A Bitter Field (25 page)

‘Jimmy,’ Corrie said, as she opened the door to find the young reporter looking abashed, in fact hopping from foot to foot; she was, after all, wrapped in a huge bath towel.

‘Sorry to catch you in … er … your … er …’ he mumbled away at the towel. ‘Thought it was time to come and say hello.’

‘I’ll say, but I would be more interested to know why you ran away yesterday.’

‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ he replied, in a flash of what seemed like inspiration until he realised he would have to run with the lie and he had no idea where to go.

‘I guess you’re trying to find a story that will get you out from under Vernon,’ Corrie replied, unwittingly throwing him a lifeline. ‘As you can see, Jimmy, I was just getting dressed.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Look, I am meeting someone in the bar in fifteen minutes.’

‘Callum Jardine,’ Jimmy replied, immediately realising that was a mistake.

The hand that grabbed him and pulled him inside the door was not gentle, nor was the way it was slammed behind him.

‘How the hell do you know his name?’

Tempted to lie, there was not one he could think of and that left only the truth. ‘Vernon knows him from Madrid and he saw you get into his car.’

‘You little schmuck, you’ve been sent to tail me.’

‘Instructed, Corrie,’ Jimmy pleaded. ‘I am only doing what Vernon told me to do.’

‘Sit in that chair and say not another word.’ Corrie went to the phone and asked for Cal’s room number, hissing when he picked up his end, ‘Doc, my room now! No, it’s not that, it’s serious. Quick as you can.’

She turned to see Jimmy standing over the typewriter and what she had written was lying beside it. ‘Get away from that and sit down.’

‘How the hell did you know we were coming to Cheb?’ she demanded when he complied.

‘Vernon knew.’

Pacing back and forth, she began to curse, because it could only have come from the hotel. ‘That low-life snake! To think he acts like he’s an English gent, when he is full of shit.’

‘I say,’ Jimmy protested; he was no stranger to foul language, only not in the mouths of the fairer sex.

‘Don’t you “I say” me.’

The gentle knock at the door heralded Cal and he was inside quickly, to be given a gabbling explanation of who Jimmy was and what he knew. When the ‘how?’ came it was Corrie’s turn for contrition.

‘It’s standard behaviour, Cal, you gotta tell your editor when you go somewhere.’

‘The telephone would have been better.’

‘What, a transatlantic call for that? He would have had my ass.’

Turning to face Jimmy, Callum Jardine wondered why the youngster shrank away. Then he realised he was wearing his rimless specs, and with his
en brosse
hairdo, allied to the expression on his face, he must have looked to him like he was Gestapo.

‘Relax.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you, am I?’

‘I don’t know, are you?’

Cal had to shut this lad up, but how? One thing was for sure: threats would be counterproductive unless he was not prepared to
let him out of his sight, indeed out of this room.

‘Jimmy – it is Jimmy, yes?’ That produced a still-fearful nod, even though Cal had smiled. ‘I am going to need your help and so is the British Government.’

‘You’re working for the Government?’

‘I am.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I can’t answer that, and I am afraid, Jimmy, even if you were told you would not be able to write about it. If you submitted it to your paper … by the way, who do you write for?’

‘
News Chronicle
.’

‘Good newspaper,’ Cal said, ‘got the right ideas about Hitler. The story would be subject to a D-notice, in fact, I suspect it will be buried in the files of SIS for a hundred years or more, it’s so sensitive.’

‘So you might as well tell me what it is.’

‘Corrie, get dressed, we are meeting Veseli in the lounge shortly.’

‘Sure, I’ll use the bathroom, but don’t let that little bastard near my notes.’

When she had gone, Cal addressed a young man pained by the way she had described him. ‘You must know about the Official Secrets Act, Jimmy.’

‘I do, but I don’t see what difference that makes if the story is not going to come out anyway.’

‘It means I can’t tell you anything, because if I do, I will suffer the consequences.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘What don’t you believe?’

‘All of it, the Government, you working for them, D-notices.’

The sigh was audible. Cal had a choice: stepping closer, he could
take this little bugger by his carotid artery and either kill him or render him unconscious and do so in utter silence. What then? He would either have a body to deal with or he would have to truss him up and for how long? And he could still scream blue murder as soon as he was released.

Suddenly he was back in that moonlit Jewish cemetery in Prague, with General Moravec, and it was something he had said which provided a possible solution to shutting this lad up at least as long as they were in Cheb.

‘OK, Jimmy, how would you like a twenty-four-carat gold-plated scoop?’

‘Politicians the newspapers fear,’ Moravec had insisted.

T
he
Standartenführer
was waiting for them in the lounge and as soon as Corrie saw him she hissed, ‘What a hunk!’

‘You trying to make me jealous?’

‘Would it succeed?’

‘I’m not the type,’ Cal replied as Veseli gave a crisp Nazi salute.

‘Nothing to fear, Doc,’ she whispered.

Introductions followed with Cal comparing the stiff behaviour he was watching now to the more relaxed man he had met in that farmhouse with Moravec; in terms of German broom-up-your-arse carry-on it was faultless.

‘But we must be on our way, it would not do to miss the arrival of the Führer.’

‘God forbid,’ Corrie replied, which got a flicker of disapproval from Veseli, leaving Cal to wonder at the man’s self-control.

Living a lie must be intense, acting almost constantly against
your natural instincts, never able to relax, probably even in private in case you inadvertently gave something away by allowing the mask to slip, and there had to be, at his age and with his looks, women in his life, people with whom he was intimate, and how hard was that?

As they exited the hotel, Veseli gave his men a salute, which was returned, with Corrie commenting that this was a nation – she meant the Germans – who would benefit from a mass amputation. Then he was off, striding down the road, saluting right and left as those who thought him one of their own, and seeing his uniform, were determined to acknowledge his rank.

‘You’re in for a fun night.’

That got him that arm squeeze again. ‘I sure hope so.’

‘Remember, I’m only human.’

‘Not at all, Doc,’ she said with feeling, ‘you are a love machine.’

‘Where did you learn to talk like that?’

‘First of all at Daddy’s knee, ’cause he was never one to avoid a cuss when I was around, and then at college. We Bryn Mawr girls are famous for telling it like it is.’

‘Feminists?’

‘You make it sound like a dirty word.’

‘The dirtier the better.’

They reached the crowded old market square, which killed off their conversation. Down the side it was set with tables and in between them there were stalls cooking all kind of wurst, the smoke and the smell of the frying meat filling the air. Others were laden with bread and hams, added to which the tavern had set up a beer service on the pavement, with girls in dirndl clothing delivering steins to thirsty customers.

Within a minute both visitors found themselves holding steaming glasses of
glühwein
and being encouraged to drink up. It could have been a carnival except that now many of the surrounding buildings were festooned with a mixture of Nazi banners and the red-black-red flags of the SdP. They tended to turn the mood, for non-believers, into a sombre one.

‘Fräulein Littleton, our leader wishes you to join him. He is about to have his photograph taken and he would like one which includes you.’

‘Delighted,’ Corrie replied in the correct and required tone; Cal knew she did not mean it because, distributed, it would give the wrong impression.

Veseli/Wessely took her gently by the arm to guide her through the crowd, which left Cal to look about him. He saw Jimmy Garvin with a big jug of beer in one hand, a sausage in the other, standing back and not engaging in conversation, no doubt composing a feature about mass hysteria for some future date.

Then Veseli was beside him, leaning over to talk quietly in his ear while he handed him a bratwurst, wrapped in a linen napkin. There was something hard inside, which Cal’s fingers identified as a key. With the babble of conversation there was no chance of either being overheard and it looked as if they were having a friendly chat.

‘Tonight, as Hitler is speaking, the Czech army will enter the so-called Sudetenland and stop all this nonsense.’

‘I thought—’

‘Never mind that. The key to his suite of offices is in your hand and a layout of the hotel is drawn on the napkin, showing the emergency exit from Henlein’s suite. The papers are in his safe and you have
been given the means to get access to what you came for.’

‘I came under false pretences.’

‘You must forgive the general and I for deceiving you – that was essential.’

‘What if I decline to do it?’

‘Then I must, so please tell me quickly what you intend.’

‘How would you get away with it if you did it?’

‘I would not, Mr Jardine. I might succeed but I would not long survive since suspicion would soon fall on me. The best I could hope for is a firing squad.’

‘But you will take that risk?’

Veseli laughed. ‘It is not a risk, it is certain I would die.’

‘Who were you going to pass the papers to?’ Cal asked.

That was a solution to one conundrum he had in his bath: the Czech did not insult him by denying there was someone, but there was no way he was going to reveal any more.

‘If I depart this square, my absence will be noticed, for to do so when the Führer is speaking would be seen as a gross insult to him …’

There was no way of faulting that statement; Veseli stood literally head and shoulders above most of his fellow men. He couldn’t move anywhere without it being spotted.

‘… while you can leave without raising even a slight eyebrow, especially if you claim to have eaten something that disagrees with you and which forces you to return to the hotel.’

‘The guards?’

‘Tonight, they will be here in the square, as will every Nazi in the town. None will want to miss this.’

‘The clerk at reception?’

Veseli pointed him out and also the Ice Maiden, standing next to Henlein, who was talking to Corrie, adding that the hotel would be practically deserted, given all the staff were rabid anti-Czechs if not quite National Socialists, while the guests had come specifically for this rally. It was not a residence for anyone not committed to the cause.

‘The news of the movements of the Czech army may come before Hitler is finished speaking, but it is hoped not. Either way, Henlein will seek to flee and to do that he needs his car, which is parked in the same place as your own.’

‘Though not without those documents.’

‘But hopefully you will have them and when he sees that they are gone he will not hang around to find out who stole them.’

‘Miss Littleton?’

‘I will make sure she is escorted to safety. Both you and she, being foreigners, will be free to travel through the army lines when things quieten down and it has already been arranged they will not attack the Victoria but the headquarters of Frank’s Nazis. Stay at the hotel and wait till order is restored.’

‘It is still dangerous.’

‘What can we do in these times without hazard, Herr Barrowman? Take those documents, give them to your government and let them know what that little Austrian bastard is really like.’

‘And what will you be doing?’

Veseli laughed softly. ‘Me, I will be starting a riot.’

Even with the babble of talk in the square the loudspeakers had been disseminating a sort of background growl, which was the audience at the Congress Hall in Nuremberg and that began to fade into silence.

Veseli managed one more point before the Cheb crowd followed suit. ‘I will also tell you that inside that safe is a large sum of money, subventions from the German Foreign Office, which Henlein uses to fund the SdP. I would not object if you took that too and found a better use for it.’

‘Noise?’ seemed an apposite question and he was not talking about that which was abating now.

‘Imagine what it will be like when the Führer is insulting my poor country.’

The hush fell and there was an expectant silence from both the assembled crowd and the loudspeakers, which emitted only a steady crackle now. Then the loud voice spoke out, like a guards drill sergeant.

‘Der Führer, Adolf Hitler! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’

The orchestra struck up with a patriotic march only to be overwhelmed as that ‘
Sieg Heil
’ was answered by thirty thousand throats in a deafening roar of welcome for the godlike master, which drowned out its brass instruments, while those at the Cheb rally now had their arms outstretched too and were yelling just as lustily.

The hails went on for an age and so emotional were the folk around the square that they had their eyes closed and were near to ecstasy. It was a great trick to pull, that long walk up the avenue of adoring acolytes, a march with glittering escorts and tessellated banners that raised to a supreme pitch the soaring sense of anticipation, even if it was invisible.

By the time the baying had died away and he said his first quiet words, all over the Reich and in many places beyond, most listening were in the palm of his hand, ready to be manipulated into a frenzy.

‘Meine Kameraden.’

It was his standard opening line and what followed was the usual guff, about when he had first decided that the Reich needed him and then responded, how in six years, with their help, he had raised Germany to the pinnacles on which it now stood. He would go on for certainly over an hour, sucking them in and making them believe these ‘good comrades’ were his inspiration instead of mere tools.

Slowly but surely the voice would rise as he recalled his own struggles, much magnified so they matched those of the nation: the glory and filth of army service, being gassed, the stab in the back that brought national humiliation and then the rebirth under his guiding hand, all the tropes by which Germans deluded themselves.

These were the kind of myths which turned rational human beings into clichéd trotting dolts. As he had reflected many times, as a Scot, his own nation was not immune, though they did not turn to murder to prove them, more inclined to fire themselves up with a dram.

Cal could not wait for the insults to start, as Hitler damned everything and everyone who did not succumb to his genius, and now that he had manoeuvred himself out of sight of Corrie he clutched his stomach, put the now empty napkin to his mouth, looked pained and made his way out of the square.

As he passed Jimmy Garvin the youngster made to move. The blast for him to stay still was furious and the language left no doubt about what he would do to him if he followed. Out of sight and in deserted streets – the Czechs who lived here were inside with the blinds drawn and the doors barred – he could pick up his pace.

The garage was at the back of the hotel and open. Inside were
Henlein’s Mercedes, a few other smaller vehicles and Cal’s Maybach. The box from the boot he wrapped in one of the blankets from the back seat, able to smile at the irony of their so-different purposes that day; the hunting knife he jammed in his trouser belt.

The back door led into a lobby and a set of uncarpeted wooden stairs that were used by the staff, which creaked alarmingly as he stepped on to them. On the grounds that being surreptitious was a bad idea he made his way up them and accepted the sound would be treated as normal to anyone who heard them.

He had to put the box down on the top step, where there was a bare light bulb, to look at the napkin and get his bearings – which was a bit of luck, since he heard a creaking himself; it was an old building cursed with loose boards. Someone was coming along from what he had identified as the main part of the building to the passage that led to the staff quarters.

There was no time for subterfuge. Cal headed for the first door and was relieved it opened to reveal a deep cupboard which, by the smell, he reckoned was full of linen. The door he closed behind him as soon as he laid the box on the floor, and he had the knife out and ready, prepared to kill and hoping that if someone came in it was not a maid.

That he would have to take a life he knew; this was too important to let anything like finer feelings intrude, and besides, he was in the frame of mind he had been in many times in his life: when it came to kill or be killed there was not much room for sentiment.

The creaking had become boots, which thudded as they reached the bare floorboards, rising then falling off as they passed the door, a slight shadow coming under where there was a gap that let in light. He waited for silence, then sheathed the knife and opened
the door to peer out. Sure it was clear, he picked up the box and tiptoed off.

Going to his own room first was a risk but he wanted that Mauser in case he was disturbed. He would use the knife for preference but up against anyone armed only a bullet would save him. The weight of that in his jacket pocket dragged it down to one side in a way that would show anyone who saw him what he was carrying – that had to be accepted.

To see the lobby deserted was a surprise, but as Veseli had said, even the guests had gone to the event in the square, it seemed, and where he might have been seen by the guards had they looked round, he was safe from that for the same reason.

He was halfway across when the sound made him stop dead, that was until he realised it was snoring, and when he looked behind the desk there was the porter who had taken his luggage to his room, slumped in a chair fast asleep.

‘You, old son, are in for a very rude awakening,’ he said very quietly to himself as he walked away.

Where would Hitler be by now? He looked at his watch, mildly surprised at how little time he had used to get this far, a mere twenty minutes; the Führer would have hardly got going. Access to the office suite was by a heavy five-bar lock that, had he not had the key, would have needed some of Mr Nobel’s finest to get it open.

How the hell Veseli had got such a key he did not know, but then he had no idea how long they had been planning this operation. He went through and locked it behind him. That napkin had told him where the emergency exit was, at the end of the corridor, and he checked that first.

The heavy wooden door to Henlein’s own office was locked too, and that was a setback solved by the blade of his hunting knife, not without a tearing sound that had him still and listening for half a minute before he entered to find that the large windows gave him enough light from the street to see.

First stop was the radio, which he switched on to warm up, turning the volume dial right down low even before any sound emerged. Then he put the Mauser on top of the safe, butt out, where he could get at it easily. Next he took the bulb out of the overhead light and put it in his pocket, then put on the gloves, using his knife to cut into the explosive packaging, his nose wrinkling at the increased smell.