The Age of Exodus

by Gavin Scott

  Drawn by the smell of cooking from the galley he went down to the dining room and found Miller, Bernstein and Cohn among the rest of the group with whom he had worked during the night, and to his relief they seemed genuinely pleased to see him, eager to know where he had learned so much about the sea.

  He told them about his home town and its fleet of trawlers. When he had been a child, there had been no greater thrill for him than exploring the Castlehill Home with his father, and hearing his dad’s tales of narrow escapes in deadly Arctic waters.

  They asked about what he had been doing at Pier 751, and by now he had his answer ready: he had been given a message asking him to meet someone there in connection with the theft of the Sumerian effigy, and here the only information he was concealing was that the message had come from someone at the FBI. And as he now realised that the message had in fact not come from Tolling at all, he felt on fairly firm ground in failing to mention it. On top of which, there clearly had been some link to the theft of Narak and what had happened to him – why else had that hideous image been projected on the warehouse wall? Indeed, one of the young men had actually seen it.

  “There was a really bright light shining out of the warehouse window while you were on the crane,” he said, clearly reconstructing the scene in his mind. “And some kind of weird shape being shone on the wall.”

  “That was Narak,” said Forrester, bringing out the newspaper page again and showing them the picture. “The statuette that was stolen from the archaeology conference. I was there when it happened, which is why I went down to Pier 751 in the first place. Turned out somebody was waiting to murder me, and if it hadn’t been for you chaps they’d probably have succeeded.”

  They all seemed fascinated by the mystery. Bernstein wanted a detailed description of what had happened when the theft occurred, and Forrester duly obliged, and as they told him their own stories over the coming days he found his liking for them increasing. Some of them had fought in the war and felt frustrated that all their efforts had done so little for the millions of Jews Hitler had exterminated. Some had been too young to fight and felt that this was their chance to prove that they had courage. Others had been rejected by the army on medical grounds, like Miller from Cincinnati who combined the massive shoulders of an all-in wrestler with the shrivelled legs of a childhood polio victim. But whatever he lacked in physical strength in his lower limbs, he made up for in sheer energy and great sweetness of disposition.

  Cohn himself, a tough New York Jew from the Lower East Side, was full of attitude and aggression that masked the kindness within. Red-headed Bernstein, intense and self-contained, had interrupted his studies as a lawyer to join the expedition, and was using the knowledge of electricity he had acquired from hobby magazines to help sort out the tangle of wires left by the boat’s previous owners. Forrester could tell the kid was terrified of the ordeal that lay ahead, and was throwing himself into whatever work was available to avoid thinking about it. Despite his own danger, his heart went out to him. As the voyage went on Forrester also found himself, oddly enough, feeling a growing affection for the ship.

  He could see that despite her poor condition she was ideal for the purposes of Aliyah Bet. She was relatively fast – she could cruise at fourteen knots and for short periods could reach seventeen – she had a shallow draft which could enable her to get close inshore if they did indeed reach Palestine, and the combination of large staterooms and generously proportioned saloon and gallery decks would allow her to be packed with refugees when it was time to pick them up. Also, during her wartime service the galley had been adapted to feed large numbers of troops, which would be crucial when the DPs came aboard.

  She had originated as a ferry in Baltimore in 1927, which accounted for the dance floor and the little stage, and she’d been requisitioned by the US government for war service in 1942, carrying GIs across the Atlantic to Britain and then across the channel after D-Day. As Allied troops advanced across Europe she had even been pressed into service as a ferry again, this time to take troops over the River Seine. But when the war was over her useful life was deemed to be at an end, and she had been sold for scrap.

  And bought, via many intermediaries, by Aliyah Bet, which set money aside for a complete refurbishment.

  But because they had had to leave New York in such a hurry that overhaul had not been completed, throughout the voyage Forrester found himself working for long hours with his new companions to set the ship to rights. In truth he found this unrelenting labour much more satisfying than lounging in luxury on the Queen Mary on his way over. There was something intrinsically pleasing about hard physical work which produced such measurable and worthwhile results as a ship gradually coming back to life.

  And as he worked he thought about two things: who lay behind the trail of killings which had begun at the British Museum, and what to do about his relationship with Gillian Lytton. There was no doubt that he loved being with her: she was beautiful, intelligent and funny. And she made him feel young again. But there, in part, was the problem. He did not feel truly young anymore; sometimes he felt as if he had lived an entire lifetime in his first three decades. Gillian was full of youth, vitality and the joy of living – he didn’t want to take that away from her. And yet, at the same time, he knew he needed that simple joyful exuberance back in his life.

  On top of which he knew that though he had lost Sophie, he had not stopped loving her, and that buried deep beneath that love were the banked-down embers of his passion for the first woman he had ever given his heart to: Gillian’s dead sister Barbara.

  And as he scraped and painted rusting bulwarks and cleared blockages in recalcitrant steam pumps he saw the faces of the dead – of Charles Templar, Billy Burke and Jan Loppersum – and paired them with those of Arthur Koestler, Aleister Crowley, Jack Casement, Richard Thornham, Crispin Priestley, Theresa Palmer, Angela Shearer, Alexander Samson and the creature with the sack over his head who had tried to kill him. Round and round they went, like effigies in a hellish carousel.

  And then there was the faceless shadow of Edward St. John Townsend, traveller, archaeologist, poet and dabbler in the occult, whose sonorous name he imagined spelt out in the illuminated letters of the Motogram in Times Square.

  But every night during the week-long voyage, as Forrester dropped exhausted into his bunk with dirt under his fingernails and cuts and scratches all over his hands and arms, he forgot them all, and slept a deep and dreamless sleep into which none of these conundrums intruded.

  He even managed to put out of his mind the fact that however popular he was with his shipmates, Doran Arontowitz, the real power on the President Garfield, would have no hesitation in arranging an accident if he decided Forrester posed a threat to the voyage. From Ashmore, the young radio officer, he learnt that Arontowitz began making enquiries about him with Haganah headquarters in New York as soon as the storm had died down, and, to his relief, learned that Aubrey Eban had given him a character reference.

  Eban, of course, did not know about Forrester’s dealings with Ernest Bevin, and Forrester was well aware that if they were discovered he would almost certainly go over the side. But the confrontation with Arontowitz kept being delayed and delayed again, and, by the time he finally summoned Forrester, Forrester was ready. There were, after all, only a few things he needed to conceal, and any gaps in the narrative were easily filled with very full and frank information about the murders he had witnessed and the suspects he had met.

  The truth was, Forrester’s story fascinated Arontowitz just as much as it had everyone else on the ship. Like Forrester, the Haganah man gave no credence to the idea that the supernatural had been involved in any of it, and every credence to the idea that someone had been using Sumerian mythology to conceal their real objective, first in London and then in New York. He was particularly fascinated by the fact that an image of the effigy had been projected in the warehouse where they had tried to kill Forrester.

  “Why there?” he de
manded. “Why on the very pier where we were trying to get our boat ready?”

  And Forrester knew that, as is so often the way with questions, it contained its own answer. “To draw attention to it,” he said. “Narak is big news in New York right now. What better way to get the press down there double quick?”

  “Could be,” said Arontowitz. “We were keeping pretty quiet while we refitted. If someone wanted to flush us out and force the FBI’s hand, a spectacular murder with a touch of the supernatural would be the perfect way to do it. Especially after what happened at Flushing Meadows.”

  “How do you mean, force the FBI’s hand?” said Forrester. “I thought the FBI was determined to come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “Officially, yes,” said Arontowitz, “but there are people in the agency who are sympathetic to us. People who might know perfectly well about the blockade runners but are prepared to turn a blind eye. But if the newspapers start writing that the New York docks are swarming with Jews kitting out ships to sail off under flags of convenience to go up against America’s main ally, the Bureau would have to act.”

  “You ever heard of an organisation called Industrialists International?” said Forrester.

  Arontowitz looked at him, surprised. “Yes, I have,” he said. “A bunch of rich, powerful anti-Semitic industrialists who are doing everything in their power to stop us. What do you know about them?” And Forrester told him about his encounter with Alexander Samson in Greenwich Village.

  Arontowitz’s eyes narrowed. “And you think there’s a link between Industrialists International and these occult lunatics?”

  “I think there may well be,” said Forrester.

  “The thing is,” said Arontowitz, almost regretfully, “you mentioning Industrialists International brings us back to what the hell you’re really doing here.”

  “How do you mean?” said Forrester, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because we have every reason to believe Industrialists International was originally set up by the British Secret Service.”

  “What?”

  “As a cover organisation for their operations against Aliyah Bet. You know that the south of France is swarming with British agents trying to disrupt the refugee programme? Forcing the French police to impound our ships, sabotaging our transport? Well, one of them was arrested last month, and you know who he claimed to be working for? Not the British government – that would be too embarrassing for the Brits and the French – no: he said he’d been sent there by Industrialists International.”

  “Which you think is really MI6?” said Forrester, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  “Exactly,” said Arontowitz. “Your great British Secret Service. And here we are, after getting out of New York by the skin of our teeth, with a Brit aboard.”

  “A Brit someone was trying to kill,” said Forrester. “I don’t think the Secret Service would try to murder one of our own nationals.”

  “Oh really?” said Arontowitz. “Because they’re too gentlemanly or because they’re friends of yours?”

  “I’ve told you,” said Forrester truthfully, “I’m not and never have been part of British Intelligence. I was in the Special Operations Executive during the war but I was a soldier, not a spy. And I’m assuming that if you talked to your bosses in New York they’d have confirmed that.”

  Arontowitz shrugged. “But here’s the thing,” he said. “Even if you’re not a spy, you’re an Englishman, and we’re going up against the English. When we get to France MI6 will be moving heaven and earth to find us and stop us taking on the refugees. They probably know you’re aboard by now, and they’ll want you to tell them where we are. How can I make sure that that doesn’t happen?”

  “Without murdering me?” said Forrester, looking him in the eye.

  Arontowitz met his gaze levelly.

  “There are thousands of Jews rotting behind barbed wire all over Europe,” he said. “My job is to get as many as possible of them to Palestine – and you might prevent me doing my job. What would you do if you were in my shoes, Dr. Forrester?”

  And there, for the time being, the discussion ended.

  17

  SÈTE

  As darkness fell two days later Forrester saw, through the gathering gloom, the unmistakable outline of the Rock of Gibraltar, the towering limestone promontory which Britain had occupied since 1713. During the Second World War its network of tunnels and galleries had hidden nearly 30,000 British troops in case the Germans attacked, and in yet more secret passages soldiers hid who were to remain behind as guerillas if the Rock fell. But it turned out neither Franco nor Hitler ever seriously tried to take Gibraltar, despite its strategic importance at the mouth of the Mediterranean, and Britain and its navy were still firmly in occupation.

  Which was why, as hot winds gusted across the sea from the coasts of North Africa, the President Garfield slowed until darkness swallowed her up and then, before the moon rose, put her engines on maximum revolutions and raced past the great rock at seventeen knots. As they did so signal lights flashed out from Gibraltar: What ship is that? Arontowitz ordered a deliberately garbled reply, trusting that by the time the British had unscrambled it and repeated their request they would be safely past.

  And so it proved.

  After which Doran Arontowitz’s attitude towards Forrester suddenly and mysteriously improved. He was much more relaxed, chatting and joking with him freely whenever their paths crossed, and it almost seemed he had accepted Forrester as a friend. In this he made a mistake, because Forrester knew there was nothing about his presence aboard, as the ship approached its first important rendezvous, that would make Arontowitz genuinely relax. He therefore concluded that the Haganah man was acting on advice from elsewhere. As they entered European waters he would be communicating directly with the Jewish Agency’s intelligence service Mossad, probably at their secret headquarters in Paris. And Mossad would not be taking any chances.

  Which probably meant that Arontowitz had been ordered to get rid of him and was now trying to lull him into a false sense of security.

  They were now less than a day away from Marseille and Forrester reckoned that if Arontowitz was indeed going to assassinate him it would happen in the next twenty-four hours, while it was still easy to dispose of his body at sea. In theory the attack could come from any one of the crew members, but Forrester was fairly certain he was sufficiently popular with them for that to be unlikely; they might do so if ordered, but it would begin to make them all distrust each other. Arontowitz, he reckoned, would have to do the job himself, and discreetly. Forrester put himself in the man’s shoes and tried to work out how he would handle things if he had to perform a task Forrester knew would be distinctly disagreeable to Arontowitz. For all his toughness, the Haganah man would be deeply reluctant to murder someone he personally had come to trust.

  Nevertheless, Forrester knew, he would do what he saw as his duty.

  As for Forrester’s response, he was conflicted. He was not going to allow Doran Arontowitz to kill him, but he was reluctant to kill Doran Arontowitz. So, as he worked steadily alongside Cohn, Bernstein, Miller and the rest he ran through his options. Arontowitz, he reckoned, would want to come upon him unexpectedly and in a lonely spot. Forrester, therefore, had to turn their confrontation into something entirely different.

  He knew Arontowitz did not carry a gun, but he would almost certainly be planning to use one, because he knew enough about Forrester’s SOE background not to try to tackle him hand-to-hand. And the gun, almost certainly, would be in Arontowitz’s cabin.

  Forrester took it upon himself to find work to do which gave him an almost constant view of the bridge, and when, with shortly before they were due to reach the French coast, and with the ship ploughing through thick fog, Arontowitz suddenly disappeared from his usual station there, Forrester moved too.

  As a result, he was just yards behind as Arontowitz entered his cabin, and before the man had closed the door behind him, For
rester slammed it into him and sent Arontowitz crashing to the cabin floor. Arontowitz lashed out at Forrester with his feet, unbalanced him, and brought him down, and suddenly the two men were grappling on the cabin floor.

  Under normal circumstances Forrester would have had no compunction in using every hand-to-hand combat skill the Special Operations Executive had taught him, but though he knew this man had intended to kill him, he could neither hate him nor truly wish him dead. For Arontowitz, on the other hand, Forrester was the long-suspected enemy who had now shown his hand, and all his doubts about the need to get rid of him had disappeared. As a result, he fought like a tiger, and suddenly he had got his hand under his bunk and brought out the gun.

  Unfortunately for him, he was holding it by the barrel, and before his fingers had reached the safety catch Forrester’s closed around the grip and thrust the muzzle into Arontowitz’s face.

  “I told you, Doran, I am not with MI6,” he said firmly. “I am not going to get in the way of what you’re doing, and I’m not going to send any reports to anybody. But neither am I going to let you kill me, whatever Mossad has told you to do.”

  “You can talk all you like,” said Arontowitz, “but if I don’t do it they’ll have you shot as soon as you set foot in Marseille. They’re not going to let you jeopardise the chances of five thousand people getting to Palestine.”

  At which point an agonised shout came from the bridge.

  “Mine!” screamed a voice. “We’ve struck a mine!”

  Forrester, still holding the gun, rolled off his opponent.

  “You’d better go see to that,” he said. “If you want to tell Mossad you knocked me on the head and threw me over the side, feel free. You won’t see me again.”

  Arontowitz glared at him, but he rolled to his feet and backed out of the cabin.