A Broken Land Read Free

recently strengthened by what had happened in Germany, Romania and Ethiopia, but he could not say, in any way, that he knew the man well. There had been hints of a job with British Intelligence in some capacity, but Cal had no idea if he was still employed or was, as he had hinted, on the scrap heap due to financial cutbacks brought on by government economies.
    Lanchester had come to Hamburg the previous autumn to both warn and engage his old acquaintance, claiming to represent a group of wealthy or well-connected individuals who had combined to seek to put a check on the threat of fascism to Great Britain. But, apart from a couple of obvious names – and you could only speculate if he was telling the truth regarding those he had revealed – he had consistently declined to mention the identities of most of his backers.
    That they had power had been proven by the way the task Peter had asked him to perform, as well as aided him to execute, had beenboth financed and facilitated; that it had been risky went without saying – the clandestine purchase and shipment of the weapons of war could never be anything else. In the process, Jardine’s opinion of Peter Lanchester, not terribly high to begin with, had risen several notches; he was not a fellow with whom he shared much in common in the political or moral line, but he was both brave and gifted.
    ‘So, apart from the love of my company, Peter, why this?’
    ‘Over there in the corner,’ Peter had whispered, ‘those three chaps, glowering at the world in general and at each other in particular.’
    That was said with a nod past his guest’s shoulder; too experienced to jerk his head round, it was several moments before Cal Jardine had looked to where Lanchester indicated. The table had been as described, but there seemed to be something not quite right about the party, a stiffness that made conversation look difficult. The impression was fleeting – it had to be, because he could not stare – but it was visible that they were either earnestly engaged in serious discussion, or possibly in disagreement.
    ‘The one with his back to you is MI6,’ Lanchester had continued, idly casting his eye over the menu. ‘Name of Cecil Beeb, and the grey-haired chap is Douglas Jerrold, editor of the Catholic Review , a nitwit who thinks the sun shines right out of Oswald Mosley’s alimentary canal. He makes support of the Mail look tepid. Swarthy one is Luis Bolin, London correspondent of a Spanish newspaper, also, coincidentally, very anti the present Republican government.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Would you not be interested in what they might be talking about, given where you are off to?’
    ‘I’m not as nosy as you, Peter.’
    ‘A little bird has let us know Señor March is up to no good in the Iberian Peninsula.’
    Even if he had not wanted to be intrigued, Cal had been unable to help it. ‘Go on.’
    ‘We think there’s going to be a military revolt in Spain, seeking to topple the Popular Front government, and Juan March is helping to finance the generals leading it. Rumour has it he has piled in over fifteen million US dollars already, with more promised when the balloon goes up.’
    It had been hard not to look impressed, indeed not to emit a soft whistle, that being a very serious amount of money, but, taking into account March’s background and those who constituted his enemies, the man’s action made a certain sense.
    ‘It was the Republic that sought to put him in jail,’ Cal had replied, ‘so he can’t love democracy much, but from what I know of Juan March, which I admit is limited and second-hand, making money is his prime concern. Mind, if he pays out that much to put the soldiers in power, he can name his fee if they succeed.’
    Since being apprised of the commission from Monty Redfern he had quite naturally sought to recall what he knew of present-day Spain, a seriously troubled country racked by endless political infighting, not that such a thing was new