Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2)

by Edward Whittemore

  Who was that? The man who used the identity then?

  A fellow from the ranks. Sergeant O’Sullivan was his name.

  Sergeant O’Sullivan, murmured the Major, a faraway look coming into his eyes. You’re not referring to the Sergeant O’Sullivan?

  Oh yes, the same. It rather slipped my mind how famous he used to be. I suppose you must have heard of him, even though you were very young at the time.

  Yes, replied the Major, leaning back in his chair to reflect upon this astonishing piece of information from the past.

  During the First World War, at least in the early part of the war, the exploits of Sergeant Columbkille O’Sullivan had been gloriously famous in every household in Britain, after he had been awarded two Victoria Crosses for extraordinary heroism in the gruesome slaughter known as the First Battle of Champagne, the only man of any rank to be so honored in the Great War. Then he had been referred to everywhere as the Sergeant O’Sullivan, or with even greater affection as simply Our Colly of Champagne.

  But the celebrated little sergeant’s reputation had mysteriously begun to deteriorate after his Irish compatriots raised their Easter Rebellion in 1916. By the summer of that year a rumor was rife in London that Our Colly was drinking to excess, and by the time autumn blew around it was generally known throughout England that Their Colly’s reckless bravado in combat had always been due to drink and drink alone.

  Further, while stationed in France and slyly acquiring Victoria Crosses through gross misrepresentation at the First Battle of Champagne, Their Colly, according to updated reports, had had the absurd arrogance to pretend that drinking anything less than vintage champagne was beneath him, even though when he was home again and on tour as a hero, he had reverted to his natural ways by gleefully swilling down anything alcoholic that passed through his trembling hands.

  Thus the once renowned the Sergeant O’Sullivan had been entirely forgotten by the end of the Great War. The Major himself, in the course of his professional army career, could not recall ever having heard the famous name in any context, historical or otherwise. Yet to him, as to tens of thousands of British schoolboys, Our Colly of Champagne had been a unique folk hero when they were growing up.

  My God, exclaimed the Major. Whatever did happen to Our Colly?

  Oh he reenlisted again after the war, replied the Colonel.

  He did? Our Colly?

  Yes. And because of all that notoriety he’d received at such a young age, he wanted to get away from England, so he joined the Imperial Camel Corps out here. He even reenlisted under another name, just plain Private So-and-So. He’d developed an absolute passion for anonymity.

  The Camel Corps? Our Colly on camelback?

  Exactly. But before long he’d been promoted to sergeant again, and of course it was impossible for Colly’s extraordinary talents to go unnoticed anywhere, even if he happened to be just loping around the deserts on a camel. So he was invited into this end of the business, and once with us Colly couldn’t help but carry on with his usual flair. Anonymously, of course, undercover. In fact you could say it was just what he’d always been looking for. And all that talk in the last war about his drinking was utter nonsense. Colly enjoyed a glass as much as the next man, but he was careful never to take a drink on duty. Drank only water when he was on assignment, made a point of it. Wouldn’t even touch a cup of tea. And there are stories that anyone would find hard to believe. Some remarkable episodes in Abyssinia against the Italians, and then later in Palestine when we had to deal with the Arab revolt.

  Palestine? murmured the Major. I was in and out of there during the Arab revolt. Where was Our Colly working then?

  Up around Galilee. He was using several covers at the time. One was as the Armenian dealer in Coptic artifacts and another was as a captain in the King’s Own Scottish Regiment. Every few weeks he’d slip into Haifa and transform himself. Something of a trickster, Colly was. He enjoyed that sort of thing.

  Our Colly, murmured the Major. What was he doing at Galilee?

  Oh he had several assignments going on at once, as he usually did, but probably the most important one then was helping the Jewish settlers organize their Special Night Squads, the first real mobile strike force they had. Colly was the man who trained those squads and set them up. He did that in his cover as the Scottish captain, and the methods he developed soon became one of the important operating principles of the Palmach.

  The Colonel smiled.

  The fellow had dash, damn it, it just came natural to him. I remember talking later to one of the young Haganah men Colly had taken on as a deputy, fellow by the name of Dayan, and he told me how astonished they all were the first time they met Colly. The Arab revolt was in full swing and Dayan and Allon and these others had gone up to defend a settlement near the Lebanese border. Well one moonlit night they were manning the pickets when up drove a taxi with its headlights off and its taillights on the front of the car to confuse the enemy, and out of the taxi stepped this lean small figure carrying two rifles and a Bible and a drum, an English-Hebrew dictionary and five gallons of New England rum.

  Our Colly?

  None other. His daring at coming up there alone at night, Dayan said, made a tremendous impression on everyone. They’d never met a military man like that before and it affected their thinking a good deal. The idea that warfare, irregular warfare at any rate, could be based on something other than parade-ground drill.

  Amazing, murmured the Major.

  Yes. Colly often worked for me in the most difficult of situations, and more than once I tried to convince him to accept a commission. But Colly always adamantly refused, saying he preferred to keep his standing as the Sergeant O’Sullivan. Even though his rating was secret of course, and no one knew he had any standing at all. He was quite a man, no question about it. And as for the role he played in the Spanish Civil War, that still has to be kept close to the chest.

  Why’s that? asked the Major, his head spinning with these revelations about the hero of his childhood.

  Because Colly was fighting on the Republican side, don’t you see. Officially he was on a leave of absence, and unofficially he was doing a number of things for us, but still, a regular army man and all. It just wouldn’t do. Not then, not even now.

  The Major was more astounded than ever.

  Our Colly? he repeated dreamily, gazing down at the papers in his hand. Then something caught his eye and he laughed abruptly.

  Did you choose this name, sir?

  Which name?

  The cover name for Colly’s Purple Seven identity. A. O. Gulbenkian.

  The Colonel smiled.

  Oh no, that was Colly’s doing. As a matter of fact, it was the name he used when he reenlisted and went into the Imperial Camel Corps after the last war. Says something about his sense of humor, I suppose. He thought it would be amusing to skulk around the Middle East on a camel, using the last name of a famous Armenian oil millionaire.

  Bizarre, murmured the Major. Gulbenkian does seem to be an odd name to come across here. But what were the initials A.O. supposed to stand for?

  The Colonel laughed.

  Alpha and Omega, probably. Colly’s sense of humor again.

  Our Colly of Champagne, murmured the Major. Extraordinary.

  Yes, the same. And he was small and dark all right, and thin and wiry and every bit a professional. So I admit the description you brought back had me disturbed for a moment.

  The Major was even more confused.

  Why? Couldn’t he be our Purple Seven, working out of the Monastery? You said the identity was issued to him originally.

  It was, and it’s also true that he was working out of the Monastery the last time around. But those Monks in the desert have been up to something since then. Do you recall the facts concerning the kidnapping of the German commandant of Crete?

  Certainly. Did Our Colly have something to do with that?

  His show from the beginning. Thought it up and worked out the details a
nd then went along to see that it went smoothly. Well it did go smoothly, as an operation. They grabbed the commandant and walked him across the island to the south coast, and the submarine was where it was supposed to be on the night of the pickup. But that night Colly’s luck ran out. He’d been defying the law of averages for just too long.

  What happened?

  He and his group crossed tracks with a German patrol. Colly made a racket and headed up into the mountains to lead the patrol off the scent. He was shot and wounded in the darkness but he managed to keep on going, until he had to look for a place to hide toward dawn. That section of the mountains is as bare as a lunar landscape, and the only place where he could get out of sight was inside one of the underground stone cisterns the Cretan goatherds use up there, to gather the runoff in the spring when the snow melts.

  The Colonel scowled.

  On their way by, the Germans left one of their men at the cistern because he was having an attack of dysentery and couldn’t keep up, but Colly didn’t know that. Colly waited long enough for the patrol to move on across the mountain, then stuck his head out of the cistern to take a look. Shivering, numb, barely able to move. He’d been standing up to his nose in the mountain-cold water of that cistern for an hour by then. And as chance would have it, the lone German happened to be squatting on a knoll right behind Colly.

  The Colonel grimaced.

  A freak accident really, I don’t like to recall it. The startled German tossed a hand grenade and death was instantaneous for Colly. Decapitation.

  What? Our Colly?

  So the only way he could be part of these new events is if he’d been resurrected, which would certainly explain the enigmatic smile on the Armenian’s face after the explosion in the bar. If O’Sullivan had been resurrected, he’d certainly be one to smile about it.

  What?

  No, he’s dead all right. This Purple Seven isn’t Colly. There’s another Gulbenkian out there somewhere now.

  The Major recovered and thought for a moment.

  As I remember, there wasn’t any mention of a British sergeant in connection with the kidnapping in Crete.

  That’s right, said the Colonel.

  It was described by us as the work of some British officers.

  There were a couple along, yes. And we broadcast that so the Germans would stop rounding up Cretan villagers and shooting them in retaliation. Since it was army to army, we said we’d shoot German POWs if they did that, and they stopped.

  But why didn’t they mention the fact that they’d killed O’Sullivan?

  Because they didn’t know who the dead man was, said the Colonel. Colly was disguised as a Cretan mountaineer and the Germans decided to keep us guessing about whether that mountaineer was alive or not, just in case he happened to be someone who was important to us. And also, so we could never be sure what he might have told them. Is telling them, for that matter.

  The Major nodded. It was obvious to him that since the Colonel knew exactly how O’Sullivan had died, he must have a source in Crete who had reported the truth to him. Most likely a partisan, he thought, who had been following the German patrol and had witnessed the incident at the cistern from afar. But Crete was outside the Major’s area of concern, so he said nothing more on the subject.

  The Colonel, meanwhile, was pursuing a new chain of thought that struck him as curious. In fact he did have a special source in Crete who had reported the circumstances of O’Sullivan’s death, as the Major suspected, but the agent was far more valuable than a partisan in the mountains. And it was in order to protect this agent’s highly sensitive position as an apparent collaborator with the Germans, a dangerous role to attempt in a place like Crete, that the Colonel had decided not to reveal to anyone the fact that he knew for certain Sergeant O’Sullivan was dead.

  Until now, when these nostalgic reminiscences concerning Our Colly had caused him to forget himself in front of the Major.

  But before this moment he had told no one. Not even the elite intelligence unit for which O’Sullivan had been working when he went to Crete, the obscure command in the desert often referred to by the Colonel and others, in private and with some disdain, as the Monastery.

  Thus a question had suddenly occurred to the Colonel.

  How did the Monastery know O’Sullivan was dead?

  For they certainly had to know. Otherwise they would never have assigned his Purple Seven identity to another man. And yet the Monastery was unaware of the Colonel’s special source in Crete. Was there someone else, then, who could have been in touch with the Colonel’s special source without the Colonel knowing about it? One of the agents, perhaps, who had been landed in Crete by submarine since the time of Colly’s death?

  The Colonel reached for another file, then stopped and nodded to himself. There was no need to look up any names. Who, after all, had provided the Colonel with this valuable source in Crete in the first place?

  Who indeed? Stern, of course. Stern had recruited the woman soon after Crete had fallen to the Germans. She had been an acquaintance of Stern’s from somewhere over the years, and it had been Stern who had gone to her and convinced her to undertake the role of a collaborator, with all the danger and humiliation that entailed. And then not long after Colly had disappeared in Crete, Stern had managed to get himself sent there on another assignment altogether. But obviously his real purpose in going had been to find out about Colly.

  Stern must have known Colly, the Colonel now realized, from the time when Colly had been in Palestine. Perhaps they had even become close friends then, for they were the kind of men who would have been naturally attracted to one another. Colly with his resourcefulness and his many idiosyncrasies, an eccentric dreamer who was more religious than rational, who was a firm believer in the Bible and who had become an ardent Zionist while working in Palestine fired with a mystical sense of the special mission of the Jews.

  Yes. Colly would have appealed to Stern and they had probably become close friends, unknown to the Colonel and even to the Monastery. So when Colly hadn’t returned from Crete, Stern had worked out a way to get himself sent there, to find out what had happened to his friend.

  It fit, the Colonel was sure of it. It was exactly the kind of thing Stern would have done. And once in Crete, Stern must have left the safety of the mountains and taken the risk of going down into town, disguised as a Cretan mountaineer, and looked up the woman he had previously recruited for the Colonel, to learn for himself what Colly’s fate had been. And later mentioned the fact of Colly’s death to the Monastery, disguising his source.

  It fit, and it troubled the Colonel. It was a little bit terrifying sometimes to think of the chances Stern had taken. This one, for example, strictly on his own. Thinking up a plausible assignment in Crete and getting himself sent there, simply to find out about a friend. To the Colonel, there was something disturbing about that. Something profoundly puzzling and suggestive of Stern’s whole character.

  But for the moment the Colonel put aside these intriguing considerations. Before he did anything else, he had to set matters straight in his own office.

  I’m afraid I might have given you the wrong impression just now, he said, when I implied O’Sullivan had been killed. The truth is, we don’t know whether he’s dead or not. Our Colly might well be still alive in the mountains of Crete, which are extensive and rugged, after all.

  I understand, answered the Major.

  I’m sure you do. Undoubtedly you heard a lot about him as a boy, and you know there was no stopping him ever. Absolutely astonishing when you think of it. The Sergeant O’Sullivan. The noncommissioned officer of the Empire. I mean our very own, yours and mine and everyone’s Our Colly of Champagne, right? So all we can say about it now, here, is that Colly can’t be the Purple Seven who was in that Arab bar last night with Stern. And that’s all we can say in respect to Colly.

  I understand fully, said the Major.

  The Colonel paused. Another thought had come to him. He went back
to the report drawn up by the Egyptian policeman, to the information that had been copied down from the Armenian’s passport after the explosion. The physical characteristics given for the Armenian were the same as Colly’s had been. The Monastery hadn’t even bothered to change any of the entries in the passport, although they certainly would have, if there had been any reason to. Did that mean the Armenian not only resembled Colly, but resembled him exactly?

  The Major must have already noticed this coincidence of physical details.

  Did Our Colly have a brother? he asked.

  The Colonel groaned.

  Please. There’s no way we can get into that.

  Sir?

  There were an enormous number of brothers, all of them older, as I recall. Colly used to claim the reason he had so many brothers was because his father ate so many potatoes. Some kind of local superstition where he grew up. Anyway, most of the brothers emigrated to America at an early age, to someplace called the Bronx, where they became roofers or drunkards or both.

  Roofers?

  Reaching for the stars in the New World, was the way Colly used to put it. And becoming drunkards, sadly, when the stars still proved to be out of reach, even over there. But no matter. It’s an intriguing idea but it can’t lead anywhere. The Bronx is simply too far away. Even Jameson couldn’t penetrate such an exotic place.

  The Colonel shook his head.

  Stern, he muttered. The Armenian. That bar in a slum. One way or another, I don’t think they’re going to be very happy at the Monastery when I tell them about this.

  One way or another? asked the Major.

  Yes. If the hand grenade was their doing, it has to mean they intended to kill both of them. And if it really was a sordid accident, at the very least it tells them the Armenian went to Stern with what he’d learned, rather than to them. And now that Stern’s gone, the Armenian’s word is all the Monastery has about anything and everything concerning this operation of theirs against Stern…. No, I’m afraid there’s no way out of it for the Armenian. Whatever the situation, he’s in trouble.

  Perhaps we could look into it further?