The Burning Sky

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘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.’

  ‘Too late to load my ship that day, really.’

  ‘Unfortunately yes, I imagin
e.’

  There is a look people employ when they are telling you what Vince would call a ‘porky’. It’s a little too engaged for what they are saying, a bit too keen that you should agree, and Dimitrescu had it on his face now. The slowness of the train journey suited him.

  ‘Still,’ Jardine replied breezily, ‘that will give us ample time to conclude the transfer of funds, and I think another night in Bucharest would be preferable to staying in Constanta. I will make my way there early in the morning.’

  ‘You will be travelling by …?’

  ‘Train, how else?’

  He shrugged. ‘I would offer you my car, but there is a ceremony I must attend.’

  ‘I understand, Colonel, but the train will be fine.’

  Throughout the yard, freight was being moved. As they were walking back, a rather imperious fellow in uniform stopped them crossing a track in front of a line of wagons, Jardine indicating to an irritated Dimitrescu that it was of no matter. With the colonel furiously looking at his watch, the official checked off the last of the wagons on a manifest he had on his clipboard, then walked past them with the superior air a functionary adopts when going about his duties before watching eyes.

  There was a steam engine huffing and puffing a little way off and he blew a whistle before going to a long metal lever, which he hauled hard on to change the points, this as the engine was backing up, its wheels screeching as it went through on to the correct line. It slid up to the line of wagons, made noisy and juddering contact with the hydraulic buffers, then a footplateman jumped down to make the necessary connections. The clipboard was passed up to the driver, who scribbled a signature and got a nod, no doubt permission to set off.

  Dimitrescu, his dignity deeply offended, started abusing the freight dispatcher and the fellow responded with a stream of invective. Jardine and Vince were witness to an example of Rumanian democracy in action as they indulged in a furious and expletive-splattered exchange, with Vince gleefully translating what he was sure were the swear words.

  Back at the Athénée Palace, Dimitrescu got out of the car and, having given over the address of the bank in Constanta, shook hands with firm resolve. ‘We will meet there, say at ten of the clock. Till the day after tomorrow.’

  Jardine waved him off and went inside, but only long enough for him to get out of sight, fretting when Vince said he needed a pee. That taken care of it was off to the café and the phone, back on to Goldfarbeen and the double-taxi ride again. He had one very important question to ask the Jew and, security be damned, he would have to ring him at the hotel with the response.

  When he returned, he ran straight into ‘Reisner’ by the reception desk and apologised for the need to turn him down for dinner; Vince, following him in, was sharp enough to walk straight past the pair as though Jardine was a stranger.

  ‘I am departing very early in the morning, Herr Reisner, for Kladno. Some business has presented itself and I must prepare my proposals.’ Then he called to the desk clerk. ‘Please make up my bill for the morning and I will require an early taxi to take me to the Gara de Nord.’

  ‘Such a pity, I looking forward to trying more English.’

  ‘Then let us hope there is another time, Herr Reisner.’

  The smile was not in the eyes, they were narrow and had a trace of a glint, it was just the teeth. ‘Perhaps, Herr Jardine, perhaps.’

  By standing still, Jardine almost forced the German to go towards the lift, and as soon as he disappeared he went to talk to the concierge. In a first-class hotel he is a very important man and a well-paid one – it is another job you buy, not one you are given. He has to be the soul of discretion and the provider of goods and services of all natures to the well-heeled clients. He is also a fellow accustomed to strange requests; his job not to question but to provide, and often, even if what is requested might be on the borders of illegality, he will merely smile, accept the request and pocket the excessive payment he expects for compliance.

  Back in his suite Jardine was all business. ‘Vince, I am going to pack my bags and you do the same. Then go down, check out and clear your bill. I will come to your room later with my bags. You’d better eat, and phone Lanchester and tell him to do the same, so he’s ready to check out too. When my call comes from Goldfarbeen you will take both your luggage and mine out of here and collect him. I will go to the car and meet you there.’

  When Vince departed he called down to reception for a local road map and asked the time of the Prague train. The city, being built late in the last century, was dissected with long, straight roads, very much like Berlin, so working out his route was easier than expected. To keep up appearances he dressed for an early dinner and went down to the restaurant, making straight for the table of ‘Reisner’, who was eating at a German, not a Rumanian hour.

  ‘You have decided not to dine out after all, Herr Reisner? That gives you one last chance to test your English.’

  ‘You are your tasks finished so soon?’

  ‘I have some time in the morning, having got the time of the train wrong.’

  ‘I wondered when you said you leaving early morning, to go to Kladno you must Prague pass through, which is, of course, on the line to Berlin.’

  ‘Silly of me; now, why don’t I buy us a very good bottle of Sekt?’

  ‘Is something to celebrate?’

  ‘I am sure, when I get to my destination, I am going to do some very good and profitable business.’

  A signal brought over the sommelier and the wine was ordered. They had only just looked, sniffed and sipped, when the German said, ‘Is that boy calling your name?’

  ‘So he is; excuse me, I am expecting a telephone call.’

  That he took at reception and Goldfarbeen supplied the answer to the question he had asked, which made perfect sense. Next, he called Vince on the internal phone and told him to be prepared to get moving, ran up to his room, grabbed his cases and took them to Vince’s room, before dashing back to join his SS man, smiling broadly.

  ‘Matters are proceeding splendidly, Herr Reisner. Now, shall we order some food?’

  The man’s expression was so stiff it was waxwork-like. Cal Jardine then played a game he enjoyed; he loved nothing more than to take the rise out of an opponent. The way he talked to the German was such fun, for the SS man had to play along with his string of invention, he had no choice.

  ‘Time for my slumbers, I think. You know the word “slumber”, Herr Reisner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Another word for sleep; busy day tomorrow, so I must bid you gute Nacht.’

  The grin was rigid still: he knew he was being guyed. ‘Perhaps, Herr Jardine, we should say auf Wiedersehen.’

  The reply was cheery. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’

  Out of sight of the dining room, at reception, he paid his bill, then went back to the concierge desk to collect the package of items he had requested and to ask the man who ran it to take care of the tips he would not have time to disburse in the morning: chambermaids, the floor manager and the maître d’ in the restaurant. Naturally, the concierge was included, and generously, his discretion being essential. It was bad form to do otherwise, just as it was bad form to leave such an establishment without taking care of various staff, those who had seen to his needs.

  There was one other task: a pair of stamped and addressed envelopes, which were handed over, with instructions that they should be posted the following evening.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The only items left in his suite were his trench coat, his trilby and Colt Automatic. Those gathered, he slipped out and along to the service stairs, the door to which was opened and closed silently given there was always someone present on the floor of such prestigious accommodation, housing the really wealthy clients, who, when they desired attention, wanted it in seconds.

  The stairs took him down to the basement and out onto a loading bay, quiet at this time of night, staffed only by a single bored individual in a small bothy of an office. Jar
dine gave him a wave and put his finger to his lips, hoping the fellow would assume, seeing him dressed for dinner, he was perhaps an errant husband sneaking out, not an unknown event in such establishments.

  The alleyway was full of refuse bins, stinking in the warm weather, and he stayed close to those as he made his way to the junction with the well-lit boulevard that led into the vast plaza on which the hotel stood. He was not stupid enough to assume that ‘Reisner’ believed him; it was best to operate on the reverse and take precautions accordingly. His coat he put over one shoulder, which with his hat tipped to one side hid most of his face, then he went straight across the wide road, careful to avoid any screech of car brakes, it being a busy thoroughfare, and once on the opposite pavement he made his way round the counter corner to the other side of the plaza, where he hailed a trăsură.

  That he paid off a street away. Lanchester and Vince were sitting in the car, puffing away, so it was full of smoke. Jardine’s first act was to open the door and leave it so, letting the fug escape, as Peter Lanchester made what he thought was an important announcement. ‘I have just realised, old boy, seeing where the steering wheel is, that these blighters drive on the wrong side of the road.’

  ‘Then, Peter, it’s a wonder you haven’t been run over.’

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to drive, for if you do, I have to tell you, you are taking your life in your hands.’ Jardine had a moment of disbelief before he burst out laughing, soon followed by Vince, with Peter shouting, ‘What’s so bloody funny?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ll drive. Now, put those gaspers out before I choke.’

  He passed the package he had taken from the concierge over to Vince. ‘Torch, wire cutters and twine.’

  ‘Are we to be enlightened as to the purpose?’ Lanchester enquired.

  ‘I’m designing a midnight garden, Peter, for the Chelsea Flower Show.’

  The response was typically Peter Lanchester and flippant. ‘Too late in the year, don’t you know, but then you are such a prole, Cal, and are probably unaware of that.’