The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Forty-Two

'My dear chap, welcome back to civilization after all these months Whelby extended his hand, shaking Lindsay's as he fingered the lobe of his left ear. 'I must s-s-ay you look a bit p-p-peaky.' He lowered his voice. 'I'm known to the locals as Peter Standish…'

'What brings you out here?' asked Lindsay, his expression unsmiling.

'To escort you home, of course.'

'To London, you mean?'

'That's right.'

'By what route?'

'Well if you must know now.'

'I must.'

'Back to Cairo in a couple of days, after you've rested up. Then on to dear old London…'

A uniformed sergeant of the Palestine Polite had joined them and was showing obvious signs of restlessness. He butted in on the conversation, ignoring Whelby, addressing Lindsay.

'Excuse me, my chaps are getting a bit trigger happy. We're exposed standing about here – and I'd like to get you safely to Jerusalem before nightfall…'

'Sergeant Mulligan – Wing Commander Lindsay,' Whelby introduced. 'I suppose you're transporting us to the Hotel Sharon in that old tin can…'

'Better not let Corporal Wilson hear you,' Mulligan snapped. 'Last time you referred to it as "that iron monster". Now it's become an old tin can. Maybe you'd like to know Wilson has survived three bomb attacks and has grown rather fond of his mode of transport. There are five of you, so four of you travel in the back, two on the flap seats. be driving.'

'I don't mind sitting beside you, Sergeant,' Paco offered.

'Much as I'd enjoy the pleasure of your company you're taking a back seat, if you'll pardon the phraseology. The front passenger is the dead man's seat. You've just entered a war zone.'

'I've just left one,' Paco replied pleasantly.

'So,' Mulligan informed her, 'you're entitled to all the safety you can get. Now, Mr Standish, I'm sure you won't blench at the idea of sitting alongside' me? Shall we go…?'

Lindsay was beginning to get the distinct impression that Standish was not Sergeant Mulligan's favourite person. Interesting in view of his own feelings.

Moshe watched the convoy leave the airfield and turn onto the curving road which climbed the hillside leading to Jerusalem. The armoured car first. The trail-blazer in case the road had been mined.

One hundred metres behind, the staff car followed. All five passengers aboard. The Palestine Police sergeant driving at a pace which maintained the gap. Headlights on because dusk was falling. Moshe had switched to his night glasses.

One hundred metres behind the staff car, two British Army motorcyclists protecting the rear. They could prove to be a bit of a problem. Behind them at a reasonable distance a vegetable truck took the road to Jerusalem. The driver would check the convoy's route and report later to Moshe. Halfway to the city at a turn-off the vegetable truck would disappear – to be replaced by a grocery van – driven by another member of the Stern Gang. Moshe stood up, hoisted the pack on his back and walked to the spot where he had hidden his own motorcycle.

They were driven to the barracks. There had been a brief confrontation about their destination before they left Lydda. It was Sergeant Mulligan who bluntly contradicted Whelby's idea of putting up at the Hotel Sharon.

'We've already had one murder there. The place is wide open. I can't guarantee anyone's safety.'

'Where would you suggest?' broke in Lindsay.

'Police barracks.' Mulligan had glanced at Paco. 'We can provide a separate room for the lady…'

'A hotel is a damned foolish suggestion, conditions being what they are here…'

It was Hartmann who had made the surprising intervention. He had been studying Whelby ever since they landed. Mulligan, who still didn't understand the German's presence, looked at him.

'How do you know about conditions out here?'

'We have our sources…' Hartmann left it at that.

'The barracks it is,' Lindsay had said decisively. He saw no reason to consult Whelby over the decision. The man from London had merely shrugged. Better not to press the point.

Inside the barracks they met Jock Carson who didn't ask them a single question – he could see the new arrivals were tired out after their long trip. They ' had a meal together, eating in silence, leaving half the food on their plates. Fatigue and the long months of short rations had contracted their stomachs. They dropped into their beds – another experience their bodies were not used to – and after tossing and turning for a while fell into a deep sleep from sheer exhaustion.

The following morning after breakfast Lindsay took Reader aside. To avoid being overheard they walked in the enclosed parade ground. Surrounded by two-storey buildings, they relaxed in the novel feeling of being safe once again.

'This Stein chap,' Lindsay began. 'Could we see him today? I want to off-load this diary. Mulligan says we take off for Cairo tomorrow…'

'I was stationed in Jerusalem two years ago for a few months,' replied Reader, 'so I know the place. Stein's office is only a short walk from the barracks. Mulligan's preoccupied with organizing tomorrow's flight. We might slip past the guard-post now.

'Let's get on with it.'

'Leave me to do the talking. I know how these chaps react…'

It proved surprisingly easy. Reader marched into the office alongside the exit barrier, his manner confident and firm. He already held his Army paybook showing his rank as Major, arm of service Intelligence – in his hand.

'We're going out to keep an appointment,' Reader said briskly to the guard sitting behind a desk. 'Urgent Army business. I expect we'll be back within an hour, two at the most.'

They waited while the guard laboriously copied their names in a ruled register. Their ranks. Time of leaving the barracks. Then he gestured to the guard outside who raised the pole.

'Isn't their security a bit lax?' Lindsay commented as they walked away from the barracks.

'We were going out,' Reader explained. 'So we must have been checked in properly earlier. Entering that place is a different kettle of fish altogether…'

'Mulligan will go spare if he finds out.

'Let's hope we get back before he even knows we're gone…'

Aaron Stein's office was on the first floor of an old stone, two-storey building in a side street. There was no indication on the door outside of who occupied the place. In response to Reader's rapping on the panels a Judas window was opened in the door, a pair of dark, shrewd eyes stared out and then Lindsay realized how much security Stein employed.

He counted eight locks and bolts being. unfastened before the door swung open. The same performance was repeated after they were inside. Stein's appearance surprised Lindsay. He didn't look a day over twenty. His complexion was smooth and pale, his hair dark, he was of average height and heavy build.

'Aaron, this is Wing Commander Lindsay,' Reader introduced. 'He wants to leave something in your safekeeping. I can vouch for him personally.'

Lindsay was careful to extend his hand quickly: Aaron Stein shook it with old world formality, his dark eyes studying his visitor. He seemed satisfied with what he saw.

'I am pleased to meet you, Wing Commander. This way, please, to my office.'

Inside the office a second youngster was standing waiting for them. Again Lindsay shook hands as Aaron made introductions.

'This is my brother, David. No matter how confidential your business you may talk freely in front of him. We are partners. Also, it is a precaution in your own interests. In case something happens to me.'

'I hope not…' Lindsay began.

Aaron made a deprecating gesture with his hand.

As he spoke he ushered them to. chairs. David Stein looked remarkably like his brother. One could easily be mistaken for the other. Lindsay thought for a brief moment of the scene he had witnessed when he had first arrived at the Berghof. The second Adolf Hitler practising gestures and speech, reflected a dozen times in the circle of mirrors. They said every man had his double somewhere…

'These are dangerous times,' Aaron explained. 'My brother and I fled from Romania when Antonescu and the Iron Guard took power. The Romanian version of the Nazis '

'My brother is talking about the local situation when he speaks of danger,' David interjected. 'We believe in a homeland for the Jewish people but we do not believe in violence..

'We left Romania for that reason,' Aaron continued. 'We do not like the Irgun Zvai Leumi, the Stern Gang…'

'Or even the Haganah – the Jewish Home Army,' David interjected. 'We are not liked by many of our own people because we reject violence. After the war, when Germany has lost, we may go to Antwerp – or even London…'

'Just so long as Russia does not win,' broke in Aaron. 'That is the terrible danger…'

The words poured out from both brothers. Lindsay had the impression they were glad to be able to speak freely, that normally they had to watch every word they said. Aaron made an apologetic gesture.

'We talk too much of ourselves. What can we do for you, Wing Commander?'

Lindsay showed them the diary and asked for a stout envelope. Aaron produced a very thick envelope of the type used by lawyers. Lindsay sat down at a side table, put the diary inside and sealed the envelope. Borrowing a fountain pen, he thought for a few minutes. Then he wrote with careful legibility.

Account of my visit to the Third Reich in the year 1943 and my subsequent sojourn in Yugoslavia. In the event of my death to be handed to Lieutenant Jock Carson, Section 3, Grey Pillars, Cairo, Egypt. Ian Lindsay, Wing Commander.

He handed the envelope to Aaron, returned' the pen to David and sighed. He felt as though a great' weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

'I will keep this in our safe,' said Aaron. 'Is that acceptable? Good. I see from the wording that you also feel we live in dangerous times, even here…'

'Thank you, that will be fine. Incidentally, could you give me something so if I write, asking you to hand that envelope to a courier, you will know the request does come from me?'

'My business card? I will draw on it the Star of David…'

'Good idea…' Lindsay fitted the card inside his wallet. 'If I write you a letter, as an added safeguard, I will make brief reference to the blue fountain pen I used when writing on your envelope…'

Aaron was already turning the combination on the lock of the wall-safe. Opening the door, he held up the envelope and stood aside so Lindsay could watch him place it inside. He closed the door, revolved the combination with a random twist.

'Thank you very much,' said Lindsay.

He shook hands with both brothers who regarded him closely, with a certain sadness Reader thought. Nothing more was said as they left the office. Lindsay paused in the passage. They could hear Aaron turning the locks, shooting the bolts back into place. He smiled wryly at Reader.

'There was something awfully final about that envelope going into the safe. Come on – back to the barracks…'