'All right.'
'Now all we need is a name and address.'
Hornak thought about it for a moment. 'Here is good,' he said at last. 'The Skorepka Cafe. Milan Nemecek.'
Russell could see no risk in writing it down for memorising later.
'Is there anything else?' Hornak asked.
'I don't think so,' Russell said, returning the pencil stub to his shirt pocket and rising to his feet. He doubted whether anything would come of this meeting, but a possibility had been created. Which had to be worth something.
This marginal sense of achievement lasted about ten seconds. As the two men shook hands, both recognized the swelling sound of vehicles. Hornak stood there, still holding Russell's hand, as the cafe door burst open, revealing Bejbl's silhouette. 'Gestapo,' he hissed, and slammed it shut.
'This way,' Hornak said urgently, reaching for the third door. It opened into an unlit corridor, which led to another small courtyard, another set of double doors. Hornak opened one of these, put his head round the corner, and gestured Russell to follow him out. They were in a long, curving alley lit by yellow lamps. Hornak headed right, away from the shouts and running motors. 'Quietly,' he told Russell, settling into a brisk walk. They had only gone a few metres when two shots rang out, followed by a single shriek and more shouting. Both men jerked round, but the alley behind them was empty. As they walked on, a little quicker than before, the lighted windows above them winked out in sequence, like letters in a neon sign.
They were no more than ten metres from the end of the alley when a voice from behind them screamed, 'Halt!' Two German soldiers were jogging down the alley towards them. They were about sixty metres away, Russell reckoned. And their rifles weren't raised.
'Run,' Hornak said, taking off with an alacrity that belied his size.
Russell hesitated for a split second, and took off after him, sprinting through the narrow archway at the end of the alley. No shots followed.
Hornak was ahead of him, barrelling down a long and depressingly straight alley. Feet pounding on the cobbles, Russell's brain still had time to do the mathematics - the Germans would have around thirty metres to kill them in. Four seconds maybe. Oh God.
He strained every muscle to go faster, petrified that he might trip on an uneven cobblestone. The street seemed to end in a solid wall, or was that an archway in the corner? Hornak was still plunging onwards, his boots crashing down on the cobblestones. The urge to turn and look back was almost unbearable.
It was an archway. Twenty metres, ten, and a window in front of him shattered, the sound of the shot reverberating down the alley a millisecond later. As he swerved under the arch, two more bullets thudded into a wooden doorway. The bastards had missed him!
He was running past the church and cafe he'd noticed on his walk with Bejbl. The last few cafe customers had been brought to their feet by the shots, and were now standing by their tables, like sculptures of uncertainty.
Another archway brought them to an intersection. As they raced across it Russell could hear the sound of other running feet. From more than one direction.
The alley opposite was the narrowest yet, curving this way and that under the dim yellow lamps. The spires silhouetted against the starfield belonged to Our Lady Of Tyn, Russell realized - they were heading towards the Old Town Square.
Another turn, another thirty metres, and they were running across it. Russell half-expected to see the Gestapo car from earlier parked mid-Square, but the only occupants were Czechs turned to stone by his and Hornak's dramatic appearance. As his feet rapped across the cobblestones, Russell saw them drag themselves into action, moving towards the nearest exits with increasing purpose.
Hornak was heading for the left hand side of the church, and the alley from which Bejbl had emerged two hours earlier. They reached it without shouts or shots, and Russell risked a swift look back. The pursuit was nowhere to be seen - had they shaken it off in those last few alleys before the square?
Hornak was turning into another alley and slowing to a jog. He was breathing heavily, Russell realized, but there was a grim smile of satisfaction on his face.
One more alley and he slowed to a walk. Russell gratefully followed suit, feeling the stitch in his side. His own breathing was more laboured than Hornak's, and his heart was racing. He promised himself he would use the car less often when he got back to Berlin. If he got back to Berlin.
'Now we must look like innocent people,' Hornak ordered.
A succession of empty streets brought them within sight of a much larger thoroughfare. Two people walked across the opening, a man and a woman arm in arm. Ordinary life, Russell thought, but the relief was short-lived. The sound of an approaching vehicle had both men scurrying for the shelter of a shadowed doorway, and they watched as a car drove slowly past on the main road, its side-painted swastika gleaming in the yellow light.
It was cruising alone, and had vanished by the time they reached the wider street. Russell followed Hornak across, wondering, for the first time, where they were headed.
'Not far now,' the Czech replied.
A few minutes more and the familiar canopy of Masaryk Station appeared in front of them.
'I know where I am now,' Russell said. 'I can get back to the hotel from here.'
'No, please,' Hornak said. 'We must find out what happened. My office is just a short way. Please.'
Looking back, Russell found it hard to believe how meekly he bowed to the Czech's insistence. The only reasons he ever came up with were simple curiosity and good manners, neither of which, in retrospect, seemed worth risking his life for.
They turned left into the long yard adjoining the station. A couple of inlaid sidings ran the length of the yard, and a short rake of tarpaulin-covered wagons were stabled beside one of the small cranes. A line of parked lorries stood between them and a row of darkened offices and storehouses.
It suddenly occurred to Russell why Hornak had insisted on his presence. 'We must find out what happened,' he had said. Someone had tipped off the Germans about their meeting. And as far as Hornak was concerned, he was a prime suspect.
His heart lurched a beat or two. Turning and running seemed ridiculous, but so did happily walking into peril.
'This is it,' Hornak said, as they reached what was almost the last door in the row. The Czech pushed it open, and invited his companion in. It was all very friendly, but Russell had the distinct impression that refusal was never an option.
Hornak shut the door behind them and closed the shutters before turning on a desk lamp. Filing cabinets filled the spaces between three desks; railway diagrams and a Picture Post gallery of Greta Garbo pictures adorned the walls. 'We shall wait here. It won't be long.' He walked across to the sink, ran some water into a tin kettle, and placed it on an electric ring. 'Tea will be good,' he added, as if to himself. 'We have had a shock, I think.'
Russell watched Hornak scoop tea into a pot, rinse out a couple of enamel mugs and check that there was still some sugar in its tin. 'Where did you meet your English friends?' he asked.
Hornak hesitated a few moments before answering. 'In Spain,' he said eventually.
'The International Brigade?'
'Yes. Almost two years. I came back in '38 to fight the Germans, but the British and French sold us out. In Spain too, come to that.' He moved the kettle slightly on the electric hob. 'You sound more English than American,' he added, with only the slightest hint of accusation.
'My father was English. My mother's American.' The temptation was there, but Russell resisted telling his life story. This didn't seem the time to start explaining his residence in Hitler's Germany.