“Why’s that matter?” D.J. shook his head. “Goddamn bastards.”
This would be the backroom dealing. “What? Why?”
D.J. walked two blocks along the harbor’s edge without explaining his response, then stopped at the first of three café outposts enjoying some disconnect from the troubles and a saltwater breeze instead of diesel. D.J. pointed at the only empty table in café Mataam Cairo. Eddie eased into a chair with his back to the sun and water. D.J. waved two fingers at a dark Egyptian sidestepping their way and fixing his apron. The Brits at the next table were Royal Marines in civvies and didn’t care who heard their conversation. “Wog bandits are payin’ for Janîn. Assassinatin’ bastards murder a district commissioner in his own flat. Wogs will be tastin’ His Majesty’s guns till we’ve tired of loading. And about bloody time.”
Another Marine at the table lifted his glass. “Buggers all.” He chinned at the smoke above the city. “Who’s our freedom fighter this afternoon?”
The Englishman closest to Eddie replied, “Not the wogs according to the captain—Jews. Zionist militia. A grenade.” The Englishman frowned distant recognition at Eddie and kept the tone. “Captain’s hunting the Jew Nancy-boys now.”
Eddie turned away. Gosh, and the Brits wondered why everybody hated them.
The pints arrived. D.J. shuffled his chair until his back would shield his words from the Brits. “Think about this before you answer.” D.J. waited for Eddie to nod. “Anybody been talking to you I don’t know about? Asking questions about gasoline, this refinery? American oil people in particular?”
“Talking to me? I ran out of pencils keeping track of who hates me and who intends to kill whom on what day. Thought you’d be thrilled to get the hell out of here.”
D.J. said, “Three years ago, the president of the Canary Islands was assassinated. The islands are now a staging ground for General Francisco Franco’s Nationalists in mainland Spain’s civil war. Franco and his Nationalists are Fascists. Evil sons-a-bitches.”
“We’re building a refinery for the Fascists?”
D.J. nodded. “I heard Culpepper might be moving you. Got a call through to our good friend Harold an hour ago. Took the whole goddamn day.”
“And . . .”
“Harold suddenly thinks he’s stronger than he is. Told me you were headed to Tenerife. I told him that he and whoever thought they were moving you better rethink the proposition. Made it crystal fucking clear that Harold could not afford to piss me off, that his problems in Oklahoma hadn’t gone away. Harold said I wasn’t welcome at the Tenerife refinery and there’s nothing he, or I, could do about it. Six months ago Harold Culpepper never would’ve said that.”
Eddie frowned. D.J. had just admitted, not inferred, that he’d blackmailed Professor Culpepper—why wouldn’t that blackmail matter now?
D.J. continued to process today’s news. “Bastards get you out there all alone . . . Could be their plan for Eddie Owen and his talents . . . You’d be ripe and ready when the serious hostilities break out in Europe.”
“Are you saying . . . What? Kidnap me? If a war starts?”
“I told you before, it ain’t if. They got you taking over for the fuck-up engineer who was poisoned—”
Eddie’s eyes widened at poisoned.
“Fish poisoning, a barracuda. Flew your predecessor to a special hospital in Berlin.” D.J. tapped the table with his claw hand. “Guy trained at East Chicago, had ’em all believing he was an Eddie, but he couldn’t get the job done.”
Eddie said, “The foreman didn’t mention that. He was pissed, though, inferring that Culpepper and me would have hell to pay if we broke this contract.”
D.J. swallowed a quarter of his pint. “Bill Reno’s dead. An East Indian with a pipe wrench.”
Eddie jolted back. “No . . .”
“His office was ransacked; files are missing. Yours and mine, some others, but not the AvGas schematics. Bill’s copies we let him have were in the safe where your personnel file was supposed to be.” D.J. checked his shoulder again. “Indian said it was self-defense and didn’t know nothing about the office. Brits have him; don’t figure he’ll see daylight again.”
“When?”
“Be a week this Sunday. Same day your counterpart ate the barracuda in Tenerife. Culpepper shipping you to the Fascists to finish up their AvGas modifications is a serious statement, especially so since it means you’re leaving the Brits tits-up here. Bill dead and our personnel files missing in Bahrain ain’t good, either. All of it five days apart.”
Bill Reno dead? Eddie slouched back in the chair, limp to his feet. Bill was a damn decent fellow. Never occurred to Eddie that Bill wasn’t West Texas invincible—hard, weathered leather that couldn’t be worn beyond anything but shiny or dry. Beat to death with a pipe wrench. Shit.
D.J. raised his pint. “Salty old son of a bitch. Went down fighting, I’d promise. Maybe for us.”
Eddie winced, then raised his pint. The world was a fucked-up place, that was the long and the short of it. “To you, Bill.”
D.J. sipped his, then set it down. “Our files are missing, Eddie. You heard me?”
“Yeah.”
“All of that in five days is too fast to be an accident. That war triangle I drew for you back in Chicago is about to collapse into two sides. When that triangle collapses, the war starts.”
D.J. used three fingers to make one point.
“One: The oil companies are a ‘country’ of their own. And now making open votes. By moving you to Tenerife, the oil companies are siding with the Nazis.
“Two: France is workin’ three shifts a day building an armored tank barrier along their border with the Nazis. Call it the Maginot Line. Lotta goddamn money France doesn’t have . . . unless you actually expect a tank attack. France goes it alone behind their wall or they have to side with Russia.
“Three: Spain’s civil war is Communist versus Fascist. When Franco wins, and that’ll be soon, Spain sides with the Nazis. That gives the Fascists southern Europe.” D.J. frowned at his own math. “On the day Franco wins, the Canary Islands—where Culpepper is sending you without me—becomes the AvGas trophy. When Hitler has her, he has an Atlantic port to receive crude oil from anywhere and the refined gasoline to march across the rest of Europe. That includes England.”
Eddie’s shoulders flattened. “Bill was a good fellow.”
“That he was, son. Did you hear what I just said?”
Eddie nodded, lost in . . . everything.
D.J. raised his chin at the almost full café next door to theirs, the only separation between them a mostly dead potted hedge. “See the girl reading the book?”
Eddie looked. Hard to miss the only girl there, black hair swept back over her shoulders. European, maybe late twenties.
D.J. said, “And your Lieutenant Hornsby a table away from her pretending he ain’t interested?”
Lieutenant Cornell Hornsby was an MI6 intelligence officer who Eddie’s foreman occasionally hosted in his office trailer.
D.J. chinned at the girl again. “Dinah Rosen. Been in town a couple of days. Says she’s got something important for us, life-or-death important. Asking about the refinery, too, about the Americans working here. Do you know her?”
Eddie didn’t. “Who do you mean, us? Asking what?”
“Be sure, Eddie. Have you ever seen her anywhere?”
“No. Not like there’s so many single women here a guy can’t keep ’em straight.”
D.J. chewed on Eddie’s answer. “Our skirt there is a musketeer of some stripe; don’t know who she shoots for, but given the timing of the last five days we better know before we have the serious chat with her.” D.J. sipped the pint. It coated his horseshoe mustache white. “Roosevelt and the Brits can’t have this refinery carbonize like your last one. Best we know what interests her and why.”
“We? I thought I was an engineer.” Eddie private-eyed his sweat-stained fedora over his eyes.
D.J. hardened. He em
ptied the jar between them of its book matches. “You best be real careful, Eddie boy . . . everywhere you sleep from today forward. Bill Reno was no accident. People with that kinda reach gotta be respected. And people with the balls to shoot a US president won’t hesitate to leave you in a bar ditch”—D.J. nodded to include Dinah Rosen—“should you begin associatin’ with folks they find offensive. I ain’t saying we kneel; this Marine ain’t begging at J.P. Morgan’s soup kitchens a second time. I’m sayin’ be careful.”
D.J.’s tone meant that conversation was over. His claw hand carefully lined up book matches like dominoes on the table, fat end down. “Like I said, our Dinah Rosen there says she’s got something life-or-death important. Don’t know what that would be, but she’s only gonna give it to one guy. Can’t say I’m happy about sending you out alone, but—”
“Sending me out? Alone? I’m an engineer, remember?”
“Miss Rosen wasn’t using my name.”
Eddie imagined a Buddy Rich rim shot and cymbal.
“And careful with her, son. She’s a Czech, got a dog in this fight now. Sky ain’t falling on Chicken Little anymore.”
“Huh? What happened in Czechoslovakia? Hitler and Chamberlin were on the radio yesterday saying everything was Jake—”
“Yep, you’re right. British prime minister announced ‘Peace in our time’ at Munich yesterday. Said him and Hitler have everything calmed down. Hitler said thanks, then took western Czechoslovakia this morning while you were out there in the rigging.” D.J. flicked the first matchbook. One after the other, the matchbooks tumbled. D.J. stood, then stepped through the potted hedge that separated two of the cafés. He grabbed a chair and engaged Lieutenant Hornsby at his table. Their loud, rather spirited discussion included England’s objectives in India and Prime Minister Chamberlin’s deft handling of Hitler’s aspirations to subjugate the part of Europe the Nazis didn’t already own.
When the argument had Lieutenant Hornsby’s full attention, Eddie walked to Miss Dinah Rosen’s table. He said, “Hi,” and removed his fedora, then extended the hand without the pint and hat. “I’m Eddie Owen.”
Her eyes rose from the book, taking in his belt, his shoulders, and finally his face. “That you are.” Her accent was difficult to place, but her English was British. She returned to the book. Eddie left his hand there, lonely in the air between them.
“Excuse me. My hand; don’t know what to do with it now.”
“It may fit in your pocket?”
Eddie waggled his hand. “Allow me to try again. Hi. I’m Eddie Owen, Cushing, Oklahoma, USA.”
Dinah Rosen glanced through the café by shifting in her chair, added a smile, closed the book, and shook hands. “Dinah Rosen. Munich by way of Prague, Czechoslovakia.”
Eddie pointed at a chair. “Now that we’ve been properly introduced, may I sit?”
Eyelash flutter. Twinkle. “A pleasure, Edward. Tell me all about Oklahoma.” She patted the closest chair.
A siren wailed, then another; Eddie glanced toward the smoke still hovering over the rooftops. Her voice followed his eyes. “The initial reports suggest Arabs bombing Arabs, a bloody ploy designed to blame us, the Jews.” Dinah Rosen rolled her eyes. “Only my fellow zealots believe that.”
“You’re a zealot?”
She smiled. “That would depend upon who might be asking and why.” Her eyes wandered to Lieutenant Hornsby and her grin faded. She quickly marshaled another and raised her pint. “Cheers, Eddie Owen.” Smile and eyelashes. Not bar-the-door pretty, but the twinkle added a lot.
“That’s everything I need to know about zealots? This wonderful country and its happy people?”
Miss Rosen spit part of her beer on the table. She dabbed at her lips and made a face. “Sorry.”
Eddie toasted her again and drained his glass, enjoying this detective business much more than expected.
Miss Rosen finished dabbing and stood. “I was off to perform a commission—sorry, that would be ‘run an errand’ in American English—in town. Care to walk along and protect me?”
Damn, that was easy. “Sure.”
The breeze plastered a thin dress to a very impressive figure. Miss Rosen wrinkled her nose at Eddie’s admiration. “I’m not ever the prettiest girl at the dance but rarely fare poorly on the beach.” She grabbed his hand. “Possibly we’ll find one for a dip.”
Eddie and Dinah walked a block of cobblestones into the city before she released his hand and reached for a flower she decided not to buy. “I am a teacher. I understand you are an engineer.”
“Me? I didn’t hear anyone say that.”
“You weren’t around when I attempted to arrange this accidental meeting.”
Eddie laughed. She was direct, too. “So this is a blind date?”
“Ah, that American wit one hears so much about.”
Eddie stopped, realizing her English was as good as his. He furrowed his forehead and asked.
She said, “I teach English. Why I was allowed to immigrate under the current policy. Teachers and students aren’t required to sneak past the Nazis or swim in to the beaches of Palestine.”
An Arab man stumbled toward them, bandaged and humped over, assisted by another Arab in the narrow street. A group of young boys followed behind, shouting and waving fragments from the explosion. The lead boy looped the men, charged Eddie, and spit in his face. In Arabic, the boy shouted accusations. Dinah grabbed Eddie’s arm and pulled them through an open storefront full with ring doughnuts and platters of falafel.
Eddie wiped saliva as the angry crowd passed. Dinah bought two stuffed pitas and pulled him deeper into the shop. “Glorious, no? Haifa was once their home; now it is England’s sea route to the treasures of India—‘the Empire’s silken highway.’”
Eddie thought about the “Vlad the Impaler” highway to Janîn. “Pretty sure the Brits intend to keep their highway.”
“That they do.” Dinah leaned to Eddie’s ear. “British policy, in this wonderful country as you so eloquently put it, is based upon ‘divide and rule.’ A simple design that fans fear and hate between Arab and Jew. It assures Great Britain the position of arbitrator and master.”
As Arab men passed, they stared into the Arab bakery at two people who weren’t Arabs. Dinah eased behind Eddie’s shoulder. The men hauled damaged baskets from the market, the fruit and vegetables ripe but stunted from lack of water. Drought, same as Oklahoma . . . Eddie asked Dinah Rosen, “So why’d you come here?”
“Munich is worse, far worse, and sadly, now Austria and Czechoslovakia, too. Here, Jews have a chance, a history. But we need friends, friends like America . . .”
“Europe must be as bad as they say to think Palestine is better.” Eddie stepped out of the shop. “This place is on fire.”
Dinah stepped out to his side, taking a nonhungry bite of pita. “Come.” Her hand reached for his. “Possibly we will be allowed through.”
Closer to the market, their street added more glares and angry postures. Rumblings and shouts trailed them on both shoulders. They approached the market from the west side but were stopped short on the crowded cobblestones. Eddie asked a well-armed member of Britain’s hated Palestine Police Force what had happened.
The policeman was alone, nervous, and had his pistol in hand. “Grenade. Could’ve been two. Killed two dozen, I’m hearing from me sergeant major, and started the fire. You and your bird clear off, find somewhere else to be.” The policeman wiped at his forehead, then pointed them back the way they had come. “There’ll be trouble with the wogs after dark.”
“Who did it?”
“Arabs dead today, Jews tonight or tomorrow. What’s it matter to a refinery man? A smart bugger just does his day’s tour and stays well out the way.”
Dinah Rosen said, “Irgun,” as she scanned the claustrophobic intersection.
“What?” The policeman glared at her. “You said what?”
She explained to Eddie instead. “Irgun. The militants. They want Britain
gone with the Arabs. Not at all shy about how.”
The policeman reddened, patting for his whistle. “Terrorists, that’s what your Irgun are. Murderin’ Jew bastards. Keep your feet, woman.” The policeman couldn’t find his whistle and hard-eyed Eddie. “I know who you are. Keep your Jew here. The sergeant major’ll be having a word with her.”
Eddie agreed, almost saluted. The policeman double-timed around the corner. Eddie grabbed Dinah and ran her north through a perpendicular alley. He veered them left; she stumbled and ran right, waving him to follow.
Been here “a couple of days” and she knows where to go?
They weaved through a confusion of streets and population, running seven blocks until Dinah stopped them near a jail converted to a synagogue. Eddie caught his breath first, looking in all four directions. “That the magic word, ‘Irgun’? And if so, how’s it you know?”
Panting, hands on her knees, Dinah Rosen scanned the streets and didn’t answer.
Eddie said, “Honey, I don’t know how long you’ve really been in the country, but you don’t want the Brits mad at you here. This isn’t England. Whoever’s been killing the Brits the last two months has their attention—Jews and Arabs. I hear the Marines talking at work and they’re looking sideways at all y’all.”
Dinah grinned at the uneven cobblestones, hands still on her knees. “Always . . . wanted to hear . . . Rhett Butler say ‘y’all.’”
Eddie didn’t want to confront angry Royal Marines or Palestine Police. “C’mon. Scarlett O’Hara and I will have a beer somewhere inside; she can explain that policeman’s sudden interest in you and Irgun.”
Dinah Rosen straightened, still grinning, then squinted past Eddie at lengthening shadows. “The men in Munich and Prague prefer their women silent and pregnant. How do they like them in Oklahoma?”
“I’m not kidding; we better get inside somewhere.”
Dinah pulled them deep into the synagogue’s outer doorway and opened the door. The building’s interior was musty, too dim to navigate, but large enough to echo. The section Eddie could make out was a wall of plastered sandstone bricks that rose to a high roof of old timber. Water dripped somewhere and sounded like slow footsteps. Eddie waited for his eyes to adjust, then cut to the chase. “My friend said you were asking about me? Said you had ‘something important.’”
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