‘When did this come up?’ Cal demanded, suspecting he was about to be asked for more money.

‘Immediately the transaction was considered by those who advise my principal.’

That meant there was a lawyer involved, maybe more than one, which was not good for security.

‘In this,’ MCG continued, ‘no one must be drawn into an international outcry. Merely shipping the goods without an EUC might do that – raise questions that would be embarrassing to have to deal with.’

Translated, that meant queries as to who had gained financially from the deal; not even someone as powerful as Hermann Göring could explain away the pocketing of payments that Cal suspected would never find their way into the coffers of the German finance ministry.

And if the Spanish Nationalists found out he was facilitating supplies to their foes, it would certainly get them going, albeit they would not make an excessive amount of fuss – they depended on the Nazis for too much – but they might just drop the kind of hints to Göring’s rivals that would trigger an investigation.

The bloated little Greek had a strange look on his face – not a smile or a smirk – but one that not only hinted at his having the upper hand, but a deep degree of pleasure in being in that position.

‘Difficult as it would be to accept, it is sometimes better to forgo a transaction than carry one through that throws up last-minute complications. It is to be hoped that you have a solution and one that does not affect the price.’

The message was plain and Jardine was sure the little bastard had got it: no more money, maybe none at all, and this for a man who had near-wet himself by just touching a gold bar. The pause was long, the hope that this British arms dealer, who must be making his own pile, might crack, one that fell on stony ground. The tub of lard was obliged to give in, which he did with a dismissive wave, as if it had never been a problem.

‘Fortunately there is a way out of this impasse. I am friendly with a man who has the power to provide a solution. The certificate will say that the arms are being shipped to equip the Greek National Army. I think, given the political situation, no one will question the need.’

‘And that man is?’

‘Herr Moncrief!’ MCG cried, to what was an absurd question.

Cal was thinking, did it matter? It was another link in a chain of people, and the more of those there were, the more likely information about the shipment and its destination could leak out, and he had no great faith in the highly voluble Greeks keeping a secret. But he soon realised he would just have to live with it, unpleasant as it was.

Did this little sod understand that the coast of Spain was blockaded and any illegal shipment would have to run the gauntlet, not only of Italian submarines who would sink them on sight if they had knowledge of the cargo and its destination, but also British warships, enforcing that democratic joke, the Non-Intervention Treaty? In a decade of doing clandestine deals this one had way too many people in the know, all of whom would drop him like a hot brick if exposure threatened.

Yet he was too close to completion to back away and there was also the knowledge that, on paper, this transaction was impossible. Maybe Sir Basil Zaharoff in his prime could have pulled it off, and there was, too, a slight glow in the thought that the old man would probably have entrusted the information he had passed over to very few people, indeed, he might be the only one.

Callum Jardine still had to make his way in his world, and if the deal needed to be kept secret now, these things had a way of filtering out to the wider arms-dealing community over time and his name would gain in reputation – if he was not making a money profit on this, it might translate into a healthy stream of income in the future.

He nodded and smiled, which made MCG smile too, and so pleased was he that a small and noisy joining of his hands in front of his snub nose was the result. Cal picked up the documents and transferred them to his attaché case.

‘The meeting for the handover will take place here. I will cable the ambassador and I am sure you too will be informed that the contract has got to the point of finalising the payment.’

A nod.

‘I will, of course, oversee the actual purchase, the transportation to the docks and the loading, at which point I will telephone to the Attica Bank and give them a code word which we have agreed between us. They will then put the ambassador on the phone for completion. Is that satisfactory?’

‘Very satisfactory, Herr Moncrief. I must ask, how long has it been since you were in Germany?’

That made Cal Jardine stiffen, it being the kind of question that might have unpleasant undertones. His last departure, not that long past, had been a close-run thing and he knew there were people in Germany who would dearly love to get him in a cell with a couple of rubber truncheons in their hands and some bare electrical wiring. Yet looking at MCG and his bland expression, it seemed as if the question was an innocent one.

‘Quite some time, but it is a country I am fond of.’

‘You will find it much changed, Herr Moncrief, and for the better. I feel we could do with a dose of what the Führer has done in Germany here in Greece, particularly the way he has dealt with the communists.’

Not wanting to go there, Cal decided to change the subject. ‘I forgot to ask you, Herr Constantou-Georgiadis, how is your lovely wife?’

MCG looked as if he had just been slapped, and as much as it was possible for the skin of his face to tighten it did just that. Did he know what had happened that night he stormed out of the Grande Bretagne?

‘My wife,’ he hissed, ‘is where she should be, mein Herr, looking after my affairs.’

‘She’s very good at looking after affairs, I should think.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The train north was the Arlberg Orient Express, direct from Athens through Belgrade, Bucharest, then, after a change at Vienna, the journey north through Czechoslovakia to Germany and Berlin, where, once over the border, he was subjected to the usual continual checking of papers en route that went with the thorough Teutonic bureaucracy that existed in a country with more uniform per square metre than anywhere else in the world.

He spent a night in the Adlon Hotel, luxurious and central, but reputedly not much loved by the Berlin Nazis, who preferred the Kaiserhof. Even then, having checked in as Herr Moncrief, he ate in his room and had a careful look round the following morning before exiting to hail a taxi to take him to catch the train to Celle in Lower Saxony.

With eighty million Germans, the chances of running into anyone who knew his face were so slight as to be non-existent, but he had always been of the opinion that it would be a stupid mistake to ignore the risk, because you would feel a damn fool if it went wrong, and in his case, in this country, it could prove fatal.

Celle was a pretty place, very conscious of itself, once part of the electorate of Hanover which had produced the Georgian kings of England – a fact that was immediately mentioned to him as he checked into the Fürstenhof Hotel and they saw his British passport. Provincial in the extreme, it was miles away in time and thinking from Berlin, sharing only the very recognisable features of the totalitarian state: the ubiquitous swastika flags and banners, the exhorting posters, as well as the loudspeakers on lampposts and buildings which would play martial music as well as deliver messages from the propaganda ministry, just in case the populace did not know how great their country was.

From there it was another short journey to Unterlüss and the Rheinmetall-Borsig Werk. With three factories this was the one he had been told to go to; what they did not make here would be brought from the other plants in Kassel and Düsseldorf – the whole, once inspected and accepted, would be shipped up to the Free Port of Hamburg. Peter Lanchester had a cargo vessel on the way to dock there and wait, provided by one of his secretive backers, who was obviously in shipping.