by Jack Ludlow
It was obvious matters had been seething uncomfortably since the death of Juan Luis Laporta, he being something of a local hero — there had even been a group set up to commemorate his name — with accusations flying about that he had been deliberately killed by his political foes, but that only poured oil onto the fires of endemic disputes that had raged for years.
On a hot day in May it came to a head when open conflict broke out in Barcelona between the anarchists and the communists. The latter, using their well-tried-and-trusted methods, had infiltrated and taken control of the Assault Guards in Barcelona too. This paramilitary body had grown in power, encouraged to do so by the Catalan government as a counter to the workers’ militias who, since the generals’ attempt to seize power, had policed the streets while ignoring not only orders to disperse, but any decree with which they did not agree.
The spark was an attempt, robustly repulsed, to try and take over the vital main telephone exchange, the very same building that Cal Jardine had helped to capture the previous July. Despite their superior weaponry, the Assault Guard found the workers impossible to dislodge.
The tocsin was sounded in the ranks of both the CNT-FAI and the POUM. Their members, with their weapons, poured onto the streets to do battle. It was an indication of how the power of the communists had increased in less than a year — they had been something of a fringe party in Barcelona before — now they had numbers and could contest those streets that had seen the regular army defeated.
Given the turmoil, getting a decision on such a vital matter had to be put on hold; Andreu Nin, Cal’s main contact, was heavily embroiled in the fighting, for the very good reason that his party was still most at risk, while Garcia Oliver, who had been despatched from Valencia to try and bring peace to the city, was weighed down by endless meetings and stormy negotiations.
These attempts were not aided by the rhetoric on both sides; the communists wheeled out their most potent propaganda weapon, Dolores Ibarruri, known as La Pasionaria, the woman who had coined the famous slogan during the battle for Madrid, ?No pasaran! Her views were outre and delivered with bile. They also lacked any grip on the truth, but that mattered less than that there were fools who believed what nonsense she spouted, which was that the internecine conflict was an anarcho-Trotskyist plot engineered on the orders of General Franco.
The counterclaims had more validity and went right to the heart of that in which Cal Jardine was involved, the fact that the Republican government was falling increasingly under communist control, politically, to add to their lock on military action. The workers’ leaders were at pains to ensure their followers were not fooled by the lack of openly communist ministers — that was how the Stalinists operated: in the shadows, like rodents.
What brought matters to a peaceful compromise was not the endless talk, but raw military power, the arrival in the city of ten thousand heavily armed Assault Guards, enough men to drive any other force from the streets and with orders to show no mercy. That allowed Garcia Oliver to knock heads together, though Andreu Nin, when he finally met with Callum Jardine, saw the eventual peace agreement as an outright defeat.
Able to communicate now without the need for an intermediary, Cal found the POUM leader resigned to his fate: Moscow would insist on the banning of his organisation and what would happen to him personally would be, he had no doubt, unpleasant. The notion that he should flee the country, a wise one, was politely declined.
‘That would play into Stalin’s hands, Senor Jardine.’
‘Better that than Stalin’s victim.’
‘They are so skilled at lies, these Bolsheviks, I would be shown as a pawn of Franco, and as for my life, well, Trotsky was not safe from the ice pick that smashed his skull in Mexico.’
It was hard, looking at the scholarly Nin, to see him as heroic, he physically just did not fit the bill, yet he had a stoicism about his possible death that was very Spanish; if he was to be shot, he would face it with equanimity. But when it came to the most important point, he was no longer in a position to act to facilitate matters; his influence was now zero.
‘Use Garcia Oliver.’
‘You trust a man who you believe has just thrown you and your people to the wolves?’
‘I have no choice, senor, and neither do you if you wish to proceed with your plans.’
He did not like Garcia Oliver and it was clear the feeling was mutual; it was not just lack of a spark of geniality, it was the feeling that, if things went wrong, here was a man who would somehow slip out of trouble while leaving Cal Jardine to face the consequences, very much like he had dealt with Nin.
The politician’s instructions were to go to Valencia and wait until he had secured everything in Barcelona. Only then could he make an approach to Caballero, who would need to involve others now — he could not just send millions in gold out of the country on his own signature, though he would still keep it secret from the communists.
No sooner had he arrived than all his plans were thrown into turmoil when Largo Caballero resigned and was replaced by the one-time finance minister, and there was a new minister of war, Indalecio Prieto. Obliged to kick his heels for two weeks in Valencia, he found a room at the Hotel de Los Altos, a famous seaside spa hotel overlooking the Mediterranean, which had once been a favourite haunt of the European rich.
That was where Alverson found him and was able to bring him up to date on the politics, more than he had been able to glean from the newspapers and their screaming headlines that said the communists had got their way: the POUM had been disbanded, the offices and funds seized, their leaders arrested.
‘Then slung,’ Alverson added, gloomily, ‘into a communist-run jail right in the heart of Madrid, and guess who’s running it?’
‘Who?’
‘That Drecker guy you so love.’
‘Is that a move up or down?’
‘Definitely up.’
‘Would you do me a favour, Tyler, and keep tabs on him?’
‘Why?’
‘His career interests me,’ Cal replied gnomically.
The American shrugged. ‘Whatever, but what about my scoop?’
Hungry for information on the progress of the arms buy, the American had to be content only with a part of the story; the arrest of Nin and his comrades made more insecure what was already a dangerously exposed position. He did tell Alverson that he had access to what was needed, but not the where and the how.
‘So what about the when?’ he demanded.
‘It’s not in my hands, Tyler, and if they don’t get a move on, the deal I have arranged will fall through.’
‘And the how much?’ Alverson whistled when he was told; even he knew that was way over the going rate.
‘Still, I guess they’re used to it, Cal, even the Soviets are bilking them, big time, I hear. They have a real sweetheart deal: every time they despatch anything, they just take the Republic’s gold out of their bank to pay for it.’
It was another week of thumb-twiddling before a message came from the new minister for war, asking for a meeting and giving an address which was not an official one, which meant a taxi to the main railway station, a wait and a check there was no tail, then another to the address. Prieto, a much more pleasant man with whom to deal, was keen that things should proceed and was there with a representative of the Spanish Central Bank, who could tell Cal the necessary gold had been shipped to Athens and was in a vault there under the control of the Republican ambassador.
It was necessary to agree certain codes and procedures, as well as settle some queries. The ambassador only had the right to make the payment; any communication with the Republican government had to be through him and it was essential that he was kept informed at every stage of the deal. Cal was relieved — Peter Lanchester would not be needed.
Yet the new man had his own ideas: would it be acceptable if the payment were released only when the vessel in which it was being carried cleared German territorial waters? Cal was of the opinion the
best they could hope for was completion on it slipping its berth — not ideal, but better than paying for it prior to loading.
‘My impression is that this is a trade they will want to repeat.’ And why not, he thought, given the profit margin? ‘So, they will not endanger the transaction by playing games.’
‘I can guess why they are doing this, but why are you doing this, Senor Jardine?’ Prieto asked, dropping his pleasant manner.
The Spanish bank official had the good grace to look embarrassed at the question, yet he too must have wondered why a non-Iberian was giving so much time and effort to aiding the Republic.
‘Garcia Oliver told me you have never mentioned a fee. Perhaps your payment is in the price you have given to us?’
It would have been easy to agree, to say yes, and to these men it would have made sense. That it was for the memory of Florencia he would keep to himself, for that would sound too sentimental, but given he did not like to be challenged in this way, it was much more to his taste to provide an answer that would do nothing to lessen any suspicions, so he said,
‘You’ll never know, will you? Now, if we are concluded here, I have to get back to Athens.’
MCG was not content to be told there was gold in the bank, he required to see it, and it had the same effect on him as any other human being, and Jardine knew that he was not immune to its allure either. It rested deep in the vaults of the Attica Bank, chosen for it being a relative newcomer to the Greek financial sector and eager for business in a country not overfriendly to Spain.
The sturdy boxes containing the ingots had been opened for inspection, and even in artificial light the precious metal had a shiny lustre that drew both the eye and the need to touch its cold surface. Looking at the Greek’s face as he wetted his lips with anticipation, it was interesting to speculate how much of this prize would stick to his stubby little mitts. As his index finger stroked the mark of the Spanish mint, he gave an involuntary shudder.
Next they went to the boardroom, happily lent to them by a bank extracting a healthy fee for merely transferring the funds from one account to another with the required degree of discretion. Here the documents of sale were laid out, the formal contracts that he would take away for his scrutiny and the ambassadorial signature, one copy in German, the other in Spanish. It was while Cal was looking at them that MCG dropped his bombshell.
‘It has proved impossible to move your goods without an End User Certificate, Herr Moncrief. Even in normal times that is a difficulty, but with the amount of international scrutiny at present it is too dangerous.’
‘When did this come up?’ Cal demanded, suspecting he was about to be asked for more money.
‘Immediately the transaction was considered by those who advise my principal.’
That meant there was a lawyer involved, maybe more than one, which was not good for security.
‘In this,’ MCG continued, ‘no one must be drawn into an international outcry. Merely shipping the goods without an EUC might do that — raise questions that would be embarrassing to have to deal with.’
Translated, that meant queries as to who had gained financially from the deal; not even someone as powerful as Hermann Goring could explain away the pocketing of payments that Cal suspected would never find their way into the coffers of the German finance ministry.
And if the Spanish Nationalists found out he was facilitating supplies to their foes, it would certainly get them going, albeit they would not make an excessive amount of fuss — they depended on the Nazis for too much — but they might just drop the kind of hints to Goring’s rivals that would trigger an investigation.
The bloated little Greek had a strange look on his face — not a smile or a smirk — but one that not only hinted at his having the upper hand, but a deep degree of pleasure in being in that position.
‘Difficult as it would be to accept, it is sometimes better to forgo a transaction than carry one through that throws up last-minute complications. It is to be hoped that you have a solution and one that does not affect the price.’
The message was plain and Jardine was sure the little bastard had got it: no more money, maybe none at all, and this for a man who had near-wet himself by just touching a gold bar. The pause was long, the hope that this British arms dealer, who must be making his own pile, might crack, one that fell on stony ground. The tub of lard was obliged to give in, which he did with a dismissive wave, as if it had never been a problem.
‘Fortunately there is a way out of this impasse. I am friendly with a man who has the power to provide a solution. The certificate will say that the arms are being shipped to equip the Greek National Army. I think, given the political situation, no one will question the need.’
‘And that man is?’
‘Herr Moncrief!’ MCG cried, to what was an absurd question.
Cal was thinking, did it matter? It was another link in a chain of people, and the more of those there were, the more likely information about the shipment and its destination could leak out, and he had no great faith in the highly voluble Greeks keeping a secret. But he soon realised he would just have to live with it, unpleasant as it was.
Did this little sod understand that the coast of Spain was blockaded and any illegal shipment would have to run the gauntlet, not only of Italian submarines who would sink them on sight if they had knowledge of the cargo and its destination, but also British warships, enforcing that democratic joke, the Non-Intervention Treaty? In a decade of doing clandestine deals this one had way too many people in the know, all of whom would drop him like a hot brick if exposure threatened.
Yet he was too close to completion to back away and there was also the knowledge that, on paper, this transaction was impossible. Maybe Sir Basil Zaharoff in his prime could have pulled it off, and there was, too, a slight glow in the thought that the old man would probably have entrusted the information he had passed over to very few people, indeed, he might be the only one.
Callum Jardine still had to make his way in his world, and if the deal needed to be kept secret now, these things had a way of filtering out to the wider arms-dealing community over time and his name would gain in reputation — if he was not making a money profit on this, it might translate into a healthy stream of income in the future.
He nodded and smiled, which made MCG smile too, and so pleased was he that a small and noisy joining of his hands in front of his snub nose was the result. Cal picked up the documents and transferred them to his attache case.
‘The meeting for the handover will take place here. I will cable the ambassador and I am sure you too will be informed that the contract has got to the point of finalising the payment.’
A nod.
‘I will, of course, oversee the actual purchase, the transportation to the docks and the loading, at which point I will telephone to the Attica Bank and give them a code word which we have agreed between us. They will then put the ambassador on the phone for completion. Is that satisfactory?’
‘Very satisfactory, Herr Moncrief. I must ask, how long has it been since you were in Germany?’
That made Cal Jardine stiffen, it being the kind of question that might have unpleasant undertones. His last departure, not that long past, had been a close-run thing and he knew there were people in Germany who would dearly love to get him in a cell with a couple of rubber truncheons in their hands and some bare electrical wiring. Yet looking at MCG and his bland expression, it seemed as if the question was an innocent one.
‘Quite some time, but it is a country I am fond of.’
‘You will find it much changed, Herr Moncrief, and for the better. I feel we could do with a dose of what the Fuhrer has done in Germany here in Greece, particularly the way he has dealt with the communists.’
Not wanting to go there, Cal decided to change the subject. ‘I forgot to ask you, Herr Constantou-Georgiadis, how is your lovely wife?’
MCG looked as if he had just been slapped, and as much as it was possible for the skin
of his face to tighten it did just that. Did he know what had happened that night he stormed out of the Grande Bretagne?
‘My wife,’ he hissed, ‘is where she should be, mein Herr, looking after my affairs.’
‘She’s very good at looking after affairs, I should think.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The train north was the Arlberg Orient Express, direct from Athens through Belgrade, Bucharest, then, after a change at Vienna, the journey north through Czechoslovakia to Germany and Berlin, where, once over the border, he was subjected to the usual continual checking of papers en route that went with the thorough Teutonic bureaucracy that existed in a country with more uniform per square metre than anywhere else in the world.
He spent a night in the Adlon Hotel, luxurious and central, but reputedly not much loved by the Berlin Nazis, who preferred the Kaiserhof. Even then, having checked in as Herr Moncrief, he ate in his room and had a careful look round the following morning before exiting to hail a taxi to take him to catch the train to Celle in Lower Saxony.
With eighty million Germans, the chances of running into anyone who knew his face were so slight as to be non-existent, but he had always been of the opinion that it would be a stupid mistake to ignore the risk, because you would feel a damn fool if it went wrong, and in his case, in this country, it could prove fatal.
Celle was a pretty place, very conscious of itself, once part of the electorate of Hanover which had produced the Georgian kings of England — a fact that was immediately mentioned to him as he checked into the Furstenhof Hotel and they saw his British passport. Provincial in the extreme, it was miles away in time and thinking from Berlin, sharing only the very recognisable features of the totalitarian state: the ubiquitous swastika flags and banners, the exhorting posters, as well as the loudspeakers on lampposts and buildings which would play martial music as well as deliver messages from the propaganda ministry, just in case the populace did not know how great their country was.
