‘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.’