Traitor's Gate

by Charlie Newton

  Inside the Dhahran airport, the structural tents were crowded for the twice-weekly flight to Basra, Baghdad, Damascus, and finally Beirut. Flying was an event, flying in the desert more so. For every passenger braving the air, at least two Saudis or Germans or Americans were seeing them off. A woman aboard was most unusual and the cause of much comment among the Arabs inside and outside the cavernous black pole tent adjoining the runway. For this reason, Saba sat away from the others, shielded per Bedouin custom by her two escorts. From behind her veil she watched Eddie Owen. He talked with a mustached, bald man wearing similar clothes. This must be Eddie Owen’s protection, a man named Bennett who the Nazis feared. Eddie Owen touched at his bandages and un-bandaged cuts. Most of his face was discolored and swollen, as were his hands.

  He glanced toward her often but never stayed, never challenged her men as others might. Men were boys, prone to show their strength. She would be civil and ask about America and accept the insults of his hands and breath if that was what was to be. She would suffer this for Palestine. Then she would kill him for treating her with such liberty. She felt her teeth grinding and stopped, breathing deeply enough to raise the fabric covering her chest. Jameel locked on her eyes, then scanned for the threat, then back to her after finding none. Saba looked away, something she never did, then flattened a hand over her knee, a gesture that said, It is nothing. Jameel turned back to face the crowd.

  Eddie couldn’t tell she was a woman even though D.J. said she was, possibly a Bedouin princess or the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Undeniably someone special if only because she was a she and waiting to board an airplane. Eddie had seen Arab women in Bahrain but not often—like Texas, the ladies were kept pretty close to the house and away from strangers. Culpepper’s next paycheck for him was in English Mandate Palestine under contract to M.W. Kellogg, the Texas construction company hired by Shell Oil to build the Haifa refinery. Eddie had big aspirations for the young ladies of Haifa, hoping there was truth to the rumor they could at least drink coffee and talk to you.

  The Haifa contract paid the same but had a drawback or two. Shell Oil was a Dutch/British partnership formed to compete with Standard Oil. Standard Oil and Culpepper agreeing to lend Eddie was, D.J. said, absolute proof that there was collusion among the big oil companies of Holland, England, and the USA. Those companies would produce AvGas and distribute it to the Nazis, thereby forcing the governments in England, Holland, and the USA to side with the Fascists against the Communists.

  D.J. made it clear he did not intend to let that happen. How he planned to intervene was beyond what D.J. thought Eddie needed to know. The politics of oil and war was a cesspool. Girls over here were no easier to figure but a whole bunch more fun to think about.

  Even from this distance, the Bedouin girl’s black robes and cloak seemed expensive and exotic, catching the light in the folds, the flowing headdress hiding everything but her eyes. Eddie looked away, not wanting to stare, then back. She moved very little, shielded by the two men almost completely. Quite the picture if you’d been to a library and had an imagination—Eddie smiled back to high school English in Cushing, Oklahoma—the unapproachable princess of the Arabian Nights. The beautiful black mirage coming to life. The smile hurt his face all the way to the ears. And not a dime to show for the beating, the fight unfinished, the supposed insult to Ryan Pearce and Eddie’s treachery to Ireland unresolved. Eddie inspected swollen knuckles. Man, his hands hurt . . . but at least Pearce no longer mattered. Pearce would be at the Sitra refinery for another six months or more before going to a Spanish plant, and by then Eddie could be anywhere.

  To Eddie’s left, a loud cluster of what looked like German businessmen in high-cut European suits were chatting with an equal number of Americans, some in cowboy boots, others in felt fedoras, briefcases in everybody’s hands. D.J. elbowed Eddie, then nodded at the cluster. “The assholes with the American assholes are Germans.” The cluster of Germans and Americans patted one another’s backs. “Awful chummy, ain’t they?”

  Eddie smelled warning. D.J.’s warnings tended to include nasty predictions that, so far, had always come true. Eddie focused on the Bedouin princess instead.

  “Hey, stupid.” D.J. nodded Eddie toward two Saudi robes joining the Americans and Germans. “Being alive is about being awake. All the fucking time. And we both need your dumb ass alive.”

  Eddie tried to look less stupid.

  D.J. frowned. “Notice there’s no Brits in this tent. The American oil companies have the drilling concession in Arabia instead of the Brits. And the Brits have been in Arabia a long, long time . . . actually granted independence to this country. In effect gave Arabia to Abdul Aziz Ibn Saud and made him king . . . but the king didn’t give the Brits the drilling concession. He gave it to Standard Oil.”

  Eddie thought about that. Wondered how Standard Oil had pulled a coup of such magnitude and why the Brits had accepted the outcome, so far.

  D.J. continued. “Great Britain and the USA as governments are allies in the ‘world problems’ we read about every day against Germany, Japan, and Russia. Right?”

  Eddie answered. “Yeah.”

  “But here in this desert, those same Brits are Standard Oil’s direct competition for the oil rights. That puts Standard Oil in Ibn Saud’s pocket. If Ibn Saud favors the Nazis—and the bastard does—then Standard Oil favors the Nazis or Standard Oil loses all Ibn Saud’s oil. That puts Standard Oil directly at odds with President Roosevelt, his allies, and their policies—just like I told you.” D.J. nodded at the oilmen. “And in that clusterfuck of assholes you’re looking at is proof I ain’t wrong.”

  Eddie glanced at the Saudis, Americans, and Germans chatting as if they knew one another well, not one Brit inside the tent. “Why are you always so sure our oil companies are for the Germans? The Germans don’t have desert territory or desert oil fields for Standard Oil or the Texas Company to drill.”

  “The Nazis have guns and money. They need oil for their future plans, oceans of it. Standard Oil operates the oilfields in Hungary and Romania that supply Germany today, but there ain’t near enough oil there. Out here where the real oil is, the Nazis got cow shit. Standard Oil hasn’t found oil yet, but it’s here.” D.J. nodded again at the German and American cluster. “And all them sons a bitches know it.”

  Eddie looked confused or disbelieving, or both.

  D.J. frowned. “Make it simple. The Arabs and their oil company partners sell oil for money. The Nazis burn oil in their factories, tanks, and planes. Our oil companies and industrialists are afraid of Roosevelt’s New Deal and the ‘Communist’ unions, not the Nazis.” D.J. glanced close over his shoulder and leaned to Eddie’s, waving off any further discussion.

  “There’ll be people to meet you in Damascus. They’ll drive you an hour drive through Syria—it’s French, fucking assholes, too—but shouldn’t matter. Brits will pick you up at the Transjordan border. Haifa’s two hours south of there.”

  Eddie nodded, wondering how weird this travel segment would get.

  “Don’t say shit on the ride in. There’ll be an MI6 man in the car. He won’t identify himself, but he’ll be the one to chat you up.”

  “You’re not coming? I thought—”

  “And like I said, when it comes down to the nut cuttin’, nobody really knows which way the Brits are gonna go, but pick they will. Between the Nazis and the Russians, and soon. The king of England favors the Nazis but only half the politicians agree—a fucking mess for damn sure, inside the empire and out.” D.J. pointed in Eddie’s bandaged face. “Remember, you’re not an AvGas man, just a special engineer trying to fix a temperature problem design before it gets built.”

  “But, shit, D.J., everybody in Bahrain knows—”

  “These dumb shits don’t know anything for sure.” D.J. frowned at Saudis in traditional dress. “Who knows what you’ve been doing in Bahrain all this time? Any of them towelhead assholes look like college graduates?”

  “The Irish kn
ew. Ryan Pearce for sure.”

  “Maybe. But that mick’s got his own problems now, probably headed to Pentonville where the Brits teach their hangmen how to hang. You make this trip nice and quiet and I’ll see you in Haifa—”

  “So you are coming to Palestine.”

  D.J. nodded. “Somebody’s got to look after you.”

  “But you’re not getting on the plane?”

  A loudspeaker called the flight. D.J. said, “There’s business back at the refinery that I don’t want following us. I’ll see to it, then to you. Don’t get killed this week or I’ll be out of work.” They shook hands and D.J. pushed him toward the plane. “Be alive when I get there or you’ll be facing one mad fucking cowboy.”

  Inside the plane, Eddie shuffled and sidestepped down the crowded aisle, apologizing to men speaking German as he passed. The princess was seated at a window, shiny black robes covering her in her seat. The adjacent seat was vacant. Couldn’t hurt to ask, could it? Well, maybe it could, but no more than he already hurt.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, this seat taken?”

  Up close, her eyes were a brilliant brown—no, hazel—and they actually stopped him from talking. Wrapped in the cloak, she looked more deadly than attractive, her head rising to consider him without effort or trepidation, her shoulders flexing back on the seat. Nothing demure or angelic was in the posture, even seated. Annie Oakley in a satin bedsheet. Eddie smiled—no fringe, though—then swallowed further comparisons. Better watch it, hoss.

  “You may.” The voice was strong like her posture.

  Eddie sat without touching her arm, then noticed the younger of the two men who’d been with her now standing at his shoulder. “Oh, sorry, this your seat?” The man was oddly weathered for his age, a smallish man with hard eyes and strong hands. Eddie followed the man’s eyes back to her waving the man off. The young man bowed slightly and moved down the aisle. He was young, but not.

  “Did I make a mistake?” Eddie used both hands to apologize. “Shouldn’t I be here?”

  “An empty seat. You are . . . an American?”

  He smiled. “The accent, isn’t it?”

  “The bruises, I think.”

  Eddie laughed, noticed her eyes again. Man, she could look at you. “Sorry.” He offered a hand. “Hi, I’m Eddie Owen.”

  She nodded and did not take his hand. “Calah al-Habra.” She leaned against the window, squaring to scrutinize him. “You are injured?”

  “Yeah. A bit.” Eddie grimaced, which hurt and wasn’t supposed to. “A prizefight, bare knuckler between two fellows who should know better.”

  “You were the winner or loser of this contest?”

  He laughed again. “Tough to say. Didn’t get to finish. Maybe it was a draw.”

  She squinted.

  “A tie—no winner, no loser.”

  Two men bumped his shoulder, both apologizing in German, the second man a cold, blue-eyed blond who seemed to stare at the princess. Eddie turned to her, wondering what she looked like, if her face matched her eyes.

  “Do all Americans prizefight?”

  “Nah. Just the stupid ones.”

  The stewardess stopped at their row, explained oxygen masks in Arabic, then English, then spoke Arabic to the princess and English to Eddie, a bit of concern for Eddie’s condition in her face and voice. “Would you care for water before takeoff?”

  The propellers spun, vibrating their wing, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard the stewardess right. He nodded because Calah with the hazel eyes had nodded. They buckled seat belts and he noticed her hand. The skin matched the strip of her eyes, olive and almost glowing, but rough for a princess, the veins standing all the way to her knuckles. She tucked the hand away and turned to watch the propellers.

  “Fly a lot?”

  She didn’t answer, evidently intent on the engines. He touched her to ask again. She snapped from the window, the eyes serious as Fort Worth February. Eddie swallowed and eased back without realizing it.

  Through the veil, she said, “You spoke to me?”

  “Ah, yeah, I asked if you fly a lot?”

  “Three occasions.” A blink with eyelashes. “They are . . . a fearful thing.”

  The eyes hadn’t looked fearful. More like a diamondback coming out of your boot. “Me, too, my second. You’re going to Damascus?”

  “Yes. And you? To the hospital? The French have a good hospital there for their countrymen.”

  “Jeez, I’m not hurt that bad.” He patted his face with a lumpy hand. The stewardess brought their water. The princess declined hers by shaking her head. Eddie took his and drank, thirsty every day since he’d arrived.

  “Is America as it is in the books?”

  “Depends on the books. Which ones?”

  “The Great Gatsby.”

  Eddie smiled; somehow F. Scott and Zelda had made it to this girl’s planet. “I live in Texas. You’ve heard of Texas? Cowboys, the Alamo . . .”

  He could tell she was smiling, a sparkle in the eyes that hadn’t been there before.

  “Yes. Yes. We read of cowboys. And Indians. The Apache, Cherokee, Seminole—”

  “That’s a lot of Indians. Most people at home couldn’t name two tribes, let alone three.”

  The plane began to taxi and she adjusted in her seat, then answered as if she were reading out loud. “The native peoples to parts of America, one million on a vast land mass, herds of buffalo that stretched from dawn to sunset.”

  Eddie grinned, amazed.

  “Then the Europeans came.” She stopped and the sparkle left her eyes. “The Europeans occupied the land, claimed it for their kings, drove the Indians west, and finally drove the English into the sea. For the latter you deserve the compliments America often receives.”

  That sounded odd, but then he had only her eyes and a foreigner’s inflection to go by. Eddie smiled, hoping to hide his confusion, and felt the plane’s engines rev higher. “America’s a big place; I haven’t seen most of it, just Oklahoma, Texas, and Chicago.”

  She brightened, adding posture, almost girlish. “Chicago. The skyscraper. Yes?”

  “Yeah.” Big smile. “Just the way I felt. You can’t believe how tall the buildings are.” Eddie held his hand above his head. “Five hundred feet or better. Huge. And they’re all over the city. I was in—”

  The de Havilland backed off the brakes and lurched forward. A slight gasp from the cabin, then another lurch. Eddie said, “Guess it’s time to fly.”

  The princess had turned toward the window and remained in the large oval while the plane gained speed down the runway, bouncing over the concrete’s expansion joints faster and faster, and then heaved into the air. Eddie’s shoulders hit his seat back. The plane smelled like . . . perfume? Did Arab women wear perfume? Pain rushed up his arm. His knuckles were white on the armrest; a grimace replaced the grin. Big leap, then a shudder. He almost yelled but squeezed both armrests instead. Another shudder and they jumped higher. Jacksboro Highway at too fast for conditions. He said, “Holy sh—” before he knew it left his mouth.

  She turned, no fear evident, composed in the seat belt. “Excuse me?”

  The de Havilland rattled into the climb, adding steep to loud.

  “You are all right?” she asked.

  Eddie thought of Flash Gordon on Saturdays at the Bijou, turned just his head, and answered through a badly hidden grimace and serious reservations. “Can’t get enough of this, actually. You?”

  Her eyes locked on his, strong but tender, almost maternal, and stared until he was too embarrassed to keep thinking about the plane bouncing and rocking and dipping—all things that must add up to “fly.” She said nothing but had his full attention. The perfume again, light, but right there. Exotic but . . .

  The plane was level. He heard conversation on his left, felt rested and just a steady vibration in his seat. “I’ll be darned . . .”

  She blinked, eyelashes again.

  “. . . you hypnotized me.”

  A
laugh puffed her veil and she turned away, asking the window, “Are all Americans so . . . imaginative?”

  Eddie unflexed his hands, wishing they hurt a lot less. The rest of him felt pretty good, considering. He would have touched all his parts, but that would’ve added stupid to an already brimming performance, then remembered she’d asked him a question.

  “Ah, no . . . well, maybe. Jeez, how’d you do that?”

  She faced him, the eyes the same, just a strip but luminous. “I think your contest has injured your brain.”

  “Possible. Heck, probable.” He tried to laugh but he’d been out for however long it took this monster to reach level and had no idea whether that was an hour or a minute. Almost two years without women was a while, but he couldn’t afford to get all drifty every time—

  “You are all right?”

  Shit, he was drifting again. Maybe the altitude. “I, ah, think I’m gonna take a nap.”

  Saba watched him sleep, his breathing normal, the discolored hands limp and comfortable. It had been the strangest thirty minutes of her life. America—right next to her! The boyishness in his laughter, the scent of soapy skin. America was real. They had driven out England’s army, yet he was afraid of flying. She wanted to dance like she had as a girl, smiling at the boys, enjoying the air and the music. Americans were no different than her! They had faced setbacks, too—Philadelphia, Germantown, Fort Mercer—but America had regrouped and found the will to win. And their victories—

  “. . . min wayn inta?”

  Saba jolted out of America to parry a blow. The stewardess stumbled backward in the aisle. The American still slept. No passengers watched. Saba answered the stewardess by lifting her head and saying, “No.”

  The stewardess passed to the next row.

  Saba eased deeper into her seat and covered her hand. She checked the seats again, then the American, then allowed herself room to turn. She glanced at the window and the Persian Gulf below. The water asked her the question: Who hypnotized whom? The feelings were . . . were more than the joy of American victory. An event so small but so immense. She had spoken to a man about something other than war and had enjoyed it. The thought of defending against him or killing him, and how she would accomplish either, had not crossed her mind. Neither of her hands had touched her weapons, nor had she considered asking him the German’s questions as instructed. She’d just talked to him. Person to person.