Jack Ludlow - A Bitter Field

‘Bang,’ she replied, as he handed her the camera.

‘What are you like as a photographer?’

‘As good as you are as a lover, Doc.’

Now it was his turn to startle the birds with his laughing.

It took a while and some map reading to get back on to the road to the town the Czechs called As, with many stops on the way: after tight bends, places where the road narrowed or where it was heavily enclosed by trees which, felled by blast, would block it completely — all possible points at which to spring an ambush.

At each one Cal took photographs, with Corrie insisting that he stand back to be snapped as well, and at no time did she enquire what he was up to; it was as though by making love their entire relationship had altered massively. She was happy and made no secret of it.

Asch was a pretty place nestling in rolling hills and surrounded by good rolling pasture. The houses, where they were not just grey stone, were painted in rose-pink and yellow and the style was similar to Cheb, with the tall steep-roofed buildings joining one another in long terraces.

The attempts to talk to what locals they came across were not a success: approaching anyone, even when Cal spoke to them in German, showed that they were an insular bunch not too keen to answer Corrie’s questions, some so nervous it was as though the mere act of talking to strangers would endanger them.

‘He might not have invaded,’ Cal ventured, ‘but it feels like Hitler’s here already.’

They found Henlein’s house by endless asking, as if they were tourists, Corrie’s notebook put away, and the first obvious fact was that, like the Victoria Hotel, it was guarded, in this case by two armed dolts who refused to believe Cal’s explanation and refused to allow him to use his camera. If they wanted photographs of the house they must get that from the owner.

‘Time to go back and meet the big cheese.’

As she slid into the passenger seat, he finally went to unlock and look in the boot. There was a small wooden box there, one big enough to hold a couple of pairs of shoes, covered in a cloth, with a faint smell he recognised — the almond odour of slightly sweating nitroglycerine in the Nobel 808. The cloth once moved showed a pair of impermeable gloves over a packet of the green flexible explosive, a couple of detonators, a coil of wire, and underneath that a battery-operated plunger.

‘You OK?’

‘Yes,’ he shouted back cheerfully, but he was not, he was concerned at what he was going to be asked to do. As he locked the boot lid he added, ‘You want to drive?’

‘Do you want to live?’

Unintentionally that was a very apposite question.

The delay in reacting to Gibson’s despatch was caused by Sir Hugh Sinclair giving his weekly briefing to the Home Secretary, which took up half of his morning and meant he did not read it till he arrived back, and when he did so it was buried under a collection of other cables from stations around the globe. Miss Beard, his faithful and long-serving secretary, had not heard him curse often, but she heard it now.

‘Get hold of Peter Lanchester at once and tell him to come immediately, then come back to take a message to be sent to Prague.’

Miss Beard was writing when Peter arrived, with Quex dictating that no action was to be taken in respect of either man, though all he knew of Nolan was that he was backup for Barrowman/Jardine, and they were to stay well clear.

‘Get that off as a flash message as soon as it is coded,’ Quex growled, turning to Peter Lanchester when she exited and throwing the cable across the desk. ‘I don’t know what McKevitt is up to but he has somehow dug out Jardine.’

‘The man’s a bloody menace.’

‘Never mind that, get down to Documents and have them issue you a diplomatic passport, we’ve no time for visas and the like, I want you over there babysitting Jardine and making sure McKevitt goes nowhere near him.’

‘He wouldn’t block him, surely, if he found out what Jardine’s after?’

Sinclair was thinking of his wigging from the PM again; as well as scarcely concealed desperation to avoid a war, he was now, it seemed, talking of going to Germany to meet Hitler face to face; it did not bode well.

‘I would not put it past him, and besides, he must not find out. You can travel by train tomorrow, I hope, from Paris and that will take you directly to Eger.’

‘Of course. But, sir, there must be more to this than meets the eye. McKevitt seems to be out of control.’

‘The problem is he’s not under my control at present, but out of that entirely he is not.’

Peter waited for him to expand on that, but he waited in vain.

Both he and his boss would have been even more alarmed had either been aware that, as they were talking, McKevitt was on the embassy secure line to Sir Thomas Inskip confirming that there was an operation taking place in Czechoslovakia the nature of which he was unaware and, ipso facto, so was the Government.

‘What do you suspect?’ asked a surprised Minister of the Crown, who hardly expected a call from such a location.

‘I am still in the dark about that, sir, but there is no question that it is dangerous and possibly downright illegal.’

‘And you have gone to Czechoslovakia to pursue this?’

‘I have,’ McKevitt lied — he was not going to admit he had been sent. ‘Worse, Sir Hugh Sinclair has decided to shut down the station, an idea he says he discussed with the PM to avoid anything happening to exacerbate tensions.’

‘That, if I may say so, McKevitt, does not square with what you have just been telling me.’

‘No, he’s playing some deep game all right. What I need to kill it off is the authority to override Sir Hugh, and only Mr Chamberlain can grant that.’

Accustomed to giving advice to clients as a top-flight lawyer, Inskip knew that would never be forthcoming because it had no validity unless it was in writing, and he doubted Chamberlain was fool enough to even contemplate such an instruction.

He also knew that anything he said on this telephone was strictly between him and the caller, while it seemed to him important that McKevitt should proceed; why should he not take the reins and act on his own initiative?

‘I can try to get that for you, but it would take time. Do we have time?’

‘I would say it would be tempting providence to think we have.’

Code, Inskip thought, for you have no idea of that either. ‘It may be you have to act on your own until I can get the PM’s ear and he’s away on a fishing holiday.’

‘That exposes me, sir, and I may have to act in a manner that could be seen as prejudicial.’

‘If you deem it necessary then you must do so, and you know I will back you, McKevitt, if there’s an enquiry.’

‘Do I have permission to keep you informed?’

‘A splendid idea, and I will liaise with the PM about the matter. In fact I will send him a message this very hour.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Phone down, Sir Thomas sat and pondered, reverting to his original conclusion that no such written instruction would come from Neville Chamberlain even if he knew what McKevitt was up to and approved. This was a situation in which he could act as a conduit, and if it proved to have merit he would gain credit; if it was pie in the sky, and it very well could be that, then he could discount all knowledge of it.

As to sending a message to the PM, the poor man was on a well-earned holiday, peacefully fishing; it would not be the done thing to impinge on that. Besides, he had plenty on his desk as the Minister for Defence Procurement, not least the latest costings for the new fighter just introduced to RAF service.

The price of building these planes was going up to over twelve thousand pounds per item, and though the people who flew the Spitfire claimed it was a wonder-plane, there was no evidence that it would match whatever other nations were producing, not least the Germans. It could, in aerial combat, turn out to be a dud.