A Bitter Field rtw-3

by Jack Ludlow

  Right now he was thinking this was all wrong and there were only two conclusions to draw from that. One that Vernon Bartlett was wrong about this Jardine, or that this man with a funny background was up to something here in the Sudetenland, and he was inclined to plump for the latter. The question was, should he contact Bartlett and ask for instructions?

  That he decided against that was hardly a surprise; handed a possible scoop no journalist, however much he’s a tyro, is going to give it away to anyone else. The really hard question was, how was he going to pursue it?

  At that same moment Cal was wondering about Veseli, even more certain that was not his real name in this neck of the woods. But he was less worried about how he was going to make contact; in that outfit he could walk right into the Victoria Hotel and just say hello.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  B ack in his room Cal checked to see if it had been searched while he was out, discovering that if the person who had done the looking had not been good enough, the job had been carried out very professionally indeed.

  Not a sock or a shirt was out of place and his canvas bag was exactly where he had left it, as were the things he had used to wash and shave before dinner. The letters from Redfern International Chemicals, which he had left on the dressing table, would have been examined too.

  Naturally, the bed had been turned down and the heavy coverlet folded back by the room maid, a standard act in any hotel, which had made it impossible to employ the normal precautions on the door. This would also cover for any small movements that occurred with his visible possessions should the searcher make a mistake.

  The small slip of folded paper he had inserted into the base of one of the drawers was just where he had left it, but missing was the single strand of his now very short red-gold hair that had been folded inside, one so small it would not have been visible unless the person doing the scrutiny was looking for it and impossible to spot under artificial light on a polished wood floor.

  There was no shock attached to the discovery; he was an unknown quantity in a place where suspicion had to be rife for the sake of what they were trying to achieve. He assumed that Corrie’s room had likewise been done over while they were having their dinner and their promenade — at least one lucky person had avoided having to listen to Goebbels.

  He was still not quite over the shock of seeing his supposed contact leading that parade but he had to assume that right now he was safe, just as he had to trust Veseli to make whatever moves he had in mind and they had to have been pre-planned. It was all very well being active, but sometimes passivity was the right strategy, as expounded by the creator of Sherlock Holmes.

  A few things were necessary for a good night’s sleep: a heavy oak chair should be shoved under the door handle, which, if it would not stop anyone entering who really wanted to, would create enough noise and delay for him to react. His fountain pen, a Montblanc Meisterstuck, he put on the bedside table; you could get a good grip of the body, and the nib made a dangerous weapon. Next he rolled really tight a local newspaper he had brought up from the lobby, which jabbed end on into someone’s face would stop them dead and used in the right place could even kill.

  Having been given a room overlooking the front of the hotel, but to one side, so he had a good view under the front canopy, Cal, busy doing his morning exercises to the sound of church bells, was drawn to the window by the sound of mild cheering and several vehicles entering the square below.

  Really it was the small truck behind the big Mercedes that was making the noise on the cobblestones, open at the back and containing two files of rigid SA men in greatcoats, a dozen in number, all with rifles between their legs, while there was another car in front with what also looked like bodyguards.

  The Mercedes in the middle stopped before the front door and another escort leapt out from the front to open the rear door. All Cal saw of the man who got out, to a raised arm salute, was the top of a soft trilby hat and a besuited arm responding with a lazy salute.

  It had to be Konrad Henlein but the question uppermost in Cal’s mind was the size of the escort and its armament — if that was standard he would need half a company of trained infantry to ambush him, and Moravec and Veseli must know that.

  Responding to the telephone he picked it up to find it was Corrie asking him if he was ready to go down to breakfast. ‘Why, do you need an escort?’

  ‘I just want somebody to talk to and no one speaks English.’

  ‘Maybe Fraulein Metzer will join you.’

  ‘That will not be a good start to the day, the stuck-up bitch.’

  ‘Maybe she’s shy,’ Cal replied, just to tease her.

  ‘Are you kidding me? She makes Garbo look like Mae West.’

  ‘Must be the hair.’

  ‘You know the question Mae asks? Well the gun’s in Metzer’s pocket.’

  ‘I’m just finishing my morning routine.’

  ‘No details please.’

  ‘And I think our man has just arrived. Ten minutes and I’ll knock at your door.’

  Over breakfast Cal was given a written list of questions that Corrie thought he should ask, with Cal pulling out his fountain pen to make some alterations that changed the tone.

  ‘You got to sucker him, remember, be soft.’

  ‘After what we saw in that square last night that’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘It was never going to be easy.’

  Next stop was a meeting with the Ice Maiden, who informed them that the leader had much on his plate — constant communications were coming in from Prague, other Sudeten towns and around the world — and he could only spare one hour at a time, but would do one in the morning and another in the afternoon.

  ‘It may take longer than that.’

  ‘Then more time will be found tomorrow.’

  ‘How’s your French?’ asked Quex as Peter Lanchester entered his office.

  ‘Not brilliant, sir.’

  ‘I have received this morning a communication from my opposite number in Paris, Colonel Gauche, the transcript of a conversation that was overheard between an external telephone and the chateau of a certain chap called Pierre Taittinger, dated August twenty-ninth, and it’s not about champagne.’

  The paper was passed over and Peter looked at it, thinking it was much harder to read a foreign language than speak it, this as Sir Hugh continued.

  ‘Now it would be very easy for me to have this translated, as you know, but I think that might set running hares that would go in all directions, so as of now, I want this to be strictly

  between you and I.’

  Having got well past the bonjours and bien surs, as well as a long screed, which he suspected was general conversation about the state of the world, one word hit him very hard.

  ‘La Rochelle,’ Peter said, ‘hardly requires translation, sir.’

  ‘No,’ Quex said in a dry tone.

  Peter was looking at other obvious words, such as je pense par camion, but the one that was most striking was his own name and what he assumed was a description, as well as the fact that he, avec deux autres hommes anglais, would arrivent par train le trente aout. Given those two facts, a watch on the railway station — La Rochelle did not have a mass of long-distance trains coming in — was all that was required to identify him.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Quex continued, ‘that though this tells us the communication came from outside of France, it does not say from where and it definitely does not identify the caller, who did not at any time use his name, and nor did Monsieur Taittinger.’

  Peter went right to the top of the page, reading out the opening words, ‘ Bonjour, Pierre, c’est moi. Which means the voice was known to him, well known.’

  ‘Precisely, and does it not also imply that it is one which is quite distinctive, given the interference on such lines?’

  ‘What do you think would happen if we shoved this under McKevitt’s nose?’

  ‘He would deny all knowledge of it, quite apart from the fa
ct that as of this moment he’s in Prague.’ Seeing the surprise, Quex added, ‘To shut the station down.’

  ‘That puts him awfully close to Jardine.’

  ‘Who has, according to your latest communication, gone up to Eger to meet with Henlein.’

  ‘It’s called Cheb now, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be a pedant, Peter.’

  Sir Hugh went into a deep study, with a face that implied it would be unwise to interrupt his thoughts, and judging by his expression they were not happy ones.

  ‘You sure this could not have come from something Jardine did, some mistake he made?’

  ‘I cannot see it, sir. When I met him he was very confident he had kept things tight; he is very experienced in that game and I can tell you he is a hard character to follow and impossible to tail over weeks without him spotting something.’

  ‘Say you are correct, what could be McKevitt’s motive?’

  ‘Guns for republicans in Spain, sir, he is visceral about that.’

  ‘Peter, he does not know they were for Spain, nor does he know that Jardine was involved, because if he did, I would know about it, for the very simple reason he would have been letting things slip to his political friends.’

  ‘I did not know he had any.’

  ‘I did, and if I’d had any doubt, I certainly found out only the other day.’

  Peter Lanchester had a look of curiosity on his face, to which Sir Hugh was not going to respond; the fewer people who knew he had been given a wigging by the PM the better.

  ‘Let us speculate that where we had a suspicion we now have confirmation that your problems in La Rochelle stemmed from our own organisation, but that does not, even if it points us towards one person, nail it down and it has to be that before I can even think of acting upon it.’

  ‘How in the name of all that’s holy did he find out I was going to La Rochelle when the communication I sent was to you and for your eyes only?’ It was necessary to add quickly the only other person who should have seen it. ‘It’s certainly not your secretary.’

  ‘No, if Miss Beard was to be leaking secrets the whole nation would collapse. It has to be coded and decoded, does it not? It might be an idea to find out how long the cipher clerk in Paris has been in his job. For instance, was he there a decade ago when McKevitt was station chief?’

  ‘It could be this end, sir, he does tend to put himself about, I’ve found.’

  ‘Which means one of six people could have tipped McKevitt off.’

  ‘Only two are on duty at any one time.’

  ‘So we need the duty roster and a copy of your signal.’

  ‘Which as soon as we request it will alert whoever is the culprit, if indeed anyone is.’

  ‘I fear you are in for a tedious time, Peter, for to avoid that we must look through many days of transcripts to avert suspicion.’

  ‘I’ll need your written permission, sir. A lot of what I will be reading is bound to be outside my clearance level.’

  ‘As a way to seek to pass the buck, Peter, that was very neat, but not neat enough. I am far too old and far too busy to undertake such a task. Be so good as to fetch in my secretary and I will happily upgrade you.’

  To get to the leader it was necessary to pass through the lobby, coming down the staircase that led to their rooms and taking the other up to the suite of offices where the leader worked, his the room overlooking the other side of the canopy.

  Konrad Henlein was not as either Corrie Littleton or Callum Jardine expected, a strutting bully and obvious fascist. Every time Cal had seen a photograph of him he had been dressed in some kind of uniform and at some quasi-military occasion or a party rally. In his office he was dressed in a tweed jacket, twill trousers and was wearing a cravat in an open-necked shirt; he looked more like an English country gent than the leader of a rabid bunch of thugs.

  That extended to his personality, which was mild-mannered and pleasant, his voice soft, with more than a tinge of Austrian in the accent. He smiled easily, and with his spectacles on, a rather bland face exuded a sort of schoolmasterly air. Thinking back to the report he had read, penned by Sir Robert Vansittart, it became clear why he had seemed to represent no threat.

  Corrie, on being introduced, got an old-fashioned kiss on the back of the hand, Cal a manly handshake before they were invited to sit down in comfortable chairs in front of a set of large windows that looked out over the square.

  What followed was a general set of enquiries as to the comfort or otherwise of travel by sea, air and car, as well as questions about America, Corrie’s replies translated by the Ice Maiden, which lasted until coffee was served.

  The snapping banners and scudding clouds outside took a lot of Cal’s attention — there was quite a strong wind blowing — and he tried very hard not to look at the large safe which dominated the corner of the room, inside which he assumed was what Henlein had brought back from his talk with Hitler.

  The place was simply furnished: dark wooden desk, the safe, another table with a big wireless sitting on it, several upright chairs, maps on the wall and lots of photographs of Henlein with various famous people, a lot of them politicians.

  ‘Sir,’ Cal said in German, ‘I think it would be best if you speak in short sentences that I can translate for Miss Littleton, given the way the two languages differ.’

  ‘As you wish, Herr Barrowman. We do want to get things correct.’

  Cal was wondering if Hitler was like this in private, for there was a very good chance this man had modelled himself on the Fuhrer. Having only ever seen the Austrian Corporal ranting on newsreels it was hard to imagine, but it might just be the case. It made little difference; he still wanted to put a bullet in his forehead.

  That had to be put aside and Cal, using Corrie’s notes, asked the first question, which was about the problems that existed for ethnic Germans in a state run by another nationality, the big blue eyes of the Ice Maiden fixed on him when Henlein began to reply, her lips pursed as she made sure he translated correctly, interrupting once or twice on some minor point. When she was not looking at him, her eyes were fixed then on Corrie’s flying pencil, as if it was spouting Czech propaganda.

  In truth what they were getting was the same line that had been trotted out for a decade, albeit without any of the venom normally used by the kind of speakers who were all taking their turn at Nuremberg. The ethnic Germans were pure of heart and purpose, good citizens but denied what was their due by spiteful Czechs who were repaying them for hundreds of years of Austrian domination.

  All they asked was to live in peace in their own lands and control their own destiny and any notion of wishing to be united with the German Reich in another Anchlu? was a Czech lie to which, unfortunately, many misguided people in the democracies subscribed.

  How he wished they would come and see for themselves. It was difficult to keep a straight face sometimes, though Henlein and the Ice Maiden had no such problem, because what they were being told lay at total odds with what both had witnessed the previous night.

  When Corrie alluded to that, in a gentle way that irritated the Ice Maiden but drew Cal’s admiration, Henlein was all sorrow; these things came about through the intransigence of the Prague government. By failing to give the Sudetenlanders their rights they allowed hotheads to gain ground. Everything they had seen was the fault of the Czechs.

  ‘He’s a smooth bastard,’ Corrie whispered as they were shown out after the first session.

  ‘If you use the same words over and over again, year after year, they come out pat and who knows, maybe you come to believe they are true.’

  ‘We eating here?’ she asked, gloomily, as they looked into a dining room full of the same kind of people they had sat with the night before.

  ‘No, let’s get some air. There have to be other places in town.’

  ‘Christ, that was quick,’ Noel McKevitt said as Gibby Gibson handed him the response from London, which lifted his mood.

  He had a frustrating morn
ing meeting with the military attache about that false End User Certificate, in which he had learnt nothing he did not already know and was in a bit of a mood because of it. It seemed the dolt had not even bearded the relevant Czech ministry and demanded an explanation.

  From being cheered by the speed of response, that evaporated when he saw that it had come from Broadway. ‘You sent this through the office?’

  ‘Yes, it was bound to be quicker.’

  Noel McKevitt was wondering how many people would have been apprised of that and how high it would go. ‘I would have been happier if you’d told me, Gibby.’

  ‘And I, Noel, would be happier to be getting on with my proper job.’

  ‘Your job is to do what I tell you.’

  ‘But you’re not telling me, are you?’

  Not having mentioned that the station was going to be closed down yet, that waspish reply allowed McKevitt the pleasure of doing so now and he told Gibby Gibson with no attempt to soften the blow to a man who was bound to wonder what this meant for his future career.

  ‘So once this job, my job, is complete, old cock, it’s pack your bags and back home for you and your 2IC, Bucharest and Warsaw for the others.’

  ‘That’s mad.’

  ‘Tell Quex, Gibby, not me,’ McKevitt replied with a cold stare, ‘the orders come from him.’

  Turning to the list, the name of Nolan stuck out as the only one where there was a query, given the owner had applied for a replacement, claiming his original had been lost, and the name on the document should be a Mr Laycock of 156 Fulham Palace Road, London, address and distinguishing mark supplied. All the other numbers were genuine. He toyed with the notion of sending for a copy of the photograph but that would take too long.

  ‘Where’s the Meran Hotel?’

  ‘Wenceslas Square.’

  ‘Get me a car and some backup, I’m going there.’