Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  Across the park, at Queen Anne’s Gate, Louis was taking stock. In some ways, he envied Edward his new-found freedom. He missed his own flying days. However, the opportunity now before him was a God-given one. Old Cumberland had stitched him up like the proverbial kipper when he had bought into the partnership after the war. Louis had built up the litigation side of the practice, earning them a good reputation, to go with the decent name the firm had always had for conveyancing and probate. He thought George had been very unfair to Edward, who had the makings of an excellent solicitor.

  For now, he was working tirelessly, going through every case they had on the books, including matters George was meant to have dealt with. Once he had finished that, he would schedule a meeting with Roper, their accounts clerk. He suspected things were not financially as they should have been. Mrs Cumberland had appeared twice at the office already this week, wanting money and news of her son’s whereabouts. He had sent her packing on both occasions. He wasn’t an unfair or dishonest man; she would get what was due to her, once he knew where the firm stood, although he would never reveal Edward’s whereabouts. He had a feeling though that she would not be easily fobbed off. He was also not fooled by Juncker. That man was up to no good. He would have to watch his back.

  Outside a bar in Marseille, along the Canebière, Edward was waiting for an old RAF chum, Yves Bonnard. Bonnard had flown Hurricanes in the north of England in a Free French Squadron, and had a brace to his credit. He had flown all through the war, been shot down once, over Amiens in August 1944. He had left the military in 1946 and had started a small private airline, one or two aircraft from an old fly-bitten aerodrome down the coast. Edward and Bonnard had been good friends for reasons of being opposites. The clock ticked round slowly. Edward sipped a pastis and waited, enjoying some early autumn sunshine and exalting in a huge sense of liberation.

  Another glass of pastis arrived in front of him. Edward looked up and smiled at his old comrade.

  ‘Well, you haven’t changed a bit.’ Bonnard looked at him curiously. ‘But I thought you were working in your old man’s law firm. What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Long story,’ Edward told him, ‘and I’ll regale you with it one day. I’m in a bit of a fix, to be frank, old boy. I need to get away and stay under the radar for a while. And I believe you need experienced pilots’

  Bonnard raised an eyebrow and sat down and considered.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Well, yes’ Edward leaned in and glanced around, discretion at all times. ‘Not of my making, but I am the one left with my head above the parapet.

  ‘Not the wisest position to be taking.’ Bonnard laughed. ‘You should learn to duck.’

  ‘I will indeed. For the moment, however, I want a job where the call on me is limited to my boss, air traffic control and the vagaries of the weather,’

  ‘I think we could manage that.’ Bonnard finished his drink and looked over at Edward. ‘We do need a good pilot and you were certainly good.’

  ‘I still am.’ Edward flexed his fingers. ‘I’ve been flying regularly, out of Headcorn. Have to keep up.’

  ‘Good.’ Bonnard scribbled on a napkin and pushed it across the table, which wobbled slightly as he did so. ‘Report to this aerodrome at 6, two days from now. Got a cargo that needs a decent pilot to take it across to Tangiers.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ said Sol, well to the north of Edward and Bonnard. He was downstairs at the demeure, draining a glass of Jones’s excellent brandy. They had lit the fire again before dinner. The room looked spectacular; even in these few short days, they had started to make it home.

  ‘Make sure you get some sleep, Gunn,’ he added, shooting a meaningful glance at Sylvia.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ Gunn replied, amused. He was young, there would be time enough for sleep on the journey, and he wanted to make the most of the next few hours. He put the guard in front of the fire, helped Sylvia tidy up and then locked up for the night.

  ‘Gunn,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘What?’

  She was sitting astride him, while he played with her breasts. He was watchful; she got him to agree to all sorts of things when she had him at her mercy. Usually things that, he had to admit, he liked. There were, however, limits. He sensed one such limit.

  ‘Can I borrow the Horch, for my trip down south, before I meet the quarter master? Not to go back to England of course.’

  ‘Not falling for that one, madam, he said, moving her dexterously over onto her front. ‘That car is not moving one inch until I get back from Israel.’

  ‘You’re such a spoilsport.’

  ‘Am I now, you little minx? We’ll see about that!’

  Eventually, he rolled off her, exhausted.

  ‘That’s your lot for now, Mrs G,’ he said, giving her bottom a slap. ‘I must get a couple of hours sleep now.’

  Mrs G was Sylvia’s favourite of all the names he called her. That’s something at least, she thought. Gunn fell into a deep sleep at first, but woke before dawn. He pulled her closer to him.

  ‘I’ve never loved anyone like this,’ he whispered. Sylvia murmured something and put her arms round him. They both drifted back off to sleep.

  Sylvia got up with him in the morning. She was a calm presence, making him a cup of tea, fetching him anything he needed for last-minute packing, chatting to him quietly. She gave him and Sol a jar of Chartrettes greengage jam and one for Marguerite.

  ‘You will be all right, won’t you, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I will,’ she told him.

  ‘You’ll be all right for money?’

  He had pressed into her hand most of the money Sol had given them for taking out Cumberland.

  ‘Sylv,’ he said. ‘I mean every word I’ve said to you. Every single one. When I’m back at Christmas, we’ll...’

  He traced a finger around her face. Sol was pacing around outside; the taxi would be there any moment.

  ‘I won’t come outside,’ she told him. She was on the verge of breaking down. ‘Take care of yourself, darling. I’ll write as soon as I can. I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you, sweetheart. I’ll write too, I promise.’

  After she heard the taxi disappear into the distance, Sylvia fled upstairs, lay on their bed and cried until she had no tears left. Then, reprimanding herself for being a sentimental fool, she got dressed, put on some lipstick and sallied forth to use her best persuasive powers on the mayor.

  On the Paris train, Sol maintained a tactful silence for the first part of the journey.

  ‘Cigarette, old boy?’ he suggested gently, after a decent interval.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket for a light (he hadn’t worn it for a few days), Gunn pulled out Sylvia’s lacy knickers, from the restaurant. He hastily stuffed them back in; perhaps they could be a talisman.

  ‘You and that…’ began Sol.

  ‘Yes, me and that girl,’ Gunn finished the sentence for him. He wondered what he would have done if Sylvia had broken down. That had been a tremendous gamble, but he knew deep down she wanted this for him. Life had a habit of getting in the way of his plans. There was nothing either of them could do about that; they were under no illusions about how difficult the year ahead would be. But she had his heart and he had hers. With that conviction to fortify him, he turned to Sol with a smile as they began to discuss their plans.

  After a successful meeting with the mayor, and a certain amount of smoothing of ruffled feathers, Sylvia came away from the mairie with his permission for the demeure to be let ‘to suitable tenants.’ The tenants she had in mind were eminently suitable. Earlier, she had been to look at the Horch. As she had expected, Gunn had removed the keys and the distributor cap. He had probably taken them with him. She understood. It would make her a target and would anyway be quite safe where it was. At the garage, she negotiated a deal even Gunn would have been proud of on a 1937 Citroen 7c traction coupe, and drove it carefully through the gates of
the demeure. Several hours later, having cleaned the house and changed the bedding, she locked the camera equipment carefully inside one of the rooms, put a holdall in the back of the Citroen and took the long road towards the south west, her past and her family’s past.

  Chapter 25

  Sol and Gunn were met at Haifa airport by an official car, camouflaged in muddy desert sands. Fighting had been intense around the area in recent days. Any advantage to be gained via the paint can was useful. There were a couple of soldiers in the car.

  Gunn nudged Sol.

  ‘Bloody hell, this is going to be cosy.’

  The ride to Tel Aviv was hot, dusty and uncomfortable. It felt interminable. Gunn and Sol were glad to get into the barracks for a wash and spruce-up; it was a few days since they had left Chartrettes. It felt even longer. They had been delayed in Vienna while they waited for transport. Gunn took a long draught from a water fountain and stretched as he followed Sol inside.

  ‘Better get some rest,’ Sol told him. ‘You must be exhausted after your exertions over the past week. There’s quite a reception committee planned for us. All sorts of big wigs. Including, rather curiously, one of your lot.’

  In Cairo, Alaikum replaced the receiver thoughtfully.

  ‘That was Scheherazade,’ he told Otto. ‘She really is lethal. I’d hate to come across her on a dark night. Says Kalinsky and Gunn just flew into Haifa.’

  ‘Something big is about to kick off,’ said Otto. ‘You mark my words. We’ll have to think how we package this for our briefings.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine your countrymen in ‘Camelot’ would love to hear about that’ said Alaikum.

  It hadn’t taken much to find out about Wirth and his castle. The reference to Schloss Wewelsberg was not lost on Otto. Yet another instance of hiding in plain sight; it was a wonder the authorities tolerated it, Alaikum reflected, but everyone seemed to have so many fish to fry nowadays.

  ‘But after that little shit was so disgracefully rude to us the other day,’ he continued ‘I’m not inclined to include it. Not yet. I think we might need a spot of research on Gunn and Kalinsky, don’t you? Nothing from Matthaus yet?’

  ‘Nothing from him,’ Otto frowned. ‘I spoke to his landlord; says he can hear him moving about, but he’s keeping himself to himself.’

  ‘Keep onto that landlord,’ advised Alaikum. ‘Up his payments, if necessary.’

  At Trudl’s in Berlin, Elise put her phallus and impressive selection of riding crops and vibrators back in the toy box, after her last client of the night, and looked around the room.

  ‘Alles in Ordnung,’ she thought approvingly, as she got ready for her shower, putting a clean corset, pair of knickers and towel at the ready. She had, just that week, bought into the business as a partner. Her reputation was reaching stratospheric levels, although nobody apart from Trudl knew her real identity. Few would recognise her now in any case. She had shed prodigious amounts of weight; she was renowned for putting all her might into servicing ‘clients with special requirements.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Trudl, wanting to know if she could take just one more client. He was prepared to pay well above the odds. With a sigh, Elise nodded her assent, asking for just a few minutes to have a shower.

  Trudl was back again within a minute. Elise was stark naked after her shower, but there were no airs and graces between the pair of them.

  ‘Two of them, as it transpires; from some castle in Bavaria. Your old neck of the woods,’ she told Elise. ‘I’ll stay outside in case you need me; they seem slightly drunk. Usual code word?’

  Elise nodded gratefully. She put the fear of God into most of her clients, and, with the terrifying weapons at her disposition, had never had any trouble. Nonetheless, it was reassuring to have back-up. Trudl laced her corset for her at the back. Before she emerged into the room, Elise paused, as she always did when a double session had been booked, to listen to her clients talking. A male and a female; both sounded quite young. Not her normal clientele. She was instantly alert to their conversation. A young Munich lawyer, originally from the Sudetenland, had been recruited to the team at Wirth’s castle. Elise knew all about Wirth; she had been to the castle for functions with Friedrich. He was one of the most menacing people she had ever met. That was saying something. She knew the young lawyer in question - Dieter Fischer. He was at law school with her youngest and had put a damn sight more effort into his studies, if she remembered rightly, having come to Munich on some sort of scholarship set up by the Americans. What a small world. Perhaps the delectable Captain Gunn might be interested in this information, she thought.

  The session collapsed shortly after Elise strutted into the room in her full regalia. No matter; they had paid in advance. They got all sorts here. Trudl was right, both were drunk. She mentioned Dieter, Captain Gunn and his Bolshevik friend to Trudl as they locked the brothel up carefully for the night.

  ‘I have an old client in the British special forces,’ Trudl told her. ‘I’m meeting him for a drink in a minute. Fancy joining us?’

  Raising their umbrellas gamely against a sudden squall of rain, Trudl and Elise sallied forth into the square outside. In a bar in one of the side streets, Major Howard Riordan was waiting, weissbier in hand. He always enjoyed a drink with Trudl when he was in town. They had become good friends. He wasn’t so keen on the Valkyrie she hung out with now. He had no truck with the type of thing she indulged in. Never mind, each to his own.

  ‘Oh God, there she is,’ he thought. He gallantly bought the ladies a beer each. Thirsty work, their line of business.

  ‘Captain Gunn.’ He played with the name. ‘I knew a Mark Gunn at school,’ he said. ‘Used to fag for me. Decent rugby player. Never comes to any of the reunions.’

  ‘Well, if it’s the same one and you come across him,’ Elise leaned forward, ‘Tell him I have information of the utmost importance.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘In a forest,’ replied Elise, mysteriously. ‘With a Jew, Lieutenant Kalinsky.’

  ‘Sol Kalinsky?’ asked Riordan. ‘One eye missing’?

  ‘That’s the one’ replied Elise.

  ‘I know him well. I’m meeting him in a couple of days. I can pass on a message if you like.’

  ‘Make sure it gets to Captain Gunn,’ Elise specified.

  As Sol had predicted, the next few days were a whirlwind of briefing meetings. Lost in his thoughts, Gunn was just going into the canteen for lunch with Sol, when he stopped dead.

  ‘Hallo, Gunn,’ said Riordan.

  ‘What the buggering hell are you doing here, Riordan?’ Gunn asked stiffly. This was one of the last people on earth he wanted to run into. He had hated school, and sadistic prefects such as Riordan, with a vengeance.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ replied Riordan. ‘I’m about to go into the same meeting as you. Funnily enough, I ran into a friend of yours in Berlin. Elise. Sends her regards.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have put you down for that sort of thing,’ Riordan continued. ‘Anyway, she seems to have taken quite a shine to you. You always were a dark horse. She wanted me to pass on a message about some young chap who went to law school with her son. Seemed to think it was urgent.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Sol, who had just appeared. ‘Quite a character, was Elise. How are you, anyway, Riordan? Want to join us?’

  It turned out the two of them went back a long way. There was some convoluted explanation as to why, but Gunn was really not interested in reminiscences of any kind.

  ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered,’ Riordan turned to Sol. ‘We used to call him Tadpole when he first arrived at school. With his mother being French. ‘

  ‘Hilarious,’ remarked Gunn.

  ‘Until he grew, of course. Now, didn’t I hear some rumour about you and one of the maids? After my time of course.’

  Gunn made an excuse and left them to it. He smouldered a little, his temper crackling like early embers. Riordan was one of the vi
lest people he had ever met but he was clearly a good soldier. Sol had respect for him. Maybe school day judgments should be set aside for the greater good. Despite all the ribbing, he was curious to hear what Elise had to say.

  He sat outside in the sun, with a postcard from Sylv, which had just arrived for him.

  She sounded all right; on her way south now. Smiling at the row of kisses, and feeling considerably calmer, he put the postcard carefully back into his pocket and went back inside for the meeting. These briefings were all well and good but he was anxious to get on with taking out Matthaus. Sol had told him they would have a final separate meeting with David on Damascus. This next meeting was about the pipeline.

  Gunn summarised their findings so far, and filled them in on Cumberland and his death, and the fact that Edward had run away. He was glad of the notes Sylvia had helped him put together, at the demeure. He also told them about Juncker and the files which were safely stored in Sylvia’s house in Kent.

  ‘Done well for yourself, haven’t you Gunn?’ whispered Riordan. ‘Considering your background. Is Sylvia a Valkyrie too?’

  ‘Fuck off, Riordan,’ Gunn replied, in quiet but murderous tones.

  ‘The intelligence we have, gentlemen,’ said David, ‘is that Wirth is a far more formidable adversary. He won’t put himself forward as a front man; that’s not his style.’