by Jack Ludlow
She made no attempt to avoid being kissed, there was no stiffness or resistance and, as his tongue slipped between her teeth, he also knew that whatever else Corrie Littleton had done in her life, this was not the first time such an embrace had happened to her; she had been kissed before, because her tongue was also pushing forward to meet his own.
‘Is this why we came for a spin?’ she asked when they broke contact.
‘Would you be angry if it was?’ She shook her head. ‘Neither would I.’
‘That’s a helluva thing.’
‘I have work to do.’
‘You betcha,’ she said, her hand grabbing the back of his head, knocking off his hat and pulling him in till their lips were locked together again, and this time there was a trace of a moan, and whatever it is that signals from one human to another that they are willing was in Cal’s nostrils now.
‘You an outdoor girl?’ he asked.
She knew what that meant. ‘Heart and soul, Doc.’
‘There are a couple of rugs on the back seat.’
‘Is that planning?’
‘It’s a luxury car.’
‘Maybe they are in the wrong place.’
‘A walk?’
As she nodded he switched off the engine and Corrie took his hand to be pulled out of the driver’s door, which she held tight till Cal got the rugs out, there for rear seat passengers to cover their knees to keep out the cold.
‘You all right with this?’ he asked, his own voice now slightly hoarse. ‘There might be soldiers about.’
By way of a reply she led him away from the car and into the trees, holding his hand tightly – a pressure Corrie kept up until they came to a small clearing covered in fallen leaves. She looked at him and he nodded, then detached himself to spread out the rugs one on top of the other. Cal lay down and pulled her with him and immediately they were locked in an embrace.
He knew by what followed that Corrie Littleton was no firsttimer; she knew the body parts that mattered on him as well as he knew those that excited her and was uninhibited at seeking them out. The usual awkward gremlins getting out of clothing were met with the kind of intimate laughter that comes with slightly embarrassed struggles.
In these trees there was minimal sunlight and it was not really a warm day, but racing blood made up for any chill, that and activity that started slowly and rose in pace as both parties to this lovemaking extracted maximum pleasure from the act. When it was over, her bird-scattering screams had subsided and the breathing had settled a touch, she spoke into his shoulder in a small voice.
‘I hope you’ll still respect me, Doc.’
‘Don’t see why I should, I didn’t before.’
Her laugh filled the air and seemed to echo off the trees. ‘Callum Jardine, you are a piece of work.’
‘Which reminds me why I came,’ he whispered in her ear.
That set her off again, pealing laughter, which had Cal thinking this was a wholly different person to the one he thought he knew and he preferred it that way.
‘Can we just stay here for a few minutes?’
‘What makes you think I have the guts to say no?’
They lay for some fifteen minutes, not talking a lot but sharing whispered intimacies, until eventually Cal rose up and hauled her willingly to her feet. Hand in hand, once they had sorted out their clothing, they walked back to the car, each with a rug, and once they were seated in the front Cal asked her to get the maps and camera out of the glovebox.
‘It suddenly occurs to me we could have wandered into a minefield.’
‘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 Aš, 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 o
ut 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.
‘As long as you don’t blame me if it’s not,’ he said to himself.
When the pair came back to the hotel from their spin the Ice Maiden was waiting for them, and judging by the look she gave Corrie, it was all her fault that they had lost their followers.
‘That was very wrong of you to run away from those we have given the task of protecting you, Frau Littleton.’
‘We don’t need protection, surely,’ Cal replied, ‘and we did want to see some of the country.’
‘The Czech army is out there and has been known to shoot anyone who they think is spying on their defence works.’
The temptation to say “That must include half the Sudetenland population” had to be suppressed. Then, as she had done so many times before, she smiled at Cal and turned her body just enough to exclude the other woman.
‘But you are back, Herr Barrowman, and safe and that is all that matters.’
That changed when Cal got a peck on the cheek from Corrie; the smile was gone in an instant, before she added with sweet cruelty, ‘And we had such a lovely drive, Fräulein.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Major Gibby Gibson was well aware he was dithering; should he send another signal to London or not? Effectively he had been relieved of his job by Noel McKevitt, so in essence he had no authority to do anything at all and in between the worries he had there was the requirement to make arrangements to disperse the men under his command.
With the chaps from neighbouring stations it was easy, they had travelled light – pack your kit and take a train to Warsaw and Bucharest. With him and his assistant they would be giving up rented apartments, paying off people like cleaners, saying goodbye to long-standing friends, settling bills for mundane things like gas and electricity, and in his much younger 2IC’s case disentangling himself from a rather torrid love affair.
‘I think you should see this, sir,’ said Tommy the cipher clerk, bursting into Gibson’s office. ‘It’s a flash from London.’
Gibson was out of his chair before he had finished reading it, calling out for the Royal Marines he had stationed in Prague as legation guards to find Noel McKevitt and if necessary restrain him, only to receive the news that the man had taken a Humber Snipe from the pool and had left half an hour before.
‘Did he indent for a weapon?’ he asked the senior marine, a sergeant who was in charge of such things.
The reply was crisply military and given as if such a thing was an everyday occurrence.
‘Webley revolver, sir, and twenty-four rounds of ammo. Nice to see the gentleman was familiar with the weapon, sir, handled it like an old pro, he did.’
London had to be informed and he needed to know what to do – a message which took time to encode and send. It was only by sheer luck it caught Peter Lanchester, who was leaving the building to hail a cab to Victoria for the boat train. He was hauled back smartish to face a seething Sir Hugh Sinclair.
‘Change of orders, Peter,’ he said, thrusting Gibson’s signal in his hand. ‘McKevitt is to be stopped by whatever means are necessary. Right now Miss Beard is typing a letter relieving him of all duties forthwith pending an enquiry into his conduct.’
‘Can’t we get the Czechs to stop him?’
‘He’s armed and travelling on a UK diplomatic passport – what would you say if you were a local and asked to intercept an armed British official roaring around in a legation car with dip plates?’
‘I would wonder what is going on.’
‘And you would ask for clearance to act?’
Peter nodded; he knew what that meant with someone carrying a gun: permission to shoot, which would entail at the very least the Czech Foreign Ministry asking the ambassador, who in turn might well cable London for clarification.
‘Exactly, and this would all be taking place in a country where, by official diktat, we are supposed to be playing it soft. Get to Eger, Peter, and tell Jardine to abort whatever he’s involved in and get out of the country.’
‘Regardless of what stage he is at?’
‘Regardless,’ Sir Hugh replied, very forcibly, as the required letter was placed in front of him for signature; rather suddenly his eyes misted over and this took on the appearance of a letter of resignation. ‘Termination, Peter, nothing else will do.’
Peter just had time to send a telegram to the Meran Hotel for Vince to get out and he employed the same tactics of colloquial English, there being no time to code it. It read: Gaff Blown, Scarper.
Upstairs Sir Hug
h Sinclair was composing another signal telling Major Gibson to stand down and do nothing; the last thing he needed was a bunch of SIS men running around Czecho trying to apprehend one of their own. Keeping that quiet might prove impossible.
Driving out of Prague, Noel McKevitt was excited; given the mundane nature of what he had been doing for many years – the life of an SIS man on station was not one of much adventure and being desk bound was even worse – he was shedding nearly two decades, going back to the days when he and men like Barney Foxton, young then and ruthless, had fought the IRA to keep Ireland under the aegis of the British Crown.
That was the last time he had carried a gun in anger, the same as that which lay beside him on the car bench seat. There was too, at the back of his mind, the knowledge that, while he could rise further in the service, to a man of his background – grammar school and front-line service in a common or garden regiment – positions like that held by Sir Hugh Sinclair were outside his natural reach; he did not come from the right part of the establishment.
Long-held instincts now crystallised into a powerful spur to what he was doing, for it thus followed, and always would even if he had been reluctant to acknowledge it in the past, that elevation to the kind of position he craved would only come from some bold stroke which would elevate his prospects.
Luck played a major part in advancement, that and birth, for, from what he had observed, ability was not a prerequisite if you went to the right schools and saw service in the Royal Navy or the Brigade of Guards. How many senior positions had he seen filled by eejits who had nothing but one of those as their only qualification?
At the first checkpoint he was waved through without trouble; the boys manning it had been educated to recognise the plates of diplomatic vehicles, with which they were neither allowed to interfere or search, and it would be the same at the ones he had yet to face. McKevitt could look forward to being in Cheb in under four hours, the kind of time that had only been possible before Czech mobilisation.