‘As I said, I didn’t think they’d wait.’
‘You are in a bad place, my friend.’
That got a wry smile. ‘I have been in a lot of bad places in my life, and something tells me if we do this thing I will be heading for another one. It’s what I do.’
‘For love or to run away?’
‘I have no time for philosophy, but maybe one day, in the future, we can sit at your table, eat your wife’s wonderful cooking and talk of what drives me to crave danger.’
Goldfarbeen held out his hand. ‘A day to look forward to, Meester Hardeen.’
‘I want you to try something.’ Goldfarbeen looked curious. ‘Say Jardine.’
Four failed attempts later he gave up, passed over an excessive amount of money and said farewell.
‘You best read this, guv,’ Vince said, passing over a piece of paper from Peter Lanchester. ‘I can’t read the important bit. He said the bloke in Berlin has come up trumps.’
‘I’ll read it out to you, Vince; it’s about the fellow who spoke to me in the bar. His name is Obersturmbannfuhrer Gottlieb Resnick. Kept the same initials, which shows sense.’
‘Why’s everything in German so bleedin’ long?’
‘The verb is at the end of the sentence.’
‘Forget I asked.’
‘At least we know where we are now.’
‘Shit creek?’ Vince enquired.
‘Hang on to your paddle, I have to make a phone call.’
‘Once again I find you out and about, Herr Jardine,’ said Dimitrescu. The call was to the colonel, not from him; Jardine had come back to the Rumanian’s message and the number to ring was not the ministry where he worked. ‘You are a man who never stays still, I think.’
‘I learnt in the war, Colonel, that was the best way to get yourself killed.’
‘I, too, fought in that war, Herr Jardine, so we have something in common. However, such talk is for another time; I have some good news for you. The weapons I have had loaded onto railway wagons.’
‘Not trucks?’ Jardine asked, disingenuously.
‘How many trucks would that take? No, rail freight is better and I have had them shunted from the armoury to the railway marshalling yards, where they can depart at your convenience.’
Jardine had to keep reminding himself that Dimitrescu did not know the Germans were already here; in fact, the poor sod probably believed, in his arrogance, they would obey his injunction not to come to Bucharest until he alerted them, but the sooner he was out of here the less the risk.
‘Could they be moved today?’
The reply had to wait while he thought about it. ‘I doubt there is time to arrange that at such short notice, but tomorrow.’
‘Simple enough for a man of your standing, I would have thought, Colonel,’ Jardine replied, just to push him, because he was probably telling the truth. Dimitrescu off balance was better than him comfortable.
He tried not to growl but failed. ‘Not even I can move mountains, or put trains carrying a hazardous cargo on a busy track at a moment’s notice.’
‘Tomorrow, then, and it might be best if I have a look before they leave Bucharest.’
The why never came: there was no need to point out that he would hate to get to Constanta and find the weapons were not in the cars; as a way of saying he did not trust him, it was very pointed, yet not outrageous in what was a clandestine trade.
‘I will send my car for you, phone ahead to the manager of the yard to get you admitted, and meet you there. By the time you arrive I hope I will have arranged movement to Constanta.’
This time he took Vince, partly because of the presence of the SS, but just as much to send a message he was not alone, that he had assistance the Rumanian was unaware of, which was part of his policy of creating doubts: keep your adversary thinking — and he now saw the colonel as that. Dimitrescu would wonder if the fellow with him, obviously handy, with a boxer’s face, quick movements and light on his feet, was the only muscle Jardine had along.
No introductions were made and Vince played the part of bodyguard to perfection, always alert and stony-faced, never allowing himself to be manoeuvred into a position where he could not react to a threat. It was amusing to see the colonel’s driver doing the same; they were like a pair of suspicious ferrets.
The marshalling yards were extensive, as suited the central hub of the national rail network, row upon row of rail wagons and oval-shaped oil bowsers in no sort of order that Jardine could discern. There had to be method: the people who oversaw this would have ways of locating and moving what had to be where to the place it was supposed to be, which could be anywhere in the countries bordering Rumania and beyond, especially the oil tankers, which carried the one booming part of the country’s economy, the crude oil from the Ploesti fields to the north.
His line of half a dozen wagons was apart from everything else, highly inflammable oil especially, at the very furthest point from any buildings or other freight containers — a sound idea, since they contained ammunition and thus the risk, small but too dangerous to discount in a yard full of oil, of an explosion, while ahead of and behind them the track was clear.
‘As you will see from these plates on each car, where they are to go to is already designated.’
Jardine peered at the flat pieces of metal slotted into grooves in the side of the wagons, each with bold writing on, a number and a destination. ‘As it’s in your language I will have to take your word for it.’
Dimitrescu scoffed. ‘Come, Herr Jardine, even you can read the name Constanta!’ Satisfied with a nodded response, he asked if Jardine wanted to see in them all.
‘I will look in one, but I will be happy with an open cover on the rest.’
Each carriage tarpaulin was secured with a padlocked chain running through metal eyeholes. Just getting onto a railway wagon is not easy without a platform, so the handholds on the side were essential. Since everything was boxed, he chose a few at random, had them opened, handled a few of the items, worked the bolts on a number of the rifles and checked the firing pins were in place, requiring a cloth to clean himself afterward, the weapons being well greased.
‘What time will the train leave tomorrow?’
‘Before four in the morning, and it should be in Constanta by around five o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘A hundred and fifty miles, give or take?’ Dimitrescu looked confused, he was working in kilometres. ‘That is slow progress.’
‘It has to be set in amongst the normal daily schedule, and these yards are on the wrong side of the city, so it is the best I can do.’
‘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.