‘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, Léon 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 turmoiclass="underline" 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 Hôtel 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.
Which made it all the harder to take seriously the walking syllabub that came out to greet him – Constantou-Georgiadis was not just short; he was all of five feet and shaped like a pear, with all his excess fat, and there was much of it, concentrated below his midriff, which made his walk a serious waddle. A pair of very thick-rimmed glasses set off his fleshy pasty face; this was a man who did not deserve his glamorous employee.
‘English I no speak,’ he said, in a way that made it sound as though he had spent all day rehearsing it.
The relief on his fat face when Cal replied in perfect German was palpable, and the flabby hand he produced to shake had a grip like a dead fish. Next he rattled off something in Greek to his secretary, before indicating they should both go into his office, where Cal was invited to sit, while the Greek went to occupy a chair on the opposite side that seemed twice the size he needed.
Cal had waited till this meeting to make up his mind as to what approach to use; he needed to form some view of whom he was dealing with – a sharp businessman or a mere front. Added to that, he was not in a position to negotiate the price he would have to pay – that would be decided by the seller, and so desperate was the Republic that it would cough up whatever was demanded.
This looked to be a bit of a fly-blown outfit, certainly from the outside, a facade more than a place of genuine manufacture, especially with such a beauty in the outer office and such a contrast before him. He saw no point in beating about the bush, so decided to avoid small talk and get straight to the point.
‘I am in the market to buy a large quantity of arms and I believe you are in a position to help me do that.’
Manousos Constantou-Georgiadis, whom Cal had now decided to think of as MCG, sat so still and looked so shocked it was as if someone had hit him with a club; that was until his lower lip moved soundlessly several times before finally he could speak. ‘I think you have made some mistake, mein Herr.’
‘No mistake; those who had told me of your contacts do not make errors.’
‘And who would these people be?’