by Jack Ludlow
‘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.’
‘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?’ Jim
my 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.
Peter was beside him and had got hold of the Webley, which he started to empty, but they were sitting ducks in the doorway and both took return bullets, Cal more than one, which had him seek to get behind the wall. He was vaguely aware of the shouting in German and he also heard the click of Peter’s weapon — it was empty.
Looking up he saw two men, both carrying wounds themselves, with their weapons up and looking to administer the coup de grace to both him and Peter. Suddenly their bodies began to jerk like rag dolls as, from behind them, the Czech police — or was it soldiers? — riddled them with dozens of bullets. The last thing Cal saw before he passed out was, at the same ground level as his ow
n, the glazed eyes of Peter Lanchester.
He did not see Corrie or hear her scream for an ambulance, nor feel Jimmy help her to make him comfortable. The hand that slipped into his pocket and lifted his car keys was equally unknown to a numb and unconscious body. Vince was trying to help Peter, relieved to hear sirens in the distance, which he hoped were ambulances and not more police.
Whatever else Cheb had, the medical services were good; all three men were rushed to the emergency department of the local hospital but McKevitt was dead on arrival, while Cal and Peter were hanging on to life. The surgeons were Sudeten German but the Hippocratic oath knows no nationality and they worked hard to save their two remaining patients.
It was Vince who asked where Jimmy was; he was not in the hospital. Only when they could do no more and they returned to the hotel to sleep did they discover he was not there either. It was the next day before anyone looked in the garage and saw the Maybach was gone.
EPILOGUE
Side by side on deep mattresses and enclosed in crisp linen, Callum Jardine and Peter Lanchester were as comfortable as two men could be having suffered multiple bullet wounds and undergone several operations. The doctors who were treating them were of the opinion that news, good or bad, was inimical to a speedy recovery, but they knew from their visitors that things were dire. They had no idea how bad until Sir Hugh Sinclair turned up in person.
At first, during the official visiting time, everyone had been present: Corrie, Vince, Major Gibson and the aforementioned Quex. He had charmed Corrie with his old-world courtesy and was taken with Vince, as any once-active serviceman would be with another. But the time came when he asked for privacy so that he could talk to the two patients, one of whom was pressing in posing the obvious question.
‘There is no doubt that having stolen your car, young Garvin searched it and found the Hitler document.’
‘I tip him as future editor of a national daily,’ Peter said, bitterly.
‘So it never got to Chamberlain and the Cabinet?’