A Broken Land rtw-2

by Jack Ludlow

  Which made it all the harder to take seriously the walking syllabub that came out to greet him — Constantou-Georgiadis was not just short; he was all of five feet and shaped like a pear, with all his excess fat, and there was much of it, concentrated below his midriff, which made his walk a serious waddle. A pair of very thick-rimmed glasses set off his fleshy pasty face; this was a man who did not deserve his glamorous employee.

  ‘English I no speak,’ he said, in a way that made it sound as though he had spent all day rehearsing it.

  The relief on his fat face when Cal replied in perfect German was palpable, and the flabby hand he produced to shake had a grip like a dead fish. Next he rattled off something in Greek to his secretary, before indicating they should both go into his office, where Cal was invited to sit, while the Greek went to occupy a chair on the opposite side that seemed twice the size he needed.

  Cal had waited till this meeting to make up his mind as to what approach to use; he needed to form some view of whom he was dealing with — a sharp businessman or a mere front. Added to that, he was not in a position to negotiate the price he would have to pay — that would be decided by the seller, and so desperate was the Republic that it would cough up whatever was demanded.

  This looked to be a bit of a fly-blown outfit, certainly from the outside, a facade more than a place of genuine manufacture, especially with such a beauty in the outer office and such a contrast before him. He saw no point in beating about the bush, so decided to avoid small talk and get straight to the point.

  ‘I am in the market to buy a large quantity of arms and I believe you are in a position to help me do that.’

  Manousos Constantou-Georgiadis, whom Cal had now decided to think of as MCG, sat so still and looked so shocked it was as if someone had hit him with a club; that was until his lower lip moved soundlessly several times before finally he could speak. ‘I think you have made some mistake, mein Herr.’

  ‘No mistake; those who had told me of your contacts do not make errors.’

  ‘And who would these people be?’

  ‘I believe if I said that, before he died, Sir Basil Zaharoff told me of your associations, you would not deny it.’

  ‘I do not know Zaharoff.’

  ‘But you know of him, and more importantly, he knew all about you; for instance, that you have a major shareholder called Rheinmetall-Borsig.’

  ‘That is not hard to find out.’

  ‘The nature of the association is not one I think you would broadcast — indeed I am sure you would wish to keep that very discreet — so it would take a man who knew both the arms trade and where the bodies are buried to set me on a trail that leads to your office. An office attached to what? Not a factory that could produce much.’

  MCG stood up and waddled out of the door, returning with the cable that Cal had sent him and he had no doubt asked for, his face worried, looking at it as if it would provide either enlightenment or a route to credible evasion.

  ‘Then you are not an industrial designer?’

  ‘No, but I take it you are in the business of making a profit.’

  ‘A man does not go into business for any other reason.’

  ‘And if you were offered such a thing to an extreme degree, would it not be hard to resist? The client I represent has a difficulty of supply that is close to insurmountable. Any goods would have to be shipped without the usual documentation; for instance, there could be no End User Certificate and the whole matter would have to be so discreet as to be utterly and completely capable of being denied, and if not that, explained away.’

  MCG’s face was a picture; for all his features were too bloated to be interesting, Cal could almost see his mind working as his wetted lips were rubbed together. The glasses came off and went back on again, he sat forward in his chair, then pushed back, expelling air, which was all a bit excessive — if he was in the business, right at this moment there was only one client with those problems.

  ‘Rifles?’ he asked finally, a product easy to supply and relatively easy to both supply and ship with discretion.

  ‘Yes.’ Just as he began to look relieved, Cal added, ‘And automatic weapons, light and heavy machine guns, mortars, both fifty and eighty millimetre, anti-tank and anti-personnel mines, and if possible, some light field artillery and the requisite ammunition to last for twelve months of combat.’

  If he had had any blood in his face it would have drained out, Cal thought, as he reached into his pocket.

  ‘Here is a list of the equipment I would like. In terms of quantity there is no limit, it is more what is able to be supplied, and I will undertake to ship from any port you name. I would, of course, be disappointed not to have the holds of that vessel full. As to payment, that will be made in gold to you and you must pay your principal, though I assume he will set the price.’

  MCG’s hand was shaking as he leant over and took the paper; if there had ever been any doubt as to where this was to be acquired, this inventory of the weapons removed that. Not only was their description listed, but also the names and numbers designated by the Wehrmacht.

  ‘I will be staying at the Grande Bretagne. How long do you think it will be before you can provide me with an answer?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he suggested weakly.

  ‘Good. Perhaps you will join me at the hotel for dinner and, if you wish, you may bring along your secretary for company.’

  ‘She is not my secretary, mein Herr, she is my wife.’

  Christ, Cal thought, I must be getting old. Did I miss the ring?

  There was no chance to check on that on the way out, though he did try; he was escorted by MCG and his missus had her hands behind the typewriter.

  There being no point in hanging about in the hotel, he had a chance to do a bit of sightseeing, naturally the Acropolis and the Parthenon, then the Temple of Olympian Zeus, where he was given to wonder at what the god would have to say about his games having been played in Berlin. He probably liked Plato, so he would approve, for if ever there was a proto-fascist it was the great Greek philosopher who so admired Sparta. If not, he would have cheered from the heavens for the feats of the black athlete Jesse Owens.

  When he returned to the Grande Bretagne there was a message for Mr Moncrief at the desk, from MCG, which asked him to telephone. Put through, the call was answered by the unlikely Mrs MCG, who had a voice on the phone as silky as her stockings, albeit he could not understand a word she said, this while Cal tried to imagine the pair in bed, a congress so improbable he had to shake his head. Then he was put through.

  ‘Herr Moncrief. I have been in touch with my principal and I have received from him permission to enter into discussions.’

  ‘The first would be regarding quantities. Without that satisfied, the rest would be pointless.’

  ‘I have been assured that there is sufficient produce to meet any needs you may have.’

  ‘Then the invitation to dinner stands.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Moncrief, but is that your real name?’

  Fishing, you fat little slob, but no doubt on instructions.

  ‘It is the name on my passport, which I am happy to show to you.’

  The silence at the end was telling; he did not believe him and why should he? This was not a trade at all — especially the one under discussion — for newcomers and amateurs. The real question was whether the Greek had the means to enquire and then the kind of sources of information to ferret out anything revealing. Never having been active in Greece, it was a reasonable assumption that he did not.

  ‘Besides, I could be anyone. What matters is that I have the means to pay. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how many will we be?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  As he put the phone down he had a flash of memory and it was of a smiling Florencia, whose photograph lay in his suitcase. Alive, had he harboured the thoughts he was enjoying now, she would have goug
ed his eyes out. But she was not, and he knew, if she could speak from beyond the grave, she would be willing him to have a full life, but he did not entirely let himself off the hook.

  ‘God, you’re a callous bastard, Jardine,’ he said out loud.

  If they were improbable in his imagination, they were no better arm in arm. Cal was waiting to greet them at the hotel entrance, a courtesy he would not have extended for MCG if he had come on his own, and he certainly would not have lifted and kissed his hand as he did now hers, speaking in French, noting the gold band she wore, as well as a fairly substantial diamond engagement ring to accompany it.

  The hand was elegant, with long fingers and painted nails, and proximity gave him a whiff of a very alluring perfume, before he was granted, as he lifted his head, another ravishing smile, while out of the corner of his eye he sought to see if her husband was annoyed. It was as if he did not even notice, seemingly too busy looking around at the well-appointed entrance, only moving when Cal did, following him through the held-open doors and into the lobby.

  ‘Your wife speaks German?’

  ‘No, only Greek, so we can discuss matters without her interference.’

  ‘Is that not a strange word to use?’

  ‘Women,’ he spluttered, ‘they do not know their place.’

  He so nearly said, ‘I hope so,’ but stopped himself just in time, registering that if fatty had been fearful yesterday he was not that now; if anything he was being brusque, and that did nothing to make Cal feel they were going to have a pleasant evening.

  Having chosen a private room, one with a view of the Acropolis in the moonlight, he had asked that it be provided with lots of flowers; it might be a serious business meeting but he wanted to impress her, which was not going to be easy given he had no idea of her name. In truth, he reckoned he was deluding himself, but it was pleasant to do so and added some interest to what was otherwise likely to be tedious.

  The champagne he had ordered was already opened and the waiter poured three glasses as soon as they sat, the mood immediately spoilt by MCG snapping something at his wife, which brought from her a look of fury. In Greek, it might have been incomprehensible but for the way she downed the wine then glared at him. Clearly he was telling her not to drink too much, so Cal signalled for her glass to be refilled.

  ‘To business,’ he said as he turned to MCG, forcing his attention away from his wife.

  ‘My principal doubts you will meet his terms.’

  ‘I will answer that when you tell me what they are and what I am paying for.’

  As MGC took a typed list from his pocket and passed it over, his eyes swivelled to his wife, who was having a third refill, which caused him to frown — clearly she liked a drink — but attention had to be paid to the business and Cal could not fault what he was being offered, for it was a gunrunner’s dream. Everything he wanted and lots of it: 20 mm Flak cannons, Pak 36 anti-tank guns, MG 32 machine guns, machine pistols, Walther PP pistols and K98 rifles, all with ammunition and spares.

  ‘The price?’

  ‘Forty million Reichsmarks.’

  It was hard not to blink; at the very roughest guess that was at least twice what the price should be, but he had to smile and make light of it.

  ‘I am glad to see we are no longer pretending where these are coming from. Are you sure they can be delivered?’

  ‘Herr Moncrief, you would not have come to me unless you knew more than I would wish, therefore I doubt you will need to guess at the power of the person who has agreed that what you have in your hand can be supplied. I, however, need to be sure you can pay.’

  ‘Shall we order some food? If we do not, I think your wife risks spoiling her appetite.’

  ‘You mentioned payment in gold. Is that here in Athens?’

  ‘Not yet, but I do not see a problem, yet I must, as you understand, refer back to the source of funds and get their agreement to the price.’

  ‘I do not think they have a choice.’

  ‘There is always a choice, but I think they will accept.’

  ‘Elena!’

  The bark made MCG’s cheeks wobble, but there was no mistaking the fury in the eyes and it got the same response as his earlier admonishment: she simply drained her glass, and that acted like a red rag. What followed was a furious exchange in Greek, not one word of which Cal understood, but he had engaged in enough marital quarrels of his own to be able to discern the gist.

  She liked to drink, while he had not even touched his champagne, which indicated that she was a boozer and he was not. Good manners should have kept this under wraps, perhaps in a public space he would have been more circumspect, but with neither of those constraints present, he went right off the deep end and was fully matched in response. For all she was a beauty, Elena also had the ability to look like a very angry crow with a voice to match.

  The waiter had disappeared, Cal did not know why, but he had left the bottle in an ice bucket beside the table, which she grabbed by the neck and it looked as though she was about to crown her old man. That she did not was insufficient to calm him down and it was pretty obvious why — the damn thing was empty, which meant, they having had one glass each, she had drunk at least four. Then the waiter came in with another bottle — which Elena must have asked for — and things really took off.

  Cal had to sit back; she still had that bottle in her hand and she looked like she was capable of using it on anyone. He had to admire the waiter, who, with what amounted to a full-blooded screaming match in progress, proceeded with his task — perhaps such screaming matches were common in Greece — the loud plop of the cork being ejected, that worldwide sign of celebration, just throwing fuel on an inferno.

  MCG stood up and so did she, towering over him, which would have reduced Cal to tears of mirth if he had not worked so hard to keep his face straight; he needed this little twerp badly and, reluctantly, he would take his side if called upon to do so. Just then MCG smashed his fist on the table, spat out a final declaration and stormed out of the room. With a triumphant look, Elena sat down and calmly signalled for her glass to be filled.

  With muttered ‘excuse me’s’ Cal went out after him, to find him outside shaking with fury, literally like a jelly, his fists clenched and threatening the heavens with a punch. Sighting Cal, it was clear he had to fight to calm himself and it took several seconds. With a great effort he stilled his wobbly body and said, in a strained voice, ‘I must leave, Herr Moncrief, but I ask for your indulgence.’

  ‘My dear chap,’ Cal said, lamely.

  ‘As you will have seen, my wife and I do not see eye to eye. I have asked her to leave with me, and she has refused. I cannot stay, so I will await your response to what I have proposed to you until you are ready. I thank you for the invitation and apologise for spoiling your evening.’

  ‘But your wife?’

  ‘Let her have her food …’ his voice rose a fraction ‘… and her drinks. Please oblige me by putting her in a taxi when she has had enough.’

  ‘But-’

  His voice was almost pleading. ‘Please? Oblige me in this.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I shall go to my club tonight. I do not think I could spend tonight under the same roof as her.’

  Cal was wondering if this little tub knew the expression ‘all is fair in love and war’.

  ‘Whatever you wish.’

  He returned to another dazzling smile, to a woman who behaved as if nothing untoward had happened, and as well as that there was a bit of a look in her eye that was nothing less than a come-on. Seduction without words is hard but not impossible, and a willingness on both parts eases those inevitable moments of confusion.

  MCG was right, his wife did not speak German, but she had maybe two dozen words of English and a few in French. So they ate slowly, they drank wine — in her case somewhat too quickly — and they stumbled through the steps that led inevitably to his room, where, once inside, conversation became redundant.

 
He did, as promised, put her in a taxi, outside that same magnificent entrance, but the sky was a dull morning grey at the time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next weeks were a whirl of travel and activity, checking with Peter Lanchester in London that what he needed would be in place, dealing with the Greek to ensure both the terms of supply and the transfer of the money, once he had seen it shifted to a bank in Athens, none of that made any easier by events in Spain itself.

  As for the war, the Republic was still mostly on the defensive. Franco had again failed to take Madrid in the first months of the year, while the last bastion of Republican resistance in the north-west, the Basque region, was under severe pressure from General Mola, who with the help of the German Condor Legion had ushered in a new phase with the bombing and utter destruction of the small town of Guernica, an act which shocked the world when news of the true number of deaths began to emerge.

  For all the international protests it had another effect: it showed the power of aerial bombardment on built-up areas and brought home to many in the democracies what they might face should they engage in another war — in short, it strengthened the hand of the politicians keeping up the pretence of non-intervention, who could now ask those more bellicose if they were prepared to see their own cities reduced to rubble.

  Regular Italian troops, in an operation sanctioned personally by Mussolini, with massed tanks, artillery and air support, had sought to capture the Guadalajara mountains which rose to the north of Madrid, their tactical aim to gain the heights and so roll down on the capital in conjunction with the Nationalists. It failed, with the Italians suffering heavy losses, not that the International Brigades fared any better.

  Franco was not winning, but neither was he losing, yet when Cal Jardine got back to Barcelona, it was impossible to find a voice of the Republican side that even thought of stopping fighting; the problem was not a desire to go on, it was internal.