Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2)

by Edward Whittemore

  There were also no associates to question. Stern, or whoever he was, had not only worked obscurely but lived his life alone, without family or friends, without acquaintances or neighbors to remember him. To all appearances, without anyone at all. Yet when the time came to dispose of the body, done quickly in Cairo because of overcrowding among the dead, a shabbily dressed woman turned up at police headquarters saying she wished to make arrangements for a burial. The woman carried a Greek passport and the story she told seemed plausible.

  She had first met the dead man about a year earlier, she said, in a small neighborhood restaurant where she sometimes took her evening meals. Subsequently they had fallen into the habit of eating there together on an irregular basis, never more than once a week and often no more than once every two or three weeks. It had been company of a sort for both of them. She had known the dead man only as Stern, and he had called her by her Christian name, Maud. Although she was an American by birth, she had lived in the Eastern Mediterranean for years.

  Since Stern had never known more than a day in advance when he might be able to come to the restaurant, he had left notes there saying when he would show up. She had gone to the restaurant every day to check for these notes, even when she wasn’t planning to eat there in the evening. She didn’t know where he had lived or what he had done. It was wartime and people came and went. Explanations were pointless, reasons meaningless. She had assumed he held some kind of minor clerk’s job, as she did.

  Why do you say that? asked the policeman behind the desk.

  Because of the way he dressed.

  How was that?

  Like me. Trying to make ends meet.

  Did you speak Arabic together?

  No, you can hear I don’t speak it well. We spoke in Greek or in English.

  French?

  Sometimes.

  The policeman switched to French, which he was studying in the evenings to promote his career.

  Did he ever talk about the past? What he used to do?

  The woman was trying hard to control herself. She looked down at her worn shoes and suddenly clenched her fists in despair.

  No. I just assumed he was from somewhere and had done something once. Isn’t everybody from somewhere? Hasn’t everybody done something once? We never talked about the past. Can’t you understand?

  The woman broke down and quietly began to cry, and of course the policeman did understand. The Balkans had been overrun and Greece had fallen and there were refugees everywhere in Cairo, people who didn’t want to remember what they had lost.

  So he saw no need to go into the matter further. If this woman wanted to bear the expense of burying a man she had hardly known, out of whatever personal reasons might be involved, that was her affair. Nothing would be served by telling her that Stern had been a petty criminal, a minor gunrunner and morphine addict. Obviously she wanted to bury someone, and it was no concern of his how she went about wasting the little money she had.

  I’ll just be a minute, he said, and went to make a telephone call to her office to prove that she was the person she claimed to be. The connection was made, to some obscure British department having to do with the Irrigation Works, and it took surprisingly little time. He returned and filled out the release papers, copying down the entries from her passport and marking her A friend of the deceased. He took the forms to be signed and told the woman where to obtain the body. She thanked him and left.

  Whereupon the case was closed so far as the Egyptian authorities were concerned.

  The policeman who had arrived at the Arab bar after the explosion had remained there for about half an hour, but most of that time he had spent helping himself to drinks. Another ten minutes or so had been spent by his superior at headquarters, the following morning, glancing through the dead man’s file. And not much more time than that had been required for the interview with the woman that morning, to release what was left of the body.

  In all, then, no more than twelve hours had passed since Stern had been killed at midnight. In just such a brief period of time were the formalities of his death concluded, his life forgotten. But there was one minor curiosity that seemed to have been overlooked.

  How did it happen that this casual acquaintance of Stern, this shabbily dressed woman of American birth, had come to police headquarters in the first place?

  Why had she turned up so suddenly when she was only accustomed to receiving notes from Stern once a week, or every two or three weeks, in a small neighborhood restaurant?

  How, indeed, had she even known that Stern was dead?

  For there had been no mention of the event in the newspapers, nor would there be. Such incidents occurred and it was generally known that they did. But the British censors still had no wish to see displayed in print the fact that Allied soldiers, drunk on occasion and facing possible death themselves, relieved their tensions by tossing hand grenades into Arab bars.

  Yet these questions concerning the American woman, as it turned out, were of little importance. Elsewhere, the real enigma behind the killing was already being studied by intelligence experts, and for them even the simplest facts involved in Stern’s mysterious death, and his equally mysterious life, had begun to suggest a vastly disturbing puzzle that might decide the outcome of the entire war in the Middle East, and perhaps beyond.

  2

  The Purple Seven Armenian

  THE NAMES OF FOUR witnesses appeared in the brief report drawn up by the Cairo policeman who had investigated the hand-grenade incident, the other customers having fled the bar immediately after the explosion at midnight. Of the four, one was the Arab owner of the bar and two others were glassy-eyed Arab laborers who had heard nothing of the world since sundown, due to the effects of opium.

  The fourth witness had produced a passport that showed he was a naturalized Lebanese citizen in transit, an itinerant dealer in Coptic artifacts. The name of this fourth witness was unmistakably Armenian. And although the policeman at the scene had carefully noted that the Armenian’s status was in transit, he had failed to determine where the Armenian was in transit to, or from.

  Teams of British enlisted men routinely checked every name that appeared in any Egyptian police report, no matter how insignificant the case might be. They checked these names against master lists, which gave no indication whether the name listed was that of a deserter or an alleged informer, a male or female prostitute suspected of infecting lost battalions of soldiers on leave, or belonged to any of the other categories of people that might be having an adverse effect on the war.

  The Armenian’s name appeared on such a list. The facts were duly forwarded to Special Branch, where a further check was made against names listed in various color codes. The Armenian’s name was found under the highly sensitive Purple Code, which required that the information be sent at once to Military Intelligence.

  There, the significance of the name was accurately defined by locating it on the select list known as Purple Seven, the briefest of all the lists and also the only one of the many secret color codes to merit the ultimate British classification for speedy handling in the Levant.

  Most Most Urgent:

  Here we go again, old boy.

  Let’s forego tea and keep

  the Hun on the run.

  At once, a goggled officer courier signed for the packet of information and climbed into the sidecar of a powerful dispatch motorcycle, driven by an expert heavy-diesel mechanic who was fluent in Malay, also goggled and armed with a Sten gun, two automatics, three throwing knives and a hidden derringer. The courier’s destination was a drab building housing the Third Circle of the Irrigation Works, an obscure civilian department that happened to be under the direct control of the British commander-in-chief, Middle East Forces, seemingly due to the strategic value of water. But actually the drab Third Circle was the headquarters of a secret British intelligence unit colloquially referred to by specialists as the Waterboys.

  And thus by noon that day a sickly-looki
ng British agent, a Cairo pimp and blackmarketeer with a bad liver and a certain low-level reputation along the riverfront, was flashing his stained teeth as he strolled through a filthy slum of the city, his jaundiced grin meant to welcome anyone who might be in need of illicit services of any kind.

  To fortify himself against the swindles ahead, the yellowish blackmarketeer decided to stop off for a glass of cheap Arab cognac. And the café he chose, by chance, happened to be only a few doors away from the bar that had been damaged the previous night by a hand grenade.

  Gently the pimp eased his swollen liver under a table. He rubbed his eyes and casually turned his attention to the next table, where the owner of the damaged Arab bar, a neighborhood celebrity for the moment, was dramatically recounting for the hundredth time his experiences from the previous night. The bar owner had been doing so since sunup, speaking breathlessly to anyone who would listen, but more especially to anyone who would buy him a drink in exchange for the whole truth about the war and the world and history.

  By now the Arab bar owner was thoroughly drunk and his account had taken on the proportions of a major battle in the ongoing struggle for Egyptian independence. Like many of his countrymen, he viewed the British as colonial oppressors and was more than ready to welcome the Germans into Cairo as liberators.

  In fact it was precisely because of his well-known patriotism, he said, that the cowardly British had sent an elite platoon of masked commandos to attack his bar under cover of darkness. But he had valiantly repulsed the assault and was to receive a medal from Rommel when the invincible panzers entered the city.

  By the weekend, he said, his eyes glittering from the noontime rush of gin in his veins. By the weekend, according to the secret information he was privy to.

  There was no need to boast, he went on, but there was also no need to hide the truth any longer. Not now, after the British had showed how much they feared him by mounting a regimental assault at night with their very best antitank weapons.

  He lowered his voice and adopted the manner of a dedicated revolutionary. Awesome nationalist victories and the great personal sacrifices that led to them, he noted, deserved the deepest respect.

  The whole truth? he whispered. The whole truth is that Rommel no longer writes to me through intermediaries. Now when he asks for my advice he does so in his very own hand, on Afrika Korps stationery.

  Sighs and shrewd nods passed through his audience. At that moment his unemployed listeners undeniably had the hard knowing eyes of determined men. From the next table, the yellowish blackmarketeer leaned sideways toward the bar owner.

  How’s his Arabic? he whispered.

  Whose?

  Rommel’s.

  Excellent, of course. The Germans aren’t stupid like the British.

  I never doubted it. But next weekend, you say? Rommel is going to be here as soon as that?

  He told me so himself, answered the bar owner.

  The blackmarketeer looked suddenly pained. He eased his fingers down over the right side of his abdomen and tried to prop up his liver.

  Then I’m in trouble, he whispered. The Germans drink beer, strictly beer.

  They do?

  Of course, and here I am with this left on my hands. I thought it was going to make my fortune, but now it’s turned out to be useless.

  Your liver? whispered the bar owner.

  The blackmarketeer shook his head and reached down for the valise he had with him, opening it just enough for the bar owner to peek inside. What he saw was a new bottle of Irish whiskey, its seal unbroken. The valise was quickly snapped shut again.

  Direct from Shepheard’s Hotel, whispered the blackmarketeer. Stolen at great risk and at the cost of many bribes. But now I’m doomed by God’s will.

  How much? whispered the bar owner suspiciously.

  Cheap. Absurdly so, in view of God’s will and Rommel’s arrival.

  God speaks in mysterious ways, countered the bar owner.

  Assuredly, He does. And only those who are deserving hear His voice. Now as one revolutionary patriot to another, I suggest we retire to your damaged premises to inspect this despicable destruction wrought by a division of cowardly British paratroopers hurtling down from the heavens under cover of darkness.

  It was more like the whole Eighth Army, said the bar owner. Tanks, huge cannons, minefields, massive formations of lumbering bombers, everything.

  I never doubted it.

  And they were led by Churchill himself.

  Who was probably raving drunk as usual. But you fought back with all your strength and Rommel will be personally toasting you this weekend. While in the meantime, a little privacy perhaps?

  The bar owner rose and dismissed his audience with a haughty gesture, almost losing his balance as he did so. But the yellowish blackmarketeer was quickly by the bar owner’s side, his sickly eyes darting to and fro as he tendered his support, and in another moment he had the bar owner in an upright position and was steering him down the alley, the two of them hand in hand with their bodies rubbing together in the traditional Levantine manner of wholehearted cooperation.

  Early that evening, then, a British Major returned to the Irrigation Works after debriefing his agent, the unhealthy-looking pimp. The Major laid aside his pith helmet and went in to report to his Colonel, the man in charge of the Waterboys.

  It’s about the Purple Seven alert that came in this morning, said the Major. It took some time to look into because the bar owner needed sobering up.

  The Colonel nodded. Let’s call this Purple Seven the Armenian, he said. Go ahead.

  He’s described as a small dark man of European origin, closely clipped beard, deep lines around the eyes, probably a drinker. Thin, wiry, getting on toward forty. A reddish hue to his hair, or at least that was the impression in the poor lighting of the bar. Nothing particular about the way he dressed except that it was definitely on the shabby side. Collarless shirt, rumpled and none too clean. An old suit that might have been secondhand, rather too big for him as if he had lost some weight recently, or perhaps just seen better days in general. Shabby overall, but otherwise ordinary in appearance.

  Or experienced, said the Colonel. Go on.

  He entered the bar shortly after Stern did, sometime around ten maybe. The bar owner’s pretty useless when it comes to time, he doesn’t own a watch and there’s no clock in the bar. Stern and the Armenian sat together at the counter. The two of them were speaking English and the bar owner only understands a little. They drank the local cheap brandy. Stern had a couple, the Armenian rather more. Stern did the ordering and also the looking about.

  How?

  They were sitting sideways facing one another, each with an elbow on the counter, Stern positioned so that he had a full view of most of the room and also the entrance, which he could see over the Armenian’s shoulder without moving his head. A curtain hung in the open doorway, separating the room from the alley. They smoked cigarettes while they talked, Stern’s cigarettes, a cheap Arab brand. It was a quiet conversation at first, low tones, some gesturing. The Armenian was doing most of the talking at that point. But then Stern did some talking and the situation grew more heated, as if there were some kind of disagreement. The Armenian seemed to be the one who was disagreeing, while Stern’s manner was more one of self-confidence or relief. But that might be a bit too strong. It’s only based on an impression of an impression.

  Relief over something he’d learned from the Armenian? Why that impression?

  Stern began smiling at that point. Or smiling occasionally. We’re on unsure ground here.

  Go on.

  The Armenian’s reaction to Stern’s relief or self-confidence or whatever it was, suggested puzzlement, not anger. He didn’t seem to understand whatever it was Stern was feeling, or else he understood it but was reluctant to accept it. Something along those lines. It was at that point that the discussion became heated and the disagreement developed. Stern seemed to be trying to explain himself, or justif
y himself or whatever, and the Armenian was refusing to go along with it.

  I see.

  Stern would speak quietly, forcefully, for a minute or two while the Armenian listened, trying to understand what Stern was saying. Then the Armenian would shake his head no and gesture and argue again. Both men seemed tired, weary is a better word. Perhaps the disagreement was an old one, something they’d been through before. It went on like that until midnight and the explosion. Physically, Stern seemed exhausted, but also exhilarated. Again, that’s only an impression of an impression. And that’s all we have prior to the hand grenade.

  The Colonel nodded. Let’s stay with that for a moment, he said.

  He rose and began pacing awkwardly back and forth, as if he wasn’t quite used to walking on his false leg. There were no windows in the room. He filled his pipe and absentmindedly left it on a table.

  Stern seemed exhausted but happy or relieved, said the Colonel. What about the Armenian? He’d be a good ten years younger than Stern, maybe more. Exhausted too, physically?

  Impossible to say. Apparently he couldn’t be read so easily.

  Why not?

  The way he moved or held himself. Tended to give less of himself away. More contained perhaps?

  Unlikely. But experienced, I’d say, definitely. No one ever gave less of himself away than Stern, although one never had that impression of course. Quite the opposite. Naturally your man wouldn’t have known that. Whom did you send?

  Jameson.

  Excellent taste, observed the Colonel. I’d tend to trust his impression of impressions, so yes, we do have a few things here.

  The Colonel looked around for his pipe. The Major had his own questions to ask but the time for that would come later. He waited.

  Let’s go on to the hand grenade, said the Colonel. How did it start?

  There were shouts outside in English and the sounds of scuffling getting louder, a brawl working its way down the alley. The owner was nervous and so were some of the others in the bar. The Armenian, whose back was to the curtain, turned around to look several times but Stern went on talking, appearing to take no notice. Of course he could see the curtain without moving his head, so he might have been taking an interest without showing it. In any case, Stern went on talking and the shouting grew louder. Then the curtain flew back and something came lobbing into the room. The owner saw it all right but he didn’t know what it was. Nobody knew what it was except Stern.