‘Your native language?’
‘Czech.’
‘You speak anything else?’
‘German.’
‘Then German it is.’ Tam smiled. ‘I’m looking for Karyl.’
‘He’s in hospital.’ Her German was perfect, barely a trace of an accent.
‘Sick?’
‘He fell off a ladder.’ She tapped her knee. ‘And broke his leg.’
Tam gazed round. Jaywick was a work in progress. A network of concrete slab roads stretched in every direction. According to a battered hoarding, this was an investment opportunity for buyers looking for a home by the sea. Builders were busy weatherproofing the wooden shells of half-built chalets, and one backyard boasted a line of washing, but there was an emptiness about the place suggesting that business was slow.
Tam squatted beside the woman. For the first time, he noticed the towel and what appeared to be a costume drying in the sun.
‘You’ve been swimming?’
‘Of course.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Cold.’ She pulled a face. ‘And muddy.’
‘So where’s the train?’
‘That’s broken, too. Everything’s broken. Karyl. The train. Everything.’
‘So why are you selling tickets?’
‘Because it’s my job. You want one?’ She nodded down at the roll of tickets. ‘One penny. Two rides. Maybe three if Karyl stays in hospital too long. He’s the only one who knows about the engine.’ She paused, fingering the tickets, then forced a smile. ‘Four rides? Five? Your choice.’
Tam hesitated a moment. According to Sanderson, Karyl Novakov was a refugee from Czechoslovakia. He’d arrived via the British embassy in Prague, securing his entry to Britain with the aid of certain information. He’d spent more than a decade as a driver on Czech Railways, mainly freight trains, and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the state of the Czech economy. He also had a brother who was serving in the Army, manning the fortifications along the nation’s western border. Which was why Tam had come to find him.
‘Is the hospital here? In Clacton?’
‘No. It’s in another place. Many miles away.’
‘You go to see him? Pay visits?’
‘Never.’
‘Why not?’
‘We have no money. Without money, you sit here in the sunshine and sell tickets for the train that doesn’t work.’ She extended a hand and allowed Tam to pull her to her feet. ‘My name is Renata. You have money?’
‘I do.’
‘Then maybe we go and see Karyl. Come – ’
She stooped for the cashbox, collected the towel and her bathing costume, and set off across a patch of wasteland. Tam followed her, trying to avoid drifts of rubble amongst the ankle-high weeds. Away from the protection of the sea wall the wind was cold again. They crossed the road, stepping around a manhole without a cover. A coil of thick electric cable lay at the foot of a wooden pole.
‘Here – ’
The first chalet was already showing its age. The door frame was sagging and one of the window sills had begun to rot. Renata produced a key. Watching her, Tam detected a sense of resentment or maybe impatience.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘I need to eat. Come.’
She opened the door and stepped inside. Tam followed. The chalet smelled of damp and blocked drains. The exterior walls were crude, timber shingles nailed on to a wooden frame, and Tam could see daylight through the cracks. The wind keened between the ill-fitting shingles and not a stitch of carpet or matting softened the bare wooden floors. He shivered. It was colder inside than out.
Renata had paused in the tiny hall. There were three doors, none of them properly shut. She nodded at the one on the left.
‘In there,’ she said.
‘In there what?’
‘Karyl.’ She threw him a look. ‘He told me someone was coming. That must be you.’
For a moment, Tam was wrong-footed. He’d bought the hospital story. He’d believed her. Now this.
He pushed the door open and stood back for a moment, uncertain what to expect. The room, tiny, was dominated by a double bed. Beneath the blankets someone was beginning to stir. First a head of hair, greying, unkempt. Then a face darkened by a week or so of stubble, and a single hand crabbing across the edge of the blanket. For the first time, Tam noticed the line of empty bottles neatly stacked against the wall.
‘You’re Karyl?’ he enquired in German.
The name drew a grunt of assent. Karyl rubbed his eyes and then farted before rolling over. There was another bottle on the other side of the bed, a quarter full this time. Karyl retrieved it, examined it carefully, and then drained it in a single gulp before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘You come from London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your country is shit.’ Karyl waved the empty bottle at nothing in particular. ‘This. Outside. The weather. The people. The food. Everything is shit.’
Tam held his gaze. There was a poster taped to the wall over the bed, the only splash of colour in a moonscape of grey. No wonder the man drank.
‘Jáchymov?’ Tam was looking at the poster. Green hills rolled away into the blue distance. Closer, in a deep valley, red-tiled houses caught the sun.
‘You know this place?’ Karyl hadn’t moved.
‘Never had the pleasure.’
‘Good food. Good people. Good everything.’ He began to cough, his skinny frame bent double, then spat into a corner of the room.
Renata appeared in the open door and took Tam by the arm. The strength of her grip surprised him.
‘Please. Enough.’
She led him into another room that evidently served as a kitchen. A wooden table with one leg chocked with books. A stool. A single chair. Something was bubbling on the two-ring electric stove and it took a moment for Tam to realise it was water.
‘I make you tea. Please – ’ She nodded at the chair.
Tam settled on the stool. He wanted to know how Karyl had known about this visit of his.
‘We have a radio.’ She nodded at the cupboard over the sink. ‘You want to see it?’
She fetched it out. It looked military. Tam dimly remembered something similar from his earliest days in uniform.
‘What else did they give you?’
‘Money. They give us a little money every week.’
‘And Karyl drinks it?’
‘Yes. Most of it.’
‘He’s your husband?’
‘That was another Karyl. Before the drinking.’
‘So why does he get so bad? With the drink?’
‘He’s sick for home.’
‘Jáchymov?’
‘Yes. That’s where we lived.’
‘So why leave? Why come here?’
She studied him a moment, then turned away.
‘Karyl was a good man,’ she said at last. ‘He worked hard. He loved the railways. He went everywhere, all over the country. Some weeks he never came home but we were happy.’
‘You have children?’
‘One. She died…’ She gestured at her throat.
‘Diptheria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Recently?’
‘Two years ago. Horrible. After that there was nothing for us.’
‘So you came here.’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘In the winter.’
‘To sell tickets for a train that doesn’t work?’
‘Yes.’
‘To people who aren’t here?’
‘Yes.’
Tam nodded, said he understood, offered his sympathies. Renata shrugged. Then she returned the radio to the cupboard and found a curl of sausage and the remains of a loaf of bread. From the bedroom came another bout of coughing.
Tam said no to the sausage. Then he asked whether Karyl would like to go home.
‘He can’t.’
‘Why not?’
She would
n’t say. She washed a second cup and dried it carefully before shaking tea leaves into a strainer. The tea was the colour of teak and tasted of smoke. Tam rather liked it.
‘I’ve come to talk about Karyl going back,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘With me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you’re telling me that can’t happen.’
‘Yes.’
‘So what do we do?’
The question drew another shrug. She used the tea leaves for a cup of her own. Two brimming spoons of sugar. Then she looked up. She wanted to know exactly what Tam wanted.
‘I need to get to know your country. I need to look at the fortifications on the border. I speak no Czech. That’s where Karyl can help.’
‘You want company? Someone to make it easier?’
‘Yes. And somebody,’ he frowned, ‘who knows the people I should talk to.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘People who know what’s really going on.’
‘You mean in the Sudetenland?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded, taking it all in. She was staring at the cup.
‘You really have money?’ she asked at last.
‘Yes.’
‘How much money?’
‘That doesn’t matter. Not at the moment.’
‘You think? You really think that doesn’t matter?’ She was staring at him now, her face suddenly flushed with colour. ‘You know how we come here? You know the promises they make? How we shall live like kings? How Karyl will love the little train? The beach? The sea? The sunshine? How many friends we shall make? What a time of it we shall have?’ She gestured around. ‘We live in a prison. We have nothing. People check on us all the time. Run away and they’ll put us in prison for real. Maybe that’s what you should have done from the start. But you know what they say about the English? In my country?’
‘Tell me.’
‘They tell us never to trust the English, especially the English smile. They tell us that English is the language God created for liars and thieves. They say the English never tell you the truth.’
Tam let the sudden gust of anger subside. Sanderson had been sparing with the details but to the best of Tam’s knowledge the offer of work on this godforsaken building site had come from a syndicate in the City, brokers who were bankrolling the wilderness of chalets outside. Somewhere this handsome young couple could settle down. Somewhere safe they could call their own. Plus a job which Karyl would adore. In Sanderson’s view, a near-perfect solution.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tam said again. ‘Maybe it’s best I go.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We came here to help. That’s what we said in Prague, when we went to your Embassy. And it’s true.’
‘Help how?’
‘Help you. And help us back home. Austria will never be enough for the Germans. It’s us next.’
‘But Karyl can’t help. Just look at him.’
‘I do. Every day. Every night. But there are two of us. And one isn’t sick.’
Tam studied her carefully. She held his gaze.
‘You and me?’ he asked at last. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the Sudetenland well?’
‘We lived there. We got married there. In Jáchymov.’
‘You still know people?’
‘Of course.’
Tam nodded. Then came another thought.
‘What about Karyl? Who looks after him?’
‘Karyl won’t know I’ve gone. He lives in a world of his own. There’s a woman he likes, too.’ She threw a glance at the window. ‘She’s English. She drinks nearly as much as he does.’
Tam nodded. They might be gone a while. Did that matter?
She stared at him for a long moment and then began to laugh.
‘After this? Are you serious?’ She gestured around again and then reached for the roll of tickets. She tore one off and slipped it across the table. ‘We have a deal?’
‘We do.’
‘And I can trust an Englishman?’
‘You don’t have to.’ It was Tam’s turn to laugh. ‘I’m a Scot.’
*
Tam was back in London by mid-evening. It was by no means clear whether or not he had the authority to hire a companion for the days to come but he was prepared to fight for the offer he’d made. Speaking German with Renata had clarified the territory they shared. He admired the way she’d handled herself. She was an outsider in a society she had every reason to mistrust, and he suspected he could put her determination and her anger to good use.
It was Sanderson who’d given him directions to a Mayfair pub. The Punch Bowl was a picturesque Georgian relic wedged between two towering apartment blocks. At half-past eight drinkers had spilled out on to the pavement, briskly corralled by three uniformed policemen. Tam shouldered his way through the crowd. Access to the pub was barred by yet another policeman.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Bit of an incident.’
Beyond the policeman, Tam caught a glimpse of upturned tables and what looked like a body on the wooden floor. A doctor was returning instruments to a leather bag. Of Sanderson there was no sign.
‘Tam?’ The lightest touch on his shoulder.
Tam spun round. Instead of Sanderson, he found himself looking at Ballentyne.
‘Oliver has been called away. Pressing business in the Far East. He sends his apologies. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me.’
Ballentyne led the way across the road and headed north through the maze of streets towards Grosvenor Square. It appeared that an argument at the bar had got out of hand and from his perch at the back of the pub Ballentyne had enjoyed a ringside seat for what followed. One of the two men was an American. The incident had lasted no more than thirty seconds. In Ballentyne’s view, the man on the floor was probably dead.
‘Beware who you pick a fight with,’ he murmured as they paused on the kerbside for a passing taxi. ‘These days that’s something worth keeping in mind.’
Tam smiled but said nothing. He liked Ballentyne. He had a lightness of touch that was lost on Sanderson. This was only their second meeting but he was more certain than ever that Ballentyne, so ordinary in his appearance, so easy to overlook, was running the show.
‘Over there, my friend. Top floor, I’m afraid.’
Tam was looking at a newish block of flats, brick built. Ballentyne had the key to the front door. A lift was waiting behind an iron grille but Ballentyne took the stairs. Floor after floor smelled of serious money: carefully chosen art on the walls, stands of late daffodils on occasional tables, everything spotlessly clean. On the sixth floor Ballentyne produced another key.
‘I don’t live here, in case you’re wondering. We like to think of this as part of the estate.’
The phrase meant nothing to Tam. So far, neither Ballentyne nor Sanderson had told him to which part of the intelligence world they belonged, and neither had he been minded to ask. His years in the military had taught him a number of lessons and one of them, just now, was all too apposite. If there was good reason to know, they’d tell him. Otherwise, he’d remain in the dark. The one surprise was the news that Sanderson was some kind of businessman. Where, exactly, did he fit in Ballentyne’s world?
The flat was furnished like a good quality Edinburgh hotel suite: polished wooden floor, thick-piled, patterned rugs in rich reds and blues, and a low occasional table in what looked like mahogany. Ballentyne took Tam’s coat and then inspected the contents of a drinks cabinet.
‘I’m assuming Scotch,’ he said. ‘Last time I was here they had a couple of decent malts. This one?’ He was peering at the label on the bottle. ‘Ardbeg?’
‘Perfect.’
Ballentyne found two glasses and poured. So far, Tam had yet to describe his expedition to the seaside. Ballentyne pulled the curtains and settle
d himself in one of the two leather armchairs before offering a toast.
‘To Renata,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’ve had the pleasure.’
Tam gazed at him. For the second time that day, he’d lost his place in the plot.
‘You’ve met her?’
‘Not face to face, alas. They had a couple of interviews on arrival, both down in Kent. I monitored the second one. Karyl, to be frank, is a disappointment. Renata is anything but. Quite why she married him remains a mystery. In my judgement she was put on earth for the benefit of an organisation like ours. Good fortune is something we should never take for granted. I’m pleased you two got along.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She made contact after you left. She seems to trust you. God knows, she might even like you. More to the point, she’s well connected. Did you discuss any of that?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then allow me to explain.’
Renata, he said, had spent her formative years in Prague, daughter of a Czech physicist who taught at the university. Naturally, given his background, he was keen for Renata to take a degree but after a term and a half in the Faculty of Law, she’d dropped out.
‘She wanted to be a journalist,’ Ballentyne was smiling. ‘Made a real nuisance of herself. That’s how she came to our attention.’
Renata, he said, had done her best to find a post with the established newspapers in Prague but had finally made a reputation of sorts by supplying stories for the underground press. In the early thirties, he said, Czechoslovakia was quite the place to be, a boisterous little democracy, the love child of the Versailles Treaty.
Tam smiled. It was an arresting phrase and it reminded him of a conversation he’d had only recently with Gunther Nagel and his German hunting party. These men were no strangers to Prague. Wonderful architecture, they’d said, with women and beer to match.
‘So how old is she? Now?’
‘Twenty-nine, according to her passport. Looks younger, I know.’
‘And she stuck with the journalism?’
‘Yes. Until Karyl came along.’
Ballentyne appeared to know her story by heart. He confirmed that they’d met in the Sudetenland, a little place called Jáchymov. Karyl, who worked on the railways, loved American jazz. A long evening in a pub near the station and they began an affair. Renata had a soft spot for communism, as well as Charlie Parker, and Karyl – with his good looks and his proletarian passion for the footplate – had the perfect credentials.
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