by Jack Ludlow
Alverson pulled a bottle of Johnnie Walker from his bag and handed it over. ‘Ernie says to have this, it cures everything, and to remind you that you are due to go hunting and fishing with him as soon as the war is over.’
‘Some pain in the ass, Tyler.’
‘Yep, but then you don’t compete with the big soft bastard.’
‘Thank him for me, for everything. Tell him I’d give him another medal if I had one.’
‘Look, I sent word to London, to Vince, and he got in contact with your wife.’
‘Who rushed to my bedside,’ Cal said bitterly, then regretted it. Lizzie hated blood, hated hospitals, and half the time probably hated him for all the grief he had caused her. The idea of a woman who jumped three feet when a balloon burst coming to a war zone was risible.
‘Vince told some guy called Peter Lanchester, who I am asked to cable to say you are out of the woods, but I figure that’s your call.’
‘Doctor says I can try getting out of bed tomorrow.’
‘What you should do is get out of Spain.’
‘And ruin your scoop?’
‘There will be others, Cal, and you …’ Alverson did not finish that, but there was no doubting what he felt; going after those weapons could see him killed ‘… well, it ain’t worth it.’
‘Tell me what’s happening, everything.’
‘You planning to go home?’
‘Just tell me,’ Cal replied, so impatiently it supplied an answer to the previous question.
The truth was, not a lot was happening on the original front; it was trenches on both sides before Madrid — with Cal opining that at least they had learnt — the Nationalists holding nearly all of the western suburbs but unable to advance; likewise the defenders, who had dug in where they had no other method and erected near-impenetrable barricades in the working-class districts.
The city was being bombed daily and life was getting harder. A Nationalist assault to the north, an attempt to get across the Corunna Road, had ended up with another set of International Brigades being thrown into a mincing machine, but the enemy casualties were nearly as bad, and given the appalling weather conditions, it was no surprise the battle had descended into a stalemate.
Germany and Italy having recognised Franco’s government the previous November, the Italians had sent ground troops in divisional strength, though they were billed as volunteers, and the supplies from the fascist dictators were pouring in through Portugal, despite a protest to the League of Nations. The democracies were still observing an embargo.
‘The talk is we are in for a long haul.’
‘Do Florencia’s parents know?’
‘No idea.’
‘I need a pen and paper, Tyler, that’s a letter I have to write.’
‘You got it. I will try to stay in touch, but if the front moves so must I.’
‘You forget, I always know how to find you.’
Writing his first letter was painful, a tacit admission that Florencia was no more, even if he knew it to be true. The reply came with a photograph of her on the day she had joined the Mujeres Libres, which for the first time produced tears, not many, it was not his way, but a reflection of the depth of his feelings of loss.
Replies came from other letters: from Lizzie, ordering him home, from Vince just wishing him well and from Peter Lanchester saying basically, but kindly, he had been asking for it and if there was anything he needed, etc. Monty Redfern, typically, offered to send a private ambulance all the way to Spain if he wanted one.
Recovery was slow, at first the mere act of walking a shuffling struggle, but as his strength began to return, Jardine began to exercise, gently at first, but with an incremental daily increase. The hospital he left as quickly as the doctor would allow, beds being at a premium, and he found a room in a house to rent, one abandoned by a supporter of the generals, though he did not ask if the family had got away or been shot, and it was there that Christmas passed and a new year arrived.
There was one other thing he could work on while he fought his way back to full physical fitness — his Spanish, which given he was surrounded by locals, began to seem competent, though he could never feel comfortable with the sibilant lisp, nor reach the degree of fluency he had with the French and German he had learnt as a child and youth.
Newspapers helped and it was from them, even this far from true civilisation, that he learnt in a week-old copy of The Times of the death of Sir Basil Zaharoff, which saddened him greatly. Naturally, he followed the course of the war, the battle in the winter snows in the mountains to the north-west of Madrid, as Franco tried to cut supplies to the city, again mostly a failure given it bled the Nationalists as much as the Republicans.
By the time Franco attacked and took Malaga he was running again, feeling no pain and ready to get back to what he saw now as a duty he owed to the memory of Florencia.
Barcelona was a city that, to a Briton, blossomed early, already in mid March full of flowers that, in the colour, seemed to mock the grey mood of the city, one that Cal Jardine had to fight in his own mind as certain vistas triggered painful memories. Unable to face his deceased lover’s parents, he made straight for the headquarters of the POUM in Las Ramblas.
Getting to see Andreu Nin, even if he was no longer apparently a member of the Catalan government, was never going to be easy, alone even harder, and the offices of his Workers’ Party were really the last place to talk with him — there were too many prying eyes — nor did he feel the telephone to be secure, even if the exchange which he had helped capture was still in anarchist hands.
So he dropped off a curt note, in Spanish, referring to their original meeting, hoping that the room number at the Ritz, as well as Florencia’s name, would trigger his memory and asking that he make contact, then went back to the upper floors of the now much-depleted Ritz to wait for what was really the answer to a simple question — did he still want that for which he had asked and was he still prepared to fund it?
The reply took two frustrating days in coming and the sender had no idea how close Jardine had come to repacking his bags and seeking a way home, for to be here, staying in a room decorated exactly like the one they had shared, was to be constantly reminded of Florencia, and that, with no one to talk to, was agony.
In the end Nin showed the same level of precaution as he did; there was no call from a downstairs desk to tell him he had a visitor, just a discreet knock on the door, which when opened produced a thick envelope which was pressed into his hand. Opening it, he was surprised that what had been written was in English, though not of a very good standard, and ran over several pages.
The POUM leader was at pains to stress that matters vis-a-vis the communists had not improved, indeed they had deteriorated, this not aided by interim attempts to buy arms on the open market, and the reason the package was so thick was quite simply that Nin wanted him to know of what had been attempted and what failure they had suffered.
At every step, those with whom they dealt, usually foreign industrialists with little sympathy for the cause they were being asked to supply, demanded massive prices as well as huge bribes, first to sell any weapons at all, then to pay off the necessary officials to provide the End User Certificates that would allow the arms to be shipped to the Republic, people the Spanish negotiators never got to meet.
What followed turned the mounting difficulties into a farce, as the foreigners stalled on delivery, changed the terms of the agreements — always at the Republic’s expense — then, when their goods finally arrived, they found them not to be what had been paid for and many were actually useless, while what could be employed was often dangerous.
Really he was telling Cal things he did not wish to know — they were finding out what he had told them, the arms trade was a dirty business — but he was obliged to read to get to the kernel of what was required. So he learnt that the Stalinists now controlled the Assault Guards, that their membership was nearing half a million and that their grip on the t
hroat of the Republic had increased.
It was at the end he got to the nub: Nin, despite the difficulties his party faced in falling numbers, had transferred the sum of money originally mentioned to the account named and he wished the process discussed to be put into operation. He asked no questions, so the need to explain the source to which he was proposing to go — bound to be a problem of persuasion — never arose.
Cal had not expected that — he had anticipated some form of dialogue, certainly a heated discussion, and he would have told Nin, had that occurred, the provision of funds was unnecessary; he would have financed the first part himself. Yet it was an indication of the truth of what he had written that he could not risk a meeting, which meant his every move was being watched.
It made no odds; if he had the POUM funds he would use them and his business in Barcelona was finished. It was time to find his Greek, and the first step in that was to get back down to the Barcelona dock area and see if the smugglers he had used before were still operating. They were, and prospering.
Yet departing the waters off Catalonia was a lot more circumspect this time than last; there was no burst of powerful marine engines and a cresting bow wave, they left the harbour with the engines no more than idling, the ship securely dark, as was the harbour behind, and Cal had been told in no uncertain terms that silence was essential as they cleared the dredged channel.
The threat came from Italian submarines patrolling off the coast, though they were obliged to stay well out in deep water off a coastline that was noted for the long, shallow and sandy shelf, but they did put out boats full of armed men to seek the smugglers close inshore. It was a long time before the man at the wheel half-opened the throttle to increase speed and take them out in the deep Med.
In the myriad calculations Cal had to make, this one struck home. He was a long way from even having to worry about getting what he might purchase into the Republican harbours, but there was one salient fact that was obvious — they could not come in a Spanish vessel and he would have to be careful about the kind of ship used.
Once out at sea, with the coastline a distant memory, the captain could at last get up real speed, and it was exhilarating on two counts: not just the salt spray and wind on his face, but the feeling of leaving something behind, of the opening of a new page and closing a book on what had just gone before.
From Marseilles, a cable went off to Peter Lanchester asking for a meeting in Paris, and when a positive reply came he took the train north, having pre-booked a room in the Hotel de Crillon, and that was where they met for dinner in the very formal and very grand restaurant Les Ambassadeurs, all gilt, a marble floor, mirrors and chandeliers in the style of Louis XV.
‘Bit pricey this, old boy,’ Lanchester said. ‘Now I know why you told me to bring my dinner jacket.’
‘It’s just your kind of place, Peter, you being a sort of courtier.’
‘Not sure I like that description, Cal, and I suspect all this grandeur is because you want something from me.’
‘You don’t think I’d ask you to come to Paris for your company.’
The response was waspish. ‘I don’t know for certain you’d cross the bloody road for my company.’
‘In truth, there are a couple of things I need, but let me explain first.’
‘As long as you include chapter and verse about your travails.’
‘They are, Peter, intertwined.’
Peter Lanchester was a good listener when the need arose, eating his soupe de poisson and rarely interrupting as the last few months were explained, posing the odd question for clarification as he heard how Jardine had got involved because of the athletes, though when he came to the parting of the ways he could see his companion’s brow furrow.
‘But why did you stay on?’
Having made no mention of Florencia, his excuse was that he just wanted to see how it all panned out.
‘Nothing to do with that anarchist floozie Vince Castellano told me about? He said she was a real lovely, if a bit of a handful.’
‘Nothing at all.’
Cal was quick to continue, that being a place he did not want to go, and eventually got to the problems the Republic was having getting arms, which led to a general conversation about the actions of their own government.
‘Not sure about Eden; bugger’s an Old Etonian, of course, and when it comes to “shifty”, they are taught that particular skill on arrival, but he might be doing the bidding of the cabinet, which, as you know, is full of a bunch of terrified old tarts, from Baldwin down.’
‘Recovered from the abdication, has he?’
‘Bloody nightmare that was, Cal, quite ruined everyone’s Christmas.’
‘Believe me, Peter, you are better off without him.’
‘So, on with the motley; what is it you want from me?’
‘I need a couple of false passports in different names, one because I might have to go to Germany.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘It’s a big country, Peter, and if I am travelling under a false name I should be safe.’
‘Why Hunland?’
The explanation did not make Lanchester feel any more comfortable, given Cal was talking about going right to the heart of the Nazi state, but there was no need for persuasion, given the cause, which, if it baulked at anarchism, was solidly anti-fascist. Once he was sure his fellow diner was determined to proceed, he concentrated on his food and they turned to what names should be on them.
‘Lizzie’s maiden name, Moncrief, will do for one. She has a brother, bit of a wastrel, but I know his background, so that gives me a ready-made legend. The other you decide, but I’d like a press pass too.’
‘Explain.’ The shake of Cal’s head was vehement. ‘If I take back a couple of photos it should be easily done.’
‘Easily?’
‘For a government minister, Cal, very much so, and the pass I will get forged.’
The exchanged look produced no name and that was no surprise. Peter Lanchester never let on who were members of his mysterious cabal.
‘The other thing I need is a ship, British owned.’
‘Can’t the Dons provide one?’
‘A Spanish-flagged vessel ups the odds of the nature of the cargo being discovered. Old Franco has a lot of sympathisers throughout Europe, and besides, we will have to run the gauntlet of Italian submarines. Daft as they are, they won’t dare put a torpedo into a ship carrying a red duster.’
‘This all sounds fraught with peril, old boy.’
‘It was ever thus. There’s one other thing.’
Whatever else Peter Lanchester was, a bit of bigot perhaps, he was not a fool. ‘I sense I am about to be asked to be active, which, in my past experience of you, makes “fraught with peril” seem like a picnic.’
‘I might need you to oversee an exchange — just hand over some gold bars on my say-so — and it should be a piece of cake, but I hope it won’t be necessary.’
‘Are you staying here in Paris till I get your documents?’
‘Paris in the spring, why not? My question?’
‘We’ll see, Cal, shall we?’
For all the beauty and gaiety of the French capital it was hard to be joyful. There was the heaviness of heart thinking how much better it would be with the company of Florencia, but added to that the politics of France were no better than anywhere else. The Marxist prime minister, Leon Blum, was struggling to keep his post, the unions were striking and madly agitating, but not as much as the zealots of the French right wing.
For all the flowers and the blossom on the trees, there was a palpable sense of doom in the air and he was glad when his passports and documents arrived and he could get back to his task, the first part of which was to take the train to Athens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
To travel through Greece was to enter another nation in political turmoil: it was in the middle of an election battle, in which fear of the communists mirrored that which Cal Jardine had left
in Spain. They were expected to make great gains, and the taxi that took him from the main station of Athens down to the port of Piraeus, where Manousos Constantou-Georgiadis, the fellow he must see, had his factory, passed walls plastered with lurid posters, not one of which he could decipher.
What Ancient Greek he had learnt at school, not as much as he should since it was damned difficult, did not run to the understanding of modern political slogans, though it did make him reflect on what he had been taught about the glories of Athens and the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars, a reminder this was a country he had always wanted to visit.
You could not call on a man like Constantou-Georgiadis without first making contact in writing, which he did under the name Moncrief, by a cable he had translated into Greek, the day following Peter Lanchester’s departure from Paris, using the Hotel de Crillon as a very impressive postal address to which the man should reply.
That approach had to be circumspect, but the Greek was in the metal fabrication business, so it was not hard to come up with a reason to call, his claim to be a freelance industrial designer looking for a company to turn his drawings into products not requiring that he provide a registered business address that his contact could check up on.
On the outskirts of the port city, the factory, when they finally found it, was not impressive, more a tumbledown large workshop than industrial, like many of the buildings that surrounded it, in an area of dusty backstreets. When asked to wait, in itself a linguistic drama, his taxi driver looked uncomfortable; this was clearly known as a rough area.
Once inside, the reception area and the offices belied that first impression, being well furnished, bright and clean. Whatever the secretarial competence of the girl to whom he gave his name, sitting at the desk behind a large new-looking typewriter, she possessed striking attributes and that was before she stood up.
Blessed with long black hair, pale skin that obviously rarely saw the sun and a bosom the eye could not avoid being drawn to, she struggled with his name and his request, but gave him such a beautiful smile that he felt like an old and close friend. When she stood to enter the inner sanctum, she showed long legs in silk stockings, above high-heeled shoes, and a very becoming posterior that swayed deliciously when she walked.