and all forgiven. At least in the business of oil, but, Serebin suspected, perhaps well beyond that. “So, monsieur,” she said, “you are an old friend of the baron’s.”
“We’ve met, here and there, over the years. Moscow, Paris. A conference, a dinner party.” Oh,
you
know.
She knew. “I’ve had a note from his Paris office, hand-delivered, that suggests someone like you would call, and that I am to be, informative.” A dark cloud passed in front of the sun. “So I shall be. But, monsieur, if you are not discreet, we shall both be shot, or whatever it is that the Boche do these days. Beheading, is it?”
“So they say.”
“Well, I’d prefer that mine stay where it is, if it’s all the same to you.”
Serebin’s smile was meant to reassure. “I wonder if you could tell me,” he said, “what happened to him, in London?”
“Nobody knows, not really. He was forcing his way up the ladder, as always, but it’s thought he pushed a bit too hard, perhaps bested somebody who was better left unbested. They have rules there—they don’t tell you what they are, but they have them. And, if you break them, doors close, people are out when you call, invitations don’t come. A summer frost, it’s all quite magical.”
“Nothing like Paris, of course.”
The irony was clear, but she said, “We’re perhaps more tolerant here, but you may be right. In any event, the British find themselves in difficulty, and perhaps not so particular about their friends. That’s also in the rules, no doubt.”
“A footnote. But they will prevail, in the end.”
“God and Roosevelt willing, they shall. And sooner would be better. Now, that said, how can I be of service to you?”
“Friends of mine have an interest in the disruption of Roumania’s oil exportation to Germany.”
“Oh do they? Well, I suppose it can be tried. Again.”
“If it will end the war it has to be tried, no?”
She thought for a moment before she answered. “Oil is critical for Germany, especially in time of war. So, it excites them, inspires them to heroic effort. For example, during the evacuation of Dunkirk, the British bombed the oil storage facilities near Hamburg. The hits were not direct, but the tanks were punctured, and three thousand tons of oil leaked out. Almost all of it, however, was recovered, pumped back into the tanks. That, monsieur, that level of determination, is what your friends ought to be thinking about.”
“We know this, in Russia. The last, oh, three hundred years or so, when the moment was right, we would invite them to come over and help us out.”
She knew the history. “National character,” she said. “They
fix
things. For example, the last time the British went after Roumanian oil, they were quite successful. Have you ever heard the name Empire Jack?”
“No.”
“Colonel John Norton-Griffiths, member of Parliament, no less, and one of those delicious madmen produced by a rather sane race of people. Griffiths showed up in Bucharest in 1916, just ahead of the German cavalry. He came from Russia, in a two-seater Rolls which carried him, his valet, and several crates of champagne. He got the Roumanians to agree that the Ploesti oil fields had to be destroyed and, under his direction, they wrecked. I mean, they
wrecked.
Blew up the derricks, plugged the wells, broke into the pipelines, flooded the fields with oil and set it on fire. Griffiths worked alongside them, lit off the gas in an engine house and was blown out the door with his hair on fire. Didn’t stop him for a minute. He got hold of a sledgehammer and went for the derricks and the pipes like a demon. In the end, they smashed seventy refineries, burned up eight hundred tons of crude oil and petroleum products. The flames didn’t die down for weeks.”
Serebin acknowledged the magnitude of the adventure but could sense the ending, the homily.
“But, by 1918, the Germans had production back up to eighty percent of the 1914
“We’ve met, here and there, over the years. Moscow, Paris. A conference, a dinner party.” Oh,
you
know.
She knew. “I’ve had a note from his Paris office, hand-delivered, that suggests someone like you would call, and that I am to be, informative.” A dark cloud passed in front of the sun. “So I shall be. But, monsieur, if you are not discreet, we shall both be shot, or whatever it is that the Boche do these days. Beheading, is it?”
“So they say.”
“Well, I’d prefer that mine stay where it is, if it’s all the same to you.”
Serebin’s smile was meant to reassure. “I wonder if you could tell me,” he said, “what happened to him, in London?”
“Nobody knows, not really. He was forcing his way up the ladder, as always, but it’s thought he pushed a bit too hard, perhaps bested somebody who was better left unbested. They have rules there—they don’t tell you what they are, but they have them. And, if you break them, doors close, people are out when you call, invitations don’t come. A summer frost, it’s all quite magical.”
“Nothing like Paris, of course.”
The irony was clear, but she said, “We’re perhaps more tolerant here, but you may be right. In any event, the British find themselves in difficulty, and perhaps not so particular about their friends. That’s also in the rules, no doubt.”
“A footnote. But they will prevail, in the end.”
“God and Roosevelt willing, they shall. And sooner would be better. Now, that said, how can I be of service to you?”
“Friends of mine have an interest in the disruption of Roumania’s oil exportation to Germany.”
“Oh do they? Well, I suppose it can be tried. Again.”
“If it will end the war it has to be tried, no?”
She thought for a moment before she answered. “Oil is critical for Germany, especially in time of war. So, it excites them, inspires them to heroic effort. For example, during the evacuation of Dunkirk, the British bombed the oil storage facilities near Hamburg. The hits were not direct, but the tanks were punctured, and three thousand tons of oil leaked out. Almost all of it, however, was recovered, pumped back into the tanks. That, monsieur, that level of determination, is what your friends ought to be thinking about.”
“We know this, in Russia. The last, oh, three hundred years or so, when the moment was right, we would invite them to come over and help us out.”
She knew the history. “National character,” she said. “They
fix
things. For example, the last time the British went after Roumanian oil, they were quite successful. Have you ever heard the name Empire Jack?”
“No.”
“Colonel John Norton-Griffiths, member of Parliament, no less, and one of those delicious madmen produced by a rather sane race of people. Griffiths showed up in Bucharest in 1916, just ahead of the German cavalry. He came from Russia, in a two-seater Rolls which carried him, his valet, and several crates of champagne. He got the Roumanians to agree that the Ploesti oil fields had to be destroyed and, under his direction, they wrecked. I mean, they
wrecked.
Blew up the derricks, plugged the wells, broke into the pipelines, flooded the fields with oil and set it on fire. Griffiths worked alongside them, lit off the gas in an engine house and was blown out the door with his hair on fire. Didn’t stop him for a minute. He got hold of a sledgehammer and went for the derricks and the pipes like a demon. In the end, they smashed seventy refineries, burned up eight hundred tons of crude oil and petroleum products. The flames didn’t die down for weeks.”
Serebin acknowledged the magnitude of the adventure but could sense the ending, the homily.
“But, by 1918, the Germans had production back up to eighty percent of the 1914
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