The Burning Sky (7 page)

‘Ah, the lovely Lizzie Jardine.’

‘Don’t you start, Peter.’

‘You cut her too much slack, old boy.’

‘I think you have that the wrong way round.’

‘Would you divorce her if she agreed, Cal?’

‘I would if that was what she wanted but I would have to get an annulment from the bloody Pope.’

‘A gentleman to the last, but that’s not what I asked.’

‘Peter, it’s none of your business. Now, if all our arrangements are in place, Vince and I will meet you at Victoria tomorrow morning.’ Picking up his shiny top hat, Callum Jardine, dressed in white tie and tails, bowed Lanchester out through his door. The Humber he had ordered was purring gently outside and that took him to Connaught Square to pick up his wife, who was, as usual, not ready.

‘Fix yourself a drink, Cal, I shan’t be long.’

‘When have I heard that before?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Going into the drawing room he stared at the furniture with distaste; Lizzie had redecorated once more – it was a biannual event – and this time all the furniture was white, even the sideboard which had on it the bottles and glasses. He poured himself a malt whisky, pleased that his wife had left out a jug of water, a pinch of which was put in the
glass to release the peat flavours. That he took to the long French windows overlooking the garden square.

How many times had he stood at these windows waiting? Too many, the record being an hour – that had led to a row about the time it took her to get made up and dressed, then to an even more furious altercation when she found out he had sent the taxi away on the very good grounds the poor bugger had to make a living, which he did not do idling outside their house. There was no point in being cross; in fact, if she took long enough they might give the table he had booked away. He would much rather go to the Bag O’ Nails anytime.

‘Now, you have to admit, Cal, that is a record.’

Turning slowly he looked her up and down, knowing Lizzie had quite deliberately posed under a tall standard lamp to be admired, and admirable she was. Blond, with a pixie face and that bloody pert nose, wearing a white dress overlaid with silver, she had been the most beautiful debutante of her year, and daft Callum Jardine, fresh from the wilds of Dumfriesshire, tall, handsome, golden-haired and soon to be a dashing officer, had been the one who won her hand. He had suffered nothing but trouble and heartache since.

‘Well, are you going to say anything?’

‘Is white this year’s colour?’

Her tongue came out. ‘You are a pig, Callum Jardine.’

‘True,’ he replied, damned if he was going to compliment her. ‘Shall we go?’

The food at the Café de Paris was not inspiring, served as an adjunct to the entertainment, rather than on its
own merits. They had danced a quick foxtrot right after cocktails, then had dinner to the sound of ‘Melancholy Baby’ and ‘The Very Thought of You’, with Lizzie mouthing along and making moon eyes at the singer, even more outrageously when ‘Hutch’ came on to play.

‘Pity Edwina Mountbatten has got her claws into him, darling,’ he whispered mischievously.

‘Just make sure Dickie doesn’t get his bits into you, Cal. He does so love a handsome man.’

‘I wish he would try, I haven’t killed anyone for a while.’

That made her frown deeply. ‘Must you bring that up?’

‘Sorry,’ he replied insincerely. ‘I thought it was proof I loved you.’

The eyes went dewy. ‘Do you love me, Cal?’

Here we go again, Jardine thought. Why can I not stay away from her? What is the matter with me? He so wanted to not sleep with her but he knew he would weaken, even as he looked around the packed room and wondered who else had enjoyed the privilege. She would drink just a little too much and get all romantic; he would have lowered his resistance by exactly the same means and he would sashay her into that bedroom at Connaught Square, hoping he could avoid looking at the bedhead and remembering the face of the naked man sitting up, his eyes wide with fear, just before he put a bullet in the left one.

‘O
ur friend does not look in a good mood this fine morning,’ said Peter Lanchester to Vince Castellano, as they watched Cal Jardine, a luggage porter alongside, heading towards the ticket barrier. His shout echoed as it always does in a railway station. ‘Had a good night, did we?’

‘Do shut up, Peter, and let’s get out of this bloody country.’

‘I sense domestic harmony has not reasserted itself.’

‘When was the last time you ’ad a belt round the ear’ole, Mister Lanchester?’ asked Vince, ‘’cause I can see one coming your way.’

‘Long time since Cal and I exchanged blows.’

‘Them mess dinners were a bit ’airy.’

Cal Jardine marched past them, his face still stiff: last night had conformed to the usual script, with much tender lovemaking, but so had the morning with its customary
mutual recriminations. He needed some of that sea air to clear his head, and some action to salve his soul.

First stop was Belgium, a place where, in Vince’s parlance, they could ‘tool up’. Lanchester’s Mauser had gone into the North Sea as soon as he and the Ephraims had cleared the Elbe, Jardine’s pistol into the Danube at the Czech border, neither wishing to be caught bringing a gun into England. By the same token it was not an easy place to buy personal weapons, but Brussels was, and even if they were going to a country at peace, some kind of weaponry was a sensible precaution. They bought two ex-US Army Colt Automatics, while Vince got himself a vicious-looking hunting knife. In passing, Jardine took a shine to a rather natty leather attaché case.

‘I’m going to have to get you a new suit, Vince,’ Jardine insisted, looking at the light-brown pinstripe with very pronounced lapels.

‘You don’t like me togs?’

‘You look like a bookie.’

‘I wish I was a bookie, the robbin’ bastards.’

They bought him something dark blue and discreet, with Vince insisting he now looked like a ‘bleedin’ undertaker’. The next train was a sleeper via Paris to Milan, then another to Vienna and finally on to Bucharest, the city they called Little Paris. Jardine could immediately see why, laid out as it was in wide boulevards and big open squares and parks in a way that mirrored the designs of Napoleon III’s architect, Baron Haussmann.

It was the Austro-Hungarian Empire, at the height of its pomp, which had built most of Bucharest, turning it
from a sleepy and desolate conurbation into a jewel on the Dambovita river, all of this explained to Vince by Peter Lanchester.

‘The good baron tore down old Paris to rebuild it and apparently it was pretty grubby and smelly. As well as bringing light and air it provided very good fields of fire for artillery, given the city was prone to riot. If your lot got uppity he could mow you down and I daresay they can do that here too.’

‘If the old git is still breathing send him to the Elephant & Castle, that could do wiv a clear-out – and not just the houses.’

They booked into the Hotel Palace Athénée – Jardine in a suite, given he needed to look well heeled, and a telegram went off to Zaharoff via his secretary Drouhin, to say where they were staying; you did not use the name of his employer in a public communication if you did not wish to immediately set off alarm bells. His contact name, Colonel Ion Dimitrescu, came by return, with Jardine putting in an immediate telephone call to his office, which had, of necessity, to be discreet and in German, which he had been told the man, like many of his countrymen, spoke fluently. It took ages and some insistence to get through.

‘We have not met, Colonel, but we have a mutual acquaintance and he has kindly given me your name as someone who can advise me about certain aspects of a country I do not know at all.’

‘This acquaintance is?’

‘A resident of Monte Carlo and a man with whom you have done business in the past.’

That led to a pause: this was not a man to be rushed. ‘Is he an elderly gentleman by any chance?’

‘Newly into his eighth decade, Colonel.’

‘And your purpose in being in Bucharest, Herr Jardine?’

‘I am looking for business opportunities in a
general
sort of way.’

Jardine emphasised the word ‘general’ and he was not disappointed, given his hint seemed to be picked up. ‘And how can I be of assistance?’

‘Might I suggest we have dinner together at my hotel tomorrow night and I can outline my needs?’

‘Allow me to consult my diary.’

That was just a holding tactic: Jardine suspected a man like Dimitrescu, even if he had never met him, would know precisely what commitments he had. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Athénée Palace.’

‘Tomorrow evening?’

No doubt after a day of making enquiries to find out who I am, one of which would be a telegram to Zaharoff.
‘Around nine perhaps, Colonel; I am informed you do not dine early in Rumania.’

Jardine and Vince spent the next day finding out about their surroundings, including a very quick way to get out of the hotel unseen, this while Lanchester saw to the banking. A wander round the city showed a mixture of the very new and the timeless, expensive cars many times required to use their horns to move aside horse-drawn transport, like the cabs called
trăsurăs
, with Vince sure he was able to recognise the swear words.

The language was akin to Italian, derived as it was from the Latin left behind by the Roman Empire, which had established a frontier in this part of the world to keep out the barbarians from further east, and one held onto by a population that refused to speak Turkish when ruled by the Ottomans. They hated the Austrians and Russians who had occupied the city several times with as much passion, but German was a second language, hardly surprising given the monarch was Carol von Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, part of the same extended family as the exiled German kaiser.

Mentally, as he always did, Jardine was imagining ways to leave the country; while what he was involved in carried none of the dangers of Hamburg, the arms trade was inherently risky, peopled by shadowy types in whom it would be foolish to repose any trust. In reality there was only one way to move speedily and that was by car – public air travel was non-existent in this part of the world and the trains were too obvious.

Walking aimlessly, seeking to imprint the place on his mind, he and Vince came across a crowded flea market down by the Dambovita river, a sluggish and ugly watercourse, and there he bought a couple of flat caps and two old sets of overalls, which went into a battered old suitcase. His next task was to find a second-hand car.

They took a tram along one of the main boulevards leading to the suburbs, and sure enough, as the road left the quarter of big shops and offices, the businesses became smaller and more diverse. Vince spotted a forecourt of dust-covered cars and what followed was a farcical piece
of haggling that went on for an hour and ended up with Jardine, thanks to Vince’s inherited Italian skills, paying less than half the opening price demanded.

‘How the British ever got an empire beats me,’ Vince said.

‘Easy, Vince, we just overpaid.’

‘A Citroën, old boy,’ Lanchester scoffed. ‘Could you not find anything British?’

‘The make doesn’t matter, Peter, what matters is that we have it, that it is full of petrol with spare cans and that we all know where it is parked. We’ve bought some maps too.’

‘’Cepting I can’t drive, guv,’ Vince said.

‘Then you have to learn on the job.’

That was too good to let by. ‘Steady on, old chap, we’re here to work?’

‘It’s not funny,’ Jardine snapped. ‘If we have to press the alarm button, it’s get out as quick as we can and make for the Czech border. Make sure you each have enough cash handy for bribes, in case passports are not enough.’

‘That comes under the heading of teaching your grandmother to suck eggs, old boy.’

‘Lorries?’ Jardine asked.

‘No one outfit is big enough for what we need so I will probably arrange for two or more to provide our transport once we are sure of what we require. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to report back to London.’

Jardine opened his door to make sure the corridor was clear: they should not be seen together and he had told his
Rumanian contact where he was resident. ‘Now, Vince, tonight I am having dinner with this colonel. Take up a seat where you can see us together – I want you to know what he looks like.’

Colonel Dimitrescu was a handsome fellow, with olive skin and swept-back, thick, dark hair, a thin black moustache, well-dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. He reminded Jardine of the American film actor, Don Ameche. His handshake was dry and firm, while his dark-brown eyes looked steadily into those of the man greeting him.

‘Colonel.’

‘How is our mutual friend?’

‘Looking his years, I’m afraid, but his mind is as sharp as ever. Shall we eat, or would you care for an aperitif first?’

‘Perhaps a drink, yes. I have always found champagne the best, and since the hotel has a bar dedicated to that …’

‘Then let us go there.’

Dimitrescu wanted to examine him before committing to a dinner table, which left Jardine wondering how much he had found out, because Zaharoff would be discreet. The champagne bar was dark-panelled and hushed, with few clients, so a perfect place for them to quietly talk. With two glasses of Mumm in their hands they clinked them, eyes locked, his enquiring, Jardine’s without expression.

‘You are an interesting man, Herr Jardine.’

‘Am I?’

Dimitrescu nodded. ‘You cannot act as you do without
leaving a trail and it is the business of colleagues of mine to pick that up. Certain activities in South America, for instance, and then there is Palestine.’ Jardine just nodded; there was no point in denying his previous gun-running exploits, but he was pleased at no mention of Hamburg. ‘These perhaps tell me the nature of what you are seeking help to do?’

‘They would indicate that, yes. I have been advised you are in a position to facilitate certain matters.’

‘Perhaps. It is too early to say.’

‘You are part of the War Ministry?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘And at present engaged in the procurement of certain items for your army?’

Dimitrescu smiled, which, being lopsided and showing very good teeth, made him look even more like the film actor, but it was a false expression: his eyes said he was not pleased. ‘That is supposed to be a secret.’

‘Please be assured I will tell no one, not even those I represent.’

‘And they are?’

‘Please, Colonel, you would not expect me to answer that.’ The Rumanian took a sip of his drink. ‘But if you were in the act of procuring certain items, that would surely mean they were replacements for equipment you already possess.’

‘And that interests you?’

Jardine nodded, which brought another smile, this time genuine, a sudden emptying of the glass, then, ‘Perhaps we could go to dinner now.’

Which was his way of saying ‘perhaps we can do business’. Silently they made their way through to the dining room: large, with a high ceiling, hung with several glittering chandeliers, the decor heavy and rather Edwardian. Conversation stayed off the subject until they had ordered and he was good at inconsequential talk, using it, like his host, to form an impression of the man with whom he was dealing.

‘As you will know, Herr Jardine, much of my poor country was occupied by the forces of the Triple Alliance during the Great War. To be under the thumb of the
Austro-Hungarian
Empire once more was terrible, but to let those shits of Bulgars into our fair land was an unparalleled crime …’

Cal Jardine was no prude – he could curse with the best of them – but the use of the word ‘shit’ and the vehemence of its use surprised him, coming as it did from such an urbane source. In the luggage he had brought to Victoria Station had been a Baedeker and several books on the country, second-hand jobs he had found in Charing Cross Road, so he knew of what the colonel spoke. A search of
The Times
newspapers at the London Library, with issues going back to before Rumania was a country, had told him just as much about the history and events since the end of the war.

Anthony Hope’s fictional Ruritania of
The Prisoner of Zenda
had nothing on the place, with a king, Queen Victoria’s grandson, sitting on the throne who had married once against the law, had that annulled, got wedded properly next to a Greek princess, only to come a
cropper with a famous courtesan called Magda Lupescu, the pair of them scandalising Europe by their shenanigans. He had renounced his throne in favour of his son by the Greek, then came storming back to overturn and retake his crown, this before he started interfering with the government of the country and causing more problems than he solved.

Though
The Times
was careful, it was obvious that to fall out of favour with those in power was as deadly here as in Germany. Arrest was without habeas corpus and the old rubric of attempted escape was used to see off opponents of the regime, and there were many, particularly an outfit called the Iron Guard, violent and virulently anti-Semitic, which had already assassinated one prime minister and, more recently, a minister of the interior. Dimitrescu was still speaking and Jardine had to force himself to concentrate.

‘… so what we have existed with these last years is an armoury made up of many weapons from many different sources. Naturally that means many different types of ammunition are required to be stocked.’

‘I did some research, Colonel, naturally, so I know what you say is the case.’

Meant to deflect the man, it failed: Dimitrescu was determined to list the contributors. ‘Original German weapons, of course, some Russian rifles, but most of the ordnance are the gifts given to us by France and Britain, so that together we could fight the Central Powers.’ His voice had risen at the end, as if he had led the charge to do that himself.

‘Yet broken up into smaller parcels they could be passed
on into other hands.’ Dimitrescu’s eyes narrowed as he digested what Jardine had said.