‘Well that suits me, Fräulein, I need to work up some notes.’

Cal noted the tone of Corrie’s voice, which was not friendly, but it perfectly matched the utterly insincere smile with which the Ice Maiden responded; it was cold enough to freeze a volcano.

There was something in the air and Cal knew what it was: the Ice Maiden was smiling at him but not at her, which reminded him of the atmosphere Lizzie created when she saw a rival, something she was inclined to spot often and at a hundred paces. His wife could not bear it that anyone around her should be able to compete for male attention.

The Ice Maiden, even if he did not know her, was doing the same, but why was Corrie Littleton reacting in the way she did?

‘I am sure you know already, Fräulein Littleton, what it is you want to ask our leader. A typewriter and paper will be sent to your room, Fräulein Littleton, along with ample paper so you may write up your article.’

‘I was just going to make notes and do the composition when I get back to Prague.’

‘But our leader would be very interested to see what you write.’

‘And no doubt make some suggestions for alterations.’

‘He must be careful not to be misrepresented.’

‘I am used to my own machine.’

‘If you struggle with what we send you, I am sure we can find someone to type for you.’

‘Your kindness overwhelms me,’ Corrie said, with very sweetly delivered irony.

‘Might I suggest,’ Fräulein Metzer said to Cal, her face going from frosty to smiling, ‘that you dine in the hotel and we will set a time for tomorrow.’

‘Sunday?’

‘With the amount of things happening in our poor land everyone must work, even on a supposed Holy Day.’

‘Time to freshen up,’ Corrie said, finishing her drink and glaring at the German woman. ‘I’m feeling a little soiled.’

‘I take it a promenade after dinner would not be forbidden?’ Cal asked, his tone pleasant to cover for Corrie’s acidity.

The Ice Maiden’s big blue eyes got bigger. ‘What a strange expression, Herr Barrowman; how can such a thing as going for a walk be forbidden in a free country?’

Jimmy Garvin was sitting at the café attached to the station, wondering if he could avoid buying another beer and wishing he had the kind of expenses that went to the Vernon Bartletts of this world; the money they all spent in the bar of the Ambassador was staggering.

Not that he had been shocked by their excess, given it was exactly the same in and around Bouverie Street where the paper had its offices, a culture of drinking that often saw stories filed from the floor of a pub rather than a reporter’s desk.

He did not know how lucky he was; the station café was Czech-owned and thus silent, while inside the hotel, those he was waiting for were sitting, trying not to look bored at the interminable speech being delivered from Nuremberg by Joseph Goebbels.

His voice was rather nasal and even if Corrie could not understand what he was saying she could recognise the tone of mockery in it, his jokes, which Cal knew to be heavy and unfunny, roared at by his audience as well as laughed at by many sharing the dining room.

No one talked; it was either considered impolite when the Minister of Propaganda was making a speech, or their fellow diners were afraid to look as though they did not believe every lie he was telling. The exception to the sarcasm was any mention of the Führer, which came with great ‘Heils!’, and then he went into that standard Nazi trick of the ever rising crescendo of threats, which would be shattered against the iron wall of National Socialism.

The worldwide Jewish conspiracy would not halt the forward march of the German Volk; beware Bolshevism and the Slavic hordes, for the righteous anger of the Aryan master race was moving forward to face and defeat their machinations. During all this Cal had to struggle not to shout at the big radio relaying this, his only compensation the best part of a bottle of very good wine; Corrie only had one glass.

‘Make out you’re not feeling well,’ Cal insisted as he drained the last of that and leant toward her looking concerned.

‘What?’ Corrie whispered.

‘Mop the brow, clutch the stomach, unless you want to listen to all this drivel. He will go on for at least another hour.’

She gave a sterling performance of a woman in some distress, doing as he bid, clutching his hand and, with her auburn near-red hair and pale skin, able to look ill without really trying. Cal stood and helped her to her feet and with a backward glance of deep apology to the fascists still listening to Goebbels they left the room.

The sight of Corrie Littleton and her companion, under the canopy of light outside the hotel, emerging into the cool evening, had him draining the dregs he had been hanging on to, only to realise that when the time came to move, what he had consumed, several steins, needed to be got rid of. The hesitation, whether to use the toilet or not, allowed him to see that as soon as the pair walked on, a couple of Brownshirts appeared from the shadows to fall in behind them.

‘That was not the finest meal I have ever consumed,’ Cal said, ‘but the wine was OK.’

‘Take it for what it was, free.’

That brought a happy smile. ‘It’s nice to eat on someone else’s expenses.’

‘I hope my boss in New York knows about fine Moselles.’

‘If you like I’ll write him some recommendations, the Germans make some very superior wines.’

‘He drinks beer.’

‘Then he should have come instead of you, Bohemia is the home of beer.’

Cal, as he said that, made to cross the road, which naturally allowed him to look behind him. The two fellows in uniform and jackboots made no attempt to avoid his eye, indeed the way they were looking at him and Corrie, it was as if they were lining them up for the firing squad.

‘We are being followed.’

‘Big deal, we’re not going anywhere.’ Corrie looked back and waved, which made the pair look even more grim than before. ‘Nice guys, cheerful.’

‘The trouble with Fascism is that it allows the real shits to have a bit of power. Give an idiot a uniform and he will do anything you want him to do to keep it.’

For all his flippancy, it was worrying that they were being tailed, even if it was obvious. At some point Cal had to make contact with Veseli and there were no arrangements in place, which left it all to the other man.

‘They’re gonna demand to see what I write before we leave, aren’t they?’

‘Probably more than that, Corrie; once they’ve approved it don’t be surprised if they want to cable it to New York for you.’

‘Damn,’ she spat, taking his arm.

‘So I have to get you back to Prague in time to correct what they receive. Best make two sets of notes, let them see one, the flattering stuff, and keep the real copy on you at all times.’

That had Cal’s arm squeezed tightly, which he enjoyed. ‘Are you training me to be a spy, Cal?’

‘Much more devious that that, my dear Corrie,’ he grinned, ‘I’m helping you to be a journalist.’

‘“My dear?”’ she said softly, and questioningly.

Their promenade had brought them to the crowded central square, clearly the old central marketplace, where loudspeakers were playing Goebbels’ speech to a large mixed assembly, many of them in uniform, some holding flaring torches, all listening intently one minute, then crying out in passion the next, and that made them stop.

‘He’s still going strong.’

‘Public radio,’ Corrie said. ‘On the streets, just like Times Square.’

‘You should visit Germany, they have this in every main street, square and in the railway stations – loudspeakers on the buildings and lamp posts to tell the population what to think.’

Cal had got it wrong about the length of Goebbels’ speech, for the little mountebank was coming to the end of his peroration, his voice hoarse, his demands for the nation to be faithful to the Führer and his iron will like some gospel preacher, the crowd now screaming at his every word so that it melded into one indistinguishable howl, with the same from the far end of the square.