‘Gibby, it’s Noel. I need your help up here. How many of the lads are still available?’

‘None.’

‘Wha’d’yer mean “none”?’

‘Orders from Quex in person: stay still, do nothing.’

‘The bastard.’

‘Come in, Noel, come back to Prague.’

‘You think I should?’

‘I think you’ve got to, I’m afraid.’

He did not respond immediately, because he was wondering why the old sod had issued that order and there was only one explanation: it was to try and stop him finding out what he was up to. If there had ever been any doubt it was serious enough to threaten the man’s career, that laid it to rest, and now it looked as though Quex was trying to turn the tables on him. If he went back to Prague he would be bundled back to London in disgrace.

‘You’re right, Gibby. I’ll have a bit of a bite to eat and start heading back.’

Then he hung up, went back to the café and bought himself a Pilsner; he would have to do it alone. The problem was first to find out the identity of Barrowman, then connect him to Peter Lanchester. He had to be another SIS agent, one of those Quex had recently brought back in.

It did not take a genius to work out there was only one way to do it, so he drained his beer, left the café and headed for the centre of town.

* * *

Peter, standing by the Maybach and fingering the signature, was impressed. ‘Cal, this is gold dust, do I get told how you got it?’

‘That will be two dinners you owe me.’

Seeing the look on Peter’s face he laughed, then he told him the story. The folder went back under the seat and the car was locked and they went out into the alley, not without a good look because, as Peter reminded him, McKevitt was on the loose somewhere and he might well be in Cheb.

‘Is that secure, that car?’

‘Yes, and don’t ask why.’

Jimmy was struggling; he only had a little German, zero Czech, was slightly tipsy and the man in the camera shop had no English – he was also impatient because another customer was waiting.

‘D’yer need any help, son?’ Noel McKevitt asked. ‘I have the German if it’ll help. Most folks around here speak two languages.’

‘Golly, what luck. I want the film developed, which he understands, but I don’t want the shots at the beginning. I’m afraid my expenses don’t run to paying for photos I don’t need.’

‘Expenses, is it?’

‘Yes,’ Jimmy replied, with no shortage of pride, ‘I’m a journalist and I managed to photograph the Czech army attack and take the Nazi HQ.’

‘Why, isn’t that grand.’ McKevitt reached past and picked up the Walz 35 mm camera. ‘I’d’ve thought you would have had a bigger camera than this, you being a journalist, and all.’

‘Oh, it’s not mine,’ Jimmy slurred, ‘it’s Mr Jardine’s.’

‘Jardine,’ McKevitt said slowly. ‘I’m sure I know a fella by that name.’

‘Callum Jardine?’

It was like a set of toy bricks falling into place to make a whole: La Rochelle, Lanchester, those machine guns; if Callum Jardine was a man who operated in the shadows, those did not extend to an organisation like the SIS. There was no mystery now as to who Barrowman was. There were still gaps to fill, but they would come when Quex was put out to grass and he had his chair.

Too experienced to let any of that show, he rattled off in German what this young man wanted, then when the shop owner replied, smiled at him and said, ‘They’ll be ready next week.’

‘Oh no,’ Jimmy protested, ‘I want them today.’

‘Best dig deep then, son.’ The face fell but not for long; he would get well rewarded for his story and anyway this stranger was talking. ‘Did I not see you outside the Victoria Hotel this morning, son?’

‘Yes, that’s where Mr Jardine is staying.’ He peered at McKevitt. ‘And I’m sure I saw you as well.’

‘Well, I’m not sure your Jardine is the same fella, but maybe I’ll drop in and say hello.’

‘Shall I tell him?’ Jimmy asked, thinking it was the rather loud sports jacket that he remembered more than the face.

‘No, I might be wrong and if I’m not, well it will be a fine surprise.’

‘Right, Jimmy, the garage,’ Cal barked, heading for the rear exit, leaving Corrie and Vince in the lounge to reminisce about Ethiopia. Peter had gone off to send a cryptic message to Quex to tell him not to fret. ‘You get one look at this, make your notes and that’s it.’

‘What happens to the original?’

‘None of your business, just get your stuff in the paper and make yourself a star reporter.’

Jimmy used the passenger seat and when he had finished his note-taking he was ushered out into the alley. The document was hidden and the car locked before Cal emerged to join him.

‘You going back to Prague in that?’ he asked. Cal nodded. ‘Any chance of a lift?’

‘There’s four of us already,’ Cal replied; then he had a thought. ‘My friend Vince came up in an old Tatra, you can have that to drive back. I take it you can drive?’

‘You have to in my job, nowadays, but who can afford a car?’

McKevitt had found the alley just by walking around the block, the back door guarded by one policeman who, when he made his second passage, looked at the man carrying the briefcase as he walked up to him, his hand going inside his checked jacket and coming out with a blue-and-gold-covered passport, addressing him in good if accented German.

‘British legation, come to see some of my nationals.’ Confidence is the key in a situation like this one; the Ulsterman actually put the passport in the man’s hand so he could examine it. ‘None of them hurt in the fighting as far as I know, but I need to make sure.’

He could have gone in the front door, which was also now guarded by only one policeman, the army having withdrawn, so there seemed no harm in letting him pass, given the only other people in the hotel were from Internal Security, rifling, he had heard, through a mountain of files.

The people who had passed him previously had done no more than go to the garage and back again, so, not anticipating any danger, he nodded and handed the passport back. McKevitt gave him a cheery wave and went through the door, while the policeman, a bit bored in truth, turned to watch him disappear through the door.

He only felt the tickle of the wire for a split second before it was pulled tight, then it was choking him, a knee going into his spine as he was pulled down, his hands tearing uselessly at his throat. Four men appeared, one in the same uniform as the man now dying and he took up station while the body was dragged into the garage by the others. Then they disappeared into the hotel, pulling out their weapons as soon as they were inside.

They saw McKevitt’s back as he walked forward gingerly, the flap of the briefcase open, though they could not see the box camera around his neck. It mattered not as they disappeared up the wooden staff staircase, the noise they created making McKevitt turn to look; there was nothing to see.

Creeping through the lobby he could hear the sound of voices and some laughter, but a look into what had to be the lounge – it was full of settees – showed it empty except for a small suitcase and a canvas bag on the floor by an open doorway. The sound was beyond that and gingerly he moved forward, edging his nose round the door to the table-filled dining room.

They were all sitting at a circular board, eating and drinking without a care in the world, and it was obvious by the heightened sounds of conversation that they had been imbibing with gusto. McKevitt silently put his briefcase on the floor, flap open, and got his camera ready; all he needed was a shot, more than one if he could, of Jardine and Lanchester together and everything else would follow from that.

He would find out if, as he had suspected ever since that message had come from Brno, those machine guns had gone to the IRA, to be used to fight and kill his fellow Protestants in Ulster. And when the truth of that came out, this pair would go to jail, while the man who had failed to see that one of his new boys was playing him false would be out on his ear, and that was before it came out that they were risking a war with their carrying on.