Jack Ludlow: A Broken Land

It had been a loose connection, recently strengthened by what had happened in Germany, Romania and Ethiopia, but he could not say, in any way, that he knew the man well. There had been hints of a job with British Intelligence in some capacity, but Cal had no idea if he was still employed or was, as he had hinted, on the scrap heap due to financial cutbacks brought on by government economies.

Lanchester had come to Hamburg the previous autumn to both warn and engage his old acquaintance, claiming to represent a group of wealthy or well-connected individuals who had combined to seek to put a check on the threat of fascism to Great Britain. But, apart from a couple of obvious names — and you could only speculate if he was telling the truth regarding those he had revealed — he had consistently declined to mention the identities of most of his backers.

That they had power had been proven by the way the task Peter had asked him to perform, as well as aided him to execute, had been both financed and facilitated; that it had been risky went without saying — the clandestine purchase and shipment of the weapons of war could never be anything else. In the process, Jardine’s opinion of Peter Lanchester, not terribly high to begin with, had risen several notches; he was not a fellow with whom he shared much in common in the political or moral line, but he was both brave and gifted.

‘So, apart from the love of my company, Peter, why this?’

‘Over there in the corner,’ Peter had whispered, ‘those three chaps, glowering at the world in general and at each other in particular.’

That was said with a nod past his guest’s shoulder; too experienced to jerk his head round, it was several moments before Cal Jardine had looked to where Lanchester indicated. The table had been as described, but there seemed to be something not quite right about the party, a stiffness that made conversation look difficult. The impression was fleeting — it had to be, because he could not stare — but it was visible that they were either earnestly engaged in serious discussion, or possibly in disagreement.

‘The one with his back to you is MI6,’ Lanchester had continued, idly casting his eye over the menu. ‘Name of Cecil Beeb, and the grey-haired chap is Douglas Jerrold, editor of the Catholic Review , a nitwit who thinks the sun shines right out of Oswald Mosley’s alimentary canal. He makes support of the Mail look tepid. Swarthy one is Luis Bolin, London correspondent of a Spanish newspaper, also, coincidentally, very anti the present Republican government.’

‘And?’

‘Would you not be interested in what they might be talking about, given where you are off to?’

‘I’m not as nosy as you, Peter.’

‘A little bird has let us know Senor March is up to no good in the Iberian Peninsula.’

Even if he had not wanted to be intrigued, Cal had been unable to help it. ‘Go on.’

‘We think there’s going to be a military revolt in Spain, seeking to topple the Popular Front government, and Juan March is helping to finance the generals leading it. Rumour has it he has piled in over fifteen million US dollars already, with more promised when the balloon goes up.’

It had been hard not to look impressed, indeed not to emit a soft whistle, that being a very serious amount of money, but, taking into account March’s background and those who constituted his enemies, the man’s action made a certain sense.

‘It was the Republic that sought to put him in jail,’ Cal had replied, ‘so he can’t love democracy much, but from what I know of Juan March, which I admit is limited and second-hand, making money is his prime concern. Mind, if he pays out that much to put the soldiers in power, he can name his fee if they succeed.’

Since being apprised of the commission from Monty Redfern he had quite naturally sought to recall what he knew of present-day Spain, a seriously troubled country racked by endless political infighting, not that such a thing was new — it had been going on for years. Industrial walkouts, agrarian uprisings from peasant labourers, a full-blown revolution in the mining region of the Asturias involving a bloody military put-down, the whole mixed with various regions seeking autonomy from Madrid.

Yet when Cal had read of such things as general strikes he had to remind himself that there had been that in the United Kingdom ten years previously while he had been in the Middle East — the difference with the Iberian model being that the peasantry tended to murder the landowners and vice versa, while the industrial workers used guns and the authorities everything including tanks, artillery and bombs to put them down.

‘We also have information March is shipping weapons and that he has been in contact with both Berlin and Rome about further supplies.’

‘And the “we” you represent don’t like it.’

‘Not a bit.’

‘While HMG?’

‘Is either ignorant, which is doubtful, or indifferent, which is likely. We are paying the price for not stopping Hitler in the Rhineland and Mussolini in Ethiopia, we’ve a dictator now in Portugal, as well as a string of rightist governments throughout Central Europe, and that can only get worse if Spain goes the same way.’

There had been the temptation to press, Lanchester having connections that put him in a position to know much of what went by the name of ‘official thinking’, but it would have been pointless; he was close-lipped on anything like that.

‘Has anyone bothered to tell Madrid of what you suspect?’

‘I should think everyone has, but they either don’t believe it or are very sure it is all talk and will not come to fruition. Besides which, they are always being bothered by false alarms regarding military revolts. General Sanjurjo, the chap they are talking about as being the titular leader of this one, tried it on four years ago and fell flat on his hidalgo face.’

‘They did put him in jail.’

‘Then let him out again!’ Peter had protested. ‘Why they didn’t just shoot the bugger when they had the chance escapes me.’

‘You must reckon this one more serious.’

‘We do, because it is more comprehensive and better organised and that may have been conveyed to the Spanish government. But they are, Cal, a race not traditionally known for rapid activity or cohesive action at any time, while their army, if you exclude the chaps in Morocco, are bloody useless.’

That was an area in which Cal Jardine did possess knowledge, it being necessary to his trade. Nothing hardens and trains troops like battle, the element that also creates an esprit de corps . The Spanish Army of Africa, which included a unit modelled on the French Foreign Legion, had been fighting Riff tribesmen for decades. They were hard and professional; the concomitant of that was a body of experienced field officers accustomed to leading soldiers in combat right up to and including men who were now senior Spanish generals.

‘They are not completely at the old siesta, mind,’ Lanchester had continued, as if reading his guest’s mind. ‘The government have sent the dangerous brass hats off to far-flung postings to put a block on them plotting. Chap called Franco, who is army chief of staff and considered very suspect and second only to Sanjurjo, they have exiled to the Canary Islands.’

‘That won’t stop them,’ Cal had insisted. ‘Ever heard of radios?’

‘Precisely.’

‘So,’ Cal had asked, with a very slight jerk of his head towards the trio of gloom. ‘Why the interest?’

‘Jerrold over there is a fanatic and has introduced Cecil Beeb to Bolin, a man funded by the money of Juan March, who, as you say, would be eager to return home and has a bottomless pit of lolly to play with. If certain key generals are going to revolt, the only way some of them can get to the mainland in time to be effective is by aeroplane — Franco particularly — which makes it doubly interesting when we see such people lunching with a chap who just happens to be both a virulent anti-communist and a qualified pilot.’