Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  Voss had no time to gather his thoughts, as Sylvia questioned him. Gunn couldn’t follow what she was saying, but clearly, she was determined to find out more than the man’s rank and serial number. Gunn had tossed Voss’s wallet aside and it lay across the floor, open. He was casting an expert eye over ‘Tula,’ pausing every so often to hit Voss if he failed to answer any of Sylvia’s questions.

  Sylvia turned to Gunn.

  ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘Guenter Voss is a clean-up man. We are simply assets. You were to be killed, and I was to be taken back to London. Cumberland is in this up to his neck. That was pretty clear from Jones’s papers and yes, Voss knew him as Mannfred Brand. He doesn’t know much else about him. They both answer to a chap named Mueller in Bavaria; the one who put the frighteners on Jones. The material in Jones’s papers, which Voss was meant to bring back with me, could put a lot of people away for good. That would mean the end of the pipeline which, as well as being ideological, is profitable for many people. Again, he doesn’t have too much detail on the pipeline, probably for operational reasons. He’s starting to drift off, isn’t he? ‘

  She sighed. She felt dirty, all of a sudden. ‘What will we do with him?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that,’ Gunn observed. ‘He’s an asset. All assets come to the end of their usefulness eventually. It’s time for him to go. In fact…here we go, chum, on your way.’

  Gunn held Voss’s head still and slid the commando blade between the German’s widening eyes, just at the weak point of the skull. The blade met resistance at first, and then slipped free with a crackling of steel against bone and then the sucking sound of air and brain. Voss died upon the instant.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Well, don’t be sick in here.’ Gunn wiped the blade on the German’s jacket. ‘I’ll get rid of him, stash him somewhere quiet.

  Sylvia looked at the guidebook. It was a new edition, for the two hundredth anniversary, with a detailed map as an insert.

  ‘I think we’re in what’s called the House of the Seven Women. There are some outbuildings a short step away which were part of it; I noticed them as we came in. They’re marked on here but not named and I don’t think anyone would ever go and look in them. I only stumbled across this building by chance; most people go to the main brothel.’

  ‘It was an excellent choice. We’re well off the beaten track. Most people seem to go round on a fixed itinerary or with a guide. I think you’re right about those outbuildings. The one on the end might even have been bombed. It looks even more dilapidated than the others.’ Gunn put his knife back carefully in its ankle sheath. ‘If we put him in there, I don’t think anybody will find him for days. Eventually, the flies and the smell might give him away, assuming anyone makes it this far, but we’ll be long gone. I don’t think anyone is going to be reporting him as a missing person, just looked through the wallet quickly. Pop that in your handbag and we’ll dispose of it in Naples.’

  While Sylvia kept watch to ensure the coast was clear, Gunn dragged Voss out of the brothel and into the outbuilding. He placed him on his side and, after a swift scout and forage, placed some planks and hard core over the body. Brushing the dust and detritus from his hands, he stood over Voss and considered for a moment. He saluted, turned on his heel and did not look back.

  Sylvia, meanwhile, had worked out a way of getting out of there without anybody noticing, using a path which was not overlooked and via which they could eventually get back onto the main drag by seeming to have come from a different direction altogether. Beside the erotic fresco, Gunn drew her close and checked her over, pausing to wipe something off her face.

  ‘Lead the way,’ he said. ‘We’ll just make our way slowly back to the exit now. Well done.’

  Back amongst the crowds, Sylvia said:

  ‘I need a cigarette.’

  Her tone was terse. Gunn passed one over. She took it gratefully, surprised to find her hand shaking a little. Gunn held it still as he applied a match to her cigarette. It flared, briefly.

  ‘That tastes good.’ She inhaled, and then blew, and the smoke drifted away towards Vesuvius. They made their way back to the station. The train was even more oppressive and uncomfortable. At the railway station in Naples, Sylvia headed for the nearest dustbin and was spectacularly sick. Gunn, she noted, held her hair out of the way. He could be incredibly sweet sometimes and at other times, well…

  He broke into her reverie.

  ‘Back to the boat for a wash and brush up?’ he suggested.

  The taxi dropped them at the docks. They walked up the gangplank hand in hand, chatting to the grandmas and the little group of nuns, who were going to an order in Jerusalem. Gunn and Sylvia were very welcome to come for tea, they said, if they were in the area. Gunn rather liked the idea of being invited for tea in a convent. He helped her wash her hair when they got back to the cabin and they sat on the balcony with a cup of tea, which he had nabbed from a passing steward. She was very pale.

  ‘You’re shivering. You should lie down, get some rest. I’m popping back into town for a while. Got some business to take care of. Won’t be long.’

  He tucked her in, under the scratchy sheets, and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘You were amazing today, sweetheart. Couldn’t have done it without you.’

  Sylvia was awoken from uneasy slumbers and a bizarre dream by a knock on the door. She opened the cabin door a fraction.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Madam, can you come to the car deck please? Your husband requires your presence.’ The young cabin boy turned and returned to his duties which would consist for the next hour of cleaning the heads, followed by a stint in the kitchen.

  Sylvia wrapped her dress around her, tying it with an irritated flourish. She made her way to the car deck, wondering what on earth Gunn had been up to. Then she spotted him, leaning against the bonnet of the Packard. It had been winched on board, despite grumbling from the captain, with just a few bumps, dents and a long scratch down the side to show for its travails. It had been placed next to the tractors, which Gunn thought strangely appropriate. Sylvia inched past the tractors to reach him.

  ‘Found this. Thought we could take it with us.’

  Sylvia went pale. ‘Gunn, what the hell have you done?’

  ‘No need to worry. Found the keys in the wallet earlier. The registration documents were in the glove compartment. It’s in his name. Guenter Voss. He won’t be needing it any more. Oh, and he checked out of his hotel this morning after breakfast. That was something else I found in the wallet; the receipt, it was charged to a Dr Mueller. So, apart from Mueller himself, there won’t be anyone expecting him back.’

  ‘Give us a hand with these, will you, Sylv?’ He handed her several bags. ‘I got us some lunch. Some pizza and some fruit. I’m famished. We can have a picnic on our balcony. Oh, and I got you a dress. To wear when we get back to Paris; I’ll take you somewhere really nice.’

  ‘How did you know what size to get?’ Back in the cabin, Sylvia was twirling in front of the mirror. The dress, a red polka dot number, fitted perfectly.

  ‘I got a pretty good look at you the other night on the beach, ma petite sirène,’ Gunn grinned. ‘I was drunk, but not that drunk. And I wanted to apologise. I was very unprofessional.’

  ‘You’re just impossible,’ she told him happily, as they finished their picnic and contemplated the evening ahead. ‘How about a stroll on deck? We’ll be sailing soon.’

  The Sidonia was already inching its way out of port as Gunn and Sylvia came up on deck, beginning its journey to Haifa. They had already got to know so many people that a circuit of the deck had become a lengthy undertaking. A few new passengers had got on, joining the canvas encampment. Sol was chatting to some of the new arrivals. He gave them a wave. Gunn wandered over to join them.

  Sylvia continued with her walk. Gunn found her, about an hour later, standing on her own looking back at the land. She was in a world of her
own.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking Richard died on one of those beaches over there. It’s awful, but I feel I’m forgetting him. I owe his parents a letter, actually. We were hardly together at all. We were so young. Sometimes, I wonder if it would have worked out between us, if he’d made it. We scarcely knew each other. If it hadn’t been for the war, we wouldn’t ever have met.’

  Gunn stood quietly beside her, absorbed in his own thoughts of landing in Italy.

  ‘Destiny is a strange thing,’ he remarked, after a while. ‘Now, I think it might be time for a ceremonial funeral for a wallet.’

  He threw Voss’s wallet into the sea. It was weighted down with a few pebbles, Sylvia noted, and it sank straightaway.

  ‘Nice of him to get you a dress, wasn’t it? He’d probably have approved. There was quite a bit of cash in there, which I’ve kept, along with the hotel receipt with Mueller’s name on it. Mueller’s clearly not afraid to splash the cash.’

  He didn’t mention the photograph of Voss with comrades from the AfrikaKorps or the funeral card for a Frau Voss (a widow) from last year. Both were now inside the wallet, heading to the bottom of the sea.

  ‘Meant to say, Sylv. You were quite ruthless in your interrogation. I mean, all I had to do was give the guy the occasional slap. Where did you learn that?’

  ‘British War Crimes Tribunal,’ she replied. ‘I...well, I observed certain things. My boss was a lawyer, back in civil life. Frightened the life out of the prisoners. Made one man crawl out of the room on his hands and knees like an animal after he had given his evidence. The guy had been some sort of hangman, I think. My boss had an almost uncanny way of getting information out of people, without them realising where his questioning was taking them.’

  ‘I think you got everything you could out of that cove today. Incidentally, I just had an interesting chat with Sol.’

  ‘Define interesting.’ muttered Sylvia. She couldn’t quite decide whether she liked Sol. He never seemed to take much notice of her, although, logically, why should he?

  ‘Honestly, Gunn, you duck and weave like a boxer on the ropes.’

  ‘Nothing too exotic,’ replied Gunn. ‘It’s just Sol wants me to meet some friends of his in Tel Aviv. If time allows, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sylvia folded her arms in a defensive gesture. ‘What kind of friends? Drinking buddies?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so. Something possibly more official.’ Gunn let his gaze drift beyond the deck and out towards the horizon. ‘Once we’ve met the family, of course.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing’

  Sylvia looked over towards a group of children who were playing a game of hide and seek, in and out of the canvas awnings. They were drawn from all over Europe. Language wasn’t an issue. They were having a wonderful time. She wondered what life would be like for them in Israel, and thought how incredibly resilient children were.

  Chapter 12

  Back in London, Edward had just finished another call with Meunier. Early evening was not always the best time to catch Meunier. He seemed slightly impatient. Apart from the telegram, several days ago, Meunier repeated, there had been no contact. Of course he would let him know straightaway if there were any developments.

  Edward sat at his desk, sipping a cup of tepid weak tea. It reminded him of being in the nursery with Nanny. That new receptionist would have to go. He grimaced. He was not a man given to much reflection; not that his father had ever given him much of a chance to reflect. He reacted, hence his skills as a fighter pilot. He was finding post-war life chafing and restrictive. Many others felt the same way. That didn’t make it easier.

  Not for the first time, he was wondering what sort of research commission he had sent Sylvia on. It was beginning to dawn on him that he might have been ‘set up.’ Had she not mentioned something about being followed, before they even left London? He could not approach his father, who would dismiss him with scorn, as he always had. They had never been close and Sylvia had driven a wedge between them deeper than a man of his imagination could have contemplated. A brief report had appeared in the papers about Jonathan Jones. Not much detail, but it troubled him to think of Sylvia finding a scene like that. What were they doing for money? He had given them a reasonable budget, but how could they access funds, if they hadn’t been to see Meunier? Edward didn’t think the man was lying. He would have no reason to.

  Deciding rebelliously not to spend another tedious evening with Caroline and her ghastly parents, and resigning himself to the fact that he would be in for it the next day, he wandered down to Louis’s office.

  ‘Fancy a pint at the Two Chairmen, old boy?’ Louis never turned down a pint. ‘We’ll lock up then and wander over there,’ said Edward. They turned onto Birdcage Walk. Edward had always liked that as a name for a street. He told Louis that James I had once kept aviaries of exotic birds there. The Two Chairmen was their local. Carrying their pints, Edward sat down opposite Louis in the dark interior, and began to voice his fears.

  Louis agreed that it was a little odd that there had been so little contact, but then again, they were on a mission. You wouldn’t put that mission in jeopardy by talking about it and, if Edward thought about it, when Clements worked for them under normal circumstances, they did just tend to ‘get on with it.’ Gunn was an extremely experienced operative. He didn’t think there was much cause for concern. They would soon shake off any ‘goons’ who were following them. The police were involved now in France. He had a feeling the pair of them would turn up at Queen Anne’s Gate soon, full of beans and in their usual inimitable style, to tell them all about it.

  ‘But supposing they don’t?’ Edward burst out. ‘What if that clown has ditched her and gone off with what’s left of the money? Why didn’t they just come back when they found Jones, as they were meant to? Supposing he has had his way with her?’

  Louis clapped him on the back.

  ‘You old devil. That’s what’s upsetting you. You’re jealous, aren’t you?’

  Louis reassured Edward that Gunn and Sylvia were adults. They ran a business together; there would have been ample opportunity for that sort of thing before now. Why should he worry about it happening now? Why was he so bothered about Sylvia anyway? He couldn’t resist mentioning Caroline at this point, with a smirk. Edward should just be patient. He reminded him that Sylvia was quite adept at looking after herself. She had lived in France as a child. She might even have her own contacts over there if anything untoward happened. Gunn was not, in his view, a chancer. He persuaded Edward that they should give them at least another week. Having talked it through, Edward had to admit that he felt a little happier.

  It was Louis’s round; they would just stay for one more, they decided. The talk turned to Edward’s father. A little banter about him was always enjoyable.

  ‘Where in Germany is he from originally?’ Louis asked. ‘He was speaking German loudly the other day; I could hear him from the conference room. I couldn’t quite place the accent.’

  Edward was surprised. He very rarely heard his father speaking German. There was the very occasional, carefully-selected German-speaking client but there weren’t many of them. He had never really discussed his father’s origins, but the world was moving on and there was probably no harm in it.

  ‘Southern Bavaria,’ he said, vaguely. ‘Beautiful place. My grandparents had an estate. We went there a few times when I was young. Mummy didn’t like going so if he did go and see the family, he often went alone. But you know he came to school over here when he was thirteen. Went to Wellington, like me.’

  ‘And did you learn to speak German as a child?’

  ‘No,’ said Edward. ‘Dad was always more English than the English. Shame really. I’m always quite envious of Sylvia and the way she switches between languages. Makes her good at what she does, I suppose.’

  ‘More English than the English,’ Louis murmured, almost imperceptibly. ‘Or hidden in plain sight?
’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Edward did not mean to be obtuse; it was a natural talent, or so Louis had long ago decided. ‘Now look here. Are you saying that my father is not loyal?’

  ‘That is exactly what I am saying.’ Louis had finally had enough. A long, fraying thread had given way. ‘I think your father is a Nazi, remains a Nazi and is in fact involved in something up to the top of his jackboots.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ Edward’s brain began to crank up a gear, very slowly. Louis was serious, and the fact he had said it meant there had to be something in it.

  ‘I can be serious and I am serious.’

  With uncharacteristic generosity, it being Edward’s round, Louis slipped to the bar and bought two more pints and two brandies. His old friend was as white as a ghost.

  ‘Down the hatch.’

  Edward turned to him. His world was falling apart. He thought angrily of his days with the squadron and how proud his parents had been. Surely that was genuine? Had there been some terrible mistake? Then he remembered, with dawning horror, the Jones Confidential file, which he had been unable to make head or tail of, but which was full of names and talked of ‘assets.’ It was now annoyingly firmly back under lock and key. His father seemed to be in the office more these days.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Louis reassured him. ‘He’ll slip up again. Tell me something, does the name Friedrich Mueller mean anything to you?’

  Edward thought for a moment.

  ‘Oh yes, Uncle Friedrich. Now, he was a boyhood friend of Dad’s. A doctor. He came and visited us once or twice. Got involved in something rather unpleasant. I’m not sure we’ve heard from him since the war. Why do you ask?’

  Louis explained that on his way past George’s office on a couple of occasions, he had heard him asking for a Dr Friedrich Mueller.

  Edward’s brow was furrowed. His head was spinning, not assisted by three pints and a brandy. Louis put a hand on his shoulder.