Hammer to Fall

by John Lawton

  She did not look back.

  He had left her.

  §172

  Palác Thun: The Same Evening

  The madwoman was handing out sleeping bags. It had been a warm October night—cold just the same. They had clustered around Vepřové Václav, who seemed to exude heat. He also farted a lot, but … beggars … choosers.

  It dawned on Jiří that this must be the Janis Bell Nell had mentioned.

  “Excuse me, Janis Bell,” he said, assuming she spoke no Czech. “I have a letter for you.”

  The madwoman looked at the embossed envelope:

  NEMECKÁ KULTURNÍ MISE

  “No. Not me. But I’ll see she gets it. And you are?”

  “Jiří Jasny.”

  “Well, I’m not Miss Bell. I’m the ambassadress.”

  This was baffling. She might just as well have spoken to him in Polish. Too many s letters, and too many syllables.

  “My husband is the grumpy-looking bloke you can see staring at us from his office window, just behind the chestnut tree. He is the ambassador. Hence I am am-bass-a-dress.”

  She nodded too much. Talking to an idiot.

  “Mrs. Basdress?”

  “OK. That’ll have to do. I’ll deliver your letter.”

  §173

  Janis Bell slid a paper knife into the envelope, saying as she did so, “It’s from Nell Burkhardt.”

  “Who she?” Anna asked.

  “She runs the West German Cultural Mission. Not long before the tanks rolled in, Brandt and Dubček agreed to consular status for her, although as with either of my titles it’s prefaced by the word ‘acting.’ Dubček had appealed for the normalisation of relations with West Germany. Upgrading Nell was about as far as it got. She’s been very active in her time here. Signed up almost anyone who was anyone for a festival in Berlin, which unfortunately was scheduled for the week of the invasion.”

  “And the boy? Is he anyone?”

  “Yes and no. Nell says they’re after him as one of the ‘sloganeers.’ They’ve been the most marvellous thorn in the side of the Communists—even before the invasion. I rather admire them—just a bunch of kids with spray cans, but more effective than any manifesto. He is also the nephew of the film director Petr Jasny. Jasny is a discreet dissident. He might sign a petition, he wouldn’t throw a Molotov cocktail. Can’t blame him for that, with two prison terms behind him. But the boy’s father was Tomás Jasny. MI6 are pretty certain he was executed in the fifties. So … the boy comes with baggage.”

  “And what is Miss Burkhardt asking?”

  “That we grant him entry … well you did that off your own bat last night, didn’t you?”

  “Asylum?”

  “Doesn’t mention that.”

  “Do we have that … er … power?”

  “Troy does. He could give them all, all twenty-soddin’-seven of them asylum. Doesn’t mean he’d get them out of Czechoslovakia or even out of the embassy. They might be here for years. And there’d be ripples in Westminster. Brezhnev has made it clear that this is an ‘internal’ matter and he doesn’t want or expect to see asylum granted. For the first week you were here the border crossings were loose … not open, just loose … and I think this was in the hope that the real dissidents would just bugger off. I doubt any of them did. And now they’re tight … y’know, camel’s arse and all that.”

  “Ripples in Westminster?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Then don’t say that to Troy or he’ll do it just to annoy his brother.”

  §174

  Prague, Jungmannovo námesti: The Morning After

  Janis Bell sent a courier out with a letter for Nell.

  Clara Wieck opened all the mail at the Cultural Mission.

  “Good Lord!”

  “What?”

  “That boy … the nephew …”

  She held out the letter to Nell. Nell had been waiting for something like this.

  Nell—Jiří is fine. He got into the embassy. And so did twenty-six other kids. They’re all safe for now, but in the long term I’ve no idea what to do with them. Let us keep in touch about this.

  Janis Bell

  “I should go there.”

  “Don’t,” said Clara.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That would be really rather stupid. You’re the consul. If this goes wrong … well, far better to let the StB pick on me. I’m a nobody. Not so much a diplomatic incident, more an irritant. Besides, I don’t live with a known dissident.”

  Nell had not told Clara that Petr had left. She might never tell her.

  “You may be right.”

  “I know damn well I am.”

  “I have a plan to get Jiří out of Czechoslovakia, it’s just that it will take time.”

  “OK. Put what you want him to know in a letter. I’ll walk over after lunch and try my best to look casual.”

  §175

  Neither Nell nor Clara yet had diplomatic passports. Clara wasn’t sure which would attract more suspicion. She showed her ordinary green German passport to the policeman in the cul-de-sac that led to the British Embassy. He looked at the photograph, looked at her, handed it back and turned to the Russians with a muttered “Just another bloody Skopová hlava” (muttonhead).

  Inside, she asked for Janis Bell, whom she had met before, and a woman she’d never met before appeared and introduced herself as Anna.

  “Ah, I know him,” Anna said, reading Jiří’s name on the envelope. “The skinny one, the runt of the litter.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “That’s alright. I’ll see he gets it.”

  §176

  “It just says to stay put,” said Jiří.

  “As if you had a choice,” Anna replied.

  “I can’t stay here!”

  “The trouble with your generation is you have no patience.”

  “And I bet that’s what your parents said to you.”

  Indeed it was, but Anna would never admit that to this lippy little kid, who looked like someone who’d failed the audition for the Rolling Stones.

  “I’m doing my best. So make the best of it.”

  Anna had sent out for more blankets and had bought half a dozen Primus stoves to let them make hot drinks for themselves.

  A thank-you would have been nice.

  Up the hill, in the castle gardens, a platoon of Russian soldiers looked down upon the embassy garden, day and night. Their every move was under scrutiny. It was so tempting to shrug off being Lady Troy for ten seconds and hold up two fingers.

  §177

  A week passed before Clara Wieck delivered another letter.

  When he’d read it Jiří said, “Mrs. Basdress, do you have a camera?”

  “Show me.”

  The letter asked for two passport-sized photographs.

  Anna went in search of Janis Bell and asked the same question.

  Janis made two replies.

  “Yes, I have a Brownie 127 … somewhere.”

  And …

  “Anna, what are you up to?”

  §178

  Wilmersdorf, Berlin: November 15th

  Strange as it was to be back in her old apartment, Nell found no mental space for nostalgia.

  She dropped off the roll of film with an overnight developer.

  She ate at the first restaurant she passed, one that prompted no memories. She was not even sure it had been there the last time she had spent a night in Berlin.

  Then she went to bed early and censored her dreams.

  In the morning she collected the prints and walked to Grünetümmlerstraße.

  As ever, the door to Erno’s flat was an inch or so ajar, and a wave of heat hit her as soon as she pushed at it.

  Erno was at the table. Half past ten in the morning but he appeared to be having lunch—and scowling.

  “Erno?”

  The scowl became a smile. He half-rose from his seat, but she gently pressed him back down with a hand on
his shoulder. “No, no. Please finish your …”

  “It’s nettle soup. Trudie insists it is good for me. I would as soon tip it down the sink.”

  “Nettle soup? Where does she get nettles in November?”

  “I daren’t ask. I might find out she’s a witch who can make flowers bloom at Christmas. But the truth is, Nell, I have had a touch of pneumonia, which on top of all the ills that old age brings … perhaps Trudie is not a witch but she may well be an angel.”

  He was, she thought, as pale as a sheet. He’d lost weight too, and when he looked at her he was screwing up his eyes.

  It gave her pause.

  She sat opposite him. Slipped off her coat and unwound her headscarf. She’d no real idea of Erno’s age. He was a veteran of the First World War, but that could mean anything between seventy and ninety. He had always been a crepuscular creature. She could not remember when she’d last seen him outdoors. He liked to be indoors in warmth, with the curtains drawn and the light in pools of his own choosing. It had helped to render him inscrutably ageless in her eyes. Now … now he seemed to resemble a mole.

  “Erno, there is something I need.”

  “Ask, child. I have never yet denied you anything.”

  “A passport.”

  “Hmm.”

  His head shook gently from side to side. Not a “no,” more a consideration. He spooned up another mouthful of soup. “What nationality?”

  “Bundesrepublik.”

  “And who is the supplicant?”

  Nell opened her handbag, placed the photographs of Jiří on the table.

  A gust of cold air.

  Suddenly she was aware of another person in the room.

  Trudie stood in the doorway.

  “Nell, may I have a word. In private.”

  Erno answered.

  “No, you may not. Whatever you have to say, Trudie, say it here and say it now.”

  “As you wish. Nell, Erno is not well. You ask too much.”

  “I can see that, Trudie. But—I am desperate. There is no other word for it. I must get Jiří out of Czechoslovakia. He is virtually a prisoner in the British Embassy—”

  “Nell—I say again. Erno has been very ill—”

  Erno threw down his napkin, let his spoon rattle on the crockery.

  “Ladies, please. It has been fifty years since women fought over me and, flattering as it is, I can live without it. What Nell asks is simple. Forging West German passports is the nearest thing I have to a production line. I could make them in my sleep. Forgive me, Trudie, but I shall take a little time off from our health regime and do as Nell asks. And if you insist that I am too old for this kind of thing and that this should be my last, I would not gainsay you. This will be my last. Now, if you would excuse me.”

  He shuffled off to the bedroom. The door closed quietly behind him, not a trace of anger remained.

  Trudie said, “Show me.”

  Nell picked up one of the photographs.

  “Oh God, he’s just a boy.”

  “Yes,” said Nell. “He is.”

  §179

  Somewhere in the České Středohoří: November 29th

  Wilderness kept his appointment with Tibor. He left his car halfway down the slope and walked the rest of the way.

  Part of him relished meetings with Tibor. They might be the only time in any month he didn’t feel like a tractor salesman.

  As he reached the stone circle, Tibor stood with his back to him, staring out at the landscape.

  But this wasn’t Tibor. This bloke was too tall and too skinny.

  Wilderness wondered how much noise he’d made. Had this bloke heard his car or his footsteps on the stone trail? And he regretted that his gun was still in the footwell of his car where he’d put it that day in Vienna. A year and more in Czechoslovakia and he hadn’t felt the need of a gun.

  The skinny bloke turned around.

  Wilderness asked the obvious question.

  “Where’s Tibor?”

  “Мне жаль.”

  (I’m sorry.)

  “Kostya, for fuck’s sake speak English.”

  “He’s dead, Joe.”

  “How?”

  Kostya hadn’t killed him. Wilderness could not imagine Kostya killing anyone.

  “His interrogators … they were … clumsy.”

  “So he got beaten to death in those torture chambers you buggers have under the embassy on Pod Kaštany.”

  “That seems likely. I only arrested him. I wasn’t one of … I have only been in this country a month … this is my first case.”

  “I don’t care—stop making excuses. Why isn’t this hillside crawling with KGB? Tibor gave you the place … but you could not have known he was meeting me … he never knew me by anything but a code name. Why are you here alone?”

  “Call me Joe, you told him. Call me Joe. A six-foot London Joe who talked to him of Kafka and Goethe? Of course I knew it was you.”

  Wilderness looked around, expecting nothing, seeing no one.

  “You really came alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re not here to bust me?”

  “I’m here to tell you you have twenty-four hours to leave Czechoslovakia.”

  “Generous.”

  “I’m in charge of this case, Joe … Sooner than later, I have to report to men far more important than I am. And I may not be able to save you. I’m just a major. Right now, I’m the only person who knows about you. That cannot last. If you are alone, go now. If you had a team … well, they got lucky Tibor died before our men could get any more out of him, so tell them to leave at once. You … you have twenty-four hours.”

  Wilderness spun slowly around, not doubting Kostya was alone, but still wondering about he knew-not-what. He came face-to-face with him.

  “Make it forty-eight hours.”

  “What?”

  “There are loose ends.”

  “No Joe, no!”

  “Forty-eight … that’s all I ask.”

  “Joe, why must you always drag us to the point where one of us might get shot?”

  “It’s the game we’re in.”

  “And so … you would make me into your executioner.”

  “Give me those extra two days. I promise you, there’ll be no fuck-ups.”

  “OK. But I speak only for myself.”

  “I understand.”

  “Forty-eight hours, Joe. After that it’s out of my hands.”

  For a moment Wilderness thought Kostya was about to shake his hand, or make some equally sentimental gesture, but he turned and headed for the northern slope out of the stone circle.

  “Kostya.”

  He stopped.

  “Where can I contact you?”

  “What? Why on earth would you need to contact me?”

  If all this went pear-shaped, Wilderness could envision the kind of contact involving a gun to the head.

  “Perhaps I just want to say goodbye.”

  “Again? All we have are goodbyes. Twenty years of goodbyes.”

  “Indulge me.”

  Kostya weighed this up. It took him several seconds to answer, his eyes fixed on some point way out in the hills.

  Then he looked straight at Wilderness. Eye to eye.

  “Alright. Don’t come near the embassy. That would be so stupid. But I’m billeted in Malá Strana, and most evenings I have dinner at the Café Savoy.”

  “I think you’ve chosen the one Prague restaurant I actually know how to find.”

  “До свидания, Joe.”

  §180

  Clara delivered one last letter to the embassy.

  Janis Bell no longer bothered to open them. There had been more than a dozen in the last month. She passed them straight to Anna and did not enquire what happened next.

  Anna read the letter, and stood while Jiří read it:

  It will be tonight. Find a way out of the embassy. I will be waiting in Klárov at nine. Be on time. I will not risk
the curfew. I will also not risk arrest and will leave promptly at 9.01. Look for a Blue VW Beetle with German plates. Dress for a long, cold journey.

  Nell

  “Find a way out? Hasn’t she seen those Russians at the door?”

  “Probably not. But I’m sure we can find a way.”

  Jiří pointed up to the next level, to the terrace carved out of the hillside in front of the presidential palace, only forty feet above the embassy garden. It had crossed his mind many times that the wall was climbable, covered in thick old vines of ivy, but the Russians manned it day and night. In the day he saw the sunlight reflecting off the lenses of their cameras and at night he could see the ends of their cigarettes.

  “Just look up there, Mrs. Basdress. How many Russian soldiers do you think are watching us?”

  “Dunno. Don’t care. And if I thought it would distract them I’d walk around the garden naked. But it wouldn’t work and it’ll be tit-freezing cold tonight, so we need another way. Just leave it with me—and above all, Jiří, and I say this knowing something of your nature, don’t do anything stupid.”

  §181

  Wilderness said goodbye to Mrs. Homemade, who was insistent he take a string of sausages with him—pork and pork-flavour.

  Then he phoned Hahn and Kruger and used a prearranged code, some nonsense about a sales conference they all had to attend in Vienna. It took Hahn a nudge or two before the penny dropped. Kruger got it at once, but Wilderness knew he was silently cursing that this would cost him the life he’d made for himself in Prague.

  To check into the Europa seemed like tempting fate, so he parked his BMW in Klárov and walked to the British Embassy.

  A group of Russian soldiers looked at him almost devoid of expression, but it was a regular Prague copper who checked his German passport. It occurred to Wilderness that the man might ask what business he could have with the British at eight o’clock in the evening, but he didn’t.

  It was the British who were suspicious. The woman on the other end of the intercom told him they were closed, as though an embassy were no more than a provincial greengrocers on a Wednesday afternoon.