‘Then, Peter, it’s a wonder you haven’t been run over.’
‘I hope you don’t expect me to drive, for if you do, I have to tell you, you are taking your life in your hands.’ Jardine had a moment of disbelief before he burst out laughing, soon followed by Vince, with Peter shouting, ‘What’s so bloody funny?’
‘Nothing, I’ll drive. Now, put those gaspers out before I choke.’
He passed the package he had taken from the concierge over to Vince. ‘Torch, wire cutters and twine.’
‘Are we to be enlightened as to the purpose?’ Lanchester enquired.
‘I’m designing a midnight garden, Peter, for the Chelsea Flower Show.’
The response was typically Peter Lanchester and flippant. ‘Too late in the year, don’t you know, but then you are such a prole, Cal, and are probably unaware of that.’
‘Nothin’ amiss wi’ the proletariat, Mr Lanchester.’
‘I could take issue with you, Vince, but I fear we might be too busy.’
‘Did it start OK?’
‘First time, guv. I’ll get back on the handle.’
Two swings of the starting handle and the engine was running — not purring, but fairly even with only the occasional misfire. Everyone aboard, the map open on Lanchester’s lap, Jardine double-declutched into gear and took off, soon establishing that, whatever else it was, this motor was no racer.
‘I hope we are not pursued by the forces of law and order, Caclass="underline" this bugger would not outrun them if they are on bicycles.’
‘Just read the map, Peter.’
At night the marshalling yards were brightly lit by arc lamps, and not just the working areas; the perimeter fencing was illuminated as well, and it took some time, driving round, to find a place where they could both park and force an entry, and also that would give them sight of the freight wagons they had visited earlier that day. Vince volunteered to do the fence cutting while Jardine kept the engine running, with Lanchester in the back so Vince could dive, if need be, into the car for a hurried getaway.
‘I am becoming accustomed to this sort of endeavour, Cal, it seems to go with being in your company.’
Aware it was just the man being jocular, as a way of steadying everyone’s nerves, Jardine replied in the same vein. ‘You sound like you’d rather be a desk-wallah, Peter.’
‘I desire nothing more than to be a desk man, old chap, with a warm fire, an ashtray to hand, not too much work and, of course, a secretary with no morality and legs up to her armpits.’
Vince signalled he had made a gap big enough to get through and Jardine killed the engine, got out with the starting handle and located it ready. He and Vince changed into the overalls and flat caps they had bought as a general disguise in the flea market, the ex-boxer with his knife handy and Jardine ensuring he could easily get to his Colt, this while Vince cut a couple of lengths of twine. As Jardine had explained, if the perimeter was patrolled, and it might be, then an obvious gap would not be missed, one joined by twine might, with the additional benefit that if they had to make a hurried exit, it would not much impede them.
‘Peter, the first sign of trouble, let fly with your gun and shoot to kill if you must.’
There was no need for further explanation as Lanchester handed over the torch. Easing through Vince’s gap, Jardine did the lacing-up with the twine and they headed away from the fence into the interior, passing through pools of light, then areas of relative darkness, making for the wagons containing the cargo of weapons, walking upright and with confidence. If they were spotted creeping it would arouse more suspicion than two people acting normally.
‘Bit like old times, guv,’ said Vince as they stepped across empty steel rails. ‘Night patrols.’
‘No Arabs,’ Jardine said as he flashed the torch at his watch, which showed half past ten.
‘That’s a blessing.’
Approaching the wagons they had to be carefuclass="underline" there had been no guards earlier in the day but that might not apply now. Fully expecting to be challenged — Jardine’s pistol grip was once more as warm as the holding hand — it said something about this part of the world and its lax attitudes that he was not. Looking towards the distant gate and the main buildings, which included offices and what he had supposed earlier that day to be a rest room and canteen for the railway workers, he was sure he saw the outline of a lorry that looked to be military, but there was no one by his carriages.
‘Let’s do it, Vince.’
Slowly and quietly they took the destination plates out of their slots, then went to the other side of the wagons so only their legs were visible from the gate side.
‘No chance of me having a fag, is there, guv?’
‘How can you be a boxer and smoke, Vince?’
‘I’m an ex-boxer, or ain’t you spotted that? How long?’
‘Depends on whether we are working to German time or Rumanian time.’
‘What’s the odds?’
‘One is punctual to the second, the other not even to the day. Let’s move up and down: two pairs of legs doing nothing might get someone asking what we’re doing.’
Like a pair of sentries they marched to and fro in a silence broken by an occasional shouted voice and some activity going on around some of the petrol bowsers. There was some distant screeching and clanging as an engine backed up to a set of carriages — passenger trains used this yard too — and they were dragged out, no doubt heading south towards the Gara de Nord, the main Bucharest station.
‘Can you hear it?’ Jardine whispered, looking north.
The slow puffing was unmistakeable, that chuff chuff of a steam engine moving slowly, then the distinctive sound of it easing through various sets of points. Ducking under the train, Jardine saw the single central light that lit up the track, as well as the glow of the fires heating the boilers reflected on the cab roof. The train pulled slowly towards them; someone was pulling on a points lever quite far off and the train came on to a track that ran parallel to the one on which stood Dimitrescu’s freight. The men watching it arrive were holding their breath, eased for Jardine when he heard a shout in German: it was the right train.
‘How in the name of Christ did you know it was going to be stopped here?’
‘Easy, Vince,’ Jardine replied, which was a lie: it had been a hope rather than a certainty. ‘Our wagons are where they are, well away from anything else, because they have a dangerous cargo.’ He had to raise his voice to finish: the sound of the train — engine and screeching wheels — was loud. ‘So does this one. Where else are they going to park it when it is not due to be pulled to the armoury till tomorrow? Those were the questions I needed to ask Israel Goldfarbeen.’
There was an escort, a platoon of soldiers who jumped down from a passenger carriage and were lined up by a shouting officer, who, spotting Vince and Jardine, demanded to know where was the party who had been sent to take over the duty of guarding the weapons. Jardine replied, in what he hoped was a Rumanian accent, that he thought they were in the canteen, this as another quartet alighted, men in long leather coats and big fedoras. The army officer barked an order at what had to be his NCO, and then marched off towards the office block and main gate.
‘Now, guv,’ Vince whispered.
Jardine was eyeing the clutch of what he was sure were Gestapo; could they possibly recognise him dressed as he was? The choice was simple, to do what he had come for or cut and run, which was not his style. ‘Better now than never.’
Casually they approached the German train and removed the plates saying ‘Bucharest’, replacing them with those saying ‘Constanta’, while the German plates went back into the vacated slots on Dimitrescu’s wagons. That completed, they wandered off, Vince whistling tunelessly, as behind them the engine which had brought in the wagons was uncoupled and moved off. They got to their gap in the fence unchallenged and slipped through, retying their twine, to sit in the car and watch, while behind them in the distance, the German officer, who it was hoped knew nothing about freight trains, punctiliously handed over to a set of Rumanian army guards who ought to be equally ignorant.