Jack Ludlow - The Burning Sky

Mentally, as he always did, Jardine was imagining ways to leave the country; while what he was involved in carried none of the dangers of Hamburg, the arms trade was inherently risky, peopled by shadowy types in whom it would be foolish to repose any trust. In reality there was only one way to move speedily and that was by car — public air travel was non-existent in this part of the world and the trains were too obvious.

Walking aimlessly, seeking to imprint the place on his mind, he and Vince came across a crowded flea market down by the Dambovita river, a sluggish and ugly watercourse, and there he bought a couple of flat caps and two old sets of overalls, which went into a battered old suitcase. His next task was to find a second-hand car.

They took a tram along one of the main boulevards leading to the suburbs, and sure enough, as the road left the quarter of big shops and offices, the businesses became smaller and more diverse. Vince spotted a forecourt of dust-covered cars and what followed was a farcical piece of haggling that went on for an hour and ended up with Jardine, thanks to Vince’s inherited Italian skills, paying less than half the opening price demanded.

‘How the British ever got an empire beats me,’ Vince said.

‘Easy, Vince, we just overpaid.’

‘A Citroen, old boy,’ Lanchester scoffed. ‘Could you not find anything British?’

‘The make doesn’t matter, Peter, what matters is that we have it, that it is full of petrol with spare cans and that we all know where it is parked. We’ve bought some maps too.’

‘’Cepting I can’t drive, guv,’ Vince said.

‘Then you have to learn on the job.’

That was too good to let by. ‘Steady on, old chap, we’re here to work?’

‘It’s not funny,’ Jardine snapped. ‘If we have to press the alarm button, it’s get out as quick as we can and make for the Czech border. Make sure you each have enough cash handy for bribes, in case passports are not enough.’

‘That comes under the heading of teaching your grandmother to suck eggs, old boy.’

‘Lorries?’ Jardine asked.

‘No one outfit is big enough for what we need so I will probably arrange for two or more to provide our transport once we are sure of what we require. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to report back to London.’

Jardine opened his door to make sure the corridor was clear: they should not be seen together and he had told his Rumanian contact where he was resident. ‘Now, Vince, tonight I am having dinner with this colonel. Take up a seat where you can see us together — I want you to know what he looks like.’

Colonel Dimitrescu was a handsome fellow, with olive skin and swept-back, thick, dark hair, a thin black moustache, well-dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. He reminded Jardine of the American film actor, Don Ameche. His handshake was dry and firm, while his dark-brown eyes looked steadily into those of the man greeting him.

‘Colonel.’

‘How is our mutual friend?’

‘Looking his years, I’m afraid, but his mind is as sharp as ever. Shall we eat, or would you care for an aperitif first?’

‘Perhaps a drink, yes. I have always found champagne the best, and since the hotel has a bar dedicated to that …’

‘Then let us go there.’

Dimitrescu wanted to examine him before committing to a dinner table, which left Jardine wondering how much he had found out, because Zaharoff would be discreet. The champagne bar was dark-panelled and hushed, with few clients, so a perfect place for them to quietly talk. With two glasses of Mumm in their hands they clinked them, eyes locked, his enquiring, Jardine’s without expression.

‘You are an interesting man, Herr Jardine.’

‘Am I?’

Dimitrescu nodded. ‘You cannot act as you do without leaving a trail and it is the business of colleagues of mine to pick that up. Certain activities in South America, for instance, and then there is Palestine.’ Jardine just nodded; there was no point in denying his previous gun-running exploits, but he was pleased at no mention of Hamburg. ‘These perhaps tell me the nature of what you are seeking help to do?’

‘They would indicate that, yes. I have been advised you are in a position to facilitate certain matters.’

‘Perhaps. It is too early to say.’

‘You are part of the War Ministry?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘And at present engaged in the procurement of certain items for your army?’

Dimitrescu smiled, which, being lopsided and showing very good teeth, made him look even more like the film actor, but it was a false expression: his eyes said he was not pleased. ‘That is supposed to be a secret.’

‘Please be assured I will tell no one, not even those I represent.’

‘And they are?’

‘Please, Colonel, you would not expect me to answer that.’ The Rumanian took a sip of his drink. ‘But if you were in the act of procuring certain items, that would surely mean they were replacements for equipment you already possess.’

‘And that interests you?’

Jardine nodded, which brought another smile, this time genuine, a sudden emptying of the glass, then, ‘Perhaps we could go to dinner now.’

Which was his way of saying ‘perhaps we can do business’. Silently they made their way through to the dining room: large, with a high ceiling, hung with several glittering chandeliers, the decor heavy and rather Edwardian. Conversation stayed off the subject until they had ordered and he was good at inconsequential talk, using it, like his host, to form an impression of the man with whom he was dealing.

‘As you will know, Herr Jardine, much of my poor country was occupied by the forces of the Triple Alliance during the Great War. To be under the thumb of the Austro-Hungarian Empire once more was terrible, but to let those shits of Bulgars into our fair land was an unparalleled crime …’

Cal Jardine was no prude — he could curse with the best of them — but the use of the word ‘shit’ and the vehemence of its use surprised him, coming as it did from such an urbane source. In the luggage he had brought to Victoria Station had been a Baedeker and several books on the country, second-hand jobs he had found in Charing Cross Road, so he knew of what the colonel spoke. A search of The Times newspapers at the London Library, with issues going back to before Rumania was a country, had told him just as much about the history and events since the end of the war.

Anthony Hope’s fictional Ruritania of The Prisoner of Zenda had nothing on the place, with a king, Queen Victoria’s grandson, sitting on the throne who had married once against the law, had that annulled, got wedded properly next to a Greek princess, only to come a cropper with a famous courtesan called Magda Lupescu, the pair of them scandalising Europe by their shenanigans. He had renounced his throne in favour of his son by the Greek, then came storming back to overturn and retake his crown, this before he started interfering with the government of the country and causing more problems than he solved.

Though The Times was careful, it was obvious that to fall out of favour with those in power was as deadly here as in Germany. Arrest was without habeas corpus and the old rubric of attempted escape was used to see off opponents of the regime, and there were many, particularly an outfit called the Iron Guard, violent and virulently anti-Semitic, which had already assassinated one prime minister and, more recently, a minister of the interior. Dimitrescu was still speaking and Jardine had to force himself to concentrate.

‘… so what we have existed with these last years is an armoury made up of many weapons from many different sources. Naturally that means many different types of ammunition are required to be stocked.’