The Burning Sky (8 page)

‘Broken up?’

‘Yes. I need hardly tell you, Colonel, that we live in a troubled world where things flare up suddenly and die down again. That is a situation in which a person holding a stockpile of useable weapons—’

‘Not major pieces of artillery?’ he interrupted.

Jardine shook his head: he was going to have enough trouble getting guns across a desert; wheeled cannon were out of the question. ‘I would be interested in what one man can carry, really.’

‘I fear that would affect the price.’

‘By driving it down, Colonel, I think. Right now the market is not buoyant for what you are seeking to dispose of …’

‘That, Herr Jardine, is guesswork. I have not said yet the government are keen to sell it.’

‘Soup,’ he replied, glad of time to think, for in his last statement Dimitrescu had put heavy emphasis on the word ‘government’. Was that deliberate or accidental? If the former, what was he trying to say? Whatever it was, Jardine knew he would have to pick up on it by inference: this fellow was too shrewd to ever say anything definite to someone he had only just met. He had to dip a toe in the water, in between dipping his spoon in his soup.

‘Would I be required to request an indication of policy from a minister?’

‘I think not necessary – I feel you can safely deal with me.’

That either meant he was powerful enough to act independently or he was offering to work on his own behalf, and if that were the case, the price would head for the floor. Paying a government was one thing, lining the pockets of a high-placed thief quite another. If Jardine had been trading normally he would have stopped the conversation there, but he was acutely aware that time was not on his side, so he would have to push matters, yet such haste had to avoid selling the pass. His next dip was really a plunge, followed by another mouthful of his fish soup.

‘Perhaps I should come to the Ministry for discussions.’ No reply came, just a cold stare that did not waver as he supped. ‘This soup is delicious, is it not?’

Dimitrescu did not say a word until he finished, sitting back in his chair and flapping his linen napkin. ‘I am to understand you would wish to stockpile these arms, that is, if they were available for disposal?’

‘That is my intention.’

‘Perhaps they could be kept in their present locations and only released from the armouries when required.’

That was very much like a price negotiation, which, if true, had jumped matters on even quicker than Jardine was prepared for; if the Rumanian held the keys to the goods the payments would be his to set at the time they were required, no doubt after a hefty down payment.

‘After all, securing warehousing is so expensive.’

Reel him in, Jardine, reel him in. ‘An interesting point, Colonel, which would require much examination.’

‘While I must take an accurate inventory of what it is possible to dispose of, and when.’

Time for a bit of cold water. ‘And I would be required to consult with my principal to get his view.’

That did not please him; he was near to being brusque. ‘You are not here with the power of decision?’

‘Let us say, Colonel, that my advice is central, but it would never do to wound the
amour propre
of the person with the money needed to complete, now sitting in a Swiss bank.’

‘That would be where the transaction took place?’

‘Contracts could be signed in Bucharest and the monies released on my cognisance.’

‘Let us leave that all aside, Herr Jardine, and get to know each other better. Enough has been said tonight to encourage me to believe you are a serious person, and given I have much to ponder, I fear to say more in case it is potentially misleading. I suggest, however, we commit to meet tomorrow, where I will be happy to return your generosity, for there are better places to eat and drink in Budapest than these grand hotels.’

‘Very kind.’

‘Tell me, Herr Jardine, are you a married man?’

‘H
e’s as slippery as a barrel of eels and I think he plans to ply me with food, drink and loose women tomorrow evening.’

‘Time to swap places, old fruit,’ Lanchester joked.

‘What about me?’ Vince asked. ‘Don’t I get a sniff?’

‘Find your own,’ Jardine replied as he went to his jacket and pulled out the paper Monty Redfern had given him, which he waved before the others. ‘Given I don’t trust the bugger, I think it is best if I try and find out something about him. I was given a number to call by a Jewish friend in London and there’s no time like the present.’

‘Is he Jewish too?’ Jardine nodded. ‘Then don’t call him from the room, Cal. I had a meeting with a banker today. He spent half the time railing about the Jews, as well as telling me how wonderful the Iron Guard was and how they would soon rid the country of what I think he called a pestilence. It might be worse than Germany.’

‘Christ,’ Vince exclaimed. ‘I might as well ’ave stayed fightin’ Mosley.’

‘I’ll call from the lobby.’

That was still busy, the Rumanians keeping the kind of late hours that would have pleased a Spaniard. The phone was on a desk by the reception and Jardine was just about to go to it when a fellow in a grey suit, not terribly well cut, turned his face away just a mite too quickly, bringing up the hackles. Still he went to the phone, but instead of asking for an outside line he called Vince’s room.

‘I am in the lobby, Vince, and I fear not alone. I will go out for a bit of a walk, old son, and I need a second eye. I will wait in the lobby, then take point.’

There was enough of the soldier still in Vince to pick up on what he was saying: ‘second eye’ was an expression they had used in Iraq when a man going out needed cover. ‘Taking point’, another one, was self-explanatory.

‘Gotcha, guv. Two ticks and I’ll use the stairs.’

Jardine positioned himself looking towards the lifts and staircase so he would see Vince appear, thankfully unseen by the man that needed to be checked out: his eyeline was angled. There was always a chance he was wrong, that the fellow looking away, as he had, was coincidence. When Vince appeared on the first landing, Jardine headed for the double doors at the entrance, nodding to the uniformed flunkey who held it open for him and ignoring the look of the top-hatted doorman, who wondered if he wanted a motor taxi or a
trăsură
. Shaking his head he went past the deep rows of diners sitting in the outside restaurant and out to the plaza on which the hotel stood.

The night was warm, even slightly muggy, and the streets were busy with promenading couples, the women dressed up to the nines and the menfolk in clothing that announced good tailoring, the impression very like that of the Italian nightly
passeggiata
. All along the boulevard there were cafés, even open shops, and every building was lit up, giving the place an air of prosperity, not that it was complete.

Beggars were ubiquitous, overweight women swathed in shawls held forth emaciated babies, uttering a constant low-volume plea, gaunt-looking men sitting in doorways with their hands held out making a similar sound. Jardine did no more than an uneven circuit, spotting several places that should have a phone, probably a public one, before coming back to the hotel like the bored tourist he was seeking to portray. Back in his suite, Vince joined him.

‘You’re being tailed; one geezer is all I could see.’

‘Dimitrescu.’

‘Has to be, dun it?’ Vince made a fist. ‘You want I should see him off?’

‘No, there’s no point, but I want you to go up to Mr Lanchester’s room and say from now on he’s to stay off my floor. You can take messages back and forth if need be.’

‘What about that call you was gonna make, guv?’

‘I saw a few places. Any idea what the phones take?’

Vince pulled out the coins from his pocket, bani and lei notes, left over from the purchases they had made that day. As usual for a pair who did not know the currency there was a mass of it.

‘Help yourself.’

‘I’d like to speak to Israel Goldfarbeen, if I may.’ The English was a long shot – he had forgotten to ask Monty if the contact spoke it – as was the idea of hearing a reply, the café he was in being so busy he needed a finger in one ear.

‘You are speaking to him.’ The voice was deep, the speech careful and slow.

‘I am a friend of Monty Redfern, from London, he gave me your number.’

‘Montague Rötefarn, the
alter bok
, how is he?’

Not having the least idea what an ‘
alter bok
’ was, he replied, ‘In rude good health, sir, and my name is Jardine. I am a stranger in Bucharest and he advised me that you could help me.’

The reply was jovial. ‘Mr Hardeen, I am stranger in this country and I have lived here all my life.’

‘I’m in search of advice. Would it be possible to meet?’

‘If a
bohmer
like Montague sent you, how can I refuse?’ Which left Jardine wondering where to find a Yiddish dictionary. ‘You got a pen?’

‘I have.’

‘What am I saying, “pen”? You get a
trăsură
, you say the Yiddish theatre. The driver will spit at you, the
ganef
, but he will want the fare, so spit back. My house is on the left of the theatre. You’ll see the lit window. Just knock.’ He then demanded to know from where he was coming. ‘But don’t pay more than thirty bani.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Now, if you like.’

Jardine looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven.’

‘In this
sheise
country that is midday. Come now and
drink with me. I want to hear about Montague.’

He and Vince were in one of the few motor taxis not long after, having handed over a ten-lei note to the
top-hatted
doorman for the service of lifting his finger, Vince being sure the tail had no wheels. ‘He’s probably on the blower now, guv, telling his boss.’

‘As long as his boss doesn’t know where we’re going.’

The taxi took them from the Athénée Palace to another grand hotel, the Francez, where Jardine paid the driver off, engaging the aid – after a bit of a wait and for another
ten-lei
note – of a second top-hatted doorman to get another taxi. Vince, having observed others do the same, insisted that when he died and came back, a hotel doorman was the job he wanted.

‘Talk about easy green.’

‘You have to buy that job, Vince.’

‘I’ll borrow the money off you. The way the berks that use these places give tips, I’ll pay you back in a week.’

The ride was not long because Bucharest was not large, and the driver did not spit, which was just as well because Vince would probably have clouted him, but he did look as though someone had just shot his cat as Jardine paid him off.

‘Cheery sod,’ was the Londoner’s opinion.

The door opened a split second after Jardine knocked, and before him was a giant of a man in a collarless shirt, with big shoulders, protruding belly, a round smiling face and a thick red beard. ‘So rich you use motor cars, already. Enter, enter.’

Going through the door Jardine touched the mezuzah,
and told Vince to do so too, which got him an approving nod. The room they entered had a fire in the grate, even though it was a warm night, which was thankfully dying.

‘You Jewish, Mr Hardeen?’

‘It’s Jardine and no, pure Gentile, but I have been to Palestine.’

The hands went up. ‘
Dos gefelt mir
.’ The confusion on Jardine’s face being obvious, he added, ‘You don’t speak Yiddish; why would you?’

‘No.’

‘And you have been to
Eretz Yisrael
, I should be so lucky.’

He looked past Jardine to Vince, who was introduced, and then a bottle of wine was produced, three glasses poured, toasts proposed and seen off, all in genial good humour. Goldfarbeen asked about Monty Rötefarn, an ‘
eizel
’ for changing his name to the English, and they talked about him for a while, which made Jardine realise how little he really knew about his Jewish friend.

Goldfarbeen, as a young man, had gone to London to study theatre, met and befriended Monty before he was rich, and here he was the theatre administrator, the man who raised and spent the money to keep the place going, some of it sent from Hampstead. An hour passed and the fire died completely before Jardine looked at his watch. He needed to move things on.

‘So, Mr Hardeen, what can I do to aid you?’

Geniality evaporated the more Goldfarbeen heard, and Jardine was pretty open, only leaving out for where the
weapons were destined. By the time his visitor was finished he was shaking his massive head.

‘You have picked a bad man to do business with.’

‘You know him?’

‘Bucharest is like a village, my friend, and everyone gossips.’

‘I don’t care if he’s bad, as long as the business is completed.’

‘Dimitrescu is an anti-Semite, but that matters not, nine out of ten of the people of Rumania are that, but I would not trust him and I would advise you to do the same.’

‘He don’t trust him,’ Vince growled.

Goldfarbeen’s beard was on his ample chest and he was thinking. ‘Would I be allowed to ask about and see what is in the wind?’ Jardine was about to say ‘discreetly’, but he sensed that was superfluous. ‘This is a country split in two, Mr Hardeen, and for every one of the far right there is one on the near right and they make it their business to spy on each other.’

‘No one on the left?’

‘None with power, but the closest are the liberals, who would skin Dimitrescu in acid.’

‘Very liberal.’

The great belly shook as he laughed. ‘This is not England, my friend. Here they think and act like Turks.’

‘They was right bastards,’ Vince spat. ‘We saw some of what they did in Mesopotamia, didn’t we, guv?’ Jardine nodded. ‘Every place you walk you’s treading on bones. Made us look like saints.’

‘What do you think you will find out?’

‘A great deal, Mr Hardeen, half of it nonsense, but once I have sorted out fantasy from fact, I will pass on what I hear and you may decide what to do with it. Now I get my coat and walk you back to where you can get a
trăsură
.’

‘Just tell us; we can go alone.’

‘No, my friend, for out there, lurking in the dark, are the Roma, the double curse of Rumania, people who will cut your throat just for your shoes.’

Coat on, Goldfarbeen picked up a large stick with a knob at one end; it was not to aid his walking.

Jardine saw Peter Lanchester set off for Constanta – he was taking an early morning train – where he was to meet up with a representative of one of the people who had set this whole enterprise in motion; Peter had not said the supporter was in shipping, he did not have to. Whoever represented them in Rumania had received a telegram from London, and it had been sent before they departed. It had informed them of the imminent arrival of an English-flagged freighter that was to wait there for a cargo: Lanchester was going down to check things out.

Having barely finished breakfast in a deserted dining room, Jardine finally realised the bellhop, who was bearing aloft a note and calling out for attention, was using a scrambled version of his name. It was from Goldfarbeen, though he had used only his initials, and it posed a simple question. Would he know why a message had been sent to Berlin triggered by his name? He was out of the hotel looking for a phone in seconds and to hell with his watcher.

‘I made a few calls.’

‘You must have been up all night.’

‘Who sleeps, Mr Hardeen? I am cursed because I cannot, so better to do something than toss and turn and get my wife’s elbow in the belly. First, I spoke to one member of the Peasants’ Party, who said there was something up, and he put me on to another contact who recognised your name.’

Jardine was wondering how, given Goldfarbeen’s pronunciation.

‘That set bells ringing like I am the patriarch, already, so I thought I would spread a little money around, promised you understand, which is the quickest way to get things done in this
sheise
country.’

‘I’ll pay you back.’

‘Montague will set it straight. I went to a fellow who is in military intelligence, like they have such a quality in Rumania, who tells me a certain colonel asked them yesterday to find out about you, Mr Hardeen. He tells me you are an interesting man, but what is important is he found out you are wanted in Germany for something which happened in Hamburg.’

‘I know what that is.’

‘I hope the man you murdered was German, the bastards.’ Jardine was about to correct this statement, but what was the point? ‘That colonel is very friendly with the Germans and he has sent them a message last night to say you are in Bucharest. It was also he who did the business you told me of last night, the little package you say is coming from Germany. He will have an interest
in that. I think your English expression is a finger in the pie.’

‘You must have good sources.’

‘I have a lot of people who hate other people, and even more people who live higher than they can afford who would betray their mother.’

‘Would my man have me arrested and hand me over?’

‘I thought about that before calling you, and if you will take the opinion of an old Jew, he is a man who loves money and is known to be greedy. He likes fast cars, expensive women and the casino. If he is going to hand you over it will be for payment. When you think what to do, keep that in mind.’

‘I need to know if arrest is possible.’

‘Don’t worry, I will find for you, but who is going to pay to have you thrown in jail? If you don’t hear from me, call me back before you meet with your colonel again.’

‘Let’s hope I have time for that.’

‘If you do not, you will know beforehand.’

With a silent blessing to Monty Redfern, Jardine walked back to the hotel, called Vince’s room to wake him up and sat down to think. What he had to work out was worrying, the safest thing being to get out of Rumania right away, taking Vince, and either trying to contact Lanchester to take a boat or leaving him a letter at reception, which he would pick up when he got back. Mulling over what Goldfarbeen was telling him he might have time to do something, and it all hinged on one fact: would Dimitrescu find out he knew of the message to Berlin?