A Broken Land Read Free Page B

people lunching with a chap who just happens to be both a virulent anti-communist and a qualified pilot.’
    ‘You plan to keep an eye on Beeb?’ That had got a nod, as Cal Jardine added, not without irony, ‘Is it not a little bit obvious to let yourself be seen?’
    ‘Cal, old boy, we don’t have the resources to keep a clandestine eye on the bugger twenty-four hours a day, so the plan is to let him know he is under observation. Induce caution, don’t you know.’
    ‘And me?’
    ‘Since you are off to sunny Barcelona I thought it only fair to warn you.’
    Such a throwaway line had raised the suspicion that Lanchester was being disingenuous; if Cal Jardine knew all about the villainies of Juan March, it was quite possible that one or more of the people who had been pointed out to him were conscious of his name and the nature of his past activities as a gunrunner.
    Indeed, that might explain the atmosphere at their table; with limited resources, Peter Lanchester was stirring the pot by letting them be seen together, creating in the mind of the trio the impression that he had lines of enquiry and sources of information that, in truth, did not exist. As Cal had already said, the clandestine movement of arms was a business where knowing what others were up to was part of the game.
    ‘Of course,’ Peter had added, ‘it would also be of advantage if you were to keep an ear to the ground and let us know if anything occurs to stir the pot.’ That had got a wave of the menu. ‘Now we must choose some food and you must tell me about these People’s Olympics of yours, which I must say sounds dire.’
    That had been like a throwing down of the gauntlet, teasing Cal to enquire as to how he knew so much and even, perhaps, to seek the source of his information; he was not prepared to play.
    ‘It could be fun,’ he had responded.
    ‘What!’ Peter had exclaimed, genuinely shocked. ‘All those pious lefties, Bolsheviks and anarchists?’
    That had been said far too loudly and attracted looks and arched eyebrows from nearby tables that would have been less troubled, in such surroundings, if he had publicly uttered every filthy swear word in the canon.
     
    Peter Lanchester thought he had Beeb taped, unaware that the fellow he looked to be taking on a picnic, Hugh Pollard, in the company of a couple of very attractive girls, was, as well as another MI6 operative, an aerial navigator. He had followed them to Brighton and observed the consumption of the food from their hamper and taken some pleasure in watching the females disrobe to both sunbathe and swim.
    It was perfectly natural that on their way back to town from a day of sun and sea, they should pass through Croydon on the A23; what was not expected was that instead of driving straight on past the airport as they had on the way down, they should swing their open-top touring car into the avenue that led to the terminal building. Worse, they drove straight past that onto the tarmac, where a twin-engined de Havilland Dragon Rapide was already fired up, its engines warm.
    If they had luggage, it was clearly already aboard, proving that their departure was a well-planned operation. Peter Lanchester did what he could to stop them, which was not much – he had no officialcapacity and the staff at the airport, when bearded, could only say the flight plan was one to take the aircraft to Paris, giving them no reason to block the take-off.
    By the time he could get on the blower to someone with the power of prohibition, the Rapide was already airborne, the two attractive girls waving frantically from the car. On the observation deck he spotted the journalist Luis Bolin with a pair of binoculars in use. If there had been any doubt about the nature of the flight, the presence of the right-wing Spanish newspaperman laid it to rest. The flight plan was a myth and the projected revolt of the Spanish generals looked to be imminent.
    The cable Peter Lanchester sent Cal Jardine was simple;