‘Is this about running guns, Noel?’

Peter heard a single sound that he supposed was laughter, though it equated more to a cough. ‘Not my concern; as you know, my patch is Czech land and environs but you have been there and I have not, at least for years, so …’

It was too much of a coincidence; I get a telegram from Prague, then a call from McKevitt, but if that was the connection, turning down the invite would make him even more suspicious than he clearly was already.

‘Can’t do this morning, how about after lunch?’

‘Best make it three-thirty, then, I have a meet arranged that might take me till then.’

He was still pondering on that when the door opened and a messenger entered with a slip of paper, which was handed over, an answer to his request to Quex to be told how many people were on station for the SIS in Prague.

Usually it would be two at best for such a troubled location, more likely one in normal times, it being a bit of an intelligence backwater, while the likes of a major capital might run to a trio or even four if there was trouble brewing. Prague at present had six, four having been hauled in from the neighbouring stations at the request of McKevitt after the May mobilisation of the Czech army.

It was quite indicative of the surprise Quex had felt that he had followed the number six with three exclamation marks; that meant the Ulsterman had increased the Prague staffing without clearing it with his boss, which was stretching his level of accountability somewhat. Would Quex have him in for a haul over the coals or would he do what normally happened, quietly seethe and say nothing, putting it in the memory bank for a later date?

There was never a good time to run an external intelligence service but now was particularly bad, given the way appeasement was pulling things in two directions. By its very nature MI6 required as staff people who, though they might rank as misfits, could think for themselves and often act without instructions, while keeping your cards close to your chest, even with colleagues, was essential. The idea in theory was that everything came together at the top; in practice it was often the very opposite.

Yet Peter’s main concern was to get an answer to Cal. He had said it was important, so the first stop when he left the office at lunchtime was the post office, where he sent a telegram with the single significant letter.

Moravec came on the phone for a second time, again not identifying himself, to arrange another meeting at the same location and time, surprised when Cal insisted on knowing which entrance he would use. It was only catching him on the hop that got an answer, as well as the hint no meeting was possible without the information.

The question came about through what had been talked about the previous evening, once they had established that Cal had not been followed back to the Meran Hotel; what to do about Corrie Littleton was less pressing than nailing what was happening with Moravec.

Vince was adamant there had been no sign of a tail on the way to the cathedral, only afterwards, which implied Cal had been picked up because of the meeting and possibly tailed speculatively rather than because of any direct suspicion, though why that should be someone who was English was too much of a mystery to even go near.

Yet could they assume that the man who had followed Cal had been alone? Had someone stayed with Moravec, which implied the kind of resources that had prompted the telegram sent to London? With or without an answer something had to be done about it. Cal had been lucky to get clear once, it would be tempting providence to expect to do so twice.

‘The only solution, guv, is to get there ahead of your man and see what he brings with him.’

Cal nodded slowly. ‘If it’s two we leave without making contact.’

‘And if it’s only one?’

All that got was a slow grin as Cal picked up the phone and asked to be connected to the Ambassador Hotel. The card from the restaurant where he and Vince had eaten was on the table, and once he got through he arranged to meet Corrie there that evening, though when she asked the name he was obliged to spell out both that and the address; Czech was a language that imposed that on visitors.

Wanting to get to St Vitus’s Cathedral early he and Vince took a cab to the main railway station, then after a walk through the concourse they exited to take another up to Hradčany, paying the cab off away from the castle and entering to take up a position which gave them a good view of the huge open square before the Golden Gate entrance to the church.

Too extensive a space to be crowded on a weekday, they spotted Moravec easily as he walked into the square – from what they could see, without minders of his own. It was Vince who pointed out the man following him some twenty paces back, the same ‘geezer’ he had spotted on Cal’s tail the day before. It still did not make sense to either of them but that was by the by; the man had to be got rid of to avoid a repeat.

Moravec went straight in through the high and imposing doors, followed by his tail and in turn by Cal and Vince, who split up once they were inside, making their way up separate sides of the nave. The Czech Intelligence chief was by the same pillar as before and as he opened his mouth to speak Cal cut him off.

‘Why would anyone from British Intelligence be tailing you?’

‘I not understand.’

If the explanation was swift, Moravec’s smile was slow, though he did nod with understanding as Cal related how the man had been overheard on the phone. As they were speaking Vince was approaching the very same person outside one of the numerous small chapels, a smile of enquiry on his face and a cigarette in his left hand, which he waved before his lips and pointed in the universal signal that he wanted a light.

If his man were a staunch Catholic he would object that to smoke in a cathedral was sacrilege, disrespectful in the extreme. He wasn’t, because he nodded, patted one of his pockets, then reached into it, his eyes on those of the still silent Vince and so unaware of the clenched fist that was just about to crack him right on the point of his jaw.

In the seconds that this silent exchange had taken place Moravec had gone from a smile to a low chuckle. ‘English? The language none in my office speak. German yes, French too, Czech obviously …’

If smoking in a cathedral was uncouth, shouting at the top of your voice had to come a close second. Vince was looking over a lit match, the cigarette in his lips, fist poised and his feet in place for the very necessary stand and balance that you require to deliver a blow that would knock out a man.

It got to be no more than an extended twitch, because he heard his name and the following ‘No!’ echoing around the huge church, in a voice so loud and reverberating that it must have stopped every other visitor in their tracks and made those saying their prayers wonder if God had decided to speak to them.

That had Vince looking around and shrugging in embarrassment, before holding up the cigarette and spinning away. He had taken only a few steps when he saw Cal walking hurriedly towards him looking concerned, an attitude that evaporated as he observed that Vince’s proposed victim was still standing. Yet concentration was not allowed to slip – they did not address each other, Cal doing a forgotten-something mime before retracing his steps, Vince on his heels.

‘He’s Moravec’s minder,’ Cal hissed as soon as they were out of view. ‘He only followed me to see if I went back to the embassy.’

‘He came close to being a crock of shit.’

‘Swearing in a church?’

‘I like that,’ Vince replied, irritated. ‘I can’t swear but I’m allowed to knock a bloke spark out. So what’s happening?’

‘Don’t know yet. I best go back and find out.’

He did, but Moravec was gone.