‘Yes.’
‘Yes, you remember speaking or yes, you’re ready?’
‘Both those things.’
‘Right. There’s a road convoy being organised. There’s also probably going to be a train, but we’d like to get you out by road, is that all right? We’re going to send a van for you both, but we can’t cross the river because the Soviet army is blocking the bridges. So you’ve got to come over to this side under your own steam. Do you understand? You’re in the New Town, aren’t you?’
‘I dunno. I s’pose so.’
‘Well you are. What you’ve got to do is make your way to the Palacký Bridge. That’s the nearest one to where you are now. Cross over the bridge and you’ll find our minibus waiting for you at the first corner on the right. It’s a white VW. You shouldn’t have any problem with the Russians, but if they do stop you, show them your passports and say Britanskoye posol’stvo. That’s British embassy in Russian. Can you do that?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Repeat it to me.’
There was a moment’s farcical lesson in Russian pronunciation, with the boy floundering around amongst the unfamiliar vowels.
‘Just saying “britanskoye” should get you by. And calling him “tovarishch” could be useful. That’s comrade.’
‘I know what tovarish means.’
‘Good.’
‘Why i’nt it a Transit?’
‘Why isn’t what a Transit?’
‘The van. Transits are made in England.’
It was a joke. Sam laughed dutifully. ‘I’ll have a word with the ambassador. The driver’s name is Derrick, by the way. He will want you to identify yourselves of course, but he knows all about you. Is everything clear? Can you be there in half an hour? Timing’s important, we’ve got a road convoy leaving for the border at ten-thirty.’
‘We’ll get a move on.’
‘Fine.’
‘Just…’ A pause.
‘What?’
‘Why are you doin’ all this for us?’
‘Just part of the service.’
‘I don’t believe that for one moment.’
Not so stupid after all.
No traffic on the bridge, just as the Wareham guy promised, but half a dozen Russian soldiers standing by their vehicles watching pedestrians go past.
‘Is it the right one?’ Ellie asks.
‘The bridge? ’Course it’s the right one.’
The soldiers eye them but make no move as they walk past towards the Malá Strana. Behind them was an approximate farewell with Jitka, before she rushed off to the hospital. Now, suddenly, all that seems very remote – Jitka and Zdeněk, friends for ten days, have already faded into the past. The present is this, the rucksack on his back, the slog of feet against tarmac, the road ahead once again, with Ellie, for better or for worse, beside him. Ahead is their next lift, the Volkswagen minibus waiting as promised with a stern policeman type behind the wheel. ‘Hop in the back,’ the man says, once he’s given their passports a cursory glance. ‘You kids going home?’
‘Haven’t thought about it yet.’
‘Out of this madhouse, anyway.’
The journey takes less than fifteen minutes, but it doesn’t lead to anything resembling a British embassy. Instead the driver parks the vehicle in a side street not far from the river, across the entrance to a small alleyway.
‘Where are we?’ James asks.
‘A couple of passengers to pick up,’ the driver says.
There’s movement outside the van. The door slides open and there’s the guy from the embassy – Wareham, Samuel Wareham, standing there and giving a humourless smile while stating the bloody obvious: ‘You made it safe and sound.’ Which is fine, but why does he have to sound as though he’s talking to children? ‘Now I’m going to need your cooperation. And we haven’t much time so I’d be grateful if you would do exactly as I say and ask no questions. Understood? We’ll want you off the back seat for the moment. Have your rucksacks on your laps. We’ve got a couple of passengers coming and one of them’ – as they move places he reaches forward and lifts the rear bench seat to show a coffin-like space beneath – ‘goes in there. The other, a young woman more or less your age, sits between you, on top of him. He’ll be all right. Don’t worry about him. But she speaks hardly any English and she might be frightened, so you are going to treat her like she is your long-lost sister. Right? Smile and put your arm round her – not you, her,’ he adds, pointing at Ellie – ‘and generally treat her like a treasure. She’s been briefed but still it’ll be a bit of a trial for her.’
Ellie appears quite unfazed by all this. ‘What language does she speak?’
‘Russian. I’ll be in the front so I can talk to her when necessary. For the moment we’ve only got to drive round the corner to the embassy. There’ll be a control at the approach to the embassy, so get your passports out. They want to stop Czechos seeking asylum so it’s not a problem for you. Just hand your passports over when asked. OK? Any questions?’
‘What’s this all about?’
He pauses for a moment, as though this might be the one question he did not want to be asked. ‘Look, you may recognise them, but if you do don’t say anything, all right? They want out. It’s a simple as that. And we want to help.’
‘Why this way, with us involved?’
A hint of impatience in his expression. ‘They’re looking for a middle-aged man and a woman. Instead they’ll see you three kids with rucksacks. Sleight of hand.’
Wareham steps back. As though at a signal things happen, more or less as predicted: two figures emerge from the alley, a man and a younger woman, both of them hurrying almost as though pursued by a third figure behind them. Except that James recognises them, that’s the bizarre thing. He recognises them from that concert, the Birgit Eckstein one – the bloody conductor, all bow tie and tails then but nothing of the kind now, and the violinist.
‘Bloody hell,’ he says to Ellie, and he can see that she’s recognised them too.
The man comes first, ducks into the van and dives into the space beneath the seat. Wareham slams the seat down on him. Then the girl, as frightened as a rabbit, clutching her own rucksack, sits on the bench on top of him and peers at James and Ellie as though they might be predators. Ellie holds out her hand. ‘I’m Ellie,’ she says. ‘We heard you at the concert. We loved your violin playing.’ She smiles warmly but the woman looks aghast and responds with a small torrent of words that make no sense. The door slides shut. The driver and the Wareham guy are climbing into the front. The engine starts and the van lurches forward.
‘OK back there?’
‘OK.’
Along with her rucksack the woman is clutching a passport, a battered British passport with the name Miss Nicola Jones written in the window.
‘Nicola?’ Ellie asks.
The woman looks helpless. It’s not her name. It’s not her passport. She opens the document and displays a photo of herself looking startled at the very idea of being documented.
‘Just play along with it,’ Wareham says, watching them from the front. ‘She’s just a friend of yours, someone you’ve joined up with. OK?’
The van turns onto a main road, turns again, bumps over cobbles and edges through tight alleys between buildings that are like something out of the Brothers Grimm. Finally it comes to a halt at a military roadblock.
‘Passports ready,’ Wareham calls back. ‘Just act naturally, as though you don’t have a care in the world. Should be straightforward.’
Should be. A whole world of uncertainty is subsumed under that innocent phrase. Their situation, a little while ago dangerous but more or less comprehensible, now seems completely mad. They’re sitting in front of a Russian violinist pretending to be Nicola Jones yet speaking not a word of English and on top of – on top of, for Christ’s sake! – an orchestral conductor of international fame, at this very moment lying prone within the stifling, claustrophobic box beneath their seats. James begins to laugh. Giggle, really, like in school assembly when something catches your attention and you cannot control yourself.