Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  The money was good, five hundred American dollars a month, paid into a numbered bank account the Americans had set up for him in Switzerland. All he had to do was pass messages to his old Nazi friends working in Cairo, and sometimes receive them too, and pass them to Willi Stinglwagner, who had proven to be a man of his word, even if he was an American pretending to be German. Nothing had compromised his position in the German Ministry for Nuclear Energy, where Daffodil was now chief scientific adviser to the deputy director-general, but he knew his position there gave credibility to the information he transmitted and received.

  All in all he was satisfied with the way things had turned out, and for that he needed to thank that sexy masseuse Veronique who had set him up in Brussels. Whatever happened to her? Who was she, really? Thanks to her trap he had sold his business in Brussels for a good sum, was reunited with his real family in Germany, and in his new job was responsible for some of the most cutting-edge technology in the country, and probably Europe.

  Not only that, he thought, swirling the wine around in the glass, sniffing and sipping, but this Alsace Riesling is impeccable: dry, floral, spicy. But there is something … what is that, he wondered, residual sugar? Or barrel? He smacked his lips, sniffed the wine. There shouldn’t be anything but the acidity …

  “For Gawd’s sake, it’s just white wine,” Peter said over his shoulder, drawing up a chair. “Swallow it.”

  Genscher, now back to his real name, “Braun,” grimaced. “It’s a rather complex wine, Willi. You Americans. What will you have? American champagne?”

  “Exactement,” Peter said, and to the waiter, “Coca-Cola, please.”

  The meet could not have appeared more casual, yet four agents from the Office had Peter’s back. Two sat separately at the bar, another watched the front entry from across the street, and one more covered the back entrance. The latter two had tailed Braun since he’d left his office, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Routine but important precautions, for a public meeting between handler and agent broke every tradecraft rule. But in this case Peter judged trust to be critical, which was why he had chosen such an out-of-the-way spot on the outskirts of Bonn. The more casual the transfer of information, he hoped, the less critical it would appear to Daffodil, and therefore the fewer questions he’d have. This had to be handled with care. Daffodil had to see himself as a partner, not a tool.

  “The Middle East is at a dangerous crossroads, which could allow the communists to drive a wedge between the Arabs and the West,” Peter began, after their pleasantries. He was pressing on a nerve. The one thing that most united the former Nazi Germany and America was fear of Russia. “Since Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal he’s convinced one way or another the Tommies and the Frogs are going to try to get their canal back.”

  How tiresome, Braun thought, these dated wartime terms. Juvenile. “That’s what the Yanks think, is it?”

  “That’s what we know. And Nasser’s canary in the coal mine is little Israel. Every time they fart, Nasser thinks Israel’s going to attack and the others will join in.”

  “Do canaries fart?”

  “Ah, funny guy. Good mood? What happened, promotion at work?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Keep climbing the greasy pole, my friend.” Peter filed the hint away; where does a chief scientific officer go from there? Braun was deep in his pocket, thanks to money and pussy, which he had well documented, in case he ever needed it. The Nazi was already a star member of Peter’s network, promotion would give him even greater access, and it wasn’t only Germany’s secrets the Office wanted. Braun was Germany’s chief liaison with the French Ministry of Science, and that’s where the jackpot lay—France’s nuclear development. Quite apart from his value tracking Egypt’s military progress, thanks to the Nazi web.

  That’s what Peter cared about today, though. All over Europe and the Middle East, Israeli agents were constructing a house of cards, a web of deception. “What are you drinking today, then?”

  Braun had emptied his glass.

  “Schloss Vollrads. Highly recommended, but not one of their better years or wines. In fact, overall their quality seems to be in decline. A pity, the label is eight hundred years old.”

  “Waiter,” Peter called. “A Coca-Cola for my friend.”

  Braun’s jaw dropped. Peter roared with laughter and slapped him on the elbow. “Just kidding, Hans-Dieter.” He called after the waiter. “Change of order, please. Make that a Pepsi. Joking. Another one of these,” he said, tapping the wineglass.

  “Ach, you’re in a good mood today too.”

  “Why not? Wall Street’s on the rise. But back to business. Listen, put this into the system, as wide a distribution as possible. America does not want a stupid war to break out over the canal. It’s true Israel is moving troops in the Negev desert, but what we want the Egyptians to understand, we need them to know, is that none of this is directed against Egypt. It’s all against Jordan. There have been so many cross-border raids in the northern Negev by both sides that Israel wants to end it once and for all. We don’t want fighting there either, by the way, but that’s another issue. The main thing is that Egypt understands it is not being threatened by Israel. As for Jordan, we’ll take care of that, but it’s not your concern. Unless you have people next to the king. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, as I said, that’s our problem. You just make sure your Nazis, excuse me, German military and scientific advisers, get that, and they pass it on to Egypt’s military and government. Got it?”

  “Of course, no problem. Any papers, documents, proof?”

  “Tomorrow morning you’ll get a paper from our business attaché about the Frankfurt Autumn Fair. Go straight to pages forty-eight to fifty-three. On the reverse sides will be five pages of invisible ink. Expose them, read them, eat them. Pass on the information, and give me the names of your people and we’ll make sure they get hard copies in Cairo or wherever they are. Okay?”

  “Yes. What’s in it?”

  “Troop movements, armored corps unit numbers, mobile supply dumps. The whole McCoy. Destination: Jordan.”

  “But, between you and me, why not Egypt?” Braun asked. “Everything I hear from my friends is how weak their army is, beneath the bluster. The rocket program is so far behind schedule it isn’t relevant, they’ve just about given up trying to make a working battlefield rocket. And all those weapons they got from Czechoslovakia, they don’t know how to use anything larger than a Kalashnikov. Surely this is the time for Israel to move against Egypt, not Jordan?”

  “You’re asking me? Above my pay grade, buddy. My guess? They attack Egypt, Russia steps in to save Nasser and Jack Robinson, the Russians have their toehold in the Middle East. Thanks, Israel. Win the battle and lose the war. No, thanks.”

  “So Russia steps in to save Hussein instead. Same result.”

  “No, they won’t. What for? Who cares about Jordan? Poor, small, not even a real country. Egypt is the prize. The biggest Arab country, leader of the Arab world, in their dreams at least. No, we gotta keep Russia out of Egypt. No way Israel attacks Egypt and opens the door to Russia. We won’t let that happen, and anyway, Israel’s focused on Jordan to stop the terrorism. That’s what this is all about. With those troop movements Israel wants to attack Jordan, not Egypt, that’s what Nasser needs to know. He needs to dial back his own troop buildup, not provoke Israel, and stay out of the firing line. We’re telling him directly but the confirmation info also has to bubble up from the bottom.”

  “The bottom?”

  “Yes. That’s you, baby.”

  * * *

  Chin on his chest, arms folded, legs stretched out between the man and woman opposite, Peter dozed as the overnight train from Frankfurt to Paris rolled through the French countryside. His neck was stiff, the carriage was too hot, and the window was stuck shut. His stomach growled. He had chosen the carriage at random, and regretted it as soon as the train left the station when the woman
unwrapped her sausage and cucumber sandwich. Her tearing of the bread and knackwurst released a mouthwatering aroma of veal and garlic. She gave her husband his half and together they chewed, sighing with satisfaction. Could he ask for a bite? They even had a flask of steaming coffee, which he could have killed for. But it was the cheese and tomato sandwich that almost did him in. And then, the coup de grâce. He couldn’t believe it; who brings dessert on a train ride? Vanilla flan, his favorite. His stomach must be louder than the clattering wheels. He couldn’t wait to tell Diana the story, he’d have her in stitches. If only he had remembered to bring something to eat. But it had all been so quick, he had barely made the train.

  In Paris an Office driver took Peter straight from the Gare du Nord to the suburb of Sèvres, insisting all the way that they didn’t have time to stop for a baguette. By the time guards slid open the wrought-iron gate of the villa in rue Emanuel Girot, Peter had a raging headache and knew that at this time in the telling of his story, Diana would be torn between helpless laughter and the need to baby him.

  “And then the prime minister walked into the room,” he would tell her, for that is what happened. But that is where the story would end. About what was said, his lips were sealed. However much she tickled him.

  He had never been in the same room as them all at the same time: Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion with his crown of puffy white hair, the balding army Chief of Staff Moshe Dayan with his black eye patch and the elegant, gray young man introduced as Defense Ministry Director-General Shimon Peres. And what a room it was. Dark green leather chairs around a gleaming mahogany table. Gilt mirrors and paintings in gilt wooden frames above fruitwood inlaid side tables. Carved wooden chests with silver and bronze candelabra. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking onto a manicured lawn lined by flower beds and a pond with water lilies.

  Compare this, he thought, to the dumps where Israel receives foreign dignitaries. Instead of the vast crystal chandelier they had a noisy useless fan. Orange juice, plastic chairs, and instead of landscapes by old masters, a curling photo of Ben-Gurion pinned to the wall.

  They were waiting for the British and French participants. He didn’t know what the meeting was about, just that it was so secret that the Paris station didn’t know about it. He was to hand-carry back to Israel a document too important for the diplomatic pouch. He didn’t know the French defense and foreign ministers, but did recognize the pudgy face and round spectacles of Selwyn Lloyd, the British foreign secretary.

  Peter, happy to be ejected from the meeting and by now giddy with hunger, found the kitchen to get some food, which was lined up in a delicious array of fruit, sandwiches, and canapés for the guests. But a tall, balding French official pushed him out before he could take a bite: “Pas maintenant.” Not now. In the corner, two French men in dark suits stood over a woman whose fingers flew over a typewriter, which clattered like a machine gun.

  The protocol of the secret plan to attack Egypt, which would become notorious as “the best-documented war plot in modern history,” was drawn up on the kitchen table.

  And Peter was starving.

  The protocol stated that Israel would attack Egypt, whereupon France and Britain would invade too, with the excuse that they needed to “separate the combatants” and protect the Suez Canal. In doing so, their warplanes and warships would support Israel’s ground troops, in order to keep the waterway open to international shipping.

  It was so secret, and the conspiracy so incriminating, that the British immediately regretted agreeing to Israel’s insistence on a written protocol and demanded to destroy all three copies. The next day they burned their own in a fireplace at Downing Street, the prime minister’s residence. But the French refused to destroy theirs. And Israel’s copy of the proof that it was not breaking international law alone, signed by the representatives of Britain and France, was brought safely to Israel in Ben-Gurion’s breast pocket.

  Peter’s document, hidden inside his copy of War and Peace, which he was attempting to wade through on El Al’s Lockheed Constellation from Paris to Tel Aviv, was a notarized, photographed copy. He was just the backup to the backup.

  But at least he was home for the war.

  ARIE

  RAFAH, SINAI

  October 28, 1956

  “Oh no, I’m sorry. Sorry!” Arie healed Carmel’s head with a kiss while Daniel clung to his neck. As he had lifted her the metal barrel of his Sten gun, strapped across his back, had hit Carmel on the temple. He wiped her tears. “Sorry. Sorry!” he said again. “And Daniel, look after your sister,” he turned to his son, rubbing his nose with his, an Eskimo kiss. “And your mom.”

  “How long will you be away this time?” Daniel asked. “Will you be home for my birthday?”

  “Mine too!” Carmel shouted.

  “You’ll be six! I hope so. If not, we’ll celebrate when I get back. That way you’ll have two birthdays, lucky you. Off you get, then, both of you,” and he leaned down so that the twins could slide to the ground.

  They held Tamara’s legs as she hugged her husband. “Be careful,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just another exercise.”

  Both knew it wasn’t true. Exercises were a brigade, at most a division. This time all the men they knew had been called up, everyone was rushing to their units. They had twenty-four hours to get to the front.

  Trucks, Jeeps, buses, all were crammed with men with guns. The roads were clogged. The country was emptying outward until borders would be manned with men and machines of war.

  Arie’s driver, Yaacov, had been called up to the infantry near Jerusalem, so Moshe, proud of his new driving license and setting aside his opposition to what he called “this useless war,” volunteered to drive Arie south to his unit’s rendezvous near Ashkelon. Along the way they passed hundreds of hitchhiking soldiers and picked up three. These crowded into the backseat, kit bags and weapons crammed on their knees, their heads barely visible. With all the windows open and muggy air swirling through the car, they could hardly hear themselves talk.

  Each junction was a mess of snarled military convoys. The one-hour drive took three, as tank transporters, half-tracks, Jeep convoys were waved through before private cars and buses. South of Ashdod cars and trucks attempting shortcuts were stuck in the sand, to the jeers of Arie’s passengers. They were so cheerful they could have been going to a football game, but as they approached their staging areas, and one by one took their leave, the car grew quieter until only Moshe and Arie stared silently at the road ahead.

  A mile after the Ashkelon turnoff a beat-up track led east through cornfields into a large dirt enclosure. Clouds of dust and sand, visible from a mile, marked the place where fathers dropped off sons, and buses left empty to pick up more fighters. Beyond them armored half-tracks and tanks with swiveling turrets drove off transporters, hitting the ground with a thump and a grinding of gears, throwing up more dust and pebble spray. Among them soldiers were thumping each other on their backs and striding off to find their rides.

  The men of the 27th Reserve Armored Brigade under Colonel Chaim Bar-Lev were gathering to do battle, and by now they knew where they would fight. The Israeli army was far too small to dedicate so many troops and so much equipment to a diversion. The war would not be with Jordan as hinted everywhere, but with Egypt, and the tank brigade would be in the thick of it.

  Arie, his buddies Dudu and Itamar, and two new guys checked every nut and bolt on the Queen of Sheba, their beloved M-50 Sherman. They ran the engines, warmed up the systems, checked the treads, tied their personal gear to the flanks, drank sweet tea, complained about the rations, and before they could close their eyes to sleep were ordered to move out.

  Thirteen tanks, E company, rumbled through the night to take up their deployment position a mile from Egypt’s border, marked at this point by a simple wire fence. At four in the morning they hid behind a sand ridge, among hedges of cacti, lined up along a track just large enough to take their eleven-
foot wide weapons. The half-moon glinted off the cold metal with a cold bluish light. At the next order the tanks would lurch into motion, cannons and guns loaded, and as far as the crew was concerned, the sooner the better.

  Israel was going to war and they were the battering ram.

  But as usual, it was hurry up and wait. The crew lounged in the tank’s shade, each lost in his thoughts, Arie growing more anxious with each passing hour. He was a tank commander now, the veteran, thirty-two years old, leading his boys, the very thought made him nauseous. Would he pass the test? He’d never fought for real inside a tank. In ’48 he’d been infantry. Then he could lie on the ground and gaze at the stars and breathe fresh air and, if he wanted to, he could run and hide. And yes, he had run away, twice. How else do you get out of a stinking war in one piece? But now? Stuck inside a smelly firetrap surrounded by explosives. Couldn’t he disappear inside his helmet? Couldn’t he just go home to his family? But then, who would defend them? At that instant he hated the Arabs. But no. Not really. You hate someone you know, who has wronged you, someone who has hurt you. But to hate a whole race? For what?

  There was trouble at the textile factory in Kiryat Gat, he should be taking care of that. The workers wanted more money. Well, who didn’t? And in Tel Aviv, they’d just started construction on five more buildings. Now it was all frozen. Did they lock up the tools? In Haifa, two containers with car parts were stuck in the docks. Every day the port costs grew. Does insurance cover acts of war?

  He glanced at Dudu, who was asleep, his helmet half-covering his face, arms crossed. The best gunner, even though he always yelled he couldn’t see anything through his dirty glasses. Itamar, in charge of comms, how did he do that with a lisp? Their eyes met. Itamar tried to smile, and failed. He’s feeling it worse than I am, Arie thought, clicking his tongue and winking at Itamar. Arie looked at the stars. So bright, so many, so beautiful, always been there, always will be. And we are mere dust, or will be. But not yet. Not yet. At last, his head pressed against metal, sleep took him.