Jardine explained the transaction, which would be between banks, one in Zurich and whichever one Dimitrescu designated in Bucharest.
‘Something tells me it won’t be the National Bank,’ Goldfarbeen pronounced.
‘It should be.’
That got a shrug, which with his shoulders was impressive. ‘Here is what I think he will do. The transaction will be between a bank of his choice and yours.’ Jardine was about to say it would be hard to keep that a secret, but he suspected Goldfarbeen would say ‘this is Rumania’.
‘He will do everything to make it look kosher and that is why he has asked his German friends to wait. As soon as you have made the payment he will find a reason to detain you, just long enough for a train to come from Berlin with the men who want to take you back.’
‘You’re saying he’ll have me arrested.’
‘No, Herr Hardeen, he does not want you screaming “cheat” from the cells.’
‘Quicker to kill me, then.’
‘Which would not please his German friends, who it seems want you very badly, and — who knows? — they might even pay to get you. I told you he was greedy.’
‘How much of this can you keep on top of?’ Jardine had to clarify that: it was too colloquial for Goldfarbeen.
‘If I spend enough money, I will know everything.’
‘Can you find out when that armaments train from Germany will arrive?’ Seeing the question in his eyes, he added, ‘I think the people who want to escort me back might come at the same time, perhaps they won’t wait even if he has told them to. A German will not like taking orders from a man like Dimitrescu.’
The old man thought for a while, then nodded. ‘There are a few Communists in this country. Some are Jews, of course, but there are others who work in the mines, docks and the railways. Maybe even they like money.’
‘They might act out of conviction.’
‘I am not sure I would trust conviction, Mr Hardeen.’
‘Spend what you need and I will pay you back, or I’ll get Monty to do it when I get back to London.’
‘My friend, I would like to do it out of my own pockets, just to stick a finger up Hitler’s arse, but my pockets are not that deep.’
‘Herr Jardine, I have been trying to contact you.’ The voice became jocular. ‘I had a fear my little gift brought on such exhaustion and you were still asleep.’
Cheeky sod: that was a dig at his manhood. ‘I was at the British embassy, just to let them know I am here.’
The voice became tense: it was not a place any arms dealer should go near. ‘The British embassy?’
‘Social call, really, sort of good manners. The last thing I need is them becoming aware a fellow countryman is in town and wondering why I am here. Better to call in and spin them a yarn.’
‘So you still wish to do business?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Then if you go downstairs in, say, twenty minutes you will find my car waiting for you. Oh, and by the way, I would appreciate details of your banking facilities, without which we cannot proceed.’
‘Of course.’
First he phoned Lanchester, who just acknowledged the message, then Vince Castellano. ‘We’re on.’
‘Is it safe, guv?’
‘Not for long, Vince, not for long.’
‘Take your shooter.’
‘I will.’
In warm weather it was impossible to carry a gun without it showing, so he used the attache case he had bought in Brussels, which had a side pocket near the inside top into which he could slip the Colt in such a way that it could be extracted quickly. With the time he had, once he had also put in some papers, only the bank details being really needed, Jardine sat in a chair with the case slightly open by his side and practised pulling it out, slipping off the safety and aiming it, feeling absurdly like a poor man’s Tom Mix.
The car was waiting as promised and he got in with a confident smile, hardly noticing Vince, who was writing down the number. He did not see him jump into the motor taxi he had standing by and, in Italian with gestures, order it to follow the limousine — not hard, since it was the kind of car to be driven at a stately pace. It soon became clear it was heading away from the district that housed the official buildings, the Royal Palace and the ministries. To Cal Jardine it made no difference, and in his mind he toyed with that absurd expression used by Sherlock Holmes: ‘The game’s afoot.’
It was a bank but in not the least bit a grand one. Jardine did not even bother to look at the signage to see what it said: Vince would take care of that and make more sense of it than he. He was escorted in by the driver to find Dimitrescu waiting for him, then led into a small office furnished in poor-imitation art deco. The colonel took a seat behind a desk, clear of anything except for a single folder and a push bell, with Jardine sitting opposite, his first act, as he put down his case, to slip the catch.
‘As you will appreciate, Herr Jardine, discretion is all in such transactions.’
‘Of course.’
‘Hence the need to meet in an out-of-the-way banking facility like this one. First of all, I have considered our previous conversation and I wish to establish if your aim is to purchase everything you think you can sell on and take it out of Rumania.’
‘It is.’
‘Might I ask how?’
‘By truck to Varna.’ Dimitrescu lost his genial air then, and his expression came close to a scowclass="underline" just the mention of a Bulgarian port was enough to raise his national hackles. ‘I would ask as part of our transaction that you clear us through customs on the Rumanian-Bulgarian border.’
‘Why Varna?’
‘To divulge that would be to open up a path that might lead to excessive disclosure, Colonel, and really, once the transaction is complete, and I say this with no ill intent, your interest in what happens to the goods is at an end.’
‘You will appreciate that any weaponry going to that country raises concerns. The Bulgarians are not good neighbours and to this I cannot agree.’
Jardine made a show of thinking deeply, hand on chin. In reality he was amused: he had just said that to guy the bastard, to see how far he would go, and he knew he could insist. Greed would overcome patriotism.
‘You would prefer Constanta?’
‘Most certainly.’
The response was a shrug of supposed indifference. ‘My ship can dock anywhere. I will send instructions to move to Constanta and we will load there.’
‘Good!’ The folder was slipped across the table. ‘Here is a list of what we have. It is probably best if I leave you in peace to consider what you want and don’t want. I take it you have a pen?’
‘Of course,’ Jardine replied, pulling a Mont Blanc Meisterstuck from his inside pocket. He was with a man who knew quality when he saw it, evident in his look of admiration, with the owner playing another joke. ‘Bought it in Hamburg. Damn fine pen.’
‘Hamburg,’ Dimitrescu replied, his facial skin a trifle tight. ‘I do not know it.’
‘Neither do I, really, just paid a short visit. Bit windy for my taste.’
‘I will leave you to it.’ Jardine thanked him, then promised himself no more guying: the bugger might join the dots. ‘You have details of your bank?’
That was passed over and Dimitrescu exited. Opening the folder he perused the list, and it was obvious his colonel was telling the truth about this, at least. It was a real hotchpotch of weapons: French, Russian, some old Austrian pre-Great War pieces, but there were Maxim guns and, in reality, a rifle was a rifle; they had not changed much in fifty years, except the Mannlichers had clips while most were bolt action. There were French 6.5 mm Daudeteaus and M75s, plus eighty-odd Lee-Enfields. Also listed were mortars that he wanted, and some small-calibre field guns, which he struck off, but in the main the list conformed to what Zaharoff had shown him.
The fountain pen was used to put a price beside each set of items, including the required ammunition, the whole totted up to a low total which he knew Dimitrescu would try to negotiate upwards, opening with an outrageous value, this being a country where bargaining was part of the fabric. So the arguments would be, unless he cut them short, long and boring. Sure he had the means to curtail matters, he rang the bell and his man re-entered with his bank details, which were handed back before he resumed his seat.