Jack Ludlow - A Bitter Field

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 Fuhrer at the top and the Hitler signature at the bottom.

‘Hande 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.

The 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.