The Burning Sky (9 page)

‘So he has sent a message to Berlin,’ Jardine said, rhetorically, to a bleary-eyed Vince Castellano, a surprisingly late riser. ‘Who to?’

‘Can I order some bleedin’ breakfast?’

‘That arrives where?’ The response was a shrug: Vince had never been a morning person. ‘If he is buying arms it is from the War Ministry. They have to tell someone else, who then has to act on it.’

‘If you say so, guv.’

‘Vince, when you have filled your face, I want you to go out and buy some rations, you know the kind of stuff, things that don’t go off. Take them to the car and leave them there, then come back here.’

‘What you going to do, guv?’

‘I am going to send a veiled warning to Peter Lanchester, then do a Sherlock Holmes, old son, and follow a masterly policy of inactivity. If you come back to or get a message saying I have bought tickets for a boxing match, head back for the car.’

Dimitrescu was waiting in a Maybach Zeppelin outside the hotel, the chauffeur opening the door for his passenger. ‘So, Herr Jardine, what kind of day have you had?’

As if you don’t know, you bastard!
He had spent the day like any tourist would, visiting the Royal Palace to watch the guard change, an art gallery that was interesting for its lack of old masters – countries that conquered had most of those – and its plethora of more modern works which showed a rich vein of local artistic endeavour.

The Orthodox cathedral to look at the icons was an obvious attraction, as was gazing at the statuary, especially the one of King Carol the First on the rearing horse. Generally he went tootling about, stopping every so often at one of the numerous outdoor cafés, which the berk tailing him dare not enter, going inside to a phone to keep in touch with Goldfarbeen, who reassured him he was still safe, and Vince, to report that as the case.

‘You live in a very interesting city, Colonel, fascinating, in fact. I shall be recommending to some of my friends it is a place they should visit.’

‘It pleases me that you say so. We have high hopes that after so many years of turmoil Rumania will take its rightful place amongst the nations of Europe.’ It was easy to smile at such hyperbolic nonsense, but tempting to respond with the truth, which was less flattering: despite the glitter, there was more poverty in this place than wealth. ‘You will be pleased to know that I have made certain enquiries regarding your interests and the results have come back as very positive.’

‘Where are we off to?’ Jardine asked, with the very real anxiety that by getting in this car he was taking a hell of a risk: this swine could take him straight to the cells.

‘What I think to be the best restaurant in the city, where I will, if you will permit me, introduce you to the cuisine of my country.’

‘Splendid.’

With only the light from street lamps coming into the back of the car, it was surprising to observe a twinkle in
the eyes of Dimitrescu. ‘There are, of course, many other attractions.’

Eat your heart out, Peter Lanchester, Jardine thought.

The restaurant was more like some kind of club, in a basement, with a small dance floor, the colouring predominately purple and the women universally dark and sultry, two of the most beautiful coming with the champagne – real and the last foreign thing he tasted that night. The food was excellent, a sour soup called
ciorbä
and
ostropel
duck. The Rumanian wines were robust and had unpronounceable names – but then so did his female companion, who let him know almost immediately with a searching hand what the last part of his night was going to be like.

‘Business, Colonel?’

‘Not tonight, Herr Jardine, tonight we take pleasure. Tomorrow we will talk business, and maybe come to an arrangement beneficial to us both. You are my guest and I intend that your stay in my country should be memorable.’

Occasionally he caught Dimitrescu looking at him, in between trying to hold a conversation with a girl with flashing eyes, long ringlets in her hair, a dress cut so low and occasionally revealing it was impossible to maintain eye contact, and a tongue that made constant promises of pleasure to come. Those occasional observations were sobering, or was he just imagining that the colonel was looking at him in a way a fox might look at a chicken?

‘Please, Herr Jardine,’ Dimitrescu said, as he dropped
him and his ‘gift’ off at the Athénée Palace. ‘If she asks you for money, do not give her any more than the needs of gratitude. She has already been paid.’

As it transpired, Jardine was very generous indeed, which was only fitting given she was so very much that first. His only worry was her screaming, which was loud enough to have him hope the walls of his suite were thick enough to leave the other guests in peace.

‘P
eter, you should move out to another hotel. This one might not be safe if it all goes tits up.’

‘You are so sure of your Yid?’ The apology was immediate. ‘Sorry, old boy, habits of a lifetime.’

‘Are you sure we have a boat?’

‘Piece of cake, and the captain is Turkish. I had a look at the engines, which, to my untutored eye, appeared to be in fine shape, and so clean, which is more than I can say for the port. If you think things are tough at home, you should see the docks at Constanta. Dire everywhere, except for the oil terminal.’

‘Which makes it doubly strange the Rumanian Government are buying weapons. If the main port is in bad shape the country can’t be making the kind of money needed for such a purchase, even if they do have oil to sell.’

‘Then you of all people should know what that means,
Cal,’ Lanchester replied, rubbing finger and thumb together. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time the guiding principle of an arms deal is personal profit.’

‘Anyway, pack your bags, check out and go to the Hotel Francez. Let me know your room number as soon as you’re checked in. Then I’ll send Vince over.’

‘No chance of my being entertained by your Rumanian colonel, is there? I do think I deserve equal treatment.’

‘None.’

‘Dirty, lucky sod.’

Jardine left Lanchester’s room, and him packing, with caution, making sure the floor manager was not about, or the cleaners. As soon as he got back to his suite, he found a note under his door with the simple message,
I.G. Call
. As usual, when he left the hotel he picked up the man tasked to report his movements, Jardine registering that if it was always the same poor sod in the grey, badly cut suit, only able to trail him on foot, then Dimitrescu was not overburdened with resources, while his man was severely lacking in his wardrobe. Wondering what was being reported back, it was amusing to think it was that the target was addicted to coffee.

‘Herr Hardeen, I have some news for you and I think we should meet.’

‘At your house?’

‘No, come to the Great Synagogue, I will meet you there.’

It was double motor taxis again, this time bouncing off a third five-star hotel, the Grand Hotel du Boulevard, and a sour response when his second cab was directed
to the
Große Synagoge
, which left Jardine thinking that compared to Germany this place was truly rabid; God help the Jews if Hitler’s kind of fascism took hold here. As he entered, to the sound of some gentle Hebrew chanting, he had to remind himself not to remove his hat.

Goldfarbeen was waiting for him and took him to a quiet corner and sat him down, in case, as he put it, ‘The rabbi sees a
goyim
in his house of worship.’

‘First, I am near certain you have some time. A message has come back from Berlin to Dimitrescu, telling him they want you and they will send an escort to take you back to Germany. He sent a reply insisting they wait until he says it is time to come.’

‘For what reason?’

For the first time the old man looked cross, like
what-does
-it-matter irritated. ‘Also, he has ordered, this very morning, the small weapon armouries cleared out into railway wagons, as the guns he has bought are on their way from Germany by freight train.’

There was a twinkle in the older man’s eyes now, which begged a question. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I am thinking, Herr Hardeen, that Dimitrescu is going to sell you those guns in the railway wagons.’

‘That’s not all you are thinking.’

‘You must let your mind work like a Rumanian.’

‘Better you do that.’

‘How would you pay him?’

Jardine explained the transaction, which would be between banks, one in Zurich and whichever one Dimitrescu designated in Bucharest.

‘Something tells me it won’t be the National Bank,’ Goldfarbeen pronounced.

‘It should be.’

That got a shrug, which with his shoulders was impressive. ‘Here is what I think he will do. The transaction will be between a bank of his choice and yours.’ Jardine was about to say it would be hard to keep that a secret, but he suspected Goldfarbeen would say ‘this is Rumania’.

‘He will do everything to make it look kosher and that is why he has asked his German friends to wait. As soon as you have made the payment he will find a reason to detain you, just long enough for a train to come from Berlin with the men who want to take you back.’

‘You’re saying he’ll have me arrested.’

‘No, Herr Hardeen, he does not want you screaming “cheat” from the cells.’

‘Quicker to kill me, then.’

‘Which would not please his German friends, who it seems want you very badly, and – who knows? – they might even pay to get you. I told you he was greedy.’

‘How much of this can you keep on top of?’ Jardine had to clarify that: it was too colloquial for Goldfarbeen.

‘If I spend enough money, I will know everything.’

‘Can you find out when that armaments train from Germany will arrive?’ Seeing the question in his eyes, he added, ‘I think the people who want to escort me back might come at the same time, perhaps they won’t wait even if he has told them to. A German will not like taking orders from a man like Dimitrescu.’

The old man thought for a while, then nodded. ‘There are a few Communists in this country. Some are Jews, of course, but there are others who work in the mines, docks and the railways. Maybe even they like money.’

‘They might act out of conviction.’

‘I am not sure I would trust conviction, Mr Hardeen.’

‘Spend what you need and I will pay you back, or I’ll get Monty to do it when I get back to London.’

‘My friend, I would like to do it out of my own pockets, just to stick a finger up Hitler’s arse, but my pockets are not that deep.’

‘Herr Jardine, I have been trying to contact you.’ The voice became jocular. ‘I had a fear my little gift brought on such exhaustion and you were still asleep.’

Cheeky sod: that was a dig at his manhood. ‘I was at the British embassy, just to let them know I am here.’

The voice became tense: it was not a place any arms dealer should go near. ‘The British embassy?’

‘Social call, really, sort of good manners. The last thing I need is them becoming aware a fellow countryman is in town and wondering why I am here. Better to call in and spin them a yarn.’

‘So you still wish to do business?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Then if you go downstairs in, say, twenty minutes you will find my car waiting for you. Oh, and by the way, I would appreciate details of your banking facilities, without which we cannot proceed.’

‘Of course.’

First he phoned Lanchester, who just acknowledged the message, then Vince Castellano. ‘We’re on.’

‘Is it safe, guv?’

‘Not for long, Vince, not for long.’

‘Take your shooter.’

‘I will.’

In warm weather it was impossible to carry a gun without it showing, so he used the attaché case he had bought in Brussels, which had a side pocket near the inside top into which he could slip the Colt in such a way that it could be extracted quickly. With the time he had, once he had also put in some papers, only the bank details being really needed, Jardine sat in a chair with the case slightly open by his side and practised pulling it out, slipping off the safety and aiming it, feeling absurdly like a poor man’s Tom Mix.

The car was waiting as promised and he got in with a confident smile, hardly noticing Vince, who was writing down the number. He did not see him jump into the motor taxi he had standing by and, in Italian with gestures, order it to follow the limousine – not hard, since it was the kind of car to be driven at a stately pace. It soon became clear it was heading away from the district that housed the official buildings, the Royal Palace and the ministries. To Cal Jardine it made no difference, and in his mind he toyed with that absurd expression used by Sherlock Holmes: ‘The game’s afoot.’

It was a bank but in not the least bit a grand one. Jardine did not even bother to look at the signage to see what it
said: Vince would take care of that and make more sense of it than he. He was escorted in by the driver to find Dimitrescu waiting for him, then led into a small office furnished in poor-imitation art deco. The colonel took a seat behind a desk, clear of anything except for a single folder and a push bell, with Jardine sitting opposite, his first act, as he put down his case, to slip the catch.

‘As you will appreciate, Herr Jardine, discretion is all in such transactions.’

‘Of course.’

‘Hence the need to meet in an out-of-the-way banking facility like this one. First of all, I have considered our previous conversation and I wish to establish if your aim is to purchase everything you think you can sell on and take it out of Rumania.’

‘It is.’

‘Might I ask how?’

‘By truck to Varna.’ Dimitrescu lost his genial air then, and his expression came close to a scowl: just the mention of a Bulgarian port was enough to raise his national hackles. ‘I would ask as part of our transaction that you clear us through customs on the Rumanian-Bulgarian border.’

‘Why Varna?’

‘To divulge that would be to open up a path that might lead to excessive disclosure, Colonel, and really, once the transaction is complete, and I say this with no ill intent, your interest in what happens to the goods is at an end.’

‘You will appreciate that any weaponry going to that country raises concerns. The Bulgarians are not good neighbours and to this I cannot agree.’

Jardine made a show of thinking deeply, hand on chin. In reality he was amused: he had just said that to guy the bastard, to see how far he would go, and he knew he could insist. Greed would overcome patriotism.

‘You would prefer Constanta?’

‘Most certainly.’

The response was a shrug of supposed indifference. ‘My ship can dock anywhere. I will send instructions to move to Constanta and we will load there.’

‘Good!’ The folder was slipped across the table. ‘Here is a list of what we have. It is probably best if I leave you in peace to consider what you want and don’t want. I take it you have a pen?’

‘Of course,’ Jardine replied, pulling a Mont Blanc Meisterstück from his inside pocket. He was with a man who knew quality when he saw it, evident in his look of admiration, with the owner playing another joke. ‘Bought it in Hamburg. Damn fine pen.’

‘Hamburg,’ Dimitrescu replied, his facial skin a trifle tight. ‘I do not know it.’

‘Neither do I, really, just paid a short visit. Bit windy for my taste.’

‘I will leave you to it.’ Jardine thanked him, then promised himself no more guying: the bugger might join the dots. ‘You have details of your bank?’

That was passed over and Dimitrescu exited. Opening the folder he perused the list, and it was obvious his colonel was telling the truth about this, at least. It was a real hotchpotch of weapons: French, Russian, some old Austrian pre-Great War pieces, but there were Maxim
guns and, in reality, a rifle was a rifle; they had not changed much in fifty years, except the Mannlichers had clips while most were bolt action. There were French 6.5 mm Daudeteaus and M75s, plus eighty-odd Lee-Enfields. Also listed were mortars that he wanted, and some
small-calibre
field guns, which he struck off, but in the main the list conformed to what Zaharoff had shown him.

The fountain pen was used to put a price beside each set of items, including the required ammunition, the whole totted up to a low total which he knew Dimitrescu would try to negotiate upwards, opening with an outrageous value, this being a country where bargaining was part of the fabric. So the arguments would be, unless he cut them short, long and boring. Sure he had the means to curtail matters, he rang the bell and his man re-entered with his bank details, which were handed back before he resumed his seat.

‘I have had the manager send a telegram to Zurich, if that is acceptable, just to check the account exists.’

‘Essential I would say, wouldn’t you?’

‘So?’ he asked, nodding to the folder, once again closed, assuming there was no need to wait for a reply.

‘I think we can very much do business, Colonel Dimitrescu.’ Then Jardine made a big play of looking around the office. ‘But I think when we do, the price I pay should reflect the unusual nature of our surroundings, don’t you?’

‘I have already explained—’

Jardine cut him off, but with some gentility. ‘Please, Colonel, I am a man of the world and as long as I get
that which I seek I have no other concerns. I will deal with you in good faith, but I think it is obvious you are acting … how shall I say it? … at the very limits of your authority, perhaps.’

He was not one to surrender too easily. ‘I am acting as the representative of my nation.’

‘I was good enough to give to you the details of my banking facility. Would you be good enough to respond?’

‘It is too early for such a thing.’

Jardine was thinking,
good try, old cock, but not good enough
. Time for a little bit of a lie, so that Dimitrescu started operating to his timetable instead of the other way round. ‘As I told you, I called at the British embassy this morning. I established they are happy to arrange for me to see the Minister of War.’

‘You mentioned these weapons?’

‘Of course not. I said I was trying to sell some British products, and they were keen to aid me. A forged business card does wonders. Now, do we do business, or do I accept their offer?’

‘You are living very dangerously, Herr Jardine.’

‘I think we both are.’

‘It does not seem to occur to you that I am acting on the instructions of that very same minister.’

‘Then you have nothing to fear in me meeting him.’ Jardine leant forward. ‘Come, Colonel, I have no interest in what you are up to or who stands to gain from it, I am merely keen to get what I want for as little as I am required to pay, so that I can increase the profit I make when I sell it. It is business.’

Dimitrescu opened the folder and looked down the notes Jardine had made. There was no need to enquire if he had got to the total: his hiss of anger was too audible.