Jack Ludlow - A Bitter Field

‘What is this?’ Peter exclaimed as he came through the entrance to the lounge and saw who was sitting there, now drinking coffee. ‘A gathering of the clans?’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I came, Callum, dear boy, to tell you your cover has been blown.’

‘He knows that, guv,’ said Vince, grinning, ‘I’ve just told him so.’

‘You got the telegram I sent you?’

The ‘No’ was explained when Vince told him how long he’d been on the road.

‘A quiet word, Cal, if you please.’

‘Don’t I get an introduction?’ asked Corrie. ‘Since you two seem such bosom buddies.’

‘Not “bosom”, but we have scrummaged together. Peter, this is Miss Corrine Little-’

‘No surnames, Cal, the lady is a journalist.’

‘How do you know that?’

All that got was a sharp jerk of the head and the two went into a huddle facing away from the table, to impart the news that McKevitt, whom he was obliged finally to name, was on the warpath, armed and looking for a Mr Barrowman, as well as how he had got onto their tail.

‘I also have instructions from on high to tell you to abort.’

‘No need, I have written proof that Hitler intends to invade, the date, and a list of targets the Sudeten Nazis are to sabotage to help him, signed by Schicklgruber himself.’

‘And where is this wonderful bit of kit?’

‘Later, when we are a bit less of a crowd.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘No one here.’

‘Who’s the young chap?’

‘Jimmy Garvin, a journalist, works with Vernon Bartlett.’

‘Cal, old boy, you’re mixing in the wrong company.’

That’s all you know, Peter, Cal thought; that little bugger is going to write up the story and get it into his newspaper so that Chamberlain cannot sit on it, which he might just do given his record so far. That had been the deal, though Jimmy had no idea what he was going to be allowed to see.

Typical of his breed he had only finally agreed when he was promised Corrie, still getting dolled up in the bathroom, was not privy to the same story; he might be young but he was a fast learner and Cal suspected that Vernon Bartlett would not get a sniff either.

‘The only question is, Peter, how are we going to get it out? If I try to take it through the airport that risks a search and they are nervous right now.’

‘Diplomatic bag would be best, with me to travel alongside, which I can clear through the Prague legation with a Top Secret tag so I can deliver it straight to Quex.’

‘Mr Jardine?’ Both turned to face Jimmy Garvin. ‘Can I take your camera to get the film developed? I’d rather someone took the spool out who knows what they’re doing.’

‘I think there’s a couple of mine on there, don’t bother with those. But before you go, you might as well join us in a glass of champagne.’

‘How jolly.’

‘I don’t see any staff, Cal.’

‘Neither will you, apart from the odd chambermaid.’

He explained about this being Henlein’s HQ, though he made no mention of the body Czech Intelligence had discovered when they began to search the offices. Right now they were starting to assess all the office files.

‘They’ve already searched the accommodation and allowed us back into our rooms and given us the run of the rest, bar Henlein’s bit. Everyone who worked here is either hiding in their cellar or has fled to Bavaria. So, we help ourselves, which means we will not stint on quality.’

In the end, because they were such patriotic Teutons in the Victoria, they had to settle for a couple of bottles of very good German Sekt and Jimmy, rather lightweight when it came to alcohol, after three glasses of sparkling wine was in a very jolly mood when he finally left to find a camera shop.

Noel McKevitt had gnawed on how to proceed since he saw Peter Lanchester disappear, because it had finally struck him how much he was out on a limb here on his own; he was beginning to curse himself for the way he had told Gibby Gibson that the station was shutting down.

Could he get some of the lads up here to help him? The only way to find out was to call the legation, and that meant abandoning his watch on the hotel. Given there was no alternative he dived into the station and found a phone, at first getting shirty with the Czech operator who pretended not to understand his German when he asked for the number.

‘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 cafe 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 cafe 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.’