The Burning Sky (11 page)

‘Too late to load my ship that day, really.’

‘Unfortunately yes, I imagine.’

There is a look people employ when they are telling you what Vince would call a ‘porky’. It’s a little too engaged for what they are saying, a bit too keen that you should agree, and Dimitrescu had it on his face now. The slowness of the train journey suited him.

‘Still,’ Jardine replied breezily, ‘that will give us ample time to conclude the transfer of funds, and I think another night in Bucharest would be preferable to staying in Constanta. I will make my way there early in the morning.’

‘You will be travelling by …?’

‘Train, how else?’

He shrugged. ‘I would offer you my car, but there is a ceremony I must attend.’

‘I understand, Colonel, but the train will be fine.’

Throughout the yard, freight was being moved. As they were walking back, a rather imperious fellow in uniform stopped them crossing a track in front of a line of wagons, Jardine indicating to an irritated Dimitrescu that it was of no matter. With the colonel furiously looking at his watch, the official checked off the last of the wagons on a manifest he had on his clipboard, then walked past them with the superior air a functionary adopts when going about his duties before watching eyes.

There was a steam engine huffing and puffing a little
way off and he blew a whistle before going to a long metal lever, which he hauled hard on to change the points, this as the engine was backing up, its wheels screeching as it went through on to the correct line. It slid up to the line of wagons, made noisy and juddering contact with the hydraulic buffers, then a footplateman jumped down to make the necessary connections. The clipboard was passed up to the driver, who scribbled a signature and got a nod, no doubt permission to set off.

Dimitrescu, his dignity deeply offended, started abusing the freight dispatcher and the fellow responded with a stream of invective. Jardine and Vince were witness to an example of Rumanian democracy in action as they indulged in a furious and expletive-splattered exchange, with Vince gleefully translating what he was sure were the swear words.

Back at the Athénée Palace, Dimitrescu got out of the car and, having given over the address of the bank in Constanta, shook hands with firm resolve. ‘We will meet there, say at ten of the clock. Till the day after tomorrow.’

Jardine waved him off and went inside, but only long enough for him to get out of sight, fretting when Vince said he needed a pee. That taken care of it was off to the café and the phone, back on to Goldfarbeen and the
double-taxi
ride again. He had one very important question to ask the Jew and, security be damned, he would have to ring him at the hotel with the response.

When he returned, he ran straight into ‘Reisner’ by the reception desk and apologised for the need to turn
him down for dinner; Vince, following him in, was sharp enough to walk straight past the pair as though Jardine was a stranger.

‘I am departing very early in the morning, Herr Reisner, for Kladno. Some business has presented itself and I must prepare my proposals.’ Then he called to the desk clerk. ‘Please make up my bill for the morning and I will require an early taxi to take me to the Gara de Nord.’

‘Such a pity, I looking forward to trying more English.’

‘Then let us hope there is another time, Herr Reisner.’

The smile was not in the eyes, they were narrow and had a trace of a glint, it was just the teeth. ‘Perhaps, Herr Jardine, perhaps.’

By standing still, Jardine almost forced the German to go towards the lift, and as soon as he disappeared he went to talk to the concierge. In a first-class hotel he is a very important man and a well-paid one – it is another job you buy, not one you are given. He has to be the soul of discretion and the provider of goods and services of all natures to the well-heeled clients. He is also a fellow accustomed to strange requests; his job not to question but to provide, and often, even if what is requested might be on the borders of illegality, he will merely smile, accept the request and pocket the excessive payment he expects for compliance.

Back in his suite Jardine was all business. ‘Vince, I am going to pack my bags and you do the same. Then go down, check out and clear your bill. I will come to your room later with my bags. You’d better eat, and phone Lanchester and tell him to do the same, so he’s ready to check out too.
When my call comes from Goldfarbeen you will take both your luggage and mine out of here and collect him. I will go to the car and meet you there.’

When Vince departed he called down to reception for a local road map and asked the time of the Prague train. The city, being built late in the last century, was dissected with long, straight roads, very much like Berlin, so working out his route was easier than expected. To keep up appearances he dressed for an early dinner and went down to the restaurant, making straight for the table of ‘Reisner’, who was eating at a German, not a Rumanian hour.

‘You have decided not to dine out after all, Herr Reisner? That gives you one last chance to test your English.’

‘You are your tasks finished so soon?’

‘I have some time in the morning, having got the time of the train wrong.’

‘I wondered when you said you leaving early morning, to go to Kladno you must Prague pass through, which is, of course, on the line to Berlin.’

‘Silly of me; now, why don’t I buy us a very good bottle of Sekt?’

‘Is something to celebrate?’

‘I am sure, when I get to my destination, I am going to do some very good and profitable business.’

A signal brought over the sommelier and the wine was ordered. They had only just looked, sniffed and sipped, when the German said, ‘Is that boy calling your name?’

‘So he is; excuse me, I am expecting a telephone call.’

That he took at reception and Goldfarbeen supplied
the answer to the question he had asked, which made perfect sense. Next, he called Vince on the internal phone and told him to be prepared to get moving, ran up to his room, grabbed his cases and took them to Vince’s room, before dashing back to join his SS man, smiling broadly.

‘Matters are proceeding splendidly, Herr Reisner. Now, shall we order some food?’

The man’s expression was so stiff it was
waxwork-like
. Cal Jardine then played a game he enjoyed; he loved nothing more than to take the rise out of an opponent. The way he talked to the German was such fun, for the SS man had to play along with his string of invention, he had no choice.

‘Time for my slumbers, I think. You know the word “slumber”, Herr Reisner?’

‘No.’

‘Another word for sleep; busy day tomorrow, so I must bid you
gute Nacht
.’

The grin was rigid still: he knew he was being guyed. ‘Perhaps, Herr Jardine, we should say
auf Wiedersehen
.’

The reply was cheery. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’

Out of sight of the dining room, at reception, he paid his bill, then went back to the concierge desk to collect the package of items he had requested and to ask the man who ran it to take care of the tips he would not have time to disburse in the morning: chambermaids, the floor manager and the maître d’ in the restaurant. Naturally, the concierge was included, and generously, his discretion being essential. It was bad form to do otherwise, just as it was bad form to
leave such an establishment without taking care of various staff, those who had seen to his needs.

There was one other task: a pair of stamped and addressed envelopes, which were handed over, with instructions that they should be posted the following evening.

T
he only items left in his suite were his trench coat, his trilby and Colt Automatic. Those gathered, he slipped out and along to the service stairs, the door to which was opened and closed silently given there was always someone present on the floor of such prestigious accommodation, housing the really wealthy clients, who, when they desired attention, wanted it in seconds.

The stairs took him down to the basement and out onto a loading bay, quiet at this time of night, staffed only by a single bored individual in a small bothy of an office. Jardine gave him a wave and put his finger to his lips, hoping the fellow would assume, seeing him dressed for dinner, he was perhaps an errant husband sneaking out, not an unknown event in such establishments.

The alleyway was full of refuse bins, stinking in the warm weather, and he stayed close to those as he made his way to the junction with the well-lit boulevard that
led into the vast plaza on which the hotel stood. He was not stupid enough to assume that ‘Reisner’ believed him; it was best to operate on the reverse and take precautions accordingly. His coat he put over one shoulder, which with his hat tipped to one side hid most of his face, then he went straight across the wide road, careful to avoid any screech of car brakes, it being a busy thoroughfare, and once on the opposite pavement he made his way round the counter corner to the other side of the plaza, where he hailed a
trăsură
.

That he paid off a street away. Lanchester and Vince were sitting in the car, puffing away, so it was full of smoke. Jardine’s first act was to open the door and leave it so, letting the fug escape, as Peter Lanchester made what he thought was an important announcement. ‘I have just realised, old boy, seeing where the steering wheel is, that these blighters drive on the wrong side of the road.’

‘Then, Peter, it’s a wonder you haven’t been run over.’

‘I hope you don’t expect me to drive, for if you do, I have to tell you, you are taking your life in your hands.’ Jardine had a moment of disbelief before he burst out laughing, soon followed by Vince, with Peter shouting, ‘What’s so bloody funny?’

‘Nothing, I’ll drive. Now, put those gaspers out before I choke.’

He passed the package he had taken from the concierge over to Vince. ‘Torch, wire cutters and twine.’

‘Are we to be enlightened as to the purpose?’ Lanchester enquired.

‘I’m designing a midnight garden, Peter, for the Chelsea Flower Show.’

The response was typically Peter Lanchester and flippant. ‘Too late in the year, don’t you know, but then you are such a prole, Cal, and are probably unaware of that.’

‘Nothin’ amiss wi’ the proletariat, Mr Lanchester.’

‘I could take issue with you, Vince, but I fear we might be too busy.’

‘Did it start OK?’

‘First time, guv. I’ll get back on the handle.’

Two swings of the starting handle and the engine was running – not purring, but fairly even with only the occasional misfire. Everyone aboard, the map open on Lanchester’s lap, Jardine double-declutched into gear and took off, soon establishing that, whatever else it was, this motor was no racer.

‘I hope we are not pursued by the forces of law and order, Cal: this bugger would not outrun them if they are on bicycles.’

‘Just read the map, Peter.’

At night the marshalling yards were brightly lit by arc lamps, and not just the working areas; the perimeter fencing was illuminated as well, and it took some time, driving round, to find a place where they could both park and force an entry, and also that would give them sight of the freight wagons they had visited earlier that day. Vince volunteered to do the fence cutting while Jardine kept the engine running, with Lanchester in the back so Vince could dive, if need be, into the car for a hurried getaway.

‘I am becoming accustomed to this sort of endeavour, Cal, it seems to go with being in your company.’

Aware it was just the man being jocular, as a way of steadying everyone’s nerves, Jardine replied in the same vein. ‘You sound like you’d rather be a desk-wallah, Peter.’

‘I desire nothing more than to be a desk man, old chap, with a warm fire, an ashtray to hand, not too much work and, of course, a secretary with no morality and legs up to her armpits.’

Vince signalled he had made a gap big enough to get through and Jardine killed the engine, got out with the starting handle and located it ready. He and Vince changed into the overalls and flat caps they had bought as a general disguise in the flea market, the ex-boxer with his knife handy and Jardine ensuring he could easily get to his Colt, this while Vince cut a couple of lengths of twine. As Jardine had explained, if the perimeter was patrolled, and it might be, then an obvious gap would not be missed, one joined by twine might, with the additional benefit that if they had to make a hurried exit, it would not much impede them.

‘Peter, the first sign of trouble, let fly with your gun and shoot to kill if you must.’

There was no need for further explanation as Lanchester handed over the torch. Easing through Vince’s gap, Jardine did the lacing-up with the twine and they headed away from the fence into the interior, passing through pools of light, then areas of relative darkness, making for the wagons containing the cargo of weapons, walking upright and with confidence. If they were spotted creeping it would
arouse more suspicion than two people acting normally.

‘Bit like old times, guv,’ said Vince as they stepped across empty steel rails. ‘Night patrols.’

‘No Arabs,’ Jardine said as he flashed the torch at his watch, which showed half past ten.

‘That’s a blessing.’

Approaching the wagons they had to be careful: there had been no guards earlier in the day but that might not apply now. Fully expecting to be challenged – Jardine’s pistol grip was once more as warm as the holding hand – it said something about this part of the world and its lax attitudes that he was not. Looking towards the distant gate and the main buildings, which included offices and what he had supposed earlier that day to be a rest room and canteen for the railway workers, he was sure he saw the outline of a lorry that looked to be military, but there was no one by his carriages.

‘Let’s do it, Vince.’

Slowly and quietly they took the destination plates out of their slots, then went to the other side of the wagons so only their legs were visible from the gate side.

‘No chance of me having a fag, is there, guv?’

‘How can you be a boxer and smoke, Vince?’

‘I’m an ex-boxer, or ain’t you spotted that? How long?’

‘Depends on whether we are working to German time or Rumanian time.’

‘What’s the odds?’

‘One is punctual to the second, the other not even to the day. Let’s move up and down: two pairs of legs doing
nothing might get someone asking what we’re doing.’

Like a pair of sentries they marched to and fro in a silence broken by an occasional shouted voice and some activity going on around some of the petrol bowsers. There was some distant screeching and clanging as an engine backed up to a set of carriages – passenger trains used this yard too – and they were dragged out, no doubt heading south towards the Gara de Nord, the main Bucharest station.

‘Can you hear it?’ Jardine whispered, looking north.

The slow puffing was unmistakeable, that chuff chuff of a steam engine moving slowly, then the distinctive sound of it easing through various sets of points. Ducking under the train, Jardine saw the single central light that lit up the track, as well as the glow of the fires heating the boilers reflected on the cab roof. The train pulled slowly towards them; someone was pulling on a points lever quite far off and the train came on to a track that ran parallel to the one on which stood Dimitrescu’s freight. The men watching it arrive were holding their breath, eased for Jardine when he heard a shout in German: it was the right train.

‘How in the name of Christ did you know it was going to be stopped here?’

‘Easy, Vince,’ Jardine replied, which was a lie: it had been a hope rather than a certainty. ‘Our wagons are where they are, well away from anything else, because they have a dangerous cargo.’ He had to raise his voice to finish: the sound of the train – engine and screeching wheels – was loud. ‘So does this one. Where else are they going to park it when it is not due to be pulled to the armoury till
tomorrow? Those were the questions I needed to ask Israel Goldfarbeen.’

There was an escort, a platoon of soldiers who jumped down from a passenger carriage and were lined up by a shouting officer, who, spotting Vince and Jardine, demanded to know where was the party who had been sent to take over the duty of guarding the weapons. Jardine replied, in what he hoped was a Rumanian accent, that he thought they were in the canteen, this as another quartet alighted, men in long leather coats and big fedoras. The army officer barked an order at what had to be his NCO, and then marched off towards the office block and main gate.

‘Now, guv,’ Vince whispered.

Jardine was eyeing the clutch of what he was sure were Gestapo; could they possibly recognise him dressed as he was? The choice was simple, to do what he had come for or cut and run, which was not his style. ‘Better now than never.’

Casually they approached the German train and removed the plates saying ‘Bucharest’, replacing them with those saying ‘Constanta’, while the German plates went back into the vacated slots on Dimitrescu’s wagons. That completed, they wandered off, Vince whistling tunelessly, as behind them the engine which had brought in the wagons was uncoupled and moved off. They got to their gap in the fence unchallenged and slipped through, retying their twine, to sit in the car and watch, while behind them in the distance, the German officer, who it was hoped knew nothing about freight trains, punctiliously handed over to a set of Rumanian
army guards who ought to be equally ignorant.

‘You can have a ciggie now, Vince, but open the bloody window, and don’t throw your fag ends out: we don’t want them finding stubs saying “Craven A” in the morning.’

To say that waiting for hours, as they had to, was agony came under the heading of understatement. The guess was that if their ploy was discovered it would be put down to the inefficiency, possibly even the malice, of a Communist railway worker. If it was not discovered, it was
housey-housey
, a full card, all the numbers and the jackpot!

Work went on right through the night, trains moving and arriving, so the engine designated to take their weapons to Constanta was not spotted right away, only becoming an object of interest when it got close, all three getting out to stand by the fence and watch. They could see the puffs of smoke lit up by the arc lamps, yet it was impossible to tell, from a distance, which set of freight wagons it had backed up to. Breath was held as a steady jet of steam and smoke was ejected from its funnel, indicating it was beginning to pull, that turning to yelps of delight as the set of wagons that had pulled in earlier were now being towed out.

‘Time we made for Constanta, I think.’

‘Bit bloody rich, Cal, fetching the Gestapo in another country, don’t you think? Cause a diplomatic incident, I shouldn’t wonder.’

They had been discussing the possibility of them turning up here in Constanta, but Jardine thought that unlikely until Dimitrescu alerted them. ‘He will come with enough bods to take me, because he will want to hand me over as
a present, and he will only do that when he is certain his money is in the bank.’

‘If we get away with this he’s going to come a right cropper.’

‘He might, but it would not surprise me if he manages to shift the blame. Slippery buggers have a habit of doing that.’

‘You going to enlighten him?’

‘No, Peter, let him think it was the Communists or his political opponents that did the dirty. Right now we have to locate your contact, then get him to find some dockers to work overtime.’

The Constanta agent, a man named Antonescu, had so little English it was a wonder a non-linguist like Lanchester had managed to deal with him, but, like most of his fellow countrymen, he did speak German, so the task of asking for his help fell to Jardine, who found him a pleasure to deal with, he being brisk, businesslike and eager to please. First he sent a messenger to the Turkish captain to be ready to load cargo. MS
Tarvita
, displacing three and a half thousand tons, was tied up at the quayside. She had been hired by a British shipping line, one that Lanchester declined to name when asked.

Lanchester had a little surprise for Cal Jardine, one he had kept quiet about, but an act that served to show he was not just a gofer on this job. He had got Antonescu to bespeak a cargo of grain, enough to provide a visible cover for the amount of goods
Tarvita
was going to be transporting. His ship’s manifest would say the whole cargo was that, a product produced in abundance round
the Black Sea, and he had independently decided the captain should also state the vessel’s destination as the island of Madagascar.

Jardine enquired about how difficult it would be getting out through the Sea of Marmara into the Med, the response from Antonescu a rubbed finger and thumb; the captain being Turkish would bribe the customs inspectors, with further elucidation indicating it would not be expensive as they were not landing goods on Turkish soil.

Asked about finding stevedores to load late in the day also proved easy: with the port run down they were in need of work. Antonescu sent for one of the men who led the union, not forgetting to add, with no great pleasure, that the man was a rabid Communist and troublemaker.

Captain Erdogan arrived to be introduced – not easy, as there was another language barrier, given his English was eccentric – then to be told by Antonescu that they would be loading immediately a train arrived and to get his holds open, which had Jardine referring to the conversation Lanchester must have had with him on his first visit.

‘Ask awkward questions, Cal? No, he did not. Something tells me this is not the first time our Mr Antonescu has indulged in moving contraband. Whoever found him for us did well.’