‘Do you know Prague?’
‘No.’
‘Matters not, we have to work out a way to stay in contact.’
‘Funds?’
‘Demand a lump sum of money from SIS, a decent one, and bank it in your own name, payment to be sorted out when the operation is complete. Transferring money to Czechoslovakia is too risky, too open to being picked up, and besides, that will avoid currency controls.’
‘Do you still have funds there?’
‘That’s a question I don’t need to answer.’
Peter nodded; he thought he just had, but it was moot if they were his own or what was left over from his work for the Spanish Republic. If it was the latter, then the use of them for the purpose outlined lay on Cal’s conscience, not his.
‘Are you sure you can get good enough papers without my help?’
‘One of these days I must introduce you to some of my more low-life contacts.’
‘One of these days I might need them, which is certain to be true if this goes wrong.’
‘There’s no other safe way. If you can’t trust the SIS people who provide false documents not to blab, neither can I, so I will set up a new identity and you and I will organise the method of communicating. But I stress it has to be secure, just you and me. No SIS, no Quex, and if that person trusts you as much as I do, maybe we can do something useful.’
‘He will ask for some assurance that you can be that.’
Cal grinned. ‘With your charm, Peter, that should not be a problem.’
The remark failed to amuse. ‘And the other matter will be left to me as well.’
That was a statement not a question and judging by the look that accompanied the words it was not something Peter was looking forward to, for the other thing which had been discussed on the way home, and it could hardly be otherwise, was the level of contact which existed between certain people in SIS and European right-wing organisations.
‘I don’t see how I can help in that regard,’ Cal added.
The acknowledgement of that truth came with a sigh.
They parted company at the Gare du Nord, Peter going to Calais while Cal took another set of trains north through Brussels to the Hook of Holland, so landing at the port of Harwich instead of Dover, which was a precaution to avoid their arrival being connected. This, in terms of security was possibly excessive, but as Cal insisted, that was a commodity no one ever died of.
From there and by the boat train he went to his old London haunt, the Goring Hotel, a rather stuffy establishment behind Buckingham Palace, a place once frequented by the wife of a monarch and now used by a very respectable, rather conformist clientele, which suited him, since anyone not of the right type stuck out a mile.
That he arrived looking a touch grubby by comparison to his normal self did not raise an eyebrow, though there was bound to be curiosity in regard to someone who tended towards the well dressed; Mr Jardine was a good and loyal customer, inclined to tip well, and he would soon be back to normal — his luggage was stored in the hotel basement and every room had a well-stocked en suite bathroom.
It was while he was lying in the bath, enjoying a good soak in the company of a bottle of Sancerre and cogitating on how to keep going and maintain arm’s-length contact with Peter Lanchester in a strange country, that he had what he considered a good idea. The best solution if a crisis blew up would be to have a trusted intermediary and he knew just where to find one.
‘Hello, Vince.’
Backed on to the boxing ring ropes in his Old Kent Road gym, covered in perspiration and with his head in a protective helmet, arms up to ward off the rain of blows being aimed at him, it was not the most apposite time for Cal to introduce himself, especially since the distraction made his situation worse and he got a blow to his ear that looked hard enough, had he been wearing them, to have rattled his false teeth.
Vince Castellano was no mug as a pugilist; he had been more than handy in his younger years, good enough to box for and win many bouts for the regiment of which both he and his company commander, Callum Jardine, had been part. It was that ability which had gone some way to mitigating his punishments for the many offences Vince had committed against King’s Rules and Regulations — the colonel did like a winner.
His problem now was the age of his sparring partner, who looked to be no more than twenty, tall, strong and muscular where it mattered, plus the fact that his blood was up and he was enjoying himself so much that the call to back off went nowhere.
Thankfully Vince had guile to compensate for the differences and when he took the blow he fell away far and fast enough to regain some control, to parry what came next and get past his opponent’s guard. The short jab to the jaw stopped him dead and the shout to calm down finally registered.
‘Thanks a lot, guv,’ Vince gasped, hanging over the ropes. ‘Just what I needed, a clout round the ear ’ole.’
‘The boy looks good,’ Cal replied, nodding to his equally puffing partner.
‘He would be if he had any brains. Thick as a brick he is, ain’t you, James?’ The lad nodded as Vince pulled off his gloves, then his helmet, shaking his head and sending beads of sweat flying in all directions. ‘Is this a social call?’
‘Not really.’
‘I hope you ain’t come to get me into trouble.’
Cal knew to smile. ‘Would I?’
‘Let me get washed and changed.’
Vince was quick and within ten minutes they were sitting in a smoky pub, a fug to which Vince was quick to add with a lit cigarette, drinking pints of bitter, Cal not coming to the point right away but catching up with his old one-time sergeant, whom he had not seen since the fighting they had shared in Barcelona and the Catalan countryside. But curiosity was not long delayed and nor, it seemed, was Vince in any ignorance of what was happening in Czechoslovakia.
‘If my paper is right they are in a bit of shit. What do you need from me?’
‘I need my back covered and I might need a way of communicating that does not involve telephones or bits of paper.’
‘With who?’
‘Your favourite companion, Peter Lanchester.’
‘Old snooty bollocks, eh,’ Vince laughed. ‘Not that I dislike the sod as much as I used to when he was an officer. We got on quite well on the last job. How long we talking about?’
‘I doubt more than a month.’ When Vince looked into his beer Cal quickly added, ‘Look, I know the gym is important…’
‘Runs itself now, guv, really, and as you just saw I am having a bit of trouble at the old sparring. Getting too old.’
Cal wondered if, in fact, Vince was bored. He had been a terrific if troublesome soldier, a good man in a scrap, bouncing from sergeant to private and back again at regular intervals, but whatever joy he took from his training of youngsters — as he often said, keeping them out of jail — seemed to have withered. He sensed something of the same in Vince as he had himself, an old soldier’s recklessness that came from never being willing to just settle back into Civvy Street.
‘Good money I hope?’
‘Same as before, Vince, twenty quid a week and all found.’
‘I don’t get a raise?’
‘Make it guineas.’
‘Done,’ Vince said, pulling out another cigarette. ‘When do we leave?’
‘I have a couple of things to sort out. I’ll ring the gym, but sort out your passport and pack a bag.’
The reply was a nod to the empty pint glass. ‘Another one?’
‘Things to do,’ Cal said, downing his beer and standing up, his hand waving. ‘I would leave you here to choke on the smoke but I need you to have your photo taken.’
‘What for?’
‘Safety. We might be going into Germany as well.’
‘That means danger money,’ Vince replied, with a laugh, ‘but I’ll waive that if I get a chance to chin a few Nazis.’
‘You can do that at Hyde Park Corner or the East End.’
And he had. Vince was not one to let folk like that do as they pleased. If Mosley’s Blackshirts came out, so did people like Vince to do battle with them. That got a loud and dismissive snort.