Jack Ludlow: A Bitter Field

‘Oh no,’ Jimmy protested, ‘I want them today.’

‘Best dig deep then, son.’ The face fell but not for long; he would get well rewarded for his story and anyway this stranger was talking. ‘Did I not see you outside the Victoria Hotel this morning, son?’

‘Yes, that’s where Mr Jardine is staying.’ He peered at McKevitt. ‘And I’m sure I saw you as well.’

‘Well, I’m not sure your Jardine is the same fella, but maybe I’ll drop in and say hello.’

‘Shall I tell him?’ Jimmy asked, thinking it was the rather loud sports jacket that he remembered more than the face.

‘No, I might be wrong and if I’m not, well it will be a fine surprise.’

‘Right, Jimmy, the garage,’ Cal barked, heading for the rear exit, leaving Corrie and Vince in the lounge to reminisce about Ethiopia. Peter had gone off to send a cryptic message to Quex to tell him not to fret. ‘You get one look at this, make your notes and that’s it.’

‘What happens to the original?’

‘None of your business, just get your stuff in the paper and make yourself a star reporter.’

Jimmy used the passenger seat and when he had finished his note-taking he was ushered out into the alley. The document was hidden and the car locked before Cal emerged to join him.

‘You going back to Prague in that?’ he asked. Cal nodded. ‘Any chance of a lift?’

‘There’s four of us already,’ Cal replied; then he had a thought. ‘My friend Vince came up in an old Tatra, you can have that to drive back. I take it you can drive?’

‘You have to in my job, nowadays, but who can afford a car?’

McKevitt had found the alley just by walking around the block, the back door guarded by one policeman who, when he made his second passage, looked at the man carrying the briefcase as he walked up to him, his hand going inside his checked jacket and coming out with a blue-and-gold-covered passport, addressing him in good if accented German.

‘British legation, come to see some of my nationals.’ Confidence is the key in a situation like this one; the Ulsterman actually put the passport in the man’s hand so he could examine it. ‘None of them hurt in the fighting as far as I know, but I need to make sure.’

He could have gone in the front door, which was also now guarded by only one policeman, the army having withdrawn, so there seemed no harm in letting him pass, given the only other people in the hotel were from Internal Security, rifling, he had heard, through a mountain of files.

The people who had passed him previously had done no more than go to the garage and back again, so, not anticipating any danger, he nodded and handed the passport back. McKevitt gave him a cheery wave and went through the door, while the policeman, a bit bored in truth, turned to watch him disappear through the door.

He only felt the tickle of the wire for a split second before it was pulled tight, then it was choking him, a knee going into his spine as he was pulled down, his hands tearing uselessly at his throat. Four men appeared, one in the same uniform as the man now dying and he took up station while the body was dragged into the garage by the others. Then they disappeared into the hotel, pulling out their weapons as soon as they were inside.

They saw McKevitt’s back as he walked forward gingerly, the flap of the briefcase open, though they could not see the box camera around his neck. It mattered not as they disappeared up the wooden staff staircase, the noise they created making McKevitt turn to look; there was nothing to see.

Creeping through the lobby he could hear the sound of voices and some laughter, but a look into what had to be the lounge — it was full of settees — showed it empty except for a small suitcase and a canvas bag on the floor by an open doorway. The sound was beyond that and gingerly he moved forward, edging his nose round the door to the table-filled dining room.

They were all sitting at a circular board, eating and drinking without a care in the world, and it was obvious by the heightened sounds of conversation that they had been imbibing with gusto. McKevitt silently put his briefcase on the floor, flap open, and got his camera ready; all he needed was a shot, more than one if he could, of Jardine and Lanchester together and everything else would follow from that.

He would find out if, as he had suspected ever since that message had come from Brno, those machine guns had gone to the IRA, to be used to fight and kill his fellow Protestants in Ulster. And when the truth of that came out, this pair would go to jail, while the man who had failed to see that one of his new boys was playing him false would be out on his ear, and that was before it came out that they were risking a war with their carrying on.

‘Smile!’

He said that loudly as he stepped into the middle of the door. Everyone looked, even those with their backs to him, and he clicked immediately before dropping the camera to advance the film, a broad smile on his face.

‘Good day to you.’

‘McKevitt,’ Peter said, ‘what the hell are you doing?’

‘Finding out who your friends are, Lanchester, like the man sitting on the other side of that lady, who I suppose is Callum Jardine, or as you have chosen to call him, Mr Barrowman.’

‘How the hell does he know that, Peter?’ Cal said, his eyes on the doorway. ‘I’ve never met him.’

‘I don’t know,’ Peter replied as McKevitt took another photograph.

‘Ask your little journo friend.’ Cal looked at Corrie. ‘Not her, the other one.’

A glance at Jimmy Garvin had him blushing, a question brought out the admission, the response to which was vituperative if also devoid of passion. ‘You stupid little bastard!’

‘When I show these to certain people, an awful lot of trouble for you two is going to come out in the wash.’

‘We’re here on SIS business, Noel.’

‘You’re here on Quex’s business, which he has no business being engaged in, and he’s another one for the chop, I can tell you.’

‘You’re out of your league, Noel,’ Peter insisted, as Cal stood up and moved towards the doorway. ‘I’ll take the camera.’

McKevitt dropped to one knee and pulled the Webley revolver out of the briefcase he had bought at the same time as the camera. Cal, who moved at the same time, was just too slow to get to him, finding himself staring down the barrel.

The gunshot, even muted, made him leap sideways and he was still travelling when he realised the Irishman had not fired, just as he realised that more shots were following.

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ McKevitt shouted as a real fusillade came from the upper floors, as well as shouting and the screams of people obviously taking wounds. The Ulsterman was forced to turn just by the sheer mayhem he was hearing, and Cal rolled towards the door, his hand stretched out to grab his canvas bag and drag it inside.

‘Everybody down!’ he yelled, which made McKevitt spin back again and he guessed very quickly that the bag must have a gun. The shouting and screaming had moved to the staircase that led to Henlein’s suite and the man was in two minds as he saw several men reversing down the stairs firing upwards, vaguely aware that two of them were not moving properly.

‘Leave it,’ he yelled at Cal, as he saw him rummaging in the bag, but he spun back to look through the lobby.

What the man on the stairs saw, when that shout made him turn round, was a man with a revolver coming in an arc to aim at him. He fired and his was a fully loaded automatic weapon, so McKevitt was hit by three bullets that threw him back against the frame of the doorway and half into the dining room.

Having no idea what was happening, Cal hauled out his Mauser then scurried forward on his knees to get the Webley out of McKevitt’s dying hand, shouting to Vince to take care of Corrie, and to Peter to get closer. It was all a blur from them on; he saw a shape and knew it was deadly, so he fired off the last of his rounds and took the target out.