by D A Kent
Gunn knew that Matthaus was on the second floor, with at least one window overlooking the street. He peered over the edge of the rooftop, his fingers poised on the lip of the roof. There was a light below and a narrow balcony, with room for a chair and nothing else. The window was ajar and Gunn could make out German songs coming from the interior. He grinned at his quarry’s resistance to the call to prayer.
Lifting himself up carefully, Gunn crept to the opposite edge, where there was a narrow ladder down; some kind of maintenance arrangement. It was near another window which again was ajar but which appeared to be, judging by the scents smoking upwards, a kitchen. Gunn rolled back onto his haunches and then fished into his pocket for a silver coin Dr Weitz had given him as a remembrance. The coin had the stamp of Alexander the Great with the horns of Amun. Gun considered Alexander lucky. He flipped the coin. It settled in the palm of his hand, horns up. He smiled, and slipped it back in his pocket. Ladder it was.
In Brighton, having awoken from an uneasy sleep, Inspector Gunn padded back upstairs to Gunn’s room, being careful not to disturb the slumbers of his ‘residents,’ the usual crowd of little old ladies and elderly ex-Army officers. They were no trouble at all; actually, they paid well. It was late though. Mark and Josephine’s candles had burnt down. He replaced them.
He looked out over the Channel, where there was a full moon, darting in and out of clouds. Normally, the sight stirred him. Now, he was distracted. ‘Come on, son, where are you?’ he muttered.
He tried to picture where Mark was. The Holy Land; only familiar to him through newsreels and stories from long ago. Mark had been in some scrapes before. He remembered sitting up waiting for him in Paris when he was a teenager and roaming the streets. He remembered Mark’s war service. This scrape seemed different somehow. Shaking his head, he made his way back downstairs. That carpet was almost threadbare. He was going to have to bite the bullet and replace it.
Sylvia woke with a start in her hotel room in Cognac, from a vivid dream which had started with her and Gunn at the demeure, but which now featured him alone, in some sort of biblical scenery with rooftops. She had arrived in Cognac only that morning, after a drive through fields of sunflowers. They always made her smile. She was wearing a shirt of Gunn’s which he had discarded, nothing else. She went over to the window and looked out over the square. It was deserted, apart from a black cat weaving in and out of the shadows. A squally wind, a harbinger of cooler weather ahead, was stirring up the detritus from the market. She missed Gunn’s arms around her and the warmth of him next to her.
‘Go back to sleep, sweetheart,’ he would have told her. She felt uneasy. With a shiver, she climbed back into bed and reaching for the notepad so she could continue the letter she had started to write.
At the doctor’s house, Sara had said a final goodbye to her father and a prayer, before Sol drove her away, through the narrow streets. He was, in spite of the situation they were in, excited about driving the car. It started like a dream.
‘We’ll make our way towards the Highway now, and we’ll be in plenty of time to meet up with Gunn,’ he told her. Sara was in a world of her own. She sat back and let the memories tumble in her mind, like pebbles in a running stream. She knew she would not see Damascus again and that her father would soon be one of the memories. Damascus was all she knew. She knew she had to go; she was grateful to Sol, but she could not yet bring herself to say so.
Sol slipped the car into gear, and the long snout guided them out of the Jewish Quarter, through quiet streets towards the gates. Sara did not look back, although once or twice she glanced up towards the rear view mirror.
Matthaus emptied into a glass the last of a bottle of brandy sent to him with the compliments of Otto and Alaikum in Cairo, and delivered by one of his minders. Decent of them, he thought. He had enjoyed his chats with Otto. His gramophone records had put him in a sentimental mood; they invariably did. His thoughts drifted back not to his childhood in Alexandria but to the summer home his family had owned, high in the Bavarian Alps, with a little hotel at the bottom of the track. As a small boy, he would always wake up when they reached it, and his mother always told him and his brother they were nearly home. Sometimes, they used to stop at the hotel for a drink. Maybe it was time to leave this shithole and go back there. Doubtless, he would find a very different country from the one he had walked out of. Nonetheless, he had no desire to end his days here.
‘Come on, whoever you are,’ he muttered. ‘I’m ready for you.’
The answer came from the shadows, with a glancing blow to the back of his head. Matthaus barked in surprise and stumbled forward, his shins cracking against a wooden table, his hands fumbling for his revolver. Booted feet swept his ankles away, and he lay, looking up at the fan turning heavily on the ceiling and into the face of the Englishman.
‘Evening, old chap.’
Matthaus did not answer. He looked about him. His temple was bleeding and his nose was flattened. His revolver was resting up against his armchair; it was out of reach. He dismissed it from his mind and looked up at Gunn.
‘What do you want?’
‘Payment,’ came the reply.
‘Payment?’
‘Retribution then.’ Gunn placed a pillow over the nose of his Browning. ‘But consider it a mercy, I am sending you home.’
Home. That was the only place Matthaus wanted to be. If this was what it took to get him there, then so be it.
‘Get on with it and make it quick.’
Gunn did. He set the pillow under Matthaus’s head and restored the revolver to his possession. Rather a clumsy-looking suicide, he reflected, but it might buy him a few minutes start or even an hour.
In his library, Dr Weitz was sitting quietly where Sara and Sol had left him. His leather-bound edition of The Odyssey in ancient Greek (which he had been given as a present as a young man upon starting medical school), lay open on his lap, his finger upon the opening lines. The description of Odysseus the Wanderer had seemed appropriate in the closing moments of his life.
He let his finger drift across Homer’s words and smiled to himself as he raised the revolver to his temple. He would soon feel the sea’s good wind on his face and would be standing on the deck of a ship straining hard to fair Ithaca. That was his wish; his final wish. He pulled the trigger and departed this world.
After a wonderful evening in Heliopolis, inspecting their new property and choosing light fittings and paint schemes, Alaikum and Otto were surveying a report which had come in on the ticker tape machine from Scheherezade.
‘That woman must survive on scarcely any sleep,’ marvelled Alaikum. ‘However does she manage it? Anyway, sounds as if it’s all kicking off on the Golan; flurry of activity on the Syrian side. Word is that two reservists and their driver have been reported missing. And two British prisoners. Bet that’s Kalinsky and Gunn.’
‘Should we pass that on?’ asked Otto.
‘I’ll sleep on it for now,’ Alaikum replied. ‘Looking at our two main paymasters, the Israelis will be perfectly able to see from their positions that something is kicking off. I don’t have the impression that Wirth is that interested in Matthaus. I’m fairly sure that’s who the two ‘Brits’ have gone to get.’
‘Poor old Matthaus,’ said Otto. ‘Hope he enjoyed his brandy. You’re right though; Wirth’s main preoccupation is that pipeline of his. It’s obvious from the money he is throwing at it. Bet that nice-looking young lawyer we met doesn’t come cheap. Best wait and see what happens when the dynamic duo come charging back over the border.’
‘If indeed they do,’ replied Alaikum.
Parked neatly in the shadows near the city gate, Sol checked his watch again; it had just gone one. There was nobody about.
‘Gunn should be here any time,’ he reassured Sara. Sara did not usually smoke but she took a drag on his cigarette. She could see the white ribbon of the Kings’ Highway heading south. She was anxious to go; it would only be a matter of time before
her father’s car was recognised, especially in Damascus.
‘What if he doesn’t make it?’
‘He will.’
‘If not?’
‘If is a big word,’ Sol smiled and lit another cigarette. ‘If not, we go on and Gunn will try to make it back.’
‘What happens if he doesn’t?’
‘Oh, I suspect a lot of Syrians will die hard.’
In Tel Aviv, David was still at the office, pacing up and down. He had, as Alaikum had predicted, been briefed about the activity on the Syrian side, with trucks now racing down the highway towards Damascus. He had every confidence in Sol; he had worked with him long enough for that. Gunn had already impressed him. Even so, this was worrying. He hoped they had been able to make use of whatever windows of opportunity were available.
Matthaus’s gramophone was still playing as Gunn scaled the ladder back onto the roof. He looked down. One of the minders had moved round to his side of the building and was peering up.
‘Bugger!’ muttered Gunn. He felt for his Browning and flattened himself against the wall while he took stock quickly. He felt the outline of the Alexander coin in his pocket and that decided him. Luck would favour one who did not cower. He looked down, straight into the face of the minder, and dropped, boots first. The soles of his boots hit the Syrian full in the face. His neck snapped at the impact. Gunn stepped across the alley, leaving the man dead, his head lolling at a twisted angle. He hoisted himself up. He was going across the rooftops.
Gunn was away, kicking loose tiles as he went. Every so often, he had to hurdle somebody prone and asleep on their own patch of rooftop. He needed to shift. Shouts and one or two gunshots behind him indicated that the minder had been found and, pound to an Alexandrian coin, Matthaus would be found any time now. He paused for a second to look at his watch. He knew he shouldn’t have done that; he slipped and fell first into a stack of tiles, scattering them like shells across the sea floor. He blew out his cheeks, spat out a gobbet of blood and hauled himself up, Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted two men, armed and pointing his way, three roofs back. He knelt, picked up a broken tile and another, and sent them spinning and scudding across the gap. The tiles splintered as they skidded and broke, and Gunn’s pursuers ducked. That would buy a few more seconds.
The shouts and gunfire were becoming louder and more intense. He was going to be surrounded at this rate. Meeting up with Sol and Sara would be impossible now; he would make them targets too. He stopped by a huge pigeon loft to consider.
Half past one, murmured Sol. There was no sign of Gunn but he could hear gunshots and shouting. He could guess what had happened. Uttering a prayer for his friend, and seizing a slim chance for himself and Sara, he put the car in gear and made his way onto the highway. Ignoring her look of enquiry, he guided the car down the highway at the kind of speed which would not attract a second glance. He would push hard when out of sight. He shrugged.
‘Got no choice.’
By the pigeon loft, which was affording a little shelter, Gunn picked up a bucket and filled it with tiles and pots. He moved forward, hefted it by its rope and swung it over his head four times gathering pace, his shoulders cracking. He let go of the rope at the fourth pass and at the peak of the arc. The bucket flew across two alleys, pottery and tiles spinning out like seeds, and crashed down into a wall two streets over. He heard voices converging on the unfortunate bucket and he was gone. He was late; Sol should be on the road south now. Time to improvise.
Gunn landed as lightly as a cat on the solid roof. It was just inside the city gates. He spared a moment to glance over the edge of the eaves. It was an army post. A truck was parked outside, nose pointing south. He heard the murmur of tired voices. A patrol just in, end of shift and ready to sleep. That would do. He leaned forward and let himself fall, twisting as he did so, and flew, boot first, through a still open door. One man raised a rifle. It was instinct but, in a confined space, foolish. Gunn ducked and rolled up and grabbed the barrel, gave it a twist and cracked the soldier across the jaw.
As the Syrian went down, eyes rolling back in his head, Gunn dropped the rifle and ploughed head first into another soldier’s midriff, knocking him down. Gunn knocked the man out with a flick of his Browning. One left. He stood, turned and smiled and extended his hand.
‘Keys.’
‘Keys?’
‘To the truck.’ Gunn stepped forward a pace. ‘Give them to me nicely and I will hit you hard enough so you won’t get into any trouble. Get me out of the city and I will dump you a few miles out with a canteen, and you’ll have a walk back. Your choice. ‘
To his surprise, the Syrian chose the latter option and handed him the keys.
‘It can’t be this easy, surely,’ thought Gunn, as they set off through the city gates.
Away from the city, Sol was putting the Delahaye through its paces. It was a joy to drive. He was anticipating road blocks; so far so good. He knew this would not last. He felt discreetly in his pocket for the Browning he had taken from the reservists.
Sara looked over at him.
‘There’s somebody following us,’ she said. She had been expecting this, watching for them in the mirror.
‘I know,’ Sol replied. ‘I’ve been watching for a few minutes. It could be an army patrol truck. They’re some way back. I’m not hanging around for them. Hold on tight.’
Gunn glanced at his passenger. Around eighteen years old, he estimated, and probably a conscript. He looked terrified. He’d picked a right one there. Ahead of them, he could make out another army truck and, beyond that, the Delahaye. It certainly looked as if Sol was getting his foot down, and indeed the car could outrun most things in a straight line. On the twisting ribbon of an ancient highway, however, things were a little equalised. He noticed the sparks of barrel flash as somebody took a shot or two at Sol and Sara. That didn’t trouble him overly, as a swaying truck did not make the most stable of gun platforms. But he did need them to get away. He glanced over at his passenger and warned:
‘Hold on. This may get a little rough,’ as he pressed the accelerator to the floor.
In the Delahaye, Sara was starting to panic. ‘Sol, they just fired at us.’
‘Yes, something of a forlorn hope.’ Sol gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘They won’t get us now.’
Gunn was gaining on the truck. He noticed that his passenger was as pale as a shade from campfire tales and, feeling a spasm of sympathy for him, slowed at an approaching bend. He leaned across and opened the door.
‘Off you go, chum.’
The Syrian rolled out and down a scree of loose rocks and sand before coming to a bruised and battered halt in a dirty stream. He lay there for a moment and then lifted himself slowly up, to begin a somewhat limping progress back to the city.
Gunn pressed his boot down and gave the heavy steering wheel a sideways flick. The long bonnet of the truck shied like a kicking mule, and the left wing smacked the right flank of the truck ahead. It fishtailed as the driver wrestled, and coughed, kicked and then settled, the troops in the rear concentrating on hanging on for the ride rather than their pursuer.
There was a left bend ahead, a slight twist in the highway. That would do. Gunn weaved his trunk left and right, his shoulders protesting at the effort. He flicked the wheel again. The smack was more inclined this time around, and there was a ripping of metal as his truck shook itself free, leaving its bumper behind and, he was relieved to observe, a darkening around the petrol tank. Some damage.
‘One more time,’ thought Gunn, ‘and I should have them out of action altogether.’
A final twist of the wheel from Gunn, his shoulder muscles singing like a bow string, and his truck crashed into Sol’s pursuer like a trireme into a slow-moving galley. Metal twisted and tore, and the two beasts rolled away together, wheels spinning, seeking purchase on desert air, off the King’s Highway and spiralled away, across rock and sand. Gunn was thrown around the cabin and then tossed clear l
ike a rag doll discarded by a brat.
He lay bruised, winded, with at least one rib cracked and his left ankle sprained. He shook his head and looked up. A Syrian was staggering towards him. Gunn felt for his pistol. It had gone. As the Syrian bent down, blade in hand, Gunn stove his temple in with a piece of rock the size of his fist. He hauled himself to his heels, dragged the dead Syrian back to the wreckage and dropped him beside a boulder. After a quick examination of the trucks, he took a flask of water, a blanket, a pistol and a few clips and loped off up into the rocks.
Sara noticed the army truck behind them had disappeared. She did not mention it. There was nothing ahead of them, simply darkness. She shivered a little.
‘How long now?’ she asked, anxiously.
‘We’ll be at the border in about forty minutes if we carry on at this rate,’ Sol replied. He was spot on with his timing. As he approached the border, he could see a small checkpoint; it looked unmanned.
‘Keep on holding tight,’ he told her. As the Delahaye flew past, two bewildered Syrians emerged from the sentry box, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. They shook their heads in bewilderment and went back inside, resolving to say nothing if asked.
The Delahaye passed them like the shade of a hound rippling through the grass on a summer’s night and kept going. Sol finally slew to a halt well into Israel. He got out for a stretch. Sara followed. They sat on the ground by the car, sharing a cigarette.
‘Welcome home,’ he said, putting his arm round her.
