Traitor's Gate

by Charlie Newton

  Eddie was free, but he was worried. D.J. hadn’t arrived Beirut yet and whenever he did, he’d be one mad cowboy. Hopefully, Eddie having the Mendelssohn papers in hand and out of Palestine would ease D.J.’s anger. Whatever D.J. had done to deal with the dead policeman in Haifa had allowed Eddie to pass through the cliffside border check at Ras-A-Nakura and into the French Protectorate of Lebanon. Speed and time had been an ally for Eddie. He checked his watch: eight p.m. Now that almost twenty-four hours had passed, time would be the opposite for D.J.

  Eddie concentrated on the beach instead of D.J.’s absence and the death sentence for millions in the ten-by-ten envelope taped across his broad upper back. Eddie had seen moonlight on the Mediterranean, but it had been in Haifa and nothing about Haifa was romantic. An hour ago he’d watched two women splashing naked in the waves of the Mediterranean, enjoying the moonlight and calm, clear water at Byblos. Women; warm, clear water; and moonlight . . . he’d found the one spot where the world hadn’t lost its mind.

  Well, he hadn’t actually found this spot or set up the picnic. Two young but leather-skinned Arabs had transported him from the Hotel Royal, frisked him for weapons Eddie didn’t have, looked inside the envelope at the Mendelssohn documents they couldn’t read and thank-you-God returned it, then left him, his elevated heart rate, and picnic basket alone on a rocky point. Eddie could handle himself with a blanket and a picnic basket, but this was his first picnic with an armed escort team instead of a girl. One of the Arabs looked familiar, like he might’ve been on the plane and in Iran six months ago. But all that had happened so fast it was hard to say, and when asked, the Arab didn’t answer. The Lebanese wine they’d provided tasted good and was helping with the cuts, lumps, and bruises from the synagogue explosion.

  Eddie sipped then extended the bottle to toast Dinah Rosen, German-Czech schoolteacher, a little package with a lot of life, dead now because she wanted to stop mass murder on a scale the Romans couldn’t have conceived. “Lekhaim, Dinah. Lekhaim, Tom Mendelssohn.” The dark bottle hung heavy and Eddie added the dead British policeman. Eddie shut his eyes. The vision came through anyway—the towering storm walls of the Dust Bowl rolled in across the two girls splashing naked in the sea, clouds of human ash from the extermination camps that would suffocate everything, everywhere. For those who’d done nothing to stop the ovens and smokestacks there’d be no explaining . . . no matter who won. The papers taped to his back were evil, the absolute clear-cut horror of it, nothing else you could call it. The Indians in Oklahoma told a similar story, and as a boy it had made Eddie so sick he’d wanted to be deaf. And he had been. If he made it home, he’d no longer be deaf to the Indians or anyone else under cannon.

  Eddie forced his thoughts to the schoolteacher he was about to meet a third time, Calah al-Habra, princess of the Arabian Nights. Who wasn’t. The stars she’d pointed to at their second meeting in Iran would be almost directly above him when the moon was finished rising. Sometimes he looked at her stars—okay, maybe more often than sometimes—knowing that somewhere exotic she would be doing the same. It felt . . . interesting.

  “You remember, Eddie Owen.”

  Eddie jolted but didn’t drop the bottle.

  “This is good, an honor to my family.” All black, like before, but much lighter-weight material; moonlight silvered one shoulder, half of her in the light, the other half not. She walked to the side of him and sat, farther away than necessary, the strip of her eyes locked on his.

  Eddie found taking a breath useful. He sat, then added, “Ah . . . hi.” He wasn’t absolutely sure it was her.

  His finger rubbed under his right eye.

  She didn’t respond.

  Eddie offered the wine.

  The woman in black waited until he set the wine closer to her knees. She lifted the thin veil and sipped. “So, the American wishes to see a teacher.” She seemed to be studying his lumps. Her voice was cold but not frigid. “Much effort to see one teacher.”

  “No kidding. You gotta be the most secret teacher in Transjordan.”

  She placed the bottle between them. “Possibly you have learned more about me, Eddie Owen?”

  “If you’re asking have I had the odd thought about the mysterious princess, well yeah, I have. Maybe once in a while . . . maybe a little more often than that.”

  “We know that is not what I mean.”

  Eddie smiled a schoolboy smile.

  Her eyes looked away but returned quick and confident. “Boys and their teachers.”

  Eddie beamed and reached inside his shirt next to the tape that held Tom Mendelssohn’s envelope—The barrel of her revolver finished four feet from his nose, hammer cocked, her eyes ice-cold behind it. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

  Eddie didn’t breathe.

  “Ah . . . I . . . ah, brought you something?”

  She said, “So it would seem.”

  Eddie finished extracting a small box and set it between them. She lowered the revolver but didn’t uncock or holster it. Her finger remained on the trigger. “You were in an explosion?”

  Eddie eyed the pistol. “A synagogue two white guys blew up.”

  “You are Jewish?”

  “No. A girl took me there. We were running away from British soldiers and the Palestinian police . . . after the bombing in the Arab Market. She said something they didn’t like.”

  “This girl, she was—”

  “A teacher, like you.” Eddie frowned at the pistol. “Sort of. Is that gun necessary?”

  She kept the cocked revolver in hand on her knee between them. “All people are not who they seem. Even Americans.” Her empty hand retrieved the box. She considered the lid, then used two fingers to flip it open.

  A gold ring. Wings across a raised center.

  She tilted the ring in the moonlight and used just the fingers of her empty hand to slide the ring on her finger. “Very beautiful. The first I have ever owned.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Her eyes flashed, suggesting she wasn’t.

  “Sorry, thought you were making fun of me.”

  No telling how to flirt with an armed princess-schoolteacher-who-wasn’t.

  “You like it, though? The ring?”

  “Yes.” Her interest remained with the ring, but her tone lowered. “These wings, you have told others of me?”

  “Just Hassim, but not ‘wings.’ I said ‘tattoo.’ I was sorta desperate. Not having much luck finding you and I was leaving . . .”

  She retrieved the wine bottle with her ring hand and drank again, her movements masculine and direct. She twinkled her ring above the revolver in her other hand, the movement feminine, almost girlish. Eddie registered the combination ten seconds apart. Very strange. He extended his hand for the wine bottle. She passed it without setting it down.

  This time he was sure he could taste lipstick or some type of sweet, softening oil. He licked his lips. Exotic for sure, sharing wine in the moonlight on windswept rock at the far end of the Mediterranean Sea. Long, long way from the Dust Bowl. A ghost woman next to you wrapped in black, obviously not who she said she was. When Eddie had pressed Hassim about the tattoo, Hassim had admonished Eddie to discuss the tattoo with no one and Hassim hadn’t been kidding.

  “Tell me about the wings.” Eddie touched his cheekbone. “I think I saw them scratched on walls . . . in the market.”

  “You do not know, Eddie Owen?”

  “Wouldn’t ask if I did. Hassim didn’t want to talk about the wings, either.”

  “The Bedu say it is a wise man who keeps his own tent.” She looked toward the sea, deciding something, then backed to him. A deep inhale raised her chest, the curve of her breasts evident for the first time. “If I speak of this, much will change. Possibly when we say our good-byes, yes?”

  “Fair enough.” Eddie wasn’t saying good-bye and reached for the wine bottle just as she did. He touched her hand for the first time. She snatched hers away, spilling the wine.

  “Sorry.”
Eddie righted the bottle, embarrassed at her reaction. “Didn’t mean to—”

  “I am cautious with strangers.” Her hand tightened on the revolver.

  “Yeah. I can see that.” Eddie slowly extended his hand, flat, palm up. “I’ve never touched a princess.”

  No movement. Even her eyes.

  “C’mon. Think of me as an American, not a stranger. You know more about us than I do.” He edged his hand an inch closer. Her hand materialized from the folds of the thin robe. She hesitated and placed it on top of his, the weight almost nonexistent. Eddie sensed he was reaching out to an animal in the wild, one that would fight or flee at the first impulse. Instinct told him not to move, to let her do it.

  And she did. Gently at first, then more, her fingertips tracing the curve of his hand. Either he had the most erotic hand God had made or the princess didn’t get out much. He heard her speaking but hadn’t caught a word.

  “Sorry, you said—”

  She removed her hand so slowly that it was almost sexual, the way it’d been for him when a woman’s touch was all brand new. She said, “I am a soldier.”

  Eddie heard himself say, “A soldier,” before he could mask the surprise.

  “Yes. Do not ask which army; it would be dangerous for you to know.”

  Eddie heard a rumbling in the back of his brain, distant but there, and not an alarm. More like a library’s hum when the study desks were full.

  “Could I . . . ah, touch your hand again?”

  She laughed, he was pretty sure; it sounded honest but not quite confident. “You are forward for a boy.”

  But she offered her hand and he touched her again, his fingertips doing the tracing this time, past her hand and to her wrist. Eddie felt the sexual adrenaline that pumped when clothes were coming off and all he was doing was tracing her wrist. Was she trembling? He glanced at her eyes and she pulled her hand to her chest. They stared in silence, the air electric between them.

  “Man. It’s either you or Lebanon.” Eddie took a deep breath he needed. She seemed pleased with the compliment. It was heartfelt, so she should be. But out here, no telling what people thought when you mentioned anything close to sex.

  “Possibly the weather.” She was staring right at him.

  “I . . . ah . . . have no idea what to do.” He laughed and meant it. “At home, I’d lean over and kiss you. But here—”

  “No.” But she didn’t lean away. “Here it would not be right. I am married.”

  “No you’re not.”

  She stiffened.

  “No offense. But you’re not.” He showed her his palms, a submission of sorts. “Look, I won’t lie to you if you won’t lie to me. It’s so strange here, I’m lost most of the time, but I want to know you. A lot. And I’ll be careful and I won’t press, but I’m serious, I want to know you.”

  She made no movement at first, then dropped her veil. Eddie almost fainted. Holy shit was she pretty. A girl, too, no older than he was. She removed the headdress, shook out chestnut hair, and wiped some kind of paste from under her right eye.

  “Now you know me, Eddie Owen.” She seemed almost naked and acted it, as if this were a huge decision on her part.

  “My God, Calah, you’re beautiful.”

  Her hands went to her face. He reached for them and she pulled away, adding her veil. “Calah is not my name.”

  “You don’t need the veil.” Eddie was shaking his head. “You’re . . . you’re staggering.” Her comment finally registered. “What’s your name, then?”

  “Just know that it is different; for now that is enough.” She unfolded her legs to stand. Eddie reached, laddering up to panic.

  “Wait. Wait, you can’t go. Please don’t go.”

  She hesitated, then eased back to sitting.

  “Don’t go, okay? I’ll be as nice as you want. Anything, okay? Just talk to me. I’ll sit in the water if that’s what you want.”

  She laughed and reached for the wine, the motion masculine again. Eddie watched, afraid if he spoke she’d leave. It was like being with a wild animal. She handed him the wine and checked behind her.

  “Soon I must go.”

  “No. Don’t. I can tell you all about America, more stuff than last time.” Eddie had reverted to thirteen and his first real date, losing years of experience because she’d dropped her veil. He was sooo glad they didn’t have veils at home; lotta power in those little strips of cloth.

  “Tell me, then, all about America.”

  And he did. Eddie shared his world outside the desert. She was wary, smart, and brutally short in the opinions she offered, not those of a young woman but of an older man who’d been hardened by what he’d seen. Still, America was her hope for everything, her interest and questions boundless.

  Predawn hinted behind the Lebanon Mountains.

  Saba said, “Once again, we have talked all night.”

  “Spent the night together, a second time. We’re almost married.”

  She blushed and raised both hands to her face.

  “Sorry.” Eddie laughed. “Kinda new at talking to a princess.”

  “I am a soldier.”

  “Right. Right, a soldier.” He paused. “Sure seem like a princess.”

  She exhaled as tired but not altogether displeased parents sometimes do, the pride overriding their judgment. “I am a soldier and all that this entails. For good and bad, life and death, of mine and others.”

  Eddie blocked most of that, no longer wanting to ask questions about politics and Palestine. “With me, could you just be the girl who was before the soldier? Beautiful girl, smart American historian . . . can she and I climb in those mountains behind me or swim, even?” Eddie pointed at the water. “It’d be fun, but you couldn’t wear the robe.”

  She shook her head like an American girl would. “If my father were alive, he would shoot you for suggesting such things.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know about your dad . . . Was it . . . recent?”

  She looked away, but not far. “Yes and no. He is one of many.” She pointed at the stars. “There he is, watching you ask me to swim without clothes.”

  “Think he’s mad?”

  Her smile came after a rugged trip across her mouth, a fight she finally lost and seemed happy about. “Yes, he is angry with you.” She blinked once, not an eyelash flutter but something. “But I am not, and for now, Eddie Owen, that is more important.” She stood so fast it was a blur. Before he could speak, she said, “We will meet again; I will see to it. And we will climb or swim, yes?”

  Eddie stood. She stepped back. Eddie said, “Deal. Tell me what dark alley to be in and I’ll be there.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You make light of my precautions but know little.”

  “No. No. No. Tell me to march naked and I’ll be doing that.” Eddie stepped closer and she didn’t move. He stood still while she added the keffiyeh, her eyes not leaving his. Finished, she tossed the keffiyeh’s corner over her shoulder the way a woman flirting would toss her hair. He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe.

  “Don’t. I am not what you think.”

  “Could I find out on my own?”

  She hesitated. “No. Yes.” Then ran up the hill.

  Eddie had never been so stunned by so little. So stunned, he hadn’t moved and now she was gone, not a trace of her other than the basket her guards had given him.

  Predawn began to shadow behind him and Eddie leaned against the rocks. Tom Mendelssohn’s envelope creased into Eddie’s bruised spine. He jolted at the pain. If the papers were true . . . then the money he sent home every month from Culpepper and Standard Oil, money that kept his parents, little brother, and sister off the road to California, was the worst kind of blood money.

  Did the papers have to be true? They could be elaborate fakes; it was possible. Dashiell Hammett could write a plot like that. Where was D.J.? Fine, you’re mad, get over it. You have to look at these. Explain how we prove they’re real. Or not. Then we—
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br />   Eddie looked at the rocks to his left. Bury the envelope here? Only require one search in one of the four countries he would have to transit en route to Tenerife. The Brits thought he was a spy. The Nazis would kill him to recover the papers. And Standard Oil probably would, too, if they knew he had them. If they were real. Eddie glanced up at Calah’s stars going dim. I guess the Brits are right. I am a spy.

  The question was, for whom?

  CHAPTER 18

  October, 1938

  Eddie hitched in from Byblos just as the sun topped the green mountains that hugged Beirut to the sea. The truck dropped him near the port at town center. Six steps into the marble lobby of the Hotel Royal, he was intercepted. The gloved bellman presented a silver tray, on it a yellowish telegram envelope. Eddie’s second-ever international telegram read:

  “URGENT.” STOP “PROCEED TENERIFE ON FIRST AVAILABLE FLIGHT.” STOP “URGENT YOU ARRIVE IMMEDIATELY.”

  The sender was the foreman of the Tenerife refinery outside Santa Cruz de Tenerife, not D.J. Bennett. When asked, the Hotel Royal manager said there had been no telegrams or notes from a D.J. Bennett. Eddie spent twenty minutes deciding, then scribbled a cryptic West Texas note D.J. would understand (Eddie had the Mendelssohn papers), put the note and the telegram in a sealed hotel envelope, and asked the manager to hold it for Mr. D.J. Bennett.

  The road into Beirut’s new airport had been staked and cut but wasn’t paved. Everything about Bir Hassan Airfield was loud, dusty, and noxious with diesel and green-gas exhaust. The three-story terminal wasn’t completed but the tower on top was, and they were landing Air France planes on the runway. Eddie talked four mailbags off and himself on, a three-engine Bloch 120 bound for Casablanca via Algiers and Oran. Twenty hours of Mediterranean Sea and North Africa later, plane, passengers, and mail landed without incident at Anfa Airport in Casablanca.

  According to D.J., Casablanca was no place to dally; everything in North Africa was bought and sold here—weapons, camels, hashish, opium, slaves, children, murder—anything. Eddie had time for five words: “Holy shit, I’m in Casablanca,” then ran for and missed the ferry to Tenerife just as it left the dock. The vaunted Casablanca Ferry did not appear to be seaworthy, although it had plenty of passengers.