It was dark outside when Russell emerged. Wenceslas Square was displaying almost American levels of neon. Feeling decidedly full after four courses, Russell strode slowly up to the King's statue and back again. There were a couple of short, blonde streetwalkers in high heels outside his hotel, and he watched as two off -duty German soldiers walked past them. The girls seemed to shrink, as if they'd temporarily switched off their allure, and the men seemed to hurry their steps, perhaps frightened of where foreign temptation might lead them.
The lights were burning in Kafka's office, Russell noticed. A whirling figure appeared in the window, and for a moment he imagined the great writer pacing madly to and fro, arms hurled aloft in despair. It was only a cleaner though, brushing a large feather duster across the stacks of files.
Having forgotten to pull the curtains, Russell woke next morning with the sun full on his face. The cafe proprietors across the street were already drawing up their big front windows, and he decided to forego the dark hotel breakfast room for a large milky coffee in the bright morning light. After buying both Monday's Daily Express and Tuesday's Volkischer Beobachter from the nearby kiosk, he left the former out as bait for passing English-speakers and scoured the latter for Slaney's predicted escalation of hostility towards Poland. There was more trouble in Danzig, but mostly of the Poles' making. Hitler was probably still in Bayreuth.
Czechs at nearby tables were chattering away, and Russell felt more than a little frustrated that he couldn't understand a word they were saying. His English paper only snared one victim - a young Brummie who craved the latest cricket news from home. His West Midlands firm used a Czech supplier for some of their machinery, and he had been dispatched to sort out their increasingly erratic deliveries. The Czechs had told him it was all the Germans' fault, and the Germans, though polite, had been singularly unhelpful. His impression of Czech attitudes to the occupation echoed Kenyon's. 'Resignation, mostly,' was his verdict. 'They're just waiting for a war to shake things up.'
The young man went off to do some sightseeing, and Russell was unable to find a good reason for further postponing his trip to Vysoeany. He reached Masaryk Station with ten minutes to spare before the next departure, but only climbed aboard when the whistle shrilled. He was almost certain that he wasn't being followed, but the last time he'd played poker a similar level of confidence in a high straight had proved sadly misplaced.
The train - a few grubby suburban carriages pulled by a wheezing tank engine - slowly rattled its way across an industrial landscape of factories, goods yards and weed-infested carriage sidings. It seemed hotter than ever, and Russell opened a window, only to receive a shower of smuts for his pains. Vysoeany Station was in a cutting, its booking office up on the bridge which carried the street above the tracks. He showed the address to the ticket collector, who gave him a long cool look before miming some rough directions.
The street outside boasted a couple of cafe-bars and one shop, but high factory walls hemmed them in. He turned right as directed, and right again between two industrial premises, one churning out noise, the other smoke. A couple of workmen sitting on the back of a lorry, legs hanging over the tail-gate, watched him with what seemed a grim intensity. His wave of acknowledgement received a single syllable response. He had no idea what the syllable meant, but the tone was less than friendly.
An iron bridge over a small black river brought him into a residential area - streets of small houses and yards divided by cobblestone alleys. According to his piece of paper Stanislav Pruzinec lived in the second. He walked down to the relevant number, and took a look around. Three women were watching from out of their respective windows. He knocked, and a fourth woman came to the door. 'Stanislav Pruzinec?' he asked, and when this produced a blank stare he showed her the name in writing. This elicited a torrent of Czech, none of which sounded welcoming.
He was turning to leave when an angry-eyed young man appeared at his shoulder. Russell tried English on him, and then German. That got a response, but not the one he was hoping for. The young man smiled grimly, and called out something over his shoulder in Czech. 'I am American,' Russell said urgently, having remembered in time that Britain's betrayal at Munich was far from forgiven. 'American,' he repeated. 'Gregor Blazek.'
This produced another torrent from the woman, but also engendered a sliver of doubt in the young man's eyes. Time to withdraw, Russell told himself. He started backing away, smiling all the time, making what seemed like placatory gestures. No one had responded to the young man's shout, and he himself seemed unwilling to go beyond scowling. Russell turned his back on them and walked away as swiftly as he could, ears alert for the sound of pursuit. Once he turned the corner he broke into a run, only slowing once he had crossed the iron bridge. The men on the lorry had vanished, and he met no one else on his walk back to the station. He sat down heavily on the only platform seat, sweating profusely.
After about fifteen minutes a trickle of prospective passengers began descending the steps, a few minutes more and another grimy locomotive puffed wearily into the station. At Masaryk Station he treated himself to a bratwurst before walking back out. He was still sweating, but so was everyone else; the street was like a steambath.
A cold beer, he thought, just as the right tram ground to a halt at the station stop. Ten minutes later he was sitting in the riverside beer garden, at the same table he'd occupied the day before. The sky was hazier, and dark clouds gathered above the Castle as he worked his way through two bottles of Pilsen. He and Paul had stood gazing at an El Greco storm in the Metropolitan Museum of Art only a few weeks earlier, and here was nature's version.
The first fork of lightning seemed to plunge into the castle, as if some resident Nazi wizard was draining power from the cosmos. A few seconds later the thunder cracked and rolled, and the sky lurched further into gloom. For several minutes Russell and the rest of the beer garden's customers watched the storm draw nearer, until a wall of rain swept across the Vltava, driving them all indoors. Already half-soaked, Russell worked his way round to the tower at the eastern end of the Charles Bridge and stood in the archway watching the storm crackle and flash its way over. As the sky lightened in the west, the thunder faded to a distant growl, and a faint rainbow glimmered above Strelecky Island. The rain slowed and stopped, and soon the sun came out, lighting the terracotta roofs and copper green spires of the Little Quarter.
He headed back towards his hotel, stopping en route at the large book shop he had noticed the previous day. It took some time - and some linguistic assistance from the proprietor - before he found a book that suited his purpose.
Back at the Europa he took off his wet clothes and stretched out on the bed. The trip to Vysoeany had been a disaster, but he could hardly blame Blazek or the Americans for the quality of their intelligence - if they'd had an up-to-date picture of what was happening in Prague his own visit would have been unnecessary. It was just one of those things. He didn't think he'd been in any real danger, but he wouldn't want to go through those few seconds again. 'Beaten to death by Czech patriots' was not what he wanted on his tombstone.