MCG’s hand was shaking as he leant over and took the paper; if there had ever been any doubt as to where this was to be acquired, this inventory of the weapons removed that. Not only was their description listed, but also the names and numbers designated by the Wehrmacht.

‘I will be staying at the Grande Bretagne. How long do you think it will be before you can provide me with an answer?’

‘Tomorrow?’ he suggested weakly.

‘Good. Perhaps you will join me at the hotel for dinner and, if you wish, you may bring along your secretary for company.’

‘She is not my secretary, mein Herr, she is my wife.’

Christ, Cal thought, I must be getting old. Did I miss the ring?

There was no chance to check on that on the way out, though he did try; he was escorted by MCG and his missus had her hands behind the typewriter.

There being no point in hanging about in the hotel, he had a chance to do a bit of sightseeing, naturally the Acropolis and the Parthenon, then the Temple of Olympian Zeus, where he was given to wonder at what the god would have to say about his games having been played in Berlin. He probably liked Plato, so he would approve, for if ever there was a proto-fascist it was the great Greek philosopher who so admired Sparta. If not, he would have cheered from the heavens for the feats of the black athlete Jesse Owens.

When he returned to the Grande Bretagne there was a message for Mr Moncrief at the desk, from MCG, which asked him to telephone. Put through, the call was answered by the unlikely Mrs MCG, who had a voice on the phone as silky as her stockings, albeit he could not understand a word she said, this while Cal tried to imagine the pair in bed, a congress so improbable he had to shake his head. Then he was put through.

‘Herr Moncrief. I have been in touch with my principal and I have received from him permission to enter into discussions.’

‘The first would be regarding quantities. Without that satisfied, the rest would be pointless.’

‘I have been assured that there is sufficient produce to meet any needs you may have.’

‘Then the invitation to dinner stands.’

‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Moncrief, but is that your real name?’

Fishing, you fat little slob, but no doubt on instructions.

‘It is the name on my passport, which I am happy to show to you.’

The silence at the end was telling; he did not believe him and why should he? This was not a trade at all – especially the one under discussion – for newcomers and amateurs. The real question was whether the Greek had the means to enquire and then the kind of sources of information to ferret out anything revealing. Never having been active in Greece, it was a reasonable assumption that he did not.

‘Besides, I could be anyone. What matters is that I have the means to pay. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how many will we be?’

‘Three.’

‘Splendid.’

As he put the phone down he had a flash of memory and it was of a smiling Florencia, whose photograph lay in his suitcase. Alive, had he harboured the thoughts he was enjoying now, she would have gouged his eyes out. But she was not, and he knew, if she could speak from beyond the grave, she would be willing him to have a full life, but he did not entirely let himself off the hook.

‘God, you’re a callous bastard, Jardine,’ he said out loud.

If they were improbable in his imagination, they were no better arm in arm. Cal was waiting to greet them at the hotel entrance, a courtesy he would not have extended for MCG if he had come on his own, and he certainly would not have lifted and kissed his hand as he did now hers, speaking in French, noting the gold band she wore, as well as a fairly substantial diamond engagement ring to accompany it.

The hand was elegant, with long fingers and painted nails, and proximity gave him a whiff of a very alluring perfume, before he was granted, as he lifted his head, another ravishing smile, while out of the corner of his eye he sought to see if her husband was annoyed. It was as if he did not even notice, seemingly too busy looking around at the well-appointed entrance, only moving when Cal did, following him through the held-open doors and into the lobby.

‘Your wife speaks German?’

‘No, only Greek, so we can discuss matters without her interference.’

‘Is that not a strange word to use?’

‘Women,’ he spluttered, ‘they do not know their place.’

He so nearly said, ‘I hope so,’ but stopped himself just in time, registering that if fatty had been fearful yesterday he was not that now; if anything he was being brusque, and that did nothing to make Cal feel they were going to have a pleasant evening.

Having chosen a private room, one with a view of the Acropolis in the moonlight, he had asked that it be provided with lots of flowers; it might be a serious business meeting but he wanted to impress her, which was not going to be easy given he had no idea of her name. In truth, he reckoned he was deluding himself, but it was pleasant to do so and added some interest to what was otherwise likely to be tedious.

The champagne he had ordered was already opened and the waiter poured three glasses as soon as they sat, the mood immediately spoilt by MCG snapping something at his wife, which brought from her a look of fury. In Greek, it might have been incomprehensible but for the way she downed the wine then glared at him. Clearly he was telling her not to drink too much, so Cal signalled for her glass to be refilled.

‘To business,’ he said as he turned to MCG, forcing his attention away from his wife.

‘My principal doubts you will meet his terms.’

‘I will answer that when you tell me what they are and what I am paying for.’

As MGC took a typed list from his pocket and passed it over, his eyes swivelled to his wife, who was having a third refill, which caused him to frown – clearly she liked a drink – but attention had to be paid to the business and Cal could not fault what he was being offered, for it was a gunrunner’s dream. Everything he wanted and lots of it: 20 mm Flak cannons, Pak 36 anti-tank guns, MG 32 machine guns, machine pistols, Walther PP pistols and K98 rifles, all with ammunition and spares.

‘The price?’

‘Forty million Reichsmarks.’

It was hard not to blink; at the very roughest guess that was at least twice what the price should be, but he had to smile and make light of it.

‘I am glad to see we are no longer pretending where these are coming from. Are you sure they can be delivered?’

‘Herr Moncrief, you would not have come to me unless you knew more than I would wish, therefore I doubt you will need to guess at the power of the person who has agreed that what you have in your hand can be supplied. I, however, need to be sure you can pay.’

‘Shall we order some food? If we do not, I think your wife risks spoiling her appetite.’

‘You mentioned payment in gold. Is that here in Athens?’

‘Not yet, but I do not see a problem, yet I must, as you understand, refer back to the source of funds and get their agreement to the price.’

‘I do not think they have a choice.’

‘There is always a choice, but I think they will accept.’

‘Elena!’

The bark made MCG’s cheeks wobble, but there was no mistaking the fury in the eyes and it got the same response as his earlier admonishment: she simply drained her glass, and that acted like a red rag. What followed was a furious exchange in Greek, not one word of which Cal understood, but he had engaged in enough marital quarrels of his own to be able to discern the gist.

She liked to drink, while he had not even touched his champagne, which indicated that she was a boozer and he was not. Good manners should have kept this under wraps, perhaps in a public space he would have been more circumspect, but with neither of those constraints present, he went right off the deep end and was fully matched in response. For all she was a beauty, Elena also had the ability to look like a very angry crow with a voice to match.