A Bitter Field (3 page)

There was no reaction to that, the eyes stayed on the shoe.

‘Just as they were also not the idiots I took them to be, they were supposed to be spotted so you could give that little performance on the quayside.’

‘At least you must acknowledge it was convincing.’

‘Who are they?’

The reply was not immediate but slow in coming; no one in the intelligence business likes to give anything away unless they have to. ‘Couple of chaps from the Paris embassy, who were only too keen for a bit of cloak and dagger to relieve the boredom.’

It was not hard to anticipate the next question, given the way Cal was staring at him. ‘Who, if they don’t hear from me, will return there forthwith.’

‘Do they know about my real name or my shipment?’

‘Of course not!’ Peter replied, eyebrows shooting up, leaving Cal to wonder if the shock was real or as feigned as his quayside rudeness. He was far from convinced he was being told the truth.

‘The question is, Peter, will you carry out your instructions to the letter or will you, for old times’ sake, if I decline your offer, manufacture a fudge that lets me get clear?’

Peter Lanchester looked Cal straight in the eye, tapping his fingers on the oilskin cloth covering the table. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to be embarrassed. It is often the case that in the intelligence game one is put in an invidious position, Cal, you know that.’

‘I accept that, but I don’t know what you are going to do, given the position you are in – indulge an old companion, or obey your
new bosses and hang me out to dry. When it comes to shipping weapons to Spain the French are worse than us and quite brutal in their methods of extracting information. I don’t fancy ending up having to answer any questions they might pose about who helped me get this far.’

‘Then give me an answer.’

‘I will, on one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘I’ll say yes or no when my cargo is loaded and on the way to Spain.’

‘You’re not going with it?’

‘No, my involvement ends once it’s on board.’

That brought another long silence as Peter contemplated the offer, and it was clear from his expression that what occurred to him first were the manifest drawbacks.

‘Such a course puts all the aces in your hands. What if you renege once it is loaded?’

‘I give you my word I will not and my answer will be based on a realistic appreciation of what I can usefully do.’

‘Not something my chiefs would accept.’

‘They don’t know me, you do. I am not giving them my word, Peter, this is personal between you and I.’

That led to another long silence and a stare between them that was locked and unfriendly, until Peter finally gave way. ‘Oh all right, but you’d better bloody well keep it, for if you break it I will get the blame for that and I give you my word that those I represent will help me to ensure you will suffer more.’

‘Meaning I’ll have to shut up shop in the arms trade?’

‘Meaning, old boy, you will never dare set foot on home soil
again, for the moment you do you will be arrested and thrown into choky for a very long time.’

‘I assume I would get a trial.’

‘While I am certain you would earn a conviction. You’re a British subject breaking an official arms embargo.’

Cal looked at his watch. ‘It is about time for me to move, Peter. I have a schedule to keep.’

‘Which involves?’ Now it was Cal’s turn to be guarded, to husband information best kept secret, which clearly annoyed Peter. ‘I have to know and I have, after all, been fairly open with you.’

‘I radioed the ship from the Marconi office this morning, which is, I assume, where your embassy chaps picked me up?’

‘Another bit of brilliant Lanchester deduction. I guessed you’d have to radio the vessel to say the cargo was ready to load.’

‘It will anchor in the outer roads late this afternoon and I have to get the goods into the commercial port and alongside before certain customs people go off duty.’

‘Folk whom you’ve bribed?’ Cal nodded, as Peter hauled himself to his feet. ‘You’ll have to wait till I get changed.’

‘Why?’

‘I doubt my present attire is proper wear for what is proposed.’

‘You intend to come along?’

‘Cal, if you think I am going to let you out of my sight, you have another think coming. I am going to stick to you, in that vulgar expression the squaddies we led used to employ, like shit to a blanket. Now do me a favour and start to clean the place up so there is no trace of either of us ever being here.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Compulsory, old boy, standing orders now that one is back in harness.’

‘Did you not rent it?’

‘Got one of the embassy chaps to do that and it is paid for till the end of the week.’

Surprised as he was, Cal complied and that took time, wiping every surface and handle, shutters included after they had been shut and locked. Then there was the coffee pot, the knife Peter had used, gas knob, kitchen surfaces as well as the tabletop and the backs of the chairs.

Peter Lanchester came out of the tiny bedroom backwards, using his handkerchief to do the doorknob and edge, nodding appreciatively when he saw that Cal had used a bag he had found to take with them the remaining food and any rubbish.

He was dressed in dark-grey flannels and a blazer, everything else in a valise he was carrying. Last of all, after the front door had been wiped, was the key, cleaned and flicked under the door. Once at the entrance to the apartments Peter allowed Cal twenty paces before following him to where he had parked his car, a small, two-door, green Simca, in a road off the quayside.

T
he route out of La Rochelle avoided the main road that led eventually, as all roads in France do, to Paris. They drove instead through the south-eastern suburbs, an obviously
working-class
quarter, across a bridge, then on to a narrow
pavé
road that ran alongside the south side of the Canal du Marais-Poitevin, just wide enough for two cars to pass, tree-lined on one side and with a shallow inland storm ditch to prevent flooding from the adjoining open fields.

It was also, bar the odd shallow bend, as straight as a ruler and far from busy, cutting through a flat, featureless agricultural landscape dotted with windmills and the odd
manoir
-type farmhouse, with the waterway and the occasional barge using it to the northern side.

There was no attempt at haste; Cal kept the speed down, not because he feared any kind of police presence, but for the simple reason that it was unwise to do anything that might draw attention.
Both side windows were open to let in a welcome breeze; with the sun now high in the sky, the day had become hot and a bit sticky, increasingly so as they left behind the cooling breeze from the sea. That also had the advantage of extracting Peter’s almost-constant cigarette smoke.

What conversation they exchanged consisted of general chat about the increasingly feverish situation in Central Europe, thanks to the rantings of Hitler, plus a shared if constrained fuming at how Mussolini had not only got away with his criminal invasion of Ethiopia and the even more iniquitous use of poison gas, but had then had that conquest recognised by the democratic nations in the hope that it would deter him from forming an alliance with Germany, the conclusion being it was a flawed policy.

That moved on to the projected outcome for the republicans in Spain and it was far from sanguine. They were steadily losing ground to their fascist-backed opponents while simultaneously trying to get out from the grip of the international communists and commissars Stalin had sent to help in their campaigns – emissaries who had proved to be, as friends, just as dangerous as the troops of General Franco.

Railing at the stupidity of that, as well as Bolshevism in general, and getting little response, Peter eventually noticed that his companion was uncomfortable discussing the failings of the communists; in fact Cal abruptly turned the conversation to what was happening socially and politically in London, and when he enquired as to why he was a bit touchy, Peter was told to mind his own business.

He was thus left in the dark about a subject his companion found too painful to talk about: both the loss he had suffered at the hands of the communists in Spain and the revenge he had taken for what
was, in truth, a bereavement. Not a cold-blooded killer by nature, events had forced him into that mode and it was not a memory that, in either cause or effect, was in any way joyful.

A lorry coming in the opposite direction, one of a width that forced them to pull hard to the side and stop between two trees to let it pass, curtailed a rather strained exchange. Sitting with the engine idling, Cal quietly asked, his eyes firmly fixed on the rear-view mirror, if there was any reason Peter could think of as to why they might be followed.

‘None whatever, old chap, unless you have been careless.’

‘I try not to be, as you know, but then if you found me …’

‘The question is being posed because?’

‘We picked up a car just as we left the centre of the city. You must have noticed that Hispano-Suiza roadster that was parked by the roadside?’

‘Not terribly interested in cars, old boy.’

‘Well it pulled out immediately we had passed. Nothing unusual in that, except that it is still with us and the hood is up, which is hardly fitting when it’s so hot. Added to that, it has kept to the same speed as us ever since.’

‘Why is that strange?’

‘It’s a J12, capable of well over a ton.’

‘Not on this road, surely?’ Peter said.

‘Be great fun on this road,’ Cal insisted.

The passing lorry cut out the sunlight, easing past with about an inch to spare. With the road clear again Cal moved off, his eyes rarely off what was happening behind, the lorry being forced onto the side embankment and skirting the ditch to get past the wider Hispano-Suiza.

‘You think it’s the law?’ Peter asked.

‘Not in that kind of car, it costs a bloody fortune. Bugger stopped when we did, as if he didn’t want to get too close, and is now moving again, but not getting any nearer. If I was driving that kind of motor I would have been right up the arse of this little thing, flashing my bloody great headlights and leaning on the horn to get by.’

‘You sound just like Toad of Toad Hall, old chap,’ Peter responded calmly, before adding, ‘I take it that it might be worth a few precautions.’

‘Look under your seat, Peter; attached to the bottom there’s an oilskin pouch with a Mauser inside.’

‘I’m not sure that’s very wise,’ Peter replied. ‘If I am fingered here I will be in the soup regardless, without firing off a weapon on foreign turf.’

‘Just do as I ask, Peter, there’s a good chap. You came along because you elected to do so, not because you were invited.’

‘Fair enough,’ came the reply, after a moment’s consideration.

The gun was fetched out and one of the two detached full magazines inspected, before being rammed home and the weapon cocked, though with the safety on. Cal kept to the same pace as before, there being no point in increasing speed; this Simca could not outrun any kind of roadster, never mind one of the best on the market.

The careful speed was maintained until they passed, on their right, a ramshackle
manoir
so run-down it was shorn of windows, fronted by a clutter of delapidated farm buildings with a couple of
canvas-
topped
lorries parked outside, which seemed to be a workshop for farm equipment, judging by the amount of rusting metal and tractor attachments scattered about.

Cal sounded a tattoo on his horn, before swinging on to a narrow bridge with a low stone parapet that led to the north side of the canal, followed by a glance upstream to check the barge containing his cargo was still moored where he had last seen it. Now hidden by the line of trees that enclosed the canal on both sides he increased his speed, jamming his foot to the floor; if it gave him a pleasing sensation of haste, it was, he knew, useless by comparison to that of the car behind.

The road ahead split again and he screeched round the right-hand bend, gunning through the gears to another junction and swinging left onto an equally narrow, long and straight road that led north away from the canal – not that he expected to fool anyone and get away.

He had only one aim: to see if it was indeed a tail, or if he was being overcautious; that was answered within minutes when those big twin headlights abreast the low-slung black body appeared once more in the rear-view mirror. Cal immediately killed his speed, noting that the tail slowed as well. They were definitely being followed, but by whom?

What he had said to Peter had to be true: it was unlikely to be official, and not just for the value of a car that cost as much as a Rolls-Royce. If it was the French equivalent of MI5, seeking to enforce their national embargo on weapons destined for Spain, they would have been much more professional and thus harder to spot.

Such people knew their job and they would not be daft enough to assign one very obvious tail – and to find out what? The only thing could be the location of the weapons with a view to seizing them, which meant they had to be as aware of his intentions as his passenger. 

‘Where is my cargo, Peter?’

‘Not a clue, old chap.’

‘Take a guess,’ Cal responded with obvious impatience.

A sideways look showed Peter smiling. ‘The last place I had it pegged for certain was at the railhead in Marans.’

‘From which you deduced what?’

‘Seemed an obvious place to transfer to the road, old boy, given it runs all the way to a major port on the Bay of Biscay and the trains running into said port are risky when it comes to being searched – which could be bad news if your manifest and papers don’t pass muster. All it would take is the opening of one case to establish you are not shipping tractor parts.’

‘Not a barge?’

‘No,’ Peter admitted ruefully when he realised what he was being told. ‘You fooled me on that one.’

‘La Rochelle was no more than presumption, then?’

‘I flatter myself when I admit the answer to that is yes. With you involved and Spain the destination it had to be a Biscay port and Nantes and Bordeaux are too big, while Rochefort, the only other alternative, is an active naval base and too risky.’

‘Will you stop being so damn smug and deduce what would happen if the French knew as much as you?’

‘I have no indication that they did.’

‘That’s not what I asked, but if they had they would not need to chase us around the countryside, would they?’

The answer came with a languor that riled Cal. ‘You refer, of course, to the Johnny who I assume is still following us.’

‘You know, Peter, sometimes your sangfroid can be a pain in the arse. Now do me a favour and use your not-inconsiderable brain. I
am reasoning that whoever is following can’t be official. Discuss.’

‘It is sometimes very pleasant, old boy, to get under your skin.’

‘But?’

Peter’s chin hit his chest as he ran over things in his mind.

‘If the Frogs knew as much as I did, and with vastly superior resources, they would know exactly where your weapons are and could pick you up when they liked, whatever mode of transport you used. In fact, they might have done so already to ensure they did not miss you, unless of course, they are waiting to find out who is either helping you or who in the port has taken your filthy Spanish lucre.’

‘In which case they would not allow themselves to be spotted?’

‘You would have no idea they were even watching.’

‘My thinking too, which leads me to the same conclusion as before. Whoever is on our tail cannot be either the local plod or the
Deuxième Bureau
.’

‘Then who?’

‘Ask me another,’ Cal replied, before falling silent for a few seconds. ‘We need to stop and see if we can flush them out. There’s a small town ahead called Dompierre-sur-Mer.’

‘Rather a shortage of the
mer,
old chap, wouldn’t you say?’ Peter responded, still in that laconic way, looking around the
crop-filled
fields to either side of what had once probably been ancient marshland reclaimed from the sea. ‘But we lack an alternative, given there’s nowhere to hide around here that I can spot.’

‘In this case the best place to hide is in the open.’ Cal nodded ahead to the first building at the edge of what was a far from substantial settlement, then looked at his watch. ‘Time I bought you that meal you were so keen on.’

‘I doubt this hamlet we are approaching has the kind of treat I had in mind.’

‘Which was?’

‘The Connaught or the Savoy,’ Peter ventured, ‘perhaps with the freedom of the wine list.’

‘I fear you’ll have to settle for peasant fare, old chum, and the
vin du pays,
so, find somewhere to conceal that gun and prepare to reprise your “Englishman abroad” act.’

Dompierre was typical of thousands of small French towns, a
rundown
and desolate sort of place that had not been on the coast for centuries, with no industry, living off the produce extracted from the surrounding fields, and a few buildings, none of any size and mainly looking in need of repair, the whole clustered round the local church. It had the air of so many places in rural France – somewhere time had passed by or never even discovered.

Yet it was a working hamlet, it still contained a few of the necessary small shops in a central square dominated by the ubiquitous war memorial to the dead of the
Guerre Mondiale
: a butcher, a baker, both just closing for the two hours of lunch, a still-open newsagent which was also a
tabac
, as well as a small brasserie with outside seating under a sun-bleached awning advising the benefits of Ricard pastis.

Cal parked the Simca near the brasserie but in the shade, attracting a few curious glances from those still about. The reaction to the two-seater Hispano-Suiza J12, as it glided in seconds after, low and sleek, the engine purring, actually made the locals stop and stare; it was a rich man’s motor in a place were such things were rarely to be seen.

Parked well away from the Simca in full sunlight, hood still up, engine off, it just sat there for what seemed an age. By the time the
passenger got out, Cal and Peter were sitting under the awning, awaiting the beers they had ordered.

He was tall, exuded even at a distance an air of arrogance, and looked to be in his early twenties, broad-shouldered with blond curls, in a double-breasted light-grey suit of a good cut, somewhat crumpled from having been sat in a hot car, that over an open-necked big-collared shirt.

He stood by the open door looking around like a tourist, at the church, the Calvary cross of the war memorial and the now-shuttered shops, though it was obvious that his sweeping looks were taking in the two men he had followed.

Then his lips moved and whatever he said brought out the driver, a shorter fellow, who looked even younger with his brown cowlick hair, dressed in a leather blouson over a dark-blue shirt; he also made a point of not looking in their direction as he fetched out a beret to cover his head.

‘Cal, I have no idea who these two clowns are, but they are rank amateurs.’

Peter imparted that soft opinion as the owner of the brasserie placed the two draught beers on their table, looking up longingly just after he did so towards the Hispano-Suiza, which had Cal engaging him in a conversation of the kind people indulge in who love cars – the beauty of the lines, the size of the engine, which was a V12, and the potential speed such a vehicle could achieve, the conclusion that not only was the fellow driving it a lucky man, he was, along with his passenger, also a complete stranger.