Vince, again as had others, stood for a moment in consideration of whether to comply, but the man before him was smiling and his eyes looked pleading rather than threatening, so he turned and went to fetch the required document from his coat pocket.

This was taken, examined, then passed to the silent oppo who dutifully wrote down the number against the name, and then it was passed back. ‘I believe your companion, Mr Barrowman, is not in the hotel and left with a bag.’

There was no option but to reply honestly, otherwise they might attract unwelcome attention. ‘He’s gone out of town on business.’

‘Do you have any idea when he will return?’

‘A couple of days, I think. It depends on how successful he is.’

‘Really, it is good to find you and your countrymen still doing trade with us. Might I ask what business you are in?’

‘Chemicals,’ Vince replied, noticing the other fellow with the clipboard was looking impatient.

‘You too are in chemicals?’

‘No, sports equipment, boxing rings.’

‘Then I hope you have success. Enjoy your stay in Prague, Mr Nolan, and please, I see you carry your passport with you – look after it well for it would not be helpful to anyone if it was stolen.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jimmy Garvin got to Cheb long before the car carrying Callum Jardine and Corrie Littleton, though he was unaware of the fact. All he knew was that by jumping off the train as soon as it entered the station and running for the ticket barrier he had a chance to get into a position to see if she followed, unsure what to do when he saw there was no sign of her.

He knew, having looked at his watch as the train drew in, that it was bang on time, which led him to reflect on that often-quoted saw mouthed by those idiots who admired Benito Mussolini, that ‘he had made the trains run on time’. Why was such an accolade never applied to an efficient democracy like Czechoslovakia?

Bartlett had told him about the car she had got into, so he assumed she must be coming by road, so his first task was to find himself somewhere to stay that was not the Victoria Hotel. Being a bit of a spa town, a sort of minor Carlsbad, there were quite a number of places dedicated to those taking the waters and he elected to walk to find one.

The difference outside the station – managed and run by Czechs – was palpable, the buildings flying flags showing more of the black-red-black ensign of the Sudetenland than the far fewer Czech tricolours. Added to that there was a grimness about those people he passed, their looks not aided by the wet weather, albeit, given the puddles in the road, the worst of the downpour had passed and was now just a light drizzle.

The choice of one flying the national flag was deliberate; Jimmy knew the object of Corrie Littleton’s visit and he guessed she would park herself as close to Konrad Henlein as she could.

In a place with few visitors now – no one was coming for the waters in a potential war zone – he soon realised that in the hotel he chose he was the only guest; no wonder he had been greeted and fussed over like a saviour.

In the Maybach the hood was now firmly closed, the heavy rain beating a tattoo on the windscreen with which the small wipers were struggling to cope, creating a cocoon which closed them in and seemed to make more intimate their conversation, with Corrie now talking about her upbringing.

Cal knew she came from Boston but was now treated to the fact that she had gone to Bryn Mawr, which was apparently a prestigious and famous woman-only college in Pennsylvania, right up there with Harvard and Yale.

‘But no boys?’

Corrie laughed. ‘We were told we did not need them.’

‘End of the human race.’

‘To prosper, not procreate, but we could do that too if we went looking.’

‘Did you?’

‘Once or twice.’

The tone of that response was not a joyful one, which made Cal wonder if she had been let down in her past. He couldn’t ask; he was not well enough acquainted for that and it did not fall in the need-to-know category regarding what they might face in Cheb.

‘Is that a petrol pump by the roadside?’ Cal said, peering through the rain, which was as good a way as any of avoiding that subject.

‘What, again?’

They had stopped and filled the car in each sizeable town through which they passed – an eight-litre V12 engine used a lot of fuel – but that was not the reason; Cal liked as full a tank as possible on the very good grounds that you never knew when you were going to need it.

Corrie had broken him down earlier by refusing to be diverted, and in truth he could see that she needed the background she claimed, and he had to admit being married and the circumstances of his attachment. Oddly, like his last days in London, he found his wife a subject he could now discuss without the onset of gloom.

‘I was young and going off to war, Lizzie was beautiful and …’ Cal paused. ‘You have to be facing that kind of thing to know what drives men and women to rush into matrimony.’

‘You mean apart from stupidity.’

‘Was it Doctor Johnson who said “the prospect of hanging concentrates the mind wonderfully”? The Western Front was a bit like that. No one told you but the average survival time of a subaltern when there was a big battle on was about two weeks. I was lucky – I survived.’

‘But you were in love, right?’

‘Very much so, but the time we had was too tight to allow for much investigation of what made us tick. My wife craves excitement.’

‘And you don’t?’ Corrie said with disbelief.

‘Maybe that was the mutual attraction, but my adventures tend to be outdoors.’

That confused her until the message struck home, which produced, ‘Sorry I asked.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘It’s a bitch she won’t give you a divorce. I suppose you’ve been a good boy yourself?’

He was not going there; one, he had not been and two, if you’re a gentleman you don’t boast about your conquests. Besides there was an affair he wanted to avoid mentioning because that would still be painful.

‘I hope you are not preparing a profile for your magazine.’

‘Make a good one, especially if you have had lots of love affairs. International adventurer with the soft heart of a romantic poet.’

Cal was suddenly very serious. ‘Don’t ever go thinking I have a soft heart, Corrie, because I haven’t. If you run my name through your records I suspect it will come up even in the USA.’

‘Why not save me the time?’

‘It doesn’t make for contentment.’

‘Sounds like you did something real bad.’

‘It was,’ Cal replied, not seeking to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Another checkpoint ahead, so go to work on your smile.’

‘Physician heal thyself.’

‘You’re right,’ Cal replied; memory of the blood-spattered wall of his marital bedroom had made him glare.

‘Right,’ McKevitt snapped, looking at the first replies that had come back from Miklos. ‘Get those numbers off by telegram to the passport office in London. I want the names on them checked for anything that isn’t right and I want a rocket up their arse so they don’t just bury it.’

‘You still have not told us what it is you are after, Noel.’

McKevitt looked up at Major ‘Gibby’ Gibson, the Prague station chief, and gave him the coldest stare he could, which was coming it a bit high with a man of his age and experience, some twenty years in the service and an unblemished record.

‘There are things you don’t need to know, Gibby, but when you do you will be informed.’

Gibson wanted to reply that this was his patch, even if the fellow he was talking to was the man who ran the London Desk and, though junior in years, his superior. Though a hierarchy like any other government body, the SIS ran on slightly different lines and it was simply not done to override a station chief, and even worse to do so in such a public manner as to undermine his local authority. McKevitt in briefing everyone had done just that.