Traitor's Gate

by Charlie Newton

  Schroeder should also know that Poland was much discussed in the Berlin and Munich papers but for more public reasons. As if those of us solving the Jewish Question are not sufficiently noble to be public? Frau Ilse also felt strongly that Himmler’s solution would center on Poland and not Palestine, and that Himmler’s choice was gaining momentum. She added that the foundations for Buchenwald’s test crematorium were being poured outside her window as she wrote.

  Schroeder burned the letter.

  CHAPTER 30

  March, 1939

  The ocean was loud, the moon hidden. They had been apart only hours. Saba listened to Eddie, hearing most of his words. He was a handsome man, and, better, he was a good man. Honest. She felt that strongly now. His admissions were raw, his needs clear, his options limited. Sadly, Saba saw his and her situations as separate, as were their goals. She had analyzed all of it as a soldier would—what could be accomplished and what was a dream for another day. Her mission was arms for Palestine; his was to save his family in Oklahoma, the Jews of Europe, and himself and her if she would allow it. To accomplish all, or any of his plans, Eddie first had to escape the island and have the Mendelssohn papers.

  “You ask me to take up your cause. Would you take up mine?”

  “Lots simpler”—his hand squeezed hers—“if I just think about you on the divan.”

  Saba the soldier did not blush.

  Eddie straightened and quit flirting. “I’m sabotaging the refinery.”

  Saba processed the tactical implications to her plans.

  “I’ll pour acid into the switches and three other spots. The refinery won’t blow; she’ll melt, and big. Serious sabotage—might even be treason if I’m wrong and the Nazis are really the good guys.”

  “They are not. They are Europeans, and in Europe there are no American ‘good guys.’”

  “So you’ll help me? Even if it means the ferry?” The ferry meant give up her plans to kidnap Erich Schroeder. She would help Eddie recover the Mendelssohn papers from the couriers, then deliver the papers to America.

  Saba had arrived at her decision moments after Eddie had left Les Demoiselles. Saba the soldier determined there was no way to successfully kidnap Schroeder off the island. She could kill him. That would deliver her personal retribution for Haifa but would do Palestine no good. In truth, the Mendelssohn papers could be bartered for arms more readily than Schroeder’s life. The papers were the prize. Palestine’s prize.

  “If we do your plan, Eddie, your family will be at great peril.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking on that.”

  “The first place your enemies will go is your weakest spot.” For an instant the woman replaced the soldier. “And I am here.”

  Her admission went unnoticed. The surf splashed and Eddie said, “I know fellas in Texas, used to work for them. I owe them a small fortune for a car I wrecked, but they understand family. They could get people up to Oklahoma pretty quick if they were willing, and I’m thinking they would be.” Eddie frowned. “They’ll be mad about the call, though. Wasn’t supposed to use the phones. Ever.”

  Saba produced a pen and paper from her sock. “Give me the Texas names and telephone numbers. Doña Carmen will use her network.”

  Eddie wrote out a phone number and two names: Lester “Benny” Binion and Floyd Merewether, then the address at Saint John’s Hospital and the sanatorium, and finally a foster residence in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Eddie added the four names of his mother, father, little brother, and sister.

  Saba read each name, thinking of her family buried unmarked somewhere in the marl rock and dust of Jerusalem. She checked the stars, then looked at Eddie and started to speak—The soldier replaced the woman and said their time tonight was short. The soldier asked when the refinery sabotage would become obvious. Eddie explained that the acid was part of a catalyst he worked with regularly. In the right mixture it would take roughly thirty-two hours to eat through the metal and just seconds to consume the circuits. The downside was that this acid was a “give-or-take” type of clock, one that could become a big problem. Saba saw the problem before Eddie finished explaining. The sabotage would be a major blow but it would also add severe risk and complications.

  “You are correct that the SS couriers will be the most vulnerable on the ferry. To force them and the papers onto the ferry, both seaplanes must be damaged, one here, one on the mainland.”

  “Can you do that?’

  Saba nodded. Doña Carmen could likely do both.

  Eddie brightened, adding energy to his hopes. “I’ll attend the CEPSA christening . . . At the last possible minute before the ferry leaves, I’ll make an excuse, sick or something; pour the acid; don a disguise; and make a run for the dock.”

  “PJs will be on the dock. And make no mistake, Eddie, the patrona says the PJs mean to kill you.”

  Eddie shrugged.

  Saba read his eyes, then continued. “The ferry for Casablanca—with the papers aboard—will depart one hour into your celebration. You say the acid will require thirty-two hours to melt the refinery . . . The ferry requires thirty hours to make Casablanca; we will be trapped aboard if the acid is faster or the ferry is slower.”

  “You smell like tangerines tonight.”

  Saba saw the divan in his eyes and possibly reflected in hers. Mixing these emotions and sensations would not improve their chances of survival. She tried for anger, then shame, and felt neither. Truly a new day in her life. She recalled the bluff above the college ten years ago in 1929, her father speaking . . . For a moment she felt the pride and affection and . . . happiness. She kissed Eddie on purpose.

  Eddie fell, shocked, to his elbow. He remained half on his back in invitation, no longer shocked, and she wanted to join him. It was so new and so strong. My God, these feelings! Saba stood instead. “I go. We have eleven hours.”

  Eddie started to rise.

  Saba signaled him down. “No. I will arrange the seaplanes and the ferry. You will board at the very last moment as an Arab man, as will I, but bent over; you are too tall. The PJs will have finished with their searches and be drawn to the wharf by a diversion, an argument during Asr, the fourth Muslim prayer. At the boat ramp, I will speak for you. A disturbance there, too, possibly; pay no attention and come to me. Yes?”

  Eddie’s face said a great deal more than yes.

  “Stop. We risk our lives in this. If the PJs at the wharf do not kill us, the SS will possibly have others on the boat, men who kill as a profession. Thoughts of me without clothes will cease quickly then.”

  “Haven’t yet.”

  The compliment lingered, unthreatening and warm, a combination never felt or allowed. A day of firsts. And one that must end. Saba said good-bye in Arabic, and before she could stop her hand or lips, she blew him a kiss. Her keffiyeh slipped across her face; the black cloak she wore swirled like a magician’s and she was gone.

  Eddie grinned. Tangerines. He’d never quite realized how much he liked tangerines. Eddie remained on his back staring at where she’d been, then her stars. Had to be the strongest attraction ever between a man and a woman. How could you shift from certain death to lust by holding hands? If he ever got her in bed, he’d have a heart attack. Be worth it. Just the one time.

  The ocean commented with a breaker. He grinned at the foam; Eddie the college boy marries the Raven of Palestine. Robin Hood marries the fair Maiden Marian—wonder how I’ll look in the dress? Probably not as good as Olivia De Havilland. Eddie tried to whistle at Ms. De Havilland’s image. Shit, I need to live through this just to tell Benny and Floyd the story.

  Benny and Floyd. He should’ve called them first. The car money mattered and the instructions not to call mattered, and not bringing the FBI down on them mattered biggest of all, but Benny and Floyd would’ve helped with both surgeries. They’d have been mad as hell, but they would’ve helped.

  The beach shook. He grabbed for balance. A line of pebbles tumbled past him to the water. Eddie craned over his should
er at Mount Teide backlit by the moon. A thin cloud layer cut across the crater at 10,000 feet, well below the peak. Clouds near the summit, too, but different and not a layer.

  More like a puff. Eddie tried whistling again, this time “Song of Atlantis,” and scrambled for the road.

  The third Muslim prayer had ended an hour ago at noon.

  The refinery workers who prayed were now wide-eyed at the sky with everyone else. Eddie checked his watch. The outbound ferry would be almost finished loading its cargo. A lone Messerschmitt roared low, tipping a wing and burning Eddie’s AvGas. The CEPSA gentlemen ducked toward the patch of lawn where they stood, as did others in gaudy Spanish uniforms. Erich Schroeder did not. Schroeder stroked a pink orchid boutonnière and matched cocktail glances with the women in their gowns.

  A decrepit Spanish biplane followed the Messerschmitt and the crowd ducked again. Tenerife’s closed airport had been partially cleared to land the planes earlier. Both planes had barely survived the runway holes; a third had not. The two surviving aircraft had been refilled with Eddie’s gas to do these flyovers before heading to the mainland. The CEPSA bigwigs were giddy. Eddie checked his watch. Now or never. He became Benny Binion at the poker table, pulled Erich Schroeder aside, and clinked glasses.

  “Done.”

  “My congratulations. You have accomplished much for your country and, hopefully, the world.”

  “I found Saba.”

  Schroeder nodded, his interest unreadable.

  “She was badly injured, shot twice, and can’t speak. You were right; if you can’t get her out of here she won’t get out.”

  Schroeder nodded, his eyes calm but intent on Eddie’s face. “I am sorry.”

  “I’ll take you to her tomorrow night, after we’re all done here.” Eddie gestured at the dignitaries and fanfare. “She’s at a house by the Volcán de Güímar.”

  Schroeder draped one arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “Your decision is difficult but for the best. For all of us.” He eased Eddie toward the closest bar. “A drink to Saba’s survival, your accomplishments, and our future together.”

  Eddie drank one, ordered another, excused himself by saying he had to run to the latrine and would be back after he’d met with the Standard Oil and Culpepper people who were late but due in any minute.

  In his room, Eddie gathered items provided by Doña Carmen—a hooded jellaba, a keffiyeh, old shoes and pants, a ferry ticket, and travel papers no six-year-old would believe. Eddie put the clothes in a bag, belted D.J.’s .45, took a deep breath, knocked wood for a gambler’s chance at survival, and went to work.

  Sneaking past the guards or overpowering them would be impossible. Eddie feigned hurry and concern, ordering those who saw him every day out of his way. General Franco’s soldiers understood loud and officious.

  D.J. would’ve been proud.

  Probably.

  Eddie fumbled the first quart of acid into a transmission tube, then beakered another that filled the bulkhead reservoir above the main circuit panel. A floor tremble shook acid from the beaker. Acid smoked his shirt cuff and dotted through but missed his wrist. Sweat soaked his jacket. Outside the steel housing, guards asked nervous questions through the closed door. Eddie coughed at the fouled air, capped both beakers, and caught himself before he wiped at his eyes.

  “Almost fixed.”

  It would be a chain reaction, not unlike a boulder rolling down an ever-steepening hill. At the bottom of the reaction, the cracking tower would rupture, metal would acid-weld, heat would cease. The door behind Eddie jerked hard against its latch. Eddie spun; the beakers crashed. Toxic air. Shoes smoking. “Son of a bitch.” Eddie ripped off a shoe. Mount Teide shook the ground again. Eddie staggered into the door and away from the smoking beaker shards, coughing as the acid began to eat.

  “Calm down. I’m coming out.” Eddie checked the sabotage. The volcano had spilled a large glob of the acid on the outside of the main panel. Watch check: one thirty p.m. The thirty-two-hour time clock had probably just changed, how much there was no way to know. Eddie popped the door. In the distance, the ferry horn boomed. Make the boat or be in the cage.

  CHAPTER 31

  March, 1939

  The ferry horn boomed again. Saba stood the crowded steerage deck. The boarding was complete. Eddie was late. The main dock below had only dockworkers, PJs, and soldiers. No crowd to hide him. An out-of-place Arab woman approached the ferry’s gangway-passenger ramp. Saba made a small signal with both hands. The Arab woman stopped under the high, corrugated roofing of a boarding area now shading only her and blowing litter.

  Mount Teide rumbled. Saba shouldered through passengers and angry Spanish elbows toward the deck’s gangway gate. A Tenerife harbor official pointed up from the dock to the pilot’s bridge, then signed a clipboard and wound his hand in the air. The ferry’s foghorn boomed.

  No Eddie, no Nazis couriers; Saba had to get off.

  A clot of men and PJs collided at the wharf end of the dock. Their arms waved at the ferry; voices shouted to wait. The PJs blocked the men and inspected documents—if Eddie were among them, he was doomed. A group of six was allowed to pass and rushed up the pier—the SS courier and SS officer among them, each waving an arm. None carried luggage other than the courier’s case. No Eddie. The ramp paused and the six men single-filed at its base to board. Saba checked the wharf, saw Eddie’s keffiyeh pass the blue barrel.

  Now the diversion fuse would be lit. In five seconds the barrel would explode, rice and chicken blood would splatter the dock entry. Eddie’s keffiyeh hesitated at the protected side of the dock. The barrel exploded—PJs fell, began to yell in the fog of rice and chicken blood, stood, and charged off the dock into the wharf. Eddie ran onto the dock. Mount Teide boomed. The Arab woman dropped to her knees at the ferry gangway and began to wail a prayer. Mount Teide boomed again and shook the boat. The crowd at the rail shrank back, pointing. “Volcán!” The gangway bounced. The men trying to board flailed for balance. The Arab woman was knocked over. A tall, hooded Arab stumbled past her and up the gangway ramp behind the Nazis, his striped jellaba only reaching his knees. Saba elbowed to the ramp. The Nazis climbed onto the deck, fumbling out their tickets; the too-tall Arab did the same. Sailors tried to load the gangway before it was clear. Mount Teide added a long, low rumble then thundered a vertical cloud. The passengers flinched and began to yell. Saba grabbed Eddie away from the stewards taking tickets. She shoved him behind her and his ticket at the steward, her eyes hard in his.

  The foghorn boomed twice. Mooring ropes were released and the gangway ramp tilted up, dumping a sailor and a passenger to their knees and into the steward. Deck passengers grabbed for balance and the boat slid sideways into the open harbor. Saba shuffled Eddie farther from the gangway gate. Mount Teide thundered again and the entire harbor shook.

  Eddie said, “Jesus, Teide is gonna go.”

  Saba twisted a sharp hand into Eddie’s side for speaking English, then pushed them farther toward the bow. The boat veered left to face the ocean. All eyes stayed right and high on the volcano.

  “Say nothing. You are deaf.”

  “Hi.”

  She claw-twisted his skin under his jellaba and glared into his eyes. Life or death and he was still a boy. Eddie winced again and went silent. The ferry found its line and motored out into two-foot seas. Passengers crowded to the deck rail, gawking at a disaster they’d likely escape. Saba watched the SS Nazi and his courier enter the covered seats of the first-class cabin, sweat pouring off both. The courier had his case manacled at the wrist. Both Nazis took seats with a prominent view, showing some disregard for seats with better protection. Saba had been on this boat before; her plan for the SS courier was based on the reconnaissance her partisans had done, partisans now dead, left behind on a beach road in Tenerife.

  Near the Nazis, an attractive girl removed her scarf, exposing naked shoulders. She shook out her hair and seemed oblivious to the prominence the movement added to her bosom. Both Nazi
s noticed. Saba smiled. In five hours the sun would be down behind their stern if Mount Teide did not light the sky. The ferry had been at sea eight hours when Eddie had delivered the bad news—the refinery fuse was now an unknown, but almost guaranteed to be faster than the ferry. They would still be aboard when the refinery imploded.

  Saba reset the weapons under her tunic. The two Nazis shared wine and conversation with the young girl. She seemed to captivate them, more so every hour, sharing her glances with each and the occasional touches of her hand. Saba saw the girl’s movements as magic—to be so comfortable with men, so sexual, and yet . . . Thoughts of Eddie made her shiver. And that made her angry. She glared at him.

  Eddie noticed, and floated his eyebrows.

  Saba said, “Quiet,” and checked beyond his shoulders at passengers who might hear them over the thrum of the ferry’s engines. “Soon now, when the remainder of the boat sleeps, Doña Carmen’s girl will lead the Nazis one at a time to the crew deck below. There is a crew cabin at the bow. Both its occupants have been paid a rental. She will take them there; you will create a diversion on this deck—”

  “I will?”

  Saba stood on his right shoe. “Do you wish to die on this boat?”

  Eddie frowned and removed his toe from under her shoe.

  “Fall into a Spanish man and knock him down. Say nothing. Bow again and again, then shrink away while the Europeans insult you. Do not stand straight and reveal your height.”