Schroeder spit in her face. In his teeth and glare she saw her salvation; she could die before they raped her, when they attempted to remove her from this chair. She would make them kill her. Schroeder dug a punch deep into her liver. Saba coughed blood across them both. Stay awake. Saba fought the comforting edges of blackout. Pain and death did not compare to rape. Stay awake. Stay awake. You will have a chance.
Schroeder straightened, trying to read her eyes. Italian voices echoed at the cell bars. A doctor in a white lab coat split the young men and only he entered. The doctor carried a leather medical bag and sat it on Saba’s lap. His face had no expression. His hands were white and he used both to open the bag. Saba did not look in the bag; bumps rose across her arms and neck. The doctor removed a syringe.
Schroeder smiled at her body’s betrayal. “It would be hard for these gentlemen to enjoy you in the chair. Better I relax you, then move to a more comfortable position.”
The doctor pumped a clear stream from the syringe that showered her knee.
“Herr Schroeder?” One of the two Carabinieri policemen Saba had not killed on the shoreline extended a document through the bars.
Schroeder signaled the doctor to wait, then walked to the bars and accepted the paper. The policeman spoke in whispers. Schroeder brought the document back to the light above Saba’s head, stood next to her, and studied it.
Saba recognized the document, a page from the Mendelssohn papers. Across the top was written: “Piazza Mercantile. Now. No more than two guards with you. We trade—I get her; you get all the pages.”
Schroeder smiled down at Saba trying to read the document. He nodded and holstered his pistol. “It appears our American is alive. Do you wish to tell me how? With whose assistance?”
Saba rocketed through possibilities that seconds ago were only rape, torture, and death.
Schroeder leaned back from her reaction, then signaled his two Carabinieri at the cell door. They pushed along the bars and disbursed all the leering men clustered there. Saba controlled her breath, pushed down the adrenaline, and gauged the odds she might face, the mistakes these men would make now that they had profit to protect. Her eyes cut from the cell bars to Schroeder at her shoulder. Any chance. Die fighting.
Schroeder pivoted into Saba’s face. He squatted so they were eye to eye and said: “So, my Arab friend, there may be a bargain for you and me after all . . . that is, if you still burn to save Palestine . . . more than your man.” He smiled. “Bin Faisal is dead in Iraq. This changes my plans. I must have a warrior in the desert. A lion the Bedu and others will follow. You will trade me this one American—who can never return to America anyway—and I will give you your army in Palestine.”
Schroeder waited for her ultimate dream to take hold. “Agreed?”
THREE HOURS AGO
Ten miles south of Bari, two maritime smugglers fought chest-high surf and spray to reach their boats and secure them against the storm. The two brown men were brothers, Italian-Portuguese, fifth-generation members of an Adriatic and Mediterranean network uninvolved with the grand politics of Europe. Like most who made their living on this coast—forty miles in either direction from Lamandia to Casalabate—the brothers were “long ago” Jews, nonreligious and nonsecular, focused solely on the small-boat politics of all coastal smugglers and squeezing a small profit from the movement of goods; money; and, on occasion, people.
Wedged between the brothers’ wooden boats and the breakwater, a man flogged surf for air. The brothers ducked underneath him then shouldered the man onto the rocks. The man was beaten ragged but seemed unwilling to die this close to the shore lights. One brother pumped the drowned man’s chest. He vomited saltwater, coughed, choked, and tried to roll to his knees. The older brother tried to calm him. The man gasped, and spit, and again tried for his knees. “My wife, she’s out there—” He jabbed an arm that didn’t work into the storm. “I gotta find her—”
Thunder hammered. The rain was blinding.
“A woman,” one brother yelled in broken English. “A woman they find by the town. Alive, with the detention of Carabinieri, the police.”
The man fought up from his knees, staggered, and passed out.
The wives of the brothers were worried. They had worked almost two hours to revive the feverish young American—his body was strong, but as was always the case on this coastline, the Balkan storms and the sea were stronger. This American and his wife—if she survived the Carabinieri—would thank only the angel Adriel for their lives.
While the women worked, their husbands considered Eddie’s fat money belt, his pistol, and the bagged papers wrapped in lifejacket fabric that had been stuffed down the back of his pants and belted to his body. The brothers understood the foreign money and pistol, but the papers were another matter. It was clear the papers were important—the raised seals, the swastikas of the Nazis, the same Nazis who now had power in Italy. This American and his wife had risked the sea with these papers, so close to the dock at Bari . . .
Eddie was conscious but hiding it. The two men who had saved him seemed to be brothers. In the last ten minutes, they had involved other men, dangerous men by their appearance. Men with dots tattooed on their right little finger, dots that were prison code Eddie had seen in Haifa. One man removed his shirt to let it dry. He was badly scarred and under his arm was a faded mark in the same dots:
The mark was Hebrew or close. These men were very likely Zionist militia, Saba’s mortal enemies. They would kill her if they found out who she was, or sell her for the bounty and let the British kill her. Eddie plotted; he listened for words he might understand. The man who had not removed his shirt pulled a chair to Eddie and sat, the women and brothers behind him. The man looked into Eddie’s eyes and spoke when he saw Eddie’s eyes were clear. His accent was thick and Balkan but educated. He said, “I am Hirsh. I am a Jew, not a German, not a Pole, not a Russian. I am a Jew.”
Hirsh pointed to the larger, shirtless man at his shoulder. “My associate, Anistazio. He is a Jew. Our business is weapons. And Palestine is a customer.” Hirsh tapped the Mendelssohn papers in his right hand and smiled. “I know of Tom Mendelssohn in Palestine. His network once passed through Bari, before the Nazis were here, also just across the sea in Croatia, the islands Krk and Cres. Mendelssohn pays well for the cargo he moves . . . before he dies.”
Eddie nodded, watching Hirsh’s eyes for clues that the Zionist knew Eddie’s wife was Saba Hassouneh.
Hirsh tapped the Mendelssohn papers again. Hirsh’s hand was oversize and strong. “We also know talk of these papers, but I never believe I would see them. Please, you will explain how you have Tom Mendelssohn’s papers.”
Eddie explained, gilding his future participation in Tom Mendelssohn’s blackmail plan against Standard Oil and its partners, the Jews that the plan might save, the money it might earn. Eddie offered a bargain—if the smugglers would help rescue Eddie’s wife, he could carry out Tom Mendelssohn’s plan or whatever reasonable version the smugglers might decide.
Hirsh nodded. “And you did not kill Tom Mendelssohn for these papers?”
Eddie’s stomach tightened. Unarmed, he would not leave this room alive.
Hirsh answered himself. “You did not, or why have the papers with you here, so many months after Mendelssohn dies, when the sale to many parties could have been made long before.” Hirsh chinned at his associate. “Anistazio and I will talk. Please, for us, a few moments.”
The two brothers and their wives remained with Eddie. Eddie began to sweat, probably a fever. Or a vote on his and Saba’s future. Eddie continued to sweat until Hirsh returned without Anistazio.
Hirsh said, “We will assist you and your wife. Anistazio begins this now with a message to her captors. The Carabinieri on our coast can be dealt with provided your wife has no . . . other value?”
Eddie said, “No. None. She’s Jordanian, a teacher. Her name’s Calah al-Habra. She teaches kids in Amman. It’s the papers everyone wants.”
“No. None. It’s the papers.” Eddie swiveled to look at the brothers and their wives, selling them the story. “She’s really pretty, beautiful. Maybe they took her to—I gotta go get her. Now. Whether you help me or not.”
Hirsh glanced at the low ceiling. He was a smuggler of weapons, and in Palestine. No doubt he had strong survival skills and believed almost none of what anyone told him. Leading him to Saba could be the ultimate betrayal. Eddie weighed options he didn’t have. But if he had a gun . . . Not if, he’d make sure he had a gun.
Hirsh said, “I will make for you later a Photostat copy of the papers; there is a machine in Bari. But these, the originals, and three-quarters of the money in your belt will remain with me. You, and papers you will not have, will be the bait. If you survive, you will assist us with Standard Oil and the other Americans. Do we agree?”
“Deal. Hand me my gun and let’s go get her.”
Gale-force wind battered the plaster and stone buildings of Bari’s Piazza Mercantile. Eddie could see only thirty feet into the storm. His standing heart rate felt double, almost enough to make up for going fifteen rounds with the Adriatic. In minutes, Eddie and Hirsh would attempt the exchange for Saba. Saba’s captors were Nazis—professional killers—and her rescuers were ex-convict Zionist militia smugglers. Eddie squeezed D.J.’s pistol grip in his belt—probably not enough bullets. Probably not enough luck. The exchange of original documents for Saba would be based on improvisation and those bullets—there were no documents for Schroeder.
Eddie swallowed. If we somehow get past this gunfight alive, move number two will be to cover Saba’s tattoo with her hair and hope for the best. Hirsh nudged Eddie. They were inside a deep doorway on the abandoned piazza. Hirsh pointed southeast into the sheeting rain and thunder. “The Nazi will have more than the two guards when he enters. Two will side him, the others are searching for position now—Il Duce’s Black Shirts, OVRA secret police, Waffen-SS, I do not know. Anistazio and his rifle will take the first he sees.”
Rifle? Eddie scanned the buildings surrounding the piazza. All the windows were shuttered. The rooftops were socked in. Rifle from where? Eddie counted six, maybe eight streets feeding Piazza Mercantile.
Hirsh continued. “The women who revive you will appear on the street, rushing from the weather. The women and the brothers will seal the piazza behind Herr Schroeder with a car we borrow. You and I will then take Herr Schroeder and the two guards he shows us. If you or your wife survive the fight, run for the rendezvous at the top of the piazza.” Hirsh pointed. “A car waits—Sicilians, associates of the brothers—but you must be quick. If the Sicilians are told of dead Nazis, they will melt away.”
Eddie wanted to be sure he’d heard all the good stuff and asked again. “That’s it?”
Hirsh loaded and checked a second pistol, then nodded Eddie out of the protected doorway. “You must show yourself to Herr Schroeder and his guards but appear to be hiding. If you are too bold, the Nazi will know you are here to kill him, not trade.” Hirsh waited for Eddie to nod. “The Nazi will not suspect you have friends here. You are out of the water, alone, and desperate. This is how Anistazio delivers your note. Yes? You understand.”
“Yeah.” Eddie wished he were D.J. or Floyd Merewether. Gunfight 101 had more nuance than he had anticipated or could process in his current condition.
“When you recognize the Nazi, Herr Schroeder, do a full circle with your head. You are fearful and check the entire square. This is a signal to Anistazio. Trust Anistazio’s rifle to find whomever Herr Schroeder has placed behind you.”
Eddie said a dazed, “Good, yeah, okay.”
“I will be there, in the café doorway.” Hirsh pointed under a red awning flapping in the wind. “One of Herr Schroeder’s guards will hold secure on your wife with a weapon at her head. Should this guard be on my side, I will take him. If the guard is not on my side, Anistazio will take him.”
Eddie nodded.
“Should the guard stand behind your wife, you will begin for us. You will shoot Herr Schroeder, not your wife’s guards. Do not waste your one moment on a guard; you will shoot Herr Schroeder. And you will shoot Herr Schroeder as soon as he speaks. Our hope is that the two guards’ first instinct will be defense. Anistazio and I will then shoot at them and hope for the best result.”
Eddie had seen Tom Mix do similar and lose and that was a goddamn movie. “And you guys are still alive? This kind of shit actually works?”
Hirsh frowned and waved Eddie out.
Eddie was too beat and inexperienced to conjure anything that might improve Saba’s chances. He wanted to offer that she could fight but that might get her killed when the fight was over. He inhaled deeply, set his shoulders, and stepped out of the doorway into the piazza. The gale wind and rain slapped him from three directions. His shoes sloshed over limestone pavers sheet-draining across his path. Uphill was to the north and toward the blurry outline of a cathedral dome. The dome could be Anistazio’s perch—Anistazio would be shooting down. That was good. What Anistazio could actually see probably wasn’t.
Eddie stepped behind a scrubby tree planter midpiazza. Schroeder could sneak in a battalion and no one would see them. Eddie patted two pistols, one front and one back. His left arm clamped a heavy steel lockbox tight to his chest. The fake pages inside were wrapped and bound and blank. The lockbox was Hirsh’s idea—it might stop a pistol bullet. Eddie liked the shield, but the box also guaranteed he couldn’t shoot with that hand.
Hirsh said Schroeder would slide toward Eddie’s weak hand as he approached. Eddie would have to step like a boxer—keep Herr Schroeder outside the right foot and facing Eddie’s right hand that could and would draw the gun. Eddie understood a boxer’s footwork, but he’d never killed anyone and he wasn’t sure how he’d do. He wanted to kill Schroeder; that wasn’t open to discussion. Wanting to do it was one thing, out-drawing a professional killer might be another.
Thirty feet downhill at Via Manfredi, Saba appeared in the rain, hands cuffed at the waist. At twenty feet, Eddie could tell she had been abused and badly. On her left side, a square-jawed Italian policeman had a leather belt tight around her neck and a gun at her head. Another policeman slid to Saba’s right when the policeman determined Eddie was alone in the piazza. Torrential rain tinted everything an undersea green. A shape silhouetted directly behind Saba, then slowly materialized into Erich Schroeder. Schroeder remained behind Saba and his two gunmen and shouted through the rain: “We find ourselves in difficult circumstances, Eddie. Before you attempt whatever heroic action you have planned, please . . . allow me two minutes.”
Eddie’s heart pounded. Lightning drilled behind the buildings. Gargoyles flashed in the light, spewing rainwater from their mouths. Be calm. Eddie gripped the box tighter with his left arm and hand. He added his right to keep both hands in plain sight.
Schroeder continued. “Saba may go free. I have fought off those here who would rape and assault her. She, you can save, if her safety is your wish.”
Eddie flashed on D.J., Newt, the farm—none saved. Rain battered Eddie’s face and eyes. His hands were slick. Either gun he drew would be slick. Green air choked his throat. Offer the box, pull the gun. Shoot Schroeder.
Lightning cracked through the green murk. Thunder pounded. Eddie flinched and the thunder echoed through the piazza.
Offer, pull, shoot.
Offer, pull, shoot.
Schroeder stepped half his torso just outside the shoulder of the gunman who had Saba’s neck. “Saba and I wish the same result for her homeland. Whether you truly understand that or not, she understands. If we all die here in the storm, it serves none of our countries. Only England and the world’s Com
munists win.”
Rain gusted and splashed and blinded. Eddie’s left arm clenched on the box. Adrenaline shortened his breaths. Offer, pull, shoot. Eddie’s right hand eased down from the box toward his side . . . Schroeder opened both hands to show them empty. He smiled, soliciting permission to close the distance. “Eddie, if you will come to Berlin willingly, I will guarantee Saba’s safety and the funding of her partisans.” Schroeder eyed Eddie’s right hand and took a careful half step closer. “You may be in contact with her by radio phone as often as you wish, for as long as you wish.”
Eddie cut to Saba. Saba’s face was swollen and black. Her eyes burned into his.
“Your family in Oklahoma will be supported and protected—”
Eddie snapped, drew the gun behind the box—
Schroeder ducked to the stones. Eddie fired. Anistazio fired from the dome. The Italian policeman on Saba’s right exploded backward. The policeman with Saba jerked her sideways and fired. His bullet creased Eddie’s hip. Schroeder fired from the stones. A bullet slammed into Eddie’s lockbox and knocked him off his feet. A concussion grenade exploded. Hirsh jumped over Eddie’s legs, shot Saba’s guard, aimed at Schroeder but blew backward and across Eddie’s legs. Schroeder rose to a knee, shot Hirsh again, then spun on Eddie. A rifle cracked from the dome. Saba had a dead man’s pistol and fired at Schroeder. He pivoted, shot at Saba, stood, and staggered, and two rounds boomed from the dome. Schroeder stumbled, turning toward Eddie. Eddie was up, almost square. Saba rushed Schroeder. He spun. Eddie slammed his pistol into Schroeder’s neck and pulled the trigger. Schroeder crumpled, gushing blood into the rain. Saba kicked the pistol out of Schroeder’s hand and shot him in the chest until her pistol clicked empty. Eddie collapsed. Saba dropped the pistol, grabbed Eddie’s shirt. “Up. Now.” Her hands were cuffed. “Eddie. Look at me. We must go. Now! Stand, I cannot carry you. Stand.”
Traitor's Gate Page 51