There was little use for his pen on Corrie’s article, it was so flattering it nearly made him choke on his fruit juice; in fact, he thought it might be too much so and it would be an interesting test of how seriously these people took themselves if they fell for it – no rational mind would, only a warped one could.

‘We still going for that spin?’

‘Of course, meet you out front in twenty.’

Standing at the desk, it suddenly occurred to him that it was here he had filled in the registration card as Barrowman. Did they give them to the Czech police? He tried to imagine one walking in to collect them and passing two Brownshirt thugs at the door. Tempted to ask he decided against it, for he could think of no way of phrasing the question that would not sound suspicious.

The first place the name Barrowman rang a bell was at a checkpoint halfway to Cheb, crossed by two foreigners that the officer in command could recall very easily – how uncommon was it to find an American female journalist in Czechoslovakia at all, or perhaps just as unusual, a foreigner, an Englishman, travelling in his homeland, who could speak German like a native, though not with an accent he could place?

With the gift of a field telephone, though frustrated by the way the traffic had to be routed on a busy network, he was through to the Ministry of the Interior within half an hour. So occupied was he that he instructed his men to be lenient about letting the stream of cars and lorries going in both directions through the barriers.

Vince, who had set off from Prague at dawn, was one of the beneficiaries and in passing he made sure they would think him Italian as he shouted, ‘Mille grazie!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘Got him,’ Gibby Gibson cried when he came off the phone to Colonel Doležal, before he wondered what he was getting so excited about. ‘Your friend Barrowman crossed a checkpoint going towards Karlovy Vary two days ago in the company of an American female and I have even got the make of motor he was driving.’

‘Not short of a bob or two,’ McKevitt remarked when he saw what that was. ‘A bloody Maybach Zeppelin, for Christ’s sake. Any idea who the lass was?’

‘Journalist apparently, she had accreditation papers but the name has not come through.’

‘Saturday – we must have missed him by a whisker.’

‘Rotten luck that,’ Gibson replied insincerely.

‘She had to come from Prague, Gibby.’

‘You’d think so. Most of the journos stay at the Ambassador.’ Picking up the telephone Gibson added, ‘And there can’t be too many who are female.’

Annoyingly, McKevitt was drumming his fingers on Gibson’s desk as he made the call but it did not take long to establish who the lady was and the fact that she was not presently in residence, but given Gibson was talking to reception, and not the concierge desk, that was all he got.

‘She must have left some form of contact address,’ Gibson insisted, his eyes going to the ceiling, given the time he was obliged to wait until the reply came through; they did not stay there when he was told.

McKevitt was equally surprised and he had read the latest briefing before he left London. ‘Cheb! That’s where Henlein had his headquarters, isn’t it, and that other bugger Frank?’

Gibson nodded and waited for the obvious follow-up – like what was their man doing going there? – but it did not come. Instead he picked up the phone again. ‘Should I tell Doležal we’ve found him?’

‘No!’

‘Noel, he will have men searching hotel registration cards all over the place to no purpose. You can’t just leave him in the dark.’

‘We’ve let him think our man’s a spy. If we tell him, who will pick him up? Not us.’ Still drumming his fingers, McKevitt went into deep thought, the conclusion surprising the station chief. ‘I need a car, Gibby, and some cash.’

‘You’re going after Barrowman yourself?’

‘I am, but I doubt that’s the bastard’s real name. Tell me, what’s the situation with weapons?’

‘You mean—’

‘Look, this man is dangerous, Gibby, and he has to be stopped.’

‘From doing what, Noel?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Is that because you don’t know?’

‘Have you told your team about closing down the station?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘Who in the name of Christ do you think you’re talking to?’ The question was on Gibson’s lips: why have you not been in touch with base? But it died there, not least because McKevitt was not finished.

‘You should be packing your bags, Gibby. And don’t think it will go unnoticed that I had to come here to sort out a problem that you should have seen to.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘No,’ McKevitt sneered, a very necessary adjunct to his bluff, ‘you don’t, which makes me think it might be time you retired. Now get me the use of an embassy car and a pistol with some ammo.’

‘Sorry, Noel, that is something you will have to do yourself.’

The sun was shining, the hood was down in the Maybach, though being autumn the air had a chill in these high elevations that required Corrie to wear a headscarf and Cal his hat. But it was pleasant driving at a relaxed pace, quite often through thick forests, even if right behind them came a car, a tiny Hanomag, with two Brownshirts crammed into it, tasked to watch where they went.

The temptation to look in the boot when the car was brought to the front of the hotel had to be resisted and there was nothing in the passenger compartment that was in anyway untoward. He would just have to wait for an opportunity and to do that the first task was to lose the tail.

‘Have you got used to being on the wrong side of the car yet?’

‘Let’s just say I don’t think I’m going to die.’

‘Good.’

Cal hit the floor with the pedal and the V12 engine responded immediately, Corrie crying ‘Jesus!’ as she was thrust back in her seat. There were no straight roads in these parts and they were not generous in width, which made the sensation of speed all that much greater, exaggerated as the tyres screeched round the bends.

As soon as the tail was out of sight, Cal was looking for a junction or at least where the road split, and that came at a fork, he taking the uphill line because it affected him not at all, but that near-toy car with two big blokes in it would struggle to keep up any speed at all. For all they were moving up a steep hill, the trees still hemmed them in.

At the top of the hill there were two bored-looking sentries in grey-green Czech uniforms standing before an entry into the woods shut off by a wire gate, but the approach of the car brought them to life and their slung weapons came off the shoulder just as the trees thinned to one side to show an extensive panorama.

Inside those trees there had to be some of the Czech defences, and on this kind of elevation and with the open ground below the hilltop, Cal assumed heavy artillery, which would be in a well-defended concrete cupola surrounded by pillboxes.

He slowed right down and went by at a crawl; these conscripts, which is what they looked to be, were likely to be trigger-happy and he had known men killed by not paying enough attention to another soldier’s nerves. The speed also allowed him time to assess the field of fire he imagined the weapons could strike; that panoramic view looked as though it extended right into the Third Reich.

Past that and descending he really gave the car full throttle and soon they were racing through another dense tree belt so narrow occasional branches hissed along the side of the car and one or two hit it with a crack; if it had a serious purpose, driving like this was exhilarating.

Corrie showed no sign of fear; in fact, when a bit of straight road allowed him to look at her it seemed as if her eyes, staring straight ahead, were alight, her mouth was slightly open and her breathing seemed faster than normal – she was excited and enjoying the thrill as much as he was.