Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3)

by Edward Whittemore

  What are you talking about now?

  Codes. Maybe something called the Black Code. But wait, one step at a time. Let’s just assume for a moment that Stern considers an Allied victory inevitable.

  But it isn’t inevitable, Cohen blurted out.

  I know it isn’t, but let’s just assume Stern looks at it that way for whatever reasons. Because he thinks Hitler’s armies will die in Russia as Napoleon’s armies did. Because he knew it was inevitable for the Americans to come into the war and shift the tide to the side of the Allies. Or more simply, because he doesn’t believe the beast inside us can triumph in the end, not even with the Black Code. Because he believes in the Holy City of man and his faith is unshakable.

  Stop, hissed Cohen.

  No wait, slowly. It’s possible a man could believe that much, it’s possible Stern could. And if he did and if he were certain deep in his heart that Hitler was going to lose, then let’s take another step and say …

  Stern’s a Jew, shouted Cohen. His mother was a Jew and he’s a Jew and the Nazis are slaughtering thousands of Jews.

  And then let’s say there was a way, continued Joe quietly, to save a large number of Jews by giving the Germans something in return….

  Cohen leapt to his feet.

  A way, whispered Joe, to keep those thousands and thousands of Jews from becoming … millions.

  Cohen stared down at Joe. He stood with his arms by his sides, glaring down at Joe in horror, his anger raging out of control.

  Millions? Millions? Are you mad? What on earth are you talking about? The Nazis are beasts and Hitler’s insane but the country is Germany. Germany. My own family is German, we lived there for centuries. The Nazis are monsters but the Germans aren’t howling barbarians on horseback. They’re not Mongols and this isn’t the thirteenth century.

  True, said Joe. It’s the twentieth century and the Germans are methodical and industrious and orderly. And they organize well and they work hard and they pay attention to detail and they keep good records and they’re very thorough. They’re not Mongolian hordes racing around on horseback.

  The veins bulged in Cohen’s neck.

  And so?

  And so I have to find out about Stern and the Black Code, said Joe quietly.

  Get out, shrieked Cohen, pale and shaking with rage as he stood over Joe, his fists clenched.

  You’re mad. Get out of here.

  And then Cohen’s fury exploded and he stooped and grabbed the spyglass and swung it.

  The blow struck Joe full on the side of the head and knocked him out of the chair. He went crashing down to the floor, spinning, upsetting a tray that sent glass shattering down around him. He was dazed and lying facedown, not really aware what had happened, not having seen the blow coming. He pushed out his hand and cut it on broken glass.

  Clumsily he lurched to his knees, to all fours. There was a roar in his head and the pain was intense and sinking deeper. He choked, spitting out blood. Blindly he reached up and gripped something, a workbench, got one foot under him and pulled himself to his feet. He stood there holding on, swaying and choking and coughing up blood, trying to see. Somewhere near him was Cohen, a tall figure, a blur. The roar in his head was deafening and he couldn’t think. A hand twisted his arm and pushed him across the room.

  Joe was staggering, limping, bumping into things. A sharp metal corner drove into his thigh and there was another loud crash of shattering glass. His head banged into a door and he fell heavily against it, hanging there. The spyglass was being stuffed under his arm.

  Cohen had abandoned him. Cohen was somewhere back in the room speaking through another door, saying something to his sister. Joe finally found the door knob and turned it, staggered into the corridor and almost fell on his face in the darkness. He caught himself, felt a wall, leaned against the cool stones and pressed his forehead there, trying not to fall, trying to breathe.

  The door behind him closed. A hand touched him and Anna’s voice whispered.

  It’s all right now, I’ll help you. This way.

  Joe let himself be led down the corridor in the darkness. When they reached the door to the street she moved closer to him. She seemed to want to say something.

  My right ear, mumbled Joe. I can’t hear anything in the other one.

  He could feel her breath.

  I’m sorry, she whispered. My brother has many worries and Stern has always been like a father to us. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow.

  No. It wouldn’t make any difference.

  She seemed to agree. She whispered again.

  I was listening, I heard what you said. I think you’re wrong about Stern but I also think you want to help him.

  She hesitated.

  Might as well say it, whispered Joe. If I don’t find out the truth others are going to come looking for it, and they’re not going to care about Stern.

  He felt her breath on his ear. She was still hesitating.

  Oh say it, he whispered, dear God just say it. Does the silence of this world have to go on forever?

  He swayed, bumped into her, sank back against the wall.

  Please listen to me, Anna. I like your brother and I know Stern’s been like a father to both of you, but what I said isn’t unthinkable because nothing is, nothing ever. Look at the Nazis. And I know your brother’s too young to take all this in, and you are, and it’s not something any sane person should ever have to hear because it’s beyond the human kind, God help us….

  Joe reached out in desperation and seized her by the arm.

  But listen to me for Stern’s sake, Anna, because he’s going to die, and soon. There are depths to the human soul beyond all imagination, and you think you know Stern and you do know him in your way, but he’s also more than that and I know it, I’ve seen it. And yes, he could barter away his soul and that may be exactly what he’s done, God have mercy….

  Please try to calm down, she whispered.

  I am trying, I am. It’s just that I can’t see and I can’t hear and there’s a shrieking in my head and I’m blinded by the darkness and I know what’s going to happen and I’m frightened… afraid….

  He loosened his grip on her arm, but he didn’t let go of her. Hunched there against the stones, unable to see, the whole side of his head torn with pain, he didn’t dare let go of her.

  Anna? Forgive me for saying those things back there. I’m sorry I had to say them but Stern is what he is and there’s no way to …

  Anna? I’m afraid he’s coming apart and I want to find out the truth about him. If there were only some little thing, Anna, just something to go on while there’s still time….

  Joe was sobbing for breath, no longer able to hold himself in, giving way as Cohen had before him. He heard the bolt on the door slide open, felt her hand tighten over his. Her lips were next to his ear.

  He’s never mentioned anything about a Black Code, she whispered, but there was something he said a few weeks ago. The three of us were having breakfast and Stern was in a good mood. My brother happened to step out of the room and Stern suddenly laughed. I remembered the remark because it seemed so odd….

  Yes?

  He said Rommel must be enjoying breakfast that morning with his little fellers. At first I thought I’d heard fellahs, meaning fellaheen, but it wasn’t that. It was little fellers. He didn’t explain it and I don’t know what it means, but it might lead you to something. The American military attaché in Cairo is a Colonel Fellers.

  Oh?

  David didn’t even hear the remark. And please try to help Stern, try to help him. Good-bye.

  Joe didn’t have time to thank her. She squeezed his hand and the door closed behind him and all at once he was alone with the eerie sudden sounds of the city at, night, peering up and down the narrow alley, trying to remember which way he had come.

  14

  Bletchley

  BLETCHLEY’S SMIRK WAS MONSTROUS in its contempt. His mouth sagged and his single eye bulged grotesquely.
r />   Bletchley’s face of concern, Joe reminded himself…. Bletchley’s face of sympathy.

  Another man would have shown his feelings by softening his expression then, but Bletchley could never do that. Not in his shattered ruin of a face with its severed muscles and missing bones. In Bletchley’s half-dead face everything always came out looking wrong. Concern appeared as a grin of contempt, sympathy took on a smirk of disgust.

  No wonder little children ran away from him on the street, thought Joe. No wonder strangers turned their eyes away in horror. Bletchley’s shattered face couldn’t speak the truth and he couldn’t go around shouting it out every day of his life. So he smiled at the world, or tried to smile, and his humiliation never ended.

  He was gazing at Joe’s bandaged ear.

  You weren’t able to get a look at them?

  No, said Joe. Common thieves in the night, I suppose. I don’t even know whether there were two or three of them, or only one for that matter.

  Bletchley sighed.

  Well please don’t go taking yourself down deserted alleys again at night. If you have to go out for a walk stay in an area where there’s some life, where the patrols come by. There’s no sense getting banged up like this.

  Bletchley was using a handkerchief to clean the skin around his black eye patch. Sometimes when he did that he reminded Joe of a battered old tomcat trying to clean himself, ripped and torn and scarred from his battles but still trying to keep himself presentable. Of course Bletchley wasn’t old. He just gave that impression because of his half-dead face that no one had ever been able to fix.

  I would have taken more care, said Joe, but I didn’t think I was looking all that prosperous these days.

  Bletchley peeked over the top of his handkerchief and saw that Joe was smiling, mocking himself. He laughed, a snorting sound accompanied by an idiotic lopsided grin.

  Well you don’t look that prosperous, for a European. But prosperity is relative, isn’t it? Anyway, you’re beginning to look more like the rest of us now. Like the rest of us, that’s it.

  Bletchley went on snorting noisily. Joe smiled.

  I am? How’s that?

  Your ear, said Bletchley. It looks as if it might be missing under that bandage, as if you’d just lost it at the front. Perhaps you don’t remember your interview with Whatley too clearly, but Whatley only has one arm.

  Oh. No, I don’t remember that too clearly. A one-armed Whatley, you say, once the fastest gun in the west but it’s only a memory now? Sounds like one of Liffy’s songs.

  Bletchley snorted.

  It is odd when you think of it, but all the Monks do seem to be missing a part or a limb. Crippled, that’s it.

  Joe heard a ringing in his ear.

  True? Do you suppose that means there’s some sort of secret law that you have to be a cripple to be in intelligence?

  Bletchley snorted.

  To be intelligent, you mean? Well you may be right, I never thought of it that way before.

  Bletchley finished dabbing around his eye patch and put away his handkerchief. The look of contempt came back into his face. Concern, Joe reminded himself.

  Don’t you think we ought to have a doctor look at it?

  No need to bother, said Joe. Nothing to it really, and Ahmad seems to have a sure touch with bandages.

  Yes, a man of unsuspected talents. He did some volunteer nursing work in the last war, as I recall. Drove an ambulance mostly. Men of a literary bent used to like to do that, apparently.

  Sounds more like the Spanish Civil War, said Joe. Were you ever in Spain then?

  Bletchley looked uncomfortable.

  No. I was having some operations done.

  It itches, said Joe, grimacing, pointing to his ear.

  As usual, they were sitting in the small cellar room on the far side of the courtyard behind the Hotel Babylon. A single naked light bulb hung from the low ceiling, a cord leading down to the electric ring on the table where the kettle was steaming. There was also the chipped teapot and the two dented metal cups between them. As always, a newspaper lay at Bletchley’s elbow and the meeting was being held at night, the customary time for dealings with the Monks, as Liffy had said.

  What’s new that’s not in the papers? asked Joe.

  Nothing good, said Bletchley. Nothing but one disaster after another. Bir Hacheim has been wiped out with its Free French and its Jewish Brigade, and now it looks like Rommel’s going to be able to isolate Tobruk. We’ll have to try to hold the line at El Alamein.

  Can Tobruk take a siege?

  It did last year for seven months. It’s not as strong now, but Rommel shouldn’t know that.

  Bletchley looked down at the table.

  Of course there are other things he shouldn’t know, this Desert Fox who has become such a hero to the Egyptians.

  And the El Alamein line? asked Joe.

  It depends on several factors, supplies for one. Ours and theirs. If Rommel has the fuel to keep pushing, well, we’ll flood the delta and lose the Canal and take what we can to Palestine and Iraq. The implications are unthinkable and that’s what we’re thinking about now.

  I see.

  Joe glanced at the newspaper.

  What about the personal columns? Any better news there?

  Bletchley’s face twisted into a kind of blank stare, his eye widening. An expression of sorrow, Joe knew.

  This isn’t being reported yet, so don’t say anything about it. All right?

  Yes.

  Bletchley hesitated.

  We had a large-scale operation under way behind their lines, paramilitary units, special strike forces, that kind of thing. We were trying to get at some of the more important bases they’ve been using to raid Malta, to stop our supplies from getting through. Well it was an absolute failure from beginning to end. They were waiting for us…. Waiting for us, that’s it.

  Bletchley stared blankly at his metal cup and the two of them sat in silence for a time. Joe had made his report, such as it was, not mentioning the Cohens and not really going into any detail about Ahmad. Bletchley had listened in only a half-attentive way, and his questions had appeared to be more concerned with Joe’s impressions of Old Cairo, rather than with Stern. It seemed peculiar to Joe, but then, he always found Bletchley’s manner peculiar. Something to do with Bletchley’s mask, a face that never reflected what the man was feeling or thinking.

  Bletchley was moving his metal cup around, nudging it a few inches to one side, a few inches to the other. The scraping noise made by the cup was the only sound in the room.

  Night, thought Joe. Everything happens under cover of darkness when you’re dealing with the Monks.

  You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Bletchley said finally. After all, you’ve only been in Egypt a little over two weeks, which is nothing for an assignment as complicated as yours. No one expects results right away and two weeks is barely enough time to learn your way around.

  Joe nodded.

  I know, but somehow it seems much longer than that. Probably because of where I’m staying….

  Bletchley scowled. Thoughtful, Joe reminded himself.

  It is an odd old structure, Bletchley murmured in a noncommittal way.

  He looked up from his cup.

  Does your ear still itch?

  Yes.

  Isn’t that supposed to mean someone’s talking about you?

  I hope not, said Joe. I’m supposed to be an unknown visitor here, just A. O. Gulbenkian in transit.

  Bletchley continued to scowl.

  A strange cover, said Joe. Whose idea was it anyway?

  I’m not sure, answered Bletchley, still preoccupied. But don’t try to expect too much from yourself too soon. Two weeks is nothing.

  Why does he keep saying that? wondered Joe. What’s he talking about? Rommel’s getting ready to overrun Egypt and he keeps saying there’s all the time in the world. It makes no sense, or isn’t he worried about Rommel reading the British codes anymore? What’s chan
ged that I don’t know about?

  Bletchley was pushing his cup back and forth. The meeting seemed over. Joe got to his feet and lingered beside the table, not sure whether Bletchley had anything more to say.

  Well I’ll be on my way then….

  He started toward the stairs. Bletchley was still staring down at the table, his eye wide, empty.

  See here, Joe, I could find you another room. This accident of yours, this isn’t always the best part of town to be in. What do you say?

  Joe shrugged.

  Oh I don’t think it matters. We are where we are, I guess, but thanks anyway.

  Joe climbed the narrow stairs and stepped into the alley. Later he would often recall that quiet moment in the small bare cellar and Bletchley’s concern, Bletchley’s sorrow, his questions about Joe’s welfare and his offer of another room elsewhere. At the time it had sounded like such a little thing, but had Bletchley meant something more by it? Something a great deal more important?

  Could it even have made a difference and saved a life?

  Two lives? Three lives?

  As soon as Joe stepped into the night he heard the rumble of trucks in the distance. Everywhere now there were trucks moving into Cairo, pouring in from the desert with wounded soldiers and stragglers who had lost their units. Guns of all sorts and RAF wagons and recovery vehicles, armored cars and countless lorries crammed with exhausted sleeping men, crowding the roads outside the city beyond the pyramids, transports rolling in from the wreckage of the long campaigns in the Western Desert.

  And smoke above the British Embassy where documents were being burned. And huge crowds in front of the British Consulate where refugees waited silently, hoping for transit visas to Palestine. And rumors that the British fleet was already preparing to sail from Alexandria to the harbors of Haifa and Port Said, to escape Rommel’s advancing panzers.

  Unmistakable signs, thought Joe. The fingerprints of war. And everywhere in Cairo the same whispered question.

  When will he arrive? When will he get here?

  But Joe had no thoughts for Rommel. It was Bletchley’s melancholy remarks that obsessed him, the failure of the special operation behind enemy lines which Bletchley had talked about. For that must have been the mission that was going to have kept Stern away from Cairo for two weeks, and its collapse meant that Stern’s last mission for the Monastery had officially ended.