Jack Ludlow - A Broken Land

‘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.