank’s Nazi HQ, and he had used up Cal’s film as soon as there was enough light to focus properly. Now he had to get to somewhere he could write the story and another spot from where he could send it to the news desk in London. The photographs were more of a problem; for that he needed a wire service and that was in Prague.

Still, if he could find a local camera shop he could get them developed. He headed back to the hotel, on his way passing a fair-haired, rather florid man asking a Czech army officer questions, forced to dodge out of the way as an old and oddly shaped car pulled up outside the hotel.

Cal and Corrie were in the dining room eating breakfast and he was invited to join them, but the scream Corrie gave as he made to sit down alarmed Jimmy, until she leapt up, ran to the door and threw her arms around the man standing there, who looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Hello, guv, you been causing bother again?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With the town restored to a sullen peace there was no bar to the Paris-Prague Express stopping at Cheb and it was bang on time, which got him a look from the watch-holding conductor who had stepped from the train to oversee the departure. Like Peter, that fellow was quite taken by the number of soldiers as well as the level of equipment on the platform: ammunition boxes, field rations and quartermaster’s stores.

Stepping out of the station concourse he stopped to look round and was immediately confronted by the sight of the Victoria Hotel, which seemed to have had its windows blown out on one side of the canopy, and it was impossible to miss the sparkling glass that littered the pavement and road, which what little traffic was about, both wheeled and hoofed, was taking care to steer round.

The square was full of army trucks and horse-drawn wagons; knots of men in grey-green uniforms stood or squatted about, and the smell in the air of dust and cordite was one he recognised from his own years of army service – something was going on but he lacked the means to find out what.

No doubt Cal Jardine would enlighten him, though thinking on his man he wondered if he had had anything to do with what smelt like a battle in a place supposed to be at peace, the conclusion being as he stepped out that it was more likely than not, given his propensity to get involved in violence.

It was sheer bad luck that Noel McKevitt was taking a coffee in the now-reopened café, which was crowded with Czech officers who, even if he could not comprehend what they were saying, knew by the backslapping and loud jokes they were congratulating themselves, and since he had enquired of an officer outside earlier he knew why.

He was watching the Victoria Hotel from one of the windows, obliged, in order to see clearly, it being cold outside, to rub off the steam caused by the heat of massed humanity. McKevitt was too long in the tooth an SIS man to just barge in; he had no idea who this Barrowman was, or how dangerous he could be in contact – he could be anybody.

What he did know was that the means to find out if he was a resident in the Victoria was lacking; he had taken a slow walk by the guarded entrance and observed through the windows that lay either side of the double front doors that the lobby was deserted to the point of there being no staff. One of the staircases was guarded too but few people had gone in, bar a young fellow swinging a camera on its strap and the driver of a rather battered old Tatra.

The elegant gait of Peter Lanchester took his eye, but with his back to McKevitt no more than that. What made him stand out was his doubt about where the cars were coming from in a foreign country, something he had struggled with in France, only to realise it was similar to home. But in double-checking he turned his head and the sight of his unmistakable profile caused the Ulsterman to swear.

But there was a real plus; Lanchester made straight for the hotel entrance and went through the identification procedure, which told McKevitt two things: that this fellow travelling as Barrowman was connected to him and, as he had suspected, the bastard was messing around in his backyard. The next question was how to deal with that knowledge.

‘What is this?’ Peter exclaimed as he came through the entrance to the lounge and saw who was sitting there, now drinking coffee. ‘A gathering of the clans?’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I came, Callum, dear boy, to tell you your cover has been blown.’

‘He knows that, guv,’ said Vince, grinning, ‘I’ve just told him so.’

‘You got the telegram I sent you?’

The ‘No’ was explained when Vince told him how long he’d been on the road.

‘A quiet word, Cal, if you please.’

‘Don’t I get an introduction?’ asked Corrie. ‘Since you two seem such bosom buddies.’

‘Not “bosom”, but we have scrummaged together. Peter, this is Miss Corrine Little—’

‘No surnames, Cal, the lady is a journalist.’

‘How do you know that?’

All that got was a sharp jerk of the head and the two went into a huddle facing away from the table, to impart the news that McKevitt, whom he was obliged finally to name, was on the warpath, armed and looking for a Mr Barrowman, as well as how he had got onto their tail.

‘I also have instructions from on high to tell you to abort.’

‘No need, I have written proof that Hitler intends to invade, the date, and a list of targets the Sudeten Nazis are to sabotage to help him, signed by Schicklgruber himself.’

‘And where is this wonderful bit of kit?’

‘Later, when we are a bit less of a crowd.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘No one here.’

‘Who’s the young chap?’

‘Jimmy Garvin, a journalist, works with Vernon Bartlett.’

‘Cal, old boy, you’re mixing in the wrong company.’

That’s all you know, Peter, Cal thought; that little bugger is going to write up the story and get it into his newspaper so that Chamberlain cannot sit on it, which he might just do given his record so far. That had been the deal, though Jimmy had no idea what he was going to be allowed to see.

Typical of his breed he had only finally agreed when he was promised Corrie, still getting dolled up in the bathroom, was not privy to the same story; he might be young but he was a fast learner and Cal suspected that Vernon Bartlett would not get a sniff either.

‘The only question is, Peter, how are we going to get it out? If I try to take it through the airport that risks a search and they are nervous right now.’

‘Diplomatic bag would be best, with me to travel alongside, which I can clear through the Prague legation with a Top Secret tag so I can deliver it straight to Quex.’

‘Mr Jardine?’ Both turned to face Jimmy Garvin. ‘Can I take your camera to get the film developed? I’d rather someone took the spool out who knows what they’re doing.’

‘I think there’s a couple of mine on there, don’t bother with those. But before you go, you might as well join us in a glass of champagne.’

‘How jolly.’

‘I don’t see any staff, Cal.’

‘Neither will you, apart from the odd chambermaid.’

He explained about this being Henlein’s HQ, though he made no mention of the body Czech Intelligence had discovered when they began to search the offices. Right now they were starting to assess all the office files.

‘They’ve already searched the accommodation and allowed us back into our rooms and given us the run of the rest, bar Henlein’s bit. Everyone who worked here is either hiding in their cellar or has fled to Bavaria. So, we help ourselves, which means we will not stint on quality.’

In the end, because they were such patriotic Teutons in the Victoria, they had to settle for a couple of bottles of very good German Sekt and Jimmy, rather lightweight when it came to alcohol, after three glasses of sparkling wine was in a very jolly mood when he finally left to find a camera shop.

Noel McKevitt had gnawed on how to proceed since he saw Peter Lanchester disappear, because it had finally struck him how much he was out on a limb here on his own; he was beginning to curse himself for the way he had told Gibby Gibson that the station was shutting down.

Could he get some of the lads up here to help him? The only way to find out was to call the legation, and that meant abandoning his watch on the hotel. Given there was no alternative he dived into the station and found a phone, at first getting shirty with the Czech operator who pretended not to understand his German when he asked for the number.

‘Gibby, it’s Noel. I need your help up here. How many of the lads are still available?’

‘None.’

‘Wha’d’yer mean “none”?’

‘Orders from Quex in person: stay still, do nothing.’

‘The bastard.’

‘Come in, Noel, come back to Prague.’

‘You think I should?’

‘I think you’ve got to, I’m afraid.’

He did not respond immediately, because he was wondering why the old sod had issued that order and there was only one explanation: it was to try and stop him finding out what he was up to. If there had ever been any doubt it was serious enough to threaten the man’s career, that laid it to rest, and now it looked as though Quex was trying to turn the tables on him. If he went back to Prague he would be bundled back to London in disgrace.

‘You’re right, Gibby. I’ll have a bit of a bite to eat and start heading back.’

Then he hung up, went back to the café and bought himself a Pilsner; he would have to do it alone. The problem was first to find out the identity of Barrowman, then connect him to Peter Lanchester. He had to be another SIS agent, one of those Quex had recently brought back in.

It did not take a genius to work out there was only one way to do it, so he drained his beer, left the café and headed for the centre of town.

* * *

Peter, standing by the Maybach and fingering the signature, was impressed. ‘Cal, this is gold dust, do I get told how you got it?’

‘That will be two dinners you owe me.’

Seeing the look on Peter’s face he laughed, then he told him the story. The folder went back under the seat and the car was locked and they went out into the alley, not without a good look because, as Peter reminded him, McKevitt was on the loose somewhere and he might well be in Cheb.

‘Is that secure, that car?’

‘Yes, and don’t ask why.’

Jimmy was struggling; he only had a little German, zero Czech, was slightly tipsy and the man in the camera shop had no English – he was also impatient because another customer was waiting.

‘D’yer need any help, son?’ Noel McKevitt asked. ‘I have the German if it’ll help. Most folks around here speak two languages.’

‘Golly, what luck. I want the film developed, which he understands, but I don’t want the shots at the beginning. I’m afraid my expenses don’t run to paying for photos I don’t need.’

‘Expenses, is it?’

‘Yes,’ Jimmy replied, with no shortage of pride, ‘I’m a journalist and I managed to photograph the Czech army attack and take the Nazi HQ.’

‘Why, isn’t that grand.’ McKevitt reached past and picked up the Walz 35 mm camera. ‘I’d’ve thought you would have had a bigger camera than this, you being a journalist, and all.’

‘Oh, it’s not mine,’ Jimmy slurred, ‘it’s Mr Jardine’s.’

‘Jardine,’ McKevitt said slowly. ‘I’m sure I know a fella by that name.’

‘Callum Jardine?’

It was like a set of toy bricks falling into place to make a whole: La Rochelle, Lanchester, those machine guns; if Callum Jardine was a man who operated in the shadows, those did not extend to an organisation like the SIS. There was no mystery now as to who Barrowman was. There were still gaps to fill, but they would come when Quex was put out to grass and he had his chair.

Too experienced to let any of that show, he rattled off in German what this young man wanted, then when the shop owner replied, smiled at him and said, ‘They’ll be ready next week.’

‘Oh no,’ Jimmy protested, ‘I want them today.’

‘Best dig deep then, son.’ The face fell but not for long; he would get well rewarded for his story and anyway this stranger was talking. ‘Did I not see you outside the Victoria Hotel this morning, son?’

‘Yes, that’s where Mr Jardine is staying.’ He peered at McKevitt. ‘And I’m sure I saw you as well.’

‘Well, I’m not sure your Jardine is the same fella, but maybe I’ll drop in and say hello.’

‘Shall I tell him?’ Jimmy asked, thinking it was the rather loud sports jacket that he remembered more than the face.

‘No, I might be wrong and if I’m not, well it will be a fine surprise.’

‘Right, Jimmy, the garage,’ Cal barked, heading for the rear exit, leaving Corrie and Vince in the lounge to reminisce about Ethiopia. Peter had gone off to send a cryptic message to Quex to tell him not to fret. ‘You get one look at this, make your notes and that’s it.’

‘What happens to the original?’

‘None of your business, just get your stuff in the paper and make yourself a star reporter.’

Jimmy used the passenger seat and when he had finished his note-taking he was ushered out into the alley. The document was hidden and the car locked before Cal emerged to join him.

‘You going back to Prague in that?’ he asked. Cal nodded. ‘Any chance of a lift?’

‘There’s four of us already,’ Cal replied; then he had a thought. ‘My friend Vince came up in an old Tatra, you can have that to drive back. I take it you can drive?’

‘You have to in my job, nowadays, but who can afford a car?’