The kettle was boiling. Hornak poured water into the pot and stirred it with a large spoon. A stained piece of cloth provided a strainer, and after adding two huge heaps of sugar to each mug he carried one across to Russell.
'So how did you come to do this work?' Hornak asked, leaning back against a desk and carefully sipping at the scalding tea.
'I'm a journalist. We get asked to help. Times like these, it's hard to say no.'
'I am sure many do.'
'Maybe,' Russell agreed non-committally. Was Hornak complimenting him on his commitment or doubting his story? He took a sip of the sweet tea and burnt his tongue.
'And you believe the Americans are serious?' the Czech said.
'Serious, yes. But whether they know what they're doing, I'm not so sure.'
Hornak raised an eyebrow. 'Should you not be?'
Approaching footsteps saved Russell from answering. It was Bejbl. A single interrogative syllable from Hornak unleashed a torrent of Czech, none of which Russell understood. Bejbl had given him a single dismissive glance, which seemed like good news.
It was. 'We have caught the informer,' Hornak eventually told him in English. 'He was in the cafe and saw me arrive. He was seen using the public phone around the corner. Calling Petschek Palace.' Hornak came over and gave Russell a pat on the back, as if he was congratulating him on his acquittal. 'And the Germans are all over the New Town,' he added. 'So it's a good thing you came with me.'
Bejbl was talking again, having poured himself what was left of the tea. Hornak offered Russell a further translation. 'The informer claims the Gestapo have threatened to take his sister.'
'What about the shots?' Russell asked.
Hornak asked Bejbl, and translated the answer. 'A man was shot in the leg. He panicked and tried to run. Not one of our people,' he added dismissively. He put his empty mug down. 'We are going to see the informer now. A walk up the line, not far. I think you would be wise to come with us. Give the Germans time to pick up a few suspects.'
It seemed like a good idea, or at least the better of two bad ideas. He might get to judge how effective Hornak and his people were. 'All right,' he said.
They let themselves out into the silent yard and walked along beside the rails to the bridge beyond the station throat. Hugging the walls of the short cutting beyond they emerged into a wide expanse of tracks, carriage sidings to one side of the running lines, a large goods yard to the other. A creamy three-quarter moon had risen behind the hill ahead, edging the rails with pale light. One line of carriages was lit up, cleaners at work within, and a locomotive was at work somewhere in the goods yard, its occasional stuttering puff s interspersed with the clanking of buffers. Hornak and Bejbl walked on up the slight incline, talking softly in Czech. A brightly-lit signal box lay ahead, and as they passed it the signalman leaned out of his window to share what sounded like a joke.
A locomotive came under the bridge up ahead. It cut across their path and into the goods yard, the faces of its crew bright orange in the firebox glow. The engine seemed to be free-wheeling, not so much expelling steam as leaking it.
They walked under another bridge and round behind a line of stabled engines. A small door opened into a large brick building, where a ring of silent and enormous-looking locomotives faced each other around an indoor turn-table. Another door led into a repair shop, where two more engines stood astride deep inspection pits. A final door and they were out in the open again, heading for a small building with a large chimney. Mounds of sand were piled either side of it, and a young man with a cloth cap was waiting by the entrance, a burning cigarette cupped in one hand.
The interior was larger than Russell had imagined, and surprisingly light given that the moon and a single bare bulb supplied the only illumination. There were three other men inside. Two of Hornak's men were just behind the door; the informer, an ordinary-looking man of around thirty with short dark hair, thin moustache and glasses, was standing in the sand-drying pan. He was visibly shaking, and the sight of Hornak did nothing to calm him down. Hornak's first question evoked a long but surprisingly passionless answer, as if the man had already lost hope.
Hornak turned to his four comrades with a query. Any reason to spare him? was Russell's later guess. Now he saw only the nodding heads, heard the involuntary whimper of the condemned man.
Hornak looked at his watch and said something that started with the Czech word for 'ten'. One of the others started talking, and soon they were all at it, apparently oblivious to both Russell and the informer.
About ten minutes had gone by when the sound of a train reached his ears. As it grew louder, Hornak put out his hand, and one of the others handed him an army pistol. Hornak walked onto the sand-dryer and said something to the informer. He started to protest, but suddenly the energy seemed to drain away from him, and he sunk to his knees. The train was almost on them now, rasping and roaring its way up the slope. Russell saw Hornak pull the trigger and saw the body jerk forward, but he hardly heard the shot.
He just stood there, tongue suddenly dry in his mouth, watching the dark blood seep into the sand. Outside a long line of wagons clanked by, the frenetic breath of the locomotive fading into the distance.
'Jan here will see you get back to your hotel,' Hornak shouted over the din. 'He is a student - speaks good English. And his brother is a taxi driver.' He shifted the gun to his left hand to offer his right.
Russell shook it, but his eyes betrayed him.
'We shall look after his sister,' Hornak said simply. He gave Russell one last penetrating look, and turned away.
'Come,' the young man said, and led the way outside.
The last of the wagons were rolling by, a guard with a glowing pipe standing out on his brake van's veranda.
'How far are we going?' Russell asked once the din had begun to recede.
'Only a few minutes,' Jan said. 'A bad business,' he added, as they climbed the steps towards the road.
'Same time every night,' Russell said, more to himself than his companion.
'The Ostrava freight? It always leave at one. Night-workers use it to check their clocks.'
They walked on.
'What was his name?' Russell asked after a while.
'Zameenik.'
'What will they do with the body?'
The young man gave him a surprised glance, as if this was a particularly stupid question. 'Burn it in a locomotive.'
Jan's brother Karel was due to start his shift at six, and his wife refused to wake him before five, so Russell slept for a couple of hours in one of the parlour armchairs, long enough to stiffen up without feeling noticeably rested. Karel was obviously several years older than Jan, and a good deal heavier. He seemed remarkably cheerful, though, for someone who started work at five in the morning. 'What's the story?' Jan asked. 'If we get stopped, I mean. Where did we pick you up?'
'Do you know anyone in America?' Russell asked. 'Or England?'
'A cousin in London, I think.'
'Say I brought you news from him, and stayed the night.'
'What news?'
They concocted a story between them as Karel drove the Skoda towards the city centre, but didn't need it: the streets were still mostly empty of Czechs, and the Germans had apparently tired of driving round in circles.
Russell walked through the doors of the Europa with some trepidation, half-expecting leather coats in the lobby. There was only a dozing receptionist though, and Russell managed to extract the room key from its hook without waking him. He used the stairs rather than the squeaky lift and let himself into his room. No one was waiting for him. The Gestapo was either ignorant of his participation in the previous night's fun and games, or they were still gathering witness statements. No one in the cafe had seen him, he told himself. The pursuing Germans hadn't seen his face. The chances of being recognized and reported by a Czech passer-by were infinitesimal.