Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  ‘You’re doing well, my young friend,’ Wirth smiled encouragingly. ‘How did you get on with Alaikum and Otto?’

  Dieter told him about the high life they were living, the house they were building in Heliopolis and his suspicions about their paymaster.

  ‘They’re coining it. Alaikum did have one too many over lunch though. Mentioned, and these were his words, an ‘interesting duo’ heading for Syria. Mark Gunn, who is British, and Sol Kalinsky, an Israeli. Both ex British forces. Reckons they’re going to liquidate Matthaus. He’s been causing mayhem in Israel, operating as a hitman.’

  ‘Matthaus,’ said Wirth slowly, ‘can go to hell. As a traitor to the Reich, he deserves everything coming to him. I’ve no doubt this ‘duo’ will do a good job. Maybe run those names past Adler after lunch. Now, how is everything in Munich? How is your delightful young lady?’

  Telling his driver to go and have fun on the pier for the rest of the evening, Howard Riordan ascended the steps of the Gunn House Hotel, taking in the chipped paintwork and the air of a building that needed money spending on it. This was more what he would have expected of Gunn. Some might describe him as nosey; he would call it ‘doing his job.’ There was little on the official files on Gunn, apart from a note of his war service with Stirling and the LRDG and a mention in the dispatches; interesting. The usual old school network had let him down; Gunn hadn’t kept in touch with anyone. He went over to greet Inspector Gunn, who was opening up the bar while the young barman was changing a barrel in the cellar. The likeness was unmistakeable.

  Several hours later, and distinctly the worse for wear, Riordan staggered back down the steps where his driver was still waiting patiently. He had the distinct impression that he had talked more about himself than they had spoken about Gunn, which was unusual for him. Still, it had been fun and he was always partial to a drop of decent bitter. He nodded off and slept all the way back to London.

  Wondering not for the first time what Mark was up to, Inspector Gunn helped the young lad wash the glasses, leaving him to mop the floor. He had been curious to meet a school friend, which was how the man had introduced himself, although Mark had not, to his knowledge, made any particular friends at school. He still remembered dropping him off with the Brothers, in a bleak building with black walls on the outside and a hall panelled with honours boards, where several other young lads were saying goodbye to their parents. The sky had been black too.

  ‘Don’t leave me here, Dad,’ Mark had said.

  ‘You’ll love it, son’ he had responded. ‘Lots of sport, new friends.’ With that, he had gone, leaving Mark standing on the steps. He hadn’t looked back, he couldn’t bear to. He had headed off to drown his sorrows in a nearby pub.

  He hadn’t had a choice really. In the aftermath of Annette’s death due to a late miscarriage, which Mark had witnessed, something to which no child should ever be subjected, he had been staring into a bottle most of the time, barely holding his job down. Mark had made friends with the local ‘petits voyous.’ A visit from his formidable sister Vi (to this day the family matriarch) had shaken him to the core, after an incident where the gendarmerie had become involved.

  ‘That boy’ she told him disapprovingly,’ is running wild. You need to send him to school in England. Pull yourself together, Dom.’

  He had let Vi make the arrangements. Mark, being a clever lad, had got a scholarship. His father had hoped school would be the making of him. However, Mark had said nothing in the holidays, other than ‘I hate it,’ and ‘When can I leave?’ Mark had passed some exams, but then taken matters into his own hands. His son had always been strong-willed. He had never said what the final catalyst was. Still, he had certainly done all right for himself now.

  This evening, Inspector Gunn had got Riordan’s measure straightaway. Army intelligence; he could tell them a mile off. In his usual fashion, Inspector Gunn had listened carefully and dispensed pints, while Riordan became more loquacious than was probably judicious, and spoke a little of the work Mark would be doing in Israel and the organisation he was working with. Having said goodnight to the barman and bolted the doors, Inspector Gunn went upstairs to light the candle in Mark’s room, wondering who would arrive on the doorstep next. First Collins, now Riordan. None of them would get anything out of him. On an impulse, he lit another candle, for little Josephine Amelie, out there somewhere in France. He had never given up hope. He never would.

  Chapter 27

  The drive into the city walls of Damascus was remarkably straightforward. Near the old citadel, the sun was setting in a rose and gold sky, and the muezzin man was calling the faithful to prayer, his voice soaring to a crescendo. Sol and Gunn were walking towards it, having left the truck a few streets away.

  ‘Being used as a prison and a barracks now the French have pulled out,’ Sol explained, seeing Gunn looking curiously around him. ‘Taken something of a pounding in recent years.’

  ‘Where are we heading,’ asked Gunn, noticing Sol’s purposeful stride.

  ‘Dr Weitz. Old friend of mine. Jewish physician. Family’s been here thousands of years apparently. Quite some feat when you think about it.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ Gunn remarked. ‘Last time I was here.’

  As the sun finally went down over the city, and the starlings fled the kites, a climb up over the walls and into the courtyard was the work of an instant. They found themselves in a neat and tidy courtyard, with well-tended lemon trees and rose bushes. There was no water in the fountain. The house itself had a wary, battened-down look, almost as if it was defending itself.

  Sol frowned.

  ‘Hope he’s all right,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve heard some bad things.’

  ‘If there is trouble here,’ Gunn observed, leaning against a big terracotta pot containing a rosemary bush, ‘We are not going to be helping the situation’

  ‘True,’ Sol nipped at his lip. ‘We may need to get the family out’

  Gunn was thinking of the phrase Sylv had used, probably something she’d read – ‘a country without maps’; exactly where they were now. Matthaus was one thing; this was something different altogether. This was like his war service, thinking on his feet.

  Karl Adler had also been thinking on his feet, inside Wirth’s castle. His family came from the Black Forest, not far from the border with France. He prided himself on his fluent French, as well as his capacious memory. His older brother (Karl had idolised him) had spent the war in France, only to end up being killed in Paris in August 44. He himself, as one of Wirth’s most talented doctoral students, had spent his war service with the Ahnenerbe. Some whispered that this had been a cushy number. He was always happy to take them to task.

  On the way to meditation, he told Wirth he had just remembered where he had previously seen the name Mark Gunn; it was in some reports about an Englishman murdered in France in July. He had put the cuttings on one side already.

  ‘He was on holiday with his fiancée, apparently,’ Adler said sceptically. ‘And now he has found himself a job with the Israelis.’

  ‘I’m not too concerned about him being employed to take out scum like Matthaus,’ Wirth replied, thoughtfully. ‘I will, however, be most annoyed when they start targeting the pipeline. And it will be ‘when,’ not ‘if.’ You might mention the name to that idiot tailor in London; we ought to keep him on his toes. Well done, anyway. Keep up the good work, my young friend.’

  The idiot tailor was giving Galland some tuna fish at that precise moment, with a saucer of whisky to follow, wondering what he was going to say to Adler at their weekly scheduled telephone call. He always used the same telephone box at the top of St Anne’s Court. He had been perhaps been a tad remiss of late. He had done nothing about the files; Adler had not been pressing him and he was mindful of Louis’s warning about the Cable Street boys. Putting himself in the direct line of fire was not his style now.

  In the event, Adler had been in an uncharacteristically jovial mood. He had simply ask
ed Juncker to keep an eye open for any mention of Mark Gunn, ex British army, now working for the Israelis. The name seemed familiar. It would come to him; he had perhaps been over-indulging in Galland’s whisky of late. Exchanging the usual pleasantries with Adler, and promising he would indeed keep an eye open, Juncker returned to the shop with a spring in his step. He tickled Galland under the chin and began to leaf through his notebook.

  In the doctor’s courtyard in Damascus, Sol beckoned the object of Adler’s attention over.

  ‘Someone’s moving about inside,’ he whispered. Gunn allowed his right hand to move to his waistband and ease free the Browning 9mm he had taken from one of the Syrians. He stepped back a little, allowing himself a decent line of fire into the house. A key grated in the lock of the courtyard doors and a bolt was drawn back, slowly. A woman, her face tired beyond her years, peered out.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  Her face lit up when she recognised Sol. ‘Thank goodness,’ she whispered. ‘Come in.’

  Sara Weitz was twenty-four and the doctor’s daughter and general ‘aide de camp.’ A gentle girl, she recalled Sol from years previously and was pleased to see him. He brought good memories in his wake. Sol introduced Gunn to her and he followed them inside, adjusting to the cool, dark interior, taking in every detail.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’ she asked Sol.

  ‘That’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘What’s been going on here? We’ve heard a few things. Where’s your father?’

  ‘In the library; I’ll take you through. But I must warn you, he won’t be the way you remember him. And yes, it’s been terrible.’ She turned to Sol. ‘I’m not sure we can stay here; I’m so worried. Let’s not go into that in front of him for now, though.’

  Dr Weitz was in the small library, his chair facing the courtyard, to catch the cooling evening breezes and to hear the sounds of the night and the city. His hair was thinning now, and he was as spare as a pared down lathe. A copy of the Iliad rested on his knee. He had always used the classics as an escape. He did not get up but his eyes caught the light and held it at the sight of Sol. He extended a thin hand.

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Perhaps a little too long,’ Sol smiled. He could see that Dr Weitz had been made to suffer. Perhaps only the memories of what his family had done for so long and for so many had prevented his death. Then again, from the pain etched into the old man’s face, death might have been the more generous option.

  ‘Please sit.’ Weitz offered Sol a place. Gunn lingered in the doorway, not wanting to intrude. Sol looked up and shook his head. Gunn understood, stepped back into the corridor and went to find Sara.

  Gunn sat on the worn stone of the back step, his legs stretched out onto the stone slabs below. He looked at them for a moment, as he sipped the cinnamon tea Sara had shyly offered him, turning his head to examine their marks and notches. The stones were old, bible-old and with stories untold. He laughed out loud at his moment of fancy. His laugh echoed around the courtyard.

  ‘It’s been a while since any laughter was heard here. It is good to hear’

  Gunn looked up to see Sara, a blanket in her hands, smiling.

  ‘Sol and I will find a way to help you.’ He made the promise before sense caught him. He groaned inwardly, knowing he would have to follow through now.

  ‘You and Sol,’ she turned to him. ‘I take it this is more than just a social call?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Gunn replied, carefully. He did not wish to burden her with their mission; she had enough to deal with already. ‘Are you and your father alone here now?’

  ‘We are. My brother and my mother were arrested last year. They never made it back. It was a pure fluke that my father and I were left alone. I’m under no illusions.’ She bit her lip. ‘Many of our community left in 1946, when the French mandate ended. But Father refused to go. I don’t think he’ll ever leave.’

  Sol came out to join them. He took Sara into his arms.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  Gunn walked over to the fountain, to give them some privacy and to try to think things through. Sara’s plight – and her father’s - was grave. He was well aware that he and Sol had a limited window of opportunity before the reservists who had formed their escort were missed, at home or back at the barracks. They were probably safe enough inside Dr Weitz’s house for now; he noted how the windows all faced onto the courtyard, not the street. The authorities wouldn’t necessarily connect two English soldiers with Dr Weitz. But they were going to have to break cover before long.

  ‘Sol, I’ve been thinking,’ he called, dragging on a cigarette, watching its smoke rise like a ghost into the city night. Sol came over and cadged one of Gunn’s supply (Egyptian tobacco, pretty good).

  ‘Come to any conclusions?’

  ‘Well, we’ve hardly got time to acquire suitable attire for cover, have we?’

  Sol nodded and motioned for him to continue. Gunn lit another cigarette and smoked rapidly while thinking.

  ‘I’m sure the good Doctor has a jacket or two and a hat that I can borrow; disguise me enough in the dark to get by. I was thinking, I’ll do Matthaus tonight and in the meantime you acquire a car and we get out of the city tonight with these good people. I think their line in this city is fading.’

  Gunn dropped his cigarette and ground it into the stone with his heel. He looked at Sol.

  ‘Not a great plan but probably the best we can do in the circumstances.’

  ‘Then a race for the border?’ Sol grinned. ‘You’re driving. Let’s speak with Sara and her father.’

  They all went through to the library. Sol and Gunn outlined their plans, while Sara tucked a blanket around her father as he listened attentively.

  ‘I know Matthaus,’ Doctor Weitz said thoughtfully. ‘A little too fond of spirits for his own good. Oddly enough, I helped him once or twice when he first arrived here. Before he got ‘established,’ so to speak. Do you remember, Sara? But don’t under-estimate Matthaus. He has quite a following. Did you know he was born in Alexandria? Speaks Arabic like a native.’

  ‘No,’ said Sol. ‘We were told not to under-estimate him though. So you think he might have reinforcements?’

  ’Yes. You will need to be very careful. Now, for the next stage of your plan, if you need a car, take ours. I won’t need it. I won’t be coming with you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not leaving you,’ began Sara resolutely.

  Weitz’s voice took on a strength he had not felt for years.

  ‘You are going with Sol. You are going to Israel. I am going to stay here, with my books and my good brandy, and take my leave on my terms at my choosing. He paused and coughed, a grim sound, the bare rattle of bones on wood.

  ‘I cannot run – I’m too old, too tired. And despite everything, Damascus is my city, my place. I have made my decision. It will be as I say.’

  Sara simply nodded, lost for words, and went to pack a bag for herself. Most of her luggage would be memories, nothing heavy. Sol pecked her on the forehead, holding her to him briefly. ‘Go.’

  ‘We will get her out, Dr Weitz,’ Sol observed, and Gunn nodded in agreement.

  ‘Good.’ Weitz smiled faintly. ‘Now pass me my copy of The Odyssey, my brandy and that old Webley you left me last time you were here. It’s in my desk, bottom left drawer. I am left handed, after all.’

  While Gunn went off in search of a shower and some spare clothes, Sol set about making Doctor Weitz as comfortable as he could. He poured him a brandy and found The Odyssey on the shelves.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Weitz, putting the book aside for a moment. ‘You and Sara have my blessing. You know what I mean by that. She ought to finish her medical training. She only has two years or so left.’

  ‘I’ll make sure she does,’ Sol replied. ‘And thank you.’

  Sol was touched by the doctor’s faith in him, but he was under no illusions as to what lay ahead. They would be lucky if they ma
de it back alive. That was all he was going to focus on for now. Leaving the doctor for a moment, he went to find Sara and Gunn, to make arrangements and to have a look at the car, a sleek black 1937 Delahaye Cabriolet. It had a tank of petrol but had not been driven for some time.

  Gunn was wearing a jacket of the doctor’s over his fatigues. He checked the Browning 9mm. Ideally, he would have had something else up his sleeve. This would have to do.

  ‘I’ll see you on the highway, where we came into the city, at 1 am,’ he told them. ‘If I’m not there by half past one, just go. Don’t wait.’

  Sol shook his head in disagreement. Gunn slapped him across the face.

  ‘Listen, don’t wait. This is a rough game. We both know it. So get on with it. You’ve seen me drive enough to know how to really put your foot down.

  ‘All right.’ Sol was a little chastened. ‘Not sure that car is up to your Horch.’

  ‘Very little is.’ Gunn grinned. ‘Now I am off to pay a call.’

  Matthaus lived on Terek ben Ziad, as he had himself observed with a sour irony, not far from Dr Weitz’s house in the old Jewish quarter and a stone’s throw from the Umayyad Mosque. He did not share Hitler’s admiration for Islam, despite his early childhood spent in Alexandria. In his cups, he often recalled the observations of an old Berber he had met a year or so ago on one of his trips south, who had noted that the Arabs deserved Islam as they were such a rabble.

  Gunn kept his head down, his brim snapped low and his eyes up. He did not stop as he ducked up an alley, headed towards Al Azm Palace and then turned left on Mou’aeiyah, where he hit a right into Terek ben Ziad. He walked past Matthaus’s house, noting the two minders outside, and paused for a cigarette out of their eyeline to consider. He smoked quickly and walked on, finally finding a cut through. He ducked in and then, losing the jacket and hat in a drain, hauled himself up onto a crumbling wall. He looked back. He could see Matthaus’s house, two buildings back. He climbed and soft shoed across the roof tops, avoiding loose tiles. He could see the minaret of the Umayyad and the Barada River to the north, and he tossed a sardonic salute in the direction of Saladin’s Mausoleum. He had already decided he would take his leave via the rooftops.