Cal and Corrie were in the dining room eating breakfast and he was invited to join them, but the scream Corrie gave as he made to sit down alarmed Jimmy, until she leapt up, ran to the door and threw her arms around the man standing there, who looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Hello, guv, you been causing bother again?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With the town restored to a sullen peace there was no bar to the Paris-Prague Express stopping at Cheb and it was bang on time, which got him a look from the watch-holding conductor who had stepped from the train to oversee the departure. Like Peter, that fellow was quite taken by the number of soldiers as well as the level of equipment on the platform: ammunition boxes, field rations and quartermaster’s stores.

Stepping out of the station concourse he stopped to look round and was immediately confronted by the sight of the Victoria Hotel, which seemed to have had its windows blown out on one side of the canopy, and it was impossible to miss the sparkling glass that littered the pavement and road, which what little traffic was about, both wheeled and hoofed, was taking care to steer round.

The square was full of army trucks and horse-drawn wagons; knots of men in grey-green uniforms stood or squatted about, and the smell in the air of dust and cordite was one he recognised from his own years of army service – something was going on but he lacked the means to find out what.

No doubt Cal Jardine would enlighten him, though thinking on his man he wondered if he had had anything to do with what smelt like a battle in a place supposed to be at peace, the conclusion being as he stepped out that it was more likely than not, given his propensity to get involved in violence.

It was sheer bad luck that Noel McKevitt was taking a coffee in the now-reopened café, which was crowded with Czech officers who, even if he could not comprehend what they were saying, knew by the backslapping and loud jokes they were congratulating themselves, and since he had enquired of an officer outside earlier he knew why.

He was watching the Victoria Hotel from one of the windows, obliged, in order to see clearly, it being cold outside, to rub off the steam caused by the heat of massed humanity. McKevitt was too long in the tooth an SIS man to just barge in; he had no idea who this Barrowman was, or how dangerous he could be in contact – he could be anybody.

What he did know was that the means to find out if he was a resident in the Victoria was lacking; he had taken a slow walk by the guarded entrance and observed through the windows that lay either side of the double front doors that the lobby was deserted to the point of there being no staff. One of the staircases was guarded too but few people had gone in, bar a young fellow swinging a camera on its strap and the driver of a rather battered old Tatra.

The elegant gait of Peter Lanchester took his eye, but with his back to McKevitt no more than that. What made him stand out was his doubt about where the cars were coming from in a foreign country, something he had struggled with in France, only to realise it was similar to home. But in double-checking he turned his head and the sight of his unmistakable profile caused the Ulsterman to swear.

But there was a real plus; Lanchester made straight for the hotel entrance and went through the identification procedure, which told McKevitt two things: that this fellow travelling as Barrowman was connected to him and, as he had suspected, the bastard was messing around in his backyard. The next question was how to deal with that knowledge.

‘What is this?’ Peter exclaimed as he came through the entrance to the lounge and saw who was sitting there, now drinking coffee. ‘A gathering of the clans?’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I came, Callum, dear boy, to tell you your cover has been blown.’

‘He knows that, guv,’ said Vince, grinning, ‘I’ve just told him so.’

‘You got the telegram I sent you?’

The ‘No’ was explained when Vince told him how long he’d been on the road.

‘A quiet word, Cal, if you please.’

‘Don’t I get an introduction?’ asked Corrie. ‘Since you two seem such bosom buddies.’

‘Not “bosom”, but we have scrummaged together. Peter, this is Miss Corrine Little—’

‘No surnames, Cal, the lady is a journalist.’

‘How do you know that?’

All that got was a sharp jerk of the head and the two went into a huddle facing away from the table, to impart the news that McKevitt, whom he was obliged finally to name, was on the warpath, armed and looking for a Mr Barrowman, as well as how he had got onto their tail.

‘I also have instructions from on high to tell you to abort.’

‘No need, I have written proof that Hitler intends to invade, the date, and a list of targets the Sudeten Nazis are to sabotage to help him, signed by Schicklgruber himself.’

‘And where is this wonderful bit of kit?’

‘Later, when we are a bit less of a crowd.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘No one here.’

‘Who’s the young chap?’

‘Jimmy Garvin, a journalist, works with Vernon Bartlett.’

‘Cal, old boy, you’re mixing in the wrong company.’

That’s all you know, Peter, Cal thought; that little bugger is going to write up the story and get it into his newspaper so that Chamberlain cannot sit on it, which he might just do given his record so far. That had been the deal, though Jimmy had no idea what he was going to be allowed to see.

Typical of his breed he had only finally agreed when he was promised Corrie, still getting dolled up in the bathroom, was not privy to the same story; he might be young but he was a fast learner and Cal suspected that Vernon Bartlett would not get a sniff either.

‘The only question is, Peter, how are we going to get it out? If I try to take it through the airport that risks a search and they are nervous right now.’

‘Diplomatic bag would be best, with me to travel alongside, which I can clear through the Prague legation with a Top Secret tag so I can deliver it straight to Quex.’

‘Mr Jardine?’ Both turned to face Jimmy Garvin. ‘Can I take your camera to get the film developed? I’d rather someone took the spool out who knows what they’re doing.’

‘I think there’s a couple of mine on there, don’t bother with those. But before you go, you might as well join us in a glass of champagne.’

‘How jolly.’

‘I don’t see any staff, Cal.’

‘Neither will you, apart from the odd chambermaid.’

He explained about this being Henlein’s HQ, though he made no mention of the body Czech Intelligence had discovered when they began to search the offices. Right now they were starting to assess all the office files.

‘They’ve already searched the accommodation and allowed us back into our rooms and given us the run of the rest, bar Henlein’s bit. Everyone who worked here is either hiding in their cellar or has fled to Bavaria. So, we help ourselves, which means we will not stint on quality.’

In the end, because they were such patriotic Teutons in the Victoria, they had to settle for a couple of bottles of very good German Sekt and Jimmy, rather lightweight when it came to alcohol, after three glasses of sparkling wine was in a very jolly mood when he finally left to find a camera shop.

Noel McKevitt had gnawed on how to proceed since he saw Peter Lanchester disappear, because it had finally struck him how much he was out on a limb here on his own; he was beginning to curse himself for the way he had told Gibby Gibson that the station was shutting down.

Could he get some of the lads up here to help him? The only way to find out was to call the legation, and that meant abandoning his watch on the hotel. Given there was no alternative he dived into the station and found a phone, at first getting shirty with the Czech operator who pretended not to understand his German when he asked for the number.