Saba said, “We will need food for tonight.” She reset her pistol. “The bread from the crate will not last.”
Eddie kissed her instead. His .45 was on their bed, seven feet from the cabin’s barricaded door.
“Stop. I smell like a cow.”
“Fine with me.” He kissed her again.
“No.” She pushed him away, demonstrating her strength. “Food. A bath. Then we must plan a way off this boat.”
Eddie grinned. “I’m not getting off. We’re sailing into the sunset.”
“You have a fever.”
Eddie leered.
“I will go for food. Do not leave. If there are police or Nazis aboard, they will look for a tall man. Whoever has provided the Étoile Nord-Africain this cabin may or may not know who sleeps in it. If money is offered, many will accept.”
Eddie smiled, not thinking about storing food.
“Give me what money you have.”
He did and tried to hold her hand.
“No.” A tiny flash of smile in her eyes.
Eddie wanted to pin her to the wall, mash his chest to hers, and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.
Saba shoved her hand between. “No. You forget this is not a game. They wish to kill us. Death forever, like your father and your friend Bennett.”
Eddie eased back as the grin faded. She lowered her hand but didn’t move, then turned and left the cabin. Eddie read the closed door and didn’t move toward the lock. His father’s image stared back: the knotted workingman’s hand gentle on a plow handle, the overalls, the years of work blowing around him—
The door opened. Saba said, “I meant no disrespect. Lock this,” and withdrew. Newt’s image lingered as if he had something father-to-son to say, then melted away into the swirling dust of Oklahoma. Eddie didn’t know how Newt died, how Schroeder’s men had killed him. Eddie palmed the .45 off the bed . . . heard Walter Winchell on the oil derrick’s radio six years ago just before the Cochise No. 1 blew apart and sent Nazis to Oklahoma.
“I’m sorry, Pop. This was bigger than I knew how to handle.” Eddie locked the door and returned to the porthole. Best he could remember, Sardinia was almost to Sicily, maybe two hundred or three hundred miles west. To cross the Mediterranean, the SS Caubarreaux would have to pass between Sicily on the north and the Tunisia coast on the south—maybe get to see Malta—then steam due east for two days and nights, past Libya and Egypt to Palestine. Libya was ruled by Fascist Italians, not Libyans; Egypt was ruled by a seventeen-year-old Egyptian king backed by the same British warships, tanks, and rifles that controlled Haifa. Neither Libya nor Egypt would be good places for fugitives to land if the old ship had trouble. Eddie hefted his pistol and laughed at the porthole. Like there were good places for him and Saba to land. Eddie rechecked the door and wondered if seven shots were ever enough. He started to pace but there was no room.
Oberstleutnant Erich Schroeder sat in a cramped, private office deep within the Nazi embassy in Lisbon. To get here from the ship docks in Oran, he had fought through his second sandstorm in three days, arriving on a weather-beaten Luftwaffe plane that had almost crashed into the Mediterranean on takeoff. Schroeder was behind the embassy’s grand facade on Campo Mártires da Pátria, to bet his life on three final moves. His knuckles were white. He was on a private call to Reichsmarschall Göring at Karinhall. Göring was livid over the implosion of Tenerife’s AvGas refinery, railing against “the Spanish peacock” Generalissimo Franco and his “weak-kneed army of drunken dilettantes.” Göring had not been informed Saba Hassouneh or Eddie Owen was responsible. Schroeder reported that Eddie Owen had disappeared in the aftermath—an escape from the volcano that many still believed had crippled the refinery.
“Disappeared!” The telephone boiled for a full minute with Göring’s epithets.
“Ja. The American has contacted me for assistance. I will recover Eddie Owen within thirty hours and have him in Berlin by midnight Friday.”
Göring calmed to controlled anger.
Schroeder had to buffer the “Mendelssohn” revelation to come. He hinted at the papers and his use of them in America to force the industrialists’ participation, and then his gambit with Himmler’s representatives in Tenerife, all “on Göring’s behalf.”
Göring exploded. He demanded an immediate explanation—but not by phone—in person, on the next plane.
“Jawohl, Reichsmarschall. But Eddie Owen must be secured first. A full report on the Mendelssohn papers will be made on Friday when I arrive in Berlin with the American.”
Göring growled but concurred, adding: “You will explain the Mendelssohn papers, their use in America, and this ‘gambit’ with Himmler via today’s courier from Lisbon.”
“Jawohl, Reichsmarschall.” Schroeder tried to continue but the phone went dead—loud, like a firing squad.
A ring tapped the glass of his hallway window—Two Gestapo officers, one glancing in at Schroeder without regard or respect, the other tapping his ring on the glass in annoyance.
Ruthless little pimps. And higher placed than their two counterparts dead at the Luftwaffe’s hands in Morocco. Thankfully, it would take more nerve than these two Gestapo had to openly obstruct Göring’s man. But Himmler and Heydrich had been notified of Schroeder’s presence, that was assured. Erich Schroeder would be followed everywhere that the Gestapo could manage. The two Gestapo at his window wished a meeting; a formal request had been submitted in writing and under Himmler’s seal.
Schroeder used the phone again instead. He commissioned a Luftwaffe plane from Lisbon to Rome. Once in Rome, he would organize another plane, this one from outside Luftwaffe channels. Unidentified, Schroeder would fly to Bari, Italy, where the SS Caubarreaux, battered by the same storm that had almost killed him, would dock if the weather did not force the ship elsewhere. What had finally convinced Schroeder that Eddie and Saba were aboard the SS Caubarreaux had been a passenger name on the Oran harbormaster’s manifest. The name was “Avatar el-Baidar.” In Arabic “Avatar” meant “bird” and “el-Baidar,” among other meanings, was the name of a refugee camp in the Lebanon Mountains.
Schroeder had confirmed this information to his Luftwaffe man onboard via a coded ship-to-shore telegram. Schroeder also informed his man that the Italian embassy in Lisbon had secured the following guarantee from their counterparts in Bari—the SS Caubarreaux would not leave Bari until it had been thoroughly searched and all passengers accounted for. Schroeder checked his watch. His flight left in one hour. From Lisbon to Rome to Bari would require more than half of today once he could arrange the flights, but he would be in Bari on the pier and well prepared when the SS Caubarreaux arrived.
The Gestapo officer tapped the window again.
Schroeder ignored him. With luck, his Luftwaffe man would locate “Avatar el-Baidar” on the ship. His man would exercise caution; the French officers and crew were not to be alerted until the ship was in Italian waters. If luck were with Schroeder’s man, he would isolate Eddie and kill Saba before they docked in Bari. If not, the Luftwaffe man would bide his time and when the ship docked, he and Schroeder would kill her.
Eddie balled his fist and squeezed the .45. It had been almost six hours. Saba had to be dead. But she couldn’t be. That’s not how it was supposed to end. His dad wasn’t supposed to be dead, either, or D.J. The knob on the cabin door turned. Eddie leveled the pistol. No voice. Remaining in the cabin had been hell and had required all of his self-control. The knob kept turning. The ship pitched and the doorknob stopped. Eddie stiff-armed the .45 head high on the door. C’mon. His lip ached and he quit biting. C’mon. The ship pitched then rolled like they’d slammed open water. French voices argued in the hall. A body bumped into the wall and more voices followed. Someone rapped on the door, sharp, like a ring or a pistol. He didn’t know any French and couldn’t use English.
“Les Demoiselles.”
Shit, it was Saba! Eddie fumbled at the lock. Saba ducked through and he shut the door behind her. She
pointed at the lock. He locked the door and added the barricade. “You’re . . . okay!”
She produced food from a large ship’s-galley waterproof bag, then a bottle of wine, then her pistol. Eddie kept grinning, then realized he’d opened the door sans keffiyeh. “You do love me.” He grabbed for the bottle. It was a trick; he grabbed her instead, wrapping both arms around her so tightly she couldn’t move. He kissed her through the cloth until she kissed back. Soft, but she did.
“I love you . . . more, now that you’re alive.”
“Put me down.”
“Say it.”
Her keffiyeh fell away. “What?”
“That you love me, or I’m not letting go.” He squeezed, hoping she wouldn’t head-butt him.
Saba blushed and shut her eyes. Then kissed him. “Let me go. I must eat.”
“Say it.”
She mumbled something in Arabic.
“That’s it?”
“What I have . . . for now.”
Her eyes were so hazel, so warm he put her down but couldn’t stop staring. “You have to be the prettiest woman in the whole world, this ship for sure.”
She pointed him away to the only chair. “Sit. I will explain. Have the wine.”
Eddie worked on the bottle, wishing he had two so he could get her drunk, after he hid her weapons. Get them both drunk. Forget the world’s nightmare for an hour.
She explained while she ate. There was a German aboard and the large Englishman from their car on the train.
Eddie stopped working on the wine. “From the train?”
Saba nodded. She said neither man had recognized her. There was much talk of war, and soon. Italy was massing ships to invade its neighbor, Albania. Hitler and Mussolini had signed a new treaty with Japan, threatening Soviet Russia. England and France were feverishly building planes and tanks while they talked of peace.
“Jesus. Quite a report. How’d you get it?”
“Six hours with men and their newspapers. Men enjoy bragging about themselves and what they know.”
“The German and the Englishman told you?”
“The Times. The rest was conversation with the ship’s crew. These sailors hear; some listen for others. If we had money we would know more.”
“How’d you get the food?”
Saba raised her chin. “I am not pretty enough?”
Eddie fumbled the bottle. “What?” She was laughing at him as he attempted to catch the bottle and stare at her face. “What’d you say?” The bottle hit the floor and rolled past her. Eddie corralled it on his hands and knees. “Jesus.”
“Quite a man, Eddie Owen.”
He jumped to his feet. “Yeah, I am,” he said, laughing at her and him. “To us.” He toasted and sipped the wine before he remembered he hadn’t pulled the cork. “I was so much better with women until I met you. So much better.”
“Yes, I would hope.”
“I’m gonna open this, take a big drink, then kiss you on the mouth.”
She didn’t say no and that’s what he did.
Saba made the wine last; the food they finished in the first hour. She felt his eyes and the heat of his intentions. His intentions weren’t much different than hers, just more comfortable. He’d talked her out of her top three buttons by examining them with the interest of a gem trader. She knew better. Each one had added night air to her skin and weight to her breathing. He leaned to her mouth and kissed her softly. Just a wisp at first, then longer and longer. She felt his tongue trace her lips, then push past and enter her mouth. His hand was in her hair, too, then one threatening at her waist. No, it wasn’t threatening, it was soft and resting on her hip. His tongue withdrew. She licked at it, shocked. He kissed back and searched for her tongue. Her neck bent and his lips trailed down its length. She gasped, her skin alive with his. Seated on the bunk her hands were buried in the bedclothes, the cords in her forearms iron tight.
Eddie pulled back one inch and kissed the tip of her nose. “I want you to show me something.”
“Whaa . . . t?” She was trembling everywhere.
“See if you can put your weapons in the drawer.” He pointed within her reach. “If you do that, we’re going to lay down and just see what happens. I don’t wanna die if you get excited.”
Saba flushed, redder if possible.
“C’mon. Try it. If you say stop, I will.”
Saba glanced at the door, stood, and checked the chair under the knob. She returned to the bed, avoiding Eddie’s eyes. The heat in her was like sudden fear, only concentrated in her skin. Parts of her body demanded attention that had just begun to confuse her ten years ago as a teenager. No. She would say no, push him away.
“Just try, honey. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to kill me by accident.” Their legs touched. He stroked through her hair and touched her ear without demand. He whispered, “Just try.”
Short of breath, she said, “I . . . I have not been without weapons since I was eighteen.”
Then she did, first the pistol, then two knives. The blades clattered on the table, unsteady in her hand. She finished but faced forward, almost frozen. Eddie leaned her back into the bunk, his arms gentle around her. She laid on her side, eyeing the weapons, then Eddie behind her. Her breath was so short she was light-headed. Eddie squeezed assurance and asked for no more. She calmed and straightened one leg, then the other. Eddie matched her movements.
A man had her. In bed. His arms over her breasts, his lips in her hair and at her neck. She could feel his hips, his . . . She bolted, ending two steps away against the wall, facing the bunk. The alarms in her head pounded with her heart, her hands extended to stop the charge. One breath. Two. Then a third. Chest still heaving but eyes sharp. No imminent threat. No attack—
Eddie hadn’t moved.
Saba burst into tears. “I can’t.” She slammed her fists into her thighs. “I can’t.”
“Not yet. That’s all.” He smiled so warmly, she felt it cross her face.
“I . . . I am ruined for a husband—” She choked on the word, never dreaming of saying it, not since the alley—
“Rape’s a horrible thing. But the English rabble did it, not you.” Eddie’s face went from somber to sunlight. “I think you’re the single most fabulous woman who ever walked. And if you ever wanted a husband, there’d be a line to Dallas, me at the front.”
He knows? About the soldiers in Jerusalem, in the alley? Was this to shame her? Mock her? Blood rushed into her face. She kicked the chair aside, grabbed clothes and weapons, and ripped the cabin door almost off its hinges.
Eddie jumped up to chase her. Three steps into the dark passageway, he realized he had no robe or keffiyeh. He backtracked into the cabin, added costume, then stooped thirty degrees and back out.
The ship’s foghorn boomed.
On deck, Saba stood at the stern rail with her back to the water. Her hands were hidden but for sure one was full. She eyed him every step or seemed to. When Eddie got to five feet, he realized she wasn’t eyeing him, just fast glances and not at his face. Eddie checked his shoulders. “I’m gonna say this quick so we don’t die out here with the spies and Nazis. Marry me.”
Saba sprang partly off the rail and stopped. “You cannot want me. No man takes a wife ruined by others.”
“I love you. No matter where you’ve been, what you’ve done, or what’s been done to you. To me you’re a princess and I’d have you—if you let me—for as long as you want. Here, there, anywhere.”
Saba glared.
“C’mon home.” He put all the smile and “aw shucks” he could into his voice. “It’s small and only got the one window, but it’s ours.”
The bow of a huge gray warship passed between them and the moon. Saba said, “Italian.”
Eddie looked at more dim shapes in the distance. The Mediterranean Sea was a big place to be crowded. Something must be up. Thank God he and Saba didn’t matter to the Italians. “Tell you what. Come home, downstairs, we’ll get some sleep—just
sleep, I promise. Tomorrow when you wake up, I’m gonna say these same words again. On my father’s grave, I mean every syllable.”
Saba blinked. Everything in her posture changed. The strength of the words “my father’s grave” was written on her face. She seemed confused, wanting to come to him and not. Finally she eased off the rail, lingered at his shoulder only long enough that he could smell her hair and see the glisten in her eyes, then walked past to their passageway’s door.
Eddie took that as an “okay,” grinned at her stars like they were in this with him, checked the deck in both directions, and followed before she changed her mind or pulled a gun.
The French sailor who had watched the exchange thought it interesting. He could not hear from his working perch, buffeted by the wind gusting down the rock-and-foam Sicilian coast, but the postures were strange. Two Arabs, one tall like the German passenger had been asking about—the offer a year’s pay if the Arab could be located.
This one was tall and an Arab—an Arab the sailor had not seen during the first two days of the voyage. The sailor wanted to follow but these were dangerous times, filled with desperate people; a history with such people told him to remain on station. There was time, and only ten lower cabins were reachable by the stern- passageway door. Spray peppered him and drew his attention to Sicily’s eastern coast. He felt the beginning of a gentle northern turn into the Adriatic. In eight hours his watch would end. He could narrow the options then, long before they made port in Bari. The sailor set about dreaming of his own boat, one that could fish the Corsican banks or run processed opium to Marseilles.
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