Plan B was a Latécoère seaplane beached on a purpose-built embankment inside the jetty at Casablanca’s harbor. The flight saved a full day and four hours later landed Eddie on blue water 650 miles out into the Atlantic Ocean beneath his very first volcano, a volcano that . . . holy shit number two, actually puffed smoke. The pilot puttered them across eight-inch waves toward the Tenerife dock and motioned Eddie and the other two passengers to drop their windows. A steamy, sulfuric breeze filled the plane. Eddie eyed the volcano. Okay, island plus volcano . . . what does one do on an island if a volcano erupts?
Horns sounded at the dock. A large ferry was mooring on the far side. Passengers lined the rails; most appeared to be Arabs. A gangway was extended. It touched the dock and a squad of plainclothes gunmen rushed up the gangway, guns drawn. The passengers crushed backward. The gunmen grabbed a middle-age man and dragged him fighting and shouting down the gangway to the dock. They beat and wrestled the man into a six-by-six cage.
Eddie glanced to the pilot for an explanation. The pilot was intent on a small wooden boat motoring toward them. The pilot looked wary. He wiped his mouth and nodded toward the plainclothes gunmen on the dock. “Policía Judicial. Careful with them. The PJs.”
Eddie did not want to be the man in the cage. The ten-by-ten envelope taped across his upper back might be tough to explain to the PJs. Eddie checked the ferry. The passengers there were motionless. Not a good sign. Arabs used their hands when they spoke but they were statues on the ferry deck. At the bottom of the gangway, the PJs waved all the passengers to debark. Single file and slowly, each one began the trip down the gangway, papers in hand.
The wooden boat arrived under the seaplane’s wing. Eddie and the seaplane’s other two passengers climbed in and motored in to the dock. Two steps onto the concrete, Eddie was pulled aside by a plainclothes Policía Judicial. Sunglasses hid his eyes. In Spanish, the PJ said, “Hands up,” and reached to frisk him. Eddie knocked the PJ’s hands away. Mendelssohn’s envelope would mark Eddie as a spy. The PJ drew his pistol, stood back, and—A second PJ brushed the pistol aside and motioned for Eddie’s briefcase. Eddie surrendered his briefcase. The PJ opened it, checked Eddie’s passport, eyed him like he recognized Eddie’s name, held up D.J.’s .45 as if it might be a problem, then motioned for Eddie to raise his shirt.
Eddie raised his shirt to show his beltline held no weapon or contraband. The PJ motioned Eddie to turn a full circle. Eddie tightened his shirt against his skin, turned, and hoped his heart didn’t explode. Silently he repeated, no envelope, no envelope, then dropped his shirt and waited.
The PJ with Eddie’s briefcase said, “You are to come with us.” He tight-gripped Eddie’s left arm; the other PJ gripped Eddie’s right arm, and they walked him to the cage. The ferry passenger in the cage shouted in Spanish, shaking the cage with his hands. A bolt-straight PJ wearing a formal red-yellow beret and far better clothes shouldered past Eddie and spit fast French/Spanish at the prisoner in the cage.
“CAM. Comité d’Action Marocaine.”
The prisoner barked back instead of quieting.
Red Beret un-flapped his leather holster and drew a pistol. The caged man continued to tirade. The senior PJ shrugged and spoke benign Spanish to his subordinates who gripped Eddie’s arms. The two PJs released Eddie’s arms, set their shoulders against the cage, and pushed it off the dock. A length of heavy ship chain ran past Eddie’s feet and the cage plunged underwater.
Eddie rushed to the dock’s edge. “Are you nuts? He’ll drown!”
The senior PJ did not holster his pistol. “You are a red shirt? A fellow Communist? You are here to fight against Generalissimo Franco?”
“Pull him up! He’s drowning!”
Red Beret leaned over the pier and fired four rounds into the flesh-colored shape fighting beneath the surface. “Now he is not. Are you Communist, Mr. Owen? A member of the International Brigades? In league with the Comité d’Action Marocaine?”
“What? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The senior PJ nodded. Hands grabbed Eddie’s arms. The senior PJ repeated, “Are you a Communist?”
Eddie glared. “I’m an American. We’re neutral in your war, remember? I’m here to build your goddamn refinery.”
“The British say you are not neutral. You are a Communist, a Zionist, a murderer of policemen. They say you are a known protector of terrorists. The Raven of Palestine.”
The papers of Zionist Tom Mendelssohn creased into Eddie’s back. Eddie bluffed: “And you care what the Brits say? If any of that were true, would I be here? No, I’d be tied to a post in Haifa, shot dead by the miserable bastards. Like . . . like you just did.”
Three serious-looking civilians hurried up the pier. They wore pressed work clothes from the refinery and stern expressions. The senior PJ glanced at the civilians, frowned, then squared up in Eddie’s face. “Spain is not for Communists or Arab terrorists who wish to ‘liberate’ Morocco.” His breath was sharp, his skin oily. He pointed behind Eddie into the bloody water and two sharks nosing the cage. “My police do not fear their responsibilities to the nation. You will do well to remember this. If the Raven of Palestine is seen on this island, I will personally bait the cage with your body parts.”
CHAPTER 19
October, 1938
Spindrift sprayed over the wooden bow of the Casablanca Ferry. Saba steadied against the rusted railing. After thirty hours at sea, her legs were still unaccustomed to the light pitch and roll of her first ocean voyage. She inhaled into the saltwater wind, enjoying the relative safety of the Spanish flag and the last of her time on the water. The journey from Lebanon to Morocco, utilizing Erich Schroeder’s Abwehr network, had required ten arduous days and delivered her into Casablanca dressed as a man. Saba severed her connection after being warned that the British bounty on her head now included an equal amount, tripled recently by the French. Saba did not require the warning. Casablanca and all of Morocco that was not under British rule was under French rule, policed by hard, sullen-eyed Legionnaires, soldiers reminiscent of those who had policed her as a teenage orphan refugee in Lebanon.
Once aboard this ferry, caution had forced her hand to her pistol only twice. It had been an exhilarating night watching the stars, reminiscing with remnants of a young girl’s dreams and days of no price on her head. A wave dotted her with saltwater. This was the Atlantic Ocean. If crossed, she would be in America, far from her partisan life of Spartan rebel camps, parched-marl hate, and blood religion. The thought of America’s possibilities was wistful but rich with temptation and it shamed her. And then there was the boy . . . She felt Eddie Owen in her chest, that shame even greater, then finally smiled and allowed it as if she had the right. Eddie Owen had not sought to betray her to the Night Squads or the Haganah in Haifa; his mission was to swim with her naked. Saba blushed crimson.
Her mission, the mission that was no young girl’s fever dream, was to kidnap his Communist friend, the Zionist sympathizer whose plotting worried the German and had almost resulted in Eddie Owen’s death at the synagogue in Haifa. There could be no future with the boy, and in many ways this would make her life much simpler. She would see to Eddie Owen’s safety, though. Removing the Communist-Zionist sympathizer who used him as a pawn was something she could do, and would do. The sun hinted from behind Saba’s left shoulder. Dead ahead, an island silhouetted in the predawn haze. The sun’s first glare raced past her west across the three-foot waves toward a great volcano that centered the island of Tenerife. The volcano towered as massive as she’d been told, its peak piercing above long clouds and reaching, some said, to four kilometers.
The ferry deck came to life under the brightening sun. Sleeping passengers stumbled to their feet, adjusting their robes. Men began to line the leeward rail and urinate under its peeling paint. Saba considered how she had accomplished the same while they slept. To be a woman in the desert was to be less. The thought darkened her mood and she became a soldier again, glancing at the ferry
’s enclosed section.
Two classes of passengers filled this ship, Arabs and Europeans, the Arabs almost exclusively segregated from the Europeans and their comfortable seats. Saba frowned and touched the dagger hidden on her leg; here, too, the Arab was servant. More men grumbled awake; she listened to unfamiliar desert dialects with bits of Spanish and French. Saba had accepted the German’s mission as a prerequisite to funding her partisans, and only after he again sanctioned her grievances against Iraqi King Ghazi bin Faisal. She had also demanded, and received, a guarantee that the Haifa refinery would only be attacked by her partisans and on a day that all Palestinian workers would strike. The attack could happen no other way and she remain loyal to the Tenerife bargain.
The ferry closed on Tenerife. Saba and four partisans remained near the stern and away from the others. She was dressed as a man, her face and eyes covered by keffiyeh, her shoulders square and unapologetic. Her group offered no responses when approached by Moroccans selling griouches of honey bread, packets of dates, and mint tea. The Moroccans lingered and sold to others; she heard bits of Arabic conversation—a man pantomimed a radio with his hands, then pointed toward the ferry’s bridge and began to shout in loud, angry blasts. Another repeated his words as fact. Saba’s knees buckled. She turned away toward the sea; both hands clutched for the rail.
The Haifa refinery had been bombed. Three hundred dead. Her fingers clawed into the rusted metal. Three hundred. Haifa was her target; Schroeder had given his guarantee. She and her partisans would risk the mission; their payment would be the lives of their people. Three hundred. One of her partisans stepped closer, his eyes wide at the news. He had family in Haifa, two still living, the rest dead in last year’s fighting. Saba’s whisper choked her as she tried to speak. Both fists slammed the rail. She beat back a shriek and pushed the words through her teeth: “The Nazis, our benefactors.” The cords rose in her neck. My benefactors. Saba squeezed her eyes shut. Saba bent double over the rail and vomited into the sea. Her partisans surrounded her, their backs to the sea. She shrieked at the water until her lungs were empty, the pitch so high the wail was almost silent.
Sea spray washed at her tears. She began to breathe and slowly a grim control shut down her emotions. She wiped her mouth and turned to face her men. “If Haifa is as they say . . . it is our benefactor who will die on Tenerife. We will make Herr Schroeder the lifeless pawn he has made the Palestinian.” Her men patted agreement near their hips. Saba told them to circulate among the Arabs, learn what they could of Haifa. The ship rolled on a wind gust and she turned to face the sea again, tears running the makeup off her cheek and onto her lips. She checked stars no longer there and apologized to her family, then to her mentor, Khair-Saleh. Saba touched his bloodstained ten-franc note pinned inside her pocket and wanted to die. Soon and fighting. This she promised on the name of her father.
Day twenty-three in paradise.
Eddie’s elbow bumped the 9mm under his shirt. His new boss in Tenerife had issued him the pistol immediately after extricating him from the PJs on the dock. Eddie’s boss said the pistol was licensed (only government-licensed weapons could be owned or carried) and instructed Eddie to carry the weapon at all times. He warned Eddie that the Canary Islands was a nation founded on the profiteering of smugglers and pirates—many of whom were related to the workers inside the refinery’s barbwire fences, workers who would know Eddie was the new “special engineer.” To mitigate the threat of kidnapping for profit, or politics, or personal harm, Eddie would have around-the-clock security. It would not be D.J. Bennett. Bennett would be arrested if he set foot on the island. Eddie’s boss finished Eddie’s introduction to the Canary Islands by explaining that all movement (by anyone) was subject to restriction if the Policía Judicial deemed such restriction necessary. There were no circumstances where complaining about the Policía Judicial would be beneficial. “The PJs speak for Generalissimo Francisco Franco.” Eddie’s boss added inflection. “So we understand each other, the Generalissimo rules without humor. Before his coup d’état on mainland Spain, he was the commander of the Spanish Foreign Legion.”
Eddie said, “Never heard of the Legion.”
“They slaughtered Morocco during the Rif Wars. Anyone and everyone they considered a threat.”
The remainder of Eddie’s first day on the job was better than the dock but not without additional conflict. After being issued a package of lightweight work pants, shirts, and boots, Ryan Pearce, the Irishman Eddie’d fought in Bahrain, had stopped by to say welcome. While Eddie held his clothing package with both arms, Pearce complained about being poisoned for their fight, said, “Can’t have a pup such as yourself parading about after lockin’ down so many in the king’s jails,” and punched Eddie unconscious. Eddie’s “around-the-clock security” applied to the Irishman—but only after his first punch had landed—or Eddie would likely be dead. The fact that Pearce hadn’t killed him didn’t mean the refinery wouldn’t.
Eddie spent the next seventy-two hours completing a system-wide inspection and evaluation. To quote the dumbed-down translation of Eddie’s inspection report, the refinery was “a precarious production environment.” Eddie’s predecessor had completed 95 percent of the modifications, but his preliminary test runs had failed to produce 100 octane and had put several of the mainline systems into borderline failure. Angry accusations had followed, focused on the engineer’s politics rather than the man’s inability to translate academic theory into field reality. Shortly thereafter, the engineer contracted Ciguatera Fish Poisoning. He was still alive, convalescing at a special Berlin hospital in Friedrichshain. The refinery he left behind was a bomb and Eddie was leg-chained to it with too many fuses to count.
Today was the all clear. After three weeks of nail-biting, high-temp, almost certain death-by-fire, Eddie had given the all clear four hours ago. His success was equal parts skill and luck and he’d take it either way. Eddie adjusted the 9mm in his waistband. Tonight, he was headed into town to drink a beer or seven, smile at as many girls as possible, and show the flag. If Mendelssohn’s people really were on Tenerife, they weren’t inside the refinery, and the narrow streets of Santa Cruz would be their best chance at contact. Better still—whether they were there or not—four days ago there had finally been contact from D.J. Bennett, angry ex-bodyguard and Tenerife persona non grata. D.J. had made it out of Palestine and was on the island.
D.J. could prove or disprove the Mendelssohn papers. And D.J. could safeguard them if they were true. Every day Eddie had been here, the extermination camp plans had been taped across his back, burning against his skin. A D.J.-Eddie plan would be crafted. Together, they’d make something good happen. Eddie considered what might happen in a pirate town and reset the 9mm a third time. The clean refinery chinos were the best pants he had. His one and only civilian shirt he adjusted to cover the gun, then headed for the main gate and was immediately picked up by a refinery security man. Eddie’d have to shake him on the two-lane road into the capital city of Santa Cruz or in the maze of streets when they got there.
Outside the refinery’s greasy rumble and constant tumult of workers, Tenerife bristled with the potential for disaster, natural and otherwise. The massive red-gray volcano that dominated the night sky set the tone for everyone and everything. Since Eddie’s first introduction on the dock, the volcano’s tremors had topped Eddie’s list of things to not think about. The heat, though, you couldn’t deny; it emanated from every direction—under your feet, above your head, from the refinery, from the ocean. Even the odd mix of French, Spanish, and Moorish buildings of Santa Cruz de Tenerife radiated heat. So did the people, everything and everyone brimming with Fahrenheit soaked up during a long day of sweltering subtropical sun and five centuries of colonial conflict.
Eddie turned a corner at the Bar Atlántico. A drunken crowd of Spain’s Nationalist soldiers filled the café’s outdoor tables. Fifty more jammed the sidewalk four deep and half the street, Calle San Jose. Loud guitars played insi
de the café. Eddie craned over the crowd toward the café’s open doors but couldn’t see the girls or the musicians.
Tenerife’s uniformed police, the Armada, began pushing through the soldiers. General Franco’s plainclothes gunmen, the Policía Judicial, watched the Armada’s efforts. Eddie waited for a PJ to quit looking at him, then glanced left across Calle San Jose to a plaza on Calle de Miraflores and the stern Portuguese facade of Les Demoiselles. Les Demoiselles was a brothel run by a friend of D.J.’s, an Algerian woman named Doña Carmen. D.J.’s cryptic message had said to meet him there tonight, around midnight.
Cymbals crashed. Eddie flinched. A women yelled, a shriek the Moroccan singers made . . . according to the man at Eddie’s shoulder, a German, blond hair and blue eyes. Eddie spooked, then recovered, like being too close to a train that roared past out of nowhere. He’d seen this guy twice before, once on Calah’s plane and a day later standing in an Iranian courtyard with a coat draped over his arm. No doubt about it, in the flesh this was the Nazi, Erich Schroeder.
The Nazi extended his hand. “Erich Schroeder.” A smile and happy eyes came with the hand, his other hand grabbing his hat to keep it from the gusts. He didn’t look like the papers taped to Eddie’s back, someone who’d murder a Jewish schoolteacher, someone whose intentions were to systematically incinerate much of Europe.
Eddie took the hand, concentrating on not crushing it. “Eddie Owen.” The German’s wrist was encased in a high-quality linen cuff. Eddie added, “Not from Tenerife, huh?”
“Berlin. And you are an American? Your champion Joe Louis was too much for ours this last time. Most impressive.”
Eddie made a careful smile and stepped sideways, checking behind him. His security man was watching, unconcerned.
“Yeah. Joe Louis can hit. Schmeling took a twenty-year beating in two minutes.” Eddie sounded harsh like he felt but added honest respect. “Not a thing wrong with your man, though. His corner threw in the towel, not him.”
Traitor's Gate Page 25
