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 you 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.