‘Get your passport ready, we’re next.’

The man who leant through the window was no boy, he was a grizzled fully grown man with stubble and not much given to smiling as he demanded their papers in a gruff unfriendly way. There was the usual charade of looking several times at the passport photographs and then glaring at the faces, as if that could not be done in one go.

‘This one’s full of charm,’ Corrie said.

Was it the nationalities that had him grunt that they should pull over or Corrie’s plainly displeased attitude to the delay? Flippancy requires no translation. Cal suspected a bit of both, aware that the best way to make a passport checker’s day – and this had nothing to do with the country in which they operated – was to give him an excuse to hold you up and make you sweat. It was even better if you lost your temper.

Cal swung the car out of the line to pull up beside a hut that had about it the temporary look of the many they had seen and eased past without trouble. Their checker had followed them and with another grunt he made a sign that they should get out of the car, to which there was no option but to comply. Being an American, Corrie thought differently.

‘What the hell …?’

‘Quiet,’ Cal snapped, albeit he kept his voice low. ‘Just get out and whatever you do smile sweetly.’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘How does step out of character sound?’ Seeing her swell up for a response he was quick to cut her off. ‘Look, these fellows hold all the cards and they can keep us here as long as they want. Now let us do as he says.’

Forcing a smile Cal got out and went round to help Corrie do the same. Their soldier-checker gave them an unfriendly look, then walked off with an abrupt order to follow and they were led into the hut, where at a desk sat a man who was clearly, by his shoulder boards, an officer.

Their passports and Corrie’s accreditation papers were handed over to him and Grim-face left. As he did so his superior fired off an incomprehensible question.

‘Nejesme české,’ Cal replied, using an expression that had become familiar in the last few days. ‘Mluvite anglicky?’

The officer shook his head and even Cal was thinking he was just playing a stupid game. With the passports he had in his hand he must have reckoned it would be unlikely they would understand him – so few foreigners did.

‘Would a couple of dollar bills help out here?’ Corrie asked; at least her voice was serious.

Cal was quick to squash that. ‘If you really want to upset a Czech try to bribe him. They think it’s what other people do, not them.’ Then he turned to the man still ostentatiously examining the booklets, flicking through the pages as if enlightenment would fly out from the leaves. ‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’

He did not want to say yes – it was a matter of pride – but there was no alternative as Cal, seeing the answer in his eyes, explained who they were and why they were going north: for this fine American journalist to have a look and tell the world the problems the Czechs were having with the German minority.

Even if she did not understand, Corrie guessed he was laying on the charm with a trowel; it was in his face and it was with a slight feeling of shock that she realised she was thinking Callum Jardine was a handsome bastard, more so when he was being nice rather than being sarcastic.

Whatever he had said, the Czech officer answered with a stream of less amiable complaints that went on for some time before handing the passports back and calling for Grim-face, who was outside the door, giving instructions, she supposed, to let them through the barrier.

‘So what was all that about?’

‘Just a general warning not to trust the Germans to tell you the truth.’

‘He took a long time saying it.’

‘There was more, and none of it flattering.’ Cal waved to the men lifting the barrier and gunned the Maybach through to admiring glances from those who dreamt of owning such a car, pointing up ahead as he did so to the gathering dark clouds. ‘Looks like we are heading for some bad weather.’

‘Yep.’

Noel McKevitt was perusing the list his men had got from the Prague hotels in the days before his arrival, marking those he thought most likely. Instinct, even if he acknowledged that he could be wrong, told him the man he was looking for would not be in any of the luxury hotels; if he were operating as he thought his target would, he would find somewhere more discreet.

He had sent for an interpreter called Miklos, who his station chief thought would fit the bill for what he wanted, being tall, well built and with a lived-in face. He was still staring at his ticks when the man arrived.

‘Sit down, Miklos.’

That was responded to nervously; whatever the Czech had been told, and it should have been little, he had no doubt been informed that this was the big chief from London he had been brought to see.

‘I need you to do a bit of play-acting, Miklos. Do you think you could pass for a policeman?’ Sensing the hesitation, Noel McKevitt was quick to add the ultimate bribe and it was not money. ‘I have made it plain in London that we cannot leave behind anyone who has worked for us if the Germans come. If they found out, that person would not live long, I suspect.’

‘No,’ Miklos replied, his seat shifting in the chair as he struggled with what he was being offered.

‘Naturally we control the passport office here and, sure, I can tell you, SIS look after their own.’

‘What is it you want me to do?’

The supposed warrant card, a forgery, would have been unlikely to fool anyone who spoke Czech and demanded to examine it closely, but the way it was flashed under anyone’s nose meant even the locals could be counted on to accept it as genuine, because the question they were asked was so innocuous.

Two men, one of whom did not speak, merely wanted to know the room number of the various British guests in various hotels and when that was supplied, once it was certain the person was in his room, the two men would call on them to check their passports, a natural thing to do at a time of national emergency.

That the fellow asking had talked to some of them before, in the pretence of being an interpreter, the desk clerks who recognised him took as a fitting subterfuge, particularly as the fellow was excessively polite - as befitted a policeman in a democracy and wanted nothing more from them than information the authorities were entitled to.

Miklos was relishing the task, not least because of what it was going to gain him if he could satisfy this big London chief. There was not a person in the country who did not harbour fears for what might be coming – not one, Miklos suspected, who had not at some time thought how good it would be to get out of Czechoslovakia to somewhere safe.

Mr Barrowman and his fellow guest Mr Nolan were not first on the list that McKevitt had ticked, so by the time Miklos and his companion got to Vince Castellano the act was well honed. The knock at the room door was gentle and when it opened there was Miklos smiling, with another bland-faced individual standing a couple of paces away with a clipboard and a pen.

‘Forgive me, Mr Nolan,’ he said, speaking slowly so as to be unthreatening, flashing his forged warrant card so quickly it was a blur. ‘I am from the Czech police. Please do not be alarmed, as we are doing a routine check.’

Vince knew how to soften the Old Bill: be nice to them. ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘That will not be necessary, but I wonder if I could have a look at your passport?’ Seeing Vince’s eyebrows go up a fraction – everyone else had the same reaction – he was quick to add, ‘I am sure you are aware of the number of refugees trying to flee the country, many of them employing false papers.’

‘Are they?’

‘Yes, and to ensure that they do not use those of guests visiting our country we wish to have a list of the numbers, which we can hold to compare against forgeries.’