I gathered this was the police view too. I went into private conference with the officer in charge when they turned up; and he kept me close at hand all the while his men were questioning the other guests and the staff, even though he’d already had the word from our man. I suppose he had to play safe to that extent, with his career in mind. I put a good face on my impatience, and smoked interminable cigarettes. When the reports came in, the boss made his pronouncements about it being an outside job and added that of course, since I seemed to have been the real target, the killer would scarcely be anyone who had known Miss Vokes and had had it in for her. I said, “If you’re satisfied, Herr Meisner, I’d like to be on my way. I think I gathered you’ve already …?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes, yes, Herr Frazer, yes. All is well, and you may go.”
“Thank you,” I said. There was just one other thing: to cross the frontier on my own, without the rest of the party, could arouse suspicions among the frontier police on the other side. Where are the others? Held back for a murder inquiry, all of them. Why not you, my friend? Because I’m innocent. Oh yes! Well, then because I can pull strings. Because I’m an agent of 6D2, out to save Josef Drakotny. It wouldn’t do at all! “I’d appreciate it if you could let the others go as well, Herr Meisner. I really would.”
He lifted his hands. “Impossible!” he said sharply.
“But is it, really? A lot of hard-earned holidays are going to be spoilt … and you agreed yourself it was an outside job. I’m in a position to assure you that it must be. I’m not at liberty to go into details, but I’m sure you understand.” I don’t think he did, but I went on pressing, and in the end he said he would put it to his superiors. I applauded that, and banked on our man. My confidence was not misplaced: word came through that the party could proceed. After lunch we did proceed, with me wondering uncomfortably when murder would strike again, and with surer aim next time. We took off into the blue aboard an aircraft of Czechoslovak Airlines and sped across the Red frontier. During what turned out to be a dull journey I chatted away to the man next to me, a greengrocer in need of an overdraft which he couldn’t get; he loved yapping about that to a bank clerk, as he supposed me to be. I read, or rather leafed through, a mass of propagandic literature distributed by a neatly uniformed stewardess. We touched down at Ruzyné, the airport for Prague. And the moment we did so, depression settled on me like a raincloud of deepest black. It wasn’t the physical appearance of Ruzyné Airport; I doubt if Ruzyné is any more gruesomely tatty than Heathrow, really. It was the fact of being inside the borders of Communism, which I hadn’t been for a long while now. I dare say it was silly; Communism had thawed a little — just a little — since my last visit behind the Curtain. The Curtain itself isn’t quite what it used to be. Not quite the same total blanking-off of life. Nevertheless, all die old feelings of doom and despondency came over me, just like years ago. I cast looks behind me, and it wasn’t just thoughts of Vorsak and last night’s killer doing that to me. It was the whole ambience of totalitarianism. It was the Security Police with their grim faces and their ready weapons, it was the passport check with all its overtones of suspicion and the feeling that one slip would be fatal, it was the dour aspect of the airport staff with its heavy-looking women, mostly lacking in any charm at all, at least among the lower echelons whose bodies were plainly useful and durable and looked as if they had been hewn from the earth. And it was also in the changed faces of my fellow tourists, in the furtive glances that they cast at real live Communists, and in the sudden slump in the holiday spirit. The people at the airport, Security Police apart of course, all looked welcoming, as though they really wished us to have a good time and enjoy all their country had to offer. But there was a constraint; a constraint even about the enthusiastic speech which the young woman guide who had been assigned to us delivered after she had herded us all together in a corner of the lounge. It was as though she didn’t really think we would have a lovely time; and also as though she knew she was being eavesdropped on, that Big Brother Drakotny had his ear glued to a bug. It was the same all over; it even chastened the greengrocer. “By gum,” he said wonderingly in my ear, “doan’t know when we’re well off, do we, in Britain! I’d sooner face my bank manager any day, than ask this lot for tuppence-ha’penny!”
“Ready to see your overdraft limit reduced when we get back?” I asked waggishly, keeping up my role.
He chuckled. “Aye, but doan’t tell a soul! Might change me mind again, once I’m safe ’ome.”
We were shepherded out to a coach, quite an opulent affair. It was gleaming red, but I doubt if there was any political significance intended, though it gave rise to some pertinent comment, plus a few nervous giggles, from the tourists. We drove off in style, our guide still haranguing us, with the aid of a microphone now, all about the wonders of the architecture and of Communist enterprises and achievement and all that. Actually Prague was quite a place, though Communism could scarcely claim all the credit; a historic past had contributed its share. The tourists were all agog as we came into the town, but in fact we didn’t see much except lights, mainly gas; thanks to a long delay at Ruzyné, the day was darkening even while we were trundling in the coach towards the capital, and it was quite dark when we arrived. There had been some snow, and the streets were slushy and empty of people. But we saw a little of Wenceslas Square as we passed through and it looked as Christmassy as its name, with the lights reflecting off the snow. Somewhere in the city was the Castle, a Vatican-like district rather than a simple building according to our lady guide — her name, I had gathered, was Miss Borjorac — and there the President had his official seat. I wondered just where Drakotny was — and how Nada Strecka was getting along. We left Wenceslas Square behind and, not very far beyond, the coach stopped outside a flashy modern hotel and Miss Borjorac, with her fixed smile neatly in place, told us to get out.
Behind Miss Borjorac’s sensible shoes and skirt, we entered the hotel and mustered at reception. Flashy was the word, inside as out. Cheap and tatty, but I dare say it had looked good when it had first been erected. Like so many of our newer London buildings; modern materials are fine, but they don’t last. Miss Borjorac had a word or two with a sleek man behind the desk and then turned to us, her charges. She gave us the drill as to meal times and so on and then went painstakingly through the next day’s programme, though it was well documented already and we all had stencilled copies — rather badly stencilled copies, as a matter of fact. That next day’s programme revolved chiefly around the Castle and I was wondering how I was going to get out of it. I wanted to mooch around on my own and talk to people, and try to contact some of these liberal-minded Czechs Max had spoken of, notably, of course, this Pavol Krajcin in the university. The university didn’t figure in Miss Borjorac’s itinerary until the start of our second week, and I had to get my teeth into something long before that. The trouble was, the Czechs did like one to stick to the official programme, and it would upset Miss Borjorac no end if I mucked it up in the smallest way. She was dreadfully conscientious, I had seen that already, and I dare say she had a point. If she permitted any balls-ups, she would be for the high jump without a doubt. Of course, I had foreseen this kind of difficulty all along; it was inevitable. I couldn’t stick to the gang right the way along the line. But so far I hadn’t really thought up the right way to circumvent officialdom; it had first of all been necessary to get the feel of the party and the organization and of Miss Borjorac as well.
Oh, well, I thought, something’ll come to me soon.
Miss Borjorac, at this point, said brightly, “Comrades, for tonight you are on your own devices, in to settle. The hotel makes you most welcome and now you go to your rooms.”
She made it sound as though we were going to be locked in till morning, but I didn’t suppose that was really the intention. Miss Borjorac said, “After breakfast, I come back. I look much forward. Good-night, Comrades.”
She marched off to a chorus of good-nights — sh
e really did march, as though she contained a built-in sergeant-major complete with pace-stick. Her shoes rang, right the way across the entrance lobby. Then a couple of bell-hops appeared and we were shown to our rooms. I did a little unpacking and had a wash in lukewarm water and then I did what I always do in hotel rooms when I’m on a job — I checked for bugs. I found two and wasn’t in the least surprised. Bugs are sheerly routine stuff in some parts of the world, and these two weren’t even very clever. One was behind a framed set of house rules near the head of the bed, and the other was taped to the back of the mirror on the dressing-table. Very clumsy. I left them where they were. I didn’t expect to be discussing anything vital in my bedroom and if I did, well, I knew where to go to inhibit those bugs. Meanwhile, I didn’t want to arouse any nasty suspicions.
When I had done all this, I went down to the bar and found my greengrocer friend there, sitting gloomily and alone on a high stool. “You’re looking glum,” I said. “Isn’t the booze any good?”
“It’s not that,” he said. “The Scotch is the real stuff all right, but by gum, it’s bloody dear!”
It was too; but I sat alongside poor glum Fred Bassett and said, “Oh, well, holidays don’t come every day, do they?”
“No, and thank God for it,” he answered, “and thank God I didn’t bring the wife, either!” He looked at me; a calculating look, it was. “You’re on your own too, eh, lad?”
I nodded. “All the time, as you might say.”
“Not married?”
“No.”
“Going steady, are you?”
“Not very,” I said lightly.
“Footloose and fancy free,” he said, and I caught a note of envy. I wondered what Mrs Bassett was like, and whether her absence was due to meanness or a desire on Fred’s part to be shut of her for a while. No doubt she was keeping the shop going in the meantime. Maybe that was the sole reason. But I doubted this when Fred shifted about on his stool and then gave a sort of cough and lowered his voice and said, “Wonder what the girls are like here, Mr Frazer.”
“Like Miss Borjorac, I shouldn’t wonder.”
He didn’t take that the way I’d intended it. He said seriously, “She’s not a bad looker, you know. I reckon she knows what’s what an’ all.”
“Really?” Just for a happy second, I wondered if Bassett could be talked into raping Miss Borjorac during some suitable programme spot. Raped, she would vanish from the scene at record speed and before a successor was appointed I would get in some free time. I said, “Well, why don’t you try her?”
“Nay, lad, nay. The lass has a job to do, and ’twouldn’t be right to my way of thinking.”
Lass! God alone knew what Mrs Bassett must be like. I shrugged and sipped my expensive Scotch; Fred Bassett was evidently feeling randy and he was giving me the germ of an idea. After a few moments I suggested, “Look, why don’t we take a look around the town after we’ve eaten, Mr Bassett?”
“Just see what’s offering?” His eyes gleamed; his face, a big and beefy one, was hot.
“Yes.”
“Think Miss Borjorac would mind?”
I almost said something rude about Miss Borjorac, then remembered Bassett seemed to like her. So instead I said mildly, “Oh, I should think she’d be pleased we were showing an interest in her town. Wouldn’t you?”
“Aye,” he said after a pause. “Aye, reckon p’raps I would, lad!” Then he winked, and chuckled, and bought me my next whisky. Soon after this, we ate, sharing a table. The dining-room was crowded but although there was a small and quite good string orchestra wearing tails there was no gaiety. The diners ate with a grim conscientiousness that reminded me of Miss Borjorac, though I hadn’t yet seen her eating — I found it depressing just to watch those people. There was little talk. Maybe it was the food, which was very plain, or maybe it was the surroundings. Though these were more modern and considerably cleaner, there was a distinct feel of the buffet at Waterloo, which is also a cheerless place. Not the sort of place you take an elderly aunt for a treat, which, I fancied, was in fact what a good many of these people were here for. They had that sort of look about them — a best-clothes, special-occasion look. I felt sorry for them and hoped the future would turn out better. And I felt a sudden hot flush as suddenly I remembered that their future was very largely up to me. It sounded silly, but it was dead true. If Drakotny went …
If only they knew! If only Mr Bassett, with his mouth full of pork and his mind full of mental breastwork and anticipation, knew. That would spoil the night’s entertainment.
After dinner we went out, having shaken off the rest of the party in the lounge, where one of the young couples had already started some minor necking and were obviously about to be reported to reception by a dried-up waiter in a starched shirt. Starched mind too, I thought, he ought to see Swinging London — he’d have an orgasm. But that wasn’t our worry. We went out into the cold, into snow — more had been falling and the street sounds were muted and almost romantic. Fred Bassett flapped his arms around his body, like a nightwatchman. “By gum,” he said. “It’s proper cold an’ all. Right Christmassy I call it. Lovely!”
“There’s only one snag,” I said.
“Eh? What’s that, then?”
“There won’t be many girls walking around, will there, Mr Bassett?”
He was downcast at once. “Eh, no, you’re right, lad,” he said glumly. There were a few men on the streets and some had wives with them, but certainly there were no women in Bassett’s sense. “What do we do, then?”
He was leaving it all to me; in his eyes I was the expert womanizer, though I hadn’t said a thing to give him that impression. We trudged on through the snow, rather aimlessly. Then I said, “The guide-book mentioned an automat, in Vaclavske. That sounds the sort of place the birds might fly to, in bad weather. Okay, Mr Bassett?”
“Anything you say, lad.” Bassett’s depression lifted as if by magic. “Just lead on. Where is this … where did you say it was?”
“Vaclavske.” It sounded familiar: Vaclav Vorsak. Just a coincidence, of course, but a reminder not to waste too much time. “God knows where it is. We’ll have to ask.”
*
The automat was fairly full, as it happened. It was a curious place, with people standing about drinking Turkish coffee or Espresso coffee or a mixture of tea and fruit juice spiced with rum. There were plenty of marble tables, but everyone seemed to be standing. Most of the customers were in fact men, men in fur hats and with heavy leather coats and substantial boots, sturdy, bulky, and very male. Bassett, his eyes prodding everywhere through the crowd, began after a while to moan and mumble about this male company. He was having a lousy evening and, he complained, his feet were hurting. Looking down, I saw for the first time that he was wearing goloshes. Well, very sensible in this weather, of course, but men in goloshes do not easily pick up birds. Even if there are any. Which, just then, as if by a miracle, there were. A group of men moved away, talking earnestly together, and we saw the girls. Four of them, and they were smashers. Young, well-built, gay, vivacious. And with that look about them that said, plainly, that they had a price.
“Ooh,” Bassett said. “Come on, lad!”
We drifted towards the girls. Bassett was sweating now, partly from the heat of the automat. Also partly from the rum tea, which he had opted for and had guzzled a lot of. Partly, of course, from other causes. Actually, his tongue was almost hanging out. I had a fleeting mental image of Mrs Bassett among the northern saucepans and gas-rings, or the onions and turnips of trade; my vision was of a bulging stomach and an angry, hammy face and thick legs, quite likely varicosed, and coarse grey hair. It could have been libellous but I didn’t think it was. Bassett nudged me. “The one in green,” he said in a whisper. “Oooh! Good tits.” He looked at me. “You a tit man, or a bottom man?”
“Well, d’you know, I’m not sure. Both, I think.”
“Then you’d best take the one with the whatsit,” Bassett said.
“I beg your pardon? What whatsit?”
“The bobble on her hat, lad.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, all right.” At this stage, Bassett seemed to have taken over command. I let him, but decided at the same time that the moment had come to start preparing my ground in advance by uttering sundry doom-laden warnings, for I didn’t in fact intend coming back from any assignation we might manage to fix up. I said, “I should have told you before, Mr Bassett.”
“What?”
“I’ve heard a thing or two about the Czechs. What we’re going to do, it’s dangerous. Or can be. I’ll bet these girls live in the old town.”
“So what, lad?” Bassett stared, looking irritated.
“The old town’s the haunt of — of girls like this, and of criminals. We could get robbed, or worse.”
“Worse?”
I said ominously, “Men have been killed, in the old town. For no reason at all. Knife in the back — you know?”
“Just talk … isn’t it?” He was uneasy now, but I didn’t want him too uneasy. So I agreed it might be just talk and left it at that. The seed had been planted, and that was good enough. He said with a touch of contempt, “Oh, I’m not worried, lad. I can take care o’ meself, never fear.”
“Right you are,” I said, and then I sounded the real, authentic warning. “Don’t, whatever you do, try anything in here. Remember this is a Communist state and we’re from the West. The girls won’t dare be seen talking to us openly, and in any case they can’t be too open about their trade in a joint like this. The management wouldn’t wear it. Just give ’em the wink and then we wait outside. All right?”
This Drakotny_A Gripping Spy Thriller Page 7
