The Burning Sky (10 page)

‘An opening gambit, Colonel, but it has a purpose and that is to tell you I expect to pay a good price, but not an unreasonable one.’

Dimitrescu did not hesitate: he came back with a figure three times that on the paper before him and they were off, back and forth, edging closer until they seemed close to a deal on one just above twice what Jardine had proposed, a point from which he refused to budge. But then, neither would the colonel, and that was when Jardine recalled Goldfarbeen saying the weapons had been loaded onto railway wagons.

‘I’ll tell you what, Colonel, I will agree that price if you get my weapons to Constanta.’

Dimitrescu was quick to agree, unaware the man he was negotiating with knew such transportation was, to him, probably cost-free; time to close him out.

‘Naturally, the weapons being on the dockside, ready to be loaded, would represent the completion of the transaction. I am sure your bank has a branch in the country’s main port.’

‘Dimitrescu wants the money more than he wants to do the Germans a favour and he won’t move till that’s in his bank. We complete the deal, he tells them to come and nail me, and by the time they get here I will be in the middle of the Black Sea, we will have our weapons and, I can tell you, at a price a lot less than I expected to pay. It’s a
good deal, and you don’t have to get involved except in the money transfer, and you can do that from here.’

‘Your show, old boy,’ Lanchester said. ‘No point in hiring a dog …’

‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence!’

‘Heel, boy,’ Lanchester joked. ‘I’d best get word to London that matters are coming to a head.’

‘You don’t want to meet Dimitrescu, anyway.’

‘It wasn’t him I wanted to meet, it was those
dark-haired
floozies you told me about.’

‘I missed out on that an’ all,’ Vince cut in.

‘It is our misfortune, Vince, to be in cahoots with a selfish bastard. So what’s the process, Cal?’

‘We need speed, so the transfer will have to be by telephone, telegrams will take too long, which means you have to set up a line to Switzerland from this hotel and keep it open.’

‘Can you do that?’ Vince asked.

Lanchester shrugged. ‘Grand luxury hotel, they should be used to that sort of thing.’

‘I will phone reception from Constanta on another line with a coded message, you process the funds, I will insist he is on to his bank in the same way, and as soon as all is complete I put a gun to his head and tell him if he tries to stop me leaving with the weapons his brains will be all over the wall. Simple, really.’

‘I can spot one or two flaws.’

‘So can I, but I will have Vince with me. They don’t know about him and he will have your Colt Automatic.’

‘I’ve only ever fired a rifle and a machine gun.’

‘It’s easy, Vince,’ Lanchester said.

‘Must be,’ Vince retorted, ‘if a bleedin’ officer can do it.’

Jardine responded, ‘You just point it and pull the trigger, like James Cagney in
The Public Enemy
.’

‘What’s the timing?’ asked Lanchester.

‘Dimitrescu is calling in the morning, Peter. I’ll tell you then.’ Jardine pulled a card out of his pocket. ‘This is the place he and I went to last night. Why don’t you take Vince there and have a night on the firm?’

‘You?’

‘Whacked, Peter.’

‘And don’t we know why. Anything else we might need to have a romantic evening?’

‘Cotton wool.’

Cal Jardine stopped at the bar of the Athénée Palace to have a drink, before dinner and an early night. That a stranger spoke to him in a hotel bar, on hearing him order from a multilingual barman, was not anything to remark upon, nor even that the man was clearly German and wanted someone to talk to over a drink; after all, they did much business in Rumania. Besides, as he said, he was keen to try out his English, which he feared was becoming rusty, evidenced by his accent and grammatical errors when he spoke it.

There is a certain air about some men, and for a businessman in machine tools, Herr Reisner, with his firm handshake, seemed very fit. When Jardine deliberately laid a hand on his upper arm as they got up to go into dinner, it
was clear the fellow had hard biceps. He also had scars in certain places on his face and cheeks, nothing too obvious, but the little mementoes that come from action; Jardine had seen enough of those in his own shaving mirror, and there was also a similarity in the skin: he was a man accustomed to the outdoors.

His hair was blond, the eyes – a startling blue – were rarely concealed by a blink, while they had at the corners the kind of lines that came from peering at a strong sun. In the none-too-taxing enquiries he made about his presence in Bucharest and his business, the replies were just a shade too slow in coming, as if he had a flimsy cover story, while every time he asked Jardine about his reasons for being in Bucharest, there was just the slightest trace, a tightening of the upper jaw, that indicated those replies were being measured against another narrative.

Dinner over, Jardine politely declined a late-night stroll or a nightcap, pleading a long and tiring day, and went back to his room, his first act to lock his door and jam a chair against it. Then he rang Lanchester’s hotel and Vince’s room, leaving a simple code they would understand and no German should. It took time for the receptionist to get the letters down when he spelt it out and he made the man read it back.

‘That’s right. We’ve been bowled a googly.’

Then he went to bed with the Colt under his pillow, caring not one jot that the oil on the gun would stain the linen of his sheets. What would the chambermaid think, having changed them that morning after his night of passion?

A
ware that he might be indulging in an overreaction, Jardine was at the reception desk while the cleaners were still trying to dust the lobby and the day staff had not yet come on duty: if you want to find out anything in a hotel, those who work overnight are much more malleable than the more stuffy daytime people and his question, in truth, was seemingly harmless. A twenty-lei note and a hint he was a potential business competitor established that Herr Reisner had checked in late the day before. As soon as office hours came into play he phoned the German embassy and asked for the same person, to be told no one of that name occupied a position there, which eliminated one possibility.

There was no need to bribe the night-time receptionist to keep hush what he had been asked: if Reisner was genuine, he would not enquire; if he was what Jardine thought he might be, a member of the SS Intelligence Branch, either
resident in Bucharest or sent from Berlin, he did not need to. It was not surprising they met at breakfast – being guests in the same place it was natural – nor was there anything untoward in the way the German greeted him and made a polite and silent gesture that asked permission to share his table.

In daylight, over the kind of food one has in the morning, jams and hot rolls, it was easier for Jardine to study his hands, for they tell you much about what a person might do in his life. A fellow who occupies a desk and uses his pen as a weapon should, in the main, have soft hands. Reisner’s were not excessively large but the knuckles were prominent, the skin covering them showing some evidence of scarring as if, many times in his life, he had used them in physical conflict; in short, the man was a fighter.

‘You have busy day ahead again, Herr Jardine?’

‘Not as taxing as yesterday, but enough to be going on with. And you?’

Reisner smiled, showing perfectly even and white teeth, his answer, once more a millisecond delayed. ‘Mostly telephone, make contacts I hope call on.’

Not a good answer: you did not come all the way to Rumania to make those calls; you wrote beforehand and only expended money on travel when you had firm commitments to talk.

‘I, too, have many calls to make,’ Jardine said, draining his coffee cup, ‘so if you will forgive me …’

‘Perhaps tonight dinner?’ came the reply. ‘Not hotel … somewhere other perhaps? I told many good eating places in Bucharest.’

‘What’s your room number, Herr Reisner?’

This time the pause was way too long, while the eyes flickered, as though divulgence was unwise. ‘
Drei, fünf, eins.
’

Tempted to muck him about by asking for a translation, Jardine decided not to bother. ‘I shall call you later and let you know if I am free.’

Vince always took his breakfast in his room and later than Jardine, more so on this morning having had a late night, an evening out his one-time CO had to enquire about, having been required to get him out of bed to answer the door. A quick glance at the state of his linen showed only the crumbs of toast.

‘It was way too pricey, guv, and that was the food. The women were out of sight. God only knows how much your colonel shelled out on you.’

‘You got my message?’ Vince nodded, but showed no evidence of understanding until it was explained to him, and that from a man who lived within shouting distance of the Oval. ‘I need you to ride shotgun again, but this time ignore Dimitrescu’s dolt and see if there’s anyone else too interested.’

‘Nazi bastards,’ Vince replied, thumbing his oft-broken nose and shimmying a straight left and a right hook. ‘Be nice to land one on the sods.’

‘They won’t be goose-stepping, Vince. If they are around they won’t look much different to anyone else, and it occurs to me there are so many fascists in the place already, half of them probably funded by the German Foreign Office, that my Reisner bloke would not have needed to bring anyone with him.’

The phone call he made to Lanchester from his exterior café got a more positive response: he had understood the message. ‘That guy you asked in Berlin about me, any chance of getting on the blower and seeing if he can pick up a whisper?’

‘Worth a try, though I think we’ll end up spending more money on international phone calls than—’

‘Don’t say it, Peter.’

‘I was about to say those ladies of the night Vince and I turned down. Christ, they were expensive, and I always thought when one went abroad such things were cheaper.’

‘Since I am completely in ignorance of the price at home I am not able to comment.’

‘Stop being pious, Cal, and send Vince over later.’

Exiting the café, he had an agreed signal with Vince: if he was reading a paper, it was back to the Athénée Palace for a report; all clear and it would be under his arm, so he could phone Goldfarbeen and get a taxi to meet him. They both assumed that the bad grey suit was a given. Vince was reading.

‘He was right behind the berk we’ve had since the off. Big shoulders and heavyweight muscles, ’cause his suit jacket was real tight on his biceps, hands like hams and square head under his titfer, as well, but that’s what you expect with Huns.’

‘I must introduce you to some German women.’

‘Whenever you like, guv, I’m game.’

‘There’s one called Gretl I think you’d like.’

‘Don’t get the idea I’m fussy, but what about this new bloke?’

‘If he was following me, that means Dimitrescu does not know he is here. In contact he would not have to, he could just ask.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘Ask me another.’

‘What’s goin’ to win the three-thirty at Kempton Park?’

‘All I know is it’s getting messier, Vince.’

‘Might be towel time – like throw it in, guv.’

There was no fear in that statement, just the option anyone but an idiot might take. ‘Not yet, I’ve got to go and see Goldfarbeen, usual drill.’

‘What if our new chum follows you in a cab?’

Jardine wrote down and passed over Goldfarbeen’s number. ‘Call him and say not to show up.’

‘You never did tell me what coins the phones take.’

One phone call and two taxis later Jardine entered the synagogue once more, to be greeted by a man with good news and, of more immediate concern to him, a troubled stomach, over which he constantly rubbed his hands, an act that only demonstrated how massive it was.

‘My wife’s cooking is so good, Herr Hardeen, if we had time I would let you taste it and you would never leave Rumania. I ate too much of it last night.’ That was followed by an attempt at a burp, not wholly successful. ‘It will surprise you how much I eat.’

‘I cannot believe that,’ Jardine responded, with a glance at the offending belly.

‘I should shed a few kilos, no?’

‘I heard a Yiddish expression in Germany once, that a
man should eat like a bird and shit like a horse, then he will be thin.’

Goldfarbeen laughed, which he started loudly but had to cut quickly: they were in a house of worship. ‘Me, I eat like a horse and today I shit like a bird, but I have hopes that later—’

‘The Berlin train?’

‘Will arrive at the Chitila Marshalling Yard tonight at around ten.’

Have I got time to get my weapons on the way to Constanta and be out of Bucharest before
…?
Jardine paused his self-questioning thoughts and decided to share another thought with his indigestive Jew. ‘My problem is, I think the SS are already here, or at least a couple of them.’

‘You have done the business with the pig?’

‘I have.’

‘And who are these Germans?’ Jardine’s explanation was brief.

‘As I said, I didn’t think they’d wait.’

‘You are in a bad place, my friend.’

That got a wry smile. ‘I have been in a lot of bad places in my life, and something tells me if we do this thing I will be heading for another one. It’s what I do.’

‘For love or to run away?’

‘I have no time for philosophy, but maybe one day, in the future, we can sit at your table, eat your wife’s wonderful cooking and talk of what drives me to crave danger.’

Goldfarbeen held out his hand. ‘A day to look forward to, Meester Hardeen.’

‘I want you to try something.’ Goldfarbeen looked curious. ‘Say Jardine.’

Four failed attempts later he gave up, passed over an excessive amount of money and said farewell.

‘You best read this, guv,’ Vince said, passing over a piece of paper from Peter Lanchester. ‘I can’t read the important bit. He said the bloke in Berlin has come up trumps.’

‘I’ll read it out to you, Vince; it’s about the fellow who spoke to me in the bar. His name is
Obersturmbannführer
Gottlieb Resnick. Kept the same initials, which shows sense.’

‘Why’s everything in German so bleedin’ long?’

‘The verb is at the end of the sentence.’

‘Forget I asked.’

‘At least we know where we are now.’

‘Shit creek?’ Vince enquired.

‘Hang on to your paddle, I have to make a phone call.’

‘Once again I find you out and about, Herr Jardine,’ said Dimitrescu. The call was to the colonel, not from him; Jardine had come back to the Rumanian’s message and the number to ring was not the ministry where he worked. ‘You are a man who never stays still, I think.’

‘I learnt in the war, Colonel, that was the best way to get yourself killed.’

‘I, too, fought in that war, Herr Jardine, so we have something in common. However, such talk is for another time; I have some good news for you. The weapons I have had loaded onto railway wagons.’

‘Not trucks?’ Jardine asked, disingenuously.

‘How many trucks would that take? No, rail freight is better and I have had them shunted from the armoury to the railway marshalling yards, where they can depart at your convenience.’

Jardine had to keep reminding himself that Dimitrescu did not know the Germans were already here; in fact, the poor sod probably believed, in his arrogance, they would obey his injunction not to come to Bucharest until he alerted them, but the sooner he was out of here the less the risk.

‘Could they be moved today?’

The reply had to wait while he thought about it. ‘I doubt there is time to arrange that at such short notice, but tomorrow.’

‘Simple enough for a man of your standing, I would have thought, Colonel,’ Jardine replied, just to push him, because he was probably telling the truth. Dimitrescu off balance was better than him comfortable.

He tried not to growl but failed. ‘Not even I can move mountains, or put trains carrying a hazardous cargo on a busy track at a moment’s notice.’

‘Tomorrow, then, and it might be best if I have a look before they leave Bucharest.’

The why never came: there was no need to point out that he would hate to get to Constanta and find the weapons were not in the cars; as a way of saying he did not trust him, it was very pointed, yet not outrageous in what was a clandestine trade.

‘I will send my car for you, phone ahead to the manager
of the yard to get you admitted, and meet you there. By the time you arrive I hope I will have arranged movement to Constanta.’

This time he took Vince, partly because of the presence of the SS, but just as much to send a message he was not alone, that he had assistance the Rumanian was unaware of, which was part of his policy of creating doubts: keep your adversary thinking – and he now saw the colonel as that. Dimitrescu would wonder if the fellow with him, obviously handy, with a boxer’s face, quick movements and light on his feet, was the only muscle Jardine had along.

No introductions were made and Vince played the part of bodyguard to perfection, always alert and stony-faced, never allowing himself to be manoeuvred into a position where he could not react to a threat. It was amusing to see the colonel’s driver doing the same; they were like a pair of suspicious ferrets.

The marshalling yards were extensive, as suited the central hub of the national rail network, row upon row of rail wagons and oval-shaped oil bowsers in no sort of order that Jardine could discern. There had to be method: the people who oversaw this would have ways of locating and moving what had to be where to the place it was supposed to be, which could be anywhere in the countries bordering Rumania and beyond, especially the oil tankers, which carried the one booming part of the country’s economy, the crude oil from the Ploesti fields to the north.

His line of half a dozen wagons was apart from everything else, highly inflammable oil especially, at the very furthest point from any buildings or other freight containers – a
sound idea, since they contained ammunition and thus the risk, small but too dangerous to discount in a yard full of oil, of an explosion, while ahead of and behind them the track was clear.

‘As you will see from these plates on each car, where they are to go to is already designated.’

Jardine peered at the flat pieces of metal slotted into grooves in the side of the wagons, each with bold writing on, a number and a destination. ‘As it’s in your language I will have to take your word for it.’

Dimitrescu scoffed. ‘Come, Herr Jardine, even you can read the name Constanta!’ Satisfied with a nodded response, he asked if Jardine wanted to see in them all.

‘I will look in one, but I will be happy with an open cover on the rest.’

Each carriage tarpaulin was secured with a padlocked chain running through metal eyeholes. Just getting onto a railway wagon is not easy without a platform, so the handholds on the side were essential. Since everything was boxed, he chose a few at random, had them opened, handled a few of the items, worked the bolts on a number of the rifles and checked the firing pins were in place, requiring a cloth to clean himself afterward, the weapons being well greased.

‘What time will the train leave tomorrow?’

‘Before four in the morning, and it should be in Constanta by around five o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘A hundred and fifty miles, give or take?’ Dimitrescu looked confused, he was working in kilometres. ‘That is slow progress.’

‘It has to be set in amongst the normal daily schedule, and these yards are on the wrong side of the city, so it is the best I can do.’