Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  Edward flew in low over the North African coast. He glanced through the port glass of his cockpit. He could see sheet lightning over the Nile Delta. His instruments would not take kindly to that. He would have to skirt south some distance before turning north again, heading for the small airfield at Hawara, the city that in Pharaonic times had been named Avaris. He was looking forward to having a look round. He had wanted to study Ancient History at university, to the derision of his father. The war had put paid to any such plans.

  The airframe began to shake and tumble as the ride became rougher. The plane could kick like a mule, but he was experienced enough. He would bring her down. He glanced over his shoulder into the cabin at his passengers, two soberly-dressed Germans. They were bringing their last meal up. Edward found this entertaining momentarily, but then remembered he was part of a commercial enterprise; Bonnard had impressed on him from the outset the distinction to be drawn between wartime derring -do and transporting passengers.

  ‘All right back there, chaps?’ he called.

  Many miles away, Sol and Gunn were approaching the Syrian border slowly, as befitted the injuries both were sporting.

  ‘More like a mile than a hundred yards,’ commented Gunn. ‘My father often said that about being in the trenches.’

  Sol dug him in the ribs.

  ‘Hello, who’s this? Looks as if they have sent out a reception committee.’

  ‘Oh God,’ muttered Gunn, through thinly compressed lips. ‘In no man’s land, unarmed, with twenty tooled-up Syrians heading our way. Not sure today could get any better.’

  They came to a halt. It seemed prudent. There was no cover. They waited. As Sol observed, leaning in a little:

  ‘A couple of bullets and we won’t feel a damn thing anyhow.’

  Gunn smirked and then blanked off a smile as the Syrians came close. An officer stepped forward, narrow eyed and shrewd of expression. He said nothing, but rifled through their pockets and found their warrant cards and their passports. British. He nodded to himself and with a drop of the head indicated that they should follow him. They had no option.

  In Cairo, Alaikum was idly watching a brawl in the market in the street below their office. This neighbourhood really was getting a little rough. Heliopolis would be so much more civilised.

  ‘Get hold of Scheherazade on the telephone, would you, Otto dearest?’ he asked. ‘I want to talk to her about her report. It says Gunn and Kalinsky have been in meetings in Tiberias. I think we can guess who with, don’t you? And ‘activity at the Syrian positions.’ I think we can surmise what that is too. Even so…?’

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Otto. ‘And then what will you do?’

  He held up the slip of paper the boy had brought from the bank; another large payment from Israel.

  ‘What wouldn’t that little shit Adler give for this information?’ He had had a call from Adler earlier.

  ‘He’s not getting anything’ said Alaikum, ‘If he’s not prepared to pay. His attitude stinks. Maybe you should speak to the organ grinder and not the monkey. See if you can tempt him with the material we have found about Gunn and Kalinsky. Dangerous game, though. Make that call to Scheherazade and we’ll think about it.’

  ‘You’re terrible,’ Otto told him fondly.

  In the Syrian camp, Gunn shifted round in his chair. His wrists ached from their bonds. His ankles felt as if they were going to swell. He was hungry and thirsty. His lips were cracked. One eye was closed and he was fairly certain a back molar was somewhat looser than it had been yesterday. Still he stuck to the script.

  ‘I am a British soldier. That is my warrant card. I was captured by the Irgun or whatever the Jewish Underground called itself and now they have Israel, they don’t need me or my colleague.’

  The Syrian officer leaned forward on his desk and sipped his coffee. It was good and

  thick. He allowed it to filter through to his teeth.

  ‘Well, you are fortunate, my friend.’

  ‘Fortunate?’ Gunn allowed himself a laugh. ‘How so?’

  ‘They could have stretched your necks like those two British sergeants in 47.’

  ‘Oh, good point.’ Gunn spat out some blood and decided that enough was enough. ‘So, are you going to beat me again? It won’t change what I tell you.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ the officer grinned. ‘I simply don’t like the British very much.’

  He stood up, and was at Gunn’s chair in three strides. He punched him full in the face. Gunn’s loose molar popped out in a capsule of blood and flesh.

  ‘But you are telling the truth and I am sending you to Damascus tomorrow.’

  Gunn gingerly tested the place where his molar had been with his tongue.

  ‘What about my colleague?’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  In Tel Aviv, David had been reading Alaikum’s report. Sol normally ploughed through it for him, sorting the wheat from the chaff. Alaikum’s description of his material as de luxe was risible although he wondered where the material on Israel was coming from. It was rather accurate. The sooner someone sorted out those two clowns, the better. Perhaps the girl who worked with Gunn could do the world a favour and take over the role. It would take time and she would require training, but Sol spoke highly of her. He looked up at the clock and wondered how the pair were faring. He had seen them being picked up, in the distance. Hopefully, they were well on their way to Damascus now.

  Their quarry, Matthaus, had been listening to one of his lieder cycles. They always made him nostalgic, for his parents, long-since dead, and for the Germany he had once known. Under normal circumstances, he would have drowned his sorrows. He no longer had the wherewithal for that. He felt like a ghost, between two worlds. After wallowing in sadness for a moment, he decided he was damned if he was going to sit around and await his fate. He knew the identity of the pair who were after him; Otto had sent a message. They would have a surprise.

  The sun had not crept up over the brittle cold of the Golan when Gunn and Sol were loaded, with scant ceremony, onto the back of a Syrian army truck. Their escort consisted of a couple of disinterested reservists going home on leave, a little too casual for the situation, both thought. Still, they would seize their chance at the right moment.

  Sol was nursing a bruised face and a couple of broken fingers, roughly bound with tape and splints. He seemed in reasonable fettle. Gunn kept exploring the hole at the back of his mouth with his tongue. He tried to keep his temper in check. He looked over at Sol.

  ‘Ready for the off, old boy?’

  Sol motioned him to keep quiet; they would talk once the journey was under way and the noise of the engine would disguise their voices. Gunn settled back and let his thoughts drift to Posillipo Beach, the bonnet of the Horch and the hayloft. He began to feel calmer.

  At Hawara, Edward was enjoying a few hours’ break before he had to collect his next ‘cargo’ and take it on to Tripoli. He was becoming accustomed to his silent German passengers. The last pair were profoundly grateful to alight from the aircraft alive. They had congratulated him and shaken his hand before they went their separate ways. He was, he reckoned, somewhere near what was known as Crocodilopolis. The locals had worshipped a crocodile and adorned it with gold, keeping it in a special temple pond. He had a copy of Herodotus’s Histories to read later. He was a world away from Mummy, Caroline and irascible old ladies wanting him to draft another codicil. He felt a hundred times better for it.

  The only fly in the ointment was Alaikum’s weekly briefing, in which he had featured, to Bonnard’s delight.

  ‘Not by name, I hope,’ Edward was aghast.

  ‘Just that you are an ex Spitfire pilot; great publicity,’ responded Bonnard. ‘You’re making a name for us. No harm in it, surely?’

  ‘If it emerges that a former Spitfire pilot is ferrying well-dressed Germans around, many of whom have Prussian haircuts and carry themselves as if they were parading through Paris in 1940, that could be harmful,’ Edward
pointed out. ‘There are certain things one does not do. It appears I am doing them. Best keep me out of it.’

  In Brighton, it had been another late night in the bar at the Gunn House Hotel. Inspector Gunn stood on the steps, taking in the sea air, before locking up. It was warm out there. All the residents were in for the night. Something was troubling him, a sixth sense. An air of menace but something good too, perhaps a homecoming some way off; it was strange. Following the routine he had adopted during the war, he climbed the stairs to Mark’s room and stood there for a moment. He lit a candle and placed it in the window, and a few minutes later went back downstairs.

  In Bavaria, Wirth was in thoughtful mood, following morning meditation with his acolytes. He would have to explain its mandatory nature more clearly to his young friend, Dieter, but there was no immediate hurry. As he did his rounds, from the weather station in the grounds and back to the main office, or ‘engine room,’ as they all thought of it, he reflected on the community now being built in Argentina. Mueller and Cumberland had put no thought into it, he thought angrily. Some of the people they had sent over should have been left to rot. Scientists were short on the ground. He knew of at least one ‘facility,’ deep underground in Austria that had never been found. Perhaps Adler could make some calls.

  Adler was tapping his pencil abstractedly against an ashtray, reading through the latest Alaikum special.

  ‘They’re in thrall to someone,’ he said to Wirth, who was standing beside his desk. ‘It’s obvious. That’s why their intelligence is rubbish.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Wirth. ‘We’ll just have to treat it all with a pinch of salt and draw our own conclusions. Anything of interest?’

  ‘Former spitfire pilot recruited by Bonnard.’

  ‘Fischer said he had taken on somebody good. Well, there’s an irony.’ Wirth gave a short laugh and continued with his perambulations. In a moment, he had made his decision. He crossed back over to Adler.

  ‘Get Fischer on the telephone for me.’

  In Hawara, while Edward settled down with Herodotus and a glass of mint tea, the two Germans he had dropped off earlier were waiting, sweating in their Northern European suits, in a fly-frequented hotel on the outskirts of town. They grumbled a little, missing decent beer and mountains, and waited for the contact to pick them up; they had been told he was German and would be coming from Cairo.

  Dieter, almost having to pinch himself, was having lunch in the Grill Room at the Heliopolis Palace Hotel with Otto and Alaikum, having already been out with them first thing to see the sun coming up over the pyramids and the sphinx. He could put up with the creepiness of Wirth and his entourage, he decided, if it involved travel like this. The only other place he had travelled to so far, outside Germany, had been Russia, and not as a tourist.

  The Heliopolis Palace was, they told him, known as the Taj Mahal of the desert, and was once frequented by the King of Belgium, Milton S Hershey and John Pierpoint Morgan. As the son of a hotelier, albeit on a far smaller scale, he was captivated, staring in wonder at the great dome as they walked through.

  ‘Not quite as it was though,’ Alaikum explained. ‘The Australians used it as a hospital. Made a bloody awful mess of it.’

  ‘We’re trying to incorporate elements of the design into our new house out here,’ Otto put in. ‘It’s taking a while, but we want to get it right.’

  Money was clearly no object with these two, thought Dieter. Like Adler, he had concluded that they were in thrall to another wealthy pay master, and utterly corrupt. Unlike Adler, he sensed that they did not respond to bullying and rudeness. They could be bought, at a price, but it would be a steep one. Looking at his watch, he realised that his ‘charges’ would be nearing Hawara by now. He thanked his hosts and took his leave.

  ‘Delightful young man,’ Alaikum sighed, watching Dieter walking briskly down the steps to meet his driver.

  ‘Don’t you go getting any ideas,’ Otto was amused. ‘But yes, it makes a change not to be dealing with a rude, arrogant idiot.’

  At Hawara, Dieter greeted his two charges, and asked them how their flight had been. They were very complimentary about the pilot.

  ‘Ah yes, I think he may have been flown Spitfires in the war.’

  ‘That explains a lot.’

  Dieter knew that Egypt had been emerging as an alternative destination to Argentina: King Farouk was already finding a lot of work for his ‘assets’ to do. These two were to be no exception. They were to join the Egyptian secret police, after a debriefing which he was also to attend. He settled back to enjoy the ride.

  In the back of the truck, Sol and Gunn were talking in hushed whispers. The two reservists were having an animated discussion, probably about their plans for the weekend.

  ‘It’s been fairly straightforward so far, hasn’t it,’ Gunn commented. ‘I mean, they roughed us up a bit but now they’ve let us go, with just these two in charge.’

  ‘We’re probably not that important, in the wider scheme of things,’ Sol replied. ‘Just a couple of strays, only useful to a point.’

  Gunn shifted a leg, to ease a spasm of cramp. He had been trying to recall the landscape from his previous time in Syria, to get his bearings.

  ‘How far are we from Damascus?’

  Sol peered through the slats of the truck at the road.

  ‘Not much sign of habitation here. At a guess, a couple of hours.’

  The truck was following an ancient trade route, along the Great Trunk Road towards Damascus, across hills and plains towards the city whose name had an almost mythical ring to it. Neither man was handcuffed. That gave them options. Outside the city and they would make less noise; inside its walls, there would be a tumult and that would allow them to disappear like smoke. As Sol observed, it was simply a matter of timing and location.

  Gunn shifted round. His fatigues were uncomfortable; he itched like mad. It had been a while since he was in uniform. He longed for a cigarette and a cup of tea.

  ‘I meant to ask, what’s the story between you and Riordan? You were at school together but you don’t seem to like him?’ asked Sol.

  Gunn explained how Riordan had treated him and the other new boys, singling him out for special treatment, sensing the differences in his background; the usual thing, making toast, cleaning the study, keeping the fire going, and hell to pay if it wasn’t done properly. One day, he had turned on Riordan and nearly smashed his head in. They had been alone in Riordan’s study; nobody else had witnessed it. After that, the prefect had given him grudging respect and left him alone.

  ‘You British and your public schools,’ Sol began.

  ‘I wouldn’t send a dog to that establishment,’ Gunn told him. ‘Let alone a child. I always thought Riordan was a foul excuse for a human being. You obviously rate him. What’s he doing here? Liaison of some sort?’

  ‘You could call it that,’ Sol replied, enigmatically.

  They fell silent and Gunn drifted into a deep sleep. He was in the middle of a vivid dream about Sylvia. She seemed to want to tell him something and was being very persistent, in her own inimitable fashion. Just as she was about to reveal what it was, he came to with a start, as the truck veered off the road. He shook himself awake, slightly irritated, wondering momentarily where he was.

  ‘Pit stop,’ I reckon,’ murmured Sol.

  Gunn seized the chance, counting on Sol following. He swung off the metal frame struts at the rear of the truck and his boots caught a Syrian, who was minding his own business and smoking a cigarette, full on the temple. The Syrian crumpled and hit the rocky strand of the road like a dropped strand of coal.

  Not stopping, Gunn lifted the Syrian’s handgun and put one in the head of the other Syrian, as he turned, his mouth a dark O of surprise.

  Sol was following, via a different route. He hoisted himself up onto a metal framework and swung back and forth, gaining the purchase of momentum. He went boot first through the back light of the truck’s cabin, the driver’s face bouncin
g off the steering wheel with the impact. The driver slumped sideways onto the passenger seat. Sol opened the cabin door and dragged him out. He dropped his cargo against a rock and turned. Gunn was walking towards him, a tight smile on his face. He was armed.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘One dead,’ Gunn noted, ‘and another who probably won’t make it.’

  ‘Doubt if this one will either; I hit him hard.’

  ‘Well, they can rest in paradise.’ Gunn looked around. The landscape was unfolding below them, green fields and signs of life. He looked behind them. There was sufficient cover in any one of the dried up rills and folds a little way back up the road.

  ‘We can leave them there. Nobody will see them for a while.’

  A few minutes later, having relieved their escorts of their arms and their papers, they began their descent onto the plains.

  ‘Should give us a decent start, remarked Gunn, looking behind him. ‘Next stop Damascus.’

  ‘Hope we have a smooth run through,’ muttered Sol. ‘Checkpoint ahead.’

  Their papers passed muster with the sentry, another reservist, who looked bored and sleepy.

  ‘So this geezer,’ Gunn said, putting the truck back into gear, ‘lives by the old citadel?’

  ‘So it seems,’ replied Sol. ‘Ever been to Damascus?’

  ‘Oh yes. How long have you got?’

  Wirth’s castle in Bavaria was a hive of activity. They had got four assets out this week; two more to Egypt and two to Buenos Aires. Under the regime of Mueller and Cumberland, things had stalled. Dieter was sitting with Wirth in his inner sanctum, sipping vintage brandy out of an antique glass.