‘I’m going to have to get you a new suit, Vince,’ Jardine insisted, looking at the light-brown pinstripe with very pronounced lapels.
‘You don’t like me togs?’
‘You look like a bookie.’
‘I wish I was a bookie, the robbin’ bastards.’
They bought him something dark blue and discreet, with Vince insisting he now looked like a ‘bleedin’ undertaker’. The next train was a sleeper via Paris to Milan, then another to Vienna and finally on to Bucharest, the city they called Little Paris. Jardine could immediately see why, laid out as it was in wide boulevards and big open squares and parks in a way that mirrored the designs of Napoleon III’s architect, Baron Haussmann.
It was the Austro-Hungarian Empire, at the height of its pomp, which had built most of Bucharest, turning it from a sleepy and desolate conurbation into a jewel on the Dambovita river, all of this explained to Vince by Peter Lanchester.
‘The good baron tore down old Paris to rebuild it and apparently it was pretty grubby and smelly. As well as bringing light and air it provided very good fields of fire for artillery, given the city was prone to riot. If your lot got uppity he could mow you down and I daresay they can do that here too.’
‘If the old git is still breathing send him to the Elephant amp; Castle, that could do wiv a clear-out — and not just the houses.’
They booked into the Hotel Palace Athenee — Jardine in a suite, given he needed to look well heeled, and a telegram went off to Zaharoff via his secretary Drouhin, to say where they were staying; you did not use the name of his employer in a public communication if you did not wish to immediately set off alarm bells. His contact name, Colonel Ion Dimitrescu, came by return, with Jardine putting in an immediate telephone call to his office, which had, of necessity, to be discreet and in German, which he had been told the man, like many of his countrymen, spoke fluently. It took ages and some insistence to get through.
‘We have not met, Colonel, but we have a mutual acquaintance and he has kindly given me your name as someone who can advise me about certain aspects of a country I do not know at all.’
‘This acquaintance is?’
‘A resident of Monte Carlo and a man with whom you have done business in the past.’
That led to a pause: this was not a man to be rushed. ‘Is he an elderly gentleman by any chance?’
‘Newly into his eighth decade, Colonel.’
‘And your purpose in being in Bucharest, Herr Jardine?’
‘I am looking for business opportunities in a general sort of way.’
Jardine emphasised the word ‘general’ and he was not disappointed, given his hint seemed to be picked up. ‘And how can I be of assistance?’
‘Might I suggest we have dinner together at my hotel tomorrow night and I can outline my needs?’
‘Allow me to consult my diary.’
That was just a holding tactic: Jardine suspected a man like Dimitrescu, even if he had never met him, would know precisely what commitments he had. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Athenee Palace.’
‘Tomorrow evening?’
No doubt after a day of making enquiries to find out who I am, one of which would be a telegram to Zaharoff. ‘Around nine perhaps, Colonel; I am informed you do not dine early in Rumania.’
Jardine and Vince spent the next day finding out about their surroundings, including a very quick way to get out of the hotel unseen, this while Lanchester saw to the banking. A wander round the city showed a mixture of the very new and the timeless, expensive cars many times required to use their horns to move aside horse-drawn transport, like the cabs called trasuras, with Vince sure he was able to recognise the swear words.
The language was akin to Italian, derived as it was from the Latin left behind by the Roman Empire, which had established a frontier in this part of the world to keep out the barbarians from further east, and one held onto by a population that refused to speak Turkish when ruled by the Ottomans. They hated the Austrians and Russians who had occupied the city several times with as much passion, but German was a second language, hardly surprising given the monarch was Carol von Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, part of the same extended family as the exiled German kaiser.
Mentally, as he always did, Jardine was imagining ways to leave the country; while what he was involved in carried none of the dangers of Hamburg, the arms trade was inherently risky, peopled by shadowy types in whom it would be foolish to repose any trust. In reality there was only one way to move speedily and that was by car — public air travel was non-existent in this part of the world and the trains were too obvious.
Walking aimlessly, seeking to imprint the place on his mind, he and Vince came across a crowded flea market down by the Dambovita river, a sluggish and ugly watercourse, and there he bought a couple of flat caps and two old sets of overalls, which went into a battered old suitcase. His next task was to find a second-hand car.
They took a tram along one of the main boulevards leading to the suburbs, and sure enough, as the road left the quarter of big shops and offices, the businesses became smaller and more diverse. Vince spotted a forecourt of dust-covered cars and what followed was a farcical piece of haggling that went on for an hour and ended up with Jardine, thanks to Vince’s inherited Italian skills, paying less than half the opening price demanded.
‘How the British ever got an empire beats me,’ Vince said.
‘Easy, Vince, we just overpaid.’
‘A Citroen, old boy,’ Lanchester scoffed. ‘Could you not find anything British?’
‘The make doesn’t matter, Peter, what matters is that we have it, that it is full of petrol with spare cans and that we all know where it is parked. We’ve bought some maps too.’
‘’Cepting I can’t drive, guv,’ Vince said.
‘Then you have to learn on the job.’
That was too good to let by. ‘Steady on, old chap, we’re here to work?’
‘It’s not funny,’ Jardine snapped. ‘If we have to press the alarm button, it’s get out as quick as we can and make for the Czech border. Make sure you each have enough cash handy for bribes, in case passports are not enough.’
‘That comes under the heading of teaching your grandmother to suck eggs, old boy.’
‘Lorries?’ Jardine asked.
‘No one outfit is big enough for what we need so I will probably arrange for two or more to provide our transport once we are sure of what we require. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to report back to London.’
Jardine opened his door to make sure the corridor was clear: they should not be seen together and he had told his Rumanian contact where he was resident. ‘Now, Vince, tonight I am having dinner with this colonel. Take up a seat where you can see us together — I want you to know what he looks like.’
Colonel Dimitrescu was a handsome fellow, with olive skin and swept-back, thick, dark hair, a thin black moustache, well-dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. He reminded Jardine of the American film actor, Don Ameche. His handshake was dry and firm, while his dark-brown eyes looked steadily into those of the man greeting him.
‘Colonel.’
‘How is our mutual friend?’
‘Looking his years, I’m afraid, but his mind is as sharp as ever. Shall we eat, or would you care for an aperitif first?’
‘Perhaps a drink, yes. I have always found champagne the best, and since the hotel has a bar dedicated to that …’
‘Then let us go there.’
Dimitrescu wanted to examine him before committing to a dinner table, which left Jardine wondering how much he had found out, because Zaharoff would be discreet. The champagne bar was dark-panelled and hushed, with few clients, so a perfect place for them to quietly talk. With two glasses of Mumm in their hands they clinked them, eyes locked, his enquiring, Jardine’s without expression.