‘Power.’

‘Yep, even a tiny bit is enough.’

In truth he was thinking that even the hotel would be hard to attack; it was in a terrace, which meant a frontal assault on the door was the only option and that was after you had crossed a wide open space large enough to give those inside, forewarned, a very good chance to get out the back doors where there was very likely an alleyway.

The next thought was how he was going to get round the back to check it out without causing suspicion; it was not, after all, what a man like him would do, wander into some narrow passage going nowhere. It was one of those situations where the presence of Vince would have been handy.

‘Guards changing,’ Corrie pointed out.

A party of Brownshirts approached and with much rigid arm raising, shouting and stamping they performed a farrago of a military drill, which would have been comical to Cal if he did not know the nature of the berks doing it. He had seen men like them taunt and beat up Jews in full view of their fellow citizens, who even if they wanted to, dared not interfere.

Often they would assault anyone who showed insufficient enthusiasm in their salutes to the name of the Führer, or even some poor soul who looked at them the wrong way, sure that whatever treatment they meted out would not bring down on them any sanction – they were above the law.

‘You done?’ he asked, looking at Corrie’s unfinished food, and when she nodded he added, ‘Best have a wash and freshen up before we see the leader again.’

‘He sure has nice manners,’ Corrie said, rubbing the back of the hand he had kissed. ‘Not like some people I could mention.’

With that Cal extended his arm, which was taken by Corrie with a smile. The wind tugged at their clothes as they made their way back to the Victoria, and they separated to go to their respective rooms to prepare for the afternoon session.

There was not much difference between that and the morning, exactly the same cosy atmosphere, with slight variations on the trotted-out mantras, but at least Corrie had got into her stride when it came to sounding sympathetic because she had seen that was the only way to draw Henlein out.

And he was enjoying himself; it was almost as if being denied the kind of international publicity he clearly craved he was bathing in the sound of his own glory, repetitious when it came to his patience in dealing with the separatist problem, calling as concessions things he had done to make life awkward for the Czechs.

It was the same as what was happening across the border, the same as that speech of Goebbels: the well-honed lie that sounded reasonable as long as you stuck to it and allowed for no one to question it.

‘I feel you need more, Fräulein Littleton,’ Henlein said when the time came to end the session, impatiently signalled by the Ice Maiden, each sentence translated by Cal. ‘There are documents I would wish you to see, things Herr Barrowman could interpret for you to demonstrate how far backwards I have bent to avoid a problem turning into a crisis. Alas there is no time today, but I will ensure these things are made available to you tomorrow and then, in the afternoon, perhaps we can talk again.’

‘That would be most generous, Herr Henlein.’

‘And perhaps,’ he added, with a scholarly smile, ‘you will have outlined in some detail the article you intend to submit and we can discuss it.’

There was no choice but to accede to that and they were ushered out.

* * *

The clattering of Corrie’s typewriter was audible through her door when Cal came to fetch her for dinner, another indifferent meal, this time accompanied by the drone of the Deputy Führer, Rudolf Hess. He was no man to rally the troops, in fact looking around he looked like the kind of speaker who would be able to send his audience to sleep – even Corrie knew that and she could not understand a word he said.

‘A walk?’ Cal asked when Hess had finished – they could not pull the same sickness stunt twice.

‘No, I’m bushed, Cal, being lied to all day and having to smile takes its toll.’

‘We’ll go for a little spin tomorrow morning, have a look around.’

That got him a look of deep suspicion; he was not the type for a ‘spin’, but she said nothing, just smiled and nodded and they made their way to their rooms. Cal, when he entered his, noticed his canvas bag had been moved.

He also noticed when he lifted it that it was a damn sight heavier than when he had left it at the foot of the chair, not surprising really when he saw that it had inside a Mauser pistol in a leather holster and two full ammo clips. He had to hide it quickly when there was a knock at the door, which when opened revealed standing there, in full SA kit, Karol Veseli.

‘Heil Hitler, Herr Barrowman,’ he said, in a voice too loud given they were only a few feet apart, just enough for him to add a salute.

‘Good day …?’ Cal could not use a name.

It was instructive that as soon as Veseli’s hand dropped it went to his lips to command silence, then a finger waved to indicate the room was bugged.

‘Standartenführer Karl Wessely.’ The same sound, but Cal assumed the surname would be a different, more Germanic spelling. ‘I have come, on the instructions of our leader, to ensure that everything is in order with your visit.’

‘It is, thank you.’

Responding to a crooked finger, Cal immediately stepped out into the corridor and shut his door, hissing, ‘My room was searched last night.’

Veseli replied softly in German, ‘I know, I ordered it. Leave the keys to your car at reception when you go to breakfast tomorrow. Tell them to bring it to you in an hour.’

‘Why?’

‘Matters are coming to a head, you will see.’

‘I was going to do a recce in the morning between here and Asch.’

‘The time for that is past. We need to act quickly.’

Reaching past Cal he pushed the door open, speaking normally. ‘My Freikorps troop are having a rally tomorrow night in the central square, we would be most pleased if you and Miss Littleton would come and attend as my guest. There will be food and beer and we can listen to the speech of the Führer from the Congress Hall on the radio.’

‘Delighted,’ Cal replied, managing to make it sound as though he meant it.

‘And perhaps we can talk together and I can introduce to you and your lady reporter some of my men, and they will relate to you the lies that are told daily about how we ordinary Sudetenlanders behave.’

‘I’m sure Miss Littleton would be very grateful for that.’

‘I will call for you at eighteen-thirty hours tomorrow. The Führer’s speech begins at seven.’

Wessely/Veseli gave him another stiff salute and was gone, leaving Cal to wonder at what the plan was, because there had to be one and whatever was going to take place had to happen tomorrow night and he was not sure he was happy with that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In a strange city, especially one where the language was difficult to understand and few spoke English, Vince Castellano was glad of the Automat cafés; there he could eat and drink by merely looking at what was on offer in the various compartments and putting coins in the slot so that the glass-fronted door opened.

He also thought it a good idea, since he had time on his hands, to locate the Jewish Emigration Centre well before there was any need to go there in a panic, but when he got there, having got lost a couple of times, he wished he had not.

The sight depressed him too much; he had seen this sort of thing in the cinema on the Paramount and Pathé newsreels but in the flesh it was much worse, the displaced flotsam of those dislodged by war or the threat of it.

There was no queue outside the building, more a mob of people desperate to get out of the country by any means possible, all ages from ancient beings in black round hats with long ringlets to wailing babes in arms, tired-looking men and women, all Jewish, surrounded by suitcases or wrapped bundles of possessions.