'Some, and it'll grow. The Czechs are still getting a kick out of booing Hitler in cinema newsreels and passing Germans their Beobachter face down, but they'll graduate to higher things.'
'What about the local Nazis?'
Kenyon made a dismissive gesture. 'Several groups joined together and called for wholehearted collaboration, but not even the Germans took much notice. The Gestapo did fund one bunch of Moravian fascists. Mostly criminals, led by a Brno brothel-keeper. Turned out the only thing they were good at was beating up Jews.'
'Not a talent the Gestapo dismisses.'
'No, I guess not. But maybe they like their monopoly.'
'How are the Jews doing?'
'It could be worse.' About five thousand Jews had been detained in a special camp outside Prague, and the screw was slowly being tightened on the other fifty thousand. The Jews were being pushed out of business, forced to declare their assets – 'all the stuff that happened in Germany a few years ago.' But there was no reign of terror, not yet at least. An SS Hauptsturmfuhrer named Eichmann had been put in charge. He had arrived a few weeks earlier and set himself up in a confiscated Jewish villa in Stresovice. 'But he hasn't shown his hand yet,' Kenyon said, carefully flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the gravel path. 'Last month the Gestapo organized an exhibition at the Deutsches Haus, 'The Jews as Humanity's Enemy' or something like that, and issued unrefusable invitations to the local schools and factories. All the usual garbage – oily Jews counting their shekels, ravishing aryan virgins, baking their Passover bread with the blood of Christian children.' Kenyon shook his head, and stubbed the cigarette out with a twist of his heel. 'Do any of them really believe it, do you think?'
'Those that aren't stupid enough are twisted enough. How are the rest of the Czechs dealing with it?'
'Better than the rest of the Germans, I'd say.' It was a mixed picture, though. The Czech administration was trying to soften the blow by drafting much weaker anti-Semitic legislation than the Germans wanted. It was confiscating Jewish property, but mostly as a means of keeping it out of German hands. 'Ordinary Czechs, it's hard to tell. There are more segregation laws coming in August, and it'll be interesting to see how they react. It could be wishful thinking, but I suspect that ordinary Czechs will try and ignore them. Anti-Semitism has never been much of a force in this country, and supporting the Jews will be another way of holding a finger up to the Germans.'
'Gestures won't help the Jews.'
'Not in the long run, no. But what's happening here is good news as well as bad. The Nazis had a choice when they came in – win the Czechs over or really frighten them to death. They've fallen between two stools so far, but that wasn't an accident. The plain truth is, both options are beyond them. They've got nothing real to offer the Czechs; the only way they can win them over is to give them their country back. They can try frightening them to death, but that won't work for long – it never does. There's already passive resistance, and it'll get more active. Not tomorrow, but eventually. The Czechs know they can't drive the Germans out on their own, so they'll wait until Hitler has his hands full elsewhere. The Czechs can't wait for a European war, and who can blame them?'
No one, Russell thought, though the millions doomed to die might want a say in the matter. He now realized the reason – and wondered how he could have missed it – for Cummins's insistence on his coming to Prague. His editor had realized, consciously or otherwise, that this was the template for what was to come. 'I'm seeing the German spokesman at three,' he said. 'I think I'll ask him what conquerors have to offer their conquests.'
'If you're looking for official responses, I can probably get you an interview with a member of the Czech government.'
'I am – it's what officials don't say that's usually so revealing.'
They walked back down through the gardens and in through the back door of the Legation. Kenyon's office was on the first floor, overlooking the street. He picked up the phone, tried a few words of Czech and quickly reverted to English. 'Two o'clock?' he asked Russell, who nodded. 'In the Cabinet Room. He'll be there.' He hung up. 'Karel Mares – he's the Acting Prime Minister – will give you ten minutes. Do you know where the Cabinet Room is?'
'In the Castle? I'll find it.'
Kenyon nodded. 'Now, your other business here.' He took a small folder from a desk drawer, extracted a single sheet of paper, and passed it across. There were three names, two with telephone numbers, one with an address. 'These are all supplied by a Czech exile in the States, Gregor Blazek.'
Russell copied the names and numbers into used pages of his reporter's notebook, adding letters to the former and scrambling the order of the latter to a prearranged pattern. The address he memorized. 'What was Blazek's political affiliation when he was here?' he asked.
'Social Democrat. He only left in February, so the information should be up to date. I haven't done any checking, I'm afraid. I'm not supposed to know anything, or do anything.'
'Do you know where Blazek is living now?'
'Chicago, I think,' Kenyon said, checking the file. 'Yes, Chicago. I assume you've been given some guidance as to how to approach these people.'
'Oh yes.' Russell slipped the notebook into his inside pocket and got to his feet. 'Thanks for the help,' he said, extending a hand. 'And for the analysis.'
'Remember,' Kenyon told him, 'this building is still American territory. If you should find yourself in sudden need of a bolthole,' he explained, somewhat unnecessarily.
'Thanks,' Russell said. He could just see himself toiling up the hill with the Gestapo in close pursuit.
He walked back down to the Little Quarter Square and sat at an outdoor restaurant table opposite the St Nicholas church. The plate of pancakes on the adjoining table smelled as good as they looked, so he ordered an early lunch to go with the glass of wine. The pancake-eater, a middle-aged Czech man of prodigious size, gave him a congratulatory beam. Russell took Kenyon's piece of paper out to study the names, seeking some arcane clue as to which might prove the safest one to start with. When a shadow crossed the paper he looked up to find two German officers taking the adjoining table. He put it away.
The pancakes were delicious, and the Germans were still waiting for the waiter when he finished. From little acorns…
He took a tram back to the New Town, alighting on Na Poikopi at the bottom of Wenceslas Square. He walked on to the post office intending to use one of the public telephones there but had second thoughts when he noticed German uniforms in a room behind the counters. Masaryk Station, he decided. Secret agents always used stations.
The booths in the corner of the concourse seemed ideal. He took the last in the line because it offered the widest angle of vision, and rummaged through his pockets for the right coins. After dropping and recovering the piece of paper, he spent several seconds deciding which of the two numbers to call, in the end plumping for the second – the name that went with it was easier to pronounce.
A woman answered.
'Oto Nemec?' he asked.
A garbled burst of incomprehensible Czech.
'Oto Nemec,' he said again. 'Is he there?' he asked, first in English and then in German.
There was a loud click as the woman hung up.
Russell did the same, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. The Americans hadn't mentioned the possibility of language difficulties, and he'd foolishly assumed that they knew the contacts spoke English or German. He had committed the cardinal sin – expecting intelligence from Intelligence.
He dialled the second number. It rang a long time, and he was about to hang up when a hesitant male voice mumbled an answer.
'Pavel Bejbl?' Russell asked.
'Bejbl,' the man answered, correcting his pronunciation. 'I am Bejbl.'
'Do you speak English?' Russell asked. 'Sprechen zie deutsch?'
'I speak German.'
'I'm an American. Gregor in Chicago gave me your name.'
'Gregor Blazek?'
'Yes.'
There was a pause. 'Have you a message for me?'
'Yes, but I need to deliver it in person. Could we meet?'
Another pause, longer this time. Russell could hear a whirring noise in the background – a fan, probably. 'Today?' Bejbl asked. He didn't sound enthusiastic.
'Around six? You pick the place,' Russell said, in an instantly regretted attempt at reassurance.
'Do you know Strelecky Island?' Bejbl asked, suddenly sounding more decisive.
'No.'
'If you're looking from the Charles Bridge, it's just upstream. The Legii Bridge goes over it – there are steps on the southern side. There are benches at the northern end of the island. I'll be there at six-thirty.'