‘A fact that has been made perfectly plain these last two years,’ Cal snapped; the indifference of Britain to the plight of the Spanish republicans tended to get under his skin. ‘As neutrality it’s a farce, given the arms embargo is being, and has been since the outbreak, routinely broken by the Germans and Italians.’

‘You forgot to mention the Russians.’

‘Most of whose ships have been sunk by Italian submarines, whilst the Royal Navy just stands by and looks on. HMG should be blushing to the roots, not worrying about what I am up to.’

‘I don’t make policy, Cal.’

‘It’s not so long ago you seemed as committed as I am to fighting the likes of Franco, or was the buying and shipping of weapons to Ethiopia two years back just a lark? I seem to recall a lot of talk about stopping Mussolini, and while I am aware you are not much of one for ideology, I would be disappointed to find you have done a complete volte-face and signed up with the denizens of the Right Club.’

Peter, to avoid answering what was clearly a question, stood up and went to a rather faded curtain, which, when twitched back, revealed a tiny kitchen, into which he disappeared as he responded.

‘Would you like some coffee, old boy? I can make some if I can work out this infernal pot the Frogs use.’

‘So, you’re back with MI6?’

‘I am.’

‘Comfortable?’

The reply came through the curtain with some venom. ‘Salaried, old chap, which for some of us is a most compelling requirement.’

‘And your previous …’ Cal paused. ‘I hate to say “employers”?’

Having been a victim of budgetary cutbacks at the start of the decade, Peter had been recruited by a group of moneyed or politically connected individuals who were worried about the inexorable rise of the European dictators, allied to the fact that His Majesty’s Government were doing nothing to put the kibosh on them. To such people a trained and competent intelligence operative, British to the core, was just the ticket.

The assumption that he had done their bidding for a decent stipend Cal had taken as read. On the grounds of proper appreciation he never worked for nothing and he doubted Peter would either, but he did have a private income, which he knew Peter lacked, given it rarely went unmentioned when they met.

Recruited from Hamburg, where he had been involved in getting Jews out to safety with some hope of prosperity, he had been engaged to work for those same interests, tasked to buy guns and get them into Ethiopia, then being threatened with an Italian invasion.

A few surprising names apart, Cal had never been vouchsafed the identity of the well-placed members of this secret group and he was damn sure he was not about to be enlightened now. He did know they had money, political contacts or both, and the ability to employ them in places in which they could be of use.

‘Still in touch, of course,’ Peter replied, ‘and helpful it is, given there is some hope the mood might just be beginning to swing their way on reining in the dictators. Not at the top, you understand – Chamberlain is still convinced his policy is the right one – but let us say since Anthony Eden resigned the ground is shifting very slightly under the feet of those committed to appeasement.’

‘About time.’

He reappeared holding the enamel coffee pot. ‘Damn thing works on steam, I gather.’

‘Don’t fret on my account, Peter, I’ve had several cups already while I was having a bit of fun with those fellows watching my movements.’

‘I knew you were in some kind of trouble, as soon as you raised that damned paper I knew it. Took a bit of quick thinking, that did.’

‘Which does nothing to explain your presence in La Rochelle. I hope you have not come all this way to tell me to desist.’

‘Would it matter if I had?’

‘No, and since we are not at home I don’t see how you could.’

‘There are ways, old boy. For instance, I could always tip off the chaps at the old Deuxième Bureau, tell ’em what I suspect, though judging by the way you are being tailed it looks as if they are aware already. Weapons for Ireland they won’t give a damn about but they are hotter than we are on Spain.’

Peter shook the pot. ‘Do you know how to work this damn thing, Cal? You are, after all, practically a native.’

‘I’ve told you I don’t want coffee.’

‘Selfish to the last, as always. What about me?’ Peter replied peevishly, the cigarette jerking between his lips as he looked around the poorly furnished room. ‘Because of what you are up to I had to rent this dump. A hotel was out of the question.’

Even if it struck Cal as unusual, there was a certain logic in that; every French hotel registered their guests by their passports, names and home address, while the completed forms were collected by the local gendarmerie, leaving an undesirable record of who stayed where and when – even with false papers, for anyone involved in intelligence, it was probably better to stay out of the system if you could.

Cal stood up and took the battered blue pot, waved the smoke out of his face and went past Peter into the kitchen, to where there was an open tin of ground coffee. The filling of both the base and the metal filter he carried out while talking, also the lighting of the gas onto which the pot was placed, his mind working on a couple of nagging inconsistencies.

‘Surely you have not come all this way to have me show you how to make coffee French-style?’ he asked eventually.

‘No. The powers that be I mentioned want your services and I have been sent to rope you in.’

‘To do what?’

‘The usual, old boy, to risk life and limb for little or no reward.’

The coffee pot had to begin to make a bubbling sound before Cal replied to that, which left a very long conversational gap. It was like Hamburg all over again, where Peter had turned up with information that Cal’s activities had come to the attention of the authorities, bringing the threat of possible arrest by the Gestapo. That had led to a very hairy and hurried departure not only for them, but also for a Jewish family he was in the process of extracting. Escape had been a close-run thing in which he had only avoided being taken up by the amount of time and effort he had put into setting up more than one escape route for himself.

As he heard the water bubble he was thinking that was one thing he now lacked unless he abandoned that cargo. La Rochelle was not on the route to anywhere, it was one of those places you came to or went from, or left by sea, and if his position was threatened he had few alternatives on how to avoid anyone seeking to arrest him.

That he was in a risky business went without saying, and that was made doubly so by the nature of who those weapons were for and the fact that there was a French embargo on weapons to Spain as well. What was irritating him now was the resemblance to Hamburg; it was just too pat and the similarities were too great.

Yet he could not just dismiss what was on offer until he knew the threat it posed to that which he was already engaged in. The men fighting against Franco’s forces in the Cantabrian Mountains needed those weapons, and job number one was to get them loaded aboard ship and on their way.

‘How’s that coffee coming along?’ Peter called.

‘Nearly there.’

‘Fetch out the old confiture, Cal, there’s a good chap, the old stomach is rumbling somewhat.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Must have been a bit hairy in Czechoslovakia, Cal, buying and shipping out your cargo with the nation mobilised for a possible war with the Hun.’

Peter had emptied the coffee pot and chewed steadily on his bread and jam to the point of swallowing half the loaf, a time during which Cal Jardine had kept off the subject and stuck to conversational generalities to allow himself time to think; now he was being dragged back to the present and what might become a dilemma. For a moment he wondered whether to answer, but given what Peter already knew it seemed harmless to oblige.