A Broken Land (2 page)

‘They did put him in jail.’

‘Then let him out again!’ Peter had protested. ‘Why they didn’t just shoot the bugger when they had the chance escapes me.’

‘You must reckon this one more serious.’

‘We do, because it is more comprehensive and better organised and that may have been conveyed to the Spanish government. But they are, Cal, a race not traditionally known for rapid activity or cohesive action at any time, while their army, if you exclude the chaps in Morocco, are bloody useless.’

That was an area in which Cal Jardine did possess knowledge, it being necessary to his trade. Nothing hardens and trains troops like battle, the element that also creates an
esprit de corps
. The Spanish Army of Africa, which included a unit modelled on the French Foreign Legion, had been fighting Riff tribesmen for decades. They were hard and professional; the concomitant of that was a body of experienced field officers accustomed to leading soldiers in combat right up to and including men who were now senior Spanish generals.

‘They are not completely at the old siesta, mind,’ Lanchester had continued, as if reading his guest’s mind. ‘The government have sent the dangerous brass hats off to far-flung postings to put a block on them plotting. Chap called Franco, who is army chief of staff and considered very suspect and second only to Sanjurjo, they have exiled to the Canary Islands.’

‘That won’t stop them,’ Cal had insisted. ‘Ever heard of radios?’

‘Precisely.’

‘So,’ Cal had asked, with a very slight jerk of his head towards the trio of gloom. ‘Why the interest?’

‘Jerrold over there is a fanatic and has introduced Cecil Beeb to Bolin, a man funded by the money of Juan March, who, as you say, would be eager to return home and has a bottomless pit of lolly to play with. If certain key generals are going to revolt, the only way some of them can get to the mainland in time to be effective is by
aeroplane – Franco particularly – which makes it doubly interesting when we see such people lunching with a chap who just happens to be both a virulent anti-communist and a qualified pilot.’

‘You plan to keep an eye on Beeb?’ That had got a nod, as Cal Jardine added, not without irony, ‘Is it not a little bit obvious to let yourself be seen?’

‘Cal, old boy, we don’t have the resources to keep a clandestine eye on the bugger twenty-four hours a day, so the plan is to let him know he is under observation. Induce caution, don’t you know.’

‘And me?’

‘Since you are off to sunny Barcelona I thought it only fair to warn you.’

Such a throwaway line had raised the suspicion that Lanchester was being disingenuous; if Cal Jardine knew all about the villainies of Juan March, it was quite possible that one or more of the people who had been pointed out to him were conscious of his name and the nature of his past activities as a gunrunner.

Indeed, that might explain the atmosphere at their table; with limited resources, Peter Lanchester was stirring the pot by letting them be seen together, creating in the mind of the trio the impression that he had lines of enquiry and sources of information that, in truth, did not exist. As Cal had already said, the clandestine movement of arms was a business where knowing what others were up to was part of the game.

‘Of course,’ Peter had added, ‘it would also be of advantage if you were to keep an ear to the ground and let us know if anything occurs to stir the pot.’ That had got a wave of the menu. ‘Now we must choose some food and you must tell me about these People’s Olympics of yours, which I must say sounds dire.’

That had been like a throwing down of the gauntlet, teasing Cal to enquire as to how he knew so much and even, perhaps, to seek the source of his information; he was not prepared to play.

‘It could be fun,’ he had responded.

‘What!’ Peter had exclaimed, genuinely shocked. ‘All those pious lefties, Bolsheviks and anarchists?’

That had been said far too loudly and attracted looks and arched eyebrows from nearby tables that would have been less troubled, in such surroundings, if he had publicly uttered every filthy swear word in the canon.

Peter Lanchester thought he had Beeb taped, unaware that the fellow he looked to be taking on a picnic, Hugh Pollard, in the company of a couple of very attractive girls, was, as well as another MI6 operative, an aerial navigator. He had followed them to Brighton and observed the consumption of the food from their hamper and taken some pleasure in watching the females disrobe to both sunbathe and swim.

It was perfectly natural that on their way back to town from a day of sun and sea, they should pass through Croydon on the A23; what was not expected was that instead of driving straight on past the airport as they had on the way down, they should swing their
open-top
touring car into the avenue that led to the terminal building. Worse, they drove straight past that onto the tarmac, where a
twin-engined
de Havilland Dragon Rapide was already fired up, its engines warm.

If they had luggage, it was clearly already aboard, proving that their departure was a well-planned operation. Peter Lanchester did what he could to stop them, which was not much – he had no official
capacity and the staff at the airport, when bearded, could only say the flight plan was one to take the aircraft to Paris, giving them no reason to block the take-off.

By the time he could get on the blower to someone with the power of prohibition, the Rapide was already airborne, the two attractive girls waving frantically from the car. On the observation deck he spotted the journalist Luis Bolin with a pair of binoculars in use. If there had been any doubt about the nature of the flight, the presence of the right-wing Spanish newspaperman laid it to rest. The flight plan was a myth and the projected revolt of the Spanish generals looked to be imminent.

The cable Peter Lanchester sent Cal Jardine was simple; it implied if he had no reason to stay, it might be time to hotfoot out. The recipient had indeed carried out the task for which he had come; the hostels and other accommodation for the Olympians had been paid for and Monty Redfern had change coming, while the opening ceremony was to take place on the morrow.

Yet, for all the febrile atmosphere of the city and the country, screaming headlines in the various journals, marches and countermarches and also a couple of high-profile political assassinations in Madrid – one of a prominent left-winger, the other, no doubt in revenge, the killing of a leading anti-socialist – the sun was shining, the food and wine were excellent and, of course, there was his interpreter, daughter of a Spanish father and an English mother, the blonde, petite and devastatingly beautiful Florencia Gardiola.

C
al Jardine was lying in bed, naked and sweating, with Florencia’s head and messed-up hair in the crook of his arm, watching, in the first glimmer of early-morning light, a ceiling fan trying and failing to move the still, humid, midsummer air. It was a few seconds before he realised what had penetrated his slumbers, but given the sound of the yelling crowd was getting progressively louder, it did not take long to pin that down. Gently he moved Florencia’s head, slipped off the bed and went to the open double window to see what the fuss was about this time.

Demonstrations were nothing unusual in Barcelona; everyone in the city, on both the right and the left, seemed to feel the only way to make a point was to take to the streets. But this was different; the wide boulevard below was jam-packed by a massive crowd moving as one, banners aloft, calling out words he could not comprehend in both Catalan and Spanish.

Their flags and raised fists left little doubt, in this case, of which side of the political divide they were on; these were workers marching in protest at what he did not know, but to that was added the crack of distant rifle shots, too many in number and from different weapons, which indicated this was no mere demonstration. The thought, an uncomfortable one, that he might have left it too late to depart, was quick to surface, but he reassured himself.

Barcelona was a port and not much more than a hundred and fifty miles from the French border. If he could not get a boat out, or a train, there was always the option of getting hold of a car, with the caveat that the Spanish roads left a lot to be desired. Then, thinking about why he was here and the fact that he might need to make a hurried exit and not on his own, he wondered if he might be required to hire a couple of buses.

The growing noise eventually penetrated the slumbers of Florencia and she stirred into her habitual groaning wakefulness, a mixture of yawning, stretching and cursing aimed at the approaching day. Normally a slow riser, she was not this time, as the import of what was happening pierced her languid brain. Leaping from the bed, she rushed to the window and out onto the balcony, pushing Cal aside, to yell in unison with the crowd as soon as she saw their banners. What came back was a cacophony of male whistles; she was, after all, stark naked.

Ignoring both her and the response, Cal made a call to the hotel reception, which did not produce much enlightenment, merely a reassurance from a silver-voiced functionary that it was a small affair of no significance. Some soldiers in Morocco had rebelled against the government and seized certain installations. It was an insurrection the man was sure would be swiftly put down.

Cal then asked for an outside line, to phone Vince Castellano at the hostel where he and his party were staying. That proved fruitless; the line was dead, which indicated to him it was serious – the first two targets for the rebellious were always the radio station and the telephone exchange.

‘Get dressed.’

That her nakedness had attracted all that attention, and no doubt the anger of the marching women, did not seem to have penetrated Florencia’s brain, while being of a temperament to always dispute a command, she spun round to berate her lover. At that moment came the unmistakeable rattle of a solitary machine gun, followed by a dull explosion, which stopped her protests.

‘Revolution!’ she hissed.

‘I need to see what is going on, to find out if any of those I am responsible for are in danger.’

All he got in reply was a clenched fist, furiously shaken, which made her breasts bounce as well, rendering slightly absurd what she said. ‘We must fight.’

‘Not like that,’ Cal replied, already in the act of putting on a shirt. He picked up the dress she had worn the night before and threw it to her. ‘Not unless you’re planning to shag them into surrender.’

Catching the dress, Florencia’s face showed deep confusion, which Cal knew had nothing to do with his words, one of which she probably had not fully understood. Normally keen to expand her English, especially slang, she was too preoccupied now for such trifles. This was an occasion for which she had been waiting all her adult life and now it had come she had only a red silk dress he had bought her, suitable for the expensive restaurant in which they had
dined the night before, but hardly fitting to either support or put down an armed uprising.

‘Give me a shirt and some trousers.’

‘What?’

The red dress was cast aside and he was spat at. ‘I cannot take part in our revolution in this.’

‘Florencia, it is the generals who have revolted, not the workers.’

‘You’re sure?’ she demanded, not without a degree of suspicion, evident in her narrowed dark-brown eyes.

Having kept from her both the contents of Peter Lanchester’s telegram, and his prior warning, Cal was slightly embarrassed. ‘Switch on the radio and see if there’s any news.’

All that was playing on the local station was soothing music, yet oddly, for such a fiery woman, it seemed to calm her down, so that the repeated request was softly spoken. ‘A shirt, please, Cal; I cannot go out into the streets to defend the city in a red silk dress.’

Already wearing the only grey shirt he possessed, the one he threw her was blue, striped and collarless, and the trousers that followed were beige, lightweight, linen and miles too big. It was an attribute to her innate sense of style that by the time she was dressed, shirt over the now rolled-up trousers, the whole fastened at the waist by a leather belt, the only thing which looked incongruous was her shoes. He had on a leather blouson she had helped him buy in a street market and they tussled over the beret that went with it. She won, leaving Cal with his fedora.

The last thing gathered was a wad of pesetas, part of Monty Redfern’s contribution to the overheads, which he carried around as mad money in case the people he was funding needed anything – the unspent rest was in his money belt in the Ritz Hotel safe, a
sum he kept separate from his own money. Not a man too struck by conscience, Cal was nevertheless disinclined to put the cost of his personal pleasure at the door of such a good friend, like wining and dining a beautiful woman or overstaying his time in Barcelona in a luxury hotel. The wad he stuffed into the inside pocket of his blouson, adding his own wallet.

‘You have to come with me, Florencia. I have to see what I can do for the athletes and I might struggle to get to them.’

He nearly laughed at the reply, it being so serious in its delivery. ‘It is my duty to come with you,
querido
. The organising committee of the Olympiad would never forgive me if I did not help you.’

Anxious groups of people, mostly Spanish and all upper-middle class, filled the lobby, probably wondering if coming on holiday or on business to the Catalan capital, at this particular time of year, had been a good idea, with the concomitant problem of how they were now going to get home.

The last place to be when the boulevard outside was full of angry workers and bullets were flying was in a hotel like the Ritz; the top hostelry in the city, it screamed luxury, and it was telling that the liveried doorman had taken refuge inside the glass doors, abandoning his customary exterior post. Cal and Florencia pushed past, getting from him, as well as the nearby concierge, a look of disdain at their clothing.

Out of the hotel and in amongst the crowds it was not only hard going, it was also impossible to get any clear news of what was happening; Florencia translated every rumour imparted to her, not one of which bore any relation to those that had gone before. Then there was the incongruity of the loudspeakers, attached to the trees
that shaded the wide avenues, playing that same utterly inappropriate light music they had heard in the room.

That was backed up by the sound of shouted slogans and the singing of revolutionary songs that required no translation, creating an almost carnival atmosphere, though added to that was the sound of breaking glass as shop windows were smashed by the less politically committed who took advantage of the mayhem to loot.

Every worker in Barcelona, as well as their wives, girlfriends and daughters, seemed to be on the streets, and the way some of the
well-dressed
people were being harangued and harassed made Cal Jardine glad he had dressed in his leather blouson, which even if new, was still not the garb of a wealthy man.

Some of the demonstrators were armed with rifles, but that had been the case from the day Cal arrived in a country that had seemed like a tinderbox waiting for a spark. Thanks to Florencia and her local knowledge – she was Barcelona born and bred – they could use side streets, avoiding the crowded boulevards, taking alleys and cross streets to get down to the area bordering the docks, where Vince and his party were staying.

He found his one-time sergeant outside the hostel and not alone; his boys were there too – half a dozen boxers from his gym, who still, after a couple of weeks, where they were not bright red and peeling, looked pallid and underfed in a country where everyone was deeply tanned. Vince was not; with his Italian blood he had quickly gone a deep-brown colour.

There were a number of the other athletes there too, more bronzed given they trained outdoors, about fifty in number, though they were accommodated elsewhere. He recognised swimmers and runners, a long- and a high-jumper, as well as athletes of the other field events,
every one of them looking very determined. With few exceptions – a couple were from universities – they were young working-class men, many funded by their trade unions, some who had come off their own bat or through Labour Party sponsors, looking forward to an opening ceremony that was supposed to take place the next day.

As soon as he saw him, Vince detached himself and came to quietly converse, cutting out Florencia in the process, which got his back an angry glare from a woman easily rendered jealous.

‘Any idea what’s goin’ on, guv?’

‘I was hoping you would tell me.’

Though a Londoner, Vince, who spoke Italian, understood a great deal of what was being said around him in Spanish. Cal spoke some, but not enough, and that was especially true when the locals spoke quickly, as they habitually did.

‘If I’ve got it right the poxy generals have started an uprising.’

Vince being the one person he had told of the news from London, there was not much he could say. ‘I told you it was possible, I just didn’t think it would be this quick.’

‘The bastards might have waited till we had the games.’

‘I’ve never met a patient general, Vince, have you?’

‘Never met a general at all an’ I don’t want to. Like as not, I’d shoot the bastard, ’cause all they ever do is get folk like me killed.’

Jardine grinned; Vince, with a few exceptions, loathed officers, whatever their rank, though his respect for the few he admired, and Cal had been one, was total. He had been a damn good soldier, if one too often in trouble with his superiors, resulting in a seesaw as far as rank was concerned; sergeant to private and back again like a jack-in-the-box.

But if Cal, as one of his company officers, had been required to
discipline and demote Vince, he had also come to appreciate the feeling of having him alongside when things got sticky, because he was a real asset in a scrap, as well as a born leader in an army, like every other in the world, that could only run well by the application of its senior NCOs.

He had also been a very handy welterweight boxer, both for the regiment and after he was discharged. Such a skill made leniency when he transgressed easy to get past the colonel, an old stick-in-
the-mud
and martinet going nowhere, the army always being tolerant of those showing sporting prowess, especially one who could duff up the champion of a rival regiment. He was past boxing now, a trainer instead of a fighter, if you excluded going out into the streets of London to do battle with Mosley’s blackshirts.

‘So what do you reckon, guv?’ Vince asked, turning to indicate the party of which he had obviously taken charge. ‘The lads want to know.’

‘Depends on how bad it gets. If it is really serious we’ll need to bail out.’

‘If this is what you told me it might be, an’ that’s what I passed on to the boys when we heard the shooting, then if there’s going to be a fight, quite a few of them want to be part of it.’

‘Hold on a minute, Vince, we’re talking a shooting war here, not three rounds with gloves and headgear on. Besides, they’re only kids.’

‘What age were you when you went and joined up?’

‘I’d had training.’

‘I recall you saying if you’d listened to the instructors you wouldn’t have lasted a bleedin’ week.’

Vince had a real boxer’s face: a much-broken nose and prominent
bones on his cheeks and under his scarred eyebrows; now it was screwed up with what seemed to be real passion, not his normal mode of behaviour, which was generally calm and jocular. The one thing that could get him really going was anything to do with fascism.

That was why he was here with his boxers – it set him off at home and it fired him up when he talked, which he did rarely, of his political beliefs. Not in any way a joiner of parties, he was, by his very nature, a fellow who believed all men are created equal and should be treated as such.

‘We came here to send a message to that shit Hitler, right?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘But, nothin’! If the same sort of bastards are going to try and turn Spain into another Germany or Italy, are we just goin’ to scuttle off home an’ let them get on with it?’

‘I was going to say it’s not our fight, Vince, but I suspect that might not go down too well.’

‘It is, guv, and you know it,’ Vince responded, deeply serious. ‘It’s all our fight, just as it was in Africa.’

The two locked eyes, but it was not a contest of wills, more an attempt to ascertain the next move. If anyone knew him well it was this man, and added to the mutual trust they had was the bond of recent experience; Vince had been with him all the way in the acquiring and running of guns, across Europe and into Ethiopia, sharing the risks as well as, it had to be admitted, often acting as the voice of common sense.