Jack Ludlow - A Broken Land

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 gouged 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.