Traitor's Gate

by Charlie Newton

  The doctor cut off Saba’s shirts, bathed her chest in water and colored antiseptic, and went at the wounds. His attempt at saving her took an hour. One bullet had cracked a rib. Both bullets had passed through, exiting her back. He worked in silence broken only with Arabic commands to the patrona. Doña Carmen translated some of his statements as she assisted—the muscles below the shoulder were shredded. The left lung had collapsed and needed to be reinflated. Her blood loss was substantial and they had none to give; infection was almost a guarantee without better drugs than the doctor had.

  Eddie said, “How about the refinery clinic?”

  The doctor nodded, finishing the last of his sutures. He eyed Eddie and his pistol but didn’t ask how the shooting occurred or who was responsible. In English the doctor said, “Bring her these medicines.” The doctor listed four. “Her chances are poor, but she is very strong and that, until now, is the only reason she lives.” The doctor waffled his hands in the air, meaning fifty-fifty. “She must not be moved. Travel of any distance will kill her. Insha’Allah. It is in the hands.”

  Eddie thanked the doctor’s back as the patrona took him out. Eddie washed Saba’s face and covered her. Too pale and too cold. And too quiet. He rummaged and found another blanket. Now he’d wait in “God’s hands,” holding Saba’s, staring at her lifeless face. Eddie looked at the ceiling. “I know you hear this all the time, but name it. Line me up for a lifetime of whatever you want. My word’s good. You know that. Save her, please. Please.”

  The door opened. Eddie quit God and drew the .45. Doña Carmen was already inside and the door almost closed behind her. Anyone from Zionists to Brits to spacemen could come in and kill Saba because Eddie Owen just wasn’t capable of mounting a defense.

  “She can’t move. You gotta help us.”

  The patrona floated her eyebrows without much conviction.

  “I can get the drugs and money. D.J.’ll get you whatever you want. I’m not negotiating. You say it, I’ll do it.”

  The silence stretched. The patrona said, “You have brought great peril to my home.” The patrona pointed at Saba on her bed. “You know who this is, yes?”

  Eddie shrugged a cautious “Maybe.”

  “My father was Algerian, fleeing the French from Oran to Santa Cruz; my mother . . . was not the Canarian I suggest.” She offered no further explanation. “She may stay. You may not. Find the medicines. Leave them in your room by dinner tonight. I will have them removed—”

  “Ah . . . the camp’s guarded real well. Maybe—”

  “Do as I say, yes?” No hint of discussion. “Do not come again. You will be told of her condition only when I feel it is safe. Any attempt to see her will kill us all. If you agree to this, we will try. If not, take her now.”

  Move her and she’d die; leave her and . . . Eddie squeezed the pistol like it would help. “How about . . . Look, promise me I’ll hear something in a week, okay? Just something. You need anything between now and then—anything—to keep her alive, I’ll get it.” His voice cracked. “If . . . she doesn’t make it . . . somebody’ll tell me quick. You can do that?”

  “Something, yes. Now go.”

  Eddie bent to Saba’s face. “Don’t die. We’ll go to America. You’ll be a Texas princess. Don’t die; I’ll take care of everything else.” He eased her ring back on to her finger and kissed her so lightly on the cheek he couldn’t feel her move if she had.

  CHAPTER 22

  November, 1938

  Eddie ditched the bloody, bullet-riddled convertible outside the refinery, crept to the section of fence he’d exited, and snuck back in. Steal drugs was the mission. He avoided his room and the guards who might be there, grabbed a bottle of sulfuric acid from the maintenance Quonset, and poured half on the infirmary’s rear-door lock. The bottle’s other half melted the cheap locks on the medicine cabinets and filled the small infirmary with acrid smoke. Eddie bolted before it blinded him. When the smoke cleared, searching for labels in a foreign language required thirty minutes of squinting by flashlight.

  The drugs had to go under his pillow. Eddie reappeared at his room with the drugs in his pockets and socks. The same guard who had looked away when Eddie and the Arab had left didn’t shoot him. He looked away as if Eddie weren’t there. Eddie stuffed the drugs in his pillowcase; hugged it to his chest, hoping to add his heart and soul to the medicine; then slid D.J.’s .45 under the mattress and hauled his completely exhausted self to the refinery canteen for a dawn breakfast, then a confrontation with his boss over the advance that might save Eddie’s mother. Saba had to live; she just had to. And so did Eddie’s mom.

  Without being asked, Ryan Pearce sat at Eddie’s table. Eddie clutched his steak knife.

  Pearce said, “Had you Yanks goin’, he did.”

  Eddie leaned back, adding all the distance the table allowed.

  “The radio, lad, the spacemen last night.” Pearce’s face was lit up red and fraternal. “War of the Worlds. The whole of America gacked wise by a stage actor.”

  Right, right, someone had attacked New Jersey from the sky. “That was a trick?”

  “Halloween, trick or treat. Had you Yanks for smarter.” Pearce grinned and took a slice of Eddie’s bread.

  “Nobody bombed New Jersey?”

  Pearce shook his head. “Killing ’em here, though. Someone had a go with the local sandys . . . dead, four of ’em south of here. And two Europeans, Jews they’re thinkin’.”

  Eddie scooped his hardboiled eggs with the fork in his left hand; the meat he left alone, keeping the knife blade up between him and Pearce.

  “Seen your mate Bennett? Heard he was on the island.”

  Eddie ate, eyes on Pearce not the eggs.

  Pearce pulled at his beard. “Mr. Schroeder would like a word with you. Says it’s important; the Brits he ran off may be back lookin’ for another dance.”

  Eddie shrugged.

  “The harbor out by Puerto Orotava. Asked me to drive.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “The man saved you and your da. And he might have to do her again. I’d be granting him the time.”

  Eddie pointed his knife at the refinery that employed them both. “I’ve got finals to run on section one and the pretest on two and three. Happy to meet him in Santa Cruz after work, say Los Paraguitas at five o’clock.”

  Pearce stood and cracked his knuckles. “Mind your back, lad. You’re on your own and the wolf’s at the door. Our German friend’s why you’re not nailed to her.”

  Eddie watched Pearce walk away, thoroughly confused by every single thing the Irishman had said.

  “Ough!” Eddie’s eyes blinked open. Somebody had kicked him. His boss’s assistant and two plainclothes PJs with pistols stood over him. One PJ said: “Up. You are under arrest.”

  “Huh?”

  “Up. Now.”

  The sun was wrong. Eddie checked his watch: six p.m. Jesus, his “nap” on the shaded backside of his two-story converter tubes had lasted six hours. He’d worked half his shift then folded; Eddie checked his watch again. Culpepper had promised the money would be in Tulsa by now—

  The PJ kicked harder. “Up. Now. The American Communist, D.J. Bennett, is dead. The auto de turismo you drive last night—there are bloodstains and bullet holes. Admit what you know about both.”

  “Whaaat?”

  “Tell us.”

  Eddie pushed his aches and bruises to standing, wiped his pants and shirt, and said, “D.J.’s not dead. And he’s no Communist.”

  The PJ shoved Eddie hard face-first against the pipes and frisked him. The PJ’s partner added handcuffs that he cinched down until Eddie’s knees buckled, then spun him back, face-to-face. Their commanding officer arrived, the same Red Beret official who’d ordered the cage murder on the dock the day Eddie had arrived. He stopped twelve inches from Eddie’s nose, then spoke with definition. “D.J. Bennett provided assistance and support to the International Brigades. Therefore, he is a Communist. D.J. Bennett is dea
d and two Communist Jews with him on the west road. Shot last evening with four other foreigners, Arabs all. Now you must tell me what the Arabs and the Jews and the International Brigades plan for Tenerife.”

  “It isn’t D.J., not out there. I was just—” Eddie stopped arming his firing squad. “I was just with him.”

  “When and where.”

  “A . . . I don’t know. Three weeks ago in Haifa.”

  Red Beret frowned and pointed at the ground. “Bennett is here. Shot dead in the back. The automobile, Mr. Owen, it is here also. Witnesses saw you at the wheel. Explain the blood and bullet holes.”

  “I rented it from a . . . a cab driver, drove around looking for spacemen landing. Didn’t notice the blood; didn’t see any spacemen, either.” Eddie stomped dust from his pants. “Why am I in handcuffs? D.J.’s not dead. I know nothing about Communists and Jews or any ‘Brigade.’ I’m an engineer, for chrissake. And you goddamn well know it.”

  Red Beret slowly lowered his chin. “I will grant you one opportunity to tell me the truth, Mr. Owen. Choose to protect the red shirts and their plans for Tenerife, and I will feed you to the sea. Tonight.” The PJs marched Eddie in handcuffs through the refinery to the infirmary he’d burglarized fourteen hours ago for Saba’s medicines. A body was on the exam table, the skin yellow and cold, personal items piled near the shoulder, a two-finger hand outside the sheet.

  “Jesus, no . . .” Eddie shut his eyes and rocked back on his heels.

  Red Beret spoke. “As I said. And you will fare no better. Why is this Communist on the west road with two Jews and four Arabs?”

  Eddie tried to swallow and couldn’t. D.J. can’t be dead.

  “Why are the Jews fighting the Arabs here? On Tenerife? They are Palestinians, yes? Or Moroccan? All of them together in this?”

  A hard slap jolted Eddie’s eyes open, spraying the tears on his cheeks.

  Red Beret slapped Eddie again. “The Arabs are Comité d’Action Marocaine? They plan an attack on the refinery, yes? What did you show them? Where will the attack come?”

  Another slap.

  “The Raven of Palestine shows them the way, yes? You showed her at Sitra Bahrain. At Haifa. The Comité brings her here. When is her attack?” Slap. “On our refinery?”

  Eddie blinked at D.J. and locked his knees to stay standing. Saba did not kill you. God is my witness that can’t be true—A gut punch doubled Eddie over. From behind, kidney punches dropped Eddie to his knees. Two PJs lurched him up by the handcuffs and into D.J.’s table. D.J.’s personal belongings splattered to the floor. The PJs beat Eddie until he collapsed. The clinic doctor shouted for them to stop. He complained about the mess they were making and a break-in early this morning they’d done nothing about.

  Eddie balled and sucked air. Red Beret kicked Eddie in the hip. “And the Communist Jews? Why do the Arabs kill them and not you? We know why. The Raven uses you!”

  Eddie’s boss banged in through the infirmary door. He shouted Spanish at the PJs. Red Beret closed a notebook he’d opened. In English he said, “And to whom is your loyalty, Foreman Paulsen?” Red Beret chinned at Eddie on the floor. “That you employ and protect a dangerous red-shirt coward?”

  Paulsen shouted, “I’m not an enemy! Of General Franco or Spain. We are his partner.”

  “Your employer is Generalissimo Franco’s partner. But like this man”—Red Beret pointed across his chest at Eddie on the floor—“who I will execute tonight, you are an American first, one who knows nothing of the struggle with the Communist. On España, in Morocco, everywhere.”

  Foreman Paulsen marshaled calm and stood to his full six feet. “My employee must be released to work on the refinery’s critical systems. Systems that only Eddie can repair and complete. Systems that are crucial to protecting the Generalissimo’s interests on Tenerife.”

  Red Beret stared at Paulsen, then Eddie getting to his feet, then spoke harsh Spanish to his two officers. One unlocked Eddie’s handcuffs. Red Beret told Eddie: “Make no attempt to leave the island. You will be fed to the sea. Before any calls can be made to Spain.” The barrel of his pistol pushed Eddie’s chin higher. “You are a Communist, Señor Owen. You and your Raven will die in my cage.”

  Eddie wiped blood from his mouth and nose. “Brave motherfucker, aren’t you?”

  Red Beret pointed out the window. “The cage.” He and his two officers walked out.

  Eddie turned to his boss. “Is the money in Tulsa?”

  Paulsen nodded. “It’s promised for today, tomorrow at the latest. The hospital will telegram as soon as they have something to tell you.”

  Eddie clenched his teeth. That was not a “yes.” He turned to the exam table, on it a prophet the world had finally killed. Eddie sniffed at the blood dribbling over his lips and stroked D.J.’s cold forehead. Hadn’t required men from outer space, although it goddamn sure should’ve, just a gun and mankind’s all-encompassing need for murder. Tears ran down Eddie’s cheeks. D.J. Bennett, West Texas cowboy, best friend and protector, explainer of worlds. Eddie tried to say thank you out loud and couldn’t. Tears and blood drops spotted his arm. God damn this place and these bastards. Eddie cupped D.J.’s two-finger hand and stopped a sob by biting his lip. D.J.’s hand was cold and stiff and yellow, like he was already part of the rock. Eddie inhaled and made a silent promise, the same promise he’d made to his mother and father; turned on leaden feet; and walked empty to his room.

  The drugs for Saba were gone. The patrona’s people had displaced nothing else. Eddie mashed his pillow over his eyes, his head mostly fog, and memories, and fear of how fast and how bad things changed everywhere he’d been the last three years—Bill Reno, Hassim, Dinah Rosen, Tom Mendelssohn, now D.J. and quite possibly Saba. Time to go home, Eddie; get Saba and D.J. and go home; let these crazy motherfuckers kill each other until they’re all dead.

  Eddie began to sob. The sobs hurt everywhere there’d been punches. In the pain and tears, he finally faced what couldn’t be. That D.J. had been lying on that beach road with Saba—maybe dead already, maybe not—and that Saba had used Eddie Owen to put him there.

  CHAPTER 23

  November, 1938

  Erich Schroeder stood his suite’s high terrace at the Grand Hotel Mencey. The five-story Spanish colonial hotel dominated the skyline of Santa Cruz de Tenerife in the quiet but threatening way powerful noblemen dominated their subjects. Fitting for the residence of a German who would be king. A bastard Krupp who the noble family would very soon rush to claim.

  The tops of tall canary palms rustled along Schroeder’s railing and brushed his hands. A salt-water breeze carried faint echoes of city life from beyond the hotel’s palatial gardens. Schroeder returned to the Mendelssohn papers stacked neatly on the cherry-wood desk. His fall from grace had now ended—Thomas Mendelssohn had been correct; these papers were incendiary. Fate had kept them intact despite the best efforts of the oil companies, whose agents, posing as Zionist sympathizers in Haifa, had failed to recover the papers, then detonated the synagogue as a fallback solution. Americans had much to learn and little capacity. Schroeder’s total cost had been one bribe to one Canarian national.

  Schroeder traced the raised seals with his fingertips. With these papers, his climb into the hierarchy of Göring’s staff would rocket. Erich Schroeder was now important in the boardrooms of the United States as well as the blood-cauldron of the desert, a man capable of destroying reputations and realigning allies—Personal triumph brought the nag of caution and stopped Schroeder’s lips short of the grin. The last two men he’d shot had been identified by the PJs as Jews, no doubt chasing these very documents. And if there were two Jews, then there were more Jews. A sound jumped his eyes to his suite’s door, then to his Luger. Schroeder stepped to the Luger, palmed it, and aimed at the door.

  Saba Hassouneh was dead, or at death’s door where he’d personally put her. But her body had not been found. Someone had helped her and that someone might save her. Doubtful, but worth a concerted
effort to determine—Saba Hassouneh al-Saleh was a dangerous woman, even mortally wounded. She’d risen from the dead twice before. Schroeder had allowed the PJs to learn of her involvement. They had resources on the island that he did not. The unintended consequences of providing that information was the background check the PJs had done on Eddie Owen and his ties, albeit tenuous, to the Raven. The combination of those ties and two incinerated refineries had reestablished Eddie’s place at the top of the PJs’ agent provocateur pyramid.

  Eddie’s circumstances were rapidly strangling him. And once Eddie accepted Saba as Bennett’s killer—and Eddie would—Eddie would have only Berlin to protect him and his family, and Berlin was represented by the soon-to-be king of the desert oilfields, Erich Schroeder. Schroeder found his grin again. The sound at the door became a knock—too soft to be German. He answered, “Ja?”

  Almost a whisper. “It’s Eddie Owen.”

  Schroeder folded the papers into the desk’s drawer and mounted the narrow table by the door. Beneath the louvered transom, alone and nervous in the hallway, was Eddie Owen. Schroeder dropped to the floor, hid the Luger with his leg, and opened the door.

  “Come in, my friend, come in. I was worried when you did not arrive at the café earlier this evening. Is there trouble?”

  “Yeah.” Eddie hurried to the middle of the room.

  Schroeder motioned Eddie to a chair and took one himself; Schroeder’s chair faced the door with Eddie as a shield.

  Eddie remained standing. “Somebody murdered D.J. Bennett. I wanna know who. You said he was a Communist. The PJs say he’s a Communist, with the International Brigades, and that I am, too. And they’ll shoot me first chance they get. I don’t give a fuck who thinks what; I want to know who killed D.J.”