‘And me?’
‘Since you are off to sunny Barcelona I thought it only fair to warn you.’
Such a throwaway line had raised the suspicion that Lanchester was being disingenuous; if Cal Jardine knew all about the villainies of Juan March, it was quite possible that one or more of the people who had been pointed out to him were conscious of his name and the nature of his past activities as a gunrunner.
Indeed, that might explain the atmosphere at their table; with limited resources, Peter Lanchester was stirring the pot by letting them be seen together, creating in the mind of the trio the impression that he had lines of enquiry and sources of information that, in truth, did not exist. As Cal had already said, the clandestine movement of arms was a business where knowing what others were up to was part of the game.
‘Of course,’ Peter had added, ‘it would also be of advantage if you were to keep an ear to the ground and let us know if anything occurs to stir the pot.’ That had got a wave of the menu. ‘Now we must choose some food and you must tell me about these People’s Olympics of yours, which I must say sounds dire.’
That had been like a throwing down of the gauntlet, teasing Cal to enquire as to how he knew so much and even, perhaps, to seek the source of his information; he was not prepared to play.
‘It could be fun,’ he had responded.
‘What!’ Peter had exclaimed, genuinely shocked. ‘All those pious lefties, Bolsheviks and anarchists?’
That had been said far too loudly and attracted looks and arched eyebrows from nearby tables that would have been less troubled, in such surroundings, if he had publicly uttered every filthy swear word in the canon.
Peter Lanchester thought he had Beeb taped, unaware that the fellow he looked to be taking on a picnic, Hugh Pollard, in the company of a couple of very attractive girls, was, as well as another MI6 operative, an aerial navigator. He had followed them to Brighton and observed the consumption of the food from their hamper and taken some pleasure in watching the females disrobe to both sunbathe and swim.
It was perfectly natural that on their way back to town from a day of sun and sea, they should pass through Croydon on the A23; what was not expected was that instead of driving straight on past the airport as they had on the way down, they should swing their open-top touring car into the avenue that led to the terminal building. Worse, they drove straight past that onto the tarmac, where a twin-engined de Havilland Dragon Rapide was already fired up, its engines warm.
If they had luggage, it was clearly already aboard, proving that their departure was a well-planned operation. Peter Lanchester did what he could to stop them, which was not much — he had no official capacity and the staff at the airport, when bearded, could only say the flight plan was one to take the aircraft to Paris, giving them no reason to block the take-off.
By the time he could get on the blower to someone with the power of prohibition, the Rapide was already airborne, the two attractive girls waving frantically from the car. On the observation deck he spotted the journalist Luis Bolin with a pair of binoculars in use. If there had been any doubt about the nature of the flight, the presence of the right-wing Spanish newspaperman laid it to rest. The flight plan was a myth and the projected revolt of the Spanish generals looked to be imminent.
The cable Peter Lanchester sent Cal Jardine was simple; it implied if he had no reason to stay, it might be time to hotfoot out. The recipient had indeed carried out the task for which he had come; the hostels and other accommodation for the Olympians had been paid for and Monty Redfern had change coming, while the opening ceremony was to take place on the morrow.
Yet, for all the febrile atmosphere of the city and the country, screaming headlines in the various journals, marches and countermarches and also a couple of high-profile political assassinations in Madrid — one of a prominent left-winger, the other, no doubt in revenge, the killing of a leading anti-socialist — the sun was shining, the food and wine were excellent and, of course, there was his interpreter, daughter of a Spanish father and an English mother, the blonde, petite and devastatingly beautiful Florencia Gardiola.
CHAPTER TWO
Cal Jardine was lying in bed, naked and sweating, with Florencia’s head and messed-up hair in the crook of his arm, watching, in the first glimmer of early-morning light, a ceiling fan trying and failing to move the still, humid, midsummer air. It was a few seconds before he realised what had penetrated his slumbers, but given the sound of the yelling crowd was getting progressively louder, it did not take long to pin that down. Gently he moved Florencia’s head, slipped off the bed and went to the open double window to see what the fuss was about this time.
Demonstrations were nothing unusual in Barcelona; everyone in the city, on both the right and the left, seemed to feel the only way to make a point was to take to the streets. But this was different; the wide boulevard below was jam-packed by a massive crowd moving as one, banners aloft, calling out words he could not comprehend in both Catalan and Spanish.
Their flags and raised fists left little doubt, in this case, of which side of the political divide they were on; these were workers marching in protest at what he did not know, but to that was added the crack of distant rifle shots, too many in number and from different weapons, which indicated this was no mere demonstration. The thought, an uncomfortable one, that he might have left it too late to depart, was quick to surface, but he reassured himself.
Barcelona was a port and not much more than a hundred and fifty miles from the French border. If he could not get a boat out, or a train, there was always the option of getting hold of a car, with the caveat that the Spanish roads left a lot to be desired. Then, thinking about why he was here and the fact that he might need to make a hurried exit and not on his own, he wondered if he might be required to hire a couple of buses.
The growing noise eventually penetrated the slumbers of Florencia and she stirred into her habitual groaning wakefulness, a mixture of yawning, stretching and cursing aimed at the approaching day. Normally a slow riser, she was not this time, as the import of what was happening pierced her languid brain. Leaping from the bed, she rushed to the window and out onto the balcony, pushing Cal aside, to yell in unison with the crowd as soon as she saw their banners. What came back was a cacophony of male whistles; she was, after all, stark naked.
Ignoring both her and the response, Cal made a call to the hotel reception, which did not produce much enlightenment, merely a reassurance from a silver-voiced functionary that it was a small affair of no significance. Some soldiers in Morocco had rebelled against the government and seized certain installations. It was an insurrection the man was sure would be swiftly put down.
Cal then asked for an outside line, to phone Vince Castellano at the hostel where he and his party were staying. That proved fruitless; the line was dead, which indicated to him it was serious — the first two targets for the rebellious were always the radio station and the telephone exchange.
‘Get dressed.’
That her nakedness had attracted all that attention, and no doubt the anger of the marching women, did not seem to have penetrated Florencia’s brain, while being of a temperament to always dispute a command, she spun round to berate her lover. At that moment came the unmistakeable rattle of a solitary machine gun, followed by a dull explosion, which stopped her protests.
‘Revolution!’ she hissed.
‘I need to see what is going on, to find out if any of those I am responsible for are in danger.’
All he got in reply was a clenched fist, furiously shaken, which made her breasts bounce as well, rendering slightly absurd what she said. ‘We must fight.’