shivered and stepped from the balcony into his bedroom. He closed the window with difficulty – the wood was warped – and drew the heavy curtains. The room seemed as cold as the outside world. He knew he should try to sleep but the bed, despite its imposing appearance, was as hard as concrete; he had already discovered that the sheets were damp.
It was hardly worth going to bed in any case – Bela would be collecting him at four-thirty. Kendall preferred not to think about the journey ahead of them. For the first time in his brief secret service career, he would be adopting a disguise and actually breaking the law.
For the first time, he was afraid.
The plan was very simple. Bela, though he had lived and worked in Prague and Brno for many years, was a Slovakian. The authorities were used to him paying regular visits to his family in Presov. Kendall, suitably equipped with false papers, was to play the part of Bela’s half-witted cousin. Once they reached Presov, Bela would be in his home territory; he had access to the smuggling routes through the mountains into Hungary.
It was obvious that the faster they moved, the better their chances would be. Germany’s control over its new Protectorate and its Slovakian satellite was not yet complete. In a way, Kendall was glad that they had to hurry – it left less time for reflection.
Time and again, he told himself that he had no option but to leave the boy behind. Stanhope-Smith had strictly forbidden him to contact the Prague Embassy. If the Kendalls tried to leave the country under their own names, the Gestapo would pick them both up at the border. Kendall was left with a choice between two evils: either he stayed with Hugh, in which case his mission would be a failure and the two of them would be fugitives in Prague; or he returned to England, in which case the mission would succeed. Hugh would be in good hands and he would only be alone for a few weeks. Kendall was sure that Stanhope-Smith would send him back to Czechoslovakia in the circumstances. In the meantime Hugh would be safer than if he and his father tried to escape on their own initiative.
He imagined how he would put it to Stanhope-Smith and possibly even to Muriel: It wasn’t an easy decision, of course. But when one took a common sense view, patriotic duty and one’s paternal responsibility really left one with no alternative. Perhaps he would add as a casual afterthought: I left Hugh at the Michalov Palace – the Countess is Madame Hase’s cousin, you know.
Kendall felt a little more cheerful. He removed his jacket, tie and waistcoat and put on his dressing gown. His clothes and the rest of his luggage would have to be left behind – Bela would be bringing him the clothes and possessions appropriate to a labourer at a Brno munitions factory. Madame Hase had assured him that his own belongings would be safe in the cellars of the palace.
A wing armchair in front of the empty fireplace looked more comfortable than the bed. He settled into it with a pillow and a couple of blankets, intending to smoke a last pipe before blowing out the candle. Just as he had succeeded in insulating himself from the main draughts, there was a tap on the door.
His instinctive reaction was to panic. But, even as he was struggling to free himself from the blankets, it occurred to him that the Gestapo would be unlikely to knock.
‘Alfred!’ Madame Hase rattled the handle. ‘Let me in.’
Kendall unbolted the door. She burst into the room, despite his half-hearted attempt to keep her on the threshold. His sense of propriety was outraged: what would the servants think?
Madame Hase had discarded her fur coat, for the first time in their acquaintance; she wore a pink quilted dressing gown and a pair of pale blue mules with two-inch heels. The smell of musk was stronger than usual.
She put down her candle next to his on the wine table and settled herself into the armchair.
‘Sit down.’ She pointed to a footstool. ‘We must talk – there will be no time in the morning.’
‘It is the morning,’ Kendall pointed out. ‘Where have you been all evening?’
‘Making arrangements about Hugh. He can’t stay here – the servants would talk and it might be difficult if my cousins return. But Ludvik Spiegel is willing to take him for a month.’
‘What about his neighbours? They must know that Hugh is an English boy.’
Madame Hase shook her head. ‘Spiegel sees very little of his neighbours. Most of them are young, working-class couples and they’re out to work when Hugh is there. Besides, if we give Hugh a haircut and another set of clothes, he won’t look English any more.’
‘But he’ll need identity papers and so forth, won’t he? The Boche run a tight ship.’
‘True. Jan may be able to help with that. I think he knows a clerk in the Ministry of the Interior. But there might be an easier method. Hugh could become my nephew.’
Kendall sucked angrily on his pipe. He said, with exaggerated patience, ‘But everyone would know—’
‘It’s not so foolish as it sounds. My sister married a Hungarian, a banker. They had a son – he was born in ’twenty-seven. The whole family died in a car crash last year – near Budapest, where they lived. The shock of it killed my father.’
‘So the boy’s dead?’
Madame Hase patted his knee. ‘The point is, Rudi had dual nationality. His death was never registered in this country. It was done in Hungary, of course, but not here. With my father dying, I had too many things on my mind. Hugh could use Rudi’s identity. I have all the papers. Perhaps Jan’s friend at the Ministry could help bring them up to date.’
‘Anyone who talked to the boy would immediately see he was English.’
‘Foreign, yes; but not English necessarily. If everyone thinks he spent most of his life in Hungary, that would be quite understandable. It may not arise – Ludvik says that Hugh is making very rapid progress in Czech.’
‘Hugh? Nonsense – the boy’s as thick as two short planks.’
‘As you say. But you must not worry: we will equip him well enough to pass a street check, if need be. It will only be for a few weeks.’
There was a moment’s silence, during which Kendall fervently wished his hostess would leave. But she settled herself deeper in the armchair and fumbled in the pocket of her dressing gown.
‘Here.’ She passed a silver flask to him. ‘It is cognac. We must drink a toast to your safe return.’
Kendall’s face brightened. ‘I’ll get you a glass. I’ll use the cap.’
They drank to a safe return; they drank to England and Czechoslovakia; Kendall poured another drink and they drank damnation to the Nazis.
Then Madame Hase proposed another toast: ‘To us.’
Kendall blushed and drank.
The conversation took a personal direction. Madame Hase talked about her husband, a young German of good family whose political career had been cut short with tragic finality by tuberculosis in 1931. Had he lived, she implied, neither Germany nor Czechoslovakia would be in its present appalling condition. She dropped tantalizing hints about her own family’s connections with the old nobility of Bohemia and Saxony.
‘The trouble with people like Jan and Bela,’ she
