Bitter Field

by Jack Ludlow

  They were messing about in his patch again without telling him and there could only be one reason for such behaviour – they were acting to achieve something he could not support and the only thing he could think of was some kind of attempt to embroil the country in Central Europe that went against Government policy.

  It also, after a period of thinking, occurred to him that unravelling that might give him some leverage to demand answers to any number of questions, and that had him send off a message to the station chief in Prague, basically asking him to check on new arrivals of British nationality in the capital or Brno, journalists and diplomats excluded, as a Code One priority – there should not be too many with the continuing crisis.

  Then he turned to flicking through his address book for the number of an old colleague, asking for an outside line; this was not a call to risk being overheard by the switchboard.

  ‘Barney, it’s Noel,’ he said into the telephone, having forced himself to calm down. ‘Sure, I was thinking it’s a long time since we shared a jar and a chat an’ it being Friday and all …’

  The recipient of the call, Barney Foxton, had been in his job long enough to know what that meant: I want to ask you questions I dare not pose over the telephone; and that led him to speculate what it might be about – not for long – given he knew the post McKevitt held.

  ‘Both been snowed under, Noel,’ he replied.

  That was followed by a short pause that allowed time for speculation. The Ulsterman must want something and Foxton was speculating about his own needs in these troubled times; what could MI6 have that might be of use to him, something for which he could trade?

  ‘I was thinking,’ McKevitt continued, ‘that we might have a pint. How about that nice little snug bar at the Salisbury in St Martin’s Lane?’

  Good choice, Foxton thought: a busy pub and homosexual haunt on the corner of an alley that joined two main thoroughfares, a tiny bar with two doors, one to the street and another to the main saloon, a load of mirrors so you could keep an eye on everyone who came and went without actually looking at them and a clientele that would be too busy with their own concerns to care about anyone else’s.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘This lunchtime, say one o’clock?’

  He’s keen, Foxton thought, having failed to drag up anything he could ask for; still, a favour in the bank usually paid off in time so, provided what McKevitt was after did not pose too many problems, he would help if he could.

  ‘See you there, Noel.’

  Peter Lanchester had looked at his deciphered message and wondered what he could do about the major part of it. He had no idea why the Prague station might be following the head of Czech Intelligence to find out who it was he was meeting, while added to that was the certain knowledge that probably the only man in London who had any clue about the answer was Noel McKevitt.

  Asking would get him nowhere, in fact it would only alert the Irish bugger to the fact that he was messing about in his pond again, so it was with some surprise that he got a mid-morning telephone invitation to come over to Broadway for a chat, that accompanied by an explanation that left him unconvinced.

  ‘You know, Peter, I think I let my annoyance get to me the other day. It will not come as a surprise to you that people like me are a bit unsure what Quex is up to with your new set-up.’

  Now I am suddenly ‘Peter’. ‘Perfectly natural, Noel, but I can tell you without a shred of doubt any worries you might have are misplaced.’

  ‘An assumption that it would be best to operate on, would you not say? So why don’t you pop over and we can talk about what you picked up in Brno and beyond.’

  ‘I’m not sure I picked up any more than you will already know and what we have already discussed.’

  ‘Only one way to nail that, given I don’t know to the last T what you found any more than you are aware what I am familiar with …’ The rest was left up in the air.

  ‘Is this about running guns, Noel?’

  Peter heard a single sound that he supposed was laughter, though it equated more to a cough. ‘Not my concern; as you know, my patch is Czech land and environs but you have been there and I have not, at least for years, so …’

  It was too much of a coincidence; I get a telegram from Prague, then a call from McKevitt, but if that was the connection, turning down the invite would make him even more suspicious than he clearly was already.

  ‘Can’t do this morning, how about after lunch?’

  ‘Best make it three-thirty, then, I have a meet arranged that might take me till then.’

  He was still pondering on that when the door opened and a messenger entered with a slip of paper, which was handed over, an answer to his request to Quex to be told how many people were on station for the SIS in Prague.

  Usually it would be two at best for such a troubled location, more likely one in normal times, it being a bit of an intelligence backwater, while the likes of a major capital might run to a trio or even four if there was trouble brewing. Prague at present had six, four having been hauled in from the neighbouring stations at the request of McKevitt after the May mobilisation of the Czech army.

  It was quite indicative of the surprise Quex had felt that he had followed the number six with three exclamation marks; that meant the Ulsterman had increased the Prague staffing without clearing it with his boss, which was stretching his level of accountability somewhat. Would Quex have him in for a haul over the coals or would he do what normally happened, quietly seethe and say nothing, putting it in the memory bank for a later date?

  There was never a good time to run an external intelligence service but now was particularly bad, given the way appeasement was pulling things in two directions. By its very nature MI6 required as staff people who, though they might rank as misfits, could think for themselves and often act without instructions, while keeping your cards close to your chest, even with colleagues, was essential. The idea in theory was that everything came together at the top; in practice it was often the very opposite.

  Yet Peter’s main concern was to get an answer to Cal. He had said it was important, so the first stop when he left the office at lunchtime was the post office, where he sent a telegram with the single significant letter.

  Moravec came on the phone for a second time, again not identifying himself, to arrange another meeting at the same location and time, surprised when Cal insisted on knowing which entrance he would use. It was only catching him on the hop that got an answer, as well as the hint no meeting was possible without the information.

  The question came about through what had been talked about the previous evening, once they had established that Cal had not been followed back to the Meran Hotel; what to do about Corrie Littleton was less pressing than nailing what was happening with Moravec.

  Vince was adamant there had been no sign of a tail on the way to the cathedral, only afterwards, which implied Cal had been picked up because of the meeting and possibly tailed speculatively rather than because of any direct suspicion, though why that should be someone who was English was too much of a mystery to even go near.

  Yet could they assume that the man who had followed Cal had been alone? Had someone stayed with Moravec, which implied the kind of resources that had prompted the telegram sent to London? With or without an answer something had to be done about it. Cal had been lucky to get clear once, it would be tempting providence to expect to do so twice.

  ‘The only solution, guv, is to get there ahead of your man and see what he brings with him.’

  Cal nodded slowly. ‘If it’s two we leave without making contact.’

  ‘And if it’s only one?’

  All that got was a slow grin as Cal picked up the phone and asked to be connected to the Ambassador Hotel. The card from the restaurant where he and Vince had eaten was on the table, and once he got through he arranged to meet Corrie there that evening, though when she asked the name he was obliged to spell out both that and the address; Czech was a lang
uage that imposed that on visitors.

  Wanting to get to St Vitus’s Cathedral early he and Vince took a cab to the main railway station, then after a walk through the concourse they exited to take another up to Hradčany, paying the cab off away from the castle and entering to take up a position which gave them a good view of the huge open square before the Golden Gate entrance to the church.

  Too extensive a space to be crowded on a weekday, they spotted Moravec easily as he walked into the square – from what they could see, without minders of his own. It was Vince who pointed out the man following him some twenty paces back, the same ‘geezer’ he had spotted on Cal’s tail the day before. It still did not make sense to either of them but that was by the by; the man had to be got rid of to avoid a repeat.

  Moravec went straight in through the high and imposing doors, followed by his tail and in turn by Cal and Vince, who split up once they were inside, making their way up separate sides of the nave. The Czech Intelligence chief was by the same pillar as before and as he opened his mouth to speak Cal cut him off.

  ‘Why would anyone from British Intelligence be tailing you?’

  ‘I not understand.’

  If the explanation was swift, Moravec’s smile was slow, though he did nod with understanding as Cal related how the man had been overheard on the phone. As they were speaking Vince was approaching the very same person outside one of the numerous small chapels, a smile of enquiry on his face and a cigarette in his left hand, which he waved before his lips and pointed in the universal signal that he wanted a light.

  If his man were a staunch Catholic he would object that to smoke in a cathedral was sacrilege, disrespectful in the extreme. He wasn’t, because he nodded, patted one of his pockets, then reached into it, his eyes on those of the still silent Vince and so unaware of the clenched fist that was just about to crack him right on the point of his jaw.

  In the seconds that this silent exchange had taken place Moravec had gone from a smile to a low chuckle. ‘English? The language none in my office speak. German yes, French too, Czech obviously …’

  If smoking in a cathedral was uncouth, shouting at the top of your voice had to come a close second. Vince was looking over a lit match, the cigarette in his lips, fist poised and his feet in place for the very necessary stand and balance that you require to deliver a blow that would knock out a man.

  It got to be no more than an extended twitch, because he heard his name and the following ‘No!’ echoing around the huge church, in a voice so loud and reverberating that it must have stopped every other visitor in their tracks and made those saying their prayers wonder if God had decided to speak to them.

  That had Vince looking around and shrugging in embarrassment, before holding up the cigarette and spinning away. He had taken only a few steps when he saw Cal walking hurriedly towards him looking concerned, an attitude that evaporated as he observed that Vince’s proposed victim was still standing. Yet concentration was not allowed to slip – they did not address each other, Cal doing a forgotten-something mime before retracing his steps, Vince on his heels.

  ‘He’s Moravec’s minder,’ Cal hissed as soon as they were out of view. ‘He only followed me to see if I went back to the embassy.’

  ‘He came close to being a crock of shit.’

  ‘Swearing in a church?’

  ‘I like that,’ Vince replied, irritated. ‘I can’t swear but I’m allowed to knock a bloke spark out. So what’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I best go back and find out.’

  He did, but Moravec was gone.

  Like most pub conversations between two middle-aged fellows, that in the snug of the Salisbury began with old times and old campaigns, their connection going back to the days when as younger men they had sought to thwart the intentions of the Irish Republican Army in the Six Counties of Ulster, just work for Foxton but a cause close to his heart, blood and religion for Noel McKevitt.

  That lasted through the consumption of one of their two pints of bitter; the second took them on to the situation and the prospects of war in Europe, which was where McKevitt wanted to be. ‘It’ll come, Barney – and, by Jesus, I hope we are ready for it – but not over anything I deal with in my area of responsibility and not for several years yet, if I have anything to do with things.’

  ‘Can’t be sure, though, can we?’

  ‘Let me tell you, it’s damn near official policy, man. Chamberlain knows what’s right, and I have that from the lips of a cabinet minister friend of mine.’

  That was accepted; Barney Foxton did not ask who or how McKevitt came by such a high-level source, one he could refer to as a friend.

  ‘But that’s not to say there are not people trying to queer that pitch, I can tell you, and that’s where I need your help.’

  Too long in the tooth to react, Foxton nodded, said nothing, sank his pint and accepted the offer of another, content to wait till McKevitt sat down again and got to the real reason for this meeting.

  ‘One of the telegrams that came in from Prague last night went to one of our own MI6 boys. I have to tell you I think the sod is up to something out there and he’s not telling me about it.’

  ‘Naughty.’

  Foxton replied as required but was not surprised; he worked in an organisation that was similar in its fractures. The only thing troubling him was the flush on McKevitt’s cheeks, given he had always been an opaque fellow, famous for his cool head. Now he was positively animated.

  ‘It’s worse than that, Barney, it’s bloody dangerous! You’ve read the papers. It’s all very well for those lefty bastards to say we should stand up to the likes of Hitler. With what, I ask you, and if he wants to duff up his Yids and take bits of the middle of the Continent back, who are we to interfere, eh?’

  ‘I don’t like the bugger, Noel.’

  ‘D’ye think I do! He’s a loon, and I say that having seen the shite close up. Honest, he has eyes that would melt metal and is daft enough to start a fight in an empty room. So the last thing we would want to be doing is givin’ the bastard an excuse, which is what might just happen if some folk are not stopped from poking about where they are not wanted.’

  Tempted to calm him down, Foxton instead posed the obvious question. ‘What is it you’re after, Noel?’

  ‘If the certain party I mention to you gets another telegram from Prague, I want to know what it says.’ Seeing Foxton swell up for a refusal, McKevitt was quick to keep talking. ‘It’s domestic, so I can’t ask for it, but you can.’

  ‘If your boss asks my boss—’

  The interruption was swift. ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘It needs a warrant.’

  ‘What if I were to tell you, Barney, that my boss might be part of the problem, might be working against our own government, what would you say to that, I ask you?’

  ‘Are you having me on?’

  ‘God, I wish I was, but the sod has set something up that makes me wonder and I can smell it has something to do with the Czechs who would be quite happy to see us bleed so they can hang on to their miserable little country.’

  Just like the Orange Order, Foxton thought, but he kept that to himself. Not that he got much chance to air any thought – McKevitt, a man normally the picture of calm, was close to bursting with rage, no doubt brought on by the drink.

  ‘We wandered into the last lot, did we not, Barney, and do you think if we had known the cost we would have done so? Well we damn well know the cost now and it’s likely to be worse, what with bombers in the hundreds an’ all. There’s a crisis brewing and it could go either way if we’re not careful …’

  ‘You’re asking for a hell of a lot, Noel.’

  ‘And don’t I know it. I can kiss goodbye to my job and pension if this gets out, but I tell you what, to avoid seeing those Flanders fields soaked in blood again, I would do it.’

  ‘I’ll have to give it a bit of thought.’

  ‘Do that, Barney, do that, and rest assured, if yo
u want anything from me in return, in the rules or out of them, sure you only have to ask.’

  The first thing Barney Foxton did when he got back to his office, following on from a quick and very necessary visit to the Gents, was to tell the switchboard that if Noel McKevitt rang they were to say he was out. Not normally a man to talk to himself he did so when he put the phone back down.

  ‘You can blow your pension if you want, you Irish nutcase, but I’m not blowing mine.’

  Sir Hugh Sinclair looked at the copy of Callum Jardine’s telegram from Prague as well as the reply and he compared them with that which had been given to him by Peter Lanchester. He had no need to decipher the original as long as the cryptic characters compared properly and they did.

  Getting the information from MI5 had been relatively easy and had nothing to do with an exchange of favours. Sinclair had spent many years seeking to combine the two services but had been rebuffed time and again. For all that, his opposite number, Vernon Kell, the head of the domestic intelligence service, knew that he had not given up hope, just as he knew that such affairs and infighting tied everyone up in such a Gordian knot of bureaucratic nonsense as to be a nightmare.

  So any request that seemed reasonable from Sinclair was met, and if Kell wondered at the secrecy surrounding the application for telegram transcripts, and the demand that it stay strictly between the two of them, that too was easy to accede to.

  His secretary entered to advise him his car was waiting, with a frown that was intended to impart that keeping waiting a high-powered delegation from Paris, including the French PM and Foreign Minister, was very bad manners indeed, but he was less concerned than she.

  They were with their political equivalents and that always went on too long; such people were too fond of the sound of their own voice to adhere to a timetable, quite apart from the fact that they seemed to derive some pleasure from keeping in suspense those people they referred to in private, or certainly thought of, as their minions.