Estocada

  ‘The mines are still open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they crush the rocks? Sell the ore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So who buys it?’

  She hesitated, looking round again. ‘The Germans,’ she said. ‘They came with a big order last year. They want to ship the stuff back home. No one knows why.’

  Tam nodded. This had to be uranium. One of Gunther Nagel’s shooting party had mentioned it at The Glebe House. He and Tam had shared a malt or two after dinner. The German had a brother who was a chemist, working on some project or other, and uranium had featured in the conversation. Apparently it had special properties, lending itself to all kinds of possibilities, but it was hard to lay hands on.

  ‘There are other quarries like this in Czechoslovakia?’

  ‘No. Only Jáchymov.’

  ‘Elsewhere, maybe? Austria? Germany itself?’

  ‘I asked the same questions. Edvard says not.’

  ‘So that must make Jáchymov pretty special. If you know what to do with this stuff.’

  ‘Of course. That’s what I told your Mr Ballentyne. When he came out to Prague to meet me.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last year. That’s how we got the permits to come to England. I thought you knew about all this.’

  ‘About the permits? The mine?’

  ‘Yes. And about Karyl.’

  ‘Karyl?’

  ‘He’s Jewish. That’s why we had to leave.’

  Tam absorbed the news. The gaunt face on the pillow. The line of empty bottles. All the clues to a life cast adrift. He checked his watch. Nearly half-past ten.

  ‘So tell me what Edvard was doing in Jáchymov this afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Was it to do with the mine?’

  ‘Please…’

  ‘Was he meeting someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why do you ask me?’

  ‘Because I want to help.’

  ‘You think something’s happened? To Edvard?’ She was looking alarmed.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The answer didn’t please her. Finally she bit her lip. None of this was easy.

  ‘A hotel,’ she said with some reluctance. ‘The Hotel Kavalerie.’

  ‘And do you know this person he was planning to meet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know anything about them?’

  She was staring at him now. The drumbeat of his questions had put something new in her eyes, something Tam hadn’t seen before. Fear.

  At length, she ducked her head.

  ‘He was an American,’ she muttered. ‘That’s all I know.’

  *

  Next day Tam was due to visit the fortifications on the western frontier and he was on the road with the military attaché by first light. Stronge’s assistant had phoned Tam’s hotel and left a message. The Colonel had to be back in Prague for a function in the evening and thus he had no alternative but to insist on an early start. As a small consolation he’d bring a bite to eat for breakfast.

  An hour and a half from Prague, the road west plunged into an area of dense woodland. Stronge spotted a forester’s track and pulled over. Even this early, the sun was warm through the dapple of leaves overhead, and the glade was alive with the busy hum of insects.

  ‘Bully beef, I’m afraid. One day our commissary might start buying local produce.’

  Stronge extracted two thick sandwiches from a wrap of greaseproof paper and passed one over. Tam took a bite. He was sitting on his folded greatcoat, his back against a tree. The bread was as indigestible as the bully beef.

  ‘Tell me about Jáchymov,’ he said.

  ‘You mean the bloody mine?’ Stronge needed no prompting. ‘I thought your people were the experts?’

  ‘They probably are. But you need to be in the priesthood to share all this stuff. I do what I’m told. Everything else goes over my head.’

  Priesthood raised a smile. Tam was beginning to suspect that he and Stronge might end up allies in this strange war, poking about for scraps of other people’s intelligence and then comparing notes to tease out some kind of truth.

  ‘The locals have been mining in the mountains for centuries,’ Stronge said. ‘They were after silver to begin with. Then came the uranium. Marie Curie ring any bells? Turn of the century? Radium?’

  Tam nodded. He’d gleaned this much from Renata. The pre-war health spas in the foothills around the town centre. The belief that the mysteries of radioactivity might work some therapeutic miracle or other.

  ‘Are we talking uranium?’ Tam needed to be sure.

  ‘We are.’

  ‘So who owns this stuff?’

  Stronge said he didn’t know. He’d produced a silver toothpick, wincing as he probed a tender spot between his back molars. If, by chance, Tam ever needed the services of a decent dentist in Prague, he knew just the man.

  ‘You’re changing the subject.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re here to look at the bloody defence works not quiz me about subjects I frankly don’t understand. Has it come to my notice that our friends across the border have an interest in uranium? Yes, it has. How? Because your lords and masters have been moving heaven and earth to find out why. Forgive me, but it’s those same people who appear to be paying your wages, which makes this seeming ignorance of yours all the more puzzling.’

  ‘I’m a new boy. I just told you. I get to see the stuff on the lower shelves. Eyes only. No touching. Whatever else they’ve got is locked away. And I’m guessing that includes uranium.’ Tam tossed the remains of his sandwich towards a pair of watching squirrels. ‘Might the Americans be involved here?’

  ‘In Jáchymov, you mean? God forbid. The Yanks want nothing to do with Czechoslovakia these days which is a bit rich in my book because Woodrow Wilson bloody invented it. Why do you ask?’

  Tam didn’t answer. Instead he stretched himself full length on the warm moss and shut his eyes. Renata had left him at the bar last night and departed to make a phone call. She was currently staying with a friend in Prague but she’d promised to get in touch again after his return. By then, she assured him, she’d have laid hands on Edvard.

  Tam felt a shadow looming over him. Stronge stooped to retrieve the greaseproof paper. Then he paused, looking down at Tam.

  ‘Why would the Americans have any interest in Jáchymov?’ he asked. ‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

  *

  The Czech fortifications on the western frontier had been the work of several years, a succession of strong points offering mutual support and interlocking fields of fire. Each of these strong points, reinforced in metres-thick concrete, formed a link in a chain that stretched for countless kilometres. Turn the lie of the land to your advantage, deny the enemy the high ground, funnel his approach by tank obstacles, thickets of barbed wire and artfully sited minefields, and you ended up with a series of killing zones the Czechs could pound into oblivion.

  The theory, elaborated with some passion by Colonel Maček, sounded invader-proof but Tam knew enough about the untidy realities of combat to recognise that no plan, no matter how well conceived and engineered, survived contact with the enemy. All morning they drove from strong point to strong point in convoy with their Czech host. They explored underground galleries, peered through range-finding periscopes, watched young trainees serving the new Skoda artillery, and finally emerged into the brightness of the late spring sunshine to gaze across the wooded Bohemian hills towards Germany. Somewhere beyond the haze, thought Tam, were tens of thousands of men in Wehrmacht grey. Their appetites whetted by the easy stroll into Austria, they couldn’t wait for the next country to serve itself up. Vienna. Prague. Maybe even Budapest. Where would it end?

  Colonel Maček, for one, had no doubts. He
was a small, neat little man with a crooked smile and a black leather wallet bulging with photos. Over canteens of mushroom soup and thick slices of wild boar sausage, he shared these photos with Tam and Stronge. He had three daughters. Two of them were in their late teens and, in Stronge’s happy phrase, they both looked ‘real poppets’. No way was their proud father going to let them anywhere near a German, uniformed or otherwise, and the battle for their virtue would begin and end here, where Czech cunning and Czech resolve would stop any invader in his tracks.

  ‘We may be the youngest country in Europe,’ he kept reminding Stronge, ‘but our days in the nursery are over. All we ask from our allies is a little understanding and a little support. When it comes to fighting, if it comes to fighting, we can take care of ourselves.’

  The soup and the sausage had been accompanied by two bottles of a local wine, red, rough, but more than welcome. Walking back to the car, having bade farewell to Colonel Maček, Stronge’s mood had mellowed. Like Tam, he understood only too well that battle had a brutal logic all of its own. Morale mattered. Command mattered. And so did countless other factors that lay beyond the careful calculations of the military draughtsmen responsible for designing the Czech defences. If only victory went to the most deserving, Tam thought.

  Back at the car, Stronge paused to raise his binoculars and take a final peek at the last of the forts they’d visited.

  ‘So what will you tell your people back home?’ he asked.

  ‘Officially?’ Tam shrugged. ‘It’s impressive. You can’t deny it. Lots of the kit is brand new. They seem to have the training taped. Their command set-up looks pretty effective. And you’d never argue with the siting and the design. I can think of any number of reasons why the Germans might have a real fight on their hands.’ He shot Stronge a look. ‘If only we were in the same position.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But nothing. You asked me a question. That’s my answer.’

  ‘And you think it’s the answer your masters are after?’

  Tam ducked his head a moment, said nothing.

  ‘Well?’ Stronge was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be music to their ears.’ Tam reached for the car door. ‘Any chance of dropping me off en route?’

  *

  It was late afternoon by the time they got to Jáchymov. The spa town lay in a narrow valley shadowed by the mountains on every side. The sunshine had brought out the locals and the cafés in the middle of the town were as busy as in Prague. Directions from a passer-by led them to a narrow cul-de-sac, nearly a mile out of town. The silence was unbroken the moment Stronge killed the engine, except for the burble of water from a nearby spring. If you were looking for somewhere for a discreet conversation, thought Tam, you could do worse than the Hotel Kavalerie.

  Stronge made a telephone call from the tiny desk that served as the hotel’s reception area, warning his secretary he might be a little late for his evening engagement. Then he turned back to Tam, one bony hand outstretched.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said. ‘And I mean that. You’ll keep in touch? I’d appreciate it.’

  He pumped Tam’s hand and then he was gone. Moments later, Tam heard the engine cough and there was a rumble from the exhaust as Stronge headed back towards the town.

  ‘You’re staying here?’ The woman who had given Stronge the telephone had re-emerged from her office. ‘You need a room?’

  Tam shook his head. The fact that the woman was speaking German probably meant she took him for a tourist, maybe some Sudeten from one of the bigger cities looking for a bit of peace and quiet, or a wallow in one of the town’s thermal baths.

  ‘You get many foreigners here? Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ The woman shrugged. ‘What sort of foreigners do you mean?’

  ‘Germans?’

  ‘Of course. They love it here. Their money goes a long way.’

  ‘Business people? Holidaymakers?’

  ‘Both.’ She was frowning now. ‘Are you police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why so many questions?’

  ‘I’m trying to find a friend of mine. I was supposed to meet him here last night but I got the date wrong. My mistake.’

  ‘You have a name?’

  ‘Edvard.’

  ‘I meant a surname.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re telling me he hasn’t got a surname? This friend of yours?’

  Tam was cursing himself. He should have thought this thing through. He spread his hands wide, apologised for wasting the woman’s time. Maybe he’d got the wrong hotel.

  The woman was studying him carefully. For some reason she was still prepared to help.

  ‘Describe him. This friend of yours.’

  Tam did his best. Tall. Thin. Black hair. Not so well dressed.

  ‘He smiles a lot? Your friend?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘You’re right. He was here last night. Room 17.’ She reached for the hotel register. ‘His name’s Kovač. Would you like me to write it down?’

  Tam nodded. She wrote in capital letters, the way you might for a child. Tam waited for her to finish.

  ‘Was he alone? Mr Kovač?’

  The woman wouldn’t answer. Not at first. Then she returned the pen to the inkwell and looked up again.

  ‘Is that important? Does it matter to you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’

  ‘Then the answer is no. He met someone else.’

  ‘You saw this other person?’

  ‘No. The two of them had a meal here. On the terrace. I have a copy of the bill.’

  ‘Somebody served them? A waiter, perhaps?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the waiter is here?’

  ‘Not tonight. And it’s a waitress, not a waiter.’

  ‘How do I find her? This woman?’

  ‘You don’t. If you wish, I can make contact. The decision to meet you is hers, not mine.’ Her eyes drifted down to the register. ‘Have you changed your mind about a room? Only that might make things a little easier.’

  Tam produced his wallet. He’d be happy to stay the night. She took his money and presented him with a key. Then she nodded towards the stairs.

  ‘I hope you like the room better than Mr Kovač,’ she said. ‘For some reason he never used it.’

  *

  Tam ate alone that night, waiting long after the plates had been cleared away in the hope that the waitress might turn up. When nothing happened he left the empty restaurant and took the stairs to his room. He only saw the envelope once he’d closed the door. It was lying on the carpet, no name, no room number. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper. He recognised the receptionist’s hand, the carefully formed capital letters. HER NAME IS VALENTA, it read. SHE WILL BE WAITING DOWNSTAIRS AT MIDNIGHT.

  Tam checked his watch. It was already gone eleven. He returned to the note, then folded it back into the envelope. Thanks to Renata and her contacts, he’d had enough conversations to be wary of midnight assignments with a total stranger. He tore a page from a notebook in his bag and scribbled a couple of lines about what little he knew: that Edvard Kovač had met an American the previous evening at the Hotel Kavalerie, that he’d never used the room he’d paid for, and that he – Tam – was about to meet the waitress who’d served them both on the hotel’s terrace restaurant. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Stronge in Prague, hoping that even without a stamp it would still get through.

  Ten past eleven. Tam needed to get the envelope in the post. Normally he’d leave it with the receptionist but he wasn’t prepared to trust her. Neither did he want to step blindly into this surprise rendezvous without some prior checks. Time spent in reconnaissance, he told himself, is seldom wasted. Rule One if you want to survive on any battlefield.

  In the street outside the hotel, a full moon cast long shadows over the potholed asphalt. Tam paused for a long moment at the foot of the hotel
steps, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the half-darkness. A cat emerged from beneath a parked car. In the distance, audible above the bubble of the nearby spring, the hoot of a solitary owl.

  Tam set off in the direction of the town, searching for a postbox. He’d seen them in Karlovy Vary and Prague. They were yellow, relics from the old days, reminders – according to Renata – of the Austro-Hungarian Empire the war had destroyed. He thought of her now, and of Edvard. Had she managed to find him? Had he made it back to Prague from whatever had brought him here?

  In truth, Tam hadn’t a clue. He was new to this world of bluff and counter-bluff, of nothing being quite what it seemed, of cleverly sauced lies masquerading as the truth. To prosper amongst these people you needed to learn their language and ape their ways. That was something wholly foreign, something for which he was ill-prepared, but he was becoming uncomfortably aware that he no longer had any choice in the matter. If he was to do the job properly, to make any kind of contribution, he had to be as devious as everyone else.

  He found a postbox on the well-lit corner where the road to the hotel joined the main avenue that led down to the middle of town. Half-past eleven. As he turned to make his way back to the hotel a car swept by. It was black, moving at speed, but he had time to register three figures inside. It slowed briefly at the junction of the two roads before heading up towards the Kavalerie.

  Tam watched the tail lights disappearing into the darkness, feeling the first stirrings of something deep in his belly. The car and its occupants might have nothing to do with the message slipped under his door. On the other hand he’d seen no other traffic since leaving the hotel. He was unarmed. He was alone in a country he barely knew, in a town he’d never visited. He could call on no one for support. Was it sensible to be offering himself as a possible target? A hostage, maybe? A callow novice there for the taking? Was it these same questions that had led Edvard to abandon his room?

  He set off up the road again, keeping to the shadows, alert for every movement. Beyond the first bend, the houses on either side thinned and then disappeared completely until the road was flanked by nothing but bare stone walls and stands of pine. In the moonlight he could make out the looming bulk of the mountains pricked by an occasional light. What would it be like to live up here? Tam wondered. How much difference would an army of Germans make if your world began and ended with a flock of sheep, rough pasture and the scouring wind? The thought took him briefly back to Scotland and long summer days on the bareness of the Cairngorms, but then – halfway round the next bend – he froze. The car that had passed him minutes ago was parked barely yards away, tucked neatly into the side of the road, the long bonnet pointing back towards the town. It appeared to be empty.