Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  ‘A lovely spot for a tomb.’ She took his arm and they continued with their walk.

  ‘We must have been hours over lunch.’ she said ‘It’s getting quite dark.’

  ‘We were. Dusk falls quickly here. Like a curtain coming down. Shall we have a wander down to the beach? It probably isn’t very far. And it doesn’t matter what time we get back to the boat.’

  They made their way back down the hillside, stopping at a little shop for some cigarettes. Sylvia noticed Gunn buying a half bottle of brandy. ‘Snifters on the beach,’ he explained, taking a swig. ‘Would you like some?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not just now.’

  By the time they got to the beach, it was pitch dark. There was nobody around.

  ‘Fancy a swim?’ asked Gunn.

  ‘I haven’t got my swimming costume.’

  ‘Swimming costume? Where the hell do you think you are? Tooting buggering Lido? Live a little, Sylv.’

  In no time, Gunn had peeled off his clothes and was in the water. ‘Last one in is a…prissydrawers,’ he said, giving her a splash as she joined him. She reciprocated, and they swam out to sea. This is a new experience, Sylvia thought. She liked the sensation of the water against her bare skin. They lay on their backs companionably, looking at the stars. Gunn named some of them for her.

  ‘Where did you learn all this?’

  ‘Oh, here and there. I paid attention, unlike certain people round here.’ Gunn trickled some water over her.

  Back in Naples, Voss had woken from his slumbers with a start. He had gone to have a lie-down in his hotel room, but, having imbibed a whole bottle of red wine and a cognac on top of his Campari and his fritta del mare, he had fallen properly asleep and now it was pitch black. On balance, he felt all right to drive, so he picked up his car keys and asked the sleepy clerk on the reception desk where the buses ran to, at the front of the hotel.

  ‘Posillipo, signor.’

  Posillipo it was, then. There was no harm in making enquiries about this ‘Tommy.’ He knew better than to return to Mueller with nothing and it would give him something to put in his report. He searched in his pocket for some gettoni so that he could ring him with a quick update. He laid it on thick, explaining that the investigation might take a little time but that he was getting somewhere. Mueller seemed unusually genial, merely asking if he was all right for funds. Voss replied that he was.

  The sea was calm and warm, like a bath.

  ‘I was always in the water, as a child,” Sylvia commented. ‘Daddy used to call me the Little Mermaid.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, la petite sirène. I can see that.’ He turned to her. ‘Stay in the water for a bit. Don’t come out until I say. Try and keep still. Say nothing.’

  Sylvia turned onto her stomach and swam away quietly, further out to sea. Gunn sculled slowly back towards the shoreline, his head low. He had heard an engine, a Packard engine. Something was up. He drifted into the shallows and crawled up the beach. He paused, his cheek close to the pebbles. He could no longer hear the Packard; the engine had been switched off. He dabbed his hand softly on the pebbles, and found one that would sit comfortably in his hand. That would do.

  The scrub at the back of the beach shifted. Someone was pushing through it, heading straight towards Gunn. He waited for the moment when the scrub stopped shifting, reared up, drew his arm back and let fly. The pebble was wet and slipped out of his grasp fractionally too early. It shot away, pinged off a rock at the back of the beach and cracked into Voss’s cheekbone. Gunn heard the crack and was up and sprinting low, looking to hit Voss hard. But his quarry had gone, not waiting to field the follow-up. Gunn heard the Packard cranking up and spinning away.

  ‘Bugger!’

  ‘What the hell was that?’ thought Voss. It seemed as if it was just the Englishman on his own; unfortunately he didn’t get a chance for a second look with that scrub on the beach. Strange behaviour and rather odd to go swimming on your own at this hour but Englishmen, as he knew, were quite mad. His priority now was to get some medical attention. That was going to scar. Scheiss! He headed for the hospital he had passed on the outskirts of town. Mueller was going to have to pay him danger money at this rate.

  ‘So,’ mused Gunn. ‘What is this cove up to?’

  The Packard was long gone, at any rate, and he wagered that the creep wouldn’t come back in a hurry. They would be safe for a while. Gunn pulled his clothes on, opened the bottle of brandy, took several swigs and lay back to savour the moment. It went straight to his head. What did they put in this cut throat, buggering stuff?

  Sylvia had heard the car too, and, after a while, took advantage of Gunn lying down, seemingly with his eyes closed, to come out of the sea and creep past him to retrieve her clothes. Actually, he had missed nothing. She really did have a delicious body, he thought. Ah, wait for it…here’s trouble.

  ‘Gunn,’ she called. ‘Where are my knickers? Gunn?’

  For answer, he patted his top pocket.

  ‘Give them to me now. Bastard.’

  Gunn raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Ask nicely. Such language. Anyway, mermaids don’t wear knickers. At least, not in the type of picture books I used to read.’

  ‘Gunn, I mean it.’

  ‘I didn’t hear a ‘please.’ You could just go without,’ he suggested, rather unhelpfully. ‘Nobody would know, except me. You could walk in front of me to the boat. Maybe get a bit drier first though. That dress is quite clingy.’

  He suddenly realised that she was walking towards him purposefully, without a stitch on. It was a shame he had got quite so drunk, he thought, ruefully.

  ‘Or,’ he ventured, looking her up and down ‘You could wrestle me for them. I wouldn’t fancy your chances though.’

  Giving him a vicious kick, Sylvia removed her knickers from his pocket and got dressed behind a rock.

  ‘Sylv,’ Gunn called. ‘You’re going to have to help me out with this brandy.’

  He fell back onto the sand, laughing, and then closed his eyes. Sylvia thought for a moment about leaving him there, but decided instead to haul him to his feet and start the unsteady walk back to the bus stop. Back on the boat, she managed to get him to stand up properly as they passed the nuns, who were having an impromptu service on deck, and around the corner towards the cabins.

  Just when she thought it was safe, he said:

  ‘Sweetheart, have you been doing your pelvic floor exercises? You know, for when we’ve had the baby and we want to resume our conjugal relations? I want you in tip-top shape down there…’

  He was in line for a damn good clout, she thought. A few people were staring at them, but she didn’t think anyone had heard. She hoped not, anyway. She pushed him into the cabin and into his bunk. After a while, he enquired:

  ‘Sylv, how about coming for a bunk-up? In my bunk? ‘He seemed to find this hilarious. She told him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be able to perform in that state and to shut up and go to sleep.

  ‘What am I meant to do? Lie here and decorate the ceiling?’

  Sylvia decided against going over to him and giving Gunn another kick. He appeared to be properly asleep now, anyway. He made her laugh, although he could be incredibly coarse sometimes. She was beginning to think that he might not find her very attractive. Maybe there was no mystique. They’d spent every waking moment in each other’s company. They’d even been doing washing together yesterday. Perhaps he just thought of her as, well, someone like Sol. For once, she was the one lying awake with her thoughts, not Gunn.

  Voss, suitably patched up by an attractive nurse in the Casualty Department, was back in the Packard. On an impulse, he decided not to head straight back to the hotel. He turned back towards Posillipo, and drove towards the beach. It was deserted. Maybe that Tommy just lived around here and was something of an eccentric. He remembered something his father had told him about the fearsome Black Watch - the Ladies from Hell. Could this madman on the beach be a Scotsman? In some ways, it was a re
lief not to have to confront him. Not until he had time to think. He might not be connected with the enquiry at all.

  He called in at a restaurant nearby and got chatting to the waiter. He told him about a mad Englishman he had encountered on the beach, without giving anything away, of course. He bought the man a drink and was interested to learn that there wasn’t an Englishman, as far as the man knew, living in Posillippo, but that an English couple had been in for lunch today. A couple. That was worth noting. The waiter seemed to think they were staying round here, maybe on a ship. Yes, tourists, doing the usual rounds. Voss couldn’t believe his luck. He took his leave, and drove thoughtfully back into town.

  Chapter 11

  Gunn woke with a real throbbing at his temples. He raised himself up on his elbows. He could sense it was going to be a hot day, warmer than a pizza oven at full tilt. At least that would help with his head. He rolled out of bed, ran the sink full of cold water and ducked his head in once and then twice. He rubbed his hair dry, or tousled dryish, and got dressed.

  He put some cold water in a tooth glass and threw it over Sylvia. She was soon wide awake. He was pushing it, she thought angrily.

  ‘Come on madam, if we are going to Pompeii, we might as well get on with it.’

  A seething mass of humanity was waiting to disembark. The loading of the tractors was causing chaos. They decided to let the crowds die down and have a quick coffee on board. It was easy enough to get to Pompeii.

  ‘Where did you learn to fight like that, Sylv? You gave me quite a kick last night.’

  ‘In the army. And Edward and I used to fight when we were children and Daddy and I were visiting. He was always a bit of a cry baby though. And a tell-tale.’ She wondered what else Gunn remembered from the night before.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to come across you on a dark night,’ Gunn laughed. Then, with his arm tightly around her waist, and to the accompaniment of beatific grins from the grandmas, many of whom were setting up camp on board in case anybody else got on and stole their coveted spot, they walked off the boat.

  ‘There’s an organised trip over there. Shall we investigate?’ Sylvia asked. ‘Then you get your admission paid and a guide too.’

  Gunn, none too impressed with the idea of playing the gawping tourist on a coach, suggested instead that they take the Circumvesuviana train.

  ‘Then we just get off at Pompeii and stroll up to the City. We’ll pick up a decent guide book on the way.’

  ‘He seems to know what he’s doing,’ thought Sylvia, following him into a taxi bound for the railway station. Voss was waiting for them at the docks. He set off in pursuit of their taxi. He was feeling a little under the weather this morning. He hoped it would be relatively easy to overpower the assets. He was in no mood for any ‘antics’ from that Tommy. Mueller had mentioned in his instructions that the female was pretty. He had to agree. This Brand chap who wanted her back in London so badly was in for a special treat.

  ‘Don’t look out of the window, Sylv, but you know that chap from the beach yesterday? The Kraut with the Packard? He’s following us.’

  ‘How are we going to shake him off?’

  ‘We’re not. He’s coming with us, all the way to Pompeii. He’ll enjoy a bit of sightseeing. Now, here’s the plan and you’ll have to do exactly as I say. Don’t worry. I’ll be with you every step of the way.’

  Gunn bought their tickets, making sure that Voss could see them lingering on the platform. He was amused to see the German try and duck behind a stout, black-clad peasant woman. The train stopped at every little halt, and every local, complete with mud, goats and farm implements, got on and off. It was a working train. Sylvia was less than impressed with Gunn’s choice. She sank back on the hard bench, feeling a small knot of wood digging into her back as she did so, and glanced at her companion. He seemed cheerful enough on the surface, but she could detect a certain tension in his shoulders and back.

  ‘Is he on the train?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Gunn grinned at her, although to Sylvia it seemed more like a grimace than anything resembling humour. ‘I’m pretty sure he is. I get the feeling he is what is known as a ‘clean-up man.’ He is a professional; and I reckon he is ex-military’

  ‘Clean-up man?’ she probed.

  ‘Oh, cleans up problems. You and I are a problem to somebody. Probably Cumberland’s handlers and thus to Cumberland himself.’

  ‘I suppose ‘clean up’ is a euphemism?’

  ‘Naturally. I am sure he would expect to see me kissing daisy roots by the time the first snifter of the day is poured in Cumberland’s drawing room.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I am not going along with such a proposition.’ Gunn laughed out loud, disturbing the young student snoring on the bench beside him. Sylvia was surprised that there was genuine humour in his laugh. ‘I am awkward like that.’

  Sylvia wished she felt reassured. Despite her surroundings, the oppressive heat and smell and the knot digging into her back, she began to wish they didn’t ever have to get off the train. All too soon, the Circumvesuviana was pulling into Pompeii Scavi. They bought a guidebook on the way in.

  ‘Look normal,’ Gunn murmured, drawing her close to him. ‘I know it’s difficult, sweetheart, but you can do it. Don’t look round.’ In more normal tones, he continued: ‘Amazing to think the whole place was discovered by accident two hundred years ago.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to come here.’

  Sylvia told him about her Latin teacher, one of the few she had got on with, the scholarly Miss Venables. She had taken Sylvia and some of the other girls to a talk on new discoveries at Pompeii, at the local Town Hall. The story of the city preserved under the ash had captivated her ever since.

  ‘Once upon a time, there were three little ‘wheres.’ Ubi, unde and quo.’ That was one of her sayings. Another was ‘I shall drown and nobody will save me.’ And you never said ‘Can you mark my book please,’ because she’d always say ‘Yes, I can. But whether I choose to do so is a different matter. The correct word is ‘may.’ She was a real stickler for grammar..’

  ‘What are you on about, Sylv?’ asked Gunn, absently. ‘Why don’t we have a wander up to the House of the Tragic Poet? I’m never one for following itineraries, and that has rather a nice ring to it. Something else will probably catch our fancy on the way though.’

  He could see Voss, sidling along, trying to look unobtrusive but looking very uncomfortable. He was not dressed in light summer attire like most of the tourists. He was wearing a heavy black jacket. Not surprisingly, he seemed to be sweating heavily and finding it difficult to keep up.

  ‘Serves him right,’ thought Gunn. ‘I wonder what he’s concealing under that jacket.’

  Voss was delighted to note that Gunn and Sylvia were peeling off from the hordes and starting to look at individual buildings. He thought perhaps Gunn might have spotted him. He wasn’t entirely sure. Anyway, as soon as the coast was clear, he could make his move. Inside his jacket pocket he had a decent cosh, a souvenir from his father, who had been a Brownshirt in the late 1920s. Having recovered from his fright at the hands of the Black Watch, he had graduated to frightening other people. He had survived the Night of the Long Knives and been one of the few absorbed into the SS. He was crucified by Russian peasants in 1943. Voss remembered him fondly, and always made a point of using the old man’s cosh. He also carried a Tokarev TT-33 pistol in a holster under his jacket. Nicknamed the ‘Tula,’ it was actually a Soviet weapon. Voss, despite his general lack of imagination, enjoyed the twist.

  Following nonchalantly in their wake, he took stock of his opposition. The Tommy was taller and lighter on his feet. He was younger too. It was hard to say whether he was particularly strong. Hopefully, it would not come to a fist-fight. The man had already proved himself to be quite insane. Voss rubbed his cheek angrily. The girl he could deal with easily, he thought, recalling his instructions that she was to be delivered unharmed to London. He too had bought a guide book,
and he stopped every so often, pretending to consult it.

  Three elderly American ladies accosted him and asked him to take their photograph by a crumbling statue. With impeccable politeness, he did so, but then excused himself rather abruptly, as he could see the Tommy and the girl disappearing around a corner. With a curse, he began lumbering after them. ‘What a strange man,’ twittered the old ladies.

  Voss turned the corner and caught the flick of fabric; the hem of the girl’s skirt heading towards one of the brothels, which was some distance from the rest. Usually, he enjoyed a visit to a house of ill repute, but this one needed to be effective and profitable. These two were beginning to get on his nerves. He strolled on, muscles tensing, aware of a bead of sweat rolling slowly between his shoulder blades. He stopped and, despite himself, shook himself down. He wasn’t used to being so tense. He generally approached each assignment with the ease of a man choosing the next course at Maxim’s. This was very different indeed. He felt in his pocket for the cosh. Its weight gave him comfort.

  He saw the female ahead, absorbed in her guidebook and seemingly alone. That was what threw him. Voss thought momentarily that she was actually just another tourist and that he was on the wrong track. He turned to retrace his footsteps. He didn’t see the punch coming but he felt it in his kidneys. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees. Sylvia turned and brought the back of a very serviceable Beretta down on the back of his neck. The lights went out.

  The salty tang of blood began to wake Voss. He eased his eyes open by will, and found that his back was against an erotic fresco and his hands tied. Gunn sat back on his haunches and slapped Voss’s face hard, twice.

  ‘Wakey wakey, old chum. Time for a little chat before you go’

  ‘Go?’ Voss was dazed. ‘Where? Where did that mad Tommy appear from?’

  To add to his confusion, the girl began to speak, in German. He detected a Berlin accent. How had this happened?

  ‘Good morning, Sir. We shan’t be disturbed here. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping us with one or two queries.’