A Broken Land (23 page)

‘Bit pricey this, old boy,’ Lanchester said. ‘Now I know why you told me to bring my dinner jacket.’

‘It’s just your kind of place, Peter, you being a sort of courtier.’

‘Not sure I like
that
description, Cal, and I suspect all this grandeur is because you want something from me.’

‘You don’t think I’d ask you to come to Paris for your company.’

The response was waspish. ‘I don’t know for certain you’d cross the bloody road for my company.’

‘In truth, there are a couple of things I need, but let me explain first.’

‘As long as you include chapter and verse about your travails.’

‘They are, Peter, intertwined.’

Peter Lanchester was a good listener when the need arose, eating his
soupe de poisson
and rarely interrupting as the last few months were explained, posing the odd question for clarification as he heard how Jardine had got involved because of the athletes, though when he came to the parting of the ways he could see his companion’s brow furrow.

‘But why did you stay on?’

Having made no mention of Florencia, his excuse was that he just wanted to see how it all panned out.

‘Nothing to do with that anarchist floozie Vince Castellano told me about? He said she was a real lovely, if a bit of a handful.’

‘Nothing at all.’

Cal was quick to continue, that being a place he did not want to go, and eventually got to the problems the Republic was having getting arms, which led to a general conversation about the actions of their own government.

‘Not sure about Eden; bugger’s an Old Etonian, of course, and when it comes to “shifty”, they are taught that particular skill on arrival, but he might be doing the bidding of the cabinet, which, as you know, is full of a bunch of terrified old tarts, from Baldwin down.’

‘Recovered from the abdication, has he?’

‘Bloody nightmare that was, Cal, quite ruined everyone’s Christmas.’

‘Believe me, Peter, you are better off without him.’

‘So, on with the motley; what is it you want from me?’

‘I need a couple of false passports in different names, one because I might have to go to Germany.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘It’s a big country, Peter, and if I am travelling under a false name I should be safe.’

‘Why Hunland?’

The explanation did not make Lanchester feel any more comfortable, given Cal was talking about going right to the heart of the Nazi state, but there was no need for persuasion, given the cause, which, if it baulked at anarchism, was solidly anti-fascist. Once he was sure his fellow diner was determined to proceed, he concentrated on his food and they turned to what names should be on them.

‘Lizzie’s maiden name, Moncrief, will do for one. She has a brother, bit of a wastrel, but I know his background, so that gives me a
ready-made
legend. The other you decide, but I’d like a press pass too.’

‘Explain.’ The shake of Cal’s head was vehement. ‘If I take back a couple of photos it should be easily done.’

‘Easily?’

‘For a government minister, Cal, very much so, and the pass I will get forged.’

The exchanged look produced no name and that was no surprise. Peter Lanchester never let on who were members of his mysterious cabal.

‘The other thing I need is a ship, British owned.’

‘Can’t the Dons provide one?’

‘A Spanish-flagged vessel ups the odds of the nature of the cargo being discovered. Old Franco has a lot of sympathisers throughout
Europe, and besides, we will have to run the gauntlet of Italian submarines. Daft as they are, they won’t dare put a torpedo into a ship carrying a red duster.’

‘This all sounds fraught with peril, old boy.’

‘It was ever thus. There’s one other thing.’

Whatever else Peter Lanchester was, a bit of bigot perhaps, he was not a fool. ‘I sense I am about to be asked to be active, which, in my past experience of you, makes “fraught with peril” seem like a picnic.’

‘I might need you to oversee an exchange – just hand over some gold bars on my say-so – and it should be a piece of cake, but I hope it won’t be necessary.’

‘Are you staying here in Paris till I get your documents?’

‘Paris in the spring, why not? My question?’

‘We’ll see, Cal, shall we?’

For all the beauty and gaiety of the French capital it was hard to be joyful. There was the heaviness of heart thinking how much better it would be with the company of Florencia, but added to that the politics of France were no better than anywhere else. The Marxist prime minister, Léon Blum, was struggling to keep his post, the unions were striking and madly agitating, but not as much as the zealots of the French right wing.

For all the flowers and the blossom on the trees, there was a palpable sense of doom in the air and he was glad when his passports and documents arrived and he could get back to his task, the first part of which was to take the train to Athens.

T
o travel through Greece was to enter another nation in political turmoil: it was in the middle of an election battle, in which fear of the communists mirrored that which Cal Jardine had left in Spain. They were expected to make great gains, and the taxi that took him from the main station of Athens down to the port of Piraeus, where Manousos Constantou-Georgiadis, the fellow he must see, had his factory, passed walls plastered with lurid posters, not one of which he could decipher.

What Ancient Greek he had learnt at school, not as much as he should since it was damned difficult, did not run to the understanding of modern political slogans, though it did make him reflect on what he had been taught about the glories of Athens and the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars, a reminder this was a country he had always wanted to visit.

You could not call on a man like Constantou-Georgiadis without
first making contact in writing, which he did under the name Moncrief, by a cable he had translated into Greek, the day following Peter Lanchester’s departure from Paris, using the Hôtel de Crillon as a very impressive postal address to which the man should reply.

That approach had to be circumspect, but the Greek was in the metal fabrication business, so it was not hard to come up with a reason to call, his claim to be a freelance industrial designer looking for a company to turn his drawings into products not requiring that he provide a registered business address that his contact could check up on.

On the outskirts of the port city, the factory, when they finally found it, was not impressive, more a tumbledown large workshop than industrial, like many of the buildings that surrounded it, in an area of dusty backstreets. When asked to wait, in itself a linguistic drama, his taxi driver looked uncomfortable; this was clearly known as a rough area.

Once inside, the reception area and the offices belied that first impression, being well furnished, bright and clean. Whatever the secretarial competence of the girl to whom he gave his name, sitting at the desk behind a large new-looking typewriter, she possessed striking attributes and that was before she stood up.

Blessed with long black hair, pale skin that obviously rarely saw the sun and a bosom the eye could not avoid being drawn to, she struggled with his name and his request, but gave him such a beautiful smile that he felt like an old and close friend. When she stood to enter the inner sanctum, she showed long legs in silk stockings, above high-heeled shoes, and a very becoming posterior that swayed deliciously when she walked.

Which made it all the harder to take seriously the walking syllabub
that came out to greet him – Constantou-Georgiadis was not just short; he was all of five feet and shaped like a pear, with all his excess fat, and there was much of it, concentrated below his midriff, which made his walk a serious waddle. A pair of very thick-rimmed glasses set off his fleshy pasty face; this was a man who did not deserve his glamorous employee.

‘English I no speak,’ he said, in a way that made it sound as though he had spent all day rehearsing it.

The relief on his fat face when Cal replied in perfect German was palpable, and the flabby hand he produced to shake had a grip like a dead fish. Next he rattled off something in Greek to his secretary, before indicating they should both go into his office, where Cal was invited to sit, while the Greek went to occupy a chair on the opposite side that seemed twice the size he needed.

Cal had waited till this meeting to make up his mind as to what approach to use; he needed to form some view of whom he was dealing with – a sharp businessman or a mere front. Added to that, he was not in a position to negotiate the price he would have to pay – that would be decided by the seller, and so desperate was the Republic that it would cough up whatever was demanded.

This looked to be a bit of a fly-blown outfit, certainly from the outside, a facade more than a place of genuine manufacture, especially with such a beauty in the outer office and such a contrast before him. He saw no point in beating about the bush, so decided to avoid small talk and get straight to the point.

‘I am in the market to buy a large quantity of arms and I believe you are in a position to help me do that.’

Manousos Constantou-Georgiadis, whom Cal had now decided to think of as MCG, sat so still and looked so shocked it was as if
someone had hit him with a club; that was until his lower lip moved soundlessly several times before finally he could speak. ‘I think you have made some mistake, mein Herr.’

‘No mistake; those who had told me of your contacts do not make errors.’

‘And who would these people be?’

‘I believe if I said that, before he died, Sir Basil Zaharoff told me of your associations, you would not deny it.’

‘I do not know Zaharoff.’

‘But you know
of
him, and more importantly, he knew all about you; for instance, that you have a major shareholder called Rheinmetall-Borsig.’

‘That is not hard to find out.’

‘The nature of the association is not one I think you would broadcast – indeed I am sure you would wish to keep that very discreet – so it would take a man who knew both the arms trade and where the bodies are buried to set me on a trail that leads to your office. An office attached to what? Not a factory that could produce much.’

MCG stood up and waddled out of the door, returning with the cable that Cal had sent him and he had no doubt asked for, his face worried, looking at it as if it would provide either enlightenment or a route to credible evasion.

‘Then you are not an industrial designer?’

‘No, but I take it you are in the business of making a profit.’

‘A man does not go into business for any other reason.’

‘And if you were offered such a thing to an extreme degree, would it not be hard to resist? The client I represent has a difficulty of supply that is close to insurmountable. Any goods would have to be
shipped without the usual documentation; for instance, there could be no End User Certificate and the whole matter would have to be so discreet as to be utterly and completely capable of being denied, and if not that, explained away.’

MCG’s face was a picture; for all his features were too bloated to be interesting, Cal could almost see his mind working as his wetted lips were rubbed together. The glasses came off and went back on again, he sat forward in his chair, then pushed back, expelling air, which was all a bit excessive – if he was in the business, right at this moment there was only one client with those problems.

‘Rifles?’ he asked finally, a product easy to supply and relatively easy to both supply and ship with discretion.

‘Yes.’ Just as he began to look relieved, Cal added, ‘And automatic weapons, light and heavy machine guns, mortars, both fifty and eighty millimetre, anti-tank and anti-personnel mines, and if possible, some light field artillery and the requisite ammunition to last for twelve months of combat.’

If he had had any blood in his face it would have drained out, Cal thought, as he reached into his pocket.

‘Here is a list of the equipment I would like. In terms of quantity there is no limit, it is more what is able to be supplied, and I will undertake to ship from any port you name. I would, of course, be disappointed not to have the holds of that vessel full. As to payment, that will be made in gold to you and you must pay your principal, though I assume he will set the price.’

MCG’s hand was shaking as he leant over and took the paper; if there had ever been any doubt as to where this was to be acquired, this inventory of the weapons removed that. Not only was their
description listed, but also the names and numbers designated by the Wehrmacht.

‘I will be staying at the Grande Bretagne. How long do you think it will be before you can provide me with an answer?’

‘Tomorrow?’ he suggested weakly.

‘Good. Perhaps you will join me at the hotel for dinner and, if you wish, you may bring along your secretary for company.’

‘She is not my secretary, mein Herr, she is my wife.’

Christ
, Cal thought,
I must be getting old. Did I miss the ring?

There was no chance to check on that on the way out, though he did try; he was escorted by MCG and his missus had her hands behind the typewriter.

There being no point in hanging about in the hotel, he had a chance to do a bit of sightseeing, naturally the Acropolis and the Parthenon, then the Temple of Olympian Zeus, where he was given to wonder at what the god would have to say about his games having been played in Berlin. He probably liked Plato, so he would approve, for if ever there was a proto-fascist it was the great Greek philosopher who so admired Sparta. If not, he would have cheered from the heavens for the feats of the black athlete Jesse Owens.

When he returned to the Grande Bretagne there was a message for Mr Moncrief at the desk, from MCG, which asked him to telephone. Put through, the call was answered by the unlikely Mrs MCG, who had a voice on the phone as silky as her stockings, albeit he could not understand a word she said, this while Cal tried to imagine the pair in bed, a congress so improbable he had to shake his head. Then he was put through.

‘Herr Moncrief. I have been in touch with my principal and I have received from him permission to enter into discussions.’

‘The first would be regarding quantities. Without that satisfied, the rest would be pointless.’

‘I have been assured that there is sufficient produce to meet any needs you may have.’

‘Then the invitation to dinner stands.’

‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Moncrief, but is that your real name?’

Fishing, you fat little slob, but no doubt on instructions.

‘It is the name on my passport, which I am happy to show to you.’

The silence at the end was telling; he did not believe him and why should he? This was not a trade at all – especially the one under discussion – for newcomers and amateurs. The real question was whether the Greek had the means to enquire and then the kind of sources of information to ferret out anything revealing. Never having been active in Greece, it was a reasonable assumption that he did not.

‘Besides, I could be anyone. What matters is that I have the means to pay. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how many will we be?’

‘Three.’

‘Splendid.’

As he put the phone down he had a flash of memory and it was of a smiling Florencia, whose photograph lay in his suitcase. Alive, had he harboured the thoughts he was enjoying now, she would have gouged his eyes out. But she was not, and he knew, if she could speak
from beyond the grave, she would be willing him to have a full life, but he did not entirely let himself off the hook.

‘God, you’re a callous bastard, Jardine,’ he said out loud.

If they were improbable in his imagination, they were no better arm in arm. Cal was waiting to greet them at the hotel entrance, a courtesy he would not have extended for MCG if he had come on his own, and he certainly would not have lifted and kissed his hand as he did now hers, speaking in French, noting the gold band she wore, as well as a fairly substantial diamond engagement ring to accompany it.

The hand was elegant, with long fingers and painted nails, and proximity gave him a whiff of a very alluring perfume, before he was granted, as he lifted his head, another ravishing smile, while out of the corner of his eye he sought to see if her husband was annoyed. It was as if he did not even notice, seemingly too busy looking around at the well-appointed entrance, only moving when Cal did, following him through the held-open doors and into the lobby.

‘Your wife speaks German?’

‘No, only Greek, so we can discuss matters without her interference.’

‘Is that not a strange word to use?’

‘Women,’ he spluttered, ‘they do not know their place.’

He so nearly said, ‘I hope so,’ but stopped himself just in time, registering that if fatty had been fearful yesterday he was not that now; if anything he was being brusque, and that did nothing to make Cal feel they were going to have a pleasant evening.

Having chosen a private room, one with a view of the Acropolis in
the moonlight, he had asked that it be provided with lots of flowers; it might be a serious business meeting but he wanted to impress her, which was not going to be easy given he had no idea of her name. In truth, he reckoned he was deluding himself, but it was pleasant to do so and added some interest to what was otherwise likely to be tedious.

The champagne he had ordered was already opened and the waiter poured three glasses as soon as they sat, the mood immediately spoilt by MCG snapping something at his wife, which brought from her a look of fury. In Greek, it might have been incomprehensible but for the way she downed the wine then glared at him. Clearly he was telling her not to drink too much, so Cal signalled for her glass to be refilled.

‘To business,’ he said as he turned to MCG, forcing his attention away from his wife.

‘My principal doubts you will meet his terms.’

‘I will answer that when you tell me what they are and what I am paying for.’

As MGC took a typed list from his pocket and passed it over, his eyes swivelled to his wife, who was having a third refill, which caused him to frown – clearly she liked a drink – but attention had to be paid to the business and Cal could not fault what he was being offered, for it was a gunrunner’s dream. Everything he wanted and lots of it: 20 mm Flak cannons, Pak 36 anti-tank guns, MG 32 machine guns, machine pistols, Walther PP pistols and K98 rifles, all with ammunition and spares.

‘The price?’

‘Forty million Reichsmarks.’

It was hard not to blink; at the very roughest guess that was at
least twice what the price should be, but he had to smile and make light of it.

‘I am glad to see we are no longer pretending where these are coming from. Are you sure they can be delivered?’

‘Herr Moncrief, you would not have come to me unless you knew more than I would wish, therefore I doubt you will need to guess at the power of the person who has agreed that what you have in your hand can be supplied. I, however, need to be sure you can pay.’