The snapping banners and scudding clouds outside took a lot of Cal’s attention – there was quite a strong wind blowing – and he tried very hard not to look at the large safe which dominated the corner of the room, inside which he assumed was what Henlein had brought back from his talk with Hitler.

The place was simply furnished: dark wooden desk, the safe, another table with a big wireless sitting on it, several upright chairs, maps on the wall and lots of photographs of Henlein with various famous people, a lot of them politicians.

‘Sir,’ Cal said in German, ‘I think it would be best if you speak in short sentences that I can translate for Miss Littleton, given the way the two languages differ.’

‘As you wish, Herr Barrowman. We do want to get things correct.’

Cal was wondering if Hitler was like this in private, for there was a very good chance this man had modelled himself on the Führer. Having only ever seen the Austrian Corporal ranting on newsreels it was hard to imagine, but it might just be the case. It made little difference; he still wanted to put a bullet in his forehead.

That had to be put aside and Cal, using Corrie’s notes, asked the first question, which was about the problems that existed for ethnic Germans in a state run by another nationality, the big blue eyes of the Ice Maiden fixed on him when Henlein began to reply, her lips pursed as she made sure he translated correctly, interrupting once or twice on some minor point. When she was not looking at him, her eyes were fixed then on Corrie’s flying pencil, as if it was spouting Czech propaganda.

In truth what they were getting was the same line that had been trotted out for a decade, albeit without any of the venom normally used by the kind of speakers who were all taking their turn at Nuremberg. The ethnic Germans were pure of heart and purpose, good citizens but denied what was their due by spiteful Czechs who were repaying them for hundreds of years of Austrian domination.

All they asked was to live in peace in their own lands and control their own destiny and any notion of wishing to be united with the German Reich in another Anchluß was a Czech lie to which, unfortunately, many misguided people in the democracies subscribed.

How he wished they would come and see for themselves. It was difficult to keep a straight face sometimes, though Henlein and the Ice Maiden had no such problem, because what they were being told lay at total odds with what both had witnessed the previous night.

When Corrie alluded to that, in a gentle way that irritated the Ice Maiden but drew Cal’s admiration, Henlein was all sorrow; these things came about through the intransigence of the Prague government. By failing to give the Sudetenlanders their rights they allowed hotheads to gain ground. Everything they had seen was the fault of the Czechs.

‘He’s a smooth bastard,’ Corrie whispered as they were shown out after the first session.

‘If you use the same words over and over again, year after year, they come out pat and who knows, maybe you come to believe they are true.’

‘We eating here?’ she asked, gloomily, as they looked into a dining room full of the same kind of people they had sat with the night before.

‘No, let’s get some air. There have to be other places in town.’

‘Christ, that was quick,’ Noel McKevitt said as Gibby Gibson handed him the response from London, which lifted his mood.

He had a frustrating morning meeting with the military attaché about that false End User Certificate, in which he had learnt nothing he did not already know and was in a bit of a mood because of it. It seemed the dolt had not even bearded the relevant Czech ministry and demanded an explanation.

From being cheered by the speed of response, that evaporated when he saw that it had come from Broadway. ‘You sent this through the office?’

‘Yes, it was bound to be quicker.’

Noel McKevitt was wondering how many people would have been apprised of that and how high it would go. ‘I would have been happier if you’d told me, Gibby.’

‘And I, Noel, would be happier to be getting on with my proper job.’

‘Your job is to do what I tell you.’

‘But you’re not telling me, are you?’

Not having mentioned that the station was going to be closed down yet, that waspish reply allowed McKevitt the pleasure of doing so now and he told Gibby Gibson with no attempt to soften the blow to a man who was bound to wonder what this meant for his future career.

‘So once this job, my job, is complete, old cock, it’s pack your bags and back home for you and your 2IC, Bucharest and Warsaw for the others.’

‘That’s mad.’

‘Tell Quex, Gibby, not me,’ McKevitt replied with a cold stare, ‘the orders come from him.’

Turning to the list, the name of Nolan stuck out as the only one where there was a query, given the owner had applied for a replacement, claiming his original had been lost, and the name on the document should be a Mr Laycock of 156 Fulham Palace Road, London, address and distinguishing mark supplied. All the other numbers were genuine. He toyed with the notion of sending for a copy of the photograph but that would take too long.

‘Where’s the Meran Hotel?’

‘Wenceslas Square.’

‘Get me a car and some backup, I’m going there.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Noel, but the folk you want to back you up are all out doing what you wanted already.’

‘Then it will have to be you and me.’

‘What about an interpreter?’

‘We don’t need one, the bloke we’re going to call on is English.’

Gibson grabbed a copy of the hotels his other men were calling on that day. ‘The people you might want to question don’t speak English, so let’s find Miklos first.’

Cal extended the walk around Cheb in search of a meal as much as he could, passing several possibilities, trying to memorise the layout of the place and relate to the pictures he had seen. One of his stops was outside the Nazi Party HQ, much more formidable in fact than shown in the photographs.

It had steel doors with firing slits and shutters of the same kind for the windows; they at least were not going to take any chances if the Czechs came for them. They would not succumb to mere rifle fire – they would need artillery.

A wide loop in what was not a large town centre finally brought them back to the hotel square and Cal then chose the station café right across from the Victoria for a bite to eat, which had Jimmy Garvin, who was sitting indoors, scuttling away to try to remain unseen, ducking out of the door and scooting towards the station entrance. Sadly, nothing catches the idle eye quicker than movement and Corrie spotted him.

‘So there’s another reporter here?’ Cal said.

‘Sure, but why is he avoiding me?’

‘Probably best I don’t answer that.’ That got him a thump on the arm, which only deepened his grin. ‘Anyway, let’s see if they do a sandwich.’

‘You’re not planning on an outside table?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s blowing a gale.’

‘We’ll be OK.’

‘You might, I’ll freeze.’

‘Don’t they have wind in Boston?’

‘They do, and people of sense avoid it.’

He had to accede even if he did not want to; there was no way he was going to tell Corrie of his intention to study the exterior of the Victoria Hotel, the numbers going in and out and how the guards behaved – he also hoped to be there when they changed.

Frustratingly there were no tables by the window, but as soon as one was vacated he picked up his food, moved, and since his concentration was taken by the front of the hotel, he sat in silence.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Corrie finally said.

‘I was just thinking about what Henlein said this morning and how he lied so easily, and with that nice-old-man smile on his face. Then when you look over there at those two Herberts standing outside the front door with their feet spread and a glower for anyone passing you wonder what makes them tick.’