Egorkin put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Listen to your soul and help us, Mr Wareham. I am begging you.’
Sam stood, trying not to give the impression that he was abandoning the man. ‘I will do what I can, Mr Egorkin, but I cannot promise anything. You have my phone number if you need it. Where are you staying in Prague?’
‘At the International Hotel.’
‘If I have anything positive to tell you, I’ll contact you there.’
‘We are watched. All the time, we are watched.’
‘Then maybe you can phone me. At the embassy. Give me until Wednesday next week. But as I said, I really cannot promise anything.’ He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, and walked away. Lenka would be wondering where he had got to.
33
A reception at the ministry of foreign affairs, to celebrate the fraternal visit to Prague of Nicolae Ceaușescu. Tito had paid a flying visit a few days ago and been greeted by ecstatic crowds. Now it was the turn of the enigmatic leader of Romania.
The British ambassador had been invited and so had Eric, but the Whittakers were away in Austria for the weekend and Eric was damned if he was going to ruin his break for some tiresome duty bash. Sam would stand in for him, wouldn’t he? Wave the flag alongside His Excellency?
Sam rang a contact at the protocol section of the ministry and got Lenka’s name added to the guest list in place of Madeleine Whittaker. ‘You can write a piece about it for one of your journals,’ he told Lenka, and she appeared delighted at the possibility. These days anything seemed possible, even someone like her, with her family history, being admitted to the purlieus of power. They shunned driving and instead walked up the long slope of the Castle Hill. Lenka was once again wearing the dress and shoes they’d bought in Munich. She appeared excited at the prospect of even being in the same room as Dubček. ‘I might even get a chance to talk to him,’ she said with childlike enthusiasm.
In Hradčany soldiers were on duty at government buildings and policemen were marshalling the traffic. Sam and Lenka joined a queue shuffling forward to be admitted to the portals of the Černín Palace. Sam could feel Lenka tense beside him as their names were checked against the guest list, but then they were in, wandering past gilded columns and Flemish tapestries with the other milling guests. There was no receiving line – apparently their hosts were still in private discussions in the Hrad, but the ambassador was already there, in conversation with a South American counterpart. He detached himself and came over to be introduced to Sam’s guest. His bright, beady eyes didn’t miss a trick, either at bridge, which he and his wife played mercilessly, or in the complex social intercourse of the diplomatic world. He was, he claimed as he smiled on her, delighted to make her acquaintance.
‘Lenka’s a student,’ Sam explained.
The ambassador’s smile was benign. ‘Everyone seems to be these days. Surprised there’s anyone left to do any work. How’s Stephanie? Sorry she had to leave us.’
‘I haven’t heard from her for a while. I believe she’s fine.’
‘Belief is a great comfort, Samuel. I think it is what is sustaining our hosts at this very moment. One wonders’ – glancing round pointedly – ‘where they might be.’
‘I believe they are still locked away in talks.’
‘There you are again. Belief. What would we do without it?’ He laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘But please don’t let me bore you with my prattle. Go and circulate. Show Miss Konečková what fun we in the diplomatic corps have.’
‘I don’t think I like that man,’ Lenka said as the ambassador moved away.
‘He’s all right. He’s just a Wykehamist, that’s all.’
‘A Wykehamist?’
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
‘Anyway, whatever he is, he did not have to mention Stephanie.’
Sam laughed. ‘Oh yes, he did.’
They moved through the crowd, nodding greetings here and there. An American diplomat whom Sam knew came over. He was part Czech in origin, part Czech, wholly Jewish and every bit American, his family surname Růžička translating into Rose when his grandfather passed through Ellis Island in 1888. Harry Rose. He looked approvingly at Lenka. ‘A real live Czech? As rare as hen’s teeth at an event like this. Where did Sam find you?’
‘I found him.’
‘Touché. You know what?’ That was how he always started his stories. You know what? ‘Believe me, this is true. East German intelligence just reported American tanks crossing the border from Austria. Yesterday or the day before, this was. Invasion! Outrage! Claimed it was NATO belligerence, for Christ’s sake. Tried to get the Soviets interested in starting World War Three. The reality? They were old World War Two relics, props for some damn war film they’re making at Barrandov, can you believe it?’ He basked in their laughter. ‘It’s true, it’s true. We’ve got the whole lot here – Ben Gazzara, Bradford Dillman, Robert Vaughn. Half of Hollywood. You know these guys?’
‘I know the man from U.N.C.L.E.’
‘That’s him.’
‘What is uncle?’ Lenka asked.
‘It’s some James Bond-type TV show.’
‘United Network Command for Law Enforcement,’ Harry said with glee.
‘There is such a thing?’
Harry laughed, entranced by Lenka’s credulity. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you see on TV.’
‘James Bond fights SMERSH, and there is such a thing as SMERSH. Smert shpionam, death to spies. In Czech we say smrt špionů.’
‘Well, this lady sure knows her stuff. You’d better watch your back, Sam. Hey, and we even have Shirley Temple, would you believe it?’
‘Shirley Temple’s in a war film?’ Conversations with Harry lurched from the improbable to the unbelievable and back again within a couple of sentences.
‘No, she’s here for some convention or other. Probably singing “The Good Ship Lollipop” to a plenary session. I’m surprised she didn’t get an invite to this party – she has political ambitions, apparently. Wants to be a senator, wants to be president. Film star for president? Who the hell knows? Weirder things have happened. I mean, here we are meant to be representing the free West and our main concerns when the balloon goes up will be what the hell to do with half of Hollywood.’
A disturbance at the entrance announced the arrival of the hosts. People scurried to see. Svoboda came first, white-haired and red-faced, then Dubček, tall and awkward, like a heron in a stream worried about fish. Beside him was the dapper figure of Nicolae Ceaușescu. The trio came though the press of enthusiastic guests, smiling and nodding, pausing briefly for Dubček to exchange words with someone. In the background, observing all through horn-rimmed spectacles, was the Soviet ambassador Chervonenko.
A member of the ministry staff came over. ‘Mr Samuel Wareham,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry that Mr Whittaker could not be present but it is good to bump into you again. That is the right expression, isn’t it? To bump into someone?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘And this lovely lady is…?’
‘Miss Lenka Konečková.’
‘Ah, yes. I know about Miss Konečková.’
Lenka’s embryo smile died. ‘You know about me? What does that mean, exactly?’
The man pondered her question for a moment. All around him there was the press of guests, reaching for the buffet. ‘I have read some of your articles, of course. That student newspaper, what is it called?’