A Broken Land (24 page)

‘Shall we order some food? If we do not, I think your wife risks spoiling her appetite.’

‘You mentioned payment in gold. Is that here in Athens?’

‘Not yet, but I do not see a problem, yet I must, as you understand, refer back to the source of funds and get their agreement to the price.’

‘I do not think they have a choice.’

‘There is always a choice, but I think they will accept.’

‘Elena!’

The bark made MCG’s cheeks wobble, but there was no mistaking the fury in the eyes and it got the same response as his earlier admonishment: she simply drained her glass, and that acted like a red rag. What followed was a furious exchange in Greek, not one word of which Cal understood, but he had engaged in enough marital quarrels of his own to be able to discern the gist.

She liked to drink, while he had not even touched his champagne, which indicated that she was a boozer and he was not. Good manners should have kept this under wraps, perhaps in a public space he would have been more circumspect, but with neither of those constraints
present, he went right off the deep end and was fully matched in response. For all she was a beauty, Elena also had the ability to look like a very angry crow with a voice to match.

The waiter had disappeared, Cal did not know why, but he had left the bottle in an ice bucket beside the table, which she grabbed by the neck and it looked as though she was about to crown her old man. That she did not was insufficient to calm him down and it was pretty obvious why – the damn thing was empty, which meant, they having had one glass each, she had drunk at least four. Then the waiter came in with another bottle – which Elena must have asked for – and things really took off.

Cal had to sit back; she still had that bottle in her hand and she looked like she was capable of using it on anyone. He had to admire the waiter, who, with what amounted to a full-blooded screaming match in progress, proceeded with his task – perhaps such screaming matches were common in Greece – the loud plop of the cork being ejected, that worldwide sign of celebration, just throwing fuel on an inferno.

MCG stood up and so did she, towering over him, which would have reduced Cal to tears of mirth if he had not worked so hard to keep his face straight; he needed this little twerp badly and, reluctantly, he would take his side if called upon to do so. Just then MCG smashed his fist on the table, spat out a final declaration and stormed out of the room. With a triumphant look, Elena sat down and calmly signalled for her glass to be filled.

With muttered ‘excuse me’s’ Cal went out after him, to find him outside shaking with fury, literally like a jelly, his fists clenched and threatening the heavens with a punch. Sighting Cal, it was clear he had to fight to calm himself and it took several seconds. With a great
effort he stilled his wobbly body and said, in a strained voice, ‘I must leave, Herr Moncrief, but I ask for your indulgence.’

‘My dear chap,’ Cal said, lamely.

‘As you will have seen, my wife and I do not see eye to eye. I have asked her to leave with me, and she has refused. I cannot stay, so I will await your response to what I have proposed to you until you are ready. I thank you for the invitation and apologise for spoiling your evening.’

‘But your wife?’

‘Let her have her food …’ his voice rose a fraction ‘… and her drinks. Please oblige me by putting her in a taxi when she has had enough.’

‘But—’

His voice was almost pleading. ‘Please? Oblige me in this.’

‘If you wish.’

‘I shall go to my club tonight. I do not think I could spend tonight under the same roof as her.’

Cal was wondering if this little tub knew the expression ‘all is fair in love and war’.

‘Whatever you wish.’

He returned to another dazzling smile, to a woman who behaved as if nothing untoward had happened, and as well as that there was a bit of a look in her eye that was nothing less than a
come-on
. Seduction without words is hard but not impossible, and a willingness on both parts eases those inevitable moments of confusion.

MCG was right, his wife did not speak German, but she had maybe two dozen words of English and a few in French. So they
ate slowly, they drank wine – in her case somewhat too quickly – and they stumbled through the steps that led inevitably to his room, where, once inside, conversation became redundant.

He did, as promised, put her in a taxi, outside that same magnificent entrance, but the sky was a dull morning grey at the time.

T
he next weeks were a whirl of travel and activity, checking with Peter Lanchester in London that what he needed would be in place, dealing with the Greek to ensure both the terms of supply and the transfer of the money, once he had seen it shifted to a bank in Athens, none of that made any easier by events in Spain itself.

As for the war, the Republic was still mostly on the defensive. Franco had again failed to take Madrid in the first months of the year, while the last bastion of Republican resistance in the
north-west
, the Basque region, was under severe pressure from General Mola, who with the help of the German Condor Legion had ushered in a new phase with the bombing and utter destruction of the small town of Guernica, an act which shocked the world when news of the true number of deaths began to emerge.

For all the international protests it had another effect: it showed the power of aerial bombardment on built-up areas and brought
home to many in the democracies what they might face should they engage in another war – in short, it strengthened the hand of the politicians keeping up the pretence of non-intervention, who could now ask those more bellicose if they were prepared to see their own cities reduced to rubble.

Regular Italian troops, in an operation sanctioned personally by Mussolini, with massed tanks, artillery and air support, had sought to capture the Guadalajara mountains which rose to the north of Madrid, their tactical aim to gain the heights and so roll down on the capital in conjunction with the Nationalists. It failed, with the Italians suffering heavy losses, not that the International Brigades fared any better.

Franco was not winning, but neither was he losing, yet when Cal Jardine got back to Barcelona, it was impossible to find a voice of the Republican side that even thought of stopping fighting; the problem was not a desire to go on, it was internal.

It was obvious matters had been seething uncomfortably since the death of Juan Luis Laporta, he being something of a local hero – there had even been a group set up to commemorate his name – with accusations flying about that he had been deliberately killed by his political foes, but that only poured oil onto the fires of endemic disputes that had raged for years.

On a hot day in May it came to a head when open conflict broke out in Barcelona between the anarchists and the communists. The latter, using their well-tried-and-trusted methods, had infiltrated and taken control of the Assault Guards in Barcelona too. This paramilitary body had grown in power, encouraged to do so by the Catalan government as a counter to the workers’ militias who, since the generals’ attempt to seize power, had policed the streets while
ignoring not only orders to disperse, but any decree with which they did not agree.

The spark was an attempt, robustly repulsed, to try and take over the vital main telephone exchange, the very same building that Cal Jardine had helped to capture the previous July. Despite their superior weaponry, the Assault Guard found the workers impossible to dislodge.

The tocsin was sounded in the ranks of both the CNT-FAI and the POUM. Their members, with their weapons, poured onto the streets to do battle. It was an indication of how the power of the communists had increased in less than a year – they had been something of a fringe party in Barcelona before – now they had numbers and could contest those streets that had seen the regular army defeated.

Given the turmoil, getting a decision on such a vital matter had to be put on hold; Andreu Nin, Cal’s main contact, was heavily embroiled in the fighting, for the very good reason that his party was still most at risk, while García Oliver, who had been despatched from Valencia to try and bring peace to the city, was weighed down by endless meetings and stormy negotiations.

These attempts were not aided by the rhetoric on both sides; the communists wheeled out their most potent propaganda weapon, Dolores Ibárruri, known as
La Pasionaria
, the woman who had coined the famous slogan during the battle for Madrid,
¡No pasarán!
Her views were outré and delivered with bile. They also lacked any grip on the truth, but that mattered less than that there were fools who believed what nonsense she spouted, which was that the internecine conflict was an anarcho-Trotskyist plot engineered on the orders of General Franco.

The counterclaims had more validity and went right to the heart of
that in which Cal Jardine was involved, the fact that the Republican government was falling increasingly under communist control, politically, to add to their lock on military action. The workers’ leaders were at pains to ensure their followers were not fooled by the lack of openly communist ministers – that was how the Stalinists operated: in the shadows, like rodents.

What brought matters to a peaceful compromise was not the endless talk, but raw military power, the arrival in the city of ten thousand heavily armed Assault Guards, enough men to drive any other force from the streets and with orders to show no mercy. That allowed García Oliver to knock heads together, though Andreu Nin, when he finally met with Callum Jardine, saw the eventual peace agreement as an outright defeat.

Able to communicate now without the need for an intermediary, Cal found the POUM leader resigned to his fate: Moscow would insist on the banning of his organisation and what would happen to him personally would be, he had no doubt, unpleasant. The notion that he should flee the country, a wise one, was politely declined.

‘That would play into Stalin’s hands, Señor Jardine.’

‘Better that than Stalin’s victim.’

‘They are so skilled at lies, these Bolsheviks, I would be shown as a pawn of Franco, and as for my life, well, Trotsky was not safe from the ice pick that smashed his skull in Mexico.’

It was hard, looking at the scholarly Nin, to see him as heroic, he physically just did not fit the bill, yet he had a stoicism about his possible death that was very Spanish; if he was to be shot, he would face it with equanimity. But when it came to the most important point, he was no longer in a position to act to facilitate matters; his influence was now zero.

‘Use García Oliver.’

‘You trust a man who you believe has just thrown you and your people to the wolves?’

‘I have no choice, señor, and neither do you if you wish to proceed with your plans.’

He did not like García Oliver and it was clear the feeling was mutual; it was not just lack of a spark of geniality, it was the feeling that, if things went wrong, here was a man who would somehow slip out of trouble while leaving Cal Jardine to face the consequences, very much like he had dealt with Nin.

The politician’s instructions were to go to Valencia and wait until he had secured everything in Barcelona. Only then could he make an approach to Caballero, who would need to involve others now – he could not just send millions in gold out of the country on his own signature, though he would still keep it secret from the communists.

No sooner had he arrived than all his plans were thrown into turmoil when Largo Caballero resigned and was replaced by the
one-time
finance minister, and there was a new minister of war, Indalecio Prieto. Obliged to kick his heels for two weeks in Valencia, he found a room at the Hotel de Los Altos, a famous seaside spa hotel overlooking the Mediterranean, which had once been a favourite haunt of the European rich.

That was where Alverson found him and was able to bring him up to date on the politics, more than he had been able to glean from the newspapers and their screaming headlines that said the communists had got their way: the POUM had been disbanded, the offices and funds seized, their leaders arrested.

‘Then slung,’ Alverson added, gloomily, ‘into a communist-run jail right in the heart of Madrid, and guess who’s running it?’

‘Who?’

‘That Drecker guy you so love.’

‘Is that a move up or down?’

‘Definitely up.’

‘Would you do me a favour, Tyler, and keep tabs on him?’

‘Why?’

‘His career interests me,’ Cal replied gnomically.

The American shrugged. ‘Whatever, but what about my scoop?’

Hungry for information on the progress of the arms buy, the American had to be content only with a part of the story; the arrest of Nin and his comrades made more insecure what was already a dangerously exposed position. He did tell Alverson that he had access to what was needed, but not the where and the how.

‘So what about the when?’ he demanded.

‘It’s not in my hands, Tyler, and if they don’t get a move on, the deal I have arranged will fall through.’

‘And the how much?’ Alverson whistled when he was told; even he knew that was way over the going rate.

‘Still, I guess they’re used to it, Cal, even the Soviets are bilking them, big time, I hear. They have a real sweetheart deal: every time they despatch anything, they just take the Republic’s gold out of their bank to pay for it.’

It was another week of thumb-twiddling before a message came from the new minister for war, asking for a meeting and giving an address which was not an official one, which meant a taxi to the main railway station, a wait and a check there was no tail, then another to the address. Prieto, a much more pleasant man with whom
to deal, was keen that things should proceed and was there with a representative of the Spanish Central Bank, who could tell Cal the necessary gold had been shipped to Athens and was in a vault there under the control of the Republican ambassador.

It was necessary to agree certain codes and procedures, as well as settle some queries. The ambassador only had the right to make the payment; any communication with the Republican government had to be through him and it was essential that he was kept informed at every stage of the deal. Cal was relieved – Peter Lanchester would not be needed.

Yet the new man had his own ideas: would it be acceptable if the payment were released only when the vessel in which it was being carried cleared German territorial waters? Cal was of the opinion the best they could hope for was completion on it slipping its berth – not ideal, but better than paying for it prior to loading.

‘My impression is that this is a trade they will want to repeat.’
And why not
, he thought,
given the profit margin?
‘So, they will not endanger the transaction by playing games.’

‘I can guess why they are doing this, but why are you doing this, Señor Jardine?’ Prieto asked, dropping his pleasant manner.

The Spanish bank official had the good grace to look embarrassed at the question, yet he too must have wondered why a non-Iberian was giving so much time and effort to aiding the Republic.

‘García Oliver told me you have never mentioned a fee. Perhaps your payment is in the price you have given to us?’

It would have been easy to agree, to say yes, and to these men it would have made sense. That it was for the memory of Florencia he would keep to himself, for that would sound too sentimental, but given he did not like to be challenged in this way, it was much more
to his taste to provide an answer that would do nothing to lessen any suspicions, so he said,

‘You’ll never know, will you? Now, if we are concluded here, I have to get back to Athens.’

MCG was not content to be told there was gold in the bank, he required to see it, and it had the same effect on him as any other human being, and Jardine knew that he was not immune to its allure either. It rested deep in the vaults of the Attica Bank, chosen for it being a relative newcomer to the Greek financial sector and eager for business in a country not overfriendly to Spain.

The sturdy boxes containing the ingots had been opened for inspection, and even in artificial light the precious metal had a shiny lustre that drew both the eye and the need to touch its cold surface. Looking at the Greek’s face as he wetted his lips with anticipation, it was interesting to speculate how much of this prize would stick to his stubby little mitts. As his index finger stroked the mark of the Spanish mint, he gave an involuntary shudder.

Next they went to the boardroom, happily lent to them by a bank extracting a healthy fee for merely transferring the funds from one account to another with the required degree of discretion. Here the documents of sale were laid out, the formal contracts that he would take away for his scrutiny and the ambassadorial signature, one copy in German, the other in Spanish. It was while Cal was looking at them that MCG dropped his bombshell.

‘It has proved impossible to move your goods without an End User Certificate, Herr Moncrief. Even in normal times that is a difficulty, but with the amount of international scrutiny at present it is too dangerous.’

‘When did this come up?’ Cal demanded, suspecting he was about to be asked for more money.

‘Immediately the transaction was considered by those who advise my principal.’

That meant there was a lawyer involved, maybe more than one, which was not good for security.

‘In this,’ MCG continued, ‘no one must be drawn into an international outcry. Merely shipping the goods without an EUC might do that – raise questions that would be embarrassing to have to deal with.’

Translated, that meant queries as to who had gained financially from the deal; not even someone as powerful as Hermann Göring could explain away the pocketing of payments that Cal suspected would never find their way into the coffers of the German finance ministry.

And if the Spanish Nationalists found out he was facilitating supplies to their foes, it would certainly get them going, albeit they would not make an excessive amount of fuss – they depended on the Nazis for too much – but they might just drop the kind of hints to Göring’s rivals that would trigger an investigation.

The bloated little Greek had a strange look on his face – not a smile or a smirk – but one that not only hinted at his having the upper hand, but a deep degree of pleasure in being in that position.

‘Difficult as it would be to accept, it is sometimes better to forgo a transaction than carry one through that throws up last-minute complications. It is to be hoped that you have a solution and one that does not affect the price.’