The Burning Sky

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘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.’

  ‘I did some research, Colonel, naturally, so I know what you say is the case.’

  Meant to deflect the man, it failed: Dimitrescu was determined to list the contributors. ‘Original German weapons, of course, some Russian rifles, but most of the ordnance are the gifts given to us by France and Britain, so that together we could fight the Central Powers.’ His voice had risen at the end, as if he had led the charge to do that himself.

  ‘Yet broken up into smaller parcels they could be passed on into other hands.’ Dimitrescu’s eyes narrowed as he digested what Jardine had said.

  ‘Broken up?’

  ‘Yes. I need hardly tell you, Colonel, that we live in a troubled world where things flare up suddenly and die down again. That is a situation in which a person holding a stockpile of useable weapons—’

  ‘Not major pieces of artillery?’ he interrupted.

  Jardine shook his head: he was going to have enough trouble getting guns across a desert; wheeled cannon were out of the question. ‘I would be interested in what one man can carry, really.’

  ‘I fear that would affect the price.’

  ‘By driving it down, Colonel, I think. Right now the market is not buoyant for what you are seeking to dispose of …’

  ‘That, Herr Jardine, is guesswork. I have not said yet the government are keen to sell it.’

  ‘Soup,’ he replied, glad of time to think, for in his last statement Dimitrescu had put heavy emphasis on the word ‘government’. Was that deliberate or accidental? If the former, what was he trying to say? Whatever it was, Jardine knew he would have to pick up on it by inference: this fellow was too shrewd to ever say anything definite to someone he had only just met. He had to dip a toe in the water, in between dipping his spoon in his soup.

  ‘Would I be required to request an indication of policy from a minister?’

  ‘I think not necessary – I feel you can safely deal with me.’

  That either meant he was powerful enough to act independently or he was offering to work on his own behalf, and if that were the case, the price would head for the floor. Paying a government was one thing, lining the pockets of a high-placed thief quite another. If Jardine had been trading normally he would have stopped the conversation there, but he was acutely aware that time was not on his side, so he would have to push matters, yet such haste had to avoid selling the pass. His next dip was really a plunge, followed by another mouthful of his fish soup.

  ‘Perhaps I should come to the Ministry for discussions.’ No reply came, just a cold stare that did not waver as he supped. ‘This soup is delicious, is it not?’

  Dimitrescu did not say a word until he finished, sitting back in his chair and flapping his linen napkin. ‘I am to understand you would wish to stockpile these arms, that is, if they were available for disposal?’

  ‘That is my intention.’

  ‘Perhaps they could be kept in their present locations and only released from the armouries when required.’

  That was very much like a price negotiation, which, if true, had jumped matters on even quicker than Jardine was prepared for; if the Rumanian held the keys to the goods the payments would be his to set at the time they were required, no doubt after a hefty down payment.

  ‘After all, securing warehousing is so expensive.’

  Reel him in, Jardine, reel him in. ‘An interesting point, Colonel, which would require much examination.’

  ‘While I must take an accurate inventory of what it is possible to dispose of, and when.’

  Time for a bit of cold water. ‘And I would be required to consult with my principal to get his view.’

  That did not please him; he was near to being brusque. ‘You are not here with the power of decision?’

  ‘Let us say, Colonel, that my advice is central, but it would never do to wound the amour propre of the person with the money needed to complete, now sitting in a Swiss bank.’

  ‘That would be where the transaction took place?’
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br />   ‘Contracts could be signed in Bucharest and the monies released on my cognisance.’

  ‘Let us leave that all aside, Herr Jardine, and get to know each other better. Enough has been said tonight to encourage me to believe you are a serious person, and given I have much to ponder, I fear to say more in case it is potentially misleading. I suggest, however, we commit to meet tomorrow, where I will be happy to return your generosity, for there are better places to eat and drink in Budapest than these grand hotels.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Tell me, Herr Jardine, are you a married man?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘He’s as slippery as a barrel of eels and I think he plans to ply me with food, drink and loose women tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Time to swap places, old fruit,’ Lanchester joked.

  ‘What about me?’ Vince asked. ‘Don’t I get a sniff?’

  ‘Find your own,’ Jardine replied as he went to his jacket and pulled out the paper Monty Redfern had given him, which he waved before the others. ‘Given I don’t trust the bugger, I think it is best if I try and find out something about him. I was given a number to call by a Jewish friend in London and there’s no time like the present.’

  ‘Is he Jewish too?’ Jardine nodded. ‘Then don’t call him from the room, Cal. I had a meeting with a banker today. He spent half the time railing about the Jews, as well as telling me how wonderful the Iron Guard was and how they would soon rid the country of what I think he called a pestilence. It might be worse than Germany.’

  ‘Christ,’ Vince exclaimed. ‘I might as well ’ave stayed fightin’ Mosley.’

  ‘I’ll call from the lobby.’

  That was still busy, the Rumanians keeping the kind of late hours that would have pleased a Spaniard. The phone was on a desk by the reception and Jardine was just about to go to it when a fellow in a grey suit, not terribly well cut, turned his face away just a mite too quickly, bringing up the hackles. Still he went to the phone, but instead of asking for an outside line he called Vince’s room.

  ‘I am in the lobby, Vince, and I fear not alone. I will go out for a bit of a walk, old son, and I need a second eye. I will wait in the lobby, then take point.’

  There was enough of the soldier still in Vince to pick up on what he was saying: ‘second eye’ was an expression they had used in Iraq when a man going out needed cover. ‘Taking point’, another one, was self-explanatory.

  ‘Gotcha, guv. Two ticks and I’ll use the stairs.’

  Jardine positioned himself looking towards the lifts and staircase so he would see Vince appear, thankfully unseen by the man that needed to be checked out: his eyeline was angled. There was always a chance he was wrong, that the fellow looking away, as he had, was coincidence. When Vince appeared on the first landing, Jardine headed for the double doors at the entrance, nodding to the uniformed flunkey who held it open for him and ignoring the look of the top-hatted doorman, who wondered if he wanted a motor taxi or a trăsură. Shaking his head he went past the deep rows of diners sitting in the outside restaurant and out to the plaza on which the hotel stood.

  The night was warm, even slightly muggy, and the streets were busy with promenading couples, the women dressed up to the nines and the menfolk in clothing that announced good tailoring, the impression very like that of the Italian nightly passeggiata. All along the boulevard there were cafés, even open shops, and every building was lit up, giving the place an air of prosperity, not that it was complete.

  Beggars were ubiquitous, overweight women swathed in shawls held forth emaciated babies, uttering a constant low-volume plea, gaunt-looking men sitting in doorways with their hands held out making a similar sound. Jardine did no more than an uneven circuit, spotting several places that should have a phone, probably a public one, before coming back to the hotel like the bored tourist he was seeking to portray. Back in his suite, Vince joined him.

  ‘You’re being tailed; one geezer is all I could see.’

  ‘Dimitrescu.’

  ‘Has to be, dun it?’ Vince made a fist. ‘You want I should see him off?’

  ‘No, there’s no point, but I want you to go up to Mr Lanchester’s room and say from now on he’s to stay off my floor. You can take messages back and forth if need be.’

  ‘What about that call you was gonna make, guv?’

  ‘I saw a few places. Any idea what the phones take?’

  Vince pulled out the coins from his pocket, bani and lei notes, left over from the purchases they had made that day. As usual for a pair who did not know the currency there was a mass of it.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  * * *

  ‘I’d like to speak to Israel Goldfarbeen, if I may.’ The English was a long shot – he had forgotten to ask Monty if the contact spoke it – as was the idea of hearing a reply, the café he was in being so busy he needed a finger in one ear.

  ‘You are speaking to him.’ The voice was deep, the speech careful and slow.

  ‘I am a friend of Monty Redfern, from London, he gave me your number.’

  ‘Montague Rötefarn, the alter bok, how is he?’

  Not having the least idea what an ‘alter bok’ was, he replied, ‘In rude good health, sir, and my name is Jardine. I am a stranger in Bucharest and he advised me that you could help me.’

  The reply was jovial. ‘Mr Hardeen, I am stranger in this country and I have lived here all my life.’

  ‘I’m in search of advice. Would it be possible to meet?’

  ‘If a bohmer like Montague sent you, how can I refuse?’ Which left Jardine wondering where to find a Yiddish dictionary. ‘You got a pen?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘What am I saying, “pen”? You get a trăsură, you say the Yiddish theatre. The driver will spit at you, the ganef, but he will want the fare, so spit back. My house is on the left of the theatre. You’ll see the lit window. Just knock.’ He then demanded to know from where he was coming. ‘But don’t pay more than thirty bani.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Now, if you like.’

  Jardine looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven.’

  ‘In this sheise country that is midday. Come now and drink with me. I want to hear about Montague.’

  He and Vince were in one of the few motor taxis not long after, having handed over a ten-lei note to the top-hatted doorman for the service of lifting his finger, Vince being sure the tail had no wheels. ‘He’s probably on the blower now, guv, telling his boss.’

  ‘As long as his boss doesn’t know where we’re going.’

  The taxi took them from the Athénée Palace to another grand hotel, the Francez, where Jardine paid the driver off, engaging the aid – after a bit of a wait and for another ten-lei note – of a second top-hatted doorman to get another taxi. Vince, having observed others do the same, insisted that when he died and came back, a hotel doorman was the job he wanted.

  ‘Talk about easy green.’

  ‘You have to buy that job, Vince.’

  ‘I’ll borrow the money off you. The way the berks that use these places give tips, I’ll pay you back in a week.’

  The ride was not long because Bucharest was not large, and the driver did not spit, which was just as well because Vince would probably have clouted him, but he did look as though someone had just shot his cat as Jardine paid him off.

  ‘Cheery sod,’ was the Londoner’s opinion.

  The door opened a split second after Jardine knocked, and before him was a giant of a man in a collarless shirt, with big shoulders, protruding belly, a round smiling face and a thick red beard. ‘So rich you use motor cars, already. Enter, enter.’

  Going through the door Jardine touched the mezuzah, and told Vince to do so too, which got him an approving nod. The room they entered had a fire in the grate, even though it was a warm night, which was thankfully dying.

  ‘You Jewish, Mr Hardeen?’

  ‘It’s Jardine and no, pure Gentile, but I have been to Palestine.’
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br />   The hands went up. ‘Dos gefelt mir.’ The confusion on Jardine’s face being obvious, he added, ‘You don’t speak Yiddish; why would you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you have been to Eretz Yisrael, I should be so lucky.’

  He looked past Jardine to Vince, who was introduced, and then a bottle of wine was produced, three glasses poured, toasts proposed and seen off, all in genial good humour. Goldfarbeen asked about Monty Rötefarn, an ‘eizel’ for changing his name to the English, and they talked about him for a while, which made Jardine realise how little he really knew about his Jewish friend.

  Goldfarbeen, as a young man, had gone to London to study theatre, met and befriended Monty before he was rich, and here he was the theatre administrator, the man who raised and spent the money to keep the place going, some of it sent from Hampstead. An hour passed and the fire died completely before Jardine looked at his watch. He needed to move things on.

  ‘So, Mr Hardeen, what can I do to aid you?’

  Geniality evaporated the more Goldfarbeen heard, and Jardine was pretty open, only leaving out for where the weapons were destined. By the time his visitor was finished he was shaking his massive head.

  ‘You have picked a bad man to do business with.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Bucharest is like a village, my friend, and everyone gossips.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s bad, as long as the business is completed.’

  ‘Dimitrescu is an anti-Semite, but that matters not, nine out of ten of the people of Rumania are that, but I would not trust him and I would advise you to do the same.’

  ‘He don’t trust him,’ Vince growled.

  Goldfarbeen’s beard was on his ample chest and he was thinking. ‘Would I be allowed to ask about and see what is in the wind?’ Jardine was about to say ‘discreetly’, but he sensed that was superfluous. ‘This is a country split in two, Mr Hardeen, and for every one of the far right there is one on the near right and they make it their business to spy on each other.’