by Peter Albano
“Nonsense!”
Haj Abu al Sahdi ignored the Israeli and waved a fist and shouted an ancient Roman oath adopted by the Fedayeen, “Perish Judea! Down with the enemies of God and humanity. Allah Akbar! (God is great!)” The fist became a dagger which he stabbed at Bernstein. “Your Torah is filled with scandals and debauchery that reveal your true nature of filth. You falsify God’s message. You claim Abraham was a Jew, when in truth he was a Moslem. You deny Jesus, while in fact he was sent to earth by the Moslems and saved by Allah and became a prophet for Allah. You lied about Abraham, falsified the Bible, and murdered all the prophets. You are scum that do not have a legitimate nation. Your Israel is a depravity that is a total contradiction to Allah’s ‘abode of Islam.’ Muhammad has put a curse on you forever.” He waved a single finger back and forth like a scolding schoolmaster and looked around the room to make certain his audience was attentive. “Read the Koran and you will find proof that Islam is superior. Its truth guarantees its triumph over all of you — all infidels.” His hand swept over the room grandly, like a mullah dispensing blessings. “In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate, Islam will triumph over all religions and all peoples. Only Allah teaches the lesson of renewed purity and purpose.” The Japanese and Americans looked at each other in amazement. None had expected this Arab to be so confident, so articulate and unafraid.
Bernstein rocked with laughter, his face a dictionary of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying the sport of debating the Arab. Every man in the room watched in fascination. “We Israelis have a saying,” he said, grinning at al Sahdi. “‘One quiet word with a wise man is better than a year of pleading with a fool.’” The Arab growled but Bernstein continued, “You grew up in Bir Nakhella because in May of 1948 five Arab states launched a military assault designed to destroy us. Arab armies drove you out of your homes — a half-million of you who were actually prisoners of King Abdullah of Jordan and his Arab Legion. Now you have grown to two million. You’ve been living off the UN and the Israelis while your leaders — your muktars (village leaders) and effendi (men of property) — steal from you. Now you want to steal the lands the kibbutzim have restored — harvest the fertile fields we have created out of the ruin left by centuries of overgrazing by your goats and neglect by your lazy men who send their women out into the fields to do the work.” He thumped the table for emphasis. “Never! Never! Never will you steal our lands from us.”
“Canaan is an Arab land. Joshua stole it for the Yahud.” al Sahdi countered.
“Nonsense. Even in the Middle Ages, when you were at your zenith of power, Arabs identified with Mecca, Baghdad, Cairo, and Cordova. Not Jerusalem, or, as you say, Canaan. Why, during four hundred years of Turkish rule, there wasn’t a single attempt by the Arabs to liberate Jerusalem.” He leaned forward. “The truth is, there is no Arab memory of a religious or generic relationship with Jerusalem. Your claim is hypocritical and false.”
“Enough!” Fujita said suddenly. He addressed the guards, his words cutting the Arab like razors, “Take this dog back to his kennel!”
Sergeant Haj Abin al Sahdi roared with anger, “Your mother’s milk was camel’s piss, old fellah!”
Fujita’s narrow eyes widened and he said softly, “Your tongue is preparing itself for amputation, Arab dog.” Abu al Sahdi did not flinch.
Brent expected to see the Arab beaten, and the guards stood alertly waiting for a signal from the admiral. It never came. Instead, Fujita stared at Haj Abu al Sahdi silently while the Arab’s black eyes moved to Bernstein like metal to a magnet. Perhaps the old man admired the prisoner’s courage. Certainly he had spoken out from his beliefs without hesitation or equivocation — a performance no one had expected from an Arab. Watching the Jew and the Arab stare at each other, Brent felt a palpable force of hate filling the room like a pestilential cloud. There was no hope. It would never end.
Fujita waved three fingers, and the guards dragged the prisoner from the room. His shouts of “Allah Akbar!” could be heard from the passageway.
*
After the meeting, the officers dispersed hurriedly, Reginald Williams and John Fite to the sick bay; Yoshi Matsuhara, Takuya Iwata, and Joji Kai to Tokyo International Airport where new cadres of pilots awaited them; the executive officer Mitake Arai and-the scribe Hakuseki Katsube into Admiral Fujita’s office; the chief engineer Tatsuya Yoshida to the engine room; and Gunnery Officer Nobomitsu Atsumi to the dock where some new 25-millimeter gun barrels were being unloaded. Brent was anxious to inspect the CIC (Combat Information Center) and his communications equipment. But he was stopped in the passageway just outside Flag Plot by Rear Admiral Byron Whitehead.
“Got a minute, Brent?” the rear admiral asked. “Got to talk to you.” He gestured to the door to his cabin, which had been Admiral Mark Allen’s. The request was polite but firm, and there was command in the voice. The lieutenant followed him into the cabin.
Designed to be the quarters of a flag officer, the cabin was much larger than Brent’s. In addition to a wide bunk complete with reading light and nightstand, there was a leather chair in one corner, a desk and typewriter in another. A head complete with a shower, sink, and full-length mirror was entered through a door in the corner of the aft bulkhead. A large table with four chairs occupied the center of the room. Small staff conferences could be held here. Whitehead opened the room’s two scuttles, allowing sunlight and fresh air to stream into the room. The cacophony of yard noises also poured in. He gestured to the table. Brent seated himself, and Whitehead sank into a chair opposite him. “Like a drink?” he asked, gesturing to a small cabinet bolted to the bulkhead.
“No, thank you, sir. Still too early.”
“For me, too.” Quickly, the rear admiral congratulated Brent for his fine work and spoke of his close friendship with the lieutenant’s father, Ted “Trigger” Ross. Then he had a few words of praise for Admiral Mark Allen. “I’m the only one of the triumvirate left,” the old officer sighed. “As you know, we served in Japan together during MacArthur’s reign — ah, tenure. We all worked on Samuel E. Morison’s History of US Naval Operations in World War Two together — did most of the research while Morison put his name on all fifteen volumes. In a way, it was the culmination of our careers.”
“You retired in ‘81?”
“Yes, Brent. I came out of retirement in ‘87, when the oil crisis almost paralyzed the world. The chief of staff claimed they were desperate for NIS personnel.” He shrugged. “I told him I was an old war-horse who knew very little about modern computer generated codes and ciphers — the entire communications network. They gave me a quick course and here I am — ship’s company.” He drummed the table, and only the sounds of blowers and the usual yard noise could be heard. The man was troubled, on the edge of a unsettling subject. Brent held his silence.
“This is off the record — something personal, Brent, and there is no military expedient that would compel you to discuss this with even a rear admiral.”
Brent studied the troubled face — a face he had known since his childhood and that had been as dear to him as Mark Allen’s and even, at times, his father’s. “Try me, sir.”
“You — ah, you were pretty well acquainted with a woman — the CIA agent Dale McIntyre?”
Brent was taken by surprise but managed to nod casually. “We were very close — especially in New York.” The old man shook his head, his shock of white hair tumbling over his brow. He pushed it aside irritably and said, “We know.”
“We, sir?”
“I’m afraid so, Brent.”
“We were under surveillance by NIS?”
Whitehead freed his eyes from Brent’s and stared at the bulkhead at a copy of the famous painting of heavy cruiser USS Los Angeles crunching through a huge sea in a burst of spray. “The FBI and CIA, too.” Brent felt heat begin to rise from his neck, and his cheeks felt hot. “That’s quite a crowd. Did they bug her apartment? Maybe they had cameras recording — ah, recording everything.”
“Please, Brent. There’s no need for sarcasm.” He hunched forward. “Both of you were involved in operations of the most sensitive nature — most of it top secret. Kenneth Rosencrance, Wolfgang Vatz and their lackeys were in New York specifically to meet with you and Admiral Mark Allen.”
“I’ll never forget the riot at the UN, sir.”
“Naturally, you were being watched. There was always the chance some of you could have been kidnapped-held hostage, tortured, or just murdered in the streets.”
“I never saw anyone.”
Whitehead smiled. “We’re good at our work.”
“This doesn’t make sense, Admiral. Why do you even bring this up? Dale was a good, loyal agent. She never discussed matters of a sensitive nature with me — with anyone. We — ah, we had a personal relationship.”
“I know. But Dale McIntyre has personal problems, and it appears she is on the verge of some kind of breakdown. I was informed about her conduct on board this ship yesterday and I understand the CIA is recalling her immediately and she will be placed on permanent R and R.”
“I don’t understand. What are you driving at, sir?”
“You know she was divorced?”
“Of course — years ago.”
“And you know about her son?”
“Her son?”
“You didn’t know?”
Brent shook his head but held his silence.
The old rear admiral sighed and sagged back. “Edward James McIntyre was born when Dale was nineteen. He was raised by his grandparents in Philadelphia while Dale pursued a career with the CIA.”
“His father?”
Whitehead shook his head. “Not interested. Too busy chasing young broads. Dale sent monthly checks for Eddie’s support but did not see him very often. Anyway, he was brilliant, enrolled in Cornell when he was only seventeen.” He rubbed his forehead as if he was troubled by a persistent headache. “Anyway, he fell in with the wrong crowd — drank and then switched to the heavy stuff.”
“Cocaine?”
“Cocaine, heroin — the whole bit.”
“Christ.” Brent shook his head. “Poor Dale.”
“Yes, poor Dale. Last month he OD’d. They found him wrapped in a blanket and dumped on the side of a road like a piece of garbage.”
“My God.”
The old man tapped the table with a pudgy finger. “Dale can’t handle it. I think she feels overwhelming guilt. She can’t be trusted. She’s breaking down, Brent.” A new thought entered Brent’s mind. “You have a great interest in her — know a lot, Admiral.”
Whitehead’s smile was somber. “I should. I’m her uncle.”
Chapter Nine
When Brent knocked on Dale’s door it was late afternoon. He had been accompanied to the Imperial Hotel by three seamen guards. All were armed with Arisaka rifles, Otsu pistols that matched the one Brent carried in a shoulder holster, and knives. In addition, each man was in full battle kit: steel helmet, cartridge boxes hanging from duty belts and canvas leggings wrapped around the green trousers of their Number Two battle fatigues. They were authentically fierce men and looked the part. One remained with the staff car and driver, another took a post at the elevator door on Dale’s floor, and the third walked with Brent to the woman’s apartment. Frightened guests gawked and hurried past.
When Dale opened the door, Brent could see she was upset. She had a drink in her hand and waved him in with, “Enter, my boy. I have the encryption box for you.” The voice was sharp, but the viperish hostility of the previous day was gone.
Silently, Brent walked to the plump sofa and seated himself, his knees crowded by the expensive marble table before it. He glanced out of the huge picture windows at the grand yet gaudy vista of Ibkyo: Nihombashi and the Ginza to the southwest, with jam-packed stores and shops; the Imperial Palace to the west, with its elysian grounds and spectacular lighted fountain; the Azubu residential section to the east, crammed with tiny, flimsy houses that could fall on their inhabitants during an earthquake and not hurt anyone; and to the northeast a part of the Shinjuku, with its thicket of skyscrapers that loomed like impersonal slabs of mundanity topped with neon signs glaring obscenely. Back-dropping it all was the harbor with its rows of gantries, warehouses, and dozens of pregnant freighters tied to the docks.
Clutching her drink, Dale stood on the other side of the marble table and stared at him silently. She was wearing a green satin lounging outfit of matching blouse and slacks. The fit was tight, her breasts clearly delineated, perfect hips and buttocks accented by the clinging material. Her spectacular hair was down, flowing in soft waves like a river of gold, framing her face and caressing her shoulders. But she looked haggard, her eyes swollen; and new lines had sprung to life at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was the picture of a troubled woman.
Brent wasted no time. “I heard about your son.” Dale’s eyes widened as if she had been touched by an electric prod. “How? How?”
“Rear Admiral Byron Whitehead.”
“My uncle. I didn’t know.”
“He’s replaced Admiral Mark Allen. He came on board this morning. He’s ship’s company.”
She turned her lips under and then emptied her glass. “Care for a drink?”
Brent nodded his assent. She moved to a small bar that separated the living room from the kitchen and returned with two drinks. “Haig & Haig straight up, with a twist of lemon,” she said, handing the lieutenant his glass. This time she sat on the sofa.
“Good memory.”
“You gave me a lot of practice.” She sipped her drink and then said bitterly, “My uncle has a big mouth.”
“You never told me about your son.”
She chuckled humorlessly. “He was only a few years younger than you.”
“Was that important?”
A film of moisture brightened the green of her eyes to the intensity of polished emeralds. “I was an old broad shacking up with a young boy only a few years older than my own son. You don’t think that’s important?”
“Don’t say that.”
She seemed not to hear. “My poor son Eddie, whom I neglected, let down, killed.” She tore her eyes away and began to sob into her fist.
Brent put an arm around her narrow shoulders. “Not true. Just plain not true, Dale. What happened to him has happened to thousands.”
She took several deep breaths and managed to bring herself back under control. She stared up at him, and the timbre of her voice was low, came from deep within her. “I hate war, I hate killing. But when Yonaga finishes with the Arabs, it should go after the drug producers of Central and South America. They’re murdering a whole generation of our best and most promising. That’s where you’ll find the real war.”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.”
She reached up and traced a single finger across his forehead and down his cheek to the thick cords of his neck. “Poor, sweet Brent. I was so cruel — so crude yesterday.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. I despise Admiral Fujita and all he stands for.”
The words brought shock to the young lieutenant’s face. “You can’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do. He’s an incurable male chauvinist who holds women in contempt.”
Brent shook his head vehemently. “He respected you.” It was Dale’s turn to shake her head. “He respected what I knew. He realized he needed the cooperation of the CIA and I was the CIA.”
“You deliberately antagonized him?”
She drank and tabled her drink. “I didn’t diabolically plan it, if that’s what you mean. But yes, I have wanted to bait him, to tell him off since the first time I met him. And then when Eddie died, something seemed to snap. Something seemed to say to me, ‘What is this all about? Why take crap from anyone’?”
“To understand the admiral, you must understand his whole generation. He’s a nineteenth-century man.”
She laughed and then answered bitterly, “His generation
— They’re callously machismo and as abusive of their women as the Arabs they hate so much. Hypocrites! Hypocrites!”
“They don’t cut off women’s clitorises and make them work in the fields while they loaf.”
She blanched. “That’s from the Middle Ages.”
“The Arabs have never left the Middle Ages It’s still practiced — they make female eunuchs of some of their women, still.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“And they’d enslave us all to their great god oil.”
She took one of his big hands in both of hers. “The hell with the Arabs, Brent. I was terrible to you yesterday, even called you an SOB.” She raised his hand and kissed his palm. “Dear boy, I was trying to end it. I was awfully clumsy. I must’ve come on like Bette Davis in one of those pot-boilers from the thirties — the Late, Late Show in living color.” Her lips tightened at the memory, and she drank. “When I buried Eddie, the grave seemed to take you too. He was so much like you.”
“You told me you loved me.”
She smiled for the first time. “At certain moments, I couldn’t help it. You know how to drive a woman out of her mind.”
“You’re very passionate.”
“I know, and I reveled in my young lover — told myself I was young again. Did you know what you did for my ego — the ego of an old broad on the verge of menopause?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not an old…”
“Yes I am, and it had to end.” She dropped his hand and looked away. “We must face it, dear Brent. I’m too old — too old for you, Brent. It was really over before it started.”
“You’re a young girl.”