A Bitter Field (26 page)

He had no option but to employ what professional safe-crackers would call a ‘jam shot’, something he had learnt from one of Snuffly Bower’s mates, which came in very handy for blowing off the steel doors of bunkers or places where arms were stored. The Nobel 808 being malleable, he could press down the lock side of the safe in a continuous strip, jamming it into the very small gap.

It looked feeble but he knew the force even a small amount could produce: an almond-sized blob properly placed would blow any normal door to bits. The radio was warm now so he gave it a bit more volume and spun the tuner till he heard that rasping voice from
Deutsche Rundfunk
. Ear close to the speaker, he could hear that Hitler was getting a bit hoarse; by the end of his peroration he would be rasping.

What 808 he had left he packed as close to the lock as he could, which created a mass into which he could insert a detonator, that then connected to wires, they in turn being threaded into the terminals on the plunger. Carefully he took that and opened the door to the
hallway, placing it outside where he would fire it, using the solid wall of the old building to protect him from the blast. Then he settled down to wait.

Peter just made his train by a hairy taxi ride from the Gare du Nord to l’Est and was able to settle down to sleep in a comfy couchette, this while Vince was fuming and still being denied access through the last checkpoint. It had taken all day for Noel McKevitt to find a hose that would fit the Humber but he was back on the road, barrelling north, using his diplomatic passport and plates to get through every checkpoint as a priority case.

Not that such progress was smooth: given the number of cars held up and the sheer quantity that had to move to facilitate his advance – not to mention the fulsome and loudly expressed curses he got for his temerity – each one took an age, so that when he arrived at the checkpoint where Vince was waiting it was dark, and fulminate as he might, it seemed the army had priority on the road ahead and not even a diplomat could make progress.

Sitting on the floor, gloves off, Cal was listening to Hitler as he started to heap insults on Czechoslovakia, which was a miserable little country which dared to call itself a democracy but was suppressing its inhabitants … in this state there were three and a half million Germans (his voice was really hoarse now) … the misery of the Sudetenlanders was terrible … Beneš was a liar and a cheat … on and on he went and each part of his increasingly deranged tirade was met with great repetitive cries of ‘
Sieg Heil!
’ from the audience.

It was the climax of the speech he was waiting for, that last point where Hitler would sweep his right hand like a sword across his chest, the sweat flying from his brow, his shirt soaked and his eyes
aiming off to some point beyond those who were listening to him, to a Valhalla where even the gods of the
Nibelungen
were sat bolt upright in amazement at his brilliance.

Cal turned the radio up a fraction and moved out of the door to where the plunger lay, closed the door as much as he could without damaging the wires, slid down so his back was to the wall and listened, his pistol near his hand, to the berserk spectators creating a din that was now so loud Hitler could hardly be heard. He then took the lever in his hand. Faintly he could hear those in the square, loud enough to echo through the streets and penetrate solid walls.

‘I’m sick of the sound of you, old cock,’ he said, then twisted and pressed hard before immediately jamming his hands to his ears and opening his mouth.

To him it sounded as if the earth had caved in, but he had no idea how it sounded outside. Perhaps the folk at the rally thought thunder or maybe, since half of them subscribed to beliefs in mythical deities, that the gods had spoken; he had no time to wonder – he just picked up the Mauser and went in.

The room was a mess: Henlein’s desk was mostly matchwood, the window panes blown out so compressively they seemed to have gone in one piece, only breaking when they hit the cobbles below. Out came the bulb to be screwed back in, and then the light could be switched on; it made no difference who saw that now.

The door of the safe was hanging open and there was the smell of burning, probably some of the contents. Hauling to get it right open he looked inside and started rifling through the mass of papers, pushing aside bundles of banknotes.

The one he wanted was easy to identify, a high-quality green folder with the gold device of an eagle with a swastika in its talons.
Taking it over to what was left of Henlein’s desk, under the light, he opened it to see the top letter carried the address of the office of the Führer at the top and the Hitler signature at the bottom.

‘Hände hoch!’

There was no time to see who it was or what they had; dropping the file he just spun quickly, dived sideways and as he did so put a bullet into the chest of the porter who had been asleep downstairs, which blasted him backwards. Rolling up on to one knee, the second bullet went into his head and he died for the fact that he was old, overweight and slow and had a key to the door of the office suite; that and because he was holding a gun.

Relocking the suite door, and this time leaving his own key twisted in the lock to stop anyone else gaining entry, Cal went back to the office and jammed the file down the back of his trousers. Then, using that blanket from the Maybach, he scooped in the bundles of banknotes, knotted it and headed for the emergency exit which took him out of the back of the hotel, through a door that, once closed, locked itself.

He was out in the alley and heading for the garage before he heard the first of the thudding boots coming to find out what had happened, which risked him being caught in possession of that bundle, so he resorted to an old trick burglars use to avoid getting caught with their swag just after a robbery. Carrying it at night, when they usually do their breaking and entering, they are bound to be stopped by a copper and questioned. The solution is to find a convenient bin, preferably with a lid, and dump the goods till daylight – the back of the hotel was lined with dozens of them.

Then, coming from where his car was parked, he heard the sounds of a big engine being fired up and doors slamming, followed
by screeching tyres as Henlein’s Mercedes swept out and past him, forcing him to press his body against the wall, able to see the alarmed face of the driver as it raced past and then a fleeting last glimpse of a worried-looking Henlein.

Entering the garage himself he ran to the Maybach and jammed the file of documents and the Mauser under the front seat, before locking it and heading back to the square to find Corrie.

T
he sound of breaking glass was almost immediate and as Cal ran towards the square he could see, in the intervening streets, small knots of Brownshirts busy attacking what he supposed must be Czech homes and businesses, so occupied they ignored him. When he got to the old marketplace, the central square was still crowded but now with a mob baying for what they saw as justice for an oppressed minority.

Veseli stood out easily, his head and forage cap visible from a distance, and Cal made straight for him, barging through a crowd that had no desire to ease his passage, passing open yelling mouths chanting either indistinct Nazi slogans or curses aimed at their Czech neighbours and foreign devils, clearly still under the spell of the euphoria created by Hitler’s speech.

They were facing some hothead who had got himself hoisted above the crowd and was waving a swastika, trying to make himself
heard above the din. Cal knew by his contorted face and that flag he was not trying to calm them down but seeking to fire them up to commit some kind of anti-Czech pogrom.

He got to Veseli eventually, standing tall and looking fierce, to find Corrie close by in the company of Jimmy Garvin, the look of fearful greeting in both their eyes evidence of how uncomfortable they found it to be surrounded by a mob of excited ideologues slipping rapidly out of any sense of self-control.

It was hard to believe they could make more noise than previously but the truth was assailing his ears, making it hard to hear what was being shouted at him, and Veseli had to wait till he got closer and repeated himself to be understood.

‘Herr Barrowman, you must get Miss Littleton back to the hotel and keep her there.’

‘Can you give us an escort?’

‘No, I cannot be seen to.’

That was followed by an exchange of looks that told the Czech agent that the safe had been successfully blown and it was testament to his ability to control his emotions that he did not smile.

There was no time to argue about protection, so Cal grabbed Corrie’s arm and yelled to Jimmy to stay close, then began to elbow his way back in the direction from which he had come, finding himself more than once faced with some slavering and fist-shaking German, of both sexes, disinclined to allow them passage; it would have been impossible had he not spoken their language and even then it was not easy.

More than once he was tempted to let go of Corrie and give one of the men an uppercut but there were two constraints on that: first, he might lose her in such a packed crowd, and secondly, if he struck
one of these maddened bastards he might find he had to fight them all; that was the way of mobs.

It began to thin towards the rear, they were all facing that
flag-waving
lunatic, but now there was a bit of clear space they found themselves being eyed suspiciously, which Cal countered by yelling ‘
Sieg Heil!
’ and throwing out his arm, getting a like response every time.

Looking back, he saw Jimmy Garvin had been grabbed by a burly local dressed in lederhosen and was being shaken. The temptation to abandon the little sod was one that had to be buried; he knew too much, and added to that was an inability to stand by and watch anybody being bullied by anyone, anywhere.

Putting both hands on Corrie to keep her still, that accompanied by a hard look, he went back to help the cub reporter who, foolishly, was yelling in English, which was probably what had got him into bother in the first place.

Cal yelled in the man’s ear to ask him to let the boy go, only to have him turn and spit in his face. The head butt might be known as a ‘Glasgow kiss’ but it was a fighting strategy close to every Scottish schoolboy’s birthright. Cal’s forehead hit the German nose right on the bridge and the blood was immediate, as was the way he dropped the struggling Jimmy.

Cal stepped back to give himself room and planted his foot hard in the assailant’s leather shorts before grabbing a bewildered Jimmy and telling him to get moving, the one obvious danger being that the assault had not gone unnoticed. This being a situation that would not be solved by a Nazi salute, Cal hauled out his hunting knife to warn anyone against interfering.

‘Corrie, get moving and run,’ he shouted, backing away from a
trio, who with knotted and furious faces had come to their comrade’s aid. ‘Get to the hotel and stay there.’

There were other shouts and they were coming from a group of men closing slowly in on him and he could not fight them all. Added to that, the blood-spattered fellow he had hit was groggily getting to his feet, swaying and in pain, revenge in his eyes.

He could outrun them and so probably could young Jimmy Garvin, the problem was Corrie and the shoes she was wearing, which had heels, not high, but were very much not the kind of footwear conducive to flight. He had, of course, not considered that she might come to the same conclusion.

The scream of ‘Run, Cal!’ came from behind, but what told him it was possible was first one of her shoes, then the other, flying past his ear, both aimed at German heads. They did nothing but impose a minor distraction but that was enough for him to turn and go, glad to see that she had not waited but set off and opened up a bit of a gap.

It might not have worked but for a burst of rapid gunfire which broke out. Cal thought it ahead of him, but in a built-up area with the sound able to reverberate there was no way of being sure, though looking back he saw the noise had imposed a check on the pursuit, either out of confusion or the notion of being shot had cooled their Nazi ardour.

Whatever, it created enough of an opening to give him confidence he could get to the garage and root out that Mauser, where if he did and they were still following he would not hesitate to shoot to kill. Looking back in the direction he was heading Cal saw that Jimmy was not being brave; he was well ahead of Corrie, his knees pounding, and the distance was opening, which if he carried on would take him to the station square.

‘Corrie, down that alley on your right!’ His free hand was in his pocket rooting out his keys. ‘Go in the back door, it’s quicker.’

The firing was sporadic but constant now, single shots that indicated maybe some of the Czechs were fighting back, but of more concern was that a couple of those in pursuit had not been fully deterred, and even over his own breathing he could hear their boots on the cobbles and worryingly they seemed to be getting closer.

About to dive into the garage, the sound of a revving engine echoing in the cavernous building slowed him enough to stop him being knocked over; a car shot out of the doorway, proving clearly Henlein was not the only one fleeing Cheb, but thankfully the car give him a breather because as it pulled out it went in the direction of his pursuers and they too had to slow to avoid a collision.

They had stopped in the doorway by the time he got the car door open, two well-built brutes and one of them had a club. In silhouette he could not see their faces but he guessed they would be smiling at the fact that he was probably trapped. Quickly he knelt, pulled out the Mauser and stood again, the weapon hidden behind the car door.

One of the pair was cursing him, his breath heaving from his exertions, but over that, also amplified by the nature of the building, was the sound of a club slamming into his palm. The words were chilling: not only were they going to beat him to a pulp but they intended to string him up to a lamp post, having cut off his balls and fed them to the dogs.

Callum Jardine was not by nature a cold-blooded killer; in the heat of the moment he would shoot a man to preserve his own life but rarely had he shot anyone out of hand. Had they not promised him the fate they promised they might have suffered less but their words marked them out as the kind of Nazi thugs he hated most,
the kind that would beat an innocent person, a Jew or a dissenter, to death in full public view.

He lifted the Mauser, laid it on the top of the door to steady it, and said softly, ‘
Sieg Heil, meine Kameraden.
’

Then, at a range of a few feet, he put two bullets into each, filling the garage with echoing sound and sending their bodies hurtling back towards the door. As the echo faded the only sound left was of that club rolling along the concrete floor.

Going through to the front of the hotel, he thought at first it was deserted; certainly the lobby was, looking incongruously peaceful given the continuing sounds of sporadic gunfire from outside. It was almost with a sense of comedy that he palmed the bell on the reception desk, the one used to summon luggage-carrying minions.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Corrie was standing in the doorway to the lounge, barefoot and holding a Martini glass that even had an olive on a stick. ‘First decent Martini I’ve had since Prague. You want I should make you one, Doc?’

‘I prefer Cal and a good whisky, but dare I say it is not safe to be standing here in the lobby right now? We’d be better off up in my room.’

‘Why yours?’

‘It overlooks the square, so we can see what’s happening.’

‘Why do I have the impression you know what’s happening?’ Cal shrugged and in doing so moved the pistol in his hand, which drew her eye. ‘I looked for you in the market square while that speech I could not understand was driving me crazy, but you were nowhere to be seen.’

‘I had a little business to do.’

‘The rod being part of it?’ she asked, looking at the weapon again.

‘It wasn’t supposed to be. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll explain.’

‘Lead on.’

He went to take her hand and lead her up the stairs but that was withheld. ‘I’ll wait for the explanation.’

‘You were in no danger, Corrie, I made sure of that.’

‘Well I have to tell you,’ she replied, her icy demeanour shattered and her eyes beginning to look tearful, ‘it sure as hell did not feel that way.’

The front door of the hotel burst open and Cal dropped to one knee as a reflex, the pistol coming up in both hands. Jimmy Garvin, looking dishevelled and as if the hounds of hell were on his tail, stopped dead, emitted a small moan and began to mouth a plea for mercy.

‘Thanks for looking after Corrie, Jimmy,’ Cal said, standing. ‘I won’t forget to tell your friends how intrepid you are.’

At least he was decent enough to look abashed as Cal commanded them to get out of the well-lit lobby.

‘No lights,’ he said as they slipped through the door. ‘Go over to the window and sit under the sill with your back to the wall.’

‘Why?’ asked the ingenuous young Jimmy.

‘Safest place when there are bullets flying about.’

He himself went to look out and the first thing he saw was a line of what had to be Czech police being deployed, taking up their positions, fully armed and lined up outside the entrance to the station, which indicated to Cal the first batch of the army would probably be coming in by train.

‘So?’ Corrie asked. ‘Do I get my explanation?’

‘Later, when Big Ears is not listening; right now we sit it out till the Czech army gets here.’

‘They’re coming?’ Jimmy asked, taking the silence as an affirmative.

‘How do you know?’

‘Do you ever stop asking questions?’

‘It’s what we do, Doc.’

‘Why do you call him Doc?’

‘Because, Jimmy,’ she replied, her tone bitter, ‘he’s a cartoon character, not real.’

How do you tell someone, especially with a third person present, that your life works in different boxes? She was feeling used and probably abused, so he went over and knelt beside her, whispering, ‘I know you’re angry and I can guess why, but just hold it all in for a while and when we’re alone I will tell you enough to reassure you that you were never in any danger.’

‘Then who was I running from?’

‘You throw your shoes at people, they get mad, Corrie.’

Her shoulders began to heave; it was funny and worthy of a laugh, but that soon turned to sobs as the pent-up fears surfaced and took over. He took her in his arms and held her close until they subsided and he got her onto the bed and told her to sleep, holding her hand until she went under.

‘Can you hear a train?’ Jimmy hissed, a few minutes later.

He was right, faint but unmistakable was the puffing of a steam engine, which grew louder until it was overtaken by the screeching of braking steel wheels. That was followed by the sound of shouting and both Cal and Jimmy watched as the troops emerged from the station to form up behind the screen of policemen.

‘Are those machine guns?’ Cal nodded. ‘Is there going to be a battle?’

‘There will be tankettes coming up the road from Liberec, artillery, and more troops as well. My guess is the Czech Government expected Hitler to declare war in his speech tonight and they intended to be on the move before he was. But the first thing they have to do is put down the locals in places like Cheb.’

‘This I’ve got to see,’ Jimmy insisted, as the troops began to march out of the square.

‘Nazi HQ, Jimmy, is where the main action will be, and don’t get yourself killed.’

As the youngster made for the door, Cal called him back. He had remembered his camera, which he now did not need, that or the film it contained.

‘Take this with you – you never know, you might get something useful.’

With the coming dawn, progress through the roadblock was finally possible and his dip plates as well as his irate insistence got Noel McKevitt priority, albeit not without a warning that there could be fighting up ahead. Delivered in German, he understood it; given twenty minutes later to Vince Castellano in Czech, all he could do was look understanding and nod silently before heading on up the road to Cheb.

There was no way of getting up any speed for either man and it was not just because of the amount of traffic, brought about by the hold-up. The army might not be moving, but by their mere presence they created endless bottlenecks, as trucks, horse-drawn artillery pieces, petrol and water bowsers, tankettes and all the paraphernalia of an army on the march did their best to tell the world they did not care how much inconvenience they could cause.