Season of Revenge

Acknowledgements

I thank Roy Dutton (UK), Gal Shenhav (Israel), Jack Ben-harari

(U.S.A), Paul Moody (UK), Vince Boelema (New Zealand) and
Dimitri & Cinthia Kagan (France).
Especially, I am beholden to Linda Fuchs (Germany), Marco & Joia
Dacaret (U.S.A) and Douglas & Carol Stewart (U.S.A). Without them
the gargantuan task of bringing this book to life wouldn‘t have been
possible.

Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author‘s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Leonard Oaks is a pseudonym.

ISBN

E-book: 978-85-8196-120-0

Printed: 978-85-8196-119-4

CONTACT WITH THE AUTHOR

e-mail: leo.carvalho75@yahoo.com
 Season of Revenge

EPILOGUE

November 4, 1942
The small military convoy moved with almost funereal slowness
under the flame of the desert sun. It was shortly after ten o‘clock and
the temperature already was nudging one hundred degrees. On both
sides of the unmade road, the passing scenery was a view of hell:
burnt-out tank and truck wrecks banked in mounds of loose sand;
shell-torn emplacements ringed by leaking sandbags; vultures pecking
at rotting pieces of human tissue and bloodied rags; graves marked by
rough crosses and capped with helmets.
Adding to the gruesome environment, a relentless cloud of dust
showered the khaki-clad Scots Guards sitting in the trucks and
armored troop carriers. It came from the lightweight tank leading the
column, which featured a device on its front bow that flogged the
ground with heavy chains to set off mines. The bright side of the
flying dust was that it apparently made these troopers forget about the
tormenting heat, the squadron of voracious flies in a desperate search
for moisture…or simply gave them something else to complain about.
The trail of destruction along the narrow strip of gravel lasted a full
mile. It was the results of the swirling tank battles and repeated
artillery barrages that had rained on the Italian and German forces
threatening the Allies in Egypt. As the enemy pulled back from the El
Alamein line, the Guards had been given orders to make contact with
them in order to establish the new frontline. Reconnaissance aircrafts
had seen surviving elements of an Italian motorized division in the
area they were heading, not very far from this point of the road.
It seemed to make little difference to these men, though. The
impression they‘d had from practically all Italian prisoners was that
they were just a bunch of tired, unmotivated soldiers willing to give
in. The mission therefore couldn‘t be easier. They felt confident,
almost relaxed. And lucky.
But soon they‘d find out they‘d run out of luck.
>><<
The tall, middle-aged Arab on top of a hillock sighted the motorcade
in the distance. He dropped to his knees and brought the powerful
German-issue binoculars to his face. He could well be using a
telescope, though; his left eye socket was empty, covered by scarred
eyelids roughly sewn together. He counted three Bedford trucks, a

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pair of squat Universal troop carriers and one Valentine tank. When
he recognized the pennants on the antennas identifying the convoy as
being from the Scots Guards regiment he laughed; gold-capped teeth
shone in his dark, hairy face.
A moment later he joined a small crowd of thirty-five or -six Arabs
who squatted at the foot of the hillock, impervious to the heat. Like
him, they all wore sand-colored uniforms of the German Afrika Korps
with black bandoliers strapped about their waists. Save from the one-
eyed man who had a Mauser rifle with a telescopic sight, every other
wielded an MP40 submachine gun, popularly known as Schmeisser.
In garnished scabbards hanging on their waist belts were lengthy
scimitars, and they wore leather sandals instead of boots. But what
really made them hard to be identified as ordinary soldiers was the
spidery of Arabic stenciled on their uniforms, the lusty beards, and the
black turbans on their heads.
―God has rewarded our long journey,‖ the man with one blind eye
said as his men rose. ―There‘s an enemy unit approaching. Scotsmen,
as we were told.‖
―How many of them, General?‖ one of his men asked.
―Possibly double our number,‖ the older man said, looking around at
his soldiers. ―In five vehicles––and a tank.‖
There was a moment of silence, eyes bulging in mounting tension.
―They‘re making a lot of dust with some anti-mine device,‖ the
general said. ―I believe that will be helpful.‖
―We may not have another chance,‖ another of his men said.
Muscles went taut beneath the tunics and lips pursed beneath the
beards. The hiss of the wind seemed unnaturally loud.
―I‘m sure we can make it, brothers,‖ one of the soldiers said
ravenously. The others nodded.
Their leader filled his lungs. ―Good. That‘s what I expected to hear.‖
―May God lead us to victory today, then,‖ one of his men exclaimed.
The general closed his eye and tilted up his head as if struck by
divine revelation. Then in a near whisper he said, ―He will, brothers.
He will.‖
―Allahu Akbar!‖ the strange-looking soldiers cried in unison. God is
great!
Crouching low, they scurried to the narrow foxholes they‘d dug
along one side of the road, no more than a hundred yards from it. Here
the profusion of battlefield wreckage had given place to a fringe of
drab tufts of grass, small boulders, and leafless bushes. After slipping

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into their trenches, the Arabs gave a final check on their weapons and
ammunition. Then they closed their eyes and prayed.
When the convoy was about to enter the stretch of road lined with
their foxholes, the general whistled to the man in the trench next to
his. Pointing and mouthing, he indicated that the target was one of the
squat armored carriers.
The younger man nodded acknowledgement and concentrated his
gaze at the small vehicle. In his hands was a string with knots every
five inches. In its end, resting beyond the opposite roadside over a
hundred yards away, was a Teller landmine; it had twelve pounds of
potent explosive.
He waited for the tank to pass and began pulling the line very slowly
through a narrow ditch carved across the gravel strip. He barely could
see the mine, having only the little knots on the string to estimate the
distance and then move the Teller to its exact point. In fact, the foot-
thick blanket of dust covering the ground made the mine invisible to
anyone just a few yards from it. Eyes fully open and gritting his teeth,
he gave a last tug to align the bomb to the likeliest path taken by the
nearside tracks of the slow-moving troop carrier. He held his breath.
The caterpillar squeezed the spring-loaded top lid and there was a
brutal explosion. The concussion lifted the lateral of the vehicle nearly
four feet off the ground, engulfing it in a ball of fire and crushing a
section of its tracks and armor. Two passengers died at once.
The men of the convoy started in alarm. For a brief second they
could swear that enemy anti-tank guns were booming at them. Their
sunburned faces automatically twisted with tension, the hairs on the
back of their necks standing up. Amid cries of command, the Scots
Guards took combat positions in the vehicles, cocking their guns and
searching for the enemy in the vicinities.
Crumpled up in their trenches, the Arabs could not be seen.
The other vehicles maneuvered around the burning carrier and
moved on, the crews waiting for new rounds against them any second.
But it hadn‘t been a mortar or cannon. No one had heard the firing
blast or the characteristic hiss of flying shells.
Nothing else happened. All they could hear was the sound of
engines, hot dusty wind rushing past their wary ears, and the clanking
of chains.
The commander of the tank, who had now his head out of its turret
looking around nervously, realized after a while that had been only the
explosion of a landmine. Very strange, he told himself––the

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minefields were supposedly lying still a mile or two ahead. He‘d

deployed the mechanism for detonating mines only to test it…
And the damned thing didn‟t work when it had to!
He ordered the tank driver to stop, and the four vehicles extending
rearward did the same. The burning carrier was now some forty yards
behind the last vehicle, a tendril of fume lifting up from it. Three
survivors had leaped over the side, bleeding everywhere.
The tank commander sounded an all-clear signal by a whistle that
hung around his neck. He turned around in the turret, facing the line
of vehicles behind.
―It was just a bloody mine,‖ he shouted at the top of his voice,
waving a hand in the air. ―Let‘s position ourselves near the carrier for
protection. Those lads need painkillers and bandages. Come on!‖
The drivers worked their gear sticks and started to reverse toward
the burning vehicle. The Guards relaxed a bit, most of them sitting
down again and locking the mechanism on their Enfield rifles and
Bren machine-guns. Conversation broke out and the common subject
was why that ugly, medusa-like apparatus hadn‘t set off the mine.
A hundred yards away, a second Arab soldier with a string in his
hands began the meticulous work of aligning the Teller fitted to its
end across the road. According to gestures made by the general, the
target for his mine was a truck in the middle of the column. And just
as his companion some minutes ago, he also did his job expertly.
The Bedford‘s right tail wheel rolled on the top of the mine and the
device went off. A tongue of flame raised its rear spectacularly,
throwing out most of the men that sat in the flatbed. They fell
headlong to the sand a second later, the half end of the truck set afire
by the explosion. Immediately, the other vehicles stopped moving
again.
The commander of the Valentine flung the turret hatch open and
stood in the outside. He looked furiously down at the set of steel
chains hanging on the front of his tank. This junk is completely
useless, the Scot thought angrily.
So much for English ingenuity.
Looking around, he saw that the men who‘d remained in the semi-
destroyed truck were jumping out of it to attend to their wounded
fellows and the ones in the troop carrier as well. Another group was
boldly taking ammo boxes and gas cans from the fire before they
cooked off.
―My goodness,‖ the Scot breathed. ―What a shambles!‖

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Only then he asked himself why he was down to his waist in the
open.
Sitting in his trench, the Arab general took aim through the
telescopic sight on his Mauser at him. He squeezed the trigger and the
bullet hit the tank commander through his chestbone.
The Scot never knew what hit him. He died instantly, just letting out
a gasp of pain. His limp body collapsed onto the top of the steel
cupola, and blood began to flow down the hot metal.
The solitary shot was enough to trigger panic. ―Ambush! Toss
smoke!‖ someone cried.
It took about ten seconds before the first white-smoke grenades were
thrown toward the edges of the road. Then the drivers of the
remaining vehicles put their transmissions into first, and wrenched the
vehicles aside in a dusty burst of speed. Months of skirmishes told
them to seek to disperse themselves, turning them into difficult
targets. They just couldn‘t have imagined the ambushers had seeded
the outsides of the road with Tellers––exactly where the anti-mine
device wouldn‘t reach.
Before the vehicles managed to get thirty yards away from the road,
each one had hit a mine. The two trucks left were overturned by
explosions almost simultaneously, propelling their occupants to the
outside. Some men were hurt by shrapnel, several others after being
pitched overboard. The remaining troop carrier was catapulted into air
by the detonation and grinded to wreckage. Its load of fuel cans split
open and the gasoline caught fire. In the heat, the ammunition in
wooden boxes soon began to pop like firework.
The Valentine‘s crew had lifted up the set of chains to allow the
hard-maneuvering vehicle to move faster. Without this protection, the
little tank was turned into a furnace after its caterpillars hit a mine
during its ungainly run of only fifteen yards. The two crewmen living
abandoned it in a rush through the access hatch, eyes wide open and
revolvers in their hands.
With their uniforms soaked with flaming gasoline, many Guards
writhed desperately on the ground as soon as they‘d managed to work
their way out from beneath the capsized vehicles. Howling with pain
from the deep burns, they shook convulsively as if treading water.
Some begged in agony to receive the coup de grace. Even before the
wheezing of ammunitions had silenced, the unhurt soldiers, fewer
than twenty of them, were already moving around while trying to put
out the flames that devoured their comrades with the water in their
canteens.

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Next thing they saw was several bearded men hurry toward them in
a semicircle, blazing automatic weapons from their hips. Shouts of
alarm were drowned by the roar of submachine-guns and shrill cries
in Arabic. Flying slugs whined past the ears and punched into the
bodies of the Europeans as they scrambled for their weapons. But they
didn‘t have a chance. A half minute later, save from an officer and
two privates, all other Scots had been gunned down.
Waving a handkerchief, the officer babbled two or three words in
anglicized Arabic to his captors, telling them not to shoot. His
machine-gun lay on the ground at his feet, smoke spiraling from its
muzzle. Seconds ago he‘d emptied it into two of the attackers, killing
both. The two other Scots joined him, standing on his either side, arms
raised.
They swiveled their heads around at the same time to meet the
sinister stare of a one-eyed man who‘d materialized from behind a
burning truck. The Arab shifted his gaze to his two lifeless men on the
ground and became clearly possessed with rage. At that moment the
Scottish officer came to the conclusion that any pleads were hopeless.
He was paralyzed with fear, waiting for the worst. And it did come.
The middle-aged Arab barked an order. A second later a dozen of
his men gave a long full-firing discharge at the enemy who‘d killed
their two companions; the Scot was hacked to pieces.
A smile of sheer cruelty broke out of the men‘s sullen faces as they
gazed at the ripped, bloodied torso on the ground.
The two privates on his sides had curled up into a fetal position on
the ground at the first shots. Blood and flesh had slapped against their
uniforms. For a moment they didn‘t believe they were still breathing.
They looked up at the vicious-looking men with smoking guns, and
panic showed in their faces. Then they sprang to their feet and ran for
their lives.
A pair of the pitiless men hurried after them. They brandished their
wicked-looking scimitars above their heads and gave shrill cries as
they ran around the smoldering vehicles in pursuit. When they were
close enough, they pivoted in place and threw their razor-sharp
swords from the handle toward the fleeing men. The shiny weapons
blurred in the air like chevrons and cut apart the legs of both escapers
one inch or two above the ankles. They crashed to the ground
shouting with pain, dark blood joshing out of what was left of their
legs.
The Arabs collected their scimitars and dragged the crippled Scots
by their arms back to where the others stood. Next they took two pairs

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of rusty coiffures from a bag and got the two bleeding men naked and
handcuffed on the hot earth, lying on their backs. During several
seconds the men just watched the two youths shudder and sweat and
howl.
The general stepped over. He looked down at the two prisoners
prostrated at his mercy for a long moment. The two boys gazing up at
him didn‘t have strength left even to supplicate for clemency. The
man‘s hairy face was contorted by a wild smile as he drew his
scimitar. The sunshine gleaming off the finely-tempered steel made
the two Europeans freeze in horror. One of them went breathless,
words clogging in his throat. The other gave a long gasp of terror and
fainted.
The glinting curved blade came down and savagery began. One at a
time, the one-eyed man plunged it into his stomach and made fast
revolving movements causing searing, agonizing pain. Crooning
something out of the corner of his mouth, he only was satisfied after
the boys had screamed blood. It didn‘t take much longer before they
died. Last the general beheaded each with a single forceful stroke in
the neck. His soldiers set about doing the same to every enemy they
found, already dead or dying. It seemed to give them a perverse
pleasure.
Man after man, seventy-four headless bodies lay on the ground.
In silence now, the mob of heavily-bearded men regrouped. They
knelt down around the bodies of their two fallen companions and the
vicinities were filled with a wailing prayer for a full minute.
―Is it true we mustn‘t bury our own men?‖ one of the Arabs asked
the general.
―Yes,‖ the one-eyed man said. ―It‘s part of our instructions.‖
―I can‘t believe it, sir,‖ the younger man insisted. ―Did you tell them
this is a terrible sin for us Muslims?‖
―You know how the infidels are,‖ the general said and spat on
ground.
―May God forgive us,‖ the younger Arab said, hands together and
palms upward as if in prayer.
The general made an angry face. ―Let‘s get out of here,‖ he said as
he looked up at the pillars of black smoke. ―Troops will be sent out to
investigate all this mess very soon.‖
They moved away in a route perpendicular to the road, vaulting over
bushes and stones, guns in one hand, blood-stained scimitars in the
other. After a few minutes they reached their vehicles: forty-five
Zundapp motorcycles coated in light brown painting––also new-

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looking German equipment––occulted under camouflage nettings.

Each of the swift, all-terrain machines either had sidecars attached to
it or pulled a small carriage loaded with five-gallon gasoline cans.
Guarding the Zundapps were maybe twenty more Arab soldiers, who
hailed and brandished scimitars in celebration.
“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”
As soon as the last of them had hopped onto his motorcycle, the
machines tore away at breakneck speed along a narrow track going
west. The Arabs lifted trails of dirt exploiting the 750cc of the
powerful motorcycles, and rapidly disappeared in the distance.
>><<
Thirty minutes or so later, a scouting platoon also of the Scots
Guards regiment reached the unresponding advance party. Ignoring
any dangers, they jumped off their vehicles and roamed the horrid site
among the bodies of their countrymen for several minutes. The view
of the boys pegged to the ground with signs of cruelty and covered
with layers of flies sent the ones with a weak stomach reeling and
vomiting. No atrocities against prisoners had occurred against the
British in North Africa. Axis and Allies had so far treated each other
respectfully––in a ‗war of gentlemen‘, as many on both sides used to
term the conflict––despite the battles fought with extreme violence.
The gory scene here was unbelievable, pure madness. They just
couldn‘t believe their eyes. Astonishment and anger turned them from
soldiers into amateur legists.
A vehicle was sent back to their bivouac area to fetch a photograph
camera, and plenty of shots were taken. When they figured out the
most important details of what had happened they were more than
stunned. The trick with the mines pulled by strings was of extreme
ingenuity, something never heard of. Checking the footprints, they
estimated there‘d been fewer than forty enemies––half the number of
Guards. Even so their countrymen had barely had a chance to return
fire.
―Who the devil are these bastards?‖ A young lieutenant thought
aloud as they stared down at the corpses of the dark-skinned men.
The captain on his side said, ―Askaris, for sure.‖ He meant the
African troops who fought for the Italians.
―So what about their equipment?‖ a sergeant said. ―Even their
bloody trousers came from Berlin.‖
The captain nodded pensively. ―That‘s an excellent question.‖
They stood around the fallen bearded soldiers while commenting
with churning preoccupation whether there might be more of those

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native units around. If so, a large number of such troops could well
get to balance the events of the war again. It surely would give the
Axis a new chance toward the Suez Canal and…
But it didn‘t matter for now. The subject changed as fast as it‘d
begun. All they wanted now was a chance to settle the score.

**************

November 5, 1942
Ernst Kaltenbrunner paced around his office, eyes roaming over the
objects on the shelves that lined the dark-paneled walls. Nearly seven
feet tall, the reflection of his scar-slashed face beamed back at him
from the silver-framed photographs on the top shelf to one side of his
desk.
He stopped in front of one and grinned. It showed him at the age of
twenty-two, in the library of Graz University in his homeland Austria.
From his doctorate in Law to the rank of general in the SS a lot of
very delicate choices had been made. So far all had worked out, and
he‘d been given the provisional post of Adviser of Operations in the
Reich Security Central Administration (RHSA). And if his latest bet
had the same destiny, he was sure he‘d be soon appointed chief of the
organ, controlling both the Intelligence Service (SD) and the Security
Police, which the Gestapo was part of.
A few paces to the left took him to the picture of the previous head
of the RHSA, Reinhard Heydrich. His grin was replaced by a shake of
his big, bony head. The man had to make a lot of tough decisions, too,
he thought. But he‘d been hot-blooded, impulsive, and predictable.
Kaltenbrunner shook his head again. All Heydrich had gotten from his
style of behavior was being mortally shot by enemy agents in a village
somewhere in Czechoslovakia. Such mistakes Kaltenbrunner was
determined not to commit––especially not being killed. He‘d rather
seek the unlikeliest solution, find a way to turn handicaps into power,
turn lies into truth, have his enemies suspecting and harming one
another.
Wasn‘t it exactly what the Fuehrer and Himmler did? he thought,
grinning again, looking across the room at the massive bronze bust of
Hitler in a corner.
Well, it‟s my turn now.
His hands were locked behind his back, the transcription of a
message dangling from his fingers. He rubbed one thumb on the paper

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as if to make sure it was for real. The Scottish colonel had called an
emergency meeting yesterday at British Headquarters in Cairo.
Yes, Yes!
The Austrian was excitedly sure about its reason: the ambush. The
crazy plan is about to bear fruit, he thought. The first prediction was
the vaguest of all and it‘s been confirmed.
It‟s madness! Impossible!
Kaltenbrunner took a long, thoughtful breath. Had the man who‘d
thought it out been an Arian, he could well be in his place right now,
pacing about this same office, staring at mementos of an enviable
career on the shelves. But he wasn‘t. He was an Arab: Haj Amin al-
Heusseini, the Grand Mufti, the Muslim religious leader of Jerusalem.
An unspeakable thought crooked his lips: how come a fragile-
looking, soft-speaking man who fled his country disguised as a
woman with the British army on his heels is capable of envisioning
such ideas? It mustn‘t have been for a lack of inspiration. A decade
trying to kick Jewish settlers out of Palestine surely supplied him with
loads of it.
He hadn‘t been so successful at that, though.
Hell, it doesn‘t matter, he told himself, shrugging.
The man is a genius!
Well…the German agent in the field also had a large finger in the
pie––maybe as much as Heusseini.
Fischer.
Could the success of this Machiavellian operation change his
leanings? he mused, running a hand through his receding dark
hairline. Another whim of a smile curled the corners of his mouth.
The leaders of the Reich might soon be rejoicing on a devilish plot
devised by a religious man and put into play by the least enthusiastic
Nazi secret agent…who just happened to be the best one in the SD.
That couldn‘t be better, he thought: all the glories would end up being
mine.
Exclusively mine!
This time a sly smile made the scars on his face take an ugly pattern.
What if this high gambling suddenly reversed against them? It still
was the likeliest result to consider. No problem there. He‘d already
taken his precautions. He was ready to put the blame on someone else.
That would make him able to subdue this somebody else, control this
somebody else…turn him into a fall guy in case everything goes
wrong.
Fischer.

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One of his telephones rang. There were two on the huge dark-wood
table that served as his desk: a black one for internal numbers and a
green one with a scrambled line direct to the chancellery. The one
buzzing now was the black one. He felt relieved. Neither Hitler nor
Himmler would distract him.
Not today, for God‟s sake. Not just today!
―Yes‖, he spoke into the receiver as he slouched into his stuffed
black-leather chair. ―Fine, let him in,‖ he added after his secretary
announced the man from Records.
A young chinless man in a gray SS uniform as impeccable as
Kaltenbrunner‘s came in. He saluted the general effusively. It was his
first time on his own with the likely-to-be new boss. He outstretched
one arm with the buff-colored file holder.
―Vienna, ‘38, right?‖ Kaltenbrunner said as he took the folder from
the younger man‘s hand.
―Sir?‖ the man said, startled.
―You worked in Vienna at the identification department then.‖
―Correct, General, it was I,‖ the man said with a trace of
nervousness.
―As far I can recall, you did a very good job back there,‖
Kaltenbrunner said amiably. ―And you took a degree in Law, too––
like myself.‖
The man‘s cheeks glowed. ―I‘m flattered for your remembrance,
sir.‖
―An old professor of Graz once told me all lawyers should praise
one another after an accomplishment. I think he thought of us like
some kind of brethren. Say I‘ve kept that in mind.‖
―Naturally, sir.‖
Kaltenbrunner glanced at the man‘s name tag above his chest
pocket, cleared his throat, and said, ―Lieutenant Schumann, I‘ll have
my secretary return this file to you still this afternoon.‖
―Very well, sir.‖
―There is only one little detail,‖ the general said as he lit a cigarette.
The lieutenant lifted one eyebrow. ―Sir?‖
―I want you to keep this file from Major Baltzer‘s and Captain
Stenzel‘s reach. You must wait until further instructions from me.‖
―I understand, sir,‖ Schumann said thoughtfully. They already have
copies of it, don‘t they? he pondered and elected not to ask the
question.
Kaltenbrunner noticed the man‘s thoughts behind his dubious stare.
―It means their clearance for this master document is momentarily

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suspended. As simple as that. If they should insist to have further

photostats of it or examine it in your office, tell them to report to me.‖
This time the clerk couldn‘t help asking, ―What about Colonel
Fischer, sir? He‘s been given a copy of it too.‖
The scar-faced man frowned. ―Colonel Fischer won‘t be around
before long.‖
―I understand, General,‖ Schumann said.
―This seems a bit uncommon, I believe.‖
―Yes, sir––a bit.‖
―Do you think you might have any troubles handling it?‖
The young man stiffened as if standing to attention. ―Not at all, sir.‖
―Excellent,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, inhaling fiercely at his cigarette.
―Thank you, Lieutenant. That‘ll be all.‖
―Sir,‖ the man said and left.
Kaltenbrunner listened to the silence of his office for a moment.
Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a typewritten page that
belonged to the master file lying on his desk. It‘d been there for over a
month. Thanks to the carelessness of Schumann and his workmates in,
Records its disappearance had been unnoticed. He ran his eyes down
the page and replaced it in the folder.
He lifted his phone, the internal line again, and dialed his secretary.
―Edna, would you come over, please? Thank you.‖
Ten seconds later Edna stood by his desk. A woman in her early
forties with owlish glasses, she‘d been his secretary for over one year
and a half. Yet she behaved as if they were complete strangers.
Kaltenbrunner suspected she wasn‘t fond of him.
―Please hand this file to Lieutenant Schumann and tell him not to
forget his instructions.‖
She took the folder. ―Certainly, sir. Anything else?‖
Kaltenbrunner thought for a moment. ―Um…yes. Please leave a
message to General Hanke. Tell him I‘ve found the bottle of wine we
talked about the other day, and that we should drink it at dinner
tonight.‖ He almost smiled and added, ―Needless to say the Fuehrer
won‘t join us, isn‘t it?‖
Edna‘s face shifted into a very meager smile. It was as much as
agreeing to a little joke on Hitler‘s teetotalism permitted. ―Very well,
sir. I‘ll do that after I‘ve delivered the file to the lieutenant.‖
―Thank you, Edna,‖ Kaltenbrunner said and she withdrew.
There was a pile of reports on his desk for him to read over, but his
mind was too busy for that. He dropped his cigarette into the ashtray,
leaving it smolder amid maybe forty other stubs. Next he rose and

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crossed to the window. He opened the blackout shutters and let in

daylight. The weak brightness barely made him squint. It was a
depressing familiar gray afternoon outside. The sun was a spec above
the horizon, struggling to pierce the unbroken cloud cover. He sighed,
staring four stories below at the flux of people and vehicles in the
pompous government district.
He began massaging his temples. Forecasting the possible outcomes
of the operation was beginning to cause pain along with the usual
tension. Germany could lose a lot. Fischer could lose everything. Only
he himself had something to win about it––come what may. Now he
had to see no one found out until it was finished. Easy enough, he
thought.
As for you, Colonel Robert Cameron, keep on doing exactly as the
damn Arab imagined you would!

PART 1

1
The hypnotizing Great Sand Sea dominated a large stretch of the
frontier between Egypt and Libya, beginning a hundred miles or so
from the coast. It was a monochrome, undulated carpet of pristine
sands under a cloudless blue sky; a breathtaking sight that made
mortals reflect about their smallness.
At least this had been the effect on Clive Dalton when he‘d first
been here.
Hot whip-sand lashed against the nearside of his Chevrolet truck as
he negotiated yet another dune. It happened every thirty seconds,
adding a few more grains of earth into the vehicle and irritating the
man in the passenger seat who dealt with a sun compass. Following
him were four other trucks the same model, open-bodied and in
desert-yellow paintwork. Still keeping the resemblance, each was
crammed with gasoline cans, bales of equipment, and had a heavy
machine gun mounted on a swivel.
Just like his fourteen men, Dalton wore rumpled khaki shirts and
shorts. The piece of flowing sand-colored fabric tightened to their
heads by a black chorded band was protection against the sadistic
sunshine; the same purpose of their beards. His once-pale skin had
turned so leathery that anyone could swear he was an Arab. All such
features made the gloves and the fogged-up motoring goggles look
strangely out of place on the Welshman in his early thirties with a
serious, combat-hardened expression in his hazel eyes.

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 Season of Revenge

They were a patrol of the LRDG, the Long Range Desert Group, a
team of Welsh, English and French commandos. Striking deep into
enemy territory, Dalton had led his men in guerilla-like raids against
Italian and German facilities during the last eight months, destroying
vast stockpiles and a score of airplanes still sitting on the airfield.
Along with the successful results of the havoc they raised, they‘d
gathered precious intelligence after plotting the movements of enemy
forces, helping immensely the Allied counter-attack that had taken
place on the El Alamein line.
Dalton was driving almost by instinct. His thoughts were
somewhere else, reliving events of a very recent past and making
plans for a very near future at the same time. The destruction of an
enemy storage depot near Tobruk rivaled with the prospects of
showering, eating fresh food, and having decent eight hours‘ sleep in
soft, good-smelling beds. Only a few more hours of boring trip and
they‘d get to Siwa, an oasis just retaken from the enemy that was their
newest operations headquarters. Then all the process of turning his
wishes into reality would be ignited.
He was almost smiling in his reverie when he noticed a signaling
flare rise two hundred feet into the sky a half mile to his left.
Reducing speed as he came to the top of a dune, he saw the sand sea
unfold before his eyes again, revealing the origin of the flare. He
made out a small group of four jeeps with their purple-brown
paintworks contrasting scandalously with the pale sands all around.
―Hell‘s that?‖ the navigator asked Dalton, peering off toward the
vehicles. ―Our escort party?‖
―Damned if I know,‖ the captain said, trying to hide his suspicions.
―It must be.‖
―Doesn‘t look like, though. Who else knows our itinerary?‖
―Only ol‘ Scottie, I suppose,‖ Dalton said and suppressed a curse.
Something‘s wrong, he told himself.
The answer came a few minutes later. Finding themselves fifty yards
from the smaller vehicles, Dalton recognized three men of the LRDG
leaning against one of the canvas-roofed Willys jeeps: two corporals
and an officer, all in baggy brown shorts and bush shirts, flat caps and
polished Sam Browne belts. The officer was his immediate superior,
Colonel Robert Cameron, a medium-height Scot in his forties with a
walrus moustache.
Four unknown men near another jeep caught Dalton‘s attention.
They talked among themselves for a little longer, then began
observing the newcomers very attentively. They wore sunglasses and

Leonard Oaks 15
 Season of Revenge

soft caps, olive-colored pants and matching tunics. In their hands were
bottles of what seemed lemon juice; slung over their shoulders were
Thompson submachine guns. He wondered why they had a four- or
five-day growth of stubble on their faces.
―It‘s definitely not our escort,‖ the navigator told Dalton
unnecessarily.
Colonel Cameron moved away from his jeep and waved one hand at
Dalton, who slowed his dust-clad truck to a halt next to him. Still
sitting in his vehicle, but with a bemused look now, the bearded
captain lifted his goggles to his forehead.
―What in God‘s name are you doing out here?‖ His tenor voice
betrayed genuine surprise. The absence of the word sir didn‘t seem to
bother the colonel. Then the Welshman saw the red-haired figure in
one of the jeeps smiling at him. ―And with her?‖
―It‘s important,‖ the Scot said. ―We‘ve got to talk––privately,‖ he
jerked a thumb over one shoulder and added, ―Let‘s have a walk.‖
Dalton took off his gloves and goggles, and leaped off his truck. It
was almost noon, and a tiny whirlwind filled his nostrils with hot sand
at that exact moment. He sneezed, stretched himself, and ambled away
stiff-limbed with the colonel at his side. During two minutes of fast-
paced narrative Dalton gave the report on his patrol‘s last mission.
The older man seemed very little interested in it, and soon interrupted
him.
―Got word of what‘s been happening on the frontline?‖
―On the wireless?‖ Dalton said and shrugged. ―Scarcely a thing for
the last twenty-four hours. I didn‘t have time to monitor the
frequencies, actually.‖
―Before yesterday?‖
The Welshman shook his head almost absently as he dusted himself
off; half desert seemed to be caked on his face and shirt. ―We were on
radio silence, remember?‖
―Anything from your Senoussi informers?‖ The Senoussis were the
inhabitants of Cyrenaique, the eastern province of Libya.
The Welshman lit a cigarette and shook his head again. Then he
laughed, blew out smoke, and added, ―Not a thing. They‘re not stupid;
they‘ll be lying very low till they‘re certain Montgomery won‘t be
satisfied only in kicking Rommel out of Egypt.‖
The Scot shrugged one shoulder. ―Fair enough.‖
―Tell me, then. What‘s the latest headline?‖
Cameron also lit up and took a long drag. Then he said somberly,
―Hassan Matouk and his men are back.‖

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 Season of Revenge

The Welshman couldn‘t believe his ears. ―Mussolini‘s Beasts?‖

―Um-hum.‖
Mussolini‘s Beasts had been a militia raised to run clandestine
missions in Ethiopia in 1936 in order to spare Italian blood in that
conflict. Their leader was General Hassan Matouk, a religious fanatic
who claimed that angels sent by God whispered advice into his ears
before fighting His enemies. They were initially trained and armed by
the Black Shirts––the Italian stormtroops equivalent to the German
Waffen SS. Most were Libyans and Somalis, but a good number of
them had been recruited in other countries of Africa and the Middle
East. Matouk‘s greatest––and truly outstanding––achievement was to
have put together Shiites and Sunnis under the same flag. The militia
was finally dismantled after having been accused of murders in
Tunisia in nineteen-forty.
―That‘s preposterous,‖ Dalton said, mists of disbelief shrouding his
eyes. ―Everyone knows the Italians sent them to prison two years ago;
and they‘re still there.‖
―Not anymore, trust me,‖ the Scot said, his expression shifting.
―They ambushed and massacred an advance party of Guardsmen.
There was a pair of those worms lying dead there alongside the
decapitated corpses of our men.‖
Dalton shook his head. ―There must be something wrong. This is
absurd,‖ he said, flicking his cigarette away. ―I‘m sure Rommel
wouldn‘t let those criminals leave prison.‖
―I‘m saying they‘re back, Clive!‖ Cameron exclaimed testily.
―Those swine coifed and quartered the men who‘d apparently
surrendered.‖
The colonel flung his cigarette away and paused to regain his breath.
He was transpiring anger. ―I also thought the Krauts hated them. But
the shitty assassins were armed to the teeth with Schmeissers, Teller
mines, and even battledresses postmarked Germany.‖
Dalton was stunned. As he opened his mouth to say something, the
colonel put up a hand and spoke on, ―That‘s why I‘m here. You got a
new assignment: your patrol will track down those maniacs––and
clean them up. Montgomery himself has ordered me here to hand it
out personally. His position is pretty clear: we won‘t tolerate such
things.‖
―So this is a reprisal…blood for blood?‖
―No, it‘s no more than a normal sneak raid,‖ Cameron said, arms
folded in front of him. ―If you agree, they should serve as an
example.‖

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 Season of Revenge

Dalton grinned wryly.

This is the purest vengeance.
―So be it,‖ Dalton said. ―The Beasts have been, in absentia,
sentenced to death,‖ he raised one fist and gave a Caesar thumbs-
down. ―All I need now is a motor-rifle battalion to go and get rid of
them.‖
―It‘ll be a lot more simple than that,‖ Cameron said, ―Everything
you‘ve got to do is spot their headquarters for an air raid. No sense in
attacking them by yourselves.‖
―You said an air raid?‖
―Exactly. Two Hudson bombers and a couple of tons of ordnance.‖
―Pity. We‘ve got C-3 enough to blow half Tripoli off. Any idea as to
their whereabouts?‖
―Absolutely,‖ Cameron nodded to someone behind the Welshman,
and a tall, sunglassed woman in her late-twenties came up to them.
Her red hair was drawn back into a tight bun, in neat military
accordance with the short-brimmed cap on her head. She wore a khaki
uniform, her generous bosom stuffing the four-pocket tunic, long
pinkish legs protruding from the skirt. She wasn‘t exactly beautiful or
sexy, but her manly attitude made men wonder what was hiding
beneath it. And most of them would hardly take any notice of the
buff-colored file holder in her hand.
―Clive,‖ she told him by means of greetings and lifted the sunglasses
from her freckled, upturned nose. Her cat-like green eyes seemed to
scream with happiness. ―Good to see you in one piece.‖
―You know you shouldn‘t be here, don‘t you?‖
―It‘s an emergency,‖ she said and pocketed her glasses with a
sudden, deliberate thrust conveying annoyance.
―That‘s not a good excuse, Cathy.‖
She let out sigh of defeat. Lieutenant Catherine Nowell was a
communications specialist from Military Intelligence, attached to the
LRDG three months back in preparation for the information-gathering
tasks for the Allied counter-attack. She and Dalton shared the facts of
being Welsh and having lived in the same neighborhood in Cardiff,
which had given them motif to become close friends.
She cleared her throat. ―Let me show you this,‖ she took a bunch of
blown-up photographs from the file holder and handed him. ―A
reconnaissance aircraft flying over the caravan routes spotted them six
or seven hours after the ambush.‖
In the first pictures Dalton could easily make out fifty or so turbaned
men riding potent motorcycles. The next ones showed them boldly

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 Season of Revenge

brandishing swords at the airplane that circled above their heads. ―The
bloody psychopaths were waving to the plane. Where were they
heading?‖
―West,‖ she said. ―Apparently for the Gulf of Syrte.‖
The three last pictures weren‘t from the plane‘s camera. They
showed two of the militiamen lying dead next to the headless bodies
of Scottish soldiers. The Welshman‘s head fall back. ―I can‘t believe
it‘s happening again,‖ he mumbled as nausea swept over him.
Cameron and Catherine swallowed hard. They knew exactly what he
meant. Back in 1938 British forces had had to intervene on a wave of
riots in Palestine, in which Arab gangs had murdered dozens of
Jewish settlers. Dalton was at the time in army intelligence in Haifa,
and had hunted down many of the gang leaders––some of them
members of the militia created by Mussolini. The price for Dalton was
having his wife murdered by an unknown fanatic the same year in
retaliation.
―This is strange, very strange,‖ Dalton said, staring blankly at
nowhere.
Cameron slapped his shoulder. ―So let‘s make it simple, my friend.
Go and find their base, flash us their location. Then the Hudsons sort
them out, and everyone‘s happy.‖
Dalton shot him a look of incredulity. ―My men have been on the
move for six days. They‘re drained. Why don‘t you send McCrea or
Taylor?‖ They were the commanding officers of the two other LRDG
patrols.
―No chance. They‘re back in Cairo already.‖
―Call them back.‖
―It‘d take ages. And Monty wants it done within the next few days.‖
Dalton made an angry face. ―It‘s not fair––and you know it‘s true.‖
He met Catherine‘s eyes, and she instinctively gave him a sheepish
it‘s-not-my-fault look.
Dalton rubbed his bearded face with a slight gesture of desperation.
The older man went on, ―I personally believe it‘ll be a milk run. You
and the lads can handle this thing like no one else.‖
―Why?‖
―Because no one‘s got a better knowledge on those fiends than you.‖
―That‘s why I‘m not willing to take it.‖
―For Christ‘s sake, man! They‘re the same type of criminals that
murdered Samara. Why are you trying to refuse this mission?‖

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 Season of Revenge

―Because I try and play soldier––not some blood-thirsty justice

maker.‖ Dalton paused and added, ―And you may stop using my
wife‘s memory to change my mind.‖
There was a moment‘s silence.
The colonel stroked his moustache. ―I know you‘ll never quit
behaving as a soldier out there,‖ he said. His next step should be to
apologize about the mention of his wife‘s killing, but he simply didn‘t
know how to phrase it.
The Welshman shook his head. ―Is there any plausible reason for
this operation to be carried out in such a hurry?‖
Cameron nodded at Catherine. She cleared her throat and said,
―General Montgomery is afraid they succeed in more ambushes, and
that it be used as propaganda by the enemy. It‘d probably influence
the pro-Nazi groups in Egypt to rally around them.‖
Dalton looked deep in her eyes. ―Fine. But what do you think?
What‘s your theory?‖
―To begin with,‖ she said, ―They might have their Egyptian
collaborators sabotage our troops to lessen the pressure on Rommel as
they retreat to Tobruk. It‘ll take a few days before the Nazi
propaganda machine starts working on the militia‘s feats on the
shortwave broadcasts from Berlin.‖
―You must agree it makes sense,‖ Cameron said. ―And it is urgent.‖
―Damn!‖ The Welshman took a deep breath and sighed ―All right,
where do we start?‖
―As I‘ve told you,‖ Cameron said, his voice conveying relief, ―the
cunts were seen heading for the Gulf of Syrte. Use your informants on
the way and pinpoint their location to Siwa. We‘ll be there waiting
up.‖
―There‘s one more thing,‖ Dalton said. ―We haven‘t got much of
water and our petrol is low.‖
―No problem there. Everything‘s already arranged,‖ said the colonel.
He glanced at his wristwatch and added, ―A transport is ready to
parachute-drop provisions.‖ He glanced at the Welshwoman. ―Cathy,
have you got it?‖
―Oh, yes,‖ she said and handed Dalton a scrap of paper with the
drop zone‘s geographical coordinates and the contents aboard the
aircraft. ―We just need to radio the orders to Kufra and the plane will
get there within three hours.‖ Kufra Oasis was the LRDG‘s previous
base of operations, nearly four hundred miles deeper in the Sahara.
The colonel nodded toward the four men leaning against one jeep
and said, ―Those lads will reinforce your team. They‘re from

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 Season of Revenge

the…er…the First Special Service Force––US Army. The Yanks are

planning to have their own band of gypsies behind enemy lines in a
very near future.‖
―This information is obviously classified,‖ Catherine put in.
Dalton glanced in their direction. ―What should I do about them––in
practical terms?‖
―Give them a chance to be useful,‖ the Scot said with a half shrug.
―On-the-job training, as the Yanks say.‖
―Marvelous! You‘re giving me a squad of neophytes,‖ Dalton
sneered. ―All use I can think for them is as sentries. And I don‘t need
anyone else to pull guard duty.‖
―Sentries? Clive, those men are elite soldiers. While you were on
your last mission, they were in Alexandria, training hard. I spent a
couple of days observing them. They‘re really fast learners.‖
Dalton gave a sigh and Cameron went on, ―Three of those blokes are
perhaps the best shooters I‘ve ever seen. And the other one, their
commanding officer, is as smarty and self-important as you. Oh boy, I
even suspected you lads might be relatives.‖
―It‘s the first time I see you advertising anything,‖ Dalton said,
shaking his head.
―Give them some credit, will you. And they are reinforcing your
team.‖
―Are they aware of the raid yet––and of the Beasts?‖
Cameron nodded. ―With all details I could give them.‖
―All right,‖ Dalton said with a sigh. A hundred feet away, his men
had dismounted their trucks and were rubbing their backs and talking
animatedly with the corporals who‘d come from base. Dalton made a
face. Soon he‘d been delivering them bad news. Couldn‘t I really have
refused this job? he wondered. He felt a twinge of guilt. Then he
looked at Cameron.
I know! You suggested Montgomery what should be done in return
to the killing of those Scots Guards, didn‟t you, old friend? It‟s so you.
You‟ve done things like that before. The whole army knows. Even the
enemy knows!
―Shall I introduce the Americans to you now?‖ Cameron said.
Dalton shook his head. ―No, give me a minute. I want to have a
word with my crews first.‖
―Yes, of course,‖ the Scot said. ―They‘re untitled to protest a little,
too.‖

Leonard Oaks 21
 Season of Revenge

The colonel turned aside to share a conspiratorial wink with

Catherine, but he was unheeded. The girl was biting her lip and
staring at Dalton‘s back with a worried frown as he walked away.

**************
2
The slender Libyan boy had turned eighteen. The year was 1907.
Shy and lost amid six illiterate siblings––only he could read in the
whole family––he decided his only way out from under the shadow of
mediocrity was leaving the impoverished small village. Supported by
his father, he sailed to Istanbul to join the Ottoman army.
Things still wouldn‘t become easy for him. The outboard with
several other recruits from North Africa capsized in the Bosporus
minutes after setting away from the ship; he was the only to survive.
His days in the army weren‘t any joy, either. On fighting against the
British he soon knew his role in it: cannon fodder. He saw all his best
friends die in action.
After the war he returned in defeat and humiliation to his village to
learn that his entire family had died from typhus. He fainted and was
brought back to consciousness with an angelical voice in his head
saying there was a reason for his being spared death so many times:
he‘d been chosen for a mission––a mission in the name of God!
I‟m Your tool, I‟m Your voice.
Save from what he judged a revelation, very little from that time
remained in Hassan Matouk‘s thoughts. His mind was full of other
worries as he looked down at the town of El Agheila. War had swept
through it in two explosive waves over the two last years. Most of the
colorless buildings had been splashed with shrapnel and bullets or
bombed to rubble. Rusty tanks bearing shell bursts rested in piles of
scorched stones and spent cannon cases. Open sewers debouched into
shell-made craters; every other large hole was filled with garbage and
dung.
Before a third battle occurred, the locals enjoyed their normal life:
vagrants, camels, elderly donkeys, and skinny goats fought for space
in the unpaved, filthy streets; urchins wearing rags and grubby
beggars milled around Italian and German soldiers; strident oriental
music blared from radios in maximal volume; men sat in the cool
shades of trees smoking their hubble-bubbles as their heavily-clad
wives carried sacks of grain and fruits on their heads and their
malnourished children embroidered cushions; cafés spilled out into
the streets permeating the air with strong smells of cooking food.

Leonard Oaks 22
 Season of Revenge

Matouk was standing at the balcony of the administration building

of an abandoned tannery. He seemed a king surveying his kingdom as
the wind played with his loose-fitting tunic. Better than that: he felt as
powerful as a king. He also was feeling rejuvenated, energized, as if
bursting with a second youth. It was a throw back to his most glorious
days, he sensed. Now he was a soldier again. But this time, he
pondered, I‘m a soldier aware of his real enemies.
And aware of betrayals!
He‘d chosen this building on a corner of the town for it was on an
elevated ground. It was a basic military rule: to sight the incomers on
the horizon. Soldiers––the real ones––never forget things like that, he
told himself. He inflated his chest. The thought gave him a sense of
extreme confidence, authority, and…
He suddenly brought a hand to his empty eye-socket, cupping his
palm over the ugly eyelids covering it. For a split second he could bet
he was seeing through it again. But he wasn‘t. A flash of memory
made him wince and rub the scarred flesh. For another split second
the pain was there again, the blood, the fingernails stabbing at it.
Breathing hard, he gritted his gold-capped teeth and slammed a fist on
the sill of the balcony.
You whore! You Godless whore!
At that moment a weather-beaten Kubelwagen jeep drew up to the
shade of the tannery‘s front. Matouk recognized the uniforms and the
ranks on their shoulders and remained observing them curiously. The
four men inside were two low-ranking Afrika Korps officers and a
pair of sergeants of the Italian air force. His ominous-looking figure
soon attracted the attention of the small group of men in the vehicle.
But after a while they seemed to forget about him and climbed out.
Then they laid out their midday meal on the car‘s hood: sausage,
bread, and tea. After a short conversation they set about eating like
starved tigers.
Matouk made a face of disgusted disapproval. Westerners, he
reflected while fingering his prayer beads, the threat you pose against
my way of life is soon to be dealt with! To him, save from some
political divergences, British, French, Russians, German, and Italians
were exactly the same. They were similarly dangerous mindsets.
Equal rights for both men and women––never! Universal suffrage––
unacceptable! Science and prosperity for everyone––a trick of Satan
to lure Muslims! Technological evolution––a dangerous
matter!…unless it provides means for a holy war.
Telecommunications––the most perilous offspring of

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 Season of Revenge

technology!…unless it may help us broadcast calls for a holy war or

disseminate the mania of killing Jews.
Jews––the worst creatures on earth! How come a civilization born
in the same cradle of Islam dares to flirt with science, democracy,
equality, and prosperity?
He spat on the floor, turned around, and went across the decaying
building to the window opposite the balcony. It overlooked the
tannery‘s courtyard, a collection of rock vats that looked like pre-
historical bathing tubs. Goat and camel skin used to be dipped there in
chemicals and scraped off. The locals had told Matouk the place had
been out of use for nearly three years, since the outbreak of the war,
but it still reeked of rotting animal flesh. Not that it seemed to bother
his men.
Thirty or so of them were scattered all over the courtyard, sitting on
rugs or bedrolls. Some ate pita bread and dates; others checked and
oiled their black-anodized guns. A few sharpened their gleaming
scimitars as a group next to them devoured a meal of boiled camel
testicles and tomatoes from a common plate. A pair lying in a vat
stenciled additional verses of the Koran on their German-made
uniforms. The rest contented themselves in memorizing the surahs,
the chapters of their holy book. He could tell the day he‘d tested their
courage before joining the militia; he‘d made every one of them prove
worthwhile with stick jousts, making them leap over fire, bite off
heads of living snakes and chicken…
And none wavered!
Shiites and Sunnis.
This! Matouk burned with the thought, this was what the West
should be forcibly brought into: a world of unquestioning obedience.
Already men like himself––the ones who were able to listen to God‘s
wishes and advice––could have the privilege of comfort, wealth,
information, and freedom of action.
Was it what had lacked the Ottoman army? The most supreme of
purposes to die for: God? Yes! And the guidance of blessed men––
like myself? Yes!
Matouk shook his head in contempt. The one good thing at having
being in the Ottoman army was the opportunity to meet Haj Amin al-
Heusseini, his commanding officer for a whole year. He suddenly
froze at an old questioning: was it really a privilege to have met the
Mufti? To have being following him ever since? Doing the dirty job
for him? He left me in dire straits to cover his misdeeds once…would
he do that again? Or instead would he be willing to recompense me?

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 Season of Revenge

I‟ll soon find out.

May God guide my way on this hard journey, he murmured while
putting his prayer beads into feverish motion. Then he walked into his
command post.
It was the biggest compartment in the building, which had once
served as the tannery‘s storeroom. His oversized prayer rug dominated
the center of the tiled floor, the whitewashed walls badly in need of a
new coat of color. There was no table or desk. However, Matouk had
an impressive set of wooden boxes brimming with issues of Italian
newspapers, encyclopedias, small-scaled maps of the whole of North
Africa. He also had scattered about the room maybe a hundred pounds
of Italian army documents he‘d hidden in an oaken trunk he‘d buried
before he was sent to jail in 1940.
But now the wooden slab with plated iron slats in a corner of the
room held something else.
He remembered the soldiers in the Kubelwagen and his thoughts
reverted to the menace they represented. He shook off the thought and
concentrated on the urgent matters. A vital phase of the operation was
about to take place. Any moment a fatality of destiny could either help
or maybe ruin everything.
In an alcove at the back of the room, a man sat at a small, worm-
eaten pine desk. There were two radio transmitters about the same size
in front of him: a Tornister type for field communications and a
Telefunken for short wave transmissions; the aerials cooped around
the walls made it possible for the latest to keep in touch with Berlin.
The man in charge of communications didn‘t keep any resemblances
with the rest of the men in the tannery. He didn‘t wear a beard; his
face was clean-shaven, instead. He wore a gray SS field-jacket with a
swastika armband in lieu of a light-brown Wehrmacht/Afrika Korps
type; his divisional collar patch showed an arm holding a Scimitar
over a swastika. In place of a turban he had a fez bearing the death's
head and eagle of the SS. And his skin was white and his eyes were
gray.
Mohamed Kodro had been the very first Muslim Bosnian officer
recruited by the Mufti of Jerusalem. Two months ago, Haj Amin al-
Heusseini ranked Kodro as a captain and intelligence officer of the
yet-to-be Handschar mountain division of the Waffen SS. They were
to revive the Bosnian-Herzegovinian infantry regiments of the
Austrian-Hungarian army from 1894 to 1918. Their immediate task:
fight the Yugoslavian guerrillas and exterminate all Jews in both the

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 Season of Revenge

Balkans and Hungary. Within the next months the Mufti was going to
select and coordinate another ten or fifteen thousand like him.
At least that was what the Germans had promised, Matouk thought.
A series of snarling shouts echoed from the street. Voices speaking
in German and Arabic were mingled in a hot swap of bad language.
Matouk hurried out of the room. Kodro sprang up from his desk and
trailed after him. They stood in the balcony and watched down at the
melee.
The two German officers who had been eating with their Italian
colleagues were now standing between the motorcycle ridden by one
of Matouk‘s man and the tannery‘s front gate. As far as Matouk could
understand the gestures, the Germans were questioning about the
sacks of potatoes piled in the sidecar of the bike. The general knew
where those had come from: stolen from a relief kitchen ran by
German personnel in the opposite corner of the town.
―I‘ll fix it, General,‖ Kodro said in an imperfect Arabic and moved
to the stairway that led down to the gate.
―This I want to see,‖ the Arab murmured as he continued staring
angrily at the blond-haired Germans who confronted his man. Now
the Europeans seemed to be trying to know why that man was wearing
Afrika Korps fatigues and had a Zundapp motorcycle.
But the scene didn‘t last long. Kodro burst through the gate and
browbeat the inquisitors with his identification tag, a short exchange
of barked words, and a sheet of typewritten paper. The blond men
went apparently scared. They gave Kodro a puzzled look, nodded, and
turned away without a word. Only then the motorcycle drove into the
building.
―Impressive,‖ Matouk murmured as he leaned against the sill of the
balcony. He speaks just like one of them, he thought, and behaves just
like one of them.
He is one of them!
Seconds later Kodro was back at his alcove, sitting on his stool and
trying to control his breathing. He tapped a finger on a small map
unfolded across one half of the desk and mouthed something to
himself. Next he reached for the bigger transmitter and twirled a dial.
Matouk stood behind him in total silence, watching the man with a
detached hostility. ―Good job out there, Captain,‖ he said after a
while.
The man whipped around on his seat. ―Sir?‖
―You dealt very well with your countrymen.‖

Leonard Oaks 26
 Season of Revenge

―They‘re not my countrymen, General. Those men are German; I‘m

Bosnian.‖ He spoke very slowly. The day they were introduced in
Tripoli, Kodro had apologized for his halting Arabic and explained
Matouk he‘d been having conversation lessons with the Mufti‘s aids
only for the last few months.
―Oh yes, I forgot. Anyway…I hope that‘ll make you more popular
among the men.‖
Kodro cleared his throat. ―I never really thought about that, sir.
Should I be worried?‖ It came immediately back to him the ire in
Matouk‘s men when they were told by him the words „Gott mit uns‟
engraved in the back of their gunmetal belt buckles meant ‗God‘s with
us‘. The word ‗God‘ in any other language than Arabic was an offense
to them. As a result, the belts were replaced by strings.
Matouk‘s face showed sudden rage. ―That should be your least
preoccupation right now, to be frank.‖
―I don‘t understand, General.‖
―Two of my soldiers were martyred during the ambush, and we
weren‘t supposed to bury them. It was very difficult for us to follow
such instructions.‖
―I know what you mean, sir.‖ There was a long moment‘s silence.
Then Kodro went on, ―But it really was necessary. We couldn‘t miss
any chances to be identified.‖
Matouk‘s anger seemed to increase. ―We came across a British
reconnaissance aircraft and posed for photographs like idiots––as
instructed. That should‘ve been enough.‖
The Bosnian opened his arms in defeat. ―No one could‘ve predicted
such thing might happen so soon.‖
―Nor that any of my men would be killed.‖
―I don‘t know what to say, General. It was the Grand Mufti‘s idea––
‖
―I can‘t believe it,‖ Matouk hissed. ―Moreover, the Mufti wouldn‘t
be so stupid; he‘d have set this operation in motion in time to prevent
Rommel from being kicked out of Egypt.‖
―But it was, sir. It was one of his many instructions to me.‖
―Really? Do you have those in written?‖
―Of course, sir.‖ Kodro fished a sheaf of papers in a carton box at
his feet. Each contained several lines of handwritten messages spaced
widely apart, which meant they‘d been decoded from Morse code. He
handed them to the Arab. ―These are signals from the Mufti‘s bureau
in Berlin. At the top of the pages you‘ll find his call sign––‖
―What language is this?‖

Leonard Oaks 27
 Season of Revenge

―German, sir.‖
―I can‘t read German.‖
―I could translate it if you‘d like me to, General.‖
Matouk let out a strange chuckle. ―Your German seems to be
perfect, huh?‖
―More or less. I moved to Berlin in February, sir. I went there to be
instructed on field communications.‖
―Um-hum. Something tells me you had an easy adaptation.‖ He
looked into the man‘s eyes as if scanning for the slightest evidence of
his lying. He fixed his gaze on the light gray irises around the black
pupils and…
The loudspeakers from the mosque sounded. The muezzin began
summoning the worshipers for the third prayer of the day. Matouk
turned around and left the alcove. He returned dragging a pair of rugs.
The Arab said, ―Are you a true believer?‖
―Naturally, sir. Otherwise the Mufti wouldn‘t have selected me,
would he?‖
―I think I‘ve never seen you pray.‖
―But I have, sir. I do my prayers right here.‖ He looked about the
alcove in search of his prayer rug, which wasn‘t there. ―It‘s just that
I‘m busy all the time with my work...I‘m afraid I can‘t afford joining
you and the men.‖
―Very good. We‘ll pray together, then––right here.‖ He realized that
Kodro had swallowed hard. Matouk gestured to the rug on his left.
―Take it, brother.‖
―It‘s an honor, sir.‖
They kicked off their shoes and adjusted the rugs so that they
pointed toward Mecca. Then they touched both ears with their hands,
and clasped them in front of their chests, the left inside the right. Next
they bowed, and then knelt down.
Kodro realized Matouk was observing him and almost hesitated.
Then he touched his forehead to the floor at proper moments, and
began reciting in Arabic as a child declaims a difficult poem, ―In the
name of God, the merciful and compassionate, praise belongs to Him,
the Lord of the worlds…‖
The Arab continued observing him until the prayer was finished.
―How did I go, General?‖ the European asked.
The Arab nodded positively, but didn‘t have time to answer. There
was a series of blips on one of the radio sets; a message was coming
through.

Leonard Oaks 28
 Season of Revenge

Kodro sprang up, sat at the desk, plugged the earphones into the
transmitter, and put them around his head. He tapped
acknowledgment on the Morse key and the blips resumed soon
afterward. He began scribbling it down on a yellowed notebook with a
pencil.
―Report from the men at Abyad, sir,‖ Kodro said while writing.
Matouk sensed something was wrong. ―Have they run into any kind
of problem there?‖
―So it seems,‖ Kodro said, sweat breaking out of his forehead.
Matouk was growing impatient. The Bosnian was having difficulties
to understand the Morse code version of the words in Arabic. ―I‘m
still waiting,‖ the Arab said after a while.
When the transmission was over, Kodro ripped the page off the
book and handed it to the general.
Matouk read it and exhaled a lungful of air through his nostrils.
―Is it going to interfere with the plans, sir?‖ Kodro asked, clearly
preoccupied.
―No, it mustn‘t make any difference at all,‖ Matouk said, and
screwed up the piece of paper into a ball while letting out a sigh.
I‟m Your tool, I‟m Your voice…and may everyone always believe it.

**************
3
Clive Dalton joined his bearded, brown-skinned men who stood in a
circle drinking peeping-hot tea in the glaring sun. He was given a mug
with the drink and said with a smile, ―I‘ve got good news, chums.
We‘re going back to work––right away.‖ He passed Cameron‘s orders
on.
For a long moment the exotic, villainous-looking commandos
laughed spiritedly, thinking that had been a joke. The tall captain was
very charismatic among his disciples, a magnetic figure who seemed
to give them great confidence. But as he retransmitted the details of
the new task, his laughing subordinates suddenly got aware he meant
business. The air of insouciance was dispelled. They all knew the
reputation of the fanatics in these private armies by what had been
done to the Ethiopians, the Jews in Palestine, and, most importantly,
to Dalton‘s wife. The smiles disappeared from their mouths rapidly,
some mumbling discreet protests.
―It‘s an order from Monty,‖ Dalton said apologetically, ―a lovely
first-class incursion handed especially for us. Seek and get the Beasts,
this simple. With a little of leg work, though. The basic thing is to

Leonard Oaks 29
 Season of Revenge

pinpoint their position to some bombers. And then we kill the remnant
by ourselves, if necessary.‖ He realized he had used kill with total
impassivity.
The fourteen bearded men growled collectively in protest.
―I‘m sorry, mates, really,‖ Dalton said. ―But we‘ll have extra help,‖
he pointed to the four soldiers standing together near the jeep with
Cameron. They were catching their gear at this precise instant,
nodding to the Scottish colonel‘s instructions, apparently on the eve of
moving off.
―Those four fellows over there are Americans,‖ the Welshman said.
―They‘re coming to give us a hand. They received good training in
Alex…‖ he paused, as if not knowing what else to say, and then said,
quoting Cameron, ―Let‘s give‘em a chance to be useful, all right?‖
There was a long moment‘s silence.
One of the troopers shook his head and lit a cigarette. As he stood
with his back to the Americans, who lingered close to the jeep, he
said, ―That‘s unbelievable. We‘ll be nannies of four daft Yanks.‖ He
thought for some seconds, tossed the match away, and blurted out
loudly, ―Have they at least discovered they ain‘t in Arkansas––or in a
bloody Far West film?‖
None of the other fourteen men laughed; they only snickered
discreetly. It was because one of the Americans, a medium-height
man of about twenty-five, had discreetly approached them without
being noticed by the one who was speaking. And he‘d heard the joke.
―You can bet we know we‘re not in Arkansas, buddy,‖ the American
said affably with a New York quip, addressing the British with the
back to him. ―Much less in a film.‖
Edward Collins was a Second-Lieutenant, his surname and rank on
white letters in a carmine tab sewn to the front of his tunic. On red
shoulder patches in the shape of arrowheads were the words USA and
CANADA.
As the lean Englishman turned to Collins, looking surprised, the
American had a mirthless grin crossing his unshaven face. Collins
realized the other commandos were smothering laughs.
Collins turned to Dalton, introduced himself after a book-perfect
salute, and reached out to shake hands. ―I believe Colonel Cameron
has explained you the reason we‘re here, sir,‖ the American said as
they shook hands.
Still embarrassed because of his man‘s joke, Dalton tried to act
normally. ―Yes, yes. I‘m still surprised, I must confess. Maybe a little
less than you lads at seeing with whom you‘re going to have a ride.‖

Leonard Oaks 30
 Season of Revenge

The American gave a broad smile of agreement. ―Well,‖ he cleared

his throat. ―We‘re in four, as you must‘ve noticed, sir,‖ Collins said as
he took off his soft cap with the other hand, revealing his close-
cropped light brown hair. ―Are we going to be distributed in the trucks
or something?‖
―Yes, good idea. Each one of you will ride in a different vehicle,
then,‖ Dalton said, trying to sound friendly, but with vestiges of a dry
note remaining in his voice. ―I think it‘ll be more…how shall I put
it…didactic for you lads this way.‖
―Great,‖ Collins said with several nods, stealing looks at the
suspicious-looking British and French commandos around him.
―Please join me in my Chevy,‖ Dalton said while peering at the red
tab on the American‘s tunic, ―Lieutenant Collins,‖ he completed
solemnly.
―Thank you, sir. I was counting on it,‖ the American said. ―I‘m
sorry if I sound too formal. Colonel Cameron told me it‘s not the
LRDG style.‖
Dalton smiled briefly and said, ―Yes, that‘s quite right. What else
did he tell you lads besides to stop shaving?‖
The American shrugged and unconsciously looked over the
Welshman‘s mottled clothes and the grubby head-cover the Arabs
called gutra. ―Well, he said something like we weren‘t supposed to
look like Egyptian tramps if we didn‘t want to.‖
Dalton burst out laughing. ―Very good,‖ he said, and slapped the
American on the shoulder as if he knew him a long time.
The American put up a defensive hand. ―I‘m just repeating his
words.‖
―I know, mate, I know,‖ Dalton said, noticing the men around him
were still smiling.
―Welcome to Rommel‘s backyard,‖ one of the commandos said.
―Yes,‖ Dalton added, not grinning anymore. ―I‘m sure you‘ll love
it.‖
The initial unfriendly reception was gradually being left behind as
soon as introductions began to be exchanged. The commandos hopped
back into their trucks inviting feverously the three Americans left to
join them. Only the French crew didn‘t do that, for their truck was the
one carrying the biggest load of equipment.
The Americans were Collins and three sergeants, the four of them
armed with Thompson submachine guns and Colt.45 pistols. They
also had leather cases housing double-bladed commando knives,

Leonard Oaks 31
 Season of Revenge

pouches with ammunition and grenades, canteens at their waist belts,

and backpacks with extra equipment and supplies.
Collins was an urbane man, a refined, highly-scholar soldier
graduated at West Point military academy. But the sergeants under his
command, three beefy men of nearly thirty, were individuals not that
sophisticated: Anthony Palmer had been a hunter and lumberjack in
Oregon, while John Keyes and Craig Barrett had been Patrolmen in
Texas. Since last July, these and several others just like them from the
United States and Canada had been recruited and endured six weeks
of intensive training at Fort William Henry Harrison, Montana, to
compose the First Special Service Force. The most perilous tasks of
the war waited for them. Their commander, Colonel Robert T.
Frederick, thought these four men in Egypt just needed a ‗final
polish‘.
Goggles around his neck, a Welsh trooper with a reddish beard
smoked a pipe at the steering wheel of his rugged Chevrolet. He gave
a searching look at the fleshy-faced American who‘d been invited to
climb into his truck––John Keyes.
The Welshman pointed to the weapon in the hand of the American
and said, ―That‘s the new version of the Tommy Gun, ain‘t it?‖
The Texan nodded with a grin, ―Yep,‖ he said and lifted the gun in
one hand.
―We‘ve got its older version,‖ the pipe-smoking man said, and
tapped his own. They used the 1921 model with a 100-drum magazine
and a double-grip; the weapon itself was some three pounds heavier
than the one in Keyes‘ hands.
Keyes said with a Texas prairie twang, ―That drum makes the gun
kinda cumbersome, don‘t it?‖
The Welshman blew a cloud of pungent smoke drawn from the
tobacco burning in his pipe and smiled. ―Yes, but it‘s very
intimidating, too, my friend,‖ he said, and jerked a thumb to the
machine gun mounted on his truck. ―We‘ve also got your .50-caliber
Brownings in every Chevy, mate. Bloody things make anyone shiver.‖
The Welsh trooper sitting in the back of the truck holding the large
machine gun nodded agreement. He had thick, fair eyebrows in a
bloated, heavily tanned face, and a rabbit‘s foot around his neck. He
picked up the gist of the conversation, gave a large wry smile to
himself, and came in.
―Your weapons are very, very good, you know––the best,‖ the
corporal said, addressing Keyes, a strong lisp in his voice.
Keyes nodded with what seemed to be a proud grin. ―Agreed.‖

Leonard Oaks 32
 Season of Revenge

A moment later the man added, deadpan, ―Come now, be honest,

chap. D‘you four Yanks really think you can help us anyway here?‖
Keyes‘ face split into a smile. ―Yeah, I‘m pretty sure of that,‖ he
said. ―If the stuff we make is so handy, why shouldn‘t be ourselves?‖
Both Welshmen were dumbstruck, groping for words.
They all soon realized everyone still needed some more time to
solve the mutual suspicions––and the irresistible joshing––from either
side. Then, in the end of it, they got on well with each other, blending
in, first signs of camaraderie rapidly appearing. After all, they were
going from now on to fight together for their own lives. And the way
Dalton‘s men had been looking forward to a week off, it‘d help them
keep the dark mood away. Already the Americans were surprised with
the informality and with Dalton‘s relaxed style of leadership. The man
seemed to try to make these swashbuckling commandos his partners
in an adventure. It was the first pleasant surprise since they‘d set foot
in North Africa.
>><<
The engines of the five trucks roared into life. As Cameron and
Catherine watched them pull away with thoughtful frowns, Dalton
was aware of the hawkish complexion of his commander. He
wondered what was in his mind.
Preoccupied with the patrol or anxious to take his revenge with the
Beasts?
―I‘ll be in touch,‖ Dalton said.
―Good luck, Clive,‖ Catherine Nowell said with an anguished looks.
Dalton discreetly winked at her.
―I‘m counting with your success,‖ the Scot said. ―And with you all
coming back.‖
―So am I,‖ Dalton replied expressionlessly, driving away.
Just a milk run, eh?
The robust Canadian-built 4x2 Chevrolet trucks gathered speed as
they went forward. The only thing ahead was the bleak, saturnine
Saharan landscape dominated by the mat of ochre sands, which had its
color accentuated by the incisive sun. The spinning sixteen-inch tires
shot up a tail of fine dust as the trucks headed northwest, traveling at
little over twenty miles per hour into the vastness unfolding before
them. These trusty vehicles were just eight or nine months old and
already displayed heavy premature deterioration, badly eroded after
the long, bumpy overland trips. They were powered by six-cylinder
80HP engines that did twenty miles per gallon of gasoline. The stout
tires were of the low-pressure type, enabling them to negotiate soft

Leonard Oaks 33
 Season of Revenge

ground such as dunes and sand seas. To prevent the radiators from
boiling over, every truck was fitted with a water condenser. Invented
by a pioneer of the LRDG, it condensed the steam from the boiling
radiator and sent the water back into it, conserving cooling water.
Collins was in the front seat of Dalton‘s truck. The Welshman sat at
his side, driving the dragooned truck. Two corporals were in the rear:
one manning the mounted .50 machine gun as the other one, the
navigator, plotted their course with the sun-compass previously bolted
to the dashboard. This was the pathfinder vehicle.
The three American sergeants had taken seat beside the gunners of
the other trucks crewed by British. At first they looked very excited.
But soon their infatuation for the adventurous trip was tamed by the
scalding sun, their exposed skin tingling with its flails of fire. Since
then, every fifteen minutes or so, they reached for their canteens and
took a gulp of water. They felt a growing sickness.
With a smudged map unfolded across his knees and the sun compass
in one hand, the navigator in the leading truck made annotations on a
little notebook. Poring over the map now, the corporal estimated the
vehicle‘s speed and the passing time of trip. As there were no possible
landmarks in the topography of a sand sea, it was all he could do. In
his pocket was the paper with the coordinates of the drop zone that
Dalton had given him. All this inhospitable area had been charted by
the precursor units of the LRDG, less than five years ago, which made
these troopers extremely proud.
Dalton and Collins talked with surprising intimacy while jazz and
news drifted out of a radio that hung to the dashboard. It was playing
the BBC.
The conversation flowed. ―One hell of a place, ain‘t it?‖ Dalton
asked Collins, speaking loudly over the combined sounds of the wind,
Louis Armstrong, and the bubbling engine.
―The countryside is exactly as they told me in Alexandria,‖ the
American answered with a forced grin as he adjusted the motoring
goggles the Welshman had given him, his face plastered with dust. He
could swear his own skin was sizzling.
The navigator, sitting behind Dalton at the back, touched the
captain‘s shoulder the third time in twenty minutes, and pointed in a
specific direction to correct his steering. Collins was surprised the
captain didn‘t bother this extra work only to have him sitting at his
side and talking. Maybe the corporal did, he mused.
They clammed up for some minutes, an awkward silence. On the
dashboard, the American noticed the motto of these commandos

Leonard Oaks 34
 Season of Revenge

written with faded white paint proclaiming: NOT BY STRENGTH,

BY GUILE.
―Strange guys those we‘re going to spot for the bombers––or
terminate by ourselves,‖ Collins said, resuming the conversation. ―A
military unit with criminal record. Something almost unimaginable, I
must say. Now I understand why Colonel Cameron is so keenly after
revenge.‖
Damn, the Welshman thought, it‘s so obvious, isn‘t?
Revenge!
―Say he‘s keeping an old habit,‖ Dalton said. ―In ‘36 he was the
commanding officer of a battalion of Scots Guards sent out to deal
with the Arab revolt in Palestine. Every time one of his men was
killed he sought vengeance. Once a Guardsman was kidnapped and
found dead the next day. Ol‘ Scottie didn‘t rest before he discovered
who the assassins were and queued them up before a firing squad.‖ He
omitted the fact that Cameron also had leveled the gang members‘
houses with bulldozers.
―How come you know about that? I mean, it‘s not the kind of thing
the colonel would boast about.‖
―I was serving in Palestine, too––during those damned riots. I was in
Army Intelligence. So it was I who fed Cameron with the clues as to
whom had attacked his men.‖
―He didn‘t mention anything about that to me; and we did talk about
everything.‖
Dalton‘s expression changed. ―Say the both of us are always trying
to repel ghosts from the past. Being threatened and attacked by hordes
of maniacs thousands of miles from home can make you take
reactions you‘d never think you would, mate.‖
The American made a face. ―Yeah, sure.‖
Do think about it, cowboy. You probably will experience it very
soon.
Collins said, ―From what I hear, these guys we‘re after are the worst
of all.‖
―Oh, yes, the Beasts. They do deserve the nickname they bear––a
bunch of bad guys, as you say in America.‖ Dalton laughed curtly and
added, ―God! But you chaps were given the perfect initiation here––
right in the middle of this bloody chaos.‖
―But we‘ll sweat for a noble cause, I guess,‖ Collins said with a
sideways look.
―You can bet your life on that. The few ones in Ethiopia who
survived after crossing their way were incapable of forgetting what

Leonard Oaks 35
 Season of Revenge

they‘d done to their families and relatives: rape, assassinations with

uttermost cruelty, pillages, and the waste lain to their villages.‖
Dalton spent over fifteen minutes relating to the American the most
important topics he knew about the Beasts, a horde of evil warriors
with a predilection for perversities in God‘s name. To Collins it
sounded as if they were a breed apart of the human race.
The American heard him out, in silence, and winced when the man
was finished. ―Christ! They‘ve quite a record. So everything I heard
about them wasn‘t exaggeration.‖
―Hard to believe, eh?‖ Dalton said bitterly, ―Nothing we happen to
do against them will be overreaction.‖ He paused and went on,
―Sometimes, the Beasts dragged men behind their vehicles until they
were dead––a show of perversity to intimidate the people and lower
any resistance before ransacking and burning their places.‖
―But with what purpose?‖ Collins inquired.
―Simple: just as Nazis and Fascists, they developed a lust for
badness.‖
Collins wasn‘t surprised. ―It almost explains everything.‖
Dalton continued, ―Perhaps envisioning a postwar ending of the
European colonization in the continent, they wanted to build their
status and gather resources,‖ he started to speak as if talking to
himself, ―From this fact alone, it‘s no logical that the Beasts have
been freed to act like regular troops trying to bar our push. In spite of
their taste for violence, it sounds too unorthodox of Rommel.‖
―But British commandos tried to kill him last year, at a place called
Beda Littoria, right?‖
Dalton spent half a minute thinking. ―He wouldn‘t take that long to
try to avenge it. And I doubt he‘d put those cunts on his payroll.‖
―Maybe Mussolini is trying to change the course of the war by
giving them total freedom of action,‖ Collins said. ―At least Colonel
Cameron was sure of it. And, so far, it sounds the likeliest
explanation.‖
―There‘s a single contradiction in his thesis, though: the modern
German equipment in their hands.‖
―Exactly,‖ Collins said with a click of his tongue. ―They were all
apparently yielding Schmeissers. Not even Rommel‘s best assault
units are so well equipped.‖
Dalton said, ―If it‘s Mussolini behind it, the militia was to be
receiving armaments from the Italian army, no? So why haven‘t they
been issued Italian guns?‖

Leonard Oaks 36
 Season of Revenge

Collins nodded slowly, pensively. ―That means the source of their

supply of German weapons is the key for the puzzle.‖
―Touché,‖ Dalton nodded agreement, and looked sideways at the
lieutenant as if rewarding him for his deduction.
―We bloody yanks aren‘t so dumb, you see.‖
―Don‘t put words in my mouth, mate,‖ Dalton said laughing.
―Aw…my sincere congratulations, Lieutenant.‖
―Why?‖
More laughing. ―You‘re the newest member of the conspiracy club.‖

**************
4
It was being hard for Peter Heinz to concentrate on his paperwork.
He‘d been trying to finish his chore for about two hours now, and
always returning to the beginning. The problem was that he loved
beaches. And here he was on the most beautiful one he‘d ever seen:
miles of sugar-white sand sloping easily into the aqua-blue surf; warm
water throughout the year; uncountable palm trees marching in
graceful disarray along the shore; gulls probing for tiny shellfish left
on the tide; cool breeze. It wasn‘t like this on the beaches he used to
go to on the weekends near his hometown. Especially in November. It
seemed unfair. Yes, unfair; it was the word he found when he
remembered that freezing beach close to Hamburg exactly one year
back.
He shook off the thought. It wouldn‘t be of any help. After all, he‘d
rather be in Hamburg now. In the freezing seawater, if possible. He‘d
be in safety there. Far away from Libya.
―Damn!‖ he said aloud, and threw the stack of letters back into the
wooden box with carrying handles. Concentration was out of question
for the time being; especially while censoring the mail that many of
the fifty-four men of his downsized Panzer Grenadier company was
posting home. Over and over again, it was always the same:
oleaginous love messages to much-missed sweethearts; I-am-all-right
letters to much-worried parents; I-will-soon-be-back notes to both
girls and parents. It‘d be unpleasant if it weren‘t so humane, he
thought.
I‟ll be humane when I‟m back home––if I ever get to do so.
Heinz was a captain in the 21st Panzer Division in Libya, which was
part of the Afrika Korps. Tall, blond-haired, sullen-faced and
muscular, he was the archetypal soldier of Hitler‘s ―superior race‖.
Not that he shared the Fuehrer‘s line of thought so enthusiastically.

Leonard Oaks 37
 Season of Revenge

Fact was he looked the most perfect Teutonic warrior in the whole
desert––and with a stunning record of successful missions.
He frowned wondering what cosmic forces had led him to become
this kind of recruitment-poster soldier.
Don‘t lie to yourself, you hypocrite bastard! A voice echoed in his
head.
Heinz‘s face twisted in rage as the voice took a human shape in his
head. The figure barged drunkenly through a doorway, shoved his
mother out of his way, and landed heavily on the couch.
―Ain‘t no food in this shithole?‖ the drunk demanded.
Heinz‘s heartbeat quickened at the memory of the strong smell of
beer, the tousled hair, the bloodshot eyes staring at him.
―Why are you looking like that at me, sonny?‖
―You know why, dad,‖ Heinz wished he‘d been brave enough to
have said. ―I hate you! Everyone at school calls me ‗the son of the
deserter‘.‖
―I didn‘t desert! I got lost in those forests in France, that‘s what,‖ his
father would probably have said.
―You were lost there during four years?‖ might have been his
response.
Heinz stiffened, controlling himself. Tears were about to spring in
his eyes. He couldn‘t be seen crying by his men.
Soldiers in posters never cry.
All right, that‘s the explanation, he thought. A drunk breeds a model
soldier and his unit is chosen by Security Service agents to act as the
‗Team Lion‘.
Team Lion and the Lambs.
Everything was so unclear. His company should be on a stand-by,
waiting for instructions by radio from a Colonel Berthold Fisher––
call-signed simply ‗Fischer‘–– to move into El Agheila in order to
take hold of something codenamed the ‗Lambs‘.
Lion, lambs? Christ! What‟s all this crap about?
He grunted and once more dedicated himself to the idle pleasure of
enjoying the scene before his eyes: scrolls of small waves licking the
sand, seabirds chattering overhead; palms being combed by the cool,
salty wind. Only then he realized menacing dark clouds hanging over
the ocean in the distance. Rain would come soon.
His command post––if someone would ever dare call it so––was a
disused thatched hut inherited from the local lobster hunters who‘d
until recently occupied this area. He could have felt like in a camping
adventure were not the friskiness of war very close to him. A few

Leonard Oaks 38
 Season of Revenge

miles to the east lay the small anchorage of Mersa Brega, easily seen
from here. There, tens of men unloaded supplies bound for the troops
in El Agheila, just twenty-five miles to the south.
His men seemed to ignore it. Around twenty of them were off-duty
on the beach. Some were playing soccer, others swimming. Four or
five stood around a talkative Arab learning how to prepare broiled
lobster. The breeze brought the smell to him and his mouth began to
water.
The rest of his troops was in the eight ten-man army tents that stood
a hundred feet behind his hut. They were supposedly doing
maintenance on their equipment or preparing meals or taking care of
their laundry; but Heinz could bet they were actually catching a few
‗Z‘s. Beyond the tents were ten vehicles under camouflaged canvas.
Heinz was sitting on a large ammunition box, tunic hanging open,
bare feet sunk into the soft sand. They were all off-duty, in practice.
The ‗Lambs‘ would be ‗collected‘ within the next days, but definitely
not today or tomorrow.
Collected. This had been the word used by the one called Rolf
Baltzer, he remembered. ―A lot of people have their careers depending
on this task, Captain,‖ the other SS Intelligence officer had said.
Something-Stenzel was his name, Heinz could recall.
But what‘s this insanity about? The ‗Lambs‘ was a man––or men––
to be protected? Or extracted? Or captured. But who? Enemies?
Spies? Informants? Any kind of resistance members? British
deserters?
Damn! He felt he wouldn‘t manage to concentrate on anything at all
until he was informed the batch of details on his next moves.
He checked his watch. This Colonel Fischer of the SS would radio
him in eleven hours and unfold some more mysteries. At least he
hoped so. Until then all he could do was enjoy the beach and think of
Hamburg.
Ah, screw Hamburg! It‟s much better here. It‟s November!
Hugo Dieckmann, a young dark-haired lieutenant, returned from his
dives in a cloggy trunk that he kept pulling up lest it‘d fall to his feet.
He shouted something to his captain and help up a starfish in one
hand. They‘d been serving together since the invasion of Poland. Now
they were close friends and talked openly about all subjects.
―Can you think of a better place for a tourist resort?‖ Dieckmann
said, slogging across loose sand. ―Mark my words, man.‖
―If you say so.‖

Leonard Oaks 39
 Season of Revenge

―I‘ll be back here with all money I can make with my horses in the
farm, and I‘ll start the best seafront hotel in this corner of the planet.‖
―Dream on,‖ Heinz said with a grin. ―Are you bringing that half-
Jewish girlfriend of yours along?‖
Dieckmann glared at him. He looked around suspiciously and said in
a low tone, ―For God‘s sake, keep your mouth shut. Those fucking
Gestapo might be hearing us.‖
―They‘re Intel, not Gestapo,‖ Heinz corrected him.
―Shitty spooks are all the same. So…no jokes about the chick,
right?‖
―Okay, pipe down, will you?‖
The younger man scratched his head, thinking. ―It‘s been four years
now––four years since she disappeared,‖ the lieutenant said pensively.
―No one ever heard anything from her?‖
A shrug. ―People say she fled to Sweden with her parents. Others
said they were all taken to some kind of prison in Czechoslovakia.‖
―I‘m sorry,‖ Heinz said. He meant it; he suddenly recalled he‘d
never heard of Germans who hated Jews pathologically before Hitler
came to power.
―Poor Diane. I really would like to know where she is.‖
―Want some advice?‖ Heinz said and looked into his friend‘s eyes as
if going to tell a secret.
―Shoot.‖
―Get the fuck out of here, find Diane, and go marry her in
Palestine.‖
Dieckmann lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ―Are you nuts, man?
Those guys can be eavesdropping us.‖
―Aha! That‟s what I had in mind. I was trying to catch you on the
act!‖ Heinz said with a broad smile. ―I‘m in for a faster rise through
the ranks now, okay? And wages in the SS are one hell of a lot better.
What d‘ya think?‖
―That ain‘t funny,‖ Dieckmann said and turned away, heading back
for the beach while mumbling atrocities at him.
―You idiot,‖ Heinz called out, and reached for the letters in the box
at his feet. When he lifted the stack of mail his smile disappeared. The
clipboard at the bottom reminded him of the manifest that was
supposed to be attached to it. He felt the sheet of paper in his tunic
pocket with one hand and relaxed. In it was his signature for the last
batch of supplies to his men, mostly food and medicine. Along with it
were forty-five Zundapp motorcycles, several radios, a few explosive
charges, a sniper rifle, plenty of uniforms and full combat gear, eighty

Leonard Oaks 40
 Season of Revenge

submachine guns, Teller mines, and a ton of ammunition and

gasoline. He regretted to have agreed to sign it. The SS men hadn‘t
told him what they needed all that stuff for. They‘d just coerced him
to sign it and keep the manifest in safety as long as he could.
Those fucking spooks, he told himself, they‘d better not get me into
trouble!
He got up, dusted himself off, and sprawled himself in the hammock
hanging from two wooden poles inside the hut. He stared at the
Tornister radio-transmitter on a wooden box to his left for a couple of
minutes. It was linked by cables to a car battery and an antenna wire
high in the air connected to a helium-filled kite that gave it an
enormous range. Some time it‘d blip and all the madness would start,
he thought. But not today. He sighed and closed his eyes. After a
while he fell asleep.
He dreamed he was swimming in tepid seawater under a clear blue
sky. He was happy. It was July last year. He was back home on leave,
spending a weekend by the sea. The weather was perfect: warm. His
wife and his little daughter were sitting next to a picnic basket in the
sand, shrieking with delight as he made his pirouettes in the water.
And everyone was in safety.

**************
5
Two hours of uneventful stop-and-move trip passed, just as Dalton
had expected. Heat seeped up from the floor as if it were steam.
Waves of dust created twisting mirages before and on the sides of the
procession of trucks as tiny pebbles battered incessantly against their
metallic hulls. The expanse of dunes and hillocks had been getting
gradually smoother, darker, and stiffer as they headed northwest, and
then finally became a plain of hard-baked soil. The five-vehicle
convoy looked insignificant in the immensity of the desert, a
comforting feeling of solitude in the odd, lifeless exuberance of the
Sahara. Conscious they could run into enemies at any moment, the
crews restlessly surveyed each quadrant of the surroundings, the
mounted 50-caliber machineguns ready to open fire.
The heat was taking its toll on the four Americans. They found out
that the depths of the Sahara were much hotter than Alexandria. The
scalding sun seemed to fry their skin, the hot air making them feel
dizzy with the dry, dusty breeze produced by the move of the vehicles.
As if suffering hallucinatory effects, they could swear they were being
mummified. There was all but no humidity in the air; and absolutely

Leonard Oaks 41
 Season of Revenge

no smell, either. It was hard for them to believe it wasn‘t even the
hottest period of the year in this region, which habitually was in mid-
August. The color of the sands was numbing their eyes. Their
suffering increased when they remembered it was early November.
They imagined the wet autumn in their homeland: rainy days, trees,
lawns…and cold drinks. All that seemed so unlikely now, so precious.
The navigator in the back of Dalton‘s truck dropped his map and sun
compass. He reached out and touched the captain‘s shoulder.
―Reaching the drop point in five minutes, sir,‖ he said.
The captain nodded, driving on, and glanced at his wristwatch.
Cameron had told him the plane would be here in three hours. So they
had about an hour to spare.
A mile farther on, Dalton signaled by waving one arm up, and the
four trucks behind his slowed to a halt. To their right were plateaus of
dark granite tens of miles away, like huge cathedrals lifting from the
plain, which had disproportionate prominence seen from here. A little
closer were jagged outcrops of brownish rock intermingled with hills
of yellow sand. It looked to be perfect for getting spotted by the
aircraft, whose navigator would only have to use the smaller
formations as a visual reference. Cameron did choose a good place to
get the parachute drop, Dalton thought, remembering the Scot and
Major Ralph Bagnold, the idealizer of the LRDG, had probably
mapped out this whole area themselves years back.
Collins sighed with relief after the truck had stopped. He looked
around, and felt to be back to Stone Age. At least the presence of the
plateaus and the obelisk-like rocky formations announced that they‘d
left the Great Sand Sea. He wished it‘d be just a bit less hot from now
on. Well, he reflected as he drank a gulp of water from his canteen,
there can‘t be any place more arid than an ocean of sand.
―Now we‘re totally on our own,‖ Dalton told him as he switched off
the truck‘s engine.
―How comforting,‖ Collins said, playing nervously with his West
Point ring.
Dalton looked over his shoulder and said to the two corporals in his
vehicle, ―Tell the others to cover the vehicles. Let‘s have a break till
the plane comes.‖
The corporals jumped off and went to each of the four vehicles
behind, which were spaced a few yards apart. The crews quickly
unpacked large camouflage nettings in desert colors and pulled them
over the trucks. After that, two English troopers sat on the ground
with cans bearing air holes and filled them with gasoline and sand.

Leonard Oaks 42
 Season of Revenge

Then they lit the fuel and placed steel grills on top of the canisters. It
was their stoves. The meals were canned M&V––meat and
vegetables, which were poured into steel pots and stirred with long
wooden spoons. Two other troopers knelt by the pots and began
waving their arms to fight off the flies.
As the meals were being boiled in the makeshift stoves, most of the
others oiled the mechanisms and cleaned the barrels of their
Thompsons, Colts, Smith & Wessons, and Brownings. Minuscule
tracks of small yet dangerous sand vipers and snakes were seen all
around as they puttered with the guns. Once part of a parachute
regiment, the French commandos cleaned their weapons with
remarkable care, as if maintaining instruments for an opera concert.
When the food was ready, the commandos in charge of the cooking
banged their spoons on the canisters summoning the others. They
rushed toward the makeshift kitchen, almost everyone at the same
time. The cooks spooned the stew into tin bowls, added small copper
spoons, and handed the meals around. The gravy was bubbling a little,
the smell telling not much about its taste.
The poor diet disappointed the Americans as soon as they tasted it.
Moreover, it was unmistakably infested by maggots of the persistent
swarm of flies. They ate it with no enthusiasm, scoffing discreetly,
whereas the Europeans repeated it keenly a second and a third time.
Collins and his three men managed to sooth their appetites by eating
Hershey bars they had in their backpacks. Already the LRDG men ate
on the dismal lunch heartily, sitting cross-legged on the sand, salt-
pourers and aluminum mugs filled with rum in hands. Occasionally
they looked with mock grins at the Americans devouring candies like
schoolboys.
―Missing your hamburgers, lads?‖ Dalton asked, smiling broadly.
The four Americans looked at one another as they chewed the
chocolate bars. A moment later they looked back at the Welshman and
nodded.
―How did you guess, sir?‖ Keyes said, and laughter arose from the
British and French.
Collins watched the scene and got aware of a kind of unmilitary
democracy between commandos, something that probably helped
them be efficient. There were no salutes, very few ‗yes, sirs‘. Most of
his instructors at the Point would be shocked by all this lack of
formality. He was amazed at the way they got to be so professional at
the same time. Here is something to be aped, he told himself.
>><<

Leonard Oaks 43
 Season of Revenge

The distant sound of airplane engines was heard coming from the
east. The aircraft appeared to be flying at a considerably low altitude,
more or less two thousand feet high. The noise turned some of the
British very excited, heads tilted up in search of the plane.
Already Collins was afraid of the famed Stukas. He began playing
nervously with his West Point ring.
He said to Dalton, ―Are you sure that‘s the cargo plane, sir?‖
―Absolutely,‖ he told him, and pointed to an English officer with a
nose a size too big for his face that stood a few yards to their left.
―Lieutenant Miller here is our ear-man. He can distinguish the sound
of a fart during a sandstorm.‖
Miller turned to Collins, who surveyed him with amusement, and
said disdainfully with a waning voice, ―That‘s a Hampdem; one of
ours. No worries, mate.‖
Elroy Miller hadn‘t been aware of his gifted ability before moving to
London on his own. Music or any other sort of noise was forbidden in
a home ruled by a small-town literature teacher who spent all his free
time memorizing William Shakespeare, Francis Bacon, and Charles
Dickens. Sounds––any sounds––disturbed his surly father‘s
compulsive reading. He barely recalled his mother‘s and sister‘s
voices.
A six month affair with an exchange student from Italy had been
enough to make him fluent in her language; all those musical
combinations of vowels and consonants seemed so easy to his
eardrums. It was as if his brain presented him with instant subtitles.
The war broke out and granted him a translation-and-interpreter job
at the War Office. His favorite pastime––and money-making game––
was being blindfolded by his colleagues at the center of Waterloo
Bridge and guess the model and make of the vehicles coming onto it–
–over three hundred yards away.
One of his workmates then was Lieutenant Clive Dalton, recently
arrived back from Palestine. A personal tragedy had brought him to
the Middle East desk in the Office.
When Colonel Robert Cameron had come to recruit Dalton, the
Welshman all but dragged Miller along with him to Egypt. The
nightly road-watch missions and sneak raids into enemy towns and
bases cried for someone just like him.
Dalton fished a cigarette in a crumpled pack and lit it in cupped
hands with a match. He looked up in the likeliest direction of the
plane, shading his eyes. After a few seconds he glanced at his watch

Leonard Oaks 44
 Season of Revenge

and murmured, ―Three hours, punctually. Good show, you

lazybones.‖
A minute later the dull-colored plane swam into view from behind a
plateau, framed by the limpid skyline. Dalton brought out a metal
mirror the size of a wafer from his shirt pocket. He reached up and
pointed it toward the aircraft.
―Now I wink coded signals to the pilot and it‘s done,‖ he told
Collins as he handled the small mirror with motions of his wrist,
reflecting a beam of sunlight in the direction of the transport. ―This
way we avoid using our wireless for voice communication, keeping
Jerry from listening to us.‖
A bomber converted into a transport, the Hampdem swooped down
toward the beam of light. The instant it was roughly above them,
maybe a thousand feet high, it circled them once in a rattling low
speed and released its load through the gawping bomb-bay in its belly.
A dozen white parachutes popped open. Hanging to them were
baskets containing gasoline cans, panniers with ammunition, cans of
water, and plenty of cartons with the starchy M&V meals. The
packages touched the ground seconds later, scattered in a ray of two
hundred yards. All men headed for the bundles as soon as they
bumped onto the ground. The aircraft did a wide U-turn, sped forward
with a roar from its two massive engines, and regained altitude. A
minute later it died in the horizon, diving behind a plateau, going east.
―Get the Chevys refueled with the new petrol right away,‖ Dalton
called at the American sergeant next to him who hauled a stack of gas
cans by the lines of its parachute.
―Yes, sir,‖ Barrett called back.
―And bury the empty cans, cowboy,‖ the Welshman added.
―You got it, sir,‖ Barrett said again, panting now, the cans as heavy
as ladles of molten steel.
Seizing the chance, some of the British were pretending to be riding
horses and shouting ―Yee haw!‖
They refueled the trucks, hoisted the other supplies into the stowage
compartments, and sorted them into their proper bales and boxes.
Meshes and parachutes were bundled and tossed into the stowage
areas. Then they returned to their meals.
Next they prepared tea in a pair of brass kettles, adding sugar and
milk, English-style. They drank it in the mugs, which still smelled of
rum, talking of subjects of little importance, using the free time for
some relaxation they wouldn‘t have for maybe another three or four
days. Miller began a competition of who knew the grossest joke.

Leonard Oaks 45
 Season of Revenge

Others preferred to relive in public some affairs of theirs with the girls
of Alexandria and Cairo.
When the tea was over, the Europeans took out rumpled sleeping
bags from the vehicles and placed them in their shades. It was half
past four. Wisps of coolness were cutting through the suffocating heat.
Nap time. They spread out and lay down, striped to the waist under
mosquito nets.
―Good as new in a couple of hours,‖ Miller mumbled to Dalton,
who‘d laid his sleeping bag beside his.
―I‘ll try and do the same,‖ Dalton said.
―All right,‖ Miller said with a yawn, and turned over on his side to
go to sleep.
Dalton lay down in his bedroll, smoking a cigarette. He turned on
his side, staring at the long shadows cast by the smallest bushes and
stones. After fifteen minutes or so he decided he wouldn‘t get to sleep.
He finally admitted to himself the catching of breath in his throat. The
mention of his wife‘s name had evoked strong flashes of memory and
painful memories. He looked around to see all his men sleeping
fitfully. He should try harder to do the same, he thought. They had just
two hours before setting out. But he was sure he wouldn‘t make it.
Every time he closed his eyes, ugly scenes and phrases from the past
wove swiftly through his brain.
Hell! he told himself and took out a half-full flask of brandy from a
shorts pocket. He took long swigs of the fiery drink until the flask was
empty. He shook his head in disapproval as the liquor burned down
his throat. He hadn‘t needed it to help him sleep for almost a year.
After a while mists seemed to swirl behind his eyes, and he pillowed
his head on one arm. A minute later he curled up and dozed.
The Americans stood guard, Thompsons slung over their shoulders,
Hershey bars in their hands. Clouds gathered on the horizon as the sun
set, the sky taking the color of brass. It was a mesmerizing imagery of
layers of colors making heavens and earth blend. The distant plateaus
seemed close like cutouts on a multi-colored back drop; the twilight
glow made the sands take a grayish tone and the wisps of cloud pink.
Then a chilling wind blew from the north as the last flicker of orange
was seen on the horizon.
Collins walked up to Keyes, who stood on top of a rocky hump.
―We don‘t get to see anything like this in the States, do we?‖
―Yeah,‖ the Texan said dispiritedly.
―All I saw from the roof of my building in Bronx at sunset time was
other buildings.‖

Leonard Oaks 46
 Season of Revenge

Keyes almost managed to grin.

Collins slapped the Texan on the shoulder. ―How you feeling?‖ the
lieutenant said, and lifted the collar of his tunic against the growing
cold.
―Good,‖ the man answered with a wrinkled brow. His face was now
as red as a brick.
―You sure?‖ Collins said, looking into his eyes.
―Yeah.‖
―You look worried.‖
The Texan chuckled humorlessly. ―It‘s just that…somethin‘ tells me
we gonna miss bein‘ run through obstacle courses by physical
education officers.‖
>> <<
Soon after night fell they headed due west. The surroundings
seemed empty. Dalton‘s truck was again leading the way, guiding the
four others across even, starlit terrain. The vehicles were a mere ten
yards apart. The headlights had been masked, and they could see just a
few yards in front. The drivers behind relied especially on the dim
infrared taillights of the vehicle ahead to prevent ramming into it.
They moved all the time in a line, at about fifteen miles per hour. The
floor became a little rocky, and the trucks started to bounce more
strongly.
The temperature seemed to plunged down quickly as the minutes
passed. Like his three men, Collins had slipped into his army-issue
overcoat, the collar turned up against the slicing cold. Yet he was
feeling numbed. For a moment he almost missed the bleaching sun.
He looked over his shoulder to see how the corporals at the truck‘s
back were doing: they‘d slipped into woolen long-johns and wrapped
their heads in balaclavas. I‘m soon going to need one of those, he
thought.
He peered into the gloom and only made out the vague shapes of the
topography in the vicinities. Ten minutes later Dalton stopped,
jumped out, and removed the mask from one headlight. It inundated
the desert with light, the ubiquitous tufts of grass standing out like
drops of black ink over the pale floor.
Collins was observing the Welshman discreetly out of the corner of
one eye. He drove with a careless easy, as if he enjoyed it very much,
despite this type of vehicle was no joy to steer. His expression
revealed some kind of juvenile satisfaction of his in driving.
―My first job was as a lorry driver in Cardiff,‖ Dalton said, which
explained a lot.

Leonard Oaks 47
 Season of Revenge

―So it became like a hobby––since you have an easier job now,‖

Collins said, seizing the chance to joke on him.
―Yes, something like that,‖ Dalton said, accepting it.
The American scratched the prickly stubble on his face. ―I just can‘t
remember truck drivers satisfied with a single headlight shining.‖
―No big deal. We made this same route less than twelve hours ago.‖
―Where are we heading, by the way?‖
―To a hamlet where two of our informants live. It‘s called Abyad.‖

**************
6
It was just past seven P.M. when the lights in the whitewashed row
house went out. On a street of well-kept homes, its peeling facade and
missing canopy made it look like a broken tooth in a perfect smile; a
sign that its occupants didn‘t care a lot about its appearance. After all,
this place wasn‘t exactly a home for them.
The front door opened and a tall, corpulent male came out. He wore
a drab overcoat, had a black briefcase in one hand and a Panama hat
on his head. He lit a cigarette in cupped hands and went down the
narrow, slopping sidewalk, his hat seeming to boil with the smoke.
Far beyond, defying the blackout rules, the hazy carpet of lights of the
cityscape of Tripoli seemed to blend with the vaulted starry sky.
Minutes later, a man in a light brown flannel suit stepped out of a
small Fiat curbed by the nearest corner and waited until there was no
one in sight. He looked over his shoulder and crooked a finger. ―No
need to hurry,‖ he whispered to the young woman that was climbing
out of the car. ―Walk casually.‖
She nodded and trailed after him along the windy cobbled street, her
salmon-colored dress and headscarf billowing with the strong breeze.
It was a street of European-styled homes for European occupiers. As
they walked, Italian folk music in a loud volume started drifting from
one of the houses on the street. Were it not for the sight of a minaret
nearby, one could swear this was someplace in southern Italy.
They reached the recessed doorway of the house without a canopy.
―There you go, darling,‖ he said.
The girl removed the two clips that pinned her headscarf in place,
and lustrous dark hair fell over her shoulders. Then she stabbed both
pieces of metal into the lock of the door with practiced hands. The
man noticed she closed her eyes while trying to pick the lock. There
was a click and the door swung an inch inwardly.

Leonard Oaks 48
 Season of Revenge

She peeked into the darkened house, gave a push to the door, and
turned to the man with a grin on her face. ―Shall we?‖ she said in
near-perfect English.
―Only three or four seconds. Excellent,‖ he said, nodding
approvingly. ―I‘m beginning to wonder what your real occupation in
Telaviv was, my dear Sarah.‖
The girl smiled despite her nervousness. ―I used to live in a kibbutz
in the Galilee, Mr. White.‖
Sarah Gavrir was a member of the Haganah, the half-secret, half-
illegal military organization of the Palestine Jews. Born in the 1920s
in order to defend Jewish settlers from the Arab gangs, the Haganah
had sprouted a spy network in the neighboring countries. Now there
was another role for it after the persecution sponsored by Hitler
against the Jews in Europe: sabotage the Nazi war machine all over
the world. And here she was putting that into action by leading an
Allied agent to what she believed to be a Gestapo safe house. Allan
White was the first secretary at the embassy in Madrid; in reality a
major in the British Special Intelligence Service, commonly known as
MI-6. Tonight he was undercover as a Spanish war correspondent.
As she stepped into the house, there was a metallic noise behind,
and she turned to see the Englishman fumble with the fuse box set
into the wall ten inches to one side of the doorway in the outside.
―I‘ve cut the power,‖ White explained. ―We can‘t take any chances
turning on a light accidentally. God alone knows who our neighbors
are.‖
―Yes, of course.‖
He went in and closed the door behind him very carefully. They
stood still for a moment, breathing the smell of stale cigarette smoke,
the sounds from the outside almost inaudible now. The Englishman
had his Italian-made Beretta automatic in one hand.
―I think we can make ourselves more comfortable now,‖ White said
and reholstered his gun. He gave a few steps to his left and pulled
down the shade over the front window. Then he flicked on a small
flashlight.
Sarah turned on the flash he‘d given her still in the car, and they
began prodding their surroundings with the bright shafts of light,
shoes clicking on the uncarpeted floor. The oblong living room was
completely bare of furniture, its whitewashed walls making it seem
larger than it really was. In a corner was an empty tiled compartment
that should have once been a kitchen.

Leonard Oaks 49
 Season of Revenge

―Not like an advertisement in a woman‘s magazine,‖ White said,

shining his flashlight against the grimy tiled walls of the bathroom.
―So…you think Mr. Panama Hat is some sort of liaison officer?‖
―Yes,‖ she said. ―I‘ve seen him meet with some majors and
colonels. Army officers.‖
White frowned. ―Wehrmacht officers?‖
She nodded. ―Correct. Afrika Korps.‖
―Gestapo and Wehrmacht having meetings abroad. That‘s news to
me.‖
―What‘s intriguing you?‖
―One: the Gestapo is a branch of the SS. Two: SS despise
Wehrmacht, they always have. Three: Wehrmacht hate Gestapo.‖ He
paused. ―Well, let‘s see what this place can tell us.‖
―What exactly are you looking for?‖
―Anything resembling a file cabinet. And files with names in them;
lots of names.‖ He was in the hope of finding the Gestapo‘s watch list.
It‘d be very useful as a means to know who were the local
subversives––and potential collaborators to the Allies.
They made their way to the gaping eight-foot wide threshold at the
back, White feeling the wall with one hand. They went through the
doorway to find themselves in a room measuring no less than six
yards by eight. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was full of
furniture. Arranged by the opposite wall were four chairs around a
large gate-legged table with a typewriter on its center. Behind it was a
pair of sets of chin-high shelves filled with pottery and suchlike.
There was also a coat hanger in one corner, an armchair and a coffee
table in the other. But no file cabinets.
Sarah shed light on the wastebasket beside the table, kneeled next to
it, and picked up one of many crumpled-up sheets of carbon paper.
―We shan‘t exit here empty handed, though,‖ she said. ―There must be
something on these. A bird in hand is worth two in the bush. Isn‘t it
what you say over in England?‖
―Yes, carry on,‖ White said, disappointment in his voice. He shone
his light once more about the room as Sarah straightened out the black
carbon flimsies and ironed them on the table with the palm of one
hand.
He scanned all the shelves. There was nothing of significance, only
pottery and a collection of mugs and teapots. Then the beam of his
light fell on the space between the shelves behind the table and shone
back on him.
A mirror.

Leonard Oaks 50
 Season of Revenge

He understood in a flash. He went around the table to the mirror and

felt its cold surface as he studied his own reflection. Grabbing the
frame with both his hands, he unhooked it from the nail. Now instead
of the wall was the front of a small safe. He smiled from ear to ear.
Then he placed the mirror on the floor, leaning against the table.
―I‘ve got a little present for you, Sarah,‖ he said and headed for the
coat-hanger to hook his jacket to it. It was stifling and they‘d stay here
a while.
She stepped across as she pocketed the carbon sheets she‘d just
flattened out. She put her flashlight on the shelf nearest her in a
position from which it‘d shine on the dial of the safe. Next she took a
stethoscope from a pocket in her dress.
―Give me twenty minutes,‖ she said in a professional tone, slipped
the stethoscope around her neck and fitted its earpieces.
―Very well. I‘ll be timing you,‖ he said, joking, absolutely sure
she‘d be absorbed in locating the tumblers. As expected, there was no
reply from the girl. He was amazed how such a woman of twenty-one
or -two like Sarah––over ten years younger than him––could have the
guts to run clandestine surveillance on unfriendly soil. On exchanging
challenge word and response with her at the docks six or seven hours
back, he‘d thought his Haganah contact in Madrid was crazy to put
young female operatives on these tasks. Now he knew he‘d been
wrong; she was as skilled and self-controlled as most MI-6 field
personnel. Male personnel.
He settled the beam of his flashlight on the safe too, the glint of steel
emphasizing the features of her Slavic face. She must be descendent
of Jews from Eastern Europe, he deduced while admiring her tense-
looking expression. His gaze soon shifted to the dimly lit contours of
her petit figure beneath the dress.
>> <<
It took her eighteen minutes until the last tumbler fell over. She
gently pulled the handle of the safe down, eased its heavy door open,
and turned to the Englishman. ―Da-daaah!‖
White uttered a low whistle. ―Sarah, my dear, you‘re simply the
best.‖
She smiled and gave a half bow. ―Thank you.‖
He stood in front of the safe and pulled out the stack of folders that
rested in there. He put it on the table, and spread the file holders in a
row across the dark wood. There were approximately ten pages in
each folder, around sixty in total; a collection of typewritten reports
and memos in German. The butt of his flashlight between his teeth

Leonard Oaks 51
 Season of Revenge

now, he selected the ones with red-inked ‗top secret‘ rubber stamp
marks and laid them on top of their respective folders. One of them
caught his attention. As Sarah also shone her light onto the folder in
his hands, White read through it very carefully, using all his
knowledge of the language.
He was stunned. As far as he understood, there was a huge operation
with unclear purposes and directives, but its apparent target was clear:
the LRDG patrols. There were descriptions of equipments, record of
raids, and names of some British and New Zealand commandos and
their respective units. Luckily the name of his old buddy Clive Dalton
wasn‘t there; but Elroy Miller‘s was. He‘d attended Officer training at
the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst with Dalton and had met
Miller at the embassy in Madrid; Miller had come down to interview a
defector of the Italian foreign service.
On another page was a second list of names, all of Arabs. And the
surname of one of them rang a bell in his head. He took the flashlight
from his mouth.
―Heusseini,‖ he said vaguely troubled, lifting his eyes from the
paper. ―Isn‘t it the surname of the Mufti of Jerusalem––the chap who
led the riots in Palestine?‖
Something flickered through Sarah‘s eyes at the mention of the
name. She gasped and bent over to check the name. ―Yes,‖ she said,
face a couple of inches from the paper. A strand of hair fell over her
eyes and she brushed it back into place nervously. The full name was
Abdel Qadir Heusseini. ―It‘s his nephew.‖
White had studied about Haj Amin al-Heusseini before working
with the Haganah. A rich landowner, the Mufti had attempted to expel
the Jews from Palestine so that he could take control of their farms
and consolidate his power over the region, both politically and
economically. He‘d made up Jewish plots to seize Muslim holy places
in order to gather fanatics for mass murder of Palestinian Jews––as
well as to kill and take hold of his rival clans‘ possessions.
White chuckled humorlessly. ―The Mufti‘s nephew––one hell of a
coincidence, no?‖ he said suspiciously, and frowned, looking
quizzically at her. ―Is this a coincidence, my dear?‖
They stared at each other. She threw her arms in a gesture of
innocence. ―I swear I didn‘t know of this. But it fits. They were made
for each other––the Gestapo and Heusseini‘s gang.‖
White shifted for another page. There were some names of German
people now. The name Berthold Fischer repeated itself four times. He
was a colonel in the SS. This must be the one heading the operation,

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 Season of Revenge

he decided. White was very still for a moment, eyes squinting,

attempting to recall the name of some big fish in the SS, but the name
didn‘t mean anything to him. Colonel Fischer, who the devil are you?
he thought as a frown creased his face.
―Are you all right?‖ Sarah asked, reaching for his shoulder.
―Yes, yes.‖ He clicked his tongue several times and took a pack of
cigarettes from a shirt pocket. It was Italian-army issue, one of the
most common brands in the whole of North Africa thanks to black-
marketeers. But in lieu of a tobacco-filled cylinder he extracted a tiny
Minox camera from it.
―Is that a photograph machine?‖ Sarah asked, awestruck, shifting the
beam of her flashlight from the papers to it. ―Wow! I‘ve never seen
one so small.‖
―I‘ve also got some surprises myself. Listen…er…I‘m going to need
your help now.‖ He handed her his flashlight.
―Oh, certainly.‖ She took it.
He bent over the papers as Sarah illuminated the table with both
lights. Then he held his breath focusing the minuscule lens on the first
sheet in the row and depressed the upper half of the camera. It took
him four minutes and a dozen clicks for as many as shots.
He nodded to himself and murmured, ―That‘s it.‖ He reached for his
light in Sarah‘s hand, bent over the table once more, and started to
replace the sheets into the folders.
Sarah looked around the room. ―You want me to do anything else?‖
―Uh…nay, let‘s call this a day,‖ White said as he replaced the
folders into the safe. ―Just be ready to hit the road.‖
He slid the steel door back in place and twirled the dial until the
figures were in the same order in which he‘d found them. Then he
reached for the mirror on the ground. As he lifted it, he noticed the
room was getting a bit cooler. He wondered why. He hung the frame
on its nail, adjusting it carefully and stepped back staring at his own
reflection in the mirror. Last he checked whether it was perfectly
aligned with the front of the safe. It was.
The moment he was exactly halfway between the table and the
mirror, a cold draft raced around the room. He glanced at Sarah, who
was again kneeling by the trashcan. She was bewildered, and looked
back at him. The noise of music from outside was suddenly higher,
drifting into the room along with another gust of breeze.
―The front door!‖ she said in a whisper and turned off her flashlight.
Now there was a touch of panic in her murmured voice, ―Somebody‘s
opened it!‖

Leonard Oaks 53
 Season of Revenge

White looked back into the mirror and froze. Behind him, a tall
phantom-like figure stood in the doorway, framed by the dim outside
lights that now bathed the rest of the house. And there was a Panama
hat on his head.
A deep voice rang out, ―Guten Abend, Kamerad.‖
White whirled around, reaching under his armpit. Half a second later
there was a pinprick of light followed by a muffled crack. A bullet
zipped no more than a millimeter from his left earlobe, shattering the
upper half of the mirror, filling the air with the sound of broken glass.
One could only tell it‘d been a gun for the spent shell bouncing on the
floorboards. The Englishman dived behind the table as the weapon
coughed a second and third times; slugs chipped the tabletop, empty
shells jingled on the ground. His flashlight fell from his hand, banged
on the floor, and stopped functioning.
White recovered from the initial shock to find Sarah crawling
toward him. She bumped into his chest, face so pale it could be seen
in the dark. Her neat hands sought out the sleeves of his gray shirt.
―The Gestapo!‖ she whispered almost inaudibly, fear crawling up
her spine. ―What weapon is that––‖
―Be quiet,‖ he said very faintly too, putting his fingers to her lips.
Her face was moist, sweating pouring down her cheeks, the breath
quick and hot from her nostrils. ―He‘s got a silenced pistol, that‘s all.‖
He prayed the rattling music was really drowning his murmurs.
―Listen, I want him to believe it‘s only me here. Understand?‖
They heard two footsteps on the floorboards, then a soft click,
followed by another two. The man had tried the light switch. White
felt immensely relieved for having cut the power.
―Aha! Sehr schlau,‖ the disembodied voice babbled malignly over
the sound of the music. ―Eins zu null für dich.”
Very smart, White translated automatically to himself. Score one for
you. He drew his gun and peered through the tangle of wood under the
gate-legged table; he saw nothing.
White whispered, ―I can‘t see him. Even if I got to knock him down,
the whole neighborhood would hear the shot. We‘d be caught before
getting back to the car.‖
―That‘s enough!‖ The man roared in German.
White gritted his teeth waiting for a downpour of silenced gunshots
at him. But there was nothing besides yet another stream of guttural
German, ―I suggest you give in, comrade. I‘m waiting!‖
She moved his hand from her mouth. ―What can we do?‖ she
whispered.

Leonard Oaks 54
 Season of Revenge

White allowed himself a moment of thought. He must believe by

now it‘s only me here, he deduced; he didn‘t see her come in for
Sarah was glued to my back––counting on the man was peeking
around the street corner as we came in. But why did Panama Hat take
over twenty minutes to get back here?
He shook off the thought. He immediately remembered his jacket on
the coat-hanger. An idea popped in his head.
―Listen,‖ he said into her ear, ―go to the coat-hanger in the corner
and rock it. But do that still lying on the floor, got it?‖
Her glistening pale face nodded.
―I need two minutes,‖ he said. ―No more, no less. Go.‖
She turned around and headed for the corner of the room, mouth
open in a soundless cry as she tried to concentrate on the countdown.
Her heart seemed to be pulsating in her throat. It was a moment she
had so long dreaded: her personal encounter with the Gestapo––the
encounter with death. A hundred stories of torture and cruel
assassinations committed by the Nazis seemed to whir in her brain at
the same time.
White released the safety catch on his automatic as he counted off
the seconds. He rose to a crouch and started in the opposite direction,
leaving behind the protection of the table. He looked at Sarah and
didn‘t see her. Good. The German wouldn‘t, either. Sidestepping his
way along the shelves, he moved no more than a foot from them, head
tilted toward the center of the room, waiting for the gun to cough. The
music from the street brought by the breeze sounded abnormally loud,
like sirens in his ears.
Over a minute passed. He had maybe forty seconds before Sarah did
what he‘d asked. Holding out both arms in front of him, like a crab, he
tiptoed toward the doorway, waiting to bump into the German any
second. Best thing to do was to press the barrel against the man‘s back
and fire; there would be almost no sound at all.
The man‘s voice boomed in the darkness: ―It‘s late! Where are you,
comrade?‖
The feet of the coat-hanger rattled across the room, White‘s light
brown jacket fluttering noticeably in the air. A second later the gun
coughed three times in rapid succession, the tug of the bullets making
the jacket shake even harder. One of the slugs hit the pole of the
hanger, toppling it.
The Englishman measured the distance between him and the source
of the noise and lunged at the man. He crashed into the bulky German
and both collapsed to the ground with a thud, the silenced weapon

Leonard Oaks 55
 Season of Revenge

flying from his adversary‘s hand and banging heavily on the floor.
White slipped one arm around the man‘s neck and pressed his gun
against his back. Before he could fire, an elbow like iron lashed at his
wrist and the Berretta fell from his grasp.
They fell in a heap and rolled toward the threshold in a crunching
fight. Punches and knee strokes were exchanged savagely amid a
chorus of guttural roars while both turned over on the floor. They
went through the wide doorway and into the living room, tearing at
each other like mad dogs. White suddenly found himself lying on his
opponent‘s back.
In a split second, months of training overcame pain and emotion. He
wound his both arms around the man‘s head and hurled himself
around, putting all his weight on the headlock. There was a sharp snap
when the neck broke. The man‘s body shuddered and went limp.
White lay there for a moment, face bathed in sweat, a taste of blood
in his mouth. All his bones ached and he felt totally drained of energy.
He tapped the dead German on his shoulder and said, ―It‘s over
now…kamerad.‖
As he was wrenching himself to his knees, there was a loud click
outside and the light of the room of the safe blazed to life.
The master switch in the fuse box! a voice screamed in White‘s
head. Someone had suspected the darkness in the house had
something to do with it.
Two seconds later, a man even bigger than the one on the floor came
in through the open front door and said loudly, ―Herr Hauptmann?‖
Then he turned on the light of the living room.
White was half blinded by the glare of the naked bulb hanging from
the ceiling. The man looked at him and next at the dead body on the
floor. His mouth went agape with surprise. Now it all made sense to
White: Panama Hat had spent twenty minutes calling for backup.
―You son of a bitch!‖ the German snarled in his language. Face
contorted by rage, his right hand blurred for a Luger automatic in a
holster hanging below his armpit. Then he cocked it, and drew a bead
on White.
Weary resignation gripped the Englishman. He knelt there like a
cornered blue-eyed animal waiting to be slaughtered. He knew there
was nothing he could do. He was going to die.
Muffled cracks sounded from somewhere and the German was
propelled into the air and against the wall. Three shots spaced closely
together had hit his chest. He careened down, slumping to the floor in
a sitting position, leaving a trail of blood on the wall. He tried to

Leonard Oaks 56
 Season of Revenge

speak, then his eyes swirled in the sockets as blood seeped through his
cream-colored jacket, and he nodded off.
Sarah stood behind White, in the doorway, breathing erratically. A
trim, deadly-looking Mauser automatic was in one hand, the other
around the bulbous noise suppressor attached to its barrel. Her face
was colorless, eyes wide open gazing at the bleeding man. After a
moment, her hands went limp and the heavy pistol clattered on the
floor.
―Good job. You didn‘t hesitate,‖ White said as he scrambled to his
feet, his voice husky with tension. ―Many thanks, by the way.‖
She threw her arms about him and wept. Tears poured from her dark
eyes as she stared across the room at the blood-soaked holes in the
man‘s jacket. How could I do that? she asked herself. Lord, please
forgive me!
―Look, it was the right thing to do,‖ White said, reading her mind.
He patted her back softly, kissed her forehead, and detached himself
from her. ―He‘d have killed me––and you next,‖ he said as he mopped
her tears with a handkerchief. He noticed she was averting her eyes
from the dead man by the door.
―I…I know. It shouldn‘t be like this,‖ There was a strange tightness
in her throat. ―He was just a filthy Gestapo.‖
―Exactly, my dear,‖ he said, faking a grin.
―They must all die,‖ she said wrathfully.
White nodded, pursing his lips. ―That‘s more like the motto of the
Haganah I heard a few months ago.‖
Another tear rolled down her cheek.
White glanced at the gawping front door and stuffed the tail of his
shirt into his pants. ―We‘d better go away before more of them decide
to come back to office and work an extra shift. Let‘s go.‖

**************
7
It felt like a headache. Dalton‘s brain tried almost involuntarily to
reason the facts about the ambush carried out by the militia. After his
return to England in early 1939, he‘d kept track of Arab gangs while
working at the War Office. Now here was he and his men charged
with the responsibility to help eliminate the evilest one. He had that
chilling sensation of prodding at a dangerous animal through the bars
of its cage with a short stick.
He remembered a copy of their classified army record the MI-6 had
gotten hold of. In it was even pictures of the militia‘s leader, Hassan

Leonard Oaks 57
 Season of Revenge

Matouk; the man‘s pitiless gaze was indelible from his memory. The
file paid special attention exactly on him: once the commander of an
Askari battalion, he‘d been appointed general by Mussolini himself
after the invasion of Ethiopia. The bestowal had occurred in a military
ceremony with the presence of all the militiamen, agents of the
OVRA––the Italian secret police––and a battalion of war-hungry
Black Shirts. Creators and creatures.
In late 1941 Dalton had read accounts on the militia from officers
who‘d participated of the British expeditionary force that had
liberated Ethiopia from the Italian occupation army. The Beasts had
massacred hundreds of civilians there in 1936, all on behalf of
Mussolini. They‘d been dubbed as such for their anthology of
egregious deeds. The sending of some of them to Palestine in 1938
had been in order to try to destabilize the British tenants. They
surfaced again in small villages of Tunisia, a French protectorate, as
soon as Italy invaded it after the fall of France in mid 1940. That had
been the zenith of Mussolini‘s expansionism endeavor. Weeks later,
the whole of the militia was arrested.
But they hadn‘t been thrown into jail for they‘d supposedly killed
German military emissaries at a brothel in Tripoli. That had been just
a fix, a politically convenient fallacy. The real motif for the Italians to
have taken them out of circulation had been something else: Arturo
Bocchini, head of the OVRA, had learned that Matouk was flirting
with the idea of proposing to the Italians to be appointed the governor
of Cyrenaique, the eastern province of Libya. There were even traces
of government funds channeled by Matouk to build up a rebel army or
something of the sort to seize the province lest Mussolini didn‘t agree
to it.
Authorized by the Italian dictator, Bocchini had ordered the Beasts
immediately incarcerated, quelling the might-have-been coup. The
Italians had to mobilize a whole one-thousand-men Black Shirt
regiment to manage to arrest around a hundred militiamen. Afraid of
being accused of involvement, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem––
Matouk‘s known good friend and mastermind––hadn‘t stirred a
muscle for him. Funny as it may seem, Bocchini had suggested
Mussolini dismantle the militia a few months after Matouk‘s
promotion. He‘d warned the Duce that a militia composed of religious
fanatics would certainly have unpredictable behavior. But Mussolini
had ignored his warnings.
Dalton wondered about the circumstances of the liberation of those
abominable creatures from their prison. Are they on some sort of

Leonard Oaks 58
 Season of Revenge

parole? he asked himself. And if so, have the Beasts been

rehabilitated? Miraculously rehabilitated? That‘s not unlikely, he
mused, given they‘d been supplied modern German equipment.
Besides their sudden apparition on the battlefield, he also tried to
hypothesis the reason for they‘d left their dead men on the combat
area. It was known of them that they spirited the bodies away and
buried them by the nearest mosques. It was a sacred eulogy for them.
Possessed by religion fervor the way they were, leaving the bodies
behind––and unburied––was an unthinkable sacrilege.
The Beasts, as far as he could recall, always tried to confuse their
trail after covert actions. But, in this case, it was as if they wanted to
make sure everyone would know it had been them the culprits for
killing the Guardsmen.
Are they trying deliberately to abandon anonymity by incriminating
themselves? Dalton pondered. And what in the world would they do
that for?
All of a sudden an onslaught of painful memories flashed across his
inner screen. It began assailing him with the first time he saw pretty,
black-haired Samara on her father‘s drugstore in Haifa, balancing
herself on a stool in a light blue dress while dusting off shelves…then
the day he‘d first invited her to go dinner out with him, chaperoned by
one of her brothers...their wedding party…their honeymoon in a
cottage by the Sea of Galilee…the first night in their seafront
apartment…and last the scene of his sweet wife lying dead and
bloodied in a back alley. It stung him breathless. His heartbeat
quickened. Now instead of pondering about the plans of the militia he
started closing doors in his soul and trying to breathe normally.
>><<
It was around eight o‘clock. Stars were packed together in the sky
like spilled sugar on black velvet. Their sparkling powdered the desert
white, giving hollow outlines to boulders and bushes. The cold was
inversely intense as the boiling daytime heat.
Dalton sighted the hamlet of Abyad above the hood of his truck.
Roughly a hundred miles from the coast, it‘d sprouted centuries ago
around a spring of water lost in the sandy wilderness. In the dim
skylights its cluster of small houses looked like a volcanic atoll
immersed in haze. The people living there were very hospitable, most
of them artisans.
Two of them were his informants. Dalton‘s patrol had stopped at
Abyad the previous night, returning from their last mission. Here was
the halfway point between the frontier to Egypt and the Libyan coastal

Leonard Oaks 59
 Season of Revenge

area. They periodically came in ‗pilgrimage‘ to it in search of data on

the enemy‘s movements. Like many Senoussis––the native inhabitants
of Cyrenaique––these two collaborators had fought against the
invading Italian armies in 1919.
When they found themselves a quarter of a mile from the hamlet,
Dalton said to Collins, ―Some of the men living there are our
informants. We‘ll sound them out about the Beasts. They always
know everything about everyone moving around the caravan routes.‖
Collins mumbled an answer and blinked several times to get himself
fully awake. For the last twenty minutes of sluggish trip his eyelids
had slowly slid down and closed for a few seconds, but then his head
would jerk up and he‘d take a deep breath and be alert again. The air
was searing cold; it hurt to breathe. He looked over his shoulder at the
corporal in charge of the course-plotting. The man was with a sextant
on his lap; they‘d been traveling by celestial navigation. He was
surprised to see how accurate it could be.
Turning for the direction of the village, Dalton switched off his
headlight––still only one was unmasked––and spoke briefly to the
navigator in the back. The man nodded and took a curved red-filtered
flashlight from a pocket. He spun around on his improvised seat and
flickered curt light signals toward the vehicles behind. The message
was that they should be totally alert from now on; it was impossible to
know whether there were enemies in or around the hamlet.
Nearing Abyad, they took in sharply the honeycomb of little mud-
brick houses leaning against one another for support; acacia trees
edging the pond in its center; the waist-level stonewall ringing the
hamlet. The locals used to make some money by lodging commuting
caravans for the night. They were always greeted festively by the
locals. It was like an Arab resort.
Dalton drew level with the twenty-foot-wide gap in the belt of
stones and let his truck coast down the soft incline, lights doused. The
place seemed very calm tonight, he soon realized. Uncommonly quiet,
he concluded after some more seconds. He could see neither
illumination nor people moving in around to greet them, which had
always happened. As his truck plunged into the passage, it ran over
something that was half buried in the sand. It grasped to the truck‘s
bottom and was dragged for some yards until Dalton pulled up. The
trucks behind did the same.
Dalton and Collins climbed out to check it out. It was a lot colder
outside the vehicle; the wind was like needles of ice stabbing into

Leonard Oaks 60
 Season of Revenge

their faces. Flashlight in hands, they knelt down to peek beneath the
truck. They gasped when they found out it was a man.
Collins grabbed the man‘s bony legs and heaved him from beneath
the vehicle. The pallor of his olive-skinned bald head suggested he‘d
died several hours ago.
―He was already dead,‖ the American said, not sure whether it could
be a reason for relief.
―I know this man,‖ Dalton told Collins. ―He‘s the village‘s
headman––the muktar. Poor chap gave us food and water last
morning; just like he did for over a half year.‖
―Let‘s find out what killed him,‖ Collins said and started to examine
the cadaver in a visual autopsy. He had no apparent injuries on his
front, so they turned him over. His pastel-colored cotton robe was
caked with cold, coagulating blood at the midpoint of his back. The
elderly muktar had been gunshot. He had two bullet holes near his
spine.
Dalton hurried to speak to the other crews as he took his goggles and
headdress off. A minute later, they were all with guns in hands to give
a sweep in the hamlet, their flashlights piercing the blackness. They
cocked their Thompsons and leapt over the stone wall, wary eyes
straining. Cold air cutting into their lungs, they began skirting the
place‘s perimeter slowly and watchfully, maneuvering around neatly-
made stacks of firewood and grain jars.
Between the wall and the first row of houses was a small grape
orchard. To the right, in a corner of the hamlet, were tombstones of
the villagers‘ ancestors. No sight of life at either place. Probing
further in, their flashlights fell on five cadavers in bright clothes
floating facedown in the pond. More corpses were seen around an
uneaten banquet of Arab food and broken crockery. Examining them,
they learned these ones had sharp bullet holes and gaping lacerations
produced by long-bladed weapons.
―Jesus Christ!‖ Collins voiced as Keyes and Palmer joined him
silently. ―This is a massacre!‖
―Fucking cowards killed unarmed civilians,‖ Keyes said.
Palmer said, ―You think it‘s got something to do with this people
helping the Brits?‖
Collins made a face. ―I hope not. I do hope not.‖
>> <<
Jean Olivier, the French officer, led Dalton into one of the houses in
the light of his own flash. The small home of sun-dried bricks of clay
and straw was furnished with rugs and cushions and had little round

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 Season of Revenge

windows. There were niches carved in the mud-brick walls containing

burnt-out candles, a frail white silk curtain at the doorway in the place
of a door, and an appalling view on the ground: children, men,
women––one with an unborn child––all dead. Some of the crumpled,
blood-stained shapes on the floor had deep gashes in their bodies. One
had been beheaded.
―Here are our informants,‖ the Frenchman said, pointing to the
bloodied cadavers of two men. Lying on the floor a few feet apart,
were Djamel and Azziz, their torsos peppered with bullet holes. A
yard to their left, their wives, Nura and Fatmeh, lay dead as well.
Dalton muttered a curse and shook his head in disbelief. ―Continue
searching for someone alive. We‘ve got to find someone to tell us
what the devil happened.‖
Miller stepped into the small house, a flashlight burning in one hand.
He was taken aback at the creepy sight, his heavily suntanned face
going pale, bile rising to his mouth. He was immediately aware that
Dalton looked in a daze.
The Welshman turned to him and said, ―Take men back to the
Chevys and get them inside under camouflage. This bloody mess can
be anything––even an ambush. You‘d better give us cover with the
Brownings.‖
The Englishman nodded in silence, absently, and went out toward
the vehicles, lighting his way with his electric lamp. The image of the
slaughtered children and Nura with her unborn child refused to leave
his mind for long minutes.
Each of the miniature houses was examined. With their flashlights
throwing dancing shafts of light everywhere, they found the rest of the
victims as they scouted the sandy alleys between the little homes. The
ancient hamlet was just a morgue now. Its forty-three inhabitants had
all been murdered. And there were more cadavers: a Bedouin caravan
with eleven people and as many camels that had been hauling a cargo
of melons on their backs. The dromedaries, tethered to trees, had been
for some incomprehensible reason shot, too; there were distinctive
bursts of submachine gun on their ribcages.
Dalton walked out of the small house and leaned weakly against a
wall as the gelid wind washed over his overcoat. Now a full-force
headache was radiating through his head. He tried to light a cigarette
in his trembling hands; five matches later he gave up. He stood there,
looking defeated, watching a thin slice of moon rise over the horizon
to the east.

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 Season of Revenge

Keyes came up to him and offered light with a Zippo. The captain
took it. ―Thanks, mate.‖
―No problem,‖ the Texan said. He began fidgeting with his lighter,
flicking its cover open and shut, open and shut. Then he said,
―Whatcha gonna do ‗bout this bloodbath, sir?‖
The Welshman shook his head, staring at the sandy ground silently,
eyes glazed. ―Don‘t know yet.‖
The Texan chuckled humorlessly. ―If it was where I come from,‖ he
said. ―We‘d go after the pricks who did it; then we‘d strap‘em to a
wooden chair and throw a switch.‖
Collins observed attentively the Texan‘s blunt ire. He knew Keyes
really meant it. On the trip to Egypt, Keyes had confessed to him he‘d
killed a man. On one night while patrolling a back road by the limits
to Louisiana he‘d bumped into a white-robed Ku-Klux-Klan fanatic
whipping a Negro tied to a pole. Keyes had shouted for him to freeze,
but the man turned around while drawing a gun. Keyes shot him
twice, one bullet through his heart. He‘d asked Keyes whether he
regretted killing the man. Keyes said he only regretted the damn
coward had died without suffering enough.
The Texan nodded pensively at Dalton. ―But I‘d content myself
putting slugs into these sunofabitches, sir.‖
Dalton looked up at the American and blew out smoke. ―The
thought crossed my mind.‖
>><<
On top of a dune a half-mile away, a pair of heavily-clad men
scrutinized every step taken by the men in Abyad through their
binoculars. While doing so they slurped slices of melon. Their sleeves
were stained with somebody else‘s blood. Despite the blankets draped
over their Afrika Korps fatigues, the crisp night air made them shiver
with cold as they observed Dalton and his men move around the
houses of the hamlet. The field of vision on the crest of the dune was
perfect, and the lighting thrown by the flashlights of the men they
observed helped them focus accurately.
The two men had a pair of Zundapp motorcycles. Both machines
carried extra gas canisters on the sidecars, which gave them a
tremendous autonomy. The panniers were filled with supplies, food,
and a good quantity of water, allowing them a several-day
surveillance. Hanging to the bars of the bikes were two Schmeissers
and ammunition pouches; several magazines were missing in them.
Since the first truck had driven into the hamlet, the two men
broadcast everything they saw over a backpack radio lying on the

Leonard Oaks 63
 Season of Revenge

sand between them. A portable directional antenna mounted on a

tripod gave it an enormous range for Morse-code transmission.
Pointing west, the T-shaped aluminum aerial gently nodded with the
howling wind.
The communication over the radio was incessant. The one with the
radio had earphones around his head, and wrote down the
transcription of the messages. The one with the binoculars worded
anything he judged important to be sent over the radio. Often the two
watchers seemed to be recapitulating information tap by tap on the
transmission key. And it was always in a dry military tone, in contrast
to their belonging to a militia nicknamed Mussolini‘s Beasts.

**************
8
Allan White sat behind the wheel of the rental and got the passenger
door open for Sarah. She sank into the seat, still trying to regain
control of herself. She looked as if she‘d awoken from a recurring
nightmare.
―How come I never noticed them lurk around corners to see if
anyone would break into the house?‖ she said, not asking a question.
―It doesn‘t matter anymore, all right?‖ White said. ―The Gestapo
will begin a citywide hunt as soon as they learn of all that mess. Now
we‘ve got to try to disappear as fast as we can.‖
The girl replaced the headscarf around her head and nodded. ―I‘ll be
back in Casablanca by after tomorrow evening.‖
―Why don‘t you come with me on the boat?‖
She reached for his arm and grasped it softly. ―I ought to go back
there, Allan.‖
It warmed him being called by his first name. ―What for?‖
―I do need to see my head of station and let him know about
Heusseini‘s nephew. It doesn‘t smell right. These people are more
dangerous than the Gestapo. And the papers suggest they must be
orchestrating something together––here! We need to know what
they‘re up to. You understand now?‖
―No, darling, honestly, I don‘t,‖ he said, shaking his head in
disapproval. ―London will send a copy of this material to your boss in
a few days‘ time, I promise.‖
She sighed. ―Trust me. I must be there to relay this to my people
personally.‖
He grabbed her neat hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. ―Are all
girls from Palestine as stubborn as you?‖

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 Season of Revenge

A crooked smile broke her tense face. ―Just about.‖

He smiled back at her, and she said. ―Can you remember the way to
the docks?‖
He winced. ―Are you joking? Cities like this are as a maze to me––
especially at night. It took me a week in Madrid to memorize the way
from the embassy to my flat. Well…I only remember we sort of
traversed the whole city to get here.‖
―Which means...?‖
―It means you‘ll have to see me off.‖
―At your orders, sir.‖
He chuckled, keyed the engine, and drove away. Sarah began giving
him rights and lefts. The blackout fittings on the headlights forced him
to drive very slowly. Only now he fully perceived there were so many
buildings in Western style in Tripoli. They gave the place a modern
ambience he hadn‘t seen even in Spain. But soon the majestic spires
that loomed over the old city reminded him it had been here long
before the arrival of the invading Europeans. Ancient buildings came
into sight, and the weak headlights brought to life the ceramic tiles on
their walls, small masterpieces of beauty and good taste dating from
the time Europe was caught in the Dark Ages.
He was told to swerve into a broad street; Sarah was sure it ran all
the way to the seaside. Soon they saw an Italian soldier leaning
against a barred gate, blocking the route to the seafront road. The man
was checking the papers of two Arab men in working clothes. And
there was a pistol holster at his waist.
―Hell,‖ White said. ―The bloke wasn‘t here this afternoon, was he?‖
Sarah began chewing a nail. ―No. There must be something going on
at the docks.‖
―Let‘s hope it‘s just a bloody drill.‖
The man signaled for him to douse his lights and White did so. Then
the Italian sprang up and pointed to a sign hanging to a corner of the
barrier. White read out, ―Closed for civilian vehicles past this point.‖
He put the gear into reverse. ―I‘ll park it on a side street. We‘ll
continue on foot.‖
Sarah gave a start. ―What time is it?‖
―Five past eight,‖ White said.
―The last train leaves in thirty-five minutes.‖
He grunted. ―You‘re right. It‘ll take too long.‖
Sarah‘s eyes lit with an idea. ―Give me your jacket.‖
White frowned. ―What?‖
―Come on.‖

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 Season of Revenge

He peeled it off as the soldier was verifying the papers of another

pair of dock workers, and gave it to Sarah. She bundled it into a ball,
and shoved it under her dress at her stomach. Then she reached into
the glove compartment, grabbed a bottle that was in there, and poured
half the water in it on her face.
She said, ―You know what I mean now?‖
―Girl, you‘re terrible,‖ White said with a malicious grin, and leaned
on his horn.
The soldier jumped at the honking and darted toward the Fiat with
an authoritarian step. ―Basta! Basta, stupido!‖ he shouted. “Che
pazza?”
Sarah said, ―Tell him my doctor lives near the docks.‖
The soldier came to the driver‘s side, leaned in, and let out an
onslaught of fast Italian while pointing to the sign at the gate. White
snarled back a dozen words in passable Italian, filled the man‘s hands
with his false papers that identified him as a journalist from Spain,
and turned on the ceiling light.
The man immediately looked past him at Sarah and his expression
became of pure surprise. The poor pregnant woman was with her eyes
closed, panting for breath, rivulets of sweat pouring down her face.
She seemed about to give birth!
―Va bene, mi perdone,‖ he said with a stuttering voice, and hurried
back to the gate.
White flicked on the headlights as elation washed over him. ―Bravo,
bravo,‖ he said quietly as the Italian lifted the bar, and added, ―So
you‘re something else than door locks and safes, eh?‖
She managed a giggle despite to be making a painful face. ―Thank
you. Say I also can improvise pretty well.‖
The soldier glanced around to make sure none of his superiors were
looking on, and beckoned the car through as if he were shooing them
away.
White turned right and drove very slowly along the deserted seafront
road for three blocks. The stale air of the harbor and a whiff of salty
dampness invaded the car as it drummed on the cobblestones. He
recognized a whitewashed tool-shed with a wooden booth by the
entrance, and swung into a parking slot in front of it. He killed the
lights and the car was swallowed by the surrounding darkness. There
was nobody around, and aside from the howling sea wind, silence
reigned. He looked out of the window to see the bobbing funnels of
the trawlers moored at the small boat marina across the broad street.

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 Season of Revenge

―Can you see your boat?‖ she asked, and handed him back his
bullet-pierced jacket.
―Not yet. But I‘m sure it was supposed to be here waiting for me.‖
Sarah looked around. ―Yes…but…where‘ve your friends gone?‖
White cursed and climbed out. He slammed the door shut and put on
his jacket. Cursing again, he crossed the road in a dozen long strides,
head swiveling right and left. He made his way around empty fish-
smelling crates and got to the edge of the quay. Sarah joined him a
moment later.
He stood there in silence for a long minute, hands on his hips. As the
fierce salty wind played with his jacket, he concentrated on a visual
pursuit of the boat. He recognized a row of peeling, shabby trawlers
bouncing against a considerable stretch of the marina, prows pointing
to the shore…
But his wasn‘t moored there anymore.
Growing nervous, he peered between the two trawlers immediately
in front of him, and saw the shapes of a second row of boats floating
some thirty yards behind. Only one of them had its deck light on.
White focused his eyes on it and made out the inscription Giovana-
Sardinia in big block letters across the prow surrounded by long rusty
stains.
―What the devil are you doing there, you bastards?‖ he murmured,
and turned to Sarah. ―Well, time to leave. Now I‘ve got a little
swimming to do.‖
―For a moment I thought you‘d have to take that train with me,‖ she
said, grinning, and saw him reach into his pockets and take out the
wrinkled pages she‘d collected plus the Minox camera. He began
wrapping them with his handkerchief.
―It won‘t be enough,‖ Sarah said. ―Be right back.‖ She hurried back
to the car and returned a minute later with an empty leather purse and
a fold of newspapers.
―There,‖ she said, handing him both.
―What could I ever do without you, Sarah?‖ He wrapped the
newspapers around the small bundle and leaned to put it into the purse
in her hands as she hung it open for him. But instead of looking into
the handbag, he found himself staring at her, a few inches between
their starlit faces.
She felt the gaze and looked him in the eye. He bent his head to hers
and the kiss came naturally, soft and warm. For a moment there was
no war, no danger at all; just a man and woman alone in the dark,
burning in desire, savoring each other‘s taste. She grabbed one lapel

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of his jacket and pulled him closer; her other hand dropped the purse
and moved behind his neck. Her breasts were pressing wobbly against
him. He began to have an erection and ran a hand along her left
buttock.
She pushed him away gently, breathing for air. ―It wasn‘t part of the
plan.‖
―It never is.‖ He picked up the purse and zipped it closed.
―But it‘s good for releasing tension,‖ she said, straightening her
dress, and shivered with cold.
―Agreed.‖
―Only the timing is wrong, I think.‖
White looked hard at her in the eye. After a while, he held out one
hand massaging the back of her neck. ―You promise you‘ll take care?‖
She nodded, not feeling the ground under her feet. ―Yes,‖ she said,
eyes closed, a moan in her voice. As he draped his jacket over her
shoulders, she wondered whether she‘d ever see him again.
―I left my gun under the seat,‖ he said. ―Make good use of it if
things go awry. Never hesitate.‖
Sarah moaned an answer and White didn‘t resist. He stepped closer
and kissed her again. She felt her body tremble as his lips touched
hers. He suddenly broke the clinch and said, ―Got to go now.‖
She stood in silence, lips parted, watching him unbutton his shirt and
shove the purse underneath it. He buttoned it up and sat at the edge of
the pier beside a bollard, and grabbed a mooring rope.
He looked at her. ―Another day, darling….perhaps,‖ he said while
kicking off his shoes.
―Perhaps,‖ she mumbled, smiling, and blew him a kiss as he slid
into the water.
White had a brief surge of panic as he went over his head, and the
price was a mouthful of fuel-polluted water. He coughed and started a
hurried breast-stroke. He paused, glanced over his shoulder to catch
one last glimpse of Sarah. She was still standing there, her face a flash
of brightness in the night. He waved her away and went on, only
stopping to maneuver around a large piece of harbor driftwood.
When he got to his boat his lungs were burning, his eyes filled with
flashing dots that nearly blinded him. He paused to regain breath and
good eyesight, then set about clawing up the boat‘s anchor rope. His
feet rapidly touched the waterline ledge. He thought it‘d be easier
from now on, but the ledge was very slippery.
Suddenly he had the clear view of a spotlight shining in his
direction. It came from a flat-bottomed motor punt with two rifle-

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 Season of Revenge

bearing soldiers in it. White allowed himself a few seconds to think. If

he returned to the water they‘d notice the disturbance in the water and
would come check it out. He had to climb on––quickly!
The Englishman grabbed the railing with one hand, and then with
the other, and gave a final kick on the waterline ledge. The metal
tubing was also very slippery with a mixture of water and fish fat, and
his weigh began to wrench his fingers open.
He was going to fall back into the water. He still had time to realize
that the punt was no more than forty yards away, the glare of its
spotlight piercing the gloom between the boats.
When he hung only by his indicator fingers, White felt strong fists
around his wrists. He was hauled up over the railing and flopped on
the scabby deck floor with a thud, hurting his shoulder. A second later
the motor punt moved past the trawler, the spotlight playing on where
he‘d just been.
As he lay there struggling for air, an ugly bearded face spoke to him,
―Hullo, sea devil. Back so soon. What happened?‖
White shook his head like a groggy boxer, wheezing and blinking,
his hair plastered to his skull. ―I ask the questions, Lloyd.‖ Streaks of
filthy water still ran down his face. ―Why did you leave the quay, you
fool?‖
Lloyd chuckled as he dried his hands on his denims. ―As you may
have already perceived, the Italians are running inspections on all
boats. And the first ones to be checked are those moored,‖ he shifted
his gaze to the purse and reached for it. ―Who does it belong to?‖
―A friend.‖ He snatched it from Lloyd‘s hand and stood up looking
for Sarah at the pier; she wasn‘t there anymore.
―It was you there with the girl? I saw your performance, my friend.‖
He paused, thinking. ―Lousy place to knock off a quickie, though.‖
―There you‘re right.‖
Lloyd lit a foul-smelling cheroot. ―So, how did it go? The job, I
mean. Was this chap Neptune any good in the business?‖
There was a grim smile on White‘s face. ―Potentially speaking,
yes.‖
It was Lloyd‘s turn to try to spot the girl on the quay. ―So he was
she, you bloody pervert. The first think the Gestapo will do when they
catch you is to neuter you.‖
White broke into laughter and went down the companionway and
into the cramped galley, his drenched pants making a squelching
sound. He snatched the cap of a drum full of a dark, stinking broth,
sank one arm inside, and took a black watertight case from its bottom.

Leonard Oaks 69
 Season of Revenge

He placed it on a wooden box and flung it open revealing a shortwave

radio-transmitter.
Lloyd stepped into the galley, puffed a cloud of smoke, and closed
the door. ―Forgot telling you: there‘s a Kraut mini-flotilla blocking the
harbor. They‘ll stay there till the Wops get done with the inspections,
I suppose.‖
White let out a stream of curses as he connected a long wire
dangling from the transmitter to the cable of the antenna that ran
across the bulkhead. ―Hope things are more routine-like in
Alexandria.‖
Lloyd frowned. ―Alexandria?‖
―I‘ve discovered something big. Before the information filters
through the bureaucracy at the embassy and London, it‘ll be too late.
This thing will land me in some trouble, but...‖
―Are you out of your mind, Allan? Our orders are strict: Spain––
Tripoli––Spain. I can‘t and won‘t sail as far as Alexandria.‖
―I know, I know,‖ he said amiably as he adjusted the frequency dial
to the correct megahertz setting. ―That‘s why I‘m calling upon the
Phalanx.‖ The Phalanx was a submarine operating from the British
base at Gibraltar that was employed in commando missions. At this
exact moment it was off the south coast of Malta cruising at a five-
mile circle and at radio-communication depth, waiting for requests of
help from a few MI-6 teams operating in hostile areas.
Lloyd was fuming. He said, ―We were to contact them only if we
needed either refueling or repairs on our way back, remember?‖
―The commander will understand,‖ White said. He flashed the first
letters of the message.
The engine room hatch opened up and a skinny blond man with an
oil-smudged face came up the ladder. ―Couldn‘t help hearing
everything,‖ he said. ―How are you going to explain your prolonged
absence?‖
―The usual rubbish, John: something‘s come up,‖ White said as he
tapped the transmission key.
―That‘s the excuse when you disappear while chasing some piece of
arse ‗round Madrid,‖ John said. ―Which isn‘t the case now.‖
―I‘ve never left any of my friends in the lurch,‖ White said. ―And,
by happenstance, there‘s a plan afoot to get some of them.‖
―How‘s that?‖ Lloyd said.
―You heard me. Their unit and names are listed on a damned
Gestapo file––for either capturing or assassination, I suppose. Only

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 Season of Revenge

my going to meet with them in Alex as soon as possible can make any
difference.‖
White picked up a towel from a chair, rubbed himself for a moment,
and helped himself to a glass of bourbon from a cabinet in a corner.
He raised the glass in a lonely salute and drank it. The liquor seeped
warmly through him as he stared motionlessly at the transmitter,
waiting for the reply. The only sounds for long minutes were the
waves slapping against the hull and the rhythmic creaking of wood on
water. He dropped the towel on the chair and put on a heavy
fisherman‘s sweater that was draped on another chair.
There was a series of blips on the transmitter. White bent down to it
as the reply came in. He listened carefully to it and grinned. ―The
Phalanx will be waiting for us,‖ he said gleefully, and drew
intersecting lines of latitude and longitude on the chart laid out on the
table. Last he tapped a few more words and signed off.
The trawler‘s engine gurgled into life and John flicked a lever on the
wall to his left. A winch at the stern began raising the anchor. He
crossed to White as he dropped the black case back into the smelly
liquid in the drum.
―Ever been on a sub, mate?‖ John asked to see White shake his head
absent-mindedly.
―But you‘re just going to love it,‖ Lloyd said and laughed hoarsely
from the wheelhouse. ―Over twenty hours in that sardine tin. Christ!‖
he added.
―Can you tell me of another choice, you bastard?‖
There was a loud clang at the stern. ―The anchor is ready. Off we
go,‖ John said.
Standing at the helm, Lloyd pushed the throttle on the dashboard
and the trawler‘s engine roared loudly, black smoke spewing out of its
stubby funnel. The Giovana-Sardinia turned in place and shot away
from the row of boats like an ensnared animal desperately trying to
get itself free.
Before he had any illusions of facility, Lloyd sighted the ships
blocking the entrance of the harbor. There were two frigates, gray
hulls floating in the black water.
Lloyd shouted, ―Everyone pretending to be a fisherman now!‖ He
looked back through the open doorways and saw White in the chair
rigged to aft, fumbling with a large fishing net winch. He flicked the
navigation lights on and turned on the wheel in the direction of the
gap between the warships. Then he sounded his horn twice.

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 Season of Revenge

As the trawler went by, a man with a visored officer‘s cap standing
on the floodlit prow of the ship on the right followed White with his
eyes. Then he shook a hand in the air and shouted, ―Bon voyagio,
amici!‖
White looked back at him with the biggest smile he could manage.
―Grazie, capitano!‖ he called, and continued working the winch as
Lloyd increased speed.
The instant the ships faded in the distance, White rushed into the
galley and closed the door as the floor tilted beneath his bare feet.
―Easy when you know how, eh?‖
He grabbed the bottle of bourbon, squeezed himself in the
wheelhouse beside Lloyd and labored onto a stool bolted to the
ground. His bearded friend had both hands on the helm as the prow
lifted over the waves.
―What else happened back there?‖ Lloyd asked, eyes fixed on the
swelling sea.
―We had a rough meeting at the house. In the end, two of them
down.‖
―The girl was of any help with that?‖
White took a pull at the bottle and made a pistol of thumb and
forefinger with one hand, flexing the thumb several times. ―She
bagged one of them herself.‖ Lloyd whistled in admiration.
White nodded, pride on his face. ―Any other girl in that situation
would‘ve been in hysterics.‖
―Hmm, interesting,‖ Lloyd said, eyes moving from the compass to
the water. ―Next time you‘ll wait in this old bucket.‖
White said nothing in reply. He just sat there peering through the
curved window over the sea as they entered the heavy chop. The
Mediterranean looked like a greasy mirror, the foam of the swells the
color of the skylights. The rhythmic gurgle of the engine filled his
ears, blending with the slapping of waves against the hull as the
trawler bounced its way over the heaving mass of water….and his
thoughts yet again drifted to Sarah.

PART 2

9
It was ten minutes to five in the morning when Colonel Robert
Cameron was awakened by a man sent by the duty officer in charge of
the communications station. He put on his bush shirt, shorts and

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 Season of Revenge

shoes, and left his shanty living accommodations following the young
private through the alleys of hardened dirt.
The village of Siwa was still asleep. It was a half-mile circular
spread of palm trees and mud-brick dwellings in the depths of the
desert, the impassable Qattara Depression separating it from the main
Egyptian towns. The only reason for its existence was the fizzy lakes
of fresh water that made one feel like bathing in soda. Until a few
days ago a small Afrika Korps garrison had been here. According to
the locals they‘d behaved more as tourists than as soldiers.
Halfway to the radio station, Cameron regretted for not having put
on his coat; it was extremely cold. Looking down the alley he saw the
silvery pre-dawn lighting seep through a ceiling of stars sparkling like
diamond chips. For a moment the sight made him forget about the
cold; but only for a little while. It was the coldest morning in months,
he thought, and there was even some wetness in the air. The only
explanation should be the coming of the raining season. He turned his
head to the north while walking and saw menacing dark clouds on the
horizon. He‘d guessed right.
Cameron pushed through the mosquito nets at the entrance to the
communications station, heard a few good-morning-sirs and sat on a
rickety chair in a corner. All around the oblong room were gray racks
of radio equipment on trestle tables, thick black cables, fat log books,
maps rolled up in boxes, and all kinds of tools and accessories for the
transmitters. The station had been assembled in a barn-like building of
palm-tree logs close to the airstrip that jutted out of the village. As
wood caused much less interference to radio signals than the metal of
Quonsets, it‘d been chosen by the technicians to hold their workplace
the moment they‘d seen it. The cluster of tall palms at its back was
being used for both erecting wire antennas and concealing the power-
supply trailer.
―This had better be worth of it, Howard. You stole forty minutes of
my precious sleep,‖ Cameron said and yawned.
―Here,‖ the red-faced South African lieutenant said with the
traditional slack officialese he‘d learned with the LRDG commandos,
and handed Cameron a clipboard with the transcript of Dalton‘s
message.
The Scot fingered the last crusts out of the corner of his eyes and
began reading it. Seconds later the duty officer had the pleasure of
seeing his chief‘s face wrinkle and shudder with shock.
―Oh Lord! The people of Abyad…why?‖ he looked up from the
paper at Howard and asked. ―How long‘s Dalton been there?‖

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 Season of Revenge

―He didn‘t mention that, sir. All he transmitted is in the

transcription.‖
The colonel read it again. He froze at the line that said, ALL WERE
SHOT, KNIFED, OR DECAPITATED.
Hell! Again! Another massacre with touches of barbarism. What‟s
going on?
Another line read: NO CLEAR EVIDENCES AS TO WHOM DID
IT.
―Tribes fighting amongst themselves?‖ Howard chanced. ―It‘d be
easy for it to go unperceived in the middle of the pandemonium at the
front line.‖
―No. Not amongst the Senoussis.‖
―Bedouins?‖ Howard said, and sat on a stool next to the Colonel.
―I doubt it. No traces were found. They wouldn‘t be so meticulous––
nor would have killed children and women.‖
Howard said, ―There‘s a––‖
At that moment Catherine Nowell came into the room. She wore a
brown skirt and a sweater the same color, her silky red hair tied into a
bun. Pretending not to see all men pat their hairs into place, she said
her good-mornings and stood in front of Cameron. She checked her
watch.
She said, ―Up so soon, sir. Has anything––‖
Before she went on, the colonel gave her the clipboard. ―Have a
look,‖ Cameron said with a placid voice.
She read it and gasped, eyes bulging. ―It must be some sort of
reprisal! Because of the informants there who‘ve been passing us
information.‖
―Our informants have been caught by the enemy before and there
never happened such things,‖ Howard said.
―The enemy wasn‘t as desperate as now,‖ she said, thinking hard.
―Tribal war? Gangs of Bedouin looters?‖
Cameron and Howard exchanged a knowingly glace.
―Written off already, both possibilities,‖ Howard said.
The girl made a face. She could bet it‘d been Cameron‘s deduction,
not Howard‘s. ―I think we should wait and check more sources.‖
Cameron grunted. ―For Christ‘s sake, you two talking remind me of
the sleepy academic discussions at Sandhurst.‖ He got to his feet.
―Let‘s contact Dalton.‖
Catherine sat in front of the wideband radio for long-range
communications resting on the center of the trestle, and placed its
headphones around her head.

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 Season of Revenge

―I‘ll do it,‖ she said while expertly manipulating dials and switches,
and began tapping the Morse key. Transmitting and receiving in
Welsh meant the enemy would take a lot of time to decipher it. That if
they ever succeed: she and Dalton would put the words in reverse and
with missing letters. This way they could exchange at least three times
as many words by not using codebooks.
Dalton answered. Catherine‘s face registered a brief moment of
indistinct pleasure amid the other unpleasant sensations. Cameron
seemed to have noticed it. She put up a finger and Howard began
taking note as she turned the incoming blips of the message into
letters. When it was over the South African handed her the paper; he
couldn‘t read Welsh––much less written in reverse and with missing
letters.
―No traces found yet,‖ she said. ―Any questions?‖
―Thieves?‖ Cameron said, and she punched the key several times.
―No. Suspect the militia,‖ replied Dalton moments later in
Catherine‘s voice.
Cameron swallowed hard. The trembling in his lips meant he was
fighting to restrain a string of curses. ―Let us know of any evidences
found. Signing off.‖
The Welshwoman transmitted it with sheer disappointment in her
eyes. She placed the headset around her neck, disconnected it from the
radio, and grabbed a thick log book with her both hands.
―I‘ll try and dig out some data which might be related to…‖ she
shook her head and pursed her lips. ―To anything.‖
Out of habit, she started twisting a strand of hair between her fingers
as she checked the data in the black log book lying next to the
transmitter. In it were intercepts of a few messages exchanged by
Italians and Germans that her small team of code breakers had
managed to decipher since their arrival in Siwa.
―Right. I‘ll be in my office,‖ Cameron said, got up, and turned away.
He stopped dead when a hiss of static broke through the air. ―What
the devil could it be now?‖
―More good news?‖ said Howard ironically.
―Bolton, this is Trafalgar, over,‖ Catherine translated the blips.
Howard lifted an eyebrow at the girl. She‘d worked out the coded
message a lot faster than he had––without writing it down.
―Here we go again,‖ the colonel said. ‗Bolton‘ stood for himself and
‗Trafalgar‘ for the room the LRDG had been lent––in fact to be used
by Catherine‘s team of code breakers––at an office of the British
Naval Intelligence in Alexandria.

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 Season of Revenge

―What‘s the catastrophe now?‖ Cameron mumbled aloud.

Howard took a seat in front of the transmitter that had sounded,
plugged the earphones, and placed them on his head. He tapped
acknowledgment and began jolting down the message on his scratch
pad a moment later. ―Just a minute, sir,‖ he said.
A few hundreds of dots and dashes of military traffic later, it read:
MAJOR ALLAN WHITE DEMANDS MEETING WITH COLONEL
CAMERON STOP URGENT STOP SUBJECT IS ENEMY FILES
ON LRDG STOP MAJOR WHITE TO ARRIVE AT ALEXANDRIA
IN TWENTY HOURS TIME END.
―Just my luck,‖ the colonel said. He closed his eyes for a moment.
When he reopened them, he saw that everybody was looking
expectantly at him.
―Cathy, come outside, will you,‖ he said, summoning her gently.
They met up outside the building a half-minute later. Catherine said,
―You can‘t leave with that thing in Abyad still unclear, sir.‖
He ignored her suggestion and walked around the building to the
rattling generator trailer and along a path overhung with trees.
Catherine, looking dumbstruck, went after him.
The sun was slipping free of the hazy horizon. As the blood-red ball
came up, the calling of birds increased and the sands turned from
silver fluorescence to pinkish. From a small mosque across the village
the muezzin was summoning the inhabitants for the first prayer of the
day.
Cameron and Catherine walked on for a full minute and got to the
edge of the small, poorly-equipped airfield epitomized by a mauled
windsock on a crude pole. The runway was a rectangle of hardened
earth delimited by empty fuel drums. On one side were a half-dozen
canvas hangars and a few planes, including the Hampden that now
was bringing supplies and equipment over from Alexandria and Cairo
to the village. The planes reminded the Scot of the pair of bombers in
Alexandria ready to take off and blast away the militia‘s base camp
with three thousand pounds of high-explosive iron bombs and white-
phosphorus shells.
―Who‘s this Major White?‖ Catherine asked when they finally
stopped.
―Long story. He‘s a resourceful chap I‘d like to have here with us,‖
he grinned. ―Besides, he‘s someone who could change a nine-pound
banknote into threes.‖
―I‘m afraid I‘ll never be able to decipher that, sir,‖ she said good-
humoredly.

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 Season of Revenge

―Never mind. What really matters is that White is the sort of man
whom we can count on in a clutch––like the Americans say,‖ he took
a long breath. ―Well, he must‘ve come for some important reason.‖
―If it‘s about enemy files on the patrols,‖ Catherine said, ―it is
important.‖
―Yes, for us. Not so much for his own immediate concerns, though.
Hell, the man‘s based in Spain,‖ he lit a cigarette and mused about it
for a while. ―I hate when things happen all at once.‖
―I think you should stay here, sir. Dalton may need orientations only
you can give.‖
―White‘s going to need some help, too. My bet is that he‘s coming
to Egypt without his superior‘s approval.‖ Cameron drew on his
cigarette broodingly. ―Have you got any news about the new
transmitter?‖
He meant a replacement long-range set for their room at the Naval
Intelligence building in Alexandria. The one they‘d been using for a
half year had been brought to Siwa to communicate with the patrols. It
was a rare artifact to be found in regular army field units. And the
Navy personnel weren‘t happy to have their communications room
shared with the LRDG.
―In perhaps twelve hour‘s time, if we‘re lucky. It‘ll be lorried from
Cairo, so told me Latif minutes ago.‖
―Ah, he‘s back, then. Good.‖ The Scot was having an idea.
Between the Hampden and the hut that housed its crew and ground
personnel sat a small, fragile-looking plane. It was a Westland
Lysander, a high-winged liaison plane they also used for light
transportation. Lieutenant Omar Latif had been its pilot for three
months now, the only aircraft he‘d ever piloted apart from the World
War I biplanes of the Egyptian air force. Not that his new plane had
been a tremendous improvement; it looked like just an oversized
butterfly poised for flight.
―Bloody tin looks in shape,‖ Cameron commented, observing the
Arab officer doing a walk-around to examine the Lysander‘s wings.
―Only Latif would dare a night flight with it. Good God!‖
―Sir, I insist,‖ Catherine said. ―Stay here till we can have our
communications from Alexandria with the patrol reestablished. Dalton
set off with one problem to solve; now he‘s got two. He definitely will
be needing your help. And don‘t forget that only you can authorize the
take-off of the bombers after he‘s spotted the militia‘s base camp.‖
The Scot nodded pensively. ―I know, my dear. That‘s why it‘s you
who‘s going to Alex.‖

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 Season of Revenge

**************
10
Dalton had no one to tell him who‘d committed the massacre. It
must explain why the killers had gotten rid of everybody else along
with the few informants. What about the dromedaries? he thought
bitterly: sheer badness! Worst, he had no evidence at all as to who the
killers might be. It was clear that the discarded cartridges had been
collected by them. And the strong wind had helped them immensely
by erasing the spurs made by their vehicles, whatever type they were.
With dawn coming up, Olivier, Dalton, and Collins went into a
modest low house in a corner of the hamlet. They wanted to discuss
the situation as the others dug a collective grave for the dead. There
was a camel-hair rug unfolded across the floor, a single shelf filled
with small art objects, and several clay pitchers of water. The house
had no more than six feet of headroom; Dalton and Collins had to
stoop slightly as they stood there.
The Frenchman said to Dalton with his heavily accented English:
―All and sundry has been assassinated. What now?‖
Dalton still tried to clarify the reasons for the whole thing.
―Nothing‘s been apparently robbed,‖ he said, in a tone of murmur.
―And no important marks have been left behind. Hell! Who in this
area could have any motivations to do this?‖
―Le boche,‖ Olivier averred, meaning the German army. ―I‘ve got a
little surprise for you, my friend,‖ he handed Dalton two spent 9mm-
cartridge cases for Schmeissers. ―The bastards overlooked those by
the pond.‖
The captain lifted the German-made shells up to his nose and sniffed
each. The intense odor of cordite confirmed they had been fired in the
last twenty-four hours.
Olivier pointed to the shells in Dalton‘s hand and said, ―They tried
to clean up their treads, but this ammunition is irrefutable proof!‖ He
gritted his teeth, aching with hatred, and growled in a low tone, “Ces
sales assassins!”
Dalton shook his head as he weighed the cartridges in his palm. He
knew he had instinct for things like this, and he didn‘t believe
Rommel could have determined such drastic measures to eliminate
informants living in far-flung British commandos‘ hangouts. He was
totally skeptic about what the Frenchman had concluded.
―Too obvious for my liking,‖ said the captain, shooting Olivier a
critical look bordering on a reprimand for his precipitated verdict.

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 Season of Revenge

The Frenchman glared at Dalton. But he gave up disputing him. He

mouthed some slang in his lilting language, turned aside abruptly, and
walked out the doorway convinced that Germans had been the authors
of this killing.
But that was natural to him and his crew, Dalton remembered
promptly. All French individuals were entitled to be feeling a strong,
unbridled loath for Nazis since their country fell into Hitler‘s hands.
Already Collins was startled. ―No one seems to know the meaning
of the words Moral and Decency here! First, the guys gutted in the
ambush. Now, this mass killing here––just defenseless civilians!‖
The captain laughed humorlessly. ―Do you expect Mr. Benito
Amilcare Andrea Mussolini to have taught good manners to his
private assassins?‖
Collins raised his eyebrows in undisguised surprise. ―You think the
goons we‘re looking for have a finger in this?‖ he said.
―Yes, I‘ll bet. This penchant for cruelty fits them very well. They‘ve
employed German equipment lately, remember? Il Duce would be
proud of his pupils today.‖ He pocketed the spent cases.
Collins was astonished. He swallowed hard as he made out
accurately the sort of men they were trying to catch. He looked to go
scared, a troubling thought written on his face.
Dalton was aware of the American‘s expression and grinned. ―Save
your nerves, mate,‖ he said in an avuncular tone. ―This is just
beginning; worse still lies ahead.‖
He saw Collins swallow hard again.
A British corporal pushed through the silk curtain at the doorway
and slipped into the cramped living space. His eyes were widened
with tension.
―We‘ve just heard the noise of engines,‖ the man said, ―and they
seem to be close.‖
The three of them rushed out of the cubicle. It was full light now.
Dalton paused, shading his eyes against the sun, and noticed some
men were laying the last cadavers into the enormous grave. Then he
turned right and headed for a nearby truck.
―Miller,‖ he called. ―You come with us; I‘ve got something for your
lazy ears to work on a little.‖
The Englishman jumped out of his truck and joined them. They
trotted to a shady stretch of sand behind the parapet humped around
the hamlet and knelt down behind it. For a long time they stayed
there, frozen in position as if turned to stone, observing the arch of
small dunes situated a half mile to the west of the hamlet. From

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 Season of Revenge

behind it came again the engine noise. It was a faint, reverberating

throb.
―Can you identify what the devil is behind those dunes?‖ Dalton
asked Miller.
Miller heeded it attentively for some seconds, his eyes shut. The
metallic grumble grew louder, drifting before the wind, and the
Englishman opened his eyes abruptly. ―That‘s motorcycle engine,‖ he
affirmed. ―A pair of them––Italian models, perhaps.‖
Dalton widened his eyes. ―Oh, blast––the Bersaglieri!‖
―Bersaglieri?‖ Collins said. ―Who the heck are they?‖
―Italian Special Forces….the few Italians who still take this war
seriously,‖ Dalton answered.
―And they regularly make use of motorcycles on their patrols,‖
Miller chimed in.
―Didn‘t you ever hear of them during your training in Alex?‖ Dalton
asked Collins.
Collins frowned and shook his head. ―I‘m not sure…maybe yes.‖
Miller stopped moving altogether as he heard the throb propagate in
the air again. ―It could be German bikes too. Perhaps…‖ he
concentrated hard and said, ―perhaps Zundapps.‖
―But the Bersaglieri don‘t employ Zundapps. They ride Benelli
models, instead,‖ Dalton said, intrigued.
―I know,‖ Miller replied. He cocked his head to one side, as if
listening with more attention to the unsettling sound that filled the
empty vicinities.
―Are you certain it‘s Zundapps?‖ Dalton insisted.
Miller‘s face wrinkled. ―No, I can‘t be sure, dammit. The bloody
wind is distorting the sound. But it‘s motorcycles, definitely.‖ He
paused, listening carefully, and said, ―It‘s coming from the north
now.‖
―Like they‘re moving away?‖ Collins said.
―I don‘t think so,‖ was Miller‘s answer.
―Some milk run.‖ Dalton grunted. ―Let‘s get out of sight. If the
Italians or someone else is out there riding bloody bikes this near,
we‘ll have trouble.‖
The other men were rapidly alerted about the likely enemies moving
around the hamlet. They placed the trucks between the rows of small
houses and got them camouflaged with nettings. Next they put all the
.50 caliber machine-guns mounted in the vehicles ready for action,
some fed with armor-piercing ammunition to fight vehicles.

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 Season of Revenge

Dalton boarded his truck to get himself ready. Keyes was close to
the captain‘s vehicle, clutching a submachine gun against his
mountainous body. He was chewing gum in a fast rhythm, tension on
his face.
―Hey, cowboy,‖ Dalton said, calling to the American. He rolled
back his sleeves, still sitting in the truck. ―If we‘re attacked, you may
have to use the Browning, all right?‖
―Yes, sir,‖ the American said after he‘d spited out his bubblegum.
Dalton lit a cigarette in cupped hands and pointed to the 50-caliber
on a swivel in the back of his vehicle. ―You know how to use that
thing, don‘t you?‖
Keyes nodded readily.
―Good. It‘s all yours now.‖
Nimble like a cat, Keyes climbed into the truck‘s back with his
Thompson slung over one shoulder. He checked the large pintle-
mounted weapon quickly and adjusted its sight for three hundred
yards. The captain told him what he‘d have to do should they be
attacked, spending a couple of minutes on it. Then he flicked his
cigarette away and removed his headdress in order to put on a steel
helmet.
Although the nervous situation, Keyes found himself foolishly
surprised as he stared at the officer exchanging his sweat-and-sand-
stained gutra for the saucepan-shaped British helmet. The curly dark
brown hair of the Welshman was badly in need of a cut; it seemed
having being last cropped maybe a good four months ago.
>><<
The pair of vigilant militiamen was the source of the mysterious
rumpus echoing from the vicinities. As morning wore on, the sun
began blinding them. Then they left the dunes to the west and went to
probe the farther sides of Abyad, crouching low on the dusty bikes so
as not to be seen. There were no dunes there. So they had to drive
slowly while looking over every elevation on the terrain, in search of
another vantage point.
When they realized the winds had shifted, and the noise of their
engines was being carried toward the hamlet, it already was too late.
They immediately turned the machines off and wheeled them to
behind the nearest hillock with a clear sightline to the hamlet. It
wasn‘t a perfect sightline, but they knew they couldn‘t risk being
spotted by their noise.
Binoculars held to their hairy faces, they tirelessly tried to know
everything the commandos were doing and where they were precisely

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 Season of Revenge

positioned. Again, they were constantly on the radio, sending and

receiving messages in Morse code. The directional antenna, as well as
the radio itself, was now securely mounted on the pillion of one of the
motorcycles.
>><<
Dalton expected an attack at any moment and from any direction. So
did all his men. They waited tensely for it inside the houses or aboard
the camouflaged vehicles, the powerful Browning machine guns ready
for instant action. Some commandos also installed themselves behind
the wall bounding the village, submachine guns in their hands while
surveying the vicinities. It could be more dangerous if they tried to
leave the hamlet without knowing who was near. They knew they
should linger here until sunset. For a minimal safety, they shouldn‘t
allow the enemy to see them move into a specific heading.
The possibility that the Beasts might have committed this massacre
was passed by Dalton to everyone. Then it became the main theme of
their murmured conversations for a long time. It didn‘t help pass the
time, though. The environment of fear and anxiety was aggravated by
the growing temperature within the houses. The incessant gusts of
wind howling across the narrow passages between the little homes
sounded like an echo of the moan of the dead villagers. At least the
same natural ventilation blowing through windows and doorways was
dispersing the flies.
All of a sudden storm clouds resembling gray wool-packs rushed in
from the north like a warning of doom. Little by little they swelled up,
gaining in size what they lost in number, growing darker all the time.
The wind made them merge together until they formed a single
threatening mass. Day became night. It started raining with a sudden
rush and it didn‘t stop for hours.

**************
11
It wasn‘t before eleven in the morning when Captain Alfred Klauss
was getting done with the medical inspection on the Panzer Grenadier
company also known––by very few ones––as ‗Team Lion‘. He‘d had
to prod some men who were asleep on the beach despite the pouring
rain. Next he had to wait for the full reestablishment of a trio that had
inhaled too much hashish bought from Bedouins this morning. Only
then he managed to have all the troopers checked up. The results were
a few cases of medium sunstroke, a few others of syphilis, a corporal
who was nearly deaf, and three privates that suffered from gastritis.

Leonard Oaks 82
 Season of Revenge

Mere routine. At least that was all a ninety-second examination per

man could tell him.
Klauss, a man of about forty with flesh-puffed gray eyes, had an
Iron Cross hung to the neck of his white doctor‘s coat. He‘d earned it
in Belgium two years back. Under heavy enemy fire, he‘d dragged a
squad of wounded men into a trench, one by one, so he could treat
their bullets wounds. Out of eight, seven survived. In the end, Klauss
himself was taken to a hospital with a deep flak wound he‘d gotten in
a thigh. The following morning he was face to face with General
Walter Von Reichenau, commander of the 6th German army, who‘d
come to award him. It seemed to have happened in another life now.
He wondered whether it‘d been the rain that suddenly made him
brood about those days.
The last man to be examined was the company‘s commander. Peter
Heinz swayed lazily in his hammock when the doctor stepped into the
hut. Klauss beamed a smile at him.
Already Heinz had hoped the doctor would miss him and leave.
―Your turn now, I‘m afraid. Ready?‖ Klauss said as he rubbed his
glasses with a handkerchief, his face dripping, his coat soaked.
―Help yourself, doc,‖ Heinz mumbled and rose to a sitting position
on the hammock. He furtively tossed a towel onto the radio in the
corner of the hut. ―Any serious cases among the boys?‖
―Nobody beating work. But that wouldn‘t apply here, would it?‖
―We‘re on leave,‖ Heinz lied as Klauss checked his lungs with a
gleaming stethoscope.
―Seriously? You‘re not going back to the front for a while, am I
correct?
―Right on.‖
Klauss made a face. ―So what‘s all that ammo I just saw out there
for?‖ he checked Heinz‘s tongue.
―We‘re a combat unit.‖
―I noticed that. But why‘s this miracle of multiplication happened
only here. The vehicles under those canvases are all carrying extra
fuel, not to mention their engines were turned on earlier this morning
as though they were to be ready for action any moment.‖
Very observant, doc, Heinz told himself. ―It‘s the Brits, you know.
They may launch a surprise attack on this area.‖
―Of course,‖ Klauss said suspiciously. ―They‘re just a few hundred
miles away.‖
Heinz said, ―Are you staying for lunch? I guess today‘s menu is
sardines and rice––for a change.‖

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 Season of Revenge

The doctor ignored the question. ―Did you see how I got here?‖
―Yes, by bicycle.‖ What the hell do you want now? Heinz didn‘t
say.
―My jeep‘s grounded for lack of gas; been like that for a week. And
you seem to have quite a lot of it here. Would you care to lend me
some? Just a few cans would do.‖
―I‘m supposed to keep all of it. It‘s orders, I‘m really sorry, doc.‖
―Come on, your clunkers won‘t need any fuel under all those canvas
sheets.‖
―I‘m sorry, really am. I was told to keep it no matter what.‖
―I understand,‖ Klauss said as he checked Heinz‘s private parts in
search of sexually-transmitted diseases.
Heinz was eager to see the man get the hell out of here. He was
beginning to suspect he knew something.
―It‘s disappointingly shameful,‖ Klauss said, after examining his
prick.
―What?‖ Heinz said while the doctor‘s big hands examined his
testicles now.
―The emergencies of war, I mean. If you didn‘t have to be deployed
on a mission all of a sudden you could give me some of your gas.‖
―We‘re not on a stand-by.‖
―Oh, no?‖ Klauss said and sat on one of the several boxes by the
walls of the hut. ―So why‘s the transmitter on?‖
Heinz jerked his head toward it in a corner. The towel had somehow
slipped off it.
―I couldn‘t help observing it. It‘s a brand-new Tornister.‖
―I listen to music with that stuff.‖
Klauss gave a sigh. ―Come on, level with me. What‘s going on?
What kind of orders are you waiting for?‖
Heinz adjusted his tunic over his shoulders and took the medical
files from the doctor‘s hand.
―Am I in good shape?‖
―Yes, you‘re in perfect conditions.‖
―Great. You must be eager to get back to your base, right?‖
―Nah. I‘ve got nothing to do there. How about we talk about what
you guys are going to do with all that stuff outside. I guess I saw
supplies enough to try a new push toward Alexandria.‖
―And why should I do that, doc?‖
―Because I‘m curious, that‘s all. Only between you and me. What do
you think?‖ He winked at Heinz.

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 Season of Revenge

―I think you ask too many questions,‖ Heinz said and got up. ―I‘m
going to have lunch. Have a nice day, doc.‖
This bastard‘s trying to avoid a long conversation, Klauss thought.
You obviously want to give a wide berth to problems, huh? I wish I
could do that too.
>><<
Klauss made his way back to his barracks on his bicycle, following
the pebble-strewn tracks that cut a malarial swamp and seemed to lead
to nowhere. The deluge wouldn‘t stop. Long stretches of sandy paths
had turned into a quagmire. The rain fell steadily, but the lashing sea
wind grew stronger. His teeth were chattering. He‘d been wet for the
two last hours. Forty minutes later he spotted his small encampment
on one side of the coast road. It comprised an acre of bush-strewn land
and a few dozen tents, huts, and a small supply dump ringed by
barbed wire. The Germans had chosen this place for the existence of
several trees and therefore a lot of shade. It wouldn‘t make difference
today.
His body was numb when he came into his cramped office. It also
was his living quarters. He swore one final stream of obscenities when
he saw his woolen overcoat hanging uselessly to a peg in the wall, and
slammed the door shut behind him.
Afrika Korps medical officers had dingy cubicles of ten feet by
fifteen, walled by corrugated-iron sheets and topped with canvas. His
wasn‘t different. He lit a kerosene lamp and rubbed his hands in the
glowing heat. He thought of rushing to the canteen for a hot meal and
a couple of shots of schnapps, but he knew better than that. There
were urgent matters to be attended.
As soon as he stopped shivering with cold, he knelt and took a black
case from under his bed. He placed it on top of his desk and flipped its
top open. Inside were a small SE-100 agent radio along with a
selection of accessories and spare parts divided in three
compartments. He placed the set on his desk and connected it to the
small battery that was in the case. Then he took a wire antenna from
the case, connected one end to the radio and the other to a nail
embedded in the wooden frame of the hut. He placed the earphones
around his head, plugged it into the socket in the radio, and switched
it on. Then he sat on a chair, adjusted the dial, and began tapping on
the Morse key.
His message would take several hours to be relayed and decrypted in
Berlin, the response possibly many more. But he‘d learned to be
patient in this business. Sometimes that was more important than to be

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 Season of Revenge

cunning. Like so many inconspicuous officers in the Afrika Korps, he

was a member of the Abwehr, the intelligence organ of the German
armed forces, the Wehrmacht.
They detested the SS. And they wanted to find out what the hell
Captain Heinz and his men were supposed to be doing for those
bastards.

**************
12
General Matouk said, ―What can you tell me about this…‗Team
Lion‘?‖
He stood next to Kodro, who sat at his desk taking notes, black
headphones crowning him. The European looked up suspiciously at
the Arab, who was fingering his worry beads in considerable speed.
―Very little, General,‖ Kodro said hesitantly.
Matouk shifted his one-eyed gaze from the radio set to Kodro‘s face.
―Why so?‖
―Those are my instructions, sir. You must understand that my
superiors––‖
―I don‘t see any of those Germans here,‖ Matouk said, looking hard
at him.
Kodro cleared his throat. ―Well…um…it‘s a unit of the Wehrmacht
stationed in the vicinities of Mersa Brega.‖
―That‘s very vague, don‘t you agree?‖
―I‘m sorry, sir. This information isn‘t supposed to be
revealed…yet.‖
The Arab sighed. ―This might create a very difficult situation for me
and my legionnaires.‖
―I can‘t see a reason for that, General.‖
Matouk turned away and crossed to a shell-made hole in a far wall,
surveying the prayers head for the mosque for their midday prayers.
It‘d just stopped raining. Small groups of white-clad locals streamed
through the muddy side street toward the domed house of prayer a few
blocks away.
―One of your German masters, the one called Baltzer, told me you
enjoy telling stories about your life,‖ Matouk said from the window-
like hole.
Kodro was surprised. ―He did?‖
―Yes. Well, tell me a few things about your family, if you would.‖
The man thought for a while. ―My parents spent many years living
together,‖ Kodro was fighting to pronounce each word in Arabic

Leonard Oaks 86
 Season of Revenge

correctly. ―Then my father met a new woman. My mother, my four

siblings and I were allowed to live with uncles and aunts on a farm.
Soon afterwards my mother decided to go back to my father‘s house
to serve him and his new wife as a maid.‖
―Your mother behaved just like a good Muslim woman,‖ the Arab
said, nodding. ―Tell me about your joining the SS.‖
―Well…I volunteered to help the Germans as a translator after they
came to the Balkans. Then I was sent to the SS training camp for ten
weeks.‖
―Despite your not belonging exactly to their superior race, huh?
How curious.‖
Kodro grinned, staring down at his booted feet. ―Like me there were
many other volunteers: Indians, French, Ukrainians, Turks, and South
Americans. There were men even from England.‖
―How long did you live there––in Germany?‖
Kodro hesitated. ―Eight months, altogether.‖
―Altogether? There were breaks, then?‖
―Yes. The Einsatzgruppen rounded up a great number of Jews in
Yugoslavia. I was sent there twice for long periods to coordinate the
executions.‖
Matouk nodded. The Einsatzgruppen was the SS regiment-sized
death squad. ―I think you spent much time away from your Muslim
brothers. I‘m aware you had to make an oath of unconditional
obedience to the Germans.‖
Kodro winced. ―Yes, sir, it‘s a fact.‖
―Did it affect your personal beliefs?‖
Kodro was becoming uncomfortable with the inquiry. He could bet
the man was going to make him pray in front of him again. ―Not at all,
sir. Our holy book always follows me wherever I‘m posted to.‖ He
pointed at the Koran lying on the desk next to the car battery that fed
one of the radios.
―Good, very good. It‘s just that your fluency in German simply
marvels me.‖
―I daresay my Arabic is almost as good as my German, sir.‖
―How did you learn both languages at the same time?‖
―As I‘d been studying both languages while at the training camp, I
served as a translator at the Reichsfuehrer‘s office for matters
involving diplomatic talks with Muslim countries in Berlin. That even
enabled me to go to Iraq on a mission two months back.‖
―Assisting the extraction of some of General al-Gaylani‘s
collaborators who‘d been left behind, of course,‖ Matouk put in.

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―Precisely‖, Kodro confirmed.

General Rashid Ali al-Gaylani was a pro-Axis Iraqi general who‘d
been given arms and money by Germany to overthrow the monarchy
and allow Germany to use the country as a base to invade Russia from
the south. His gang was called The Free Officers‘ Movement. Al-
Gaylani was good friends with the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. After
the arrival of the British forces in Iraq, Gaylani had fled to Germany.
―Were you successful?‖
―Yes, sir, I was. I managed to take eight of his closest friends with
me back to Europe.‖
―And due to General al-Gaylani‘s praises to you, you also gained
Heusseini‘s admiration. Am I correct?‖
―Totally, sir.‖
Matouk placed a hand on his chest. ―I‘m immensely relieved. Your
behavior was making me terribly preoccupied, you see?‖
Kodro frowned hard. ―I don‘t understand, sir.‖
―Can‘t you see what you‘ve been doing, brother?‖ Matouk said.
―You have the Koran on your desk, but I haven‘t seen you reading it
since you arrived. And it‘s been two weeks already.‖
The man‘s gray eyes bulged. ―But I have, sir. Very little in
comparison to my desire, indeed. You must concur that I‘m supposed
to man communications around the clock on my own, and it‘s––‖
―Can you see what I mean now? You need to make up your mind as
to whom you really serve: the Germans or God.‖
Kodro swallowed hard. ―I try to serve both.‖
Matouk mingled his fingers in a gesture of compassion. ―It‘s not
possible, brother. May God help you come to the wise conclusion of
how important this decision is. I swear I‘m here to help you as I‘ve
helped so many other Muslim brothers in agony.‖
―Have I ever behaved as an untrue believer in these weeks, General?
Please tell me.‖
―I‘d rather say that I understand the influences of the Crusaders on
your way of thinking. They simply took advantage of your ancestry.‖
Bosnian Muslims were ancestors of Christian peasants that had been
forced to convert into Islamism by the Ottomans centuries back. To
many religious leaders in the Middle East they weren‘t real Islamists
for most of them didn‘t share any bloodlines with the Sayyds, the
direct descendents of the prophet Mohammed.
Matouk went on: ―Don‘t allow those Godless creatures to warp your
faith. I know what‘s like to be among Crusaders. Trust me. I‘ve been
through the same humiliations once.‖

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―Pardon me, General, but I don‘t know what you mean.‖

―Come now, brother. One gets to shade his eyes from the sun for a
long day, but his hands will take the burns. No Muslim has been
treated as an equal among European Christians. Don‘t be ashamed to
share your hard feelings. I know the Nazis despise you and all other
Mohammedans in the SS divisions.‖
―Believe me, sir,‖ Kodro said in defense. ―My Bosnian colleagues
and I have been well treated and have had the same privileges as any
fighting man in the Reich.‖
―I wish I could believe that, brother,‖ Matouk said, and tilted up his
head as if an invisible creature murmured into his ears. ―Problem is
that all Occidentals try to steer us from our faith with a promise that
it‘d bring us together with them. However, they do exactly the same
when our backs are turned to them. Did you know that the Pope of
Rome gave his blessings to the Italian armies that invaded Ethiopia
and killed thousands of Muslims?‖
Kodro found room to poke the man. ―And you were there with them,
right?‖
―Yes, and I regret that every day God has given me since then,‖
Matouk glanced at his either hand, something he did every time he
lied.
Kodro grinned slightly. ―There‘s one more story I must tell you,
General,‖ he said. ―Every time we attended meetings with the High
Command of the Reich, they remarked their confidence on us to sort
out the Jewish problem. In a couple of opportunities, Mr. Martin
Bohrmann––the Fuehrer‘s assistant––came up to me to say the Grand
Mufti was Hitler‘s favorite adviser on the subject, and that we were of
extreme importance.‖
―And why?‖
―Soon after his arrival in Berlin, the Grand Mufti prevented the
Germans from committing the mistake of simply letting the Jews
leave the occupied territories.‖
―Outstanding,‖ the general said, coking his head in suspicion.
―Oh…and it was the Reichsfuhrer, Herr Himmler himself, who
chose our fez and our divisional insignia.‖
Matouk looked deep into Kodro‘s eyes. His expression wasn‘t
intimidating, which was his intention, but he seemed to be trying to
know whether the man was lying by watching his pupil dilatation.
He‘d learned that with Haj Amin al-Heusseini.
The Arab said, ―So you‘re telling me from your heart that you‘ve
never been prejudiced while among those men?‖

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Kodro didn‘t flinch. ―Yes, General, I‘m sure of it. Otherwise I

wouldn‘t be with them anymore.‖
Matouk nodded in defeat and lifted one hand to scratch his beard.
―No maltreatments at all, you‘re saying?‖
―No, sir. Not ever.‖
―That‘s a great surprise.‖
Kodro nodded and blinked his eyes gladly.
Matouk‘s face went rigid. He put a hand on Kodro‘s shoulder and
said somberly, ―But they will, brother, they will.‖

**************
13
Catherine Nowell and Robert Cameron stood in the shade of the
canvas hangar that served as the control tower of Siwa airfield. They
flailed their hands intermittently to keep the swarm of flies and bugs
away, but they wouldn‘t give up. The three-hour-long rain and the
return of the blazing sun soon afterward seemed to have given infinite
energy to all insects in the desert. The runway was steaming in the
growing heat, carpeted with tiny flowers whose seeds had been
waiting for the first raindrops.
During several minutes they hadn‘t exchanged a word. They just
stood there watching the mustached, light-brown skinned Egyptian
pilot perform his pre-flight ritual: rub the plane‘s moving parts with a
cloth. They recalled that time and again Latif was asked why he added
that to the usual walk-around preflight check. The answer was a mere
―because I like it,‖ or ―because it‘s a little dusty‖. As he‘d long ago
proved to be a very fine pilot, few dared pester him with jokes on his
habits.
The Westland Lysander was in pristine conditions due to his
attentions to it. Passengers often were terrified at flying on a fragile-
looking aircraft that had an engine proportionally too small for its
chubby empennage. Not Catherine.
―Take him seriously,‖ Cameron told her when he finally got tired of
observing Latif. ―White is prone to trespassing boundaries and putting
pleasure before work sometimes, but he‘s a man I‘d like to have here
with us.‖
―I‘ll remember that. And…er…what shall I do about his files? Just
have them copied?‖
―Have a good look and pick what may interfere with the patrols.
Leave the abstract discussions for Montgomery and his aides. I‘ve got

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a feeling that we‘ll find out something related to the Beasts and their
whereabouts.‖
―I do count on it, too,‖ Catherine said and put on her sunglasses.
They gave her a slight manly look.
Latif opened the cabin door and climbed inside. He ran down his
preflight checklist on his seat, tested the flaps and ailerons carefully,
and beckoned her inside. A ground-crewman fixed a metal ladder to
one side of the aircraft and threw open the passenger hatch.
Catherine said, ―I‘ll be in touch as soon as Major White arrives.‖
―Major White,‖ Cameron said mocking her seriousness. ―You‘ll be
calling him bloody bastard before you know it.‖
Catherine smiled and snapped a despondent salute. ―I‘ll try and
remember that, too, sir.‖
―Good luck, Cathy. Happy landings,‖ Cameron said like one seeing
some relative off at a crowded airport.
Once aboard the plane, Catherine strapped herself into place as the
piston-powered engine coughed to life, blowing flying grit against the
canvas walls of the hangars. The plane‘s interior was almost bare-
boned. Apart from some leather on the tubular seats, the rest was only
the thin wood inlays on the sides. It looked as if it‘d been taken
prematurely from assembly line. A jeep was a lot more comfortable
than it. The additional air-conditioning system created by Latif was
simplicity itself: two small holes in the sides of the passenger cabin.
―I haven‘t flown with you for quite a while,‖ she told Latif happily
through the makeshift intercom system. ―It was when we went to
Cairo with Dalton, wasn‘t it?‖
Latif felt all his hairs stand up. Her voice in the headset sounded to
him as if she were whispering closely into his ears. It wasn‘t part of
his culture such an intimacy with women––even workmates––unless
they were to be his wives or concubines. He felt foolish for not being
used to Catherine‘s presence.
―Yes,‖ he said into the mike. ―That‘s correct.‖
―Wish I could fly more; simply love small planes,‖ she said,
unknowingly adding excitement on the man.
―Um-hmm,‖ he said, fighting to concentrate on the instruments in
front of him. ―Shall we get moving?‖
―Hardly can wait,‖ she said animatedly, clapping her hands together.
The Egyptian switched on his radio. ―Control, this is Lizzy One
requesting takeoff clearance, over.‖
A young male voice came over the radio two seconds later. ―Is that a
joke, mate? Get the devil out of here, will you?‖

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―Winds normal?‖ Latif demanded.

―Why should they be like that? This is a desert, remember? Winds
are never normal. Just don‘t touch my future wife, understood?‖
―Positive, Control.‖
―Oh… and don‘t forget bringing me the bloody cricket ball––‖ Latif
switched the radio off.
He taxied to the head of the airstrip under the curios admiration of
maybe a hundred Arab children that had gathered behind the razor
wires. When the plane took off into the northerly winds, a cheer went
up with it.
>> <<
The expression on her face was clear: she was exactly where she
wanted to be. Catherine looked down through the glasshouse canopy
as the ragged peaks of the Qattara Depression came into view below
with a meaningful grin set on her lips. It was a flat salt marsh the size
of her homeland Wales, covered in a sun-baked crust that would
swallow small vehicles. Travelling there was like going over a frozen
lake. It was 440 feet below sea level, making it extremely hot: most
days it was around 120. There were no trees for shade; there barely
could be found any bushes. If they crash-landed there, rescue would
be extremely difficult either by ground or air. It seemed impossible
not to brood about it as the small plane groaned and shuddered with
each foot it gained or lost.
But the thought didn‘t even cross her mind.
What she really feared couldn‘t reach her here. She was free now.
She wouldn‘t end up being a sad housewife like her older sister––
cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing seven days a week; enslaved
by a disgruntled husband and a bunch of spoiled children. Were it not
for the war she‘d have been just like her by now, she mused.
Thank you very much, you fascist thwarts! You‟ve given me a
thrilling career and a life full of excellent prospects.
Not that she‘d decided to be a spinster forever. She thought: I
wouldn‘t decline a proposition from a certain tall Welshman with
beautiful hazel eyes. Then she found herself smiling broadly.
Don‘t be stupid, she told herself, shaking her head. Dalton had
kissed her at the entrance of her apartment in Alexandria three weeks
ago after a party at the officers‘ club; and he‘d been very drunk. She
bit her lower lip wondering whether he‘d at least come back.
She pushed the thought out of her head and looked at Latif. He was
silent as he dealt with his stick and rudders. Too silent, Catherine
thought. She stared at the back of the Arab‘s head as if attempting to

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read his mind. Up to a certain point, he was her own creation. After
the Egyptians decided to abandon the fight against the Axis, a number
of officers, mainly pilots, volunteered to join the British. She
remembered the day Latif was interviewed by her and some other MI-
6 staffers at General Headquarters Cairo in late August. Latif was so
eager to go back to action everyone thought he was a mole planted by
Young Egypt, the nationalist––and pro-Nazi––movement that had
germinated in the local armed forces. The surprise came when she had
the presence of mind to ask whether he knew any members of Young
Egypt.
―Yes,‖ he‘d said, ―lots of them.‖
―How can we be certain you‘re not of them?‖ she‘d asked.
―Because I could occasionally use them to unearth information for
you people,‖ was his answer to the open-mouthed British Intelligence
officers.
Catherine was smiling victoriously.
―What would you demand in exchange of that?‖ she‘d said.
―Flying,‖ he‘d answered. ―In real missions. All I want is to go back
to work.‖
―Many Egyptian officers think Germans and Italians are their actual
allies,‖ one of the Intel officers had said.
―I just don‘t feel like swapping being ruled by England for those
Fascists,‖ Latif had said, again making his interviewers look
dumfounded.
―So why staying on our side?‖ Catherine had demanded.
Latif had promptly said, ―The Fascists killed some good friends of
mine. And I‘ll never forgive them for that.‖
―You‘ll be held as a traitor amongst your folks,‖ Catherine had said.
―Then they‘ll be wrong.‖
That hadn‘t been enough. He‘d been given a test of loyalty. There
were rumors of a group of officers passing information to the enemy.
Latif should produce proofs of their alliance. He‘d been given forty-
eight hours to do so. The following day he handed Catherine a slip of
paper with an address. The same day a team of military police burst
into an inconspicuous boathouse on the Nile to find several reports on
the movements of the British forces. And the house belonged to a
colonel of the Egyptian army.
Latif began flying for Field Intelligence. Most of his missions were
simple liaison tasks; but twice he‘d taken part in hair-raising
extractions of SAS men behind enemy lines during the most desperate

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moments of the clash between the 8th British Army and the Afrika
Korps.
She felt a pang of remorse. She knew Latif would have to leave his
wonderful country after the British mandate finished––which
shouldn‘t take long to happen. For the rest of his life on a strange
land, in Britain most likely, he‘d have to deal with the feeling of
inferiority in his heart. She sighed. Too high a price for an off-chance
revenge against the enemies who‘d killed some of his Air Force
colleagues.
―What are you so pensive about, my friend?‖ she finally asked into
the intercom amid the noises of the groaning of the structure of the
plane.
―This MI-6 agent coming from Spain; he‘s been working with the
Haganah, no?‖
―Yes. What‘s the matter?‖
―Will we be working for the MI-6 or the Haganah after he arrives?‖
Catherine understood in a flash. She suddenly remembered that
Latif‘s family had had problems because of their relations with Jews
in the past. They used to live in the Sinai at a small village close to the
Suez Canal. His father, who owned a small machine-repair shop, had
been doing business with a Jewish merchant from Telaviv, and they
ended up becoming good friends. During the riots of 1929 his brothers
and sisters were stoned to death by Palestinian fanatics who‘s slipped
over the border and their house was torched––with his mother inside.
As far as he knew, the merchant had refused to help his father escape
to Cairo and begin a new life. Penniless and starving on the streets, his
father had caught tuberculosis and died. After that Latif was adopted
by a family of wealthy Pashas.
―Don‘t you worry, my friend,‖ Catherine said with her most
appealing tone of voice.
This time Latif felt no excitement; and said nothing.
―He‘ll do what we need him to, all right?‖ she said.
―I‘m not so certain,‖ Latif said, staring ahead into the blurring pale
gray disk of the propellers.
―Ah, but you can be,‖ she said. ―Just leave the bloody bastard to
me.‖

**************
14
It‘d been a long, dreamless sleep. Allan White lay totally motionless
for a moment, eyes open like those of one who‘d returned from a

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comatose state. When he remembered where he was, he instinctively

reached for the purse that was resting under a corner of the thin
mattress.
He placed Sarah‘s purse on his chest, and realized his breathing and
heart beating had quickened. I must be getting rusty, he thought. This
is my first real mission since Tunis. Hell! It‘s been six months
goldbricking in Madrid––altogether, nearly six years in Spain; chasing
women, stealing documents, drinking too much, sowing rumors,
putting some weight on. Well, there are worst jobs in this business; at
least I perhaps will outlive my colleagues this way.
That if I weren‟t here now.
He checked his watch; he‘d been dozing for seven hours like an
unworried child. Excellent, he thought, now I‘ve stockpiled sleep
enough for what must be waiting for me in Alexandria––or in the
middle of the bloody desert.
A mixture of noises made him suddenly alert again, eyes roaming
around the dimly lit surroundings. The snoring came from the man on
the bunk above his. Already the sound of metal straining against metal
was coming from the curved hull. There also was a low humming. He
wasn‘t sure whether it came from the battery-fed propellers or from
the ship‘s whale-like nose piercing the wall of seawater at God-alone-
knows what depth.
White chuckled and turned aside, head resting on his hand. You
couldn‘t be more right, you bastards, he told himself, remembering
what Lloyd and John had told him the night before. His eyes were
rapidly adapted to the darkness, and he began to take in most of the
details of the interior of the HMS Phalanx. There couldn‘t be anything
more cramped and scruffy than a submarine––or one configured for
commando operations. The bunks in the passageway shared space
with piles of canned food, sacks of flour, water containers, first-aid
boxes, and the crewmen‘s lockers. Hanging on the walls were
sausage, bags with laundry, and colored posters of naked women. In
the air was a blend of diesel, urine, stale sweat, tobacco smoke, soap,
and fried butter. For the sake of the poor souls onboard, the smells all
but nullified one another.
The snoozing sailor lying on the bunk above his stirred, gave a loud
fart, and babbled something happening in his dreams.
White remembered Lloyd‘s words again: ―You‟ll love being on a
sub, mate.”
He began to wonder why he was here; an old, recurring question.
Was it to prove himself something?

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Of course it is! That useless middle-class bastard is dead. No one

will ever call me “Prince of Inheritance” again; not after trading a
make-work job in Grandpa´s factory for the army––and going to
Spain in the middle of a civil war as a spy! Lousy wages and daily risk
of life… Do I deserve more than those?
He opened the wet purse and took out the bundle of newspapers.
Then he extracted one of the carbon flimsies Sarah had straightened
out and folded into a small quadrangle. It‘d give him something to
occupy his mind. It was almost unreadable, though. He checked
another one. Not a word readable, either. On the third attempt he was
lucky. Occupying two square inches below what should be the
letterhead were some fully readable words. These were the number of
the file and its destination: General Joachim Weber, chief of the
Foreign Branch of the Abwehr, the Intelligence organ of the German
armed forces. Very interesting, White thought, it must be extremely
important to go straight to him…
I‟ll be damned!
Sarah‘s fury on the Nazis had made her––and her superiors––think
the house in Tripoli was a Gestapo office. Coincidence or not, there
was mention of SS officers in the papers he‘d photographed. The
Abwehr had been spying on SS officers in Libya! No question officers
of the Security Service, either Intel or Gestapo. What the devil were
they doing in Tripoli? This is getting better by the hour, he thought
grimly.
There was a loud squeaking behind and the hatch popped out of its
frame. A man in a light brown, sweat-stained uniform ducked through
the hatchway, crouched, and grinned at White‘s startled face.
Lieutenant-Commander Edmond Gilmour reminded him of a
cigarette‘s advertisement‘s idea of a naval officer: broad shoulders, a
metallic hardness to his heavily suntanned face, and the strong, hairy
arms of a gorilla.
―You look well, mate,‖ Gilmour said.
―Thanks,‖ White said, swinging his feet to the floor and sitting at the
edge of the bunk.
―It‘s lunch time. Hungry?‖
―No, my stomach is still a bit knotted. I wonder why,‖ White said,
looking about his surroundings.
―I was afraid you might be prone to seasickness or have some
dangerous level of claustrophobia. How do you like your first time on
this sort of boat?‖
―It‘s like being in a Swiss watch,‖ White said, making a face.

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Did he really call this thing a “boat”?

―Good. It means you‘re just a very little bit claustrophobic,‖ he
patted White on one shoulder. ―Not so bad for an embassy staffer,
eh?‖
White said, ―Thanks again, but I‘m not quite thinking of doing this a
second time, chum. Nothing personal.‖
Gilmour broke out laughing. ―Most of our passengers freeze when
we submerge. But you didn‘t. You‘re the first one who almost ignored
having a thin metal wall separating you from getting drowned.‖
White shook his head, smiling. ―To be honest, I was so cold I
couldn‘t even imagine such lovely details.‖
White was lying. He‘d had to drink a few shots of brandy to boost
his courage before boarding the submarine. Gilmour had personally
helped him climb in from the Giovana into the ship‘s conning tower
in the middle of the night with a chopped sea. It‘d cost the Lieutenant
a set of clothes soaked with seawater and some bruises in his hands.
Only now White was aware of how dangerous it‘d been. He‘d been
brought in hanging to a shoulder harness used to cross crevasses and
mountains attached to a rig.
―But the best I‘ve ever heard of was the Yanks. A group of US army
officers landed at Gibraltar on a monstrous B-17. Guess what? They
were going to have a little ride with us to Morocco.‖
Ah, that was good gossip, White thought. ―Really?‖ he said. ―What
for?‖
―They were my mission, but we had some technical problems and
they had to go on another boat. It was a secret meeting in Algeria. A
Yank general named Clark was going to have a word with the Frogs.‖
―Let me guess,‖ White said. ―The commander of the replacement
sub told you everything what happened, am I right?‖
―Yes,‖ Gilmour said with unrestrained glee.
So much for classified information, White thought.
Gilmour said, ―This good chap called Jewell took them to Morocco
on his boat, the Seraph. It was like listening to a bloody joke, man.
The Yanks almost got caught by the Vichy police, capsized their
rubber boats on the way back to the sub, and lost all their documents
in the water.‖
―Big surprise, eh?‖
―Pen pushers, mate. They‘re all alike.‖
The man on the upper bunk stirred and farted loudly again.
―What about you?‖ Gilmour said, and glanced at the purse on his
chest. ―You don‘t look like one of them.‖

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 Season of Revenge

―If I survive this onslaught of poison gas, I‘ll deliver some hot
memoranda to an old friend.‖
―It‘s a long and tricky way from Spain to Tripoli in a trawler. These
docs must really be worth it.‖
―I‘m here, am I not?‖ White said. ―Take your own conclusions,
mate.‖
―Yes, yes,‖ Gilmour nodded in awe. A second later they heard a
third fart from the sleeping sailor. And this one was especially bad-
smelling.
―Good God! But I could swear that lad‘s been hired by a couple of
Krauts I came across in Tripoli.‖
―Spies, too?‖ Gilmour looked curiously at the papers and the tiny
camera on the mattress for a long moment. ―You stole this stuff from
them?‖
White was sure the man wouldn‘t resist asking a lot of questions.
―Something like that,‖ White said. Sorry, mate, but you won‘t get to
see any of those, he didn‘t say.
―Well, for the handbag, it must‘ve been a female Kraut agent, no?‖
White laughed quietly. ―No, but I wish it‘d been. It‘s a long story.‖
Gilmour realized White wasn‘t in a mood for some exchange of
gossiping. Or he maybe just took his job too seriously.
―I‘d rather deal with torpedoes, and mines, and guns. The men
behind them follow rules.‖
―I agree, man. I agree totally,‖ White said, and his eyes bulged at the
remembrance. ―Oh, what about the message?‖
―No problem.‖ Gilmour took out a piece of paper where White had
written the words to be aired to Naval Intelligence in Alexandria.
―They only asked if you were hurt.‖
―How very kind,‖ White said and frowned. ―How can you do it––
transmitting from underwater?‖
―Not like that. It‘s necessary to be a few feet from the surface. Then
we release a floating antenna––a thing like a snorkel.‖
―Um-hum. Close to the surface, easily seen by planes. Thank God I
fell asleep.‖
Gilmour waved his worries away. ―We‘ll be in Alexandria before
you know it.‖
―How long now?‖
―Eighteen more hours, approximately.‖
White sighed. Almost a whole day in the sardine can, he thought.
―I know exactly what you‘re thinking, mate,‖ Gilmour said. He rose,
opened his locker, and took out a half bottle of cognac. ―Here. I won it

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in a poker hand.‖ He poured some into an aluminum mug and handed

it to white.
―Thanks. It does help pass the time.‖
A klaxon rang twice and Gilmour handed him the bottle. ―Got to go.
We need to surface every four hours out of twenty-four to charge
batteries. The next go is just a few minutes away.‖
―And I was thinking the floating antenna was dangerous enough.‖
Gilmour pointed at the bottle in White‘s hands. ―Don‘t go all the
way down, all right? You‘ll be as ill as a baby in a boat like this.‖
―Got it, mate. Many thanks,‖ White said and the lieutenant
disappeared through the hatchway and locked it.
White settled down back on his slim mattress, sipping the liquor,
immersed in thoughts. Germans spying on Germans in
Tripoli…madness! Were they looking for a scapegoat for the virtual
defeat of the Afrika Korps? But which ones: the fanatic SS or the
arrogant, traditionalist Prussian officers of the Wehrmacht in charge
of the Abwehr?
I almost forgot––Sarah!
It was an endless trip as far as Casablanca. Two days on trains. Hell!
Did she manage to get out of Tripoli in time? She was carrying false
papers of poor quality, he remembered. Will she be lucky enough to
pass the scrutiny of the pro-Nazi police in Tunisia and Algeria and
Morocco itself?
White closed his eyes to fight back a wave of helplessness and
panic. I‘ll do everything I can after I‘ve arrived in Alex to help her, he
swore in silence. Everything!
Then the sailor above him stirred, babbled something sleepily, and
farted again.

**************
15
The battered train snaked its way through mosaics of shrubbery and
barren, rocky ground. In its wake, a bitter trail of coal smoke was
rapidly carried away by the arid wind. One could hardly tell the real
color of the carriages under the coat of dust crusted to them. It looked
as if the matte-black locomotive were dragging huge blocks of
masonry with glass windows.
Sarah Gavrir was in a six-person compartment in the rear coach. It
was the safest place to be should she need to dart away; as long as the
pro-Nazi security forces kept their habit of entering the train to check
papers only after talking to the machinist. She felt safe, though. The

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days of meticulous inspections were past gone. It‘d been over two
years France had surrendered, and the majority of the rebellious
elements in the African colonies had either fled or been arrested
already.
Her most immediate worry was the discomfort. The scruffy
compartment seemed not to have been cleaned up for several weeks.
Everywhere she looked were crusts of food, stains of all imaginable
kinds of beverage, and trays flooded with cigarette stubs. As the
windows had to be always open because of the heat, dust flowed in in
frequent gusts. Worst of all, her seat was too lumpy and creaky for
one hoping to get to sleep easily. In the five hours after the train had
left Algiers, she hadn‘t gotten more than a few naps.
She was wearing the most common vestments of Arab women: a
long-sleeved, cream-colored cotton dress, and a silk hijab headdress,
which occulted her neck and the top of her head. It was much more
comfortable than any western clothing she‘d ever worn. Point to Arab
fashion, she thought. She concentrated, eyes closed, trying to take one
more nap.
Oh…the Arabs…why did they––so many of them, at least––choose
the wrong side? Iraqis, Egyptians, Syrians…why the hell should they
believe their so-called leaders that the Nazis meant any good for
them? How come they pay so much attention to men who exploit them,
oppress them, suffocate them with taxes that are eventually blown at
the brothels of Damascus and the casinos of Beirut?
My fellow kibbutzniks always treated the Arabs of the villages
nearest us as brothers––which we indeed are! We taught them how
turn slate fields and swamps into fields of wheat and fruits; they were
most welcome in our health center; they shared the water from the
cisterns and ducts we built. I myself was so close to them I learned
fluent Arabic by frequenting their schools once a week. We treated
them like family and cared about them like family, always so happy
we were taking them out of the Dark Ages….nonetheless lots of them
turned against us and tried to loot our homes and torch our harvest at
the first batch of lies broadcast by Heusseini in ‟36. How come! Deep
in their hearts they knew there was no such a thing of Jews destroying
Muslim holy places. So what propelled them to try to destroy us?
Religious fanaticism? Jealousy of our prosperity? Utter badness? No,
none of those makes a lot of sense…nothing seems to make a lot of
sense in Palestine anyway.
The train pulled into yet another sand-swept train station at yet
another browned-out small town, and chugged to a stop with loud

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squeals from its breaks. A few people disembarked as the locomotive

still let out hisses of steam; some more climbed in followed by
vendors and beggars as far as the steps of the carriages. After five
minutes or so, the train chugged away, leaving the stone building
immersed in a cloud of smoke.
This was the last stop before Oran, which was now only half an hour
away. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, inviting sleep to seize her. All
her dreams had been haunted by the scene of the German she‘d killed.
In one of her nightmares, the gun had jammed and the man had shot
her dead. In another the man had pleaded for his life and she‘d
murdered him all the same amid a torrent of tears and pleads of
forgiveness.
I‟m going out of my mind!
She‘d been taught how to be swift, silent, and lethal; but never how
to deal with remorse. She was aware of how her psyche was laying a
guilt trap on her for being alive.
Be quick, deadly, have no pity…and next try to put up with self-
penitence!
She remembered the day she‘d learned of the massacre at Babi Yar
in September last year: thirty-three thousand Ukrainian Jews were
rounded up by death squads orientated by Gestapo officers, ordered to
dig their own graves, forced to undress, and shot in the head. Among
them were the remnants of her family in Europe. She had sunk into a
silent daze for two days, unable to eat or sleep. When she recovered
from it, she joined the Haganah. Revenge is our business, an instructor
told her the day her training began.
Well, I didn‟t disappoint you, did I? But who‟s going to help me feel
decent now?
The thought of Allan White holding her in his arms made her relax
almost to the point of snoozing.
The cabin door slid open and in came a man. He wore a beige suit
and a black hat, and carried an expensive piece of leather-bound
luggage.
―Bonjour‖, he said and sat by the window, next to her.
Sarah didn‘t look at him, but she knew he was obviously of
European origin, apparently French.
She hoped the newcomer would behave like the Italian who‘d been
in the cabin: he‘d sat across from her and had fallen asleep after
saying a drowsy ‗Bongiorno‘. Then she‘d nodded a wordless reply,
still without looking at him, and fixed her gaze on her sandaled feet.

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The Frenchman observed the other man for a moment, who was
embracing his battered suitcase as he slept fitfully. Then he put on a
pair of spectacles and gave Sarah a long visual check. He cleared his
throat and babbled a few words in French addressing her.
Here he comes!
Looking down, Sarah replied with a shrug, hoping he‘d understand
she meant she didn‘t speak French. Let me sleep, please! she thought.
But he wouldn‘t. The man took out a pack of grapes and offered her
some. All he had in response was her head shaking negatively.
Then he spoke to her in Arabic. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
Shit! Sarah told herself.
He‘d asked where she was from and she answered, ―I was born in a
village close to Tripoli.‖
That was when she realized her mistake.
―Really,‖ the man said in passable Arabic. ―I spent my last vacations
there. I love those restaurants on the seafront. They‘re infinitely better
than the ones around the telegraph office.‖
Sarah felt her scalp stand up. The telegraph office! It was where
she‘d dropped the message to be flashed to her controller in
Casablanca before driving to the rail station. Was that a coincidence
or––
―Are you traveling on your own, miss?‖ The man said, chomping
through his small bag of grapes.
Sarah didn‘t dare answering. Her answer was a meaningless smile.
She knew what he meant by an Arab girl on a trip without a male
member: he must think I‘m some kind of kept woman! she thought.
Leave me alone!
―Speaking of the telegraph office in Tripoli,‖ he said, taking a sheet
of paper from one pocket. ―I had quite a few problems sending
messages home from there a few days ago. Has the same happened to
you?‖
Oh my God!
She felt her guts heave. It wasn‘t a coincidence, she decided,
adjusting herself on the seat. This one definitely was a Vichy agent
trying to find the fleeing killers of the Gestapo men. She looked out of
the corner of her eye at the Frenchman. He was reading something on
the sheet of paper. As she did that, his small brown eyes swiveled
slowly to encounter hers.
―Do you feel like talking a little now, miss?‖ he said, a grim smile
on his craggy face.

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Sarah‘s brain jolted to action. First thing, confirm the suspicion, she
thought. The man was in good shape and dressed accordingly to a
state officer––and spoke Arabic. Second: he was sitting by the
window to wave some kind of signal to the agents working with him.
Now the last and definitive detail. She squinted her eyes studying
his jacket…and there it was: The bulge underneath the left-hand flap:
a gun! She couldn‘t help glaring at it.
―What is it?‖ The man said with a slight frown. ―Are you trying to
say anything, miss? Come on, don‘t be shy.‖
Sarah froze in place, looking into the partition wall, trying to
remember what she‘d done wrongly before leaving Tripoli.
She remembered the message telegraphed to Casablanca: ―Uncle
Karim and I found lodgings at the inn. It was a nice place. We‘ve
bought two souvenirs. We‘re eager to go back tonight.‖ Its
transcription would be: ―The Englishman and I broke into the office
tonight. We‘ve checked the files. Two enemies eliminated. Running
away now.‖
Only one fact that had seemed unimportant could have given her
away. On leaving the car in a back street before going into the
telegraph building in Tripoli, a pair of beggars had seen her. They
naturally were surprised to see an Arab girl driving an automobile.
Where those bastards mere beggars? she wondered. The man now
sharing the seat with her indicated otherwise.
She found herself staring at the lump in the man‘s suit.
―I‘m sorry, mister,‖ she mumbled the moment she realized he was
looking back at her.
―Just tell me what I have to do to make you talk to me properly.‖
―I beg your pardon.‖
―Come on,‖ he insisted, grinning seductively at her. ―You could
behave like a European lady for a while. Why not bend some silly old
traditions…just a little. None of your relatives will know about it, I
promise. So?‖
Now you‘re flirting with me, you bastard? Sarah turned her head
away, staring again at the partition wall in front of her. What trick is
that? Is he trying to make me trust him? She didn‘t move a muscle,
thinking hard and biting her lower lip. I won‘t say a word anymore,
she decided.
―Maybe you need some time to think about it, huh?‖ The Frenchman
said with a charming tone.
Twenty tense and silent minutes went by. All of a sudden blank
walls were flashing by on either side. Moments later the dusty train

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nosed its way through a hectic train yard and shuddered to a halt at the
platform of a long, richly ornate station building. Oran. A throng of
hawkers of all ages and dressings carrying goods that ranged from
bags of dates to second-hand shoes stood by the passenger doors.
Sarah felt electricity run through her body. Everything was going to
happen now. The man would arrest her for verifications. A close
examination on her false travel papers would reveal her Jewish origin
sooner or later. The prospects of prison and the worst kinds of torture
made her think that killing again was something pretty simple to do.
The Italian passenger in her cabin finally woke from his death-like
sleep. He blinked his eyes, cleaned the saliva at the corners of his
mouth, and left the cabin without saying a word, carrying his suitcase.
―Well, now it‘s just you and me,‖ the Frenchman said to Sarah, his
voice husky. ―Has anyone ever told you‘re gorgeous?‖ his eyes
roamed lustily over her face and bosom.
―What do you want from me, sir?‖ Sarah‘s heart was throbbing in
her mouth.
―Use your imagination, my dear.‖
―I have none,‖ she said dryly. Her stomach was an acid-filled ball.
The man took a long breath. ―Pity,‖ he said and stood up.
Now he‘s going to draw his gun and frisk me, she thought in near
panic, sweat pouring from her forehead. The sounds from the crowd
on the platform seemed louder than they really were. She looked out
the window expecting to see a detail of policemen; but there were
only hurrying passengers and screaming vendors. She was sure they
were hiding out somewhere.
She began to repeat in her mind all the moves she‘d have to do to
grab White‘s automatic in her straw bag: a plunge of her arm into it
through the bundles of cloth; then her fist would close around the
handle of the Beretta; next she‘d work the top of the gun, chambering
a round. The rest of the action would depend on how aggressive the
man was.
What happened next surprised her. The man took his luggage from
the overhead rack and stepped out. She waited a moment and slid
closer to the window. There was the Frenchman on the platform,
looking around, holding his chic travel bag. Then a boy of seven or
eight rushed to him and embraced him breathlessly. After a few
kisses, the man took a small rectangular case in flowered wrappings
from beneath his jacket and gave it to the kid. He immediately tore his
gift box open, revealing a toy. An Arab servant came up to them and

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took his master‘s bag. Then the three of them walked away, the man
hand-in-hand with the boy.
Sarah felt near to tears. She let out a lungful of air and shook her
head.
You paranoid idiot!
When she left the train it was empty. She adjusted her headdress on
the platform and headed for the Moroccan railway booking office.
There she bought the ticket for her next destination: Tangier. Then,
finally, Casablanca.

**************
16
The roaring in the heavens grew into a crescendo. Hundreds of
people in the streets of Berlin looked up in search of the noise, afraid
it might be another air raid. Panic was about to trigger when the
Focke-Wulf Condor emerged from the cloud cover, weak sunlight
bouncing on its aluminum-finish hull. It was just the diplomatic-
military Lufthansa shuttle from Vienna.
It glided over the sprawl of the city for about a half minute and
banked to the left, losing altitude very slowly. Its pilot dropped flaps
and wheels for landing, and began its final descent to Tempelhof
airport with its nose held high. The Condor landed with the typical
ungainliness of bulky aircrafts and wheeled along the black-slicked
concrete toward the air terminal under the guidance of a baton-bearing
plane director. A pair of luggage trolleys and a ladder were pushed
toward the plane after the massive propellers had finally turned to a
standstill.
As the ladder was grooved to the side of the plane, a smiling
stewardess opened the door and nodded to the men tugging it. Then
she turned around to address to the passengers. Her face went neutral
the moment she saw the two men in black leather coats and visor hats
with black and silver flashes of the SS sidestepping their way from the
bottom of the aisle. The other thirty-four passengers were told to stay
in their seats as the two men disembarked. There was a look of protest
in everyone‘s eyes, but no words were told; no one of them would
dare. The two were dreaded members of the RSHA, the Reich
Security Central Administration.
Rolf Baltzer and Otto Stenzel put on sunglasses as they stepped
through the door into the chilly afternoon. The stewardess gave her
farewells, an unnatural smile creasing her face. The two men returned
the cordialities, gave a brief look at the small crowd behind the glass

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windows of the terminal, and went down the ladder. Each carried a
suitcase and a small briefcase, their heavily-tanned faces concealing
hours of airsickness. The taller one moved with the air of professional
eminence usually given off by Security Service officers; the other
walked lopsidedly as if his luggage weighed a ton.
As the other passengers moved across the tarmac in a ragged line
into the arrivals lounge, the dark-clad establishment figures diverted
to the service area and walked nearly a hundred yards before stopping
in front of an empty hangar. They stood there for a minute or so,
looking around warily as if they were in hostile territory; but all they
saw was airport personnel moving about.
Baltzer, the taller of the two, checked the time in his wristwatch,
chuckled humorlessly, and shook his head. ―This is the last time I trust
you anything other than deskjob.‖
His colleague tightened the knot on his tie and read the time in his
watch. ―It‘s not my fault,‖ Stenzel said. ―I told Berger we should be
landing around a quarter to two. We‘re ten minutes forward, that‘s
all.‖
Baltzer grunted. ―You should‘ve told him to get here one hour in
advance––and wait.‖
―Don‘t complain,‖ Stenzel said. ―We could––should––have returned
twenty-four hours ago. But instead you decided to spend the last
afternoon in Rome doing nothing of importance.‖
You were doing nothing; I was very busy, Baltzer didn‘t say. He
only emitted a grunt. Then he turned his head to one side and gave a
malevolent grin.
Stenzel adjusted the glasses on top of his lobster-red nose while
observing the servants in colored overalls crisscross the tarmac, and
sighed audibly. ―I don‘t mind waiting a little myself,‖ he said in a near
whisper. ―To be honest, I‘m in no hurry to go back to the office.‖
Baltzer craned his head in disgust toward the man, who stood four or
five inches below him. Stenzel was a bent-down figure despite his
only twenty-seven years of age. Baltzer seemed to be looking at the
filthiest creature on earth.
But I am in a hurry, you four-eyed dwarf!
Otto Stenzel wasn‘t in the RHSA for his field abilities. Instead, he
was a walking manual. Despite joining the SS at the age of twenty, he
was hopeless with guns and would never get to scramble over a wall
or stand a long march. He‘d been a failure in the training camp at
Dachau. To avoid problems with his family––wealthy, long-term
collaborators of the Nazi party––he‘d been discharged with a rank of

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lieutenant under the justification of letting him finish his major in

accountancy. After doing so, the influence of his family granted him a
well-paid sinecure at Department One of the RSHA, which was in
charge of administration and finance. And now he was a captain, lent
by Kaltenbrunner to the Intelligence Service (SD) to help put
expensive missions into play.
A black Mercedes swerved around the corner of a neighboring
hangar. It sped in their direction like an express train, then slowed
down and rolled to a stop in front of them. The chauffeur-bodyguard
climbed out with a slight look of surprise. He was a bulky, shaven-
headed man with the broken nose of a boxer in an SS sergeant
uniform creased into steel.
―I believe I‘m not late, Major,‖ the chauffeur said, addressing
Baltzer, after checking his watch. He got the door open for him.
―Never mind, Berger,‖ Baltzer mumbled as he and Stenzel dumped
their suitcases into the trunk, and got in the car. Stenzel walked
around the car to the other door and let himself in unaware that the
chauffeur was in his wake to open the door for him.
Baltzer leaned back in the fine upholstery and took off his hat and
sunglasses. Apart from the lack of the toothbrush mustache and a
difference of nearly twenty years of age, he bore a considerable facial
resemblance to Hitler: the sharp nose, the dark hair, the razor-straight
parting in the left side of the head. The most relevant genetic
dissimilarity was his light brown eyes; Hitler‘s were blue. On joining
the SS he‘d wondered how much his features––and the natural
suspicion that he might be an illegitimate son they‘d raise––would
help boost his career.
But nowadays he scoffed at the thought. What had really guaranteed
all his little privileges such as a chauffeur––plus an automatic
promotion before that––in the foreign branch of the Intelligence
Service (SD Ausland) was a job five years back. When Hitler and
Stalin still were allies, Baltzer had collected evidences––some real,
some false––that the bulk of the leadership of the Red Army was
planning a coup in the Soviet Union. His bomb-shell report––
promptly sent from the chancellery in Berlin to the Kremlin––resulted
in the great purge of the soviet armed forces, which ended up in the
execution of its top commanders. The scheme paid off in the summer
of 1941, when a near-headless Red Army had to count on the help of
the winter not to see Moscow seized by the Germans.
Since then, along with his official tasks, Baltzer had been secretly
dedicating himself to collate data on members of the Reich. His idea

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was to have ammunition to maintain his status in case of confrontation

with them. Even the smallest peccadillo of bureaucrats and officers of
the Wehrmacht or the SS were registered in a fat file holder kept in his
steel cabinet. Mere suspicions too. They ranged from the use of state
property for private purposes to contacts with the enemy before the
war. Baltzer‘s favorites, however, were the closet homosexuals. But
so far he hadn‘t needed to make use of them.
―Is General Kaltenbrunner in the office?‖ he queried Berger as he
drove off.
―No, sir. He left after lunch. I‘m afraid he hasn‘t returned.‖
Baltzer frowned. ―He was accompanied?‖
―No, sir. But he was to meet with Herr Himmler.‖
―Are you sure about that?‖ Baltzer said as he lit a cigarette.
―Yes, sir,‖ Berger said firmly. ―I was parked alongside his car then.
―Was he upset…you know––like anxious about anything?‖
―Not at all, sir. He was in his best mood, I guess.‖
―What about the boss?‖ Baltzer meant Walther Schellenberg, the
chief of Foreign Intelligence.
―He‘s traveled to Amsterdam, sir.‖
Very convenient, Baltzer mused, to Kaltenbrunner and myself. He
dipped the ash of his cigarette into the door ashtray and took a
notepad from a pocket. He read it quickly, clicked his teeth, and
returned it into his pocket.
It was Saturday. The traffic was moving fast. A stream of smoky
cars and medium-sized trucks flew over both lanes toward the heart of
Berlin coming from adjacent towns. Diagonal sheets of sleet began
plummeting down from the gray sky, the wet, glass-smooth asphalt
gleaming beneath the tires.
Berger shifted his gaze from the car ahead to the dashboard for a
second. ―I need to fill up, sir.‖
―No chance,‖ Baltzer rasped. ―We‘re late.‖
Stenzel was startled. ―Late for what?‖
―A matter of special importance,‖ Baltzer said as he looked out the
window at the oncoming vehicles, the cigarette burning between his
fingers.
―Fine,‖ the bureaucrat said under his breath. ―If it runs out of gas,
we‘ll go the rest of the way on foot in the rain.‖ He removed his hat
and sunglasses, revealing his brilliantined blond hair and rheumy,
washed-out blue eyes. Then he put on a pair of thick spectacles.
Baltzer said, ―And you have exactly five minutes to get to the office,
Berger.‖

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―You got it, sir,‖ the chauffeur growled in his best military tone and
stamped on the gas pedal. The car surged forward. The wheels spun
furiously as Berger dodged around the other vehicles, ignoring the
risk of doing so on a wet pavement.
―That‘s more like it,‖ Baltzer said coldly, blowing a stream of
smoke against the closed window.
Stenzel squinted and hugged his briefcase as if it might protect him
should they crash. He swallowed hard as Berger nearly missed the tail
of a slow-moving bus, and mouthed a curse. Sweat poured from his
hairline despite the cold, a rash forming in the skin beneath his
nostrils.
Baltzer saw the man‘s terror-stricken face reflected in the window
and gave a dirty grin as he let out a mouthful of cigarette smoke. He
crushed the stub into the ashtray, sighed, and arched his head on the
seat. Tension showed on his face as he gazed at the ceiling, though.
He barely could wait to arrive at his office.
>><<
Baltzer came into SD headquarters like a man fleeing a terrible
danger. He raced up the granite stairs grabbing his suitcase and
briefcase in each hand. His black-leather coat hung open, his eyes
were popped, and his tanned face gleamed with sweat. He reached his
floor and swung a door open with unnecessary force. He focused his
eyes on the door of his inner office ten yards ahead, and stomped
toward it, ignoring the greetings of the apple-cheeked, light-brown-
haired secretary from behind her desk.
―Good afternoon, Agnes,‖ Stenzel said to the chirpy secretary, who
followed the wild Major Baltzer with her gaze.
―Good afternoon, captain. I‘ve put all the mail and memos on your
trays,‖ she said, and saw Baltzer slip into his office and slam the door
shut behind him.
She said, ―Would you remind the major of the heads-of-section
weekly meeting with General Kaltenbrunner at seven this evening?‖
―I will, Agnes, thank you,‖ Stenzel said and moved to Baltzer‘s
doorway.
He stopped there and put his bags on the floor at his feet.
Unhurriedly, he adjusted his eyeglasses on top of his bloated nose,
wiped his wet face with a handkerchief and knocked on the door.
There was no reply and he opened it all the same.
Baltzer was bending over his desk, fumbling with his mail. Stenzel
said, ―You‘ve got a meeting with General Kaltenbrunner at seven,
okay?‖

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―Right.‖ He didn‘t turn around to speak.

―Listen…um…will you be needing me in the next hour? I was
thinking of having something for lunch.‖ He started to peel off his
coat.
―No,‖ Baltzer said rudely.
―Would you like––‖
Baltzer whipped around and glared at him, controlling his desire to
say ‗fuck off‘. ―See you after the meeting,‖ he hissed.
―Fine. Until,‖ Stenzel pushed his glasses against the bridge of his
nose, picked up his bags, turned, and went away with his coat tucked
under his armpit. His stooped gait was even more pronounced now.
Looking like a dog with its tail between its legs, he vanished down the
hallway and into his own office.
Baltzer moved to the door holding a stack of papers in one hand, and
locked it. He crossed the room and adjusted the blinds to allow as
much daylight in as possible, and sank into the dark-leather couch.
―Now let‘s see it,‖ he spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he
began shuffling through the papers in his hand.
There was a letter from his mother in Stuttgart; he dropped it to the
floor. Next was a typed copy of last Hitler‘s speech radioed from
Prussia; he dropped it to the floor. Now was a memo from Himmler,
celebrating something that had happened in the eastern front; he
scoffed and dropped it to the floor.
Then the telex sheet seemed to flash in his hand. It was from the
Banco di Roma. He felt his heart leap to his mouth. He read the few
lines on it and breathed a sigh of relief. The creases in his face
disappeared as if by magic.
The interbank transaction had succeeded and the deposit had been
made.
He folded it carefully and put it in his breast pocket. The bank‘s
manager had insisted in sending the telex to his office to confirm the
procedure, regardless it was on the weekend. It should be like this for
it concerned the selling of state property. It was just a habitual
procedure, the manager had said. What was killing Baltzer was to be
on a plane when it happened. Routine
But now it was all gone. Bruno Fuchs was a few thousand
Reichsmarks richer.
There was a knock at the door. Baltzer crossed to it quickly, undid
the latch, and got back to the chair behind his desk. ―Yes?‖
Agnes opened the door slowly and put her head around the frame.
―May I?‖ she asked timidly, holding up a manila folder.

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He rose, and tossed the papers in his hands into the couch. ―Come
on in.‖
She came up to him in her tight-fitting dark blue skirt and white
blouse. Baltzer reached out and stroked her chin very gently. He said,
―Sorry about the way I was when I arrived.‖
She smiled a skittish smile and waved his apologies away. ―This is
maybe your twentieth trip abroad in my ten months here, and you
always go like that. Why wouldn‘t I get used to it.‖ She paused,
looking at his sunburned face and gasped. ―But your tan is absolutely
perfect.‖
―Fantastic, isn‘t it?‖ he lifted his chin, moving his head from side to
side. ―And my workmates still complained about spending a few days
there.‖
―You went to Southern Italy, didn‘t you?‖
―Yes, Sicily,‖ he lied, wondering whether she really didn‘t know
he‘d actually been to North Africa.
―Did Captain Stenzel enjoy the trip?‖
―Nah. That one never likes or dislikes anything. He never laughed,
nor drank, nor talked like a normal person. He‘s a freak.‖
Agnes said with a tone of intimacy, ―Don‘t treat him that way. He‘s
too shy already. I take pity on him.‖
He scoffed. ―I prefer talking about the sunny days in Italy, my dear.‖
She placed her hands on her pale cheeks. ―Getting a suntan on the
beach….Wow! But I could do anything for a couple of days in
Sicily.‖
Baltzer grinned and returned to the couch. ―You don‘t tempt me,
bella ragazza. I‘ve been without a female company a while.‖
―Major!‖ she said good-humouredly, putting her hands on her hips,
feigning anger. ―I‘d better get out before it‘s too late,‖ she said and
bent down, placing the folder with deliberate slowness in his lap.
―And don‘t forget about the sit-down at seven.‖
―Sure, thanks.‖ He observed her move to the door, enjoying her
jaunty walk, paying special attention to the swaying of her hips and
her slapable buttocks. Nineteen-year-old Agnes Hoffman was maybe
the most attractive unmarried girl in the office, he thought, and only
the fact that most men of her age were in the frontline explained the
fact. She closed the door without looking back at him, maybe
dreading to see what he was doing; or maybe fearing he wasn‘t.
Baltzer opened the folder. It was a message log-marked with his
name in red capital letters. On the bottom of the spread-sheet was the
decoded radio transmission from Libya. Fischer, the word screamed

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in the paper. He took a fountain pen from his breast pocket and filled
in the blank with the chicken path that was his signature. Then he
looked up pensively.
Across a wall of the room hung a ten-foot banner saying: fortes
fortuna juvat between the silver twin-lightning symbols of the SS.
―Fortune favors the brave,‖ he mumbled, staring at it. ―Bullshit.‖
He looked again at the man‘s name. Fischer. It‘d been pulsating in
his head for the last thirty hours or so. Fuck it! he told himself, and
made his silent decision.
Okay, we can split it, you prick. It‟s more than enough for both of
us. Now all you need to do is agree to the scheme, pocket the money,
and shut the fuck up!

**************
17
All they could do was wait for the rain to stop. When it finally did,
they gladly noticed the sounds of motorcycle engines coming from the
vicinities had ceased. Dalton wasn‘t willing to found out who they
were. The most sensible thing to do was give a wide berth to any
troubles with the enemy; even if it meant to dare a move in daylight
after a near-contact with motorized units. Then they headed north as
the sun made the soaked desert steam.
One hour later they bumped onto Trigh el-Abd. It was a route that
caravans of peddlers and Bedouins had hacked through the desert with
the passing of the decades, a strip of well-worn ground edged by
bushes, scrub trees, and boulders. In reality it was two or three paths
wending east-west in parallel that had almost mingled together at
some points. Rusting carcasses of all types of military vehicles and
tails of planes sticking out from mounds of ashes adorned the
primitive roads along with bleached, phantasmagoric skeletons of
human beings, dromedaries, and goats. It‘d become more like a single
trail as the growing number of nomads traveled back and forth
between Libya and Egypt, or en route to the towns on the Gulf of
Syrte. The last of Dalton‘s informants lived there, in Agedabia. A
couple of harrowing days and nights on the caravan route was the only
price of their collaboration. They were eager to help the British kick
the Axis out of their homeland, no matter how risky.
LRDG patrols had long ago come to the conclusion it was safe to
move on the rocky surface of Trigh-el-Abd, and navigation here was
all but dispensable. The leading truck had only to be careful to select a
path that would keep the vehicles off slopes and hilltops so as not to

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silhouette them against the sky. But it was a tedious drive. The trails
seemed to lead to nowhere, brush-bound corridors crossing the
desolate desert with no traffic as far as eye could see. The sands, now
wet, had adopted a dark yellow tone.
For nearly an hour they didn‘t see any caravans moving around as
they jolted through the rough complex of roads. Most importantly, no
enemy vehicles either. The Afrika Korps sometimes planted mines on
the routes more probably used by British commandos. But the
Bedouins removed them all the time; and sold them to anyone who
wished to use the explosive inside the devices to dig wells.
At last they sighted a small group of people leading camels roughly
a mile away, inching against the skyline. They were coming the other
way along a path a couple of hundred yards to the north. Dalton chose
not to be seen by them and signaled for the others to stop behind the
nearest slope until the camel train went past. There had been several
cases of Bedouins who‘d accepted bribes from the enemy to report the
presence of British commandos in Libya.
>> <<
What they hadn‘t noticed was that they‘d been under surveillance
since leaving Abyad. The two militiamen were on their Zundapps,
following them from a safe distance. As the patrol cruised sedately
along the path, it was the easiest work in the world.
With the throb of their machines mingled with that of the
Chevrolets, their move was soundless. They made contact over the
radio-transmitter every half an hour or so. When the trucks stopped
for the commandos to take a look around or to rest, the militiamen
simply cut their engines and waited for the patrol to carry on with its
lethargic progression down the trail.
>> <<
The caravan disappeared in the hazy distance and the trucks were on
the move again. A mile further on they reached a stretch of the trail
flanked by a proliferation of thorny low scrub. After rounding a soft
bend that skirted a massive knoll of sandstone, Dalton sighted a man
seating under the shade of a gnarled tree. The man sprang up and
beckoned to him cheerfully.
Surprised and tensed, the Welshman drove on toward the man, who
wore a leather flight jacket and baggy khaki pants. Shortly after he
noticed his clothing belonged to Australian airmen. There were
captain‘s three pips on the epaulets of his jacket. A stranded pilot,
Dalton concluded, and then relaxed. He pulled up.

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Carrying his parachute in a bundle under one arm and a leather jug
in the other, the man trudged to Dalton‘s vehicle. He was a tall man of
approximately thirty-five, with an athletic build, wavy dark hair
prematurely silver-streaked. There was a three- or four-day‘s growth
of beard on his sun-bloated face. Glinting identification tags hung
around his neck out of his jacket, overtly displayed for any inquisitive
eye. Despite his square jaw, his face was quite friendly.
―Thank God you‘ve found me, lads,‖ the man was saying to Dalton,
who‘d just jumped off his truck.
―No, you have found us, mate,‖ the Welshman said as they shook
hands. ―Very lucky of you to be on the right trail. There are two more
of them, as you must‘ve noticed.‖
―Captain Paul Cassel––Royal Australian Air Force,‖ the man
identified himself.
―Captain Clive Dalton––LRDG.‖
Cassel leaned against the truck as the other men stood around him
shaking hands in turn. ―As I see no kangaroos painted on your
vehicles, I assume you‘re not Aussies,‖ he said.
―How long have you been here, Captain?‖ Miller asked as soon as
they‘d shaken hands.
―Four long broiling days and as many freezing nights,‖ Cassel said,
his blue eyes turned into slits in the blinding glare. He lifted the
leather jug. ―Almost two full days before I could get this thing and
some bread.‖
―Good heavens! It‘s a miracle you survived,‖ Miller said.
Cassel smiled. ―That miracle cost me my wristwatch and all the
money I was carrying.‖
―Bedouins?‖ Dalton asked.
―Um-hum. They were making for the Gulf of Syrte––no chance of a
lift back home. And the promise of their not reporting me to the
enemy cost me my lighter and my sunglasses.‖
Dalton smiled. ―Some of them have a slight weakness for
blackmailing.‖
―Were it not for my gun,‖ he tapped his .38 revolver in a shoulder
harness beneath his jacket, ―they‘d have taken me to be sold at some
bazaar.‖
―That‘s exactly what I was going to say,‖ Dalton said, smiling.
Cassel took a long gulp from the canteen a trooper had handed him
and added, ―I was beginning to feel like giving in to the next enemies
I saw.‖

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―Then I think your bribes wouldn‘t work anymore,‖ Miller said and
everyone laughed.
The Australian puffed with relief. ―Better than being found is being
found by an LRDG patrol.‖ He looked around in admiration at the
bearded commandos. ―I thought you lads were just a legend.‖
―No, we‘re for real,‖ Miller said. ―The odor in our armpits reminds
us of that all the time.‖
―Here. I‘ve got a present for you chaps.‖ From a pocket in his jacket
Cassel took a flight plan in a small grid-filled map along with a
reconnaissance photograph stapled to it. He handed them to Dalton.
The Welshman studied the papers cursory, and skipped to the aerial
photo. It was relatively updated, he discovered as his eyes took in the
small white letters heading it; it‘d been taken eleven days ago over the
town of El-Agheila. He thought the papers and photo might be useful,
and pocketed them.
―What did you last see of important ‗round these tracks, mate?‖
Dalton asked in the hope of hearing he‘d seen the militiamen on their
motorcycles.
―A big onion of fire. It was what I last saw of important,‖ Cassel
said.
―What was that?‖ Dalton said frowning terribly.
―My Beaufort ––after a damned Messerschmitt shot us down before
we could reach our target in El-Agheila.‖
Collins asked, ―What about your crew? Anyone else bail out with
you?‖
Cassel shot Collins a dejected look. ―No, I‘m afraid not,‖ he said
with glazed eyes now. ―My poor fellows got hit still inside the plane.
Sodding Kraut didn‘t give us a chance.‖
―We could try and find survivors,‖ Dalton said. ―How about
searching the crash site?‖
A wrinkle of surprise sprang on Cassel‘s forehead. ―No, that‘s
nonsense,‖ he said. ―There must be enemies there examining the
wreck.‖
―You‘re right, my friend,‖ Dalton said, nodding agreement. ―What
can we do for you?‖
A grin came to Cassel‘s face. ―You could help me cripple the
airplanes in El-Agheila‘s aerodrome.‖
―I can‘t promise you that,‖ Dalton said. ―Our task this time is not
attacking airfields. We‘re searching for a pro-Axis militia.‖ For a
minute he gave Cassel a brief explanation on their mission.

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Cassel looked stunned. ―You really have got a job to do, eh. Bloody
thing just couldn‘t sound stranger, though.‖
Dalton patted the man‘s shoulder and said, ―Anyway, you got a lift
back home––as soon as we finish it, of course.‖ He gave the command
and the crews began heading back for their trucks.
―Yes, of course,‖ said Cassel. ―Anything‘s preferable than being
here, man, trust me.‖
―I can imagine.‖
―Well, I‘ll try not to be a nuisance.‖
―I‘m sure you‘ll be of help.‖
As Dalton and Cassel talked, one of the men lingering around them
decided there was something wrong about Paul Cassel. Actually, he
was puzzled. Born in England, Sergeant Andrew Jones, a medium-
height man with dark eyes, had lived in Australia from his ten years of
age through his fourteen. More, he‘d even worked with Australian
crews of the LRDG a couple of times last year. And he‘d realized
Cassel‘s voice had the subtle trace of an accent that didn‘t sound
exactly as Australian. He went back to his truck as if nothing were
wrong, and decided to check the man out his own way.
―Captain,‖ Jones called to Cassel behind the wheel of his truck as
the man was about to climb into the Dalton‘s. ―Come with us over
here.‖
Cassel shrugged and headed there. ―Christ! You lads remind me of a
gipsy caravan.‖
Jones smiled. ―We‘ve got lots of things in common to talk about,‖
he said.
―Really?‖ Cassel said as he climbed in pulled aboard by the
vehicle‘s gunner, who‘d amiably reached out a strong arm to him.
―What would that be?‖
Jones said, ―I spent four years in Perth.‖
Cassel looked to go surprised. ―Nice. I myself have never been
there, though.‖
He took seat on a bundle of camouflage nettings as the vehicles
moved slowly forward. Palmer was sitting opposite him in the scruffy
cargo bed. Cassel‘s eyes widened as he identified the man‘s uniform.
―By all that‘s holy!‖ Cassel said. ―A Yank! How did you get mixed
up in this, mate?‖
―I was lucky,‖ the American said. ―So were three others like me.
Here,‖ Palmer handed him a mug with cold M&V. ―I can bet you‘re
hungry, sir.‖

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―Yes, thank you. It‘s going to taste like roast beef,‖ Cassel said
while examining the mug‘s contents, and next swallowed the potage
almost without chewing. Then he drank more water and added his
bundled parachute to the nettings beneath him. After a while he was
looking more relaxed.
Jones decided to start his cross-examination. To him, that man
wasn‘t Australian––but either German or Italian. He might be an
English-speaking agent posted to the caravan tracks to gather
information––or plant disinformation––in teams of British
commandos. Such a thing had already been tried a few times.
―Your accent sounds a bit funny to me, sir,‖ Jones called over the
noise of the engine while driving, gazing at Dalton‘s truck moving
before his.
Cassel frowned. ―Funny?‖ he said in a stilted way. He noticed the
sudden change in the two men facing him; the bearded English gunner
and the beefy American heeded him attentively now.
―From which part of Australia do you come from?‖ Jones insisted.
Cassel gave a bleak grin and took a long cigar and a book of
matches from a jacket pocket. He slipped the cigar between his
blistered lips and lit it in cupped hands.
―Well,‖ he said, without removing the cigar from his mouth, and
flicked the match away. ―I grew up in a country house near Brisbane,
two and a half thousand miles from Perth.‖
―Never been there,‖ Jones said, surprised the strange accent had
vanished all of a sudden.
―That‘s why my brogue must be sounding odd to you.‖
―Um-hum,‖ Jones murmured in response. ―You‘re right, sir. Sorry.‖
But what I heard minutes ago wasn‟t rural Australian accent, mate.

**************
18
The conference room used by the chief of the RHSA had the same
dimensions of the other such rooms in its headquarters. But there
stopped the resemblances. Instead of the typical Spartan conditions of
military meeting rooms, it had a huge, black-lacquered table,
glistening paneling on the walls, heavy drapes, overstuffed chairs cast
in leather, and hand-carved cabinets filled with the most expensive
items. A giant portrait of Hitler hung imperiously on a wall, flanked
by large red-and-black Nazi party banners.
Nine men were sitting at the table with Kaltenbrunner––whom no
one doubted would be appointed the new chief of the agency––at its

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head. They were section leaders of the Intelligence Service (SD),

Gestapo, and Criminal Police. Like the others, Baltzer speed-read the
reports produced by the sections, mostly updates of long-running
missions of phone-tapping, drug-testing, or simply information-
gathering jobs. Every time a man finished his talking, a round table
discussion started. It only quit when Kaltenbrunner, always the last
one to speak, made the final comments and decided what to do. Then
he announced orders in his harsh voice and signed authorizations and
the like. Baltzer watched the man‘s long arms and huge hands
dangling from his elongated body and decided the lean-faced, cold-
eyed Austrian reminded him of an ape.
Ogre suits him better, though.
Baltzer wasn‘t going to speak today––and he was very relieved. His
mission shouldn‘t be of knowledge of anyone here other than
Kaltenbrunner. On entering the room, he‘d crossed to the rotary rack
of colored maps in a corner and stood there to avoid conversation until
the meeting began.
One hour later he was immensely bored. Worse than that, he was
sick with impatience. This repertory of wild guesses, rumors, and
half-truths had been more than enough for him. And he didn‘t mind
giving signs of it. Every few minutes he shifted in his chair, scratched
his head, or rubbed his freshly-shaven jaw with a touch of
desperation. The one interesting thing about the meeting was that not
for a single time Kaltenbruner had behaved as a mere adviser of
operations. He did know he‘d be appointed head of the RHSA very
soon. And he already was posing petulantly as such.
To hell with him!
Baltzer wanted to go home to put the telex printout that was in his
pocket in its due place. But that only would happen after the meeting
had finished and the yet-to-be chief spoken privately to him about his
current mission––and about Fischer. For now he‘d have to spend the
time with himself and his secret worries.
Will Fischer agree with everything? Baltzer wondered, gazing at the
report in front of him on the table and seeing nothing.
What if he won‟t? Damn! And if he agrees, would he demand more
than fifty percent? Well, there would still be a lot of money left for Mr.
Fuchs.
It was ten past nine when the last section leader spoke. Hermann
Kluth drawled for nearly half an hour about the ingenious methods of
his team of agents on hunting down German journalists suspected of
being communist sympathizers. He seemed entranced with his own

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loquacity. When he spoke holding his pen as if conducting a concerto,

Baltzer felt inclined to shoot him in the spot. Maybe that was the
reason they couldn‘t attend conferences armed.
>> <<
The meeting finished at nine forty-five. Baltzer knew he should
remain there. Kaltenbrunner was given a leather-bound file holder by
his secretary and another wait began. He drummed his fingers on his
lap as Kaltenbrunner put his signature on the first reports. The
Austrian hadn‘t emitted a sound for several minutes. Then his lips
parted as if he were going to say something.
Baltzer thought: Come on ogre, open up. I want to go home…it‘s
late!
―You must be the envy of everyone in the building,‖ Kaltenbrunner
said without lifting his dark eyes from the paper.
―Beg your pardon,‖ Baltzer said, slightly startled.
―Your suntan, I mean.‖
―Oh yes. One of the few good things someone from Europe can get
by going to Africa.‖
―And what might the others be?‖
―Seeing the Brits beating in retreat,‖ Baltzer said, smiled, and waited
a similar reaction from the towering Austrian; but he soon gave up.
―Was Stenzel helpful?‖
―Totally, sir.‖ Baltzer laughed inwardly. He thought: four-eyes will
never know how much he helped Bruno Fuchs make some good
profits. ―The biggest difficulty we had was retrieving those silly
scimitars. General Matouk made it a point to have them back. The
Italians had stowed them in an old-weapons dump outside Tripoli
since June ‗40. We were very lucky to find them.‖
―Any snags deign of note?‖
Baltzer scratched his head. ―I just regret not to have given new radio
code-sheets to Heusseini‘s men. I‘m afraid the Abwehr listening posts
in Libya may be already able to decode their messages.‖
―I wouldn‘t worry about that. If Fischer is right, the mission will be
accomplished before they fully understand what‘s going on.‖
―Let‘s hope he‘s right, then.‖
―When did you last contact him?‖ Kaltenbrunner said, still
concentrating on putting his signature to the documents.
―In Rome. I contacted him from General Kesselring‘s office.‖
―That was about forty-eight hours ago, correct?‖
―Yes. He told me the next phase should be started any moment.‖
―That all?‖

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―Brief as that, yes. Just a few words. Fischer‘s way.‖

―At least he never argued about your being in charge of the
taskforce; that‘s good news,‖ Kaltenbrunner said.
Baltzer chuckled quietly. ―I agree.‖
―You think he‘s in safety?‖
Baltzer lifted an eyebrow. ―If you mean in safety among his new
Muslim friends, yes, I think so.‖
―He wouldn‘t want you and Stenzel to stay with him, would he?‖
Baltzer frowned hard now. ―Well…he‘s always worked like that. It
was his only demand after the equipments and the supplies arrived
from Naples.‖
Kaltenbrunner finally looked at him. ―What do you believe his
chances of success are––frankly?‖
Baltzer filled his lungs. ―He confided me this was the
most…er…challenging job he‘s ever had. It‘s hard to turn something
like that into statistics, sir. I‘d rather hope he‘s as fortunate as he was
while handling with the commies in Italy last year.‖ That lucky,
arrogant boy-scout! he didn‘t say.
―I understand,‖ Kaltenbrunner said and went back to signing his
papers.
―Was Mr. Heusseini glad at the news before yesterday?‖
Kaltenbrunner‘s eyes riveted from the papers to meet Baltzer‘s. ―I
suppose he was. We haven‘t met up in a while.‖
―Um-hum,‖ Baltzer said. He mused: what the hell did I say that
stabbed him? Baltzer went on: ―By the way, the OVRA sent an agent
to meet me in Rome. The man was marveled at the way we seemed to
be trusting Matouk and Heusseini.‖
The Austrian‘s scar-faced frown was almost intimidating. ―Did he
give you any plausible facts?‖
―No. He just told me we‘ve been given a report about
their…wrongdoings in a recent past.‖
―Nonsense. I know absolutely nothing about it. He was fishing for
information, that‘s what.‖
―May be.‖
―Did he succeed, Major?‖
―Absolutely not, sir. I was busy at that moment; had a good excuse
to ignore him.‖
―Good,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, and seemed to relax. He gave himself a
long pause in the conversation by smoking half a cigarette while
speed-reading another report. ―What did you last hear about General
Rommel?‖ he said at last.

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A shrug. ―At the heart of battle armed with his swagger stick and
giving orders on the spot, as usual.‖
―Very well. Fill me in if something of importance develops, yes?‖
―Naturally, sir,‖ Baltzer said and rose. ―Anything else?‖
―No,‖ the Austrian said dismissingly, his bony head bending down,
his cold dark eyes examining the papers in the folder. ―Go home and
have a good night‘s sleep, Major.‖
―Thank you, sir,‖ Baltzer said as he rose, went out the door and
closed it behind him. He was breathing with relief. As he didn‘t make
any mentions of the reward, Baltzer thought, he‘ll never do it in the
future if everything goes well. A sigh. Time to go home now.
As he walked down the corridor, a slobby, fleshy-faced man in a
civilian business suit coming the other way made him slow his pacing.
―Ziegler?‖ Baltzer said, his jaw dropping.
―Hi, Rolf, how are you doing?‖
Baltzer didn‘t answer. His eyes seemed to analyze each square inch
of the man‘s face. Ziegler‘s once blond hair was black, so were his
eyebrows; his pinkish complexion had some kind of artificial suntan
that gave it a dark coloring; a tinted pair of spectacles could make
anyone swear his gray eyes were brown or black.
―What the fuck happened to your ugly face?‖ Baltzer said in a low
tone.
―Boy, I just spent two hours in my office with some theatrical
costumiers from UFA Films. Never thought those so-called artists
were worth a fart. Told them I needed to look like a Latin, they
opened a few with makeup cases…and here I am.‖
―It‘s amazing. Well, what‘s all this for?‖
Ziegler jerked his head toward an unmarked door. ―Let‘s talk in
there. There‘s something you‘ve got to see.‖
He opened the door and held it open for Baltzer. It was a projection
room with at least thirty wooden chairs behind the desk with the
projector. Ziegler nodded to three men busying themselves with a roll
of tape, and sat at the back with Baltzer at his side.
―I‘m going to Argentina. The boss wants me to make some
arrangements there.‖
―At the embassy?‖
Ziegler hesitated. ―Yes and no.‖
So why traveling undercover? Baltzer decided not to ask further
questions.
―You‘ve been working with Fischer, huh? What‘s he like in the
field?‖

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―Who told you that?‖ Baltzer knew the likeliest answer: big-mouth
Agnes.
―Doesn‘t matter,‖ the man said. ―Look, while the guys worked on
my face, I couldn‘t help thinking of Fischer, you know. He must be
disguised like some kind of god-alone-knows-what to blend in with
those sand-niggers. What‘s it? Is he trying to pass for a camel or
something? And he‘s a polyglot; so the bastard must be speaking
camel, too!‖ he burst out laughing.
You‟re full of details, aren‟t you? Shit! It wasn‟t Agnes! It was the
ogre who gave you a lot of details. Why?
Baltzer lit a cigarette and gave a little laugh. ―That‘s right, Fischer is
disguised as a camel now. Even so he looks better than you, you
Dago-looking asshole.‖
There was a loud whirring sound, and the tape was set into motion
in the projector. A quadrangle flashed on the white screen hung to the
wall and one of the men turned off the ceiling lights.
―Who are those guys? Baltzer asked.‖
―It‘s a new technical branch. I was in a meeting with them and
Kaltenbrunner while you were away getting your tan,‖ Ziegler nodded
approvingly at the men‘s backs. ―The one on the left is Adolf
Eichmann, Head of the Gestapo's Office for Jewish Questions. Of
course you know him.‖
―Of course,‖ Baltzer said. Besides being Kaltenbrunner‘s friend
since childhood, he didn‘t say, Eichmann was the one who paid a visit
to the Mufti in Palestine via his nephew Abdel Qadir in ‘36 to offer
financing for his riots. ―Who are the others?‖
―They‘re scientists. Carl Clauberg, in the middle, and Josef Mengele
on the right. They‘re the future, Rolf, trust me.‖
―Of course they are,‖ Baltzer said half-heartedly.
The frames rattling in rapid succession showed a skinny man lying
in a bathtub in full flying gear as two others in SS uniforms poured ice
into the tub. Gagged, wrists and ankles certainly bound underneath the
layers of ice, the man in the tub began to convulse after a few minutes.
The terror in his eyes made Baltzer shiver.
Ziegler nudged Baltzer and said in a low tone, ―So many of our
pilots froze to death in the English Channel, and all it takes to begin
designing decent surviving gear for them is stuff like buckets of ice
and a few Kikes.‖
Baltzer stared in controlled shock at the Jew‘s face and saw sheer
panic shine in his eyes. Shivering convulsively, he looked up in
pleading desperation at the bald, plump SS officer holding a

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chronometer––Clauberg. Not a muscle stirred neither in his nor

Mengele‘s face. Baltzer shifted his gaze to Eichmann, who was taking
notes on a clipboard, and noticed the dimly lit grin on his face. Baltzer
was disgusted.
So this is the ogre‟s circle of friends, huh?
Then a tremor ran down his spine.
What if he found out I‟ve stolen that fucking gold? Would
Kaltenbrunner turn me over to these freaks or dump me in jail?
Damn!
He looked at the screen again. The Jew contorted himself in a final,
long shudder and stiffened to stone, his eyes glazed. Clauberg checked
his chronometer and showed it to Mengele. Both men smiled, and
gave a thumbs-up to the camera. Eichmann rubbed his hands with
avaricious zest for a half minute.
Baltzer took a long breath and shrugged the thought away. If they
haven‘t caught me in the three last years, they won‘t ever, he thought.
―Listen,‖ Ziegler said. ―Did you meet with Rommel in Libya?‖
―Of course not. Why?‖
―You going back there soon?‖
―Answer my question first, will you?‖
―Well, he‘s got a birthday coming up. I just thought––‖
―You think too much, man,‖ Baltzer interrupted. ―Too much.‖

**************
19
The five trucks sat behind a small hill about a mile from the caravan
trails. It was a pitch-dark moonless night and extremely cold. Miller
and a corporal stood in their grubby overcoats on top of the hill
watching the vicinities, submachine guns slung over their shoulders,
and flare pistols in their pockets ready to fire a warning. The other
men rested in their sleeping bags or tents after yet another meal of
canned meat and vegetables.
Already Dalton and Jones were leaning against a truck, observing
Cassel in the tent he‘d made with the canopy of his parachute and a
wooden strut he‘d found in the vehicle he rode in. The pilot had
borrowed a red-filtered flashlight and a novel from a corporal, and
was reading snugly in there. The book was ‗The Time Machine‘ by
H.G. Wells.
Dalton said, ―I think I‘m not stupid so as not to notice a strange
accent in a man‘s voice.‖

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―All right,‖ Jones said, paused and added: ―Have you spoken to each
of the four Yanks?‖
―Yes, I have,‖ the Welshman said, and lifted an eyebrow in the dark.
―They‘re from three different states, aren‘t they? Correct me if I‘m
wrong.‖
―No, you‘re right. Go on.‖ Dalton was suspecting he was going to
lose this point.
―The lieutenant, Collins, is a New Yorker, from a bloody Irish
family. The giant is from Oregon, in the opposite corner of the
country. The other two are Texans, from the south.‖
―What‘s your point, man?‖
―Did you really notice any differences amongst their accents?‖
Dalton clicked his tongue. ―You may be right.‖
―I hope I‘m not,‖ Jones said. ―But, hell, I can remember the way
Aussies sound.‖
―You told me his strange accent sometimes gets neutral.‖
―It became something like that after I told him I‘d lived in Australia.
He‘s either very smart or a complete idiot to do that.‖
Dalton lit a cigarette pensively. ―What‘s your guess about his ID tag,
his clothes, and the rest of the stuff he carries?‖
―German and Italian Intel have workshops to make them,
remember? Another possibility: he might have taken those from a
prisoner or a dead pilot.‖
―He wouldn‘t be the first one,‖ Dalton took a long drag in his
cigarette. ―I‘ve heard of a couple of cases of enemy spies trying to
infiltrate in that fashion.‖
―So have I. Last year, two Italians appeared in a barracks near
Alexandria in South African uniforms. Poor bastards barely could
speak English properly.‖
―I can‘t believe it!‖
―Seriously,‖ Jones went on. ―One pretended to be mute, the other to
be wounded in the throat. Funny, eh?‖
―Madness,‖ Dalton shook his head. ―What happened next?‖
―They got caught.‖
―And..?‖
―They faced the same firing squad on a beautiful sunny morning.‖
―Well,‖ Dalton flung his cigarette stub away. ―This case here is a bit
more complicated.‖
―I stick to my suspicions,‖ Jones said, peering through the silk cover
into the man‘s tent. ―The bloke‘s strange. Even if he turns out to be
who he says he is, I‘d still bet he‘s hiding something.‖

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Dalton said, staring at Cassel‘s tent. ―What intrigues me is that he

must be aware we‘re able to find out he‘s a spy masquerading as a
stray pilot.‖
―Say the Aussies in Cairo don‘t confirm his story. So he‘s a spy.
What are we supposed to do?‖
Dalton took a moment to answer. ―We‘ll kill him. That‘s the rule
applying for spies on both sides, isn‘t it?‖
―Who‘s exactly we in that case?‖
―Anyone of us.‖
Jones shivered. ―I can‘t shoot that bloke in cold blood, my friend,‖
he slapped Dalton‘s shoulder. ―I think I‘d leave the honor to you.‖
Dalton nodded. ―Much obliged, chum.‖
>><<
Collins woke up scared. He sat up after kicking and elbowing his
blanket for a few seconds, and tossed it to one side. He blinked
several times in the encroaching gloom and swallowed a lungful of
ice-cold air. There was nothing to be seen. Man‘s congenital fear of
dark seized him. The lack of physical surroundings gave him the
impression of sinking. Instinctively, he flailed his arms, but there was
nothing to grab at. He could hear his own heartbeat. He began to fight
down the surge of panic as he remembered where he was.
Still sitting on his bedroll, he rubbed his face. It hurt. His hands
were full of sand, and it scratched his heavily-burned cheeks. He
breathed a curse and reached for the canteen he‘d left next to the
bundle of camouflage nettings that served as his pillow. He took a
gulp of water and felt a lot better. Damn! he thought, it was only a bad
dream.
When he closed his eyes the nightmare played in his mind again: he
was in free fall. The force of the wind crashed into his body with the
sudden speed and weight of a giant wave. He floated, swinging in
quarter circles in the blue sky, toward the ground in an invisible
parachute. He was back at West Point. The differences were that the
Hudson River had turned into a parched dry bed and the gray gothic
buildings had been replaced by yellow, mud-walled edifices. He
began running for no specific reason and stepped into a patch of
quicksand. As he was swallowed by the hot earth, a hand reached out
and pointed to him. He tried to look at the face, but the blinding sun
prevented him from doing so. Then a man‘s voice said, ―Wait for the
worst!‖
Only now he realized the voice had been his own. He shook his head
to clear his thoughts as his vision became perfectly adapted to the dark

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after the blurring of the waking. There were two figures standing next
to a truck twenty yards away. He took another gulp of water and
headed there wrapped in his blanket. He identified Dalton‘s and
Jones‘ voices in the dark.
Collins cleared his throat as he stepped close to them. ―Guys,‖ he
said by means of greetings.
―Been having sweet dreams?‖ Dalton asked.
The American puffed out his swollen cheeks. ―Tell me about it.‖
―Let me guess,‖ Jones said. ―It was a belly-dancer wriggling her
torso toward you, right?‖
―Rather the contrary,‖ the American said, massaging his forehead.
―I know exactly what you mean, mate,‖ Dalton said. ―You‘re going
to be used to it very soon.‖ At least your nightmare wasn‘t about your
wife dead in a back alley with her throat slitted, he didn‘t say.
Collins yawned, and saw the two men exchange a glance. ―Anything
wrong?‖ he said.
―Very,‖ Dalton said. ―We think our pilot is a spy.‖
Collins gave a start. He looked around as if looking for Cassel.
―Shit! Where‘s he?‖ he said in alarm.
―Relax, mate,‖ Jones said. ―He‘s right over there in his tent.‖ He
told him the whole story.
―What do we do now?‖
―Now we wait till noon,‖ Dalton said. ―Then we contact Cameron;
he‘ll check his identity with the Aussies.‖
―Why noon?‖ Collins asked.
―Old habit. Enemy monitoring-stations are usually poorly-manned
during lunch break.‖
―It‘s got to be like this as we‘re not moving,‖ Jones put in. ―We‘re
too near the big towns. Direction finding units could be able to spot
us.‖
―Anyway,‖ Collins said, ―I guess he‘s got no ways of
communicating with the enemy––if he really is one of them, has he?‖
―No,‖ Jones said. ―Bastard‘s got no radio or smoke grenades to
pinpoint our location. And he‘s got nowhere to run, either.‖
Dalton said, ―I‘d like to get him tripped in his own lies––just for fun,
you know. What if he‘s not a spy; but this something else Jones
suspects? I just haven‘t got the foggiest idea as to how to probe him.‖
The American looked at Jones and said, ―You lived there, in
Australia, right?‖
―Yes,‖ Jones said, and suddenly he could bet what he was going to
say next.

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―So, why don‘t you just go and talk to him about that lovely place,‖
Collins said.
Dalton slammed a hand against the side of the truck. ―Of course!‖ he
said.
Collins added, ―Even if he‘s the finest polyglot spy in the world, he
won‘t be able to know details about the country.‖
―That‘s right!‖ Jones said excitedly.
―But we better do that only in daylight, huh?‖ Collins said. ―He
could easily bold and disappear in the damn gloom.‖
―Of course,‖ said Dalton. ―And that‘ll give us time to let the rest of
the men know about it.‖
There was a long moment‘s silence, the freezing wind howling
eerily around them.
Jones said, ―Say he gives himself away. I don‘t think he‘d just sit
there and weep.‖
Dalton reached for the revolver on his waist holster, drew it, and
checked its drum. ―I‘ll be right outside the bloody tent.‖
Collins shivered and said, ―Yeah, let‘s be ready for the worst.‖

**************
20
The small turn-of-the-century villa of French colonial architecture
was an oasis of beauty in a world of drabness. Its pillared porch, large
windows, and steep red-tiled roof were exactly the same as in the
other villas in the outskirts of Casablanca. What made it a striking
contrast with its neighboring buildings was its greenery. It bore a
flower-strewn lawn, climbing plants on the stucco walls, and a five-
foot hedge of thorny bushes that covered its four sides.
To Sarah, this place reminded her of the kibbutz where she‘d grown
up in. She gazed at the revolving sprays of water from the sprinklers
bathing the grass, and in her mind she was an innocent girl of in her
teens again, playing with the other kids of the settlement. There
couldn‘t be soother thoughts for her. It was going to be four months
she‘d moved here the following week, and it still worked to keep
control of her nerves after the missions. And this time, relaxation was
something she needed badly. The endless hours she‘d spent on four
different trains and as many train stations had given her no chance to
rest or sleep properly. Every time her sore eyelids closed, ugly scenes
slapped her awake.
She sat at a low wooden table in the front yard, on the graveled area
that served as the driveway, carefully placed out of range of the

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sprinklers. In front of her on the table lay the remnants of the meal
she‘d been given and a bowl of fruits. She selected a slice of
tangerine, stabbed it with her fork, and brought it to her mouth as she
leaned back in the cane chair. It was past ten o‘clock at night, but a
strange thin layer of orange seemed to linger to the west on the
horizon. Looking over the clipped hedges to the east, she could see the
blurry waves of dusty wind blowing in from the desert toward the
city. It was as if there was a giant vacuum cleaner in the desert
sucking all tufts of bush and dried leaves and blowing them toward
Casablanca.
Were it in another situation––having a meal in the garden while
observing the starry night––she‘d be lazily stretching her legs and
moaning little sighs of pleasure and singing one of her favorite tunes.
But it wasn‘t. She‘d been just debriefed by her head of station, who
was at this exact moment on the phone relaying the most urgent data
to the first of a net of couriers that eventually would reach Telaviv.
A tall, dark-haired man stood in a balcony. Born in Poland, Amos
Brzezinski was the agent in charge of security; had been so since he‘d
left Europe six years back. Despite being only thirty, he looked at
least ten years older––the results of too much sunburn and too much
tension. Not that it mattered to him anymore.
He turned suddenly aside and began following the bobbing
headlights of an approaching car. A half-mile away, it lifted a cloud of
dust while hurdling along the tracks that connected the villa to the city
walls. He grabbed the British-made Sten submachine-gun leaning
against the wall and pulled its bolt.
Sarah was about to panic. The furious grumble of the engine and the
powerful lights coming in her direction were too scandalous to be
friendly. Have I been found by the Gestapo? she thought. Are they
coming to avenge their colleagues in Tripoli?
―Amos!‖ Sarah called.
Only when the vehicle was two hundred yards away Brzezinski did
recognize it. Sarah already was on her feet in the garden when he
waved a tranquilizing ‗all-clear‘ signal to her.
The car drew up behind the hedgerow to her left and a minute later
she saw the awkward, sweat-faced figure of Uri Klein stride with his
arms open toward her.
―Oh Lord! You scared the shit out of me, Sarah,‖ he said in Hebrew
by means of greetings as he made the last yards between them. Klein
was a few years older than Sarah. He was slim and handsome, with
carrot-colored hair and blue eyes. His light blue suit gave him the the

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appearance of a poor farmer going to mass on Sunday. He‘d joined

the Haganah together with Sarah, but he‘d been assigned to be part of
another secret organization soon after: the Mossad Aliyah Bet. It‘d
smuggled tens of thousands of Jews out of Europe since 1933. Klein‘s
job in Casablanca was to provide these refugees passports in blank,
false names and photographs, and then have them stamped so that
they could travel in safety.
―Hi, Uri,‖ Sarah said in a tone of voice opposite that of Klein‘s.
He wrapped his arms about her and closed his eyes, groaning with
happiness. It was as if he hadn‘t seen her for years instead of two
weeks. He kissed her soundly on both cheeks and embraced her again,
stronger this time. She felt her breasts being compressed against his
chest, and for a moment she dreamed he were someone else.
Sarah coughed a phony cough and pushed him away very gently.
―We‘re not alone, Uri,‖ she whispered and rolled her eyes up toward
Brzezinski in the balcony.
Klein turned around on his heels. ―Shalom, Amos,‖ he said loudly,
waving a hand at him.
―Shalom, Uri,‖ the Pole called back.
Klein placed his both hands on Sarah‘s shoulders. ―I imagined a
thousand things, my dear; even that you might have been hurt. Have
you?‖
―No, I‘m all right,‖ she said, sat back in the cane chair, and selected
another slice of tangerine. In the outside, I‘m great, she told herself.
―As far as I know, I escaped in time. The Gestapo didn‘t have a
chance to put up a dragnet before I left Libya.‖
―The Gestapo and the Heusseini mob working together in North
Africa, huh?‖ Klein said, his face transformed by curiosity.
―How come you already know about it?‖
―The old man spoke to me on the phone twenty minutes ago; which
was why I got here so fast...well one of the reasons.‖ He grinned at
her.
Sarah gave back a weak smile at him.
―So…there are papers suggesting they‘ve been working on one
operation. Tell me––what‘s factual? Who, when, what for?‖
―No, Uri, not now. I‘m so tired. I‘m not repeating my debriefing all
over again,‖ she said while slowly munching the sweet piece of fruit.
―Later, okay?‖
―But the old man won‘t give me further details until he‘s memorized
it from top to bottom,‖ he said.

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―Relax. It‘s two pages of notepad. That‘s all he could draw from
me.‖
Klein frowned. ―The files were only that?‖
―No files came over with me. I just read through them quickly,
picked some valuable data and…that‘s my report, basically.‖
―The British agent didn‘t let you see the documents, wasn‘t it?‖
―No, of course he did. But he was entitled to keep them, remember?
And, by the way, we didn‘t steal any papers––he photographed them.‖
Klein closed his right fist tightly as if he were trying to squeeze
something. ―It‘s not fair! We risked a lot to get hold of that
information…and then this. Half the job‘s done by us and they get
everything, the honors included.‖
―It was part of the deal,‖ Sarah said in a tired tone. ―Whatever we
found, it‘d be theirs in the first place.‖
―Even documents about men willing to murder our people as a
mission of life––like Heusseini.‖
―Yes, even in such circumstances.‖
Klein chuckled with a note of anger. ―That‘s ridiculous. It shouldn‘t
have been agreed to.‖
A man‘s voice rang out from the porch: ―But it has.‖
Moshe Cohen stood there with a notepad in one hand, his spectacles
in the other. He was a white-haired, healthily-plump man of around
sixty. ―If you were my age, you‘d have seen lousier deals in this
business––especially when we depend on others for primary things.‖
Klein cleared his throat, and intermingled his fingers nervously.
―Good evening, sir. I have some––‖
The phone buzzed loudly from the drawing-room and the older man
immediately whipped around and hurried back into the house.
Sarah knew it was the return call from Telaviv being relayed back
through the network. They‘d been waiting for it for over an hour. And
with it there‘d come the answer that she had been waiting: whether the
British agent codenamed ‗Mars‘ had made it out of Libya too.
―You look kind of strange, Sarah,‖ Klein said, observing her like
one does to a sick child.
―I already said I‘m fine.‖
―No, you‘re not,‖ he said and reached for her hand. ―Has anything
else happened?‖
―Nothing at all, trust me,‖ she said, giving a limp hand for him to
grab. She did feel sad about him now.
They were just one in a number of would-be young lovers from the
kibbutz that had to take a break in their promising relationship

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because of wartime duties. Over a year had passed, they‘d been posted
to different places for half that time, and Sarah still saw in the young
man‘s speckled blue eyes the same adoring glint. She shouldn‘t have
accepted rejoining him here, she thought. Damn! she told herself,
what the hell am I going to do now?
He said, ―Something else definitely happened in Tripoli. You‘re
behaving differently. I‘m sure of it.‖
Sarah shrugged. When she was going to speak, Moshe Cohen came
out of the front door and turned in their direction. She bolted up and
moved toward him, anxious to hear news from White, if there were
any. This time he didn‘t have the notepad in his hands. The messages
had been exchanged, she concluded––the MI-6 had reported
something.
―You were saying…‖ Cohen told Klein, taking off his reading
glasses.
Klein once more began fumbling with his fingers as if he had ten of
them in each hand. ―Er…it‘s not important, sir. However,‖ he began
giving details of the last batch of people arrived from Southern
France.
Sarah was going to go mad. Desperate to hear from White, now
there was this boring conversation.
―What about the message, sir?‖ she cut in when her impatience
boiled over.
―Your report reached Telaviv,‖ Cohen said.
―And?‖
―The Brits promised the sending of our copies as soon as possible.‖
―And?‖ she asked in agony.
Cohen nodded. ―Yes. The Englishman is safe and sound.‖
Uri flinched at the words. He swallowed hard and looked at Sarah.
She gave a huge sigh of relief and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
He swore to himself. Something did happen in Tripoli, he thought.

PART 3

21
The Phalanx surfaced off the coast of Egypt minutes after her
commander had seen the harbor of Alexandria through the
magnification lenses of the ship‘s periscopes. The last phase of the
journey was a slow glide toward the port, the wet, cigar-shaped black
hull gleaming in the sunshine. As it was just a few minutes past seven

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o‘clock, everyone aboard agreed they deserved a real breakfast in the

city.
Gilmour and White stood atop the sail along with the sub‘s
executive officer, who scanned the hull for signs of damage. Down
below, the first crewmen began lining up at the foot of the ladder, all
with sea-bags slung over their shoulders.
The communications officer, a smallish man of twenty-some years
of age, barged past the anxious sailors, labored his way up the steps,
and handed White a slip of paper.
―Look for a dark-blue Bentley, sir,‖ the man said. ―Lieutenant
Nowell from Army Intel will be waiting.‖
White made a face. He was counting on meeting up with Colonel
Cameron or someone else of the LRDG. Now I‘m to waste time with
some bureaucrat, he thought. He looked at the young officer, irritation
showing. ―Is that all?‖ he said.
―Positive, sir. Voice transmission from the local office of Naval
Intelligence wireless station.‖
White shook his head. ―It must be a bloody joke.‖
Gilmour chuckled. ―Someone testing your patience already, mate?‖
―So it seems,‖ White said, crumpled the paper and tossed it
overboard while mumbling indistinct dirty words.
Twenty minutes later the slow-moving submarine was a black dot in
the vastness of the millenary port. It slipped into the basin of
protruding piers like a little animal being swallowed by a sea monster.
For several months the port had been closed due to the dangerous
proximity of the German forces. But now, with the Afrika Korps
digging in around Tobruk, a number of cargo ships were berthed
alongside the main quays. Cranes and dockworkers worked around the
clock to unload grain sacks, bales of materials, barrels on slings, and
piles of large wooden boxes containing, ammunition, spares, and
canned rations; US-built trucks, half-track armored vehicles, and tanks
were parked in long rows after being lifted from the ships, just waiting
to be taken to battle.
Everyone was so busy that hardly any attention was paid to the
small submarine coasting toward the empty pier and then being helped
by a tug boat during its berthing. A single Arab workman appeared
soon after, and promptly rolled a gangplank into position for the
sailors to climb onto the concrete quay. One by one the eighteen men
left the Phalanx and were welcomed by the salaams of the dockhand.
White was still testing the shoes he‘d been given by Gilmour before
disembarking. He also had been presented a holdall, in which he‘d put

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Sarah‘s purse. As he went by the Arab, he had the impression of being

followed by his gaze. The Englishman stopped and turned around to
face him. He was a bucktoothed man with the face pitted by ancient
smallpox wearing a cheap galebaya dress and a fez. As he‘d expected,
the dockhand was observing him curiously.
―Anything wrong, mate?‖ White said.
―No, no. All is fine, officer,‖ the pineapple-faced man said, and
bowed three times in rapid succession. ―Welcome to Alexandria.‖
―Thank you,‖ White said and walked into the shade of a hill of
shipping crates. He never ceased being marveled at how hot the early-
morning sun could be in North Africa. Then he looked over one
shoulder and there it was again: the dockhand and his inquisitory
gaze.
Gilmour instructed a sailor to stay on watch duty on the pier and
joined White in the shade. They shook hands.
―Any time you need, man,‖ the commander said.
―Thank you,‖ White said, smiling. ―You shan‘t get a medal for this,
but…‖
―But we‘ll enjoy our break here like no tomorrow. At least we‘re
going to have something to think about while sailing off to the south
of France,‖ the man said and mimed a move of belly-dancing.
―Oh…you‘re going to France next?‖
―Yes, we received a signal last night. It‘s the rest of the business of
the Americans in Algeria, I believe. We‘re supposed to be the backup
of the blokes who took the Yanks there last month.‖
―Your friend Jewell, right?‖
―Exactly.‖
White laughed. ―Don‘t tell me anything else, man. You‘ll have to
kill me if you do.‖
A chuckle. ―So long. And good luck.‖ They shook hands again.
―I‘ll need it,‖ White murmured and they split up.
Looking around, White found himself as lost as a child on his first
day at a new school. He stood there, hands on his hips, admiring the
ancient port for the best part of a minute. The glare of marble and
plaster seemed to evoke spirits of times past. The whole place was
basically a medieval setting intruded by futuristic paraphernalia.
His curious eyes found the Fort Qaitbey brooding on a small island
at the mouth of the eastern harbor. The multi-towered citadel was a
witness of so many battles against the raiders from the Mediterranean.
It was the city‘s most important icon, a magnificent structure of light-

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colored stones and masonry blocks that seemed incandescent with the
sunrays. White suddenly found himself nodding in admiration.
―Fantastic, isn‘t it?‖ a woman‘s voice called.
White swiveled his torso around. Behind him, thirty yards away, a
tall redhead leaned against a dark-blue Bentley parked close to a small
hill of coal. She wore a neatly-ironed army uniform, a small cap, and
sunglasses. White paid special attention to the shapely hips beneath
the brownish skirt.
―Yes. It‘s like a living history class.‖
―Let‘s hope you find some free time for a little tour ‗round the city,
Major White. You should at least have a look at the Roman
Amphitheatre before going back to the embassy in Madrid.‖
―Lieutenant Nowell, Army Intelligence?‖ White said, walking
toward her and giving her a disrobing examination with a sexy half-
smile.
―Positive, Major. Colonel Cameron‘s sent me to give you his
apologies. He‘s finishing some businesses at the LRDG‘s ops
headquarters in Siwa.‖
―I understand,‖ he said, eyes roaming about her face and neck.
She also gave him an analytical head-to-toe look. Everything she‘d
expected was there: the careless jolts of an egocentric-looking,
creepily murderous figure; the happy-go-luck nature of hedonists; the
penetrating gaze that told very little of his thoughts.
―A friend once warned me that everything that looks nice is
absolutely deadly,‖ he said, looking at her appraisingly.
She said, ―And my mom told me to be wary of men who‘ve stepped
out of submarines.‖
He chuckled. ―I must confess I‘m truly surprised,‖ he said. ―Back in
the sub I thought you‘d be a bloke.‖
Catherine grinned. ―And I that you‘d be taller.‖ She opened the
passenger door. ―Shall we get going, Major?‖
―You‘re driving?‖
―Um-hum. I‘m not a chauffeur, though.‖
―Absolutely not. What‘s your position in army Intel, by the way?‖
he asked as they climbed in.
―Well, I‘d rather be dealing with wavelengths and encryptions than a
steering wheel.‖
―Ah, former SOE,‖ he said and saw her nod proudly. ―And a Fany
before that, right?‖
Special Operations Executive was a secret organization attached to
British Military Intelligence. It‘d recruited its female agents––most of

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them to work with communications––from the First Aid Nursing

Yeomanry, inevitably called the Fanys.
―Precisely,‖ she said, and drove away. As she swung the car around
dock workers, piles of boxes and drums at a considerable speed, she
had the distinct pleasure of seeing her passenger get slightly panicked
and grab the dashboard for support.
He said, ―Now I understand why they posted you out of England,
Lieutenant.‖
They sped through a side street and turned into a broad avenue. It
was jammed with dozens of military trucks, pushcart vendors, horse-
drawn open carriages called gharrys, camels, and the inevitable
donkeys. Catherine pulled between two open-topped army trucks
carrying troops, and immediately grabbed the attention of every
soldier in them. A cacophony of whistles rose. The traffic wouldn‘t
move any faster than a crawl. White looked over one shoulder to see
children riding the back bumper.
―Ol‘ Scottie is in Siwa, eh?‖ he said, not asking a question. ―He
must be bathing in a spring and listening to Tommy Handley at this
very moment.‖
―Oh…you‘ve been there already?‖
―No, I just read a couple of memos about it,‖ he began to sweat in
the growing heat, and wiped his forehead with a movement of one
hand. ―To tell the truth, I almost followed him there last year.‖
―He told me you were requested by him from the War Office along
with Dalton and Miller.‖
―Yes, and he tried to pack me off to the LRGD early this year
again.‖
―I‘m surprised the colonel gave up.‖
―He eventually spared me because I was not as ugly as those two
chimpanzees, I think.‖
She laughed quietly. ―I can‘t remember Dalton and Miller regretting
to have accepted the Colonel‘s invitation.‖
―To Miller anything was more interesting than sitting at the War
Office translating Italian documents. Well, I had beautiful Spain for a
choice.‖
―Agreed. What about Dalton?‖
He sighed. ―How much do you know about his days in Palestine?‖
She frowned, cleared her throat. ―A few things.‖
―So let‘s be honest; he took the job to punish himself for what he did
in Haifa.‖
―The interrogations, you mean.‖

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―The torture.‖
―Those men were terrorists! They were going to blow up a mosque
full of people somewhere in Palestine and put the blame on the Jews.
If he hadn‘t made those prisoners talk, hundreds of innocents would
die, and another riot would begin with more hundreds of victims.‖
White nodded very slowly several times. ―We heard the same
stories, then.‖
―I think so.‖
―I‘m not criticizing his self-flagellant attitude; we all have some
level of insanity. It‘s just that I can‘t imagine him doing that to
anyone, not even to crazed assassins.‖
She swallowed hard. ―Neither can I.‖
White suddenly remembered the files. ―Where‘s the mad caveman,
by the way?‖
She suddenly went dull. ―On a mission.‖
White cursed silently. ―That‘s what I feared.‖
>><<
It took them fifteen more minutes before they reached the Naval
Intelligence building. Catherine opened all windows of the room that
had been lent to the LRDG, letting in fresh sea breeze to dispel the
strong smell of moth balls.
―Disappointed?‖ she said, glancing around the room.
―Not at all,‖ he said, looking at her pinkish neck.
The gusts of wind were the first comfortable sensation he‘d felt in
days, White thought. He finally looked about the room to see a few
communication devices on a desk, shelves crammed with all sorts of
gadgets, and maps spilling over a round oaken table in the center.
He crossed to a window that looked down to the center of the city.
He spent a pair of minutes there, absorbing the sounds and smells of
the place. Like in Tripoli, there it was the combination of Arab and
European architecture. A thunder-like grumble startled him. He
looked to the north. Dark clouds came in a vigorous rush and it
suddenly started raining. Big drops lashed against him, and he had to
close the window.
He shivered. ―It‘s like ol‘ England saying hello.‖
―Rainy seasons all look the same,‖ she said. ―Was it raining in
Tripoli?‖
He chuckled. ―I was so busy I think I wouldn‘t have noticed.‖
―I can imagine,‖ she said, picturing the way he‘d gotten access to
the files.

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He knelt in front of a drinks cabinet and helped himself to a couple

of glasses of water from a decanter.
―Make yourself at home,‖ Catherine said with her back to him as she
checked the in-tray beside one of the transmitters on the desk in the
corner of the room. There were no messages.
―I will,‖ he said, gaze fixed at her neck as he drank.
―So what‘ve you found there?‖ she asked as she turned from the
desk with the radio sets. ―It‘s a file––a Wehrmacht file––on the
patrols, correct?‖
He nodded after draining his glass of water. She tensed. He‘d been
for nearly two days on a submarine because of them. She was scared
to know what they were about, scared to confirm her dreads.
―First of all,‖ he said, took out his Minox camera, and extracted its
tiny roll of film. ―We should get these pictures processed. Is that
possible here?‖
―Absolutely. One can find all eccentricities of our business in this
building,‖ she said and slipped the smallish spool into a pocket. ―I‘ll
be back in about two hours, all right?‖
She turned for the door. White couldn‘t help staring at the sway of
her hips as she walked. Pity we‘re too busy at the moment, he told
himself lustily.
She turned around at the doorway to look at him as if she‘d heard
his thoughts.
―Don‘t go away, Major,‖ she said. ―You‘ll find some bedrolls on the
shelves. Have some rest.‖
He nodded. ―Fine, thank you. I‘ll be here––waiting for you,‖ he said
with his most charming grin and winked at her.
And I promise I‟ll try and find a little time for you, darling.

**************
22
Rolf Baltzer lay in the enormous bed smoking a cigarette, head
resting on an expensive feather pillow. His eyes stared through the
darkness at the ceiling, seeing nothing. In his thoughts were only the
figures of his latest scheme.
Money, just a little more money in Mr. Fuchs‟ account.
He outstretched one arm and turned the beside-lamp on. The small
bulb cast a yellowish glare all over the room, making the lily-white
paleness of the naked woman beside him take a golden hue. What a
coincidence, he thought.
Gold, just a little more gold.

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She was still asleep, exhausted by their love making. Her long blond
hair was tied into a ponytail, which was the way she always kept it
when they slept together.
He sighed with pleasure. It‘d been a tremendous night, something in
which Maria never failed. He wished he could do it every other day.
Money, just a little less money.
The sounds from the outside reminded him it was time to go to
work. His watch read ten to eight.
―Shit!‖ he said in a low tone and climbed out of bed in his
underwear.
Their clothes were scattered across the floor. At the foot of the bed
were two empty bottles of wine and as many drinking glasses. He
crossed to the full-length mirror beside the mahogany wardrobe and
studied himself for a moment. His suntan remained impeccable. He
was a little bleary-eyed, though.
Maria stirred, moaned, and opened her eyes. ―So soon,‖ she
mumbled in a lazy protest.
―Gotta rush,‖ he said, looking lustily at her.
―But it‘s Sunday.‖
A sigh. ―Don‘t I know it?‖
―Come back to bed. Feel like doing it once more?‖ she said now
with her appealing mouth hanging partially open.
He grinned. ―Maybe on friday.‖
―You must be hungry. Got time for a breakfast?‖
―Sure, why not?‖ he said as he undressed. Then he stepped into the
bathroom and into the shower.
He stood there for long minutes, letting the hot water run all over his
body. The bathroom was half full of steam, hiding the cracks and
smudges under his feet in the large bathtub. Not that he‘d pay any
notice to them. Eyes closed, wallowing up to his chin in the
deliciously hot water, his thoughts were on Bruno Fuchs‘
account…and Fischer.
―You‘ll have a real nice cut in this thing, old man. No reasons to
complain,‖ he told himself.
>><<
Baltzer left the bedroom in his gray SS uniform, adjusting his watch
around his left wrist. He stepped into the kitchen and rubbed the dark
stubble on his chin; he‘d have to shave in the office.
―How do you like it?‖ she asked smilingly and nodded at the small
table. She‘d prepared a big breakfast: orange juice, scrambled eggs,
slices of bacon, toasts, milk, biscuits, and black coffee.

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―Your food smells better every day, my dear,‖ he said and sat at the
table.
For five minutes or so she watched him eat. She stood next to him,
hands on her hips as if waiting for extra compliments, which wouldn‘t
come. She was wearing a filmy black baby-doll, her nipples rigid as if
she were cold. Ignoring this fact, one could even risk that, from the
twinkle in her grayish eyes, her strongest personal dream should be
something like becoming a loving, dedicated housewife.
Baltzer checked his watch again and got up licking his lips. He took
out his wallet from a jacket pocket, extracted three bills, and dropped
them on the table.
―Here. You do deserve it.‖
―Thanks,‖ she said. ―Do drop by on Friday. I‘m not planning to
move out.‖
―Okay,‖ he said, still munching. He moved into the living room and
took his black leather coat from the hanger. Maria held the front door
open for him.
―See you on Friday, then,‖ he said and went out the door.
She blew him a kiss and closed the door.
Maria‘s place was in Prenzlauer Berg, a working-class district of
Berlin. It was a dull neighborhood; more so in the brittle sunshine.
Her street of small quaint houses stood out like a cut against a
background of five-story-high sooty tenements. Baltzer had been
coming here almost every week for the last year and was familiar with
the vicinities, which were quiet enough for his frequent visits to the
girl. Even more so on weekends.
It was a typical November morning in Berlin: very cold and damp.
Baltzer put on his coat, lit up, and turned in the direction of his ten-
year-old black Horch sitting in a parking slot thirty yards away.
The moment he reached into his coat for the car keys, a brown-
haired woman in a cheap dress and waistcoat crossed the street open-
armed and rushed toward him.
―Mister, help me,‖ she said, almost shouting.
Startled, he said, ―What‘s the problem?‖
―My baby boy‘s not breathing. Please, help me!‖
―Okay, where‘s he?‖
―He‘s in the stroller over there.‖ She pointed to it across the street.
He sighed. ―Let me see him.‖
She grabbed Baltzer by one sleeve and began to herd him toward the
stroller diagonally across the street. As he disengaged from her to

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check on the child, he didn‘t miss the opportunity to give a passing

touch on her prominent buttocks.
―I guess he‘s not breathing! Do something, please!‖ the woman
began crying afresh.
―I‘ll do what I can, okay? I‘m no kind of physician.‖ He bent low
and grabbed the baby. When he realized he was holding a doll, it was
too late.
A pair of tall, black-coated figures appeared from nowhere behind
him. A second later he felt the sting of the dart that had bitten his
neck.
―Ouch!‖ he cried and drew his gun instinctively. He swung around
in alarm, looking at the woman, who had the pipe for blowing darts in
her mouth. ―What the fu…‖ his voice petered out as his vision became
burred.
The two dark-clad men grabbed both his arms and dragged him to
the center of the street. He tried to react, but his limbs simply didn‘t
respond accordingly to the commands of his brain. He collapsed to the
wet asphalt and the two men knelt close to him.
A black Volvo limousine screeched around the corner, sped across,
and halted in front of them, blocking the scene from view to anyone in
the tenement windows. The passenger door opened and a balding man
in his mid-fifties climbed out. He knelt down close to Baltzer and
fished the key ring in his coat pocket.
―Take a good look at his apartment,‖ he said with a heavy smoker‘s
voice. ―Bring me his bank registers and any other stuff of the kind.‖
―You got it, sir,‖ one of the two walking wardrobes said. The older
man tossed him the keys.
Baltzer was heaved into the car by the other giant. He was
unconscious, saliva gathering in the corner of his mouth, eyes half
closed.
The balding man coughed, lifted the girl‘s hand to his lips, and
kissed it.
―You were perfect, Ursula––as always.‖
―Thank you, sir,‖ she said, and looked at the reactionless frame of
Baltzer sprawled on the car‘s back seat like one would look at a dead
cockroach. Then she snapped fingers and the man holding the keys
headed for Baltzer‘s car. A moment later the two vehicles drove off in
opposite directions.
Without a trace of stress on her face, Ursula wrapped the doll with
the blanket again, took the stroller by its bar and pushed it along the
cracked sidewalk with a lovely smile on her calm pretty face. Two

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middle-aged men in dungaree-like uniforms came out of the nearest

building. It was a pair of factory workers carrying lunch boxes, who
stopped chatting at the first sight of her. Both of them smiled at the
sleeping baby in the stroller and walked on, still complaining about
their wartime Sunday shifts.

**************
23
It took less than two hours for the twelve photos to be processed.
Normally, it‘d take double the time, but the technician in charge of the
job in the office of Naval Intelligence was pretty well familiarized
with field-espionage gear. On handing the envelope with the sheaf of
damp frames and the roll of negatives to Lieutenant Catherine Nowell
his curiosity boiled over.
―You think I could have a look at that camera?‖ the man said as the
stood by his desk in his stifling, chemical-smelling photo lab. ―And I
might as well like to ask Major White a few questions. This Minox
must be the best stuff in this size.‖
―Uh-hum,‖ Catherine answered dismissingly as she moved to the
center of the room and took a peek into the envelope under the light-
power electric bulb dangling from the ceiling.
―You mean I could speak to him now?‖
―Later, perhaps,‖ she said, still trying to read a full sentence in the
first print. ―We‘re a bit busy now, you see.‖ Keep talking, lad, please,
she thought, I can‘t wait to learn why mysterious Major Allan White
came down here in such a hurry.
―Come now, we‘re not going to lose the war because of a five-
minute chat,‖ the man said to her uncaring ears.
―I‘ll see what I can do,‖ she said absent-mindedly, her eyes scanning
the minuscule texts in search of anything readable.
The technician jerked his chin toward the envelope. ―Lettering‘s too
small and resolution‘s very poor because of the wrong angle of the
lighting during the shots. Not a chance without a magnifier.‖
―Indeed.‖ She still was absorbed in the photos, mouth slightly open,
lips almost pronouncing the German words she got to understand.
―I‘ve got one in the dark room,‖ he said, but she didn‘t answer.
―So?‖
―No, I‘m just…‖
The man crossed his arms in front of his chest, face alight with
mischief. ―This thing‘s classified, isn‘t it?‖ he said.

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Catherine closed the envelope in a swift movement. ―Of course it

is,‖ she cleared her throat and gave a wisp of a smile. ―I‘ll let you
know when Major White is free.‖
―Fine. I‘m looking forward to it.‖
―Thanks,‖ she said and went out of the room.
The Welshwoman went up the stairs with the grace of a cat, and
came to the corridor of the floor above. All the time she was under
denuding glances of the men whom she came across with. She was
one of very few women in the building, and her constant presence
here for the last months was the favorite subject in the internal gossip
machine; especially for she‘d never given a positive response to the
occasional flirtations. But everyone could bet who the only man who
interested her was.
As she reached for the knob of the door of the LRDG room, White
came around a corner accompanied by an officer. They shook hands,
exchanged a few words, and parted. Then the MI-6 man headed to
where she stood, greeted by a welcoming smile.
―Any troubles?‖ she asked.
―To tell the truth, I was trying to sort one out.‖
―Was it related to the files?‖
―More or less,‖ he said and shifted his gaze to the envelope in her
hands. ―The photos are ready?‖
―Yes,‖ she brandished the envelope. ―Shall we get started?‖
―Ladies first.‖
He pushed the door open for her, who entered and immediately went
to check the in-tray for messages. None. White got the door shut with
a flick of one heel, crossed to the paper-strewn table, and sat. He put
the pages Sarah had straightened out on it and slipped back his shirt
cuffs.
―Sweet memories,‖ he mumbled as he placed the photos across the
table. ―Would you get me paper and pencil?‖
―Certainly.‖ She produced both from a drawer and gave them to
him, who was bending over the maximized reproductions of the
German documents. From behind the buckle of his pants belt he shook
off a small magnifier.
―It‘s Abwehr stuff, isn‘t?‖ she said, standing behind him, after she
saw a distinct rubberstamp on the pages.
―Precisely,‖ he said, aiming the thick lens at the paper in his hand.
―And guess what their subject was?‖
―I haven‘t got the foggiest,‖ she said.
―SS personnel in Libya––possibly Intel officers.‖

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She had the immediate reaction of widening her eyes and then
frowning hard. She said, ―They‘re sending Waffen-SS divisions to
Africa, you think?‖
―Not probable. They‘re too busy in Russia. Besides, there‘s the time
factor: they wouldn‘t get here soon enough to engage in battle at
Tobruk. Rommel‘s still standing there, right?‖
―Yes. The rains delayed our push enough to give him time to dig in
there.‖
―Well, let‘s dismiss Hitler‘s Rottweilers, then.‖
―Agreed,‖ she sat on the edge of the table casually, and her both
knees popped into sight.
White turned his eyes from the photos for a couple of seconds,
glanced at her long pink legs, and returned his attention to the pictures
with a grin on his face. After about twenty-five minutes he‘d read all
visible writings in the frames. Next he spent another two minutes
taking notes in shorthand on the sheet of paper she‘d given him.
―Have a look at this,‖ he said and handed her one of the frames and
the magnifier. ―This is a list of names. Germans and Arabs.‖
She cocked a thin eyebrow at him. ―You could‘ve sent a cable from
Spain informing us about it.‖
―Yes, I really could. But I‘d be too far away to give a hand to a
couple of chaps. Want to read the whole stuff?‖
―I‘m afraid I‘ve got no clearances for fresh MI-6 findings.‖
―Are you joking?‖ he got up from his chair and handed her the small
magnifier. He said with a hint of malice, ―I‘m certain you already took
a peek in it––even without a magnifier.‖
She smiled and he said, ―As you‘re a decipher officer, you must read
German, correct?‖
She shrugged and said, ―If you insist, Major.‖ She placed the lens
between her left eye and the first frame and began reading.
―Take your time,‖ White said, admiring her long shapely legs.
―Let‘s put some twos and twos together.‖
After a minute, nothing came of different on her expression. Two
photos, a frown. Three more pictures on she held her breath. ―This
is…terrible!‖ she said, stunned.
There was a knock at the door and Latif entered.
―Good morning all,‖ the Egyptian said, looking with special interest
at White. ―You must be Major White, the Colonel‘s friend.‖ He
stepped across and they shook hands.
―Friend?‖ White said. ―The old Walrus used that word?‖
―I‘m Lieutenant Latif.‖

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―The pride of the Egyptian air force‘s flight school, I‘ve heard. Class
of ‘38, right?‖
―How come you know of such details, Major?‖ The Arab said in
glad surprise.
―Say I‘m into reading and memorizing memos––even our own.‖
There was another tap at the door and the officer to whom White
had been talking minutes ago came in.
―We‘ve got it, Major White,‖ the man said after snapping a salute.
―It‘ll be possible to contact the cell any time you want.‖
―What cell?‖ Catherine said.
―Thank you, Petty Officer,‖ White said and the man withdrew. Then
he added,―The Haganah cell in Casablanca. The contact who led us to
these documents.‖
―Is it really necessary, sir?‖ Latif said with a puckered brow.
―Your colleague here can answer you about that,‖ said White,
swiveling his head toward Catherine.
She took a deep breath before starting. ―It was SS Intelligence that
got the militia out of prison––and armed them. There‘s a company of
Panzer Grenadiers receiving orders from a Colonel Fischer
somewhere in Libya. Best of all, some men connected to Heusseini‘s
gang are involved in it, too.‖
―Oh shit!‖ the Egyptian mumbled. ―Do you suspect what they‘re up
to?‖
Catherine nodded somberly and said, ―They‘re apparently mounting
an operation to…um…prevent attacks from British commandos. Their
collaborators here in Egypt have been collecting data on the
equipments, personnel, and latest moves of the LRDG patrols.‖
―And when men in uniforms want to know where others in different
uniforms are…‖ White petered out. ―In short, it won‘t be so hard for
Dalton to find the militia; he‘ll bump into them at any second.‖
―What can we do now?‖ Latif said, face wrinkled in anguish.
Catherine said, ―You‘ve just flown in from Siwa with Colonel
Cameron, haven‘t you?‖
―Yes, he‘s at the airfield speaking to the crews of the bombers
waiting for the coordinates from Captain Dalton.‖
―Bloody waste of time,‖ White said.
Catherine said in near panic: ―So you go fetch him here
immediately. The patrol may be in grave danger.‖

**************
24

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 Season of Revenge

Sarah Gavrir and Moshe Cohen sat at the table in one corner of the
drawing room as Uri Klein drew the drapes over the high balconied
windows to keep any curious eyes from seeing them. On top of the
table was a candlestick phone with nickel plated bells, a model from
the late twenties they‘d inherited with the antique furniture when the
villa had been bought by Cohen the year before with Haganah funds.
For the main purpose their phone line had, the set should have been
placed in one of the bedrooms or in the study; but they had to keep
every resemblance to a harmlessly normal family home. According to
their new identities they were from Beirut, and ran the business of the
family‘s company‘s branch in Casablanca. Uri hated the idea of
playing Sarah‘s brother.
Cohen looked around the room to make sure Klein had drawn all the
drapes properly, and reached for the phone. ―Now let‘s see if the
English really meant what they proposed to us.‖
―I frankly doubt it,‖ said Klein as he sunk into the couch across the
room from the table. He‘d just arrived from town after one of his
secret meetings.
Sarah let out a lungful of air through her nostrils in a sign of
irritation at him. Her traveling bag lay in the couch beside Klein. She
frowned at him as he began fumbling in it.
She said, ―What are you doing, Uri?‖
―Just curious about the things he gave you.‖
―If you want to see the gun, it‘s with Amos now, okay?‖
Klein ignored her and took out a bundled jacket––White‘s jacket––
and unfolded it carelessly.
―Leave it there, will you?‖ she said aloud, turning in her chair.
―How romantic this gift? Got anything else from him––maybe his
socks?‖
Sarah‘s expression shifted from anger into irony. ―If we‘d had some
more time, I can bet he‘d have given me a present, indeed. Differently
from some guys I know, he didn‘t seem to be the cheap type.‖
Now it was Klein who was fuming. ―You were full of ideas, weren‘t
you?‖
―Shut up, Uri,‖ she said.
―I‘m beginning to think you were desperate to make friends with
that Englishman. What else did you show him besides the Gestapo
office, huh? Your body?‖
―How do you dare––‖
―Be quiet, both of you,‖ Cohen roared, ―This is not your kibbutz and
you‘re not seventeen anymore. Stop it.‖

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―Sorry, sir,‖ Klein said, shoving the jacket back into the bag.
Cohen had called operator and asked for a call to the Turkish
commercial attaché, Roger Laurent.
Posted to Casablanca after the outbreak of the war, Laurent ran a
secret communications network that connected a half dozen other
commercial organizations in neutral countries in Africa and the
Middle East. Operating under the auspices of the U.S. Office of
Strategic Services they relayed messages to each other by both
telegraph for long-distances and phoned messages for short within the
countries. This way Laurent could reach the Haganah‘s listening post
in Telaviv through a contact in Istanbul without leaving a trace. The
message would be sent in a code, relayed among at least five different
people, and decoded only by the American Commercial attaché to
Turkey, who would deliver the message to its destination with a delay
of something between thirty and ninety minutes. Trickier than putting
this scheme to work had been for the U.S. Government to convince
the Turk authorities to hire Laurent––originally an American vice
consul to Morocco––as a commercial attaché.
The phone rang. Cohen snatched the receiver and answered in
French, ―Yes, thank you, madam.‖ He‘d spoken to the operator. He
cleared his throat, and after a while Roger Laurent was on the other
end of the wire.
―Good evening, Mr. Laurent,‖ he said in French again. ―How have
you been, sir? Good. Fine, thank you. Well, I believe one of my
suppliers in Istanbul may be trying to reach me in order to inform me
about some prices and forms of payment. And I wondered whether
you could give him this information more accurately. Would you do
that? Oh, that‘s excellent, sir.‖
He snapped his fingers and Sarah pushed a notepad across the table
with the coded message written on it in dark ink.
―It‘d be much helpful if you asked him about the sending of copies
of the sales forms to our head office. This supplier of ours has sold us
an amount of 713,412.58 Swiss Francs in raw materials, and is
supposed to get a payment in advance of 295,943.12. Yes, thank you
again, sir. Good day.‖ He slammed down the phone.
Cohen puffed out his cheeks as the coded message whirled in his
brain. ‗Copies of the sales forms to our head office‘ meant he was
demanding the transcription of the documents in the photographs sent
to the Haganah‘s listening post in Telaviv. The numbers meant the
destination of the message: Naval Intelligence in Alexandria/Allan
White. Cohen had decided not to wait for the sending of the copies to

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the Haganah contact in Spain. He just wished the MI-6 understood he

was doing this out of fear of having the Gestapo knocking on his door
at any moment.
―He‘ll stick to his end of the deal, sir,‖ Sarah said reassuringly.
―The problem is his superiors, my dear, not him.‖
―You don‘t know what you‘re talking about, Sarah, that‘s the
problem,‖ Klein said with a trace of sloth in his voice. ―If they should
answer––which‘s very unlikely––it‘ll take hours.‖
Sarah said, ―So why don‘t you go to do something to occupy this
silly mind of yours, huh?‖
Klein got up from the couch. ―Well, well, well. I‘ll be taking a nap
in my bedroom if you don‘t mind.‖
―We definitely don‘t,‖ Sarah said.
Klein walked away and disappeared into the pillared depths of the
house.
Cohen noticed Sarah was shaking his head. ―What happened
between you two? Is there anything I‘ve never been told?‖
―Absolutely not, sir. We once flirted with each other, and now he
thinks he owns me. He just didn‘t grow up, I guess.‖
―You never promised him anything, did you?‖
―No. Nothing serious ever happened between us. He must be going
crazy, that‘s what.‖
Now it was Cohen‘s turn to shake his head disapprovingly. ―You
kids are so strange nowadays; remind me of my own back home.‖

**************
25
Joachim Weber stepped out of the toilette with a worried look, his
brow moist with sweat. The infection in his bladder hadn‘t been
dwelled by the plenty of medicine he‘d taken.
―Damn, it can‘t be happening,‖ he said quietly in mounting despair,
crossed to the nearest window, and tugged it open. The view of the
bucolic village of Erkner on the eastern edge of Berlin took a minute
to soothe him down. Gusts of cold breeze took twice as many to dry
up his face.
As he patted his thinning gray hair into place, he saw, a hundred
yards away, a group of schoolboys playing soccer. They were no more
than twelve years old. Either team had a colored uniform, but the
colors barely could be seen under the layer of mud. Competition
wasn‘t exactly what they were after. They shrieked, poked one
another in the ribs, and mocked one another while chasing the ball

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 Season of Revenge

across the mucky pitch. They looked so innocent, unaware of the

madness that surrounded them, he thought. Just the way kids are
supposed to be.
Off to one side of the pitch, a column of black-clad kids the same
age wound their way out of the woods along a trekking path. They
carried banners and played drums and chanted an anthem with
extreme discipline. Hitler‘s Youth. Weber shook his head in sad
disapproval. He‘d shared cold, muddy trenches with their fathers and
grandfathers once, but wouldn‘t share a table in a bar with them
nowadays.
Two nations, one people...or vice-versa. Just the way things weren‟t
supposed to be.
There was a knock at the door and a man with a fleshy face opened
it. ―General?‖
―Yes, come in, Captain.‖
―Baltzer is awakening, sir.‖
The older man puffed a sigh and closed the window. ―Fine, it‘s
going to be fun. I do need something to make me laugh.‖
―Sir?‖
―Nothing, let‘s go.‖
They moved to the end of a hall with peeling wallpapers and went
down a creaking staircase to the basement. There was a wall dividing
it in two, a rough affair of red bricks and spilling cement. A single
bulb shone in the ceiling of one of the halves of the basement, which
was enough to show the tassels of cobwebs in the corners. There was
a door set in the brick wall. A man in shirtsleeves stood by it, holding
a manila folder. He snapped a salute at the sight of Weber.
―What‘ve you found in his apartment?‖ Weber asked and reached
for the folder.
―It‘s a lot worse than we‘d imagined, General. We still don‘t know
whether his fingerprints match, but he had on him the same cigarette
brand found in Tripoli.‖
The general shook his head with distaste as he read through the
papers in the folder. He grunted and closed it.
He said, ―Right. Let‘s squeeze him a little.‖
>><<
Baltzer squinted at the glare of the spot lamp and tried to lift his
right hand to shade his eyes. He found out he couldn‘t. Both his wrists
were cuffed to the iron chair where he sat on, which was bolted to the
concrete floor. He turned his head to one side, and all he was able to
see along with the light that hurt his eyes was the table to his left. Laid

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 Season of Revenge

on it were his Walther 9mm, its clip––without the shells––his wallet,

pack of cigarettes, and lighter. Also there were the pictures of two
men in Wehrmacht uniforms; but he didn‘t know them.
He was still dizzy. Nevertheless his heart was pounding with
expectation––and fear. This had been done so many times to other
people and witnessed by himself with disgust. Now it was his turn on
the chair in a damp, musty dark room. Would anyone be disgusted this
time? he wondered.
―Who the hell are you?‖ Baltzer roared, trying to break free of the
cuffs. ―Let me go!‖
―Chill out,‖ a machine-like voice echoed from the darkness beyond
the spotlight. It was Weber‘s fleshy-faced assistant speaking into the
revolving blades of a fan. The primitive trick would get his voice
unrecognizable. Or so he expected.
All kinds of thoughts boiled inside Baltzer. ―What the fuck do you
want? If you‘re going kill me, then show me your faces, okay? And
turn this damn lamp off!‖ he heaved in the chair hoping it would fall
apart. But it wouldn‘t.
―You‘ll be here until we‘re satisfied,‖ the robotic voice added.
Baltzer paid extreme attention on the man‘s words. He could tell by
his voice he was a Berliner. Were any of his workmates playing a
trick on him? he thought.
―And if I disappoint you by not telling shit?‖
The voice hesitated. ―Then it‘ll be like what you‘re used to doing
with the ones you interrogate, buddy.‖
―Woo,‖ he sighed in relief. ―I suddenly like your voice, man, despite
that fucking fan. At least you‘re not commies nor Brits––nor
Haganah.‖
―You‘re indeed very lucky we‘re not like you SS pigs,‖ the metallic
voice said.
―Enough of this crap,‖ Baltzer said, cooler now. ―Cut to the chase,
will you? I want to go home.‖
―Good,‖ the machine-like voice said sarcastically. ―There are two
pictures on the desk. You recognize them?‖
Baltzer took a good look at them. They showed two corpulent men
of about thirty in the uniform of the German army. ―Never seen
them,‖ he said.
―They were in Tripoli a few days ago. So were you.‖
―So what?‖
A fist slammed on a tabletop in the dark. ―We think that you killed
them!‖

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Baltzer gasped. ―Are you nuts? Why in the hell would I kill those
guys?‖
―Because they were investigating the weaponry you‘ve shunted to
the Arab militia. The vehicles, the radios, the uniforms, the fuel––
everything!‖ There was a long pause, and then the voice said, ―Your
bosses‘ sudden burst of friendship with the Mufti of Jerusalem has got
something to do with it, hasn‘t it? What are you setting up?‖
Shit! Baltzer told himself, they‘ve already found out! He thought for
a moment before replying. ―It‘s a classified operation,‖ he produced a
sarcastic grin and said, ―You know the story: if I tell what it is, I‘ll
have to kill you.‖
―You think you‘re funny, don‘t you?‖ the metallic voice said. ―But
you‘re not. You‘re a corrupt son of a bitch who dreams of being a
gun-runner or something. Almost a hundred submachine guns and
almost two tons of ammo and gasoline; lots of mines; lots of
motorcycles and sidecars––‖
―The mission required all that stuff. We‘re at war, remember?‖
―We‘ve got proof that you killed them. Maybe not you––but some
hitman from your pigsty.‖
―Impossible!‖
―I mean it!‖
―When were they killed?‖
―Last Friday night.‖
―I was in Rome, asshole.‖
―We‘ll find out when we get the fingerprints you left in the…crime
scene.‖
―Look, Sherlock Holmes, I know what you want. But I won‘t tell a
thing. If you want to get briefed about this op, go pay a visit to
General Kaltenbrunner. I just doubt he‘ll talk to you.‖
―So this thing was orchestrated by Kaltenbrunner?‖ the machine-like
voice said.
Baltzer roared in anger. ―Take these damn cuffs off me. Now!
You‘ll never extract a thing from me.‖
The voice said, ―Relax. There‘s a lot more we want you to clarify.‖
Baltzer‘s mental files of audios from eavesdropping operations
matched the man‘s voice. ―Go fuck yourself, you fifth-column fat
bastard! Yes! I know it‘s you, Lieutenant Lenk. Oh…sorry, you‘re a
captain now.‖
The men in the dark gasped in surprise.
―The great Abwehr!‖ Baltzer said. ―The cowards who opened our
legs for the Allies in ‘18. The betrayers, the Jew lovers!‖

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Lenk sprang up. ―Who the hell do you think you‘re talking to?‖ He
was fury itself. No one could see it, but his face turned crimson and
his first gnarled. ―I‘ll show you who the coward here is, you prick.‖
Weber grabbed his subordinate by the lapels of his jacket. ―Go take
some fresh air outside,‖ he murmured into the captain‘s ear.
Weber sat in front of the fan as Lenk left the room. He swallowed to
moist his gullet before start speaking, and suddenly couldn‘t control
his itching, nicotine-stricken throat. He couldn‘t help let out his old
vicious cough.
I know that freaking cough, Baltzer thought, I don‘t believe he‘s
taking part in this shit!
―So,‖ Weber said into the fan blades and coughed again. ―You‘re
willing to say nothing concerning this task in which you‘ve involved
an army elite unit and supplies that should be in the hands of our
troops in the front.‖
―Correct, General Webber,‖ Baltzer said, smiling broadly.
The Chief of the Foreign Branch of the Abwehr was so shocked he
couldn‘t breathe.
Baltzer said, ―Are you coming over here yourself to beat me up or
are you sending one of your men if I refuse talking?‖
Weber coughed uncontrollably for several seconds and turned off
the fan. He looked at the two men standing behind him in the dark and
said softly, ―You can leave now.‖
―But, sir…,‖ one of them insisted.
―Off you go. The show is over,‖ said the general. ―The keys. Give
them to me.‖ He was given the cuff keys by one of the men, who
turned to leave.
When he was alone with Baltzer, Weber turned on the ceiling light
revealing a derelict cellar. Against the walls were empty wooden
shelves that once had boasted an expensive collection of wines and
champagne bottles.
―So you guys have been wire-tapping us and recording our voices,
huh? How come I‘m not surprised?‖
―Small world, isn‘t it?‖ Baltzer said.
―By the way, we may be cowards,‖ Weber said as he moved toward
the spotlight, a manila folder in his hand. ―We may even be Jew
lovers,‖ he added and lit a cigarette with his free hand. ―But we‘re not
thieves.‖
―How‘s that?‖ Baltzer said with the innocent look he so much
practiced.
Weber turned the spotlight off. ―You heard me.‖

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―Is that fucking hooker involved in this farce?‖

―No, your friend Maria is clean,‖ Weber said as he keyed the
handcuffs open. ―As long you don‘t mind she also services other
workmates of yours and half the businessmen in town.‖
―She does?‖ Baltzer said while massaging his wrists. ―Good to know
someone‘s bread-winning is going well these days.‖
―I understand you‘re protecting your superiors and sticking to the
secrecy of this operation in Libya. But…what will protect you from
Kaltenbrunner?‖
―Again I don‘t get you,‖ Baltzer said innocently.
Weber dropped the manila folder on the table, and opened it
revealing bank deposit receipts, account passbooks, and certificates of
possession. Baltzer‘s money in the name of one Bruno Fuchs.
Weber said, ―This last deposit made in the Banco di Roma is simply
impressive––it was converted into Swiss Francs from four kilos of
twenty-karat gold!‖
The SS man swallowed hard. Staring at the small pile of papers, he
turned as white as a sheet. He‘d been caught.
―I‘m afraid you‘re one of the biggest threats to our country‘s
treasure, Baltzer.‖ Weber chose not to call him Major. He decided he
didn‘t deserve the rank. ―You‘ve defrauded the fatherland of money
enough to mount an infantry division. Kids of seventeen and eighteen
will somehow end up getting killed because of your ripping off of
state funds.‖
―You‘re trying to confuse me, General,‖ Baltzer said. He could
swear there was a tape recorder on. ―One can tell not even yourself
believe I‘ve really stolen any state funds.‖
―Forget about me, all right. Worry about your bosses‘ reaction when
they discover you steal government moneys as if you were one of
them. And your lousy car and humble apartment won‘t make them
think otherwise; they only helped your chiefs not to suspect you, as
you planned wisely enough.‖
―These funds are for running all kinds of ops abroad,‖ Baltzer said
temptatively, but his expression betrayed him. He lit a cigarette and
Weber noticed his hand trembled slightly. ―I‘m not dirty at all,
General.‖
―Cut the crap, man,‖ Weber said. ―I‘m not recording this thing to
use against you.‖ He chuckled and sat on a corner of the desk. ―This is
when I appreciate the fact that we seem to work for different
governments,‖ the older man said. ―I just thought you might know
jokes on thieves that steal other thieves.‖

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―I beg your pardon?‖

―The contingency funds. All that foreign cash, gold, and diamonds
the top-echelons of the Party are saving to start a new life abroad if we
lose the war.‖
―We‘re not losing the war,‖ Baltzer said almost convincingly. ―Our
men will cut the Reds‘ lifeline at Stalingrad and the rest will be a
piece of cake. Trust me.‖
―How interesting you mentioned Russia. Well…do you remember
one Joseph Klempt, cordinator of a certain subsection in the RHSA?
And one Karl Briegel…he used to be an Intel officer, just like you,
didn‘t he?‖
―Briegel died in a plane crash in Bulgaria,‖ Baltzer said. ―I heard
something about it in the office.‖
―Really? So why was he buried near Stalingrad?‖
Baltzer was silent. He suddenly knew what the old man was trying
to say.
―Here,‖ Weber said and took a pair of cutouts of obituary lists from
a pants pocket. He handed it to Baltzer, who immediately skipped to
the underlined names.

JOSHEP KLEMPT, CAPTAIN: KILLED IN ACTION NEAR

LENINGRAD ON MAY 11TH 1942.
KARL BRIEGEL, MAJOR: KILLED IN ACTION ON THE PUSH
TOWARD STALINGRAD ON SEPTEMBER 27TH 1942.

Baltzer checked the obituaries. They seemed authentic though they

were yellowed. He said, ―What‘s all this about? Why are you showing
these things to me?‖
―That‘s what they do with parasites like you, Klempt, Briegel and
maybe a few others. And they don‘t pension them off, if you know
what I mean.‖
―No, I don‘t.‖
―You‘re laying hands on what belongs to the big fish, man. And
they can‘t afford small fish steeling too. It‘d lack money for them.‖
―You don‘t make sense. You can well stop bullshiting me.‖
Weber chuckled. ―You do surprise me, Baltzer. I thought the
presence of an overzealous accountant like your traveling-friend Otto
Stenzel would steer you from…uh… appropriation of public
resources.‖
―You guys are incapable of running an interrogation. How could you
possibly know anything deep in the RSHA‖, he scoffed.

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―But it‘s not so deep––unless you mean graves.‖

Baltzer smiled. ―Cut it off, will you.‖ Perspiration broke out on
Baltzer‘s forehead. ―Plain talk now, all right?‖
―Is Fischer in your scheme?‖
―Does it make any difference?‖
―You really didn‘t know your bosses were thieves like you?‖
Baltzer swallowed hard. ―No.‖
―I‘ll try hard to believe you.‖
Baltzer sighed. ―You won‘t kill me, nor tell on me. You want a part
of the money, is it?‖
―I don‘t want a dime from you.‖
―Of course you do.‖
―No, I don‘t. Seriously,‖ Weber looked at the obituary cutouts, made
a face and nodded to himself. ―I was thinking of praying for you. It‘s
what I do for all men going east.‖
―Should I take that as a threat?‖
―No, it‘s only prediction.‖
Going to the frontline! Me? No! I can‟t be sent to Stalingrad or
Leningrad… or nowhere else in fucking Russia. They mustn‟t find out
what I‟ve done. What can I do now to cover my ass? Nothing! I got
caught!
―Our conversation is over,‖ Weber said. ―My men will take you
back to the city center.‖
―Christ! I can bet you‘re telling on me before I get back to my
office.‖
―But I‘m not. Trust me.‖
―Why? I know you want to see me fry.‖
―That‘s correct. But I‘m leaving it to Kaltenbrunner. He‘ll find out
any moment by himself about your transforming and hiding funds. It‘s
between you and him now.‖ He paused and said, ―You must be either
crazy or something like a kleptomaniac by cashing all that gold even
before the job‘s over.‖
―Damn!‖ Baltzer hated to sense Weber was right.
―If you ever feel like talking, this is how you can reach me,‖ Weber
handed him a slip of paper with a phone number.
Baltzer didn‘t look at it, but shoved it automatically into a pocket.
Welcome to your worst nightmare, a voice said in his mind.
Kaltenbrunner was the most terrible threat to his very existence now.
No, it‟s Fischer. Goddamn Fischer! He won‟t agree with the
stealing of the gold bars. And this bastard Weber will sooner or later
let everyone know about my stealing. Both will eventually tell on me!

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As the general stepped out of the room, Baltzer swiveled his eyes to
the empty automatic on the desk in front of him; his own gun. In a fit
of desperation, he felt as if he could shot Weber and then himself
dead. But he didn‘t stir a muscle to do it. He just sat there, stunned,
looking at the gun as the vein on his forehead grew purple. Only then
he remembered the gun had no rounds in its clip.
So Kaltenbrunner and the rest of the cream of the cream are
stealing, too, huh? And ready to leave the ship––like rats! Well, I‟m a
rat, too, am I not?

**************
26
The pair of young men in the communications room at the office of
Naval Intelligence followed every move White made during his first
minutes there. The black headsets on their close-cropped heads made
them resemble man-like insects, their pop-eyed expressions giving the
final touch. Despite their funny looks, it was a moment of extreme
professional achievement. There it was, in flesh and bones, the
mysterious type of people who fed them with findings or used the data
put together by them on their jobs: the field agent.
To their profound disappointment, the message from the American
commercial attaché in Istanbul, which so much had interested the spy,
had meant nothing to them. Exactly as it was supposed to be.
―At what time did it come through?‖ White asked the one who‘d
summoned him there.
―Around forty minutes ago, sir.‖
―Forty minutes!‖ White was surprised.
―I‘m sorry, sir. The lads on the previous shift simply left it hanging
on the blackboard. I‘m afraid they forgot checking your presence in
the premises.‖
―Lazy bastards,‖ the other man said quietly.
White stifled a curse and began deciphering the message. He
wondered whether it‘d been Sarah herself who‘d encoded it. Hell! he
said to himself. Concentrate on the work to do, man! Still he couldn‘t
help imagining the sweet Sarah Gavrir speaking the coded words into
the telephone‘s mouthpiece, her soft lips missing it by a few
millimeters. He grinned at the idea taking shape in his head.
―Very Well,‖ he whispered.
―Sir?‖
―This message was signed by its sender, correct?‖

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 Season of Revenge

―By the station where it was originated; not with a personal

codename, though. It was relayed by a number of posts; sort of works
like dead-drop messages.‖
―So you know the way back. Can we reach the sender from here?‖
―You mean the original sender?‖
―Naturally.‖
―Yes, it‘s no big deal. As long as you know the code numbers for
the destination.‖
White said, ―So let‘s get to work, lads.‖
He took a seat at the nearest desk and snatched a blank page from a
notepad that lay on top of it. He started to scribble on it with a stub
pencil that also was there. The cipher code was imprinted in his mind.
One of the sailors, with the name Pearson on a tag sewn to his short-
sleeved khaki shirt, rose and stood by the desk as the MI-sixer took
his notes.
White said, ―I do approve this system the OSS designed for the so-
called vice consuls they planted in Africa. Not that it‘s perfect, but it‘s
so simple and effective.‖
―I agree,‖ Pearson said. ―We‘ve used it a few times to get to know
about German subs sailing off Morocco‘s ––‖ he noticed his
workmate was mouthing a ‗be quiet, idiot‘ to him.
―There,‖ White said, handing him the message on a sheet of paper.
―Let‘s see what gives.‖
Pearson tapped the message to the U.S. embassy in Istanbul as
White stood behind him.
―Done, sir.‖ Pearson said when he was finished.
―Good,‖ White said and sighed. ―Now we sit and wait.‖
―So you‘ve demanded an answer, sir?‖
―Yes.‖
―It must take about an hour, sir,‖ Pearson said. ―Would you like me
to ring you at the LRDG room after it‘s come through?‖
―No, I‘ll stay here. Hardly can wait for it.‖
White placed both his feet on the desk. He concluded he‘d soon
have to ask these men to keep this thing under wraps; his controller in
Spain or London might cut his wings on suspecting his intentions.
Time to become friends, he thought, friends in secrets.
White feigned a yawn and said, ―Don‘t you lads get bored
sometimes?‖
―Very much indeed, sir,‖ one of the clerks said, the other nodding
agreement.

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―Well…I suppose you can keep a little secret, can‘t you?‖ White
said with a half smile.
The young men nodded very slowly at the debonair agent.
―Good. Now, if you‘d get me a cup of tea, I could tell you a couple
of really interesting stories from the field. What do you say?‖

**************
27
The loud ringing of the candlestick telephone made Sarah spring
into action. She‘d been dozing at the drawing room table, her chin
resting on her palm, and for a split second she could swear someone
had screamed her name. But it was only the phone bells.
Moshe Cohen sat beside her, eyes bulging, face reddening. ―Get
yourself ready,‖ he said.
―Oui?‖ Cohen spoke into the receiver. ―Salut! Ça va?‖
After a while he began covering the mouthpiece with his palm and
repeating in Hebrew a stream of prices and naming imaginary
commodities. These were in fact the contents of the encoded message.
It‘d be easier if she spoke French fluently, but she simply wouldn‘t try
to learn it properly––despite their being in a French colony, Cohen
thought in disbelief.
Sarah wrote them down as fast as they were recited in Hebrew,
trying not to make a mental translation, for fear she‘d make a mistake.
The moment Cohen replaced the receiver, Klein came from the
interior of the house in a stride, buttoning his short-sleeved yellow
shirt.
He said, ―An answer from Alexandria?‖
―Yes,‖ Cohen said, grinning sarcastically at him. ―And I believe
somebody here deserves some apologies.‖
―Never mind,‖ said Sarah, writing letters below the lines of
numbers.
Both men stood at her side, trying to peek over her shoulders, but
her cascading black hair blocked the paper from view.
―Come on, Sarah, come on,‖ Klein said.
―Take your time, my dear,‖ the older man mumbled as he took in the
first lines she‘d deciphered.
When she was done, it was hard to tell whether she was
disappointed, shocked, or still interpreting some parts of the message.
Cohen snatched the paper from her hands and read it out.

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 Season of Revenge

Abwehr files, not Gestapo. THOSE MEN WERE Johan Shiel AND
Kurt Dopfner. Insignificant data on mufti or nephew. Will send copy
soon.

The rest of the message Cohen spoke with a totally different tone.

You fine? From ‗A‘ to ‗S‘.

―Is that it?‖ Klein said. ―The filthy limey spook said exactly nothing
at all!‖
―Maybe there was nothing in the papers,‖ Sarah said in his defense.
―Maybe the two of you were playing Romeo and Juliet in Tripoli,‖
Klein said. ―And now he thinks he has the right to dick us around.‖
―Shut up, Uri. You‘re talking stupid,‖ Sarah retorted.
―I know who the idiot here is, and it‘s not me.‖
―Now you two stop it,‖ Cohen said, placing a wrinkled hand on
Sarah‘s shoulder. ―We gave them one chance, and it resulted in no
useful information. But you well know the people who finance our
comfort here need warnings as to any threats from the Mufti‘s gang.
Heusseini‘s men were mentioned in the papers, that‘s a fact. So we‘ve
got to go deeper in it using what we have in hand.‖
―I‘ll try to recall something else I saw in the documents,‖ Sarah said,
rubbing her face.
Cohen massaged his prickly jaw. ―You gave me very little
information; so did the Englishman,‖ he said. ―Now be honest, Sarah.
You get to read a full sentence in those papers?‖
Sarah closed her eyes, and shook her head.
„From A to S. You fine?‟ You should‟ve sent me something to release
the pressure on me, instead, Allan. What the hell am I supposed to do
now?
Klein chuckled at Sarah‘s anguished face. ―You fool. He wanted
you––us––to learn nothing. His next message to us will be simple like
this: fuck off.‖
―You‘re not helping, Uri,‖ Sarah said for a lack of better words.
Klein lit a cigarette and turned to Cohen. ―This morning I bumped
into people who are able to supply us with good information. One of
them came down to Casablanca to, apparently, help people make their
way to America. It was a rumor running around town, you know, so I
went to check it out. When this woman heard we‘d discovered
Gestapo officers setting up something in Tripoli, she got tremendously
interested.‖

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Sarah said, ―They might be disappointed when they learn they were
only Wehrmacht Intel.‖
―Maybe yes, maybe not.‖
―Who are these people?‖ Cohen said.
Klein said, ―I‘ll bet a talk with them is at least as worth as those files
in Libya.‖
―I guess Moshe asked who they are, not your opinion about them,‖
Sarah said.
Klein said, ―They‘re the ones who often get information on the
Reich from its source.‖
―I think you‘re full of shit,‖ Sarah said, and got up to walk away.
―Come on, Uri,‖ Cohen urged. ―Cut your riddles, okay?‖
―They‘re Germans––deserters of the Foreign Corps,‖ said Klein
bombastically.
―Oh Lord,‖ Sarah said, jaw dropping.
Cohen said, ―Members of the German Resistance?‖
―Exactly. This woman Julia had a contact who worked for the
Reichminister of Armaments and War Production. She got caught
passing information to the Reds and managed to get here via
Marseilles. After a whole year sending data to the Sovs, she‘s become
a priceless source of Intel to the Allies.‖
―Well…how could they help us?‖ Cohen said.
―I don‘t know yet,‖ Klein said. ―But we‘re going to have a little chat
with them this afternoon and find out.‖

**************
28
The embroidered table cloth spread across the floor of the room that
served as Matouk‘s dormitory was heaped with dishes of food. In its
center were platters with olives, baby-lamb chops, pita bread, and
hummus. Around it were bowls with yogurt, grapes, and dates. There
was a tureen with rice, plates with slices of tomatoes and cucumber
salad. Also were two steaming kettles, one with tea the other with
coffee, their tantalizing fragrances mixing up in the air along with the
lines of incense twirling to the ceiling. Kodro‘s stomach rumbled as
he stared in disbelief at the banquet.
Matouk came into the room holding a long-necked jug of water.
―Would you like some of it, Lieutenant?‖
―No, thank you, sir,‖ Kodro said. ―What is all this for?‖
―I‘m going to receive a visitor. A long-term friend, actually.‖

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Kodro sighed. ―You know that‘s not something our superiors would
agree to.‖
―Why not?‖ Matouk knelt down and smelled the vapor from the
lamb chops. ―This man is of my entire confidence.‖
―We‘re in the middle of a secret operation, General.‖
―There are no secrets about our presence in this town, if that‘s what
you mean.‖
―Fine. But no one who‘s not related to us must be allowed into this
building, sir.‖
―So we don‘t have a problem there. This man is above all that, you
see. Using your choice of words, I‘d say we are related to him.‖
―Do I know him?‖
―You must‘ve heard of him from the Mufti: he was the manager of
his religious funds.‖
Kodro was slightly surprised. He thought hard and said, ―Rafic
Thamer.‖
Matouk nodded. ―Exactly, brother. I‘m relieved you know him.‖
―Well, not exactly,‖ Kodro wiped sweat off his forehead with his
sleeves. ―Is Mr. Thamer coming down to give us any advice or
information?‖
Matouk placed one hand on the European‘s shoulder. ―Relax,
brother,‖ he said and realized the word brother took its effect on
Kodro‘s expression. ―He and I will discuss things rather more
important than our task itself. In fact, if we don‘t make some
arrangements today, everything we‘ve been doing will be in vain.‖
―I understand, sir.‖
―Most importantly, you must trust me. Trust me as a true Muslim.
Should I do the same about yourself?‖
Kodro didn‘t hesitate. ―Absolutely, sir.‖
Matouk smiled at him. ―Wonderful, brother. May God bless your
every step. I‘ll be meeting you for the prayers later this afternoon,
then. I suppose a mere couple of hours will suffice with brother
Rafic.‖
―Yes, good luck, sir,‖ Kodro said and withdrew.
Matouk stood there motionless, savoring his small victory. He can
still be saved, he thought. God in all His wisdom has kept even the
most distant groups of Mohammedans regarding government and
politics as a mere extension of Islam.
>><<
It was half past one in the afternoon. Matouk was fanning himself as
he paced around the banquet laid on the floor, eyes paying very little

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attention to the roaches roaming the room. He eventually placed a

silken bedsheet (acquired from the local smuggler for his own use)
over the containers to keep at least the cloud of flies off the food. The
temperature had soared to its peak; and that summed up to his
eagerness made him sweat profusely.
The man he‘d chosen to play usher opened the door and announced
the guest. The general nodded in silence and the militiaman held the
door into Matouk‘s private room open for him.
―Salaam, brother Hassan,‖ Rafic Thamer said as he bowed, the
clicking of his false teeth nearly as loud as his voice. He was a
medium-height, round-bellied man in his mid fifties, hair, eyebrows
and goatee colored in an intense tone of black. He wore a robe of fine
beige-colored silk, gleaming Italian shoes, and an eye-catching Rolex
watch.
―May peace be with you, too, brother,‖ Matouk said as he stepped
over. They embraced in the familiar Arab manner and praised God‘s
name for a whole minute. Matouk felt an inch in his nostrils with the
smell of lavender all over the man‘s neck.
―It‘s been a while, hasn‘t it?‖ Thamer said, trying to avert his gaze
from Matouk‘s roughly-sewn left eyelids. ―I wish I could‘ve helped
you when Mussolini decided wrongly to arrest you, my friend.‖
―I knew you wouldn‘t ever forget about me, brother.‖
―My apologies for I‘ve failed.‖
―Let‘s forget about it.‖
Thamer crossed to the open window, which had a privileged view of
El-Agheila. ―This town became an enclave of displaced people,‖
Thamer said. ―You must be very cautious, my friend.‖
Matouk frowned. ―I don‘t see why.‖
―Haganah agents might be in the middle of them,‖ Thamer said.
―That crude spy agency they created in thirty-six became a powerful
organization. Take care, brother.‖
―I will, I will. But…let‘s not go hard on our brains before our
stomachs are full, brother,‖ Matouk said and waved a hand at the
array of food containers under the bedsheet. ―I have a surprise slightly
worth your presence,‖ he said and lifted the sheet to reveal the
tantalizing dishes. ―You must be hungry, yes?‖
―You should be a mind reader, brother,‖ Thamer said, eyes lighting
up. ―May you live a thousand lifetimes in paradise.‖
They sat on prayer rugs, made their prayers unhurriedly, and
attacked the food with gusto. Thamer ate stolidly for several minutes
in total silence, washing it down with tea. His right hand scooped

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small portions from the platters and plates and shoveled it into his
mouth, his gaze in search of the next choice as he munched the last
one with his mouth open.
Matouk went only for the dishes his friend seemed not to approve,
which were the tomatoes and the cucumber salad. He was glad
Thamer was enjoying most of the food. This banquet had cost him
three submachine-guns with the local black-marketeer.
They exchanged an artillery barrage of burps and Matouk served
coffee. Thamer was bathed in sweat as he sipped the sweet, piping-hot
drink, still sitting on the prayer rug.
―I have a little surprise for you, too, brother,‖ the visitor said and
clapped his hands three times very loudly.
The door was opened by one of Thamer‘s men and a black-clad
figure was pushed in. When the door banged closed behind the living
pile of black fabric, a short, girlish gasp of fear came from behind the
dark lace that veiled the face.
―It‘s called burqa,‖ Thamer said as he lit a thin cigarette. ―One of
the very fine items our great Mufti acquired on his trips to eastern
Persia and India. Not even I knew there still might be such garments
to keep women dressed so modestly. One day all of them will have
one. And that day is very near. God be loved, God be praised.‖
―Who is this woman?‖ Matouk said, trying to see something behind
the veil.
―Get closer,‖ Thamer said harshly, and she did so in short, fearful
steps.
Thamer said, ―You may reveal your face for a moment. My friend is
able to say whether you‘re a decent person or not only by looking into
your eyes.‖
A neat trembling hand protruded from the black sleeves. Its
indicator and thumb pinched the base of the veil and lifted it. Orange-
brown eyes with lush eyelashes below thin, upturned eyebrows, and a
delicate nose seemed to shine in the sweated face of a girl of nineteen
or twenty. Were it not for her starved looks, she would be an
extraordinarily beautiful woman.
―We saved her very recently,‖ Thamer said.
―Really?‖ Matouk said, his groin on fire.
―Name‘s Hana. She used to be a live-in maid at a farmhouse near
Tripoli, where we spent a couple of days last week. Her masters were
Italians. They bought her after she‘d been sold by her father to a tribe
that served as a forced-labor battalion in the vicinities.‖
Matouk nodded in silence, his one eye fixed at those of the girl.

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Thamer said, ―Problem was they had a pair of adolescent daughters

who corrupted her for nearly three years,‖ Thamer pointed a finger at
her. ―At last the local tribe leader caught her dressed as a European
whore and speaking their language. He wisely captured her, gave her a
punishment, and sold her to me. He said he‘d tell the Italian settlers
she‘d fled.‖
―You‘ve been among European soldiers, then?‖ Matouk asked. The
girl nodded.
He frowned. ―Do you still have your membrane of honor?‖ she
nodded again, eyes flooded with tears.
―I wouldn‘t be so sure about that,‖ Thamer said, smiling
sarcastically. ―I wish I could give you a belly-dancing courtesan, but
that poor soul ignored her own culture to the point of barely behaving
like a real woman. At least you have a servant to take care of your
cooking and cleaning now.‖
Matouk waved a finger at the leftovers of food. ―Replace your
protection and get to work immediately,‖ he said to her.
She let the veil fall over her face and hurried to collect the recipients
under the gaze of the two men. Matouk tried to get a hint of her body
shapes but the stiff fabric of the burqa wouldn‘t allow it. He wished
she were wearing only a hijab as his penis began to erect.
―Where‘s the sink…master?‖ the whisper filtered through the black
lace.
―There,‖ Matouk said with a jerk of his head toward the door to an
adjacent room. ―You‘ll find buckets with water, too.‖
―Behave yourself, Hana,‖ Thamer said menacingly. ―This is your
last chance. Make one mistake and my friend here will give you ten
whip strokes. Remove your burqa and you‘ll be stoned to death
according to the Shari‟a. Understand?‖
She nodded in frightful silence and disappeared into the other room
with the dishes wrapped in the embroidered table cloth.
―Well, we can discuss our matters now,‖ Matouk said and took a
long breath. ―Brother, I reached you so that we could continue that
conversation that never ended. I do hope the Mufti hasn‘t forgotten
about it.‖
The way he forgot about me when he fled to Europe.
Thamer smiled broadly. ―He hasn‘t. Your demand of being
appointed the governor-general of the eastern province of Libya is
close at hand.‖

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―Are there any chances of his convincing the Germans of my

assignment within the next days? This mission won‘t take a lot longer,
I think.‖
―That‘s a possibility,‖ his friend said. ―All brother Heusseini asks
from you is a little give and take. A financial contribution, I mean.‖
Matouk swallowed hard. ―I‘m afraid I‘m not able to do that for the
time being.‖
Thamer laughed. ―Of course you are! Allah has tossed a pea in your
lap. The infidels have paid you half the promised reward, no? That
was the deal along with the pardon of all of you, am I correct?‖
Matouk sighed. ―Yes.‖
―So…our common friend calls to your honor to be a stone in his
sling by helping him intervene in our behalf among the infidels. And a
pair of those four gold bars would be of great help for starters.‖
Matouk shuddered. He thought: almighty God tests me to the edge
of my endurance to see Heusseini betray me a second time. ―I‘m sure
it will make no difference to him,‖ he said. ―The Germans told me
he‘s been given one hundred thousand Reichsmarks to maintain his
office in Berlin. Are they lying?‖
―Maybe not.‖
―So I‘ll pray for the Mufti to forgive me,‖ Matouk said in a low
tone. He was motionless, staring into nothing in especial, looking like
someone waiting for the hypnotist to clap his hands and wake him.
Thamer mingled his fingers in front of his chest and made a helpless
face. ―Brother, do you know where this gold comes from?‖
―Vaguely.‖
―It‘s from teeth yanked out of corpses of Jewish prisoners. Now you
think: might a mere two bars made of something from bodies of Jews
be worth provoking brother Heusseini into claiming power and
influence against you?‖
Matouk thought angrily: how much is your commission, brother?
Ten, twenty percent?
―Very well,‖ Matouk said, and rose trying to control his rage. ―If it‘s
the will of God, so be it.‖
Matouk went into the main room, his command post. Down in a
corner sat his massive oaken trunk bound with bands of iron brown
with rust. He fished a key in one pocket and opened the heavy
padlock. He took a full minute to decide which ones would be given.
When his fingers held the cold one-kilo bars stamped with the eagle of
the Reich and the twin lightning of the SS, he regretted having agreed.

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Too late now. Why must God visit his anger on me? He asked himself
as he clicked the padlock shut, and returned to the small room.
Thamer‘s eyes feasted on the bricks of gold shining in his hands. ―I
knew you wouldn‘t leave your deserved path of glory. The Mufti will
be right on your side forever. You‘ll be a battle cry, brother.‖
―May God bless your words,‖ Matouk said.
And may He send a thousand ants to eat you two alive!
>> <<
Matouk was still eating himself up in silent fury after the man had
left. He flexed his hands as if the feeling of the gold bars lingered in
them. He stood in the balcony watching the burly jinee leave in his
silver, chrome-bumped Rolls Royce accompanied by his two
bodyguards as curses bubbled beneath his breath.
―I‘ll let you know of the Grand Mufti‘s decision, brother,‖ had been
Thamer‘s last words to him.
Matouk stifled an outburst of rage and turned around. He went back
into his sleeping room to get some coffee and try to calm himself
down. The kettle was gone. He deduced the girl should have taken it,
and opened the door to the adjacent room where she must have been.
Kodro was standing there. The European met his eye and flinched.
―How long have you been here?‖ the general asked. ―You heard all
of our conversation, didn‘t you?‖
―Yes, General,‖ Kodro said. ―I‘m sorry about what happened. The
reward should be only yours. It wasn‘t fair. Would you like me to
contact Germany and make a complaint to General Kaltenbrunner?‖
Matouk chuckled humorlessly. ―But it‘s exactly his fault. Their
fault! The infidels have corrupted Heusseini to the point of making
him extort his own collaborators.‖
―I respect your point of view, sir,‖ Kodro said.
―We‘re being used, brother. Our leader doesn‘t care about us
anymore. He‘s been corrupted by the infidels. Don‘t let that happen to
you; you‘re a soldier of God. He will take His revenge on all who‘ve
betrayed Him.‖
Crestfallen, Kodro said, ―Excuse me, sir. I must return to my
station.‖
Matouk stood there breathing hard as the man clicked the door shut
behind him. What can I do to assuage my wrath? he thought, Nothing,
nothing at all! God, but I feel like killing those thieves!
The girl emerged from the lavatory carrying a set of clean bowls on
a tray. She saw Matouk and froze on her tracks. Her hands were
trembling uncontrollably and a tureen fell to the floor and broke to

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pieces. She knelt down, placed the tray carefully on the floor, and
began to collect the shards of porcelain.
―Forgive me, master, please forgive me,‖ she said fearfully.
A moment later Matouk was pacing around her like a hyena
weighing its prey. The soft skin of her fast moving hands made lust
seize him. Very smart of Thamer to show her face to me, he thought.
His right hand shot in her direction and snatched her headdress. The
sight of her long black hair and full-lipped mouth made his penis
stiffen.
―No! Please, give me that, master,‖ she pleaded on her knees,
reaching out with one hand and trying to cover her face with the other.
―I doubt you‘re a virgin,‖ he said, clutching at his groin. ―You‘re a
whore; must‘ve served many men already.‖ His next moves were
kneeling next to her, grabbing the hem of the burqa with his big
strong hands, and scooping it over her head. The swells of her stark
naked body had him totally out of control.
He threw the girl to the floor, peeled off his tunic and pants, and
sprawled on top of her between her legs. He tore into her amid her
cries, and felt her hymen rip as he heaved up and down frantically.
His hands clawed at her as their flesh slapped, his golden teeth biting
into the soft skin of her shoulder.
After he‘d burst inside her, he rolled over on his back and lay there
dripping and patting, his single eye spinning in its socket. Only now
he fully understood the real purpose of his living gift. He gritted his
teeth as Thamer‘s and Heusseini‘s faces popped in his brain. He
thought: I‘ll make the whore be worth every ounce of the gold you‘ve
stolen from me.
Hana sprang to her feet and darted into the white-tiled toilet and
locked the door. She propped herself up against the wall grunting like
a wounded animal, rocking back and forth. Her eyes started swaying
in a daze, tears rolling down her cheeks uncontrollably. I knew it was
going to happen, she screamed inwardly to herself, I knew it! Why
didn‘t I try to escape? That monster is going to rape me every single
day for the rest of my life!
She felt the filthiest creature on earth. After a while she bundled her
robe into a ball and tossed it into a corner. Then she held a bucket half
full of water over her head and poured it onto her naked body. She
had years back begun even liking physical suffering as a means to
make her not to think of her untouching, careless parents; but this was
too much. Suddenly the voices of Daniela and Paola seemed to be

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whispering into her ears, comforting her, explaining things her own
mother would never dare.
She felt her vagina with one hand and a cruel smile crossed her lips
as she stared at her bloodied hand. She knew the blood wasn‘t coming
only from her broken hymen.
The monster didn‘t notice I was menstruating, she thought grimly.
Yes! I‟m having my period since last morning, you animal! You‟ve
failed! I‟m not bearing a child of yours! At least not this time…

**************
29
There was very little movement in the corridors of the office of
Naval Intelligence; it was lunch time. Around the building were
almost no signs of movement, either. The scalding heat seemed to
have beaten everyone in Alexandria to somnolence after their midday
meals.
Already Colonel Robert Cameron was anxiously drumming his
fingers on the desk in the room lent to the LRDG. He stared at the dial
of a heavy shortwave transmitter that was locked on the wavelength
that Dalton would use for his next report. Rasps of static filled the
room. Cameron crushed his tenth cigarette of the day into the china
ashtray at his elbow as the smell of the smoke finally overcame
Catherine‘s perfume, Latif‘s steaming cup of coffee, and the mint in
White‘s mouth. They also sat at the desk, facing the radio expectantly.
The Scot suddenly got up from his chair and crossed to a map
pinned on the wall. His finger traced an imaginary route along some
grids of the chart, and stopped somewhere he figured the patrol should
be by now. He lit another cigarette, and his brow wrinkled as if a
question had struck him.
―Is he late for the transmissions often?‖ White asked, addressing
Cameron. His knee touched Catherine‘s under the desk, and for a long
moment he thought of everything but the news from the patrol.
―No,‖ Catherine said, eyes glued to the luminous frequency band,
biting a lip.
Cameron said, ―He prefers radioing this time of the day for he
believes the Krauts in the monitoring stations are too busy taking naps
after eating lunch. But from now on we‘ll have to take the risk of
communicating at every step.‖
White checked his watch; it read twenty to one. ―Come on, Taffy, I
hardly can wait to give you good news.‖

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Cameron also checked his watch. ―It‘s as if he were doing it on

purpose,‖ he said.
―I‘m certain he wouldn‘t, sir,‖ Catherine said in Dalton‘s defense.
White looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. The gossip he‘d
heard from the officers in the communications room was being
confirmed: she had a thing for Dalton.
―What else are you certain about him?‖ he said.
She frowned and moved her thigh away from his knee. Then she
crossed her arms akimbo and gave a sigh. A moment later there was a
loud blip, and another, and several others.
Catherine wrote down some words. It was Dalton‘s challenge word
in Welsh. ―Phew, at last,‖ Catherine mumbled, and began tapping the
response.
„At last, my love,‟ you forgot saying, White told himself as he
restrained a sarcastic smile.
The Welshwoman began tapping while speaking what she was
sending in a low tone, ‗Everything all right?‘
She bit her lower lip nervously and the blips came again over the
speaker: ―Apparently,‖ she said.
―Apparently?‖ Cameron repeated.
―Something has come up,‖ White said.
Catherine continued as Dalton‘s words came in quickly: ―We‘ve
rescued Cap. Cassel, Paul, RAAF. Shot down on his way to El-
Agheila. Apparently.‖
―Apparently,‖ it was White‘s turn to be mystified.
―Need you to confirm it,‖ Catherine translated while feverishly
jolting down words in Welsh.
―Suspect he‘s somebody else?‖ Cameron said and Catherine flashed
the question.
―Positive,‖ was the Welshman‘s sole answer.
―Blast!‖ the Scot roared and said, ―We‘ll check it out. Tell him we‘ll
be contacting him as soon as possible.‖
―At least they haven‘t had troubles with what we expected they
would,‖ White commented.
―Can you get that information with RAAF in Cairo?‖ Cameron
asked Latif.
―Right away, sir,‖ the Egyptian said. ―Back in a flash.‖ He went out
the door and headed for the communications room.
―And we haven‘t had time to talk of the main pineapple,‖ Cameron
mumbled as he shook his head, standing beside Catherine now, both
gazing at the transmitter.

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―The more we pray, the more the devil says hello,‖ White said.
>><<
―Captain Paul Cassel and his crew didn‘t return base after their last
mission, indeed,‖ Latif said when he was back half an hour later. In
his hand was the message sent by the Royal Australian Air Force
Headquarters.
Catherine took a few minutes to broadcast it to Dalton, her slim
indicator finger knocking expertly on the transmission key.
―Why the suspicion?‖ Cameron said, and she tapped it next.
―Had our reasons,‖ was the answer from Dalton spoken by
Catherine.
―What, specifically,‖ White said.
―Accent,‖ Catherine said seconds later.
―German or Italian?‖ Cameron queried anxiously.
―Hard to know. Maybe something else,‖ Dalton answered.
Latif whipped his head toward Cameron, eyes bulging. ―Bloody
hell! It may be the Kfir!‖ he said in alarm.
White put up a hand. ―Don‘t forget I‘m here, mates, all right? Who‘s
this Kfir?‖
Catherine took a long breath and said, ―Army Intel suspects a
Haganah spy is passing information of all sorts to the Haganah. It
ranges from names of anti-Semitic officers in the British forces
to...anything you imagine.‖
―And Kfir means Lion in Hebrew, I think,‖ Latif said.
White‘s brow furrowed. ―Interesting.‖
The Arab said, ―You see now? This little help from them in Tripoli
wasn‘t for free at all.‖
Cameron chuckled and put in, ―Neither that nor the mysterious
disappearance of lots of captured enemy weaponry we believe now to
be in basements in every kibbutz across Palestine.‖
―And, most importantly,‖ Latif said, ―this man has murdered people
suspected of collaborating with the Nazis––Egyptians and
Europeans.‖
―Did he produce any proofs of their association with the Nazis?‖
White said.
Catherine said, ―Yes. Every time he picked one off, a small pile of
docs and photos appeared at General Staff Intelligence‘s mailbox in
Cairo.‖
―Along with a medallion bearing the Star of David,‖ said Latif.

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White mumbled as he recalled something he‘d learned months ago.

―You just forget mentioning that this Kfir is doing your job––trying to
uncover local collaborators to the enemy.‖
―How could you possibly know that?‖ Latif said.
―I like to read memos, remember?‖ White said and looked at
Catherine. ―Let me talk to the bearded lady of the circus.‖
―You speak, I transmit,‖ the Welshwoman said.
―Well… first tell him I‘m here––and why I‘m here.‖
―Certainly,‖ Catherine said and took endless four minutes to type all
she managed to summarize from the files he‘d brought.
―SS Intel in Libya? Very strange,‖ was Dalton‘s disappointing
answer. ―By the way,‖ Catherine said, translating another onslaught of
Morse-code blips. ―Good to have you ‗round, you bastard.‖
―How sweet,‖ White said. ―Now ask him whether he‘s got the
slightest impression of having been followed.‖
Catherine immediately flashed the question that had been churning
inside her for the last hours. When she finished tapping it, her face
was moist with sweat. She held her breath, waiting.
―Not at all,‖ Dalton replied and they all puffed with relief. ―If these
Arab characters in the files were watching us some weeks ago, they‘re
still waiting us back in either Alex or Kufra Oasis,‖ Cameron said.
―Who are they?‖ Latif asked.‖ Can I have the names?‖ he looked
expectantly at White.
―Why not?‖ the MI-sixer said and closed his eyes recalling the
names. ―Abu Ishmael, Qusay Siddik, and Yasir Othman,‖ he read out
from memory.
―Ishmael is a Young Egypt member,‖ Latif explained.
Young Egypt was a local version of the Nazi party. Openly pro-
Axis, its members had gone as far as carrying out torch processions
when Rommel‘s tanks were about to roll into Alexandria.
―Excellent,‖ Cameron said. ―And the others?‖
―Those we‘ll have to find out,‖ said Latif.
―Maybe the Kfir knows,‖ White said.
―I‘ll have a word with my sources,‖ Latif said, fuming, and left the
room.
Cameron nodded at Catherine and she tapped to Dalton: ―Stand by
for further information. Over and out.‖
―So Latif‘s got a circuit of his own, eh?‖ White commented.
Cameron shrugged. ―A bunch of schoolday friends and a few thugs,
that‘s all.‖
Catherine said, ―Who‘ve become a rich source of data, though.‖

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―How long has he been running it?‖ White asked the girl.
―Since September,‖ she said. ―Latif tries hard to make it worthwhile;
maybe to protect his old chaps.‖
―Let me guess,‖ White said and made a face. ―This Kfir has killed
some old mate of his, hasn‘t he?‖
Cameron nodded. ―And that only worsened his problem with the
Jews.‖
―What do you mean?‖ said White.
―His family was threatened to death by Palestinian fanatics for his
father made businesses with a Jewish businessman in the Sinai,‖
Cameron said. ―The Jew––it appears––refused to buy his shop so they
could move out in time, and Latif‘s mother and siblings ended up
being killed. His father got sick after the journey on foot to Cairo and
also died.‖
White shook his head sadly and said. ―If it‘d help, you can tell him I
know quite a few Christian businessmen who‘d have done exactly the
same.‖
―So do I,‖ the Scot said.
They went silent for a long moment. Catherine re-read Dalton‘s
words on her scratchpad as the Scot lit up yet again pensively, eyes
staring at the luminous waveband of the large transmitter.
White suddenly rose, crossed to the cabinet, and grabbed a decanter
with water. He selected a glass and blew into it. While filling it, he
said, ―I chose not to mention it before because of Latif, but…,‖ he
took a pause, thinking. ―Don‘t you see a connection between the files
and this pilot?‖
―The Australian?‖ Cameron said.
―Yes, the Australian.‖ There was a wry expression in White‘s eyes
as he drank the water from the glass. ―You know there are Jews in
Australia, don‘t you?‖
―Obviously,‖ said Catherine.
―No riddles, please,‖ Cameron said. ―It‘s not the time.‖
―I agree,‖ Catherine said, glaring at him.
White, as if to provoke irritation, was pouring a second glass of
water, very slowly, admiring the liquid. The look hadn‘t left his face
yet.
―Will you stop it and tell us,‖ Catherine said, half growling.
―Yes, yes, er…you remember seeing the words Truppe Löwe in the
Abwehr papers, don‘t you?‖
Both Catherine and Cameron nodded. ―Carry on,‖ the Scot said.

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―Well,‖ White cleared his throat. ―Truppe Löwe means Team Lion
in German. And, according to Latif, Kfir stands for ‗lion‘ in Hebrew.‖
―So?‖ Catherine said, disappointed and mystified at the same time.
―So in Latif‘s line of thought––and mine, too, now––the Haganah
possibly planted an agent in the patrol.‖
The Scot said, ―It‘s beyond imagination! I can‘t conceive a spy so
deceitful to the point of doing such thing,‖ he paused and added,
―Would the Haganah have someone like this?‖
White chuckled and emptied his third glass of water. ―I wish you‘d
met the chap who lent me a hand in Tripoli.‖
Cameron stroked his walrus mustache and said, ―I still can‘t see a
connection with SS Intel, though.‖
―How can you be certain that only those three Arabs––Ishmael,
Siddik, and Othman––were observing the moves of the LRDG
patrols?‖
―Fine. Suppose you‘re right,‖ Catherine said. ―What if the Kfir has
been spying on the patrols too?‖
White said, ―What if Young Egypt thinks he‘s collaborating with the
LRDG?‖
―I still don‘t get you,‖ Cameron said.
―My guess is that that made the Germans believe that Paul Cassel––
or the Kfir––is helping the patrol find the militia.‖
―Now you make some sense,‖ Cameron said, looking even more
worried.
―My second guess is that this Kfir may try to manipulate Dalton into
going after this Colonel Fischer in Agheila. We must warn him not to
do that. It‘s obvious the Krauts already know about his plans to
infiltrate the patrol––and they‘re ready to go for him.‖
―Which is the purpose of this Team Lion strike unit,‖ Cameron
chanced.
―A patrol of the LRDG and an odious Haganah agent caught at the
same time. It‘d be one hell of a prize for Rommel, wouldn‘t it? White
said.
Cameron nodded and swallowed hard. He placed a hand on
Catherine‘s shoulder and said, ―Contact Dalton right now.‖

**************
30
The basement firing range was Rolf Baltzer‘s favorite place in the
SD building; here he wouldn‘t have to pretend he was working hard.

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There were ten firing booths, but there was only him practicing now.
Better still. He wouldn‘t have to shoot well, either.
Today the targets were––along with the concentric circles in the
cardboards across the vast concrete-block room––some faces he‘d met
since the moment he left Maria‘s house until he was allowed to
remove his blindfold by Weber‘s men on the backstreet where they‘d
left his car. He wasn‘t thinking of getting even with the Abwehr,
though. It made no difference anymore, he thought.
He shoved a full clip into his Walther and took aim. Then he fired
his first shot. This was how he gave vent to his avid trigger finger and
also discharged tension. But that wasn‘t the case now. Instead, he was
celebrating. On getting back to his office he‘d been given a message
signed by Fischer. The subject: the killing of civilians in Abyad.
He fired another shot.
I won! I won! Fuck Kaltenbrunner! Fuck Weber! Fuck Russia! The
damn Mufti predicted the crazy Scottish colonel would send in his
wolf pack to hunt down the militia. Wow! The raghead‟s a genius, all
right. But I surpassed him!
He fired again
I knew the fucking pirates would commit some obscenity sooner or
later.
Another shot.
Fischer won‟t think twice before shoving them all back to prison
after the job‟s been done.
Bang!
The easiest thing in the world will be to convince him next to
retrieve the four bars with Matouk in El-Agheila and replace the ones
I turned into Swiss Francs––and claim the bars given to Matouk
„disappeared‟.
Bang!
That if Fischer joins me in the scheme.
Bang!
He will, dammit!
Bang!
His gun was empty; eight shots fired in twice as many seconds.
There was a crank that retrieved the target, and he swung it very
slowly, bringing the cardboard closer to him. He was doing it almost
absent-mindedly. His stare showed his thoughts were somewhere else.
Even the odor of cordite hanging in the air didn‘t bother him. When
the target was twenty feet away, he noticed he hadn‘t concentrated on

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the shots at all. There was only one hole in the bigger circle; two slugs
had missed the cardboard.
―What happened, Major?‖ the sergeant in charge of the firing range
asked. He was a shaven-headed man in his early-forties, a tunic
hanging loosely over his slim body.
―Too much desk job, I guess,‖ Baltzer replied and stepped out of the
booth with a blank face while pulling off his earplugs.
―Colonel Fischer popped by two months ago,‖ the man said and bent
low to pick up the spent shells. ―Your friend‘s a hell of a shooter.‖
Fischer.
Baltzer winced. ―He‘s not exactly a friend,‖ Baltzer said as he
reloaded his automatic.
―Well,‖ the sergeant said. ―I‘d like to have him at my side in the
field.‖
―Really,‖ Baltzer said and groaned in silence. ―How good was he?‖
The sergeant scribbled something on a clipboard with a pencil and
pursed his lips. ―Best shooter I ever saw,‖ he paused, thinking and
added, ―All bullets in the inner circles––two in the same hole.‖
Baltzer nodded in awe and holstered his gun. ―I‘m sure I‘ve done the
same some time.‖
The sergeant looked dubious. ―Well…‖
―Anyway, I‘ll invite Fischer for a little duel when he‘s back. What
do you think?‖ he said feigning enthusiasm and winked at the man.
―Great idea, sir.‖
So….Fischer is someone to have at your side in the field, huh? Yes,
maybe. But is he someone to be with while stealing the Fatherland,
too?
>> <<
Baltzer sat pensively at a corner table in the building‘s cafeteria,
dipping the glowing tip of his third cigarette into an ashtray. The
honey bread and the watery glass of orange juice in front of him on
the blue Formica top were untouched. He finally took a gulp of the
juice, made a face as it washed down his throat, and banged the glass
on the table. He lit his fourth cigarette and leaned back trying to make
himself comfortable. A freezing drizzle began spattering against the
glass window to his right. The sight somehow reminded him of the
heat in North Africa, especially in the town of El-Agheila.
Team Lion.
He went through the whole thing in his mind. Had he left any loose
ends? he thought. No, of course not! I told everyone I left the bars
with Captain Heinz. But he doesn‘t know about them or the militia…

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Relax, man, relax. Everything‟s under control now. Fischer must be

pissed off at the maniacs who figured out this thing after he learned of
the massacre in the shitty hamlet. It‟s exactly what I needed to bring
him into „business‟.
The canteen gradually filled up with staffers as the aroma of coffee
and bacon increased. They were young men and women in gray
uniforms creased to steel, gleaming black shoes, and neatly-combed
hairs. One more thing in common among the men was that a number
of them had prosthetic legs or arms. Once in SS combat divisions,
they were given desk jobs after getting crippled on the frontline.
Baltzer wondered how many had been wounded in the East. Then he
saw a vision of himself wearing an artificial limb. He shrugged off the
picture in his head and returned his attention to the contents on his
table. After a while he was immersed in thoughts again, oblivious of
the snippets of conversation and tinkling china around him. Every
word of his conversation with Weber was replaying in his mind. His
stare landed on his Italian army-issue pack of cigarettes lying next to
the ashtray. Italian. It reminded him of the Banco de Roma.
The bars of gold. The money in my credit…Fischer, Stalingrad,
Leningrad!
Relax, damn it!
He looked at the ceiling and breathed deep. For the first time in
hours his face lost its wrinkles of worry. Soon a fifth cigarette was
smoldering between his fingers.
Stenzel turned from the food counter holding a cup of coffee and a
slice of cake on a small plate. He grinned at Baltzer and headed his
way.
―Hi. You disappeared all morning,‖ the blond man said.
―Working on an old case,‖ Baltzer said, blowing rings of smoke,
looking with contempt at the man‘s linen napkin tucked neatly at his
collar.
―Me, too,‖ Stenzel said as he munched a bite of the cake in his hand.
Baltzer frowned. ―What case? Libya‘s your first one.‖
―Just kidding,‖ the man smiled.
―Any other situation reports from Fischer besides the one with this
bloodbath?‖
―No. But it means there‘ve been no turns in the mission.‖
―Yes, and that‘s excellent,‖ Baltzer said with genuine relief.
―Terrible what the militia did in that village, wasn‘t it?‖
―Yes, terrible.‖

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―Don‘t you think Fischer was kind of arrogant to want to be on his

own there?‖
Baltzer shrugged. ―It‘s his style.‖
There was a long silence.
―You look unwell, man,‖ Stenzel said, looking into his colleague‘s
dull eyes. ―What's that? A cold?‖
―Maybe. Listen...um...I gotta go,‖ Baltzer said and got up.
―Can I have your honey-bread?‖
―Sure, go ahead.‖ I hope you choke and die, moron, he didn‘t say,
and turned away.
―Thanks,‖ Stenzel said to Baltzer‘s back. He swallowed the portion
in his mouth and said aloud, ―Oh, forgot telling you: the General
wants to speak to you. ASAP.‖
Baltzer froze in his tracks, swiveled around like a puppet, and sat
back, his face ashen. ―Kaltenbrunner?‖
―Of course. Who else might it be?‖
―What‘s he want?‖
―I don‘t know.‖
Baltzer‘s face wrinkled. His eyes began darting in search of nothing
in special. ―Where did you last meet him?‖
―He went personally to my office. I think he went to yours first this
morning.‖
―What else did he say?‖
―Not much.‖ Stenzel thought for a moment. Then he leaned forward
and said in a low tone, ―He just asked if I‘d seen you deliver the bars
of gold to the commanding officer of Team Lion.‖
A drumming filled Baltzer‘s ears as he felt his scalp prickling. Half
a second later all his flesh was prickled and creeping.
Shit! The scar-faced bastard either found out or was told by Weber
of my robbery.
―And what did you tell him?‖ he asked a step short from despair.
Stenzel dropped his fork onto the plate. ―The truth,‖ he said with a
shrug.
Baltzer could hear his own heartbeat. ―What truth?‖
The blond man‘s jaw dropped. ―Jesus Christ! Are you feeling sick or
what?‖
―What did you tell him?‖ Baltzer said between gritted teeth.
―I told him exactly what happened. You gave Captain Heinz those
four bars––didn‘t you?‖
―Of course I did,‖ Baltzer said and went rigid.

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―So you‘ve got nothing to worry about,‖ Stenzel said as he stabbed

his last piece of cake with the fork.
―Sure.‖
Stenzel chuckled and looked up from the plate into Baltzer‘s eyes.
―You‘re behaving strangely, my friend.‖ He shook his head, smiling.
―Why would the boss think you‘d keep that gold for yourself? That
makes no sense.‖
―Sure.‖

**************
31
Jones, Collins, and Miller watched Dalton with mounting curiosity
as he wrote down on a scratchpad the decryption of the Morse-code
bleeps on the transmitter‘s earpiece. It was the longest message he‘d
received today. Then the Welshman signed off and spent a long
minute reflecting on the message.
―It‘s getting better by the hour,‖ Dalton said as he took the headset
off his head.
Jones screwed up his face. ―What is it?‖
Dalton said, looking at Miller: ―White can bet the man isn‟t who he
says he is.‖
Jones tossed out his arms in defeat. ―I don‘t know what to say.‖
He‘d talked to Cassel for a full hour earlier. The man knew every
slang and every detail about Australia he could think of asking. He
was sure he‘d met Australians in the LRDG who wouldn‘t give him so
many details as Cassel had. And he‘s strange accent was gone. From
the man‘s cigar-chewing mouth only came the hard Australian twang.
―All right, he‘s an Aussie,‖ said Dalton. ―But he‘s a Jewish Aussie
working for the Haganah.‖ He told them about White‘s suspicions.
―Jewish underground army,‖ said Collins. ―Farmers with rifles.‖
―That was before the war,‖ Dalton said. ―They‘ve got the most
efficient spy rings in the world now. Better than the MI-6, I hear. The
Krauts suspect there‘s a score of them in the bloody Reich
administration itself. Can you think of a better spook than a locally-
born individual? It takes only a new identity and some training.‖
Jones‘ expression went dull. ―Would you have to kill him if…‖
―No. He‘s still an Aussie, isn‘t he? And the Haganah is working
with us now.‖
―And what in God‘s name could be the purpose of his being here?‖
There was a sparkle in Dalton‘s eyes. ―Me, perhaps.‖

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―I doubt it,‖ Miller said. ―If they wanted revenge for those blokes in
Haifa, they‘d have done something before.‖
Dalton shrugged. ―Perhaps.‖
Along with fanatic Arab gangsters, Dalton had sent a pair of
Haganah executioners to the gallows. The men––the Mufti‘s assassins
and Haganah agents––had been trying to kill each other in a slum of
Haifa, but ended up killing innocents in the shootout. They were
hanged on the same day, one after the other.
―I haven‘t got the slightest idea as to what we should do now,‖
Jones said.
Collins turned to Dalton and said. ―Why don‘t you go talk to him?
He might be hungry; take‘m some food.‖
―Yes, why not,‖ said Dalton. ―You chaps be ready.‖
―He‘s got nowhere to run,‖ Miller said coldly. ―It‘s a long walk as
far as Telaviv.‖
Dalton sighed. ―Fine. My turn to do some chit-chat. You lads give
him some food first. I‘ll be there after a while.‖
―You got it,‖ said Miller.
Dalton thought for a moment and said, ―And don‘t forget taking a
bloody tin of pork.‖
>> <<
Half an hour later, Dalton climbed into his truck, opened a metal
case beneath his seat, and took out a book. It was a leather-bound
copy of the Koran in Arabic. Then he headed for Cassel‘s tent.
―Can I come in?‖ he said, putting his head around the flap.
―You‘re already in, man,‖ Cassel said amiably, and placed his cigar
between his lips. ―Need something?‖
―Not exactly. Just thought we could…talk.‖
Cassel looked him in the eye. ―I see. Well, I had a splendid
conversation with Sergeant Jones earlier.‖
Dalton sat cross-legged. ―You did?‖
―Yes, I hope he‘s told you I knew all the answers about my
country,‖ Cassel grinned. ―Did you really think I could be some sort
of spy?‖
―People surprise me every day, you know,‖ Dalton said, returning
the stare.
―Why don‘t you contact my squadron and––‖
―We have.‖
―So what do you want from me now?‖
Dalton opened the Koran and took out a piece of newsprint. It was
from the Palestine Post. In it was a picture of himself five years

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younger and shaven-faced, receiving a decoration for arresting

members of the Haganah and the Mufti‘s gang. He handed it to
Cassel.
He read part of the article beneath the picture and laughed. ―I like
your nickname: The Torturer of Haifa. At least you made Arabs and
Jews agree on something, eh?‖
―So it seems.‖ The Welshman fixed his eyes on Cassel‘s waiting for
a reaction, some glint of canned hatred, or the brief straying of a
glance that covered a lie. Dalton suddenly recalled the one who
specialized in this: Haj Amin al-Heusseini.
Cassel said, ―The headlines in a very soon future must be: ―The
Torturer of Haifa hunted down the Beasts.‖ Dalton‘s answer was a
shrug.
Cassel read the rest of the lines in silence, then said, ―And this
decoration was for arresting and sending to the gallows two Haganah
members and four Mufti‘s gangsters who had the bad luck of killing
two citizens and wounding a Tommy with stray bullets during a little
battle of theirs.‖
―True,‖ Dalton said, a shadow falling over his face.
―Better being executed than tortured,‖ Cassel handed the piece of
paper back to the Welshman. ―Did you really torture people? I
mean…if Jewish gunmen and Arab gangsters are considered people
by the Queen‘s brave soldiers. ‖
―Yes, I had to give a sweat to a few men once. I had my orders.‖
―I‘ve heard that before,‖ Cassel said. ―Well, someone‘s got to do the
dirty job.‖
Dalton nodded somberly. Old angers began welling up inside him.
He couldn‘t help looking suddenly furious.
Cassel grinned. ―You‘re not torturing me, are you?‖
Dalton struggled to return the grin. ―No.‖
Cassel gave a phony sigh of relief and paused as Dalton lit up. ―Who
gave you the Koran?‖
―My father-in-law.‖
―So she‘s Arab?‖
―Was.‖ Dalton swallowed hard. ―She‘s dead.‖
―Really sorry, mate.‖ A pause and a frown. ―Did you convert to her
religion?‖
―No, she converted to mine. She wouldn‘t let me cause troubles to
my own career in the army. The Koran was her father trying to
convince us we had a better choice.‖

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―I see. That was a real proof of love from her, man.

Congratulations.‖
―Thanks.‖ Dalton felt his heart sink.
―Anyway…you must have a soft spot for the Arabs; or at least hate
them less than you hate Jews.‖
―Hardly so,‖ Dalton said. ―To tell the truth, there‘s a Jew who could
help me make up my mind. It‘s a bloke nicknamed Kfir––I think it
stands for ‗lion‘ in English.‖
―Nicknames again,‖ Cassel thought for a moment. ―Should I be
acquaintances with him?‖
―Who knows?‖ Dalton looked coldly into the man‘s eyes trying to
read his mind.
Cassel made the face of a pleading dog. ―Sorry I can‘t help you,
mate.‖
―No problem,‖ Dalton rose to leave. ―You should try the tinned pork
sausage.‖ He pointed at the can among the leftovers of Cassel‘s last
meal, given to him twenty minutes back by Miller; it was untouched.
―Thanks, but I‘m not that fond of pork,‖ Cassel picked up the can
and handed it to Dalton.
―Uh-hum,‖ Dalton nodded and took it.
―We setting out to Agedabia still today?‖
―Possibly. Still have got a few snags to smooth out, though.‖
―Count me in on this thing. I‘m terribly free for the next days, you
know.‖
―Well, take a rest, then. The rest of us will try and do the same for
the next two hours. We‘ll be needing our wits about us later this
afternoon. So will you.‖
―Good, good,‖ Cassel said as the Welshman ducked out of the tent.
―We‘ve got a peace treaty now.‖
Dalton stopped, grinning sarcastically, and turned back to the man.
―Yes, good choice of words: peace,‖ he said. ―Shalom.‖
Cassel shrugged. ―Shalom, then.‖

**************
32
The clock was nudging three o‘clock, and Ernest Kaltenbrunner had
been at his office since eleven in the morning without a pause for
lunch. The drapes over the large glass windows had been parted and
pushed to the corners. Outside, a cold drizzle pierced the gray
afternoon like a sign of doom to a gelid night. Baltzer wondered how
colder it was in Russia, and shook off the thought.

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He was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He sat across from the

Austrian at the immense table that served as his desk while the man
spoke on the phone. It was Himmler on the other end of the line.
Baltzer had arrived ten minutes ago, but they hadn‘t exchanged a
word. Kaltenbrunner had waved him to the chair and ignored him
since then.
Are they making the final arrangements of my sending to the eastern
front? he wondered as he stared at the gleaming silver letter opener
Kaltenbrunner used as a paperweight. Rumor had it‘d once belonged
to a Jew––the owner of a pawnshop in his neighborhood in Ried im
Innkreis, Austria––and that he‘d killed the man with it after he‘d
become leader of the local SS.
I‘m screwed, Baltzer thought in mounting agony, like that Jew.
Suddenly Baltzer went gray. He noticed the letter opener was pointing
at him.
That‟s it! It‟s a fucking ritual––when they kick thieves like me over
to Russia.
He began to sweat hard, rising bile burning his throat.
―Very well, sir,‖ Kaltenbrunner said loudly into the phone‘s
mouthpiece. ―I‘ll see to it. Good day.‖ He hung up.
You‘re going to get rid of me, I know! Baltzer thought, fighting
down a blast of puke.
Kaltenbrunner looked hard at him. ―Are you sick?‖
―I…I don‘t know, sir. It‘s my stomach.‖
―Something you must‘ve eaten over in Libya, no?‖
―Er…yes…who knows?‖
―Go see a doctor––afterwards, I mean.‖
Baltzer nodded like a thankful beggar. ―Stenzel said you were trying
to reach me.‖
―Yes,‖ Kaltenbrunner said and puffed out his cheeks. ―We have
a…situation,‖ he said and tumbled a leather-bound folder between
them on the desk.
Jesus! Weber gave him copies of my bank registers!
―The matter we‘re going to discuss doesn‘t concern Stenzel‘s
responsibilities; that‘s why he wasn‘t called in.‖
The fewer witness of this filth the better, huh? I‟m dead, I‟m dead!
The Austrian opened the folder. ―I believe you‘re aware of it: the
killing of those people in the hamlet of Abyad,‖ he said. ―This was the
motif of my meeting with the Grand Mufti this morning.‖
Baltzer was so relieved he could have wept.

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―It‘s about the job in Libya, then?‖ Baltzer said, his face reverting to
normal.
―Yes,‖ Kaltenbrunner said with a sigh. ―We spent two long hours at
the Arab Bureau discussing the contents of his speeches to be
broadcast to the Middle East and the prospects of the mission as
well.‖ Kaltenbrunner sighed again. ―When I got to my office he
phoned me to report a problem. And this, he believes, may have
terrible consequences––if the mission should succeed.‖
―What?‖
―One of his emissaries met with General Matouk in El-Agheila a
few hours ago to collect a contribution for the Mufti‘s efforts.
Immediately after he cabled the Mufti‘s office reporting the general
sounded as if willing to start doing things by himself after the
accomplishment of the task.‖
Contribution? Baltzer thought, what kind of contribution? ―Was
Heusseini more specific than that, sir?‖
The Austrian was drumming a fountain pen on his blotter. ―He
thinks the general is likely to probe Rommel about being appointed
general-governor of the eastern province of Libya.‖ He paused and
added, ―If the operation succeeds.‖
Baltzer said, ―There must be some palpable facts for his thinking so.
It‘s just that I don‘t imagine how…‖ he petered out, truly lost.
―To me it did make sense,‖ Kaltenbrunner said. ―Matouk almost
refused to pay his contribution to the Mufti. Two bars of gold alone
could be enough funds to––‖
Baltzer nearly jumped in his chair. ―The contribution was two of the
bars!‖
―Exactly. What else resources might he posses?‖
Fucking hell! How‟s Fischer going to replace the bars I took for the
ones with the raghead now?
―Wait a minute,‖ Baltzer said, his face going gray, ―Heusseini
shouldn‘t be interfering with the job, to start with. I…I didn‘t even
know he‘s sent people to speak to Matouk!‖
Oh no! If two bars are gone, what excuse could there be for the
„disappearance‟ of the four ones given previously to Matouk?
Kaltenbrunner mused for a moment. ―Yes, Fischer didn‘t report that.
He should have, though. Well, the fact is that a new course of action
must be taken.‖
―Of course!‖ Baltzer said. ―The gold ought to be turned over to
Fischer. ―For Christ‘s sake! That bastard Heusseini is a multi-

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millionaire landowner. He doesn‘t need any of those lousy bars of

gold.‖
Kaltenbrunner was frowning hard, his scarred face adopting a
horrible looks. ―Those two do belong to the Mufti now.‖
Baltzer was sweating. ―Sir, listen, it‘s my turn to give suppositions.
And mine are based in reality––because I was there.‖
―Go ahead.‖
―We should stick to the original planning until the task is finished.‖
―Which means…‖
―That all the bars must stay with Matouk until he‘s done with his
job. Then we arrest Ali Baba and his forty thieves, and retrieve the
four bars of gold.‖
Kaltenbrunner paused, thinking. ―Did you prepare any just-in-case
artifice to accomplish that eventuality?‖ he paused briefly, thinking
hard and added, ―It must be done in a way that wouldn‘t threaten our
men, of course.‖
Baltzer had never thought he‘d reveal it. But now he had to. ―Yes.
Captain Heinz was given sealed orders in an envelope that orientate
him to disarm and take the militiamen under arrest into any of our
installations.‖
The Austrian shook his big head. ―Forget about that. The gold is on
its way here with the…er…the tax collector. Yes, the Muslims call it
the Zatak tax.‖
Shit! I‟m trapped! How the hell am I going to give birth to two kilos
of gold?
―But we‘ll eventually put your plan to work,‖ Kaltenbrunner was
saying, ―the Mufti demanded all bars for his Bureau; the eight bars.
It‘ll be taken care of after the conclusion of the mission, naturally.‖
Baltzer reeled. He sealed his lips together in order to prevent himself
from vomiting.
―Are you all right, Major?‖ said the Austrian.
―Yes, yes,‖ Baltzer said, fighting back nausea. ―For Christ‘s sake I
can‘t believe it. What the heck does that man wants more money for?
He‘s been paid a quarter million Reichsmarks to do nothing in that
silly office of his.‖
―The Fuehrer has his reasons to support him. And so do I.‖
Baltzer gritted his teeth. He thought of something to gain time and
think. He said, ―To me it‘s a waste of resources.‖
No, it‟s stealing! Weber was right. These fuckers are making this up
to get the gold. All of it! Yes, it‟s a damn fine reason to support the
raghead, you ogre son of a bitch!

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―On the contrary,‖ Kaltenbrunner said. ―This token of friendship is

an investment. If Rommel doesn‘t get to stand in Tobruk and strike
back in a near future, the Mufti said he‘ll be able, with the amount of
resources from those bars, to sneak back into Palestine and lead a
jihad––a holy war––against Allies and Jews.‖
Baltzer‘s face was turning gray again. The taste of vomit came back,
too. ―That‘s bullshit,‖ he said hoarsely.
―We mustn‘t ignore the growing number of Jews being smuggled
into Palestine. I think it‘s only a question of advertising this fact
accordingly to the Arabs. And no one could do it better than the Mufti
himself.‖
―It‘ll make little difference as long as thousands of Jewish troops in
the British army keep fighting and forcing the Brits to protect them in
Palestine. The Arabs won‘t shed their blood against us, much less for
us. All we‘re going to get is turning the Mufti‘s men loose in a spree
of looting.‖
―I differ.‖
Wrong choice of words, ogre. You should‟ve said „I steal!‟ or „the
raghead and I steal‟.
Kaltenbrunner went on, ―As you seem to have forgotten, the Grand
Mufti was appointed by the Fuehrer as the Prime Minister of the pan-
Arab government.‖
Baltzer shook his head. ―All I can imagine is his mobs running
around Jerusalem and Telaviv taking what they want at gunpoint in an
orgy of destruction and blood.‖
―Absurd, absurd!‖
Baltzer grinned savagely. He deduced his last hope was to make the
Austrian aware that it all smelled bad. His thoughts took him back to
the day he met with the man from the Italian secret police in Rome.
Only now that conversation made some sense to him.
―Let me try to change your mind, sir,‖ Baltzer said. ―There‘s
something that must be brought up to the surface before it‘s too late.‖
―What‘s it?‖ Kaltenbrunner said suspiciously.
―It was said to me by the men that raised that shitty militia. I‘m sure
it‘s going to make a hell of a difference.‖
Kaltenbrunner motioned him to keep talking and he went on, ―I told
you this guy of the OVRA paid me a visit in Rome, didn‘t I?‖
―Yes, continue.‖
―Well, if I‘m not so dumb, he was damn sure the ragheads were
scheming something––something that could mean a lot of money for
them.‖

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―Please never use such offensive slangs about our collaborators.‖

―The Italians were right! We financed the riots in Palestine and so
did they. They found out part of those funds were stolen. It‘s on some
report…Yes! He did mention something like that.‖
Kaltenbrunner went rigid. ―What report?‖
―I don‘t know yet––but there is one.‖
It was the Austrian‘s turn to look very upset. He pointed a finger at
Baltzer. ―It‘s not in any report,‖ he said. ―We‘ve read all the material
provided by the OVRA. And that includes you. It‘s a serious
accusation. Now you must prove it, Major.‖
The report about the militia! Baltzer thought, his blood pressure was
about to spray out of his ears. The key is in there! Fischer and I were
misled since the beginning. There should be a report made by the
Italians in it…
―We haven‘t seen all the data about Heusseini and Matouk,‖ Baltzer
said defiantly.
―Of course we have,‖ the Austrian roared.
I mean Fischer and I, you bastard, the ones who weren‟t part of the
scheme.
Baltzer‘s head hurt so much it seemed about to explode. He placed
his either hand on his temples. ―This was all wrong, since the
beginning, for fuck‘s sake!‖
―Major, control your tongue!‖
Baltzer reeled again. Bile rose to his mouth and he coughed.
Kaltenbrunner looked in disgust at his sallow face. ―You‘re really
ill. Go see a doctor when you can.‖
Baltzer rose from his chair. ―Yes, sure.‖
―I don‘t mean right now. We still have to––‖
―I‘m sorry, sir,‖ Baltzer said as he half-staggered to the door. ―I‘m
very sick. I‘ll be back here when I feel better.‖
Kaltenbrunner got up too and punched his blotter. ―No need to. You
know what to do. Contact Fischer and tell him to––‖
Baltzer slammed the door shut behind him before the man finished
his sentence. He left the building trying to look normal and walked
along the wet, leaf-strewn sidewalk of Prinz-Albert Strasse for a few
blocks. The tops of the ostentatious buildings seemed to slant in
weird, surrealistic perspectives toward him. He took a long breath to
control his nerves.
His hand felt for the scrap of paper Weber had given him in a pants
pocket; it was still there. In another pocket were a few coins.
Now you win, you old fart.

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He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn‘t being followed

and stepped into a phone booth he knew wouldn‘t be wire-tapped.
Then he inserted a penny into the slot and dialed the number in the
paper.

**************
33
The twelve-minute drive as far as the city walls of Casablanca had
been unhindered. A flock of goats had crossed in front of Uri Klein‘s
car, and a shock absorber had been damaged by a pothole, but those
two minor events had been all. The time was around four p.m. It still
was hot, but the breeze through the open windows had made the
temperature in the car quite bearable.
Already the rest of the way to the hotel was another story. It was a
slow crawl at first gear along uneven cobblestones strewn with matted
hay. Smoke from town cars adapted to run on charcoal seemed to
blend with the haze of dust. The few vehicles on the streets moved
according to the will of the plenty of pedestrians. The whole scene
was a fabulous disorder, as if the city were oblivious of the twentieth
century. It was, as usual, crowded with street vendors and the growing
throng of vagrants who were being attracted by the hundreds of
refugees from Hitler. Mostly coming from France by ship, they used
Morocco as their springboard to Lisbon and hence the Clipper plane
to New York. Journalists, anarchists, communists, scientists and a few
other -ists composed the bulk of those on the run.
The Jewish escapees were Uri Klein‘s responsibility. They were
greeted at the port, fed, treated if sick, and given lodge at some inn
personally by him. Eventually, when it was their wish, he provided
them blank letters-of-transit so they could get to Lisbon using the
same false identities used to leave Europe earlier.
Klein‘s car was a handsome, purple-colored Renault. He was
steering with only one arm, the other free to fan himself and disperse
the flies. The bulky Amos Brzezinski sat next to him in the passenger
seat. Sarah was in the back with Moshe Cohen.
The four in the car puffed with relief as they finally made a turn
onto a broad street, leaving the mobs of hawkers, beggars, and thieves
behind. The small hotel they were heading, the Gazelle, was at the
bottom of the street. It was a stubby belle-époque building of three
floors with ironwork balconies, its whitewash adding to the dazzling
whiteness of the city.

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Klein made a two-block dash for it, more to refresh the interior of
the car with some wind than to get there in time, which wasn‘t the
case. He checked his watch; there still would be fifteen minutes to
kill.
He went past the hotel and around the corner, and parked in the
shade of a two-storied house. This way they were out of sight of both
the men at the police station down the street and anyone in the upper
suites of the hotel. Looking around, Klein saw the same old faces of
the neighborhood; and, most importantly, no suspect cars, either.
―Here we are,‖ Klein said, half-turned back to face Cohen.
―Could be safer if I gave a sweep first,‖ Brzezinski said, addressing
Cohen.
―Sure. I‘m coming with you,‖ he said.
No! Sarah screamed in silence, don‘t leave me here alone with Uri!
―You want me to help you?‖ she offered.
―No. You had enough in Tripoli,‖ Cohen said as he and the security
man stood in the sidewalk.
―Back in a minute,‖ the beefy Pole said, and both walked away.
Sarah sank back into the seat in defeat. Seconds later she couldn‘t
help noticing Uri‘s eyes staring at her in the rearview mirror. There
was an indistinct expression in them.
―Tripoli, huh?‖ he said. ―One could hardly imagine it was some
action you were after in order to fall in love.‖
―Excuse me?‖ she said, faking innocence.
―Your English friend––codename ‗Mars‘. Oh…Mr. Allan White,
among friends, isn‘t it?‖ A chuckle. ―From A to S. Ridiculous!
―Ah, stop it, Uri.‖ The pain in her heart at the mention of White‘s
message couldn‘t have been sharper. ―You don‘t know what you‘re
talking about,‖ she let out a grunt in the hope he‘d quit the subject.
―I do know, okay?‖ he said. ―The old man told me everything.‖
There was a precious moment‘s silence.
―You‘ve changed overnight,‖ Klein said. ―Like a completely
different person.‖
―Anyone who‘s been through what I have would be like that.‖
―It‘s not that you‘re behaving differently––you‘re very strange now,
too.‖
―I‘m not listening, Uri.‖
He laughed. ―You remind me of when you and your parents were
raising hogs secretly in the kibbutz.‖
―Shut up, for God‘s sake.‖

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Sarah and Uri became silent and almost motionless, the stagnant
heat making them sweat everywhere.
Cohen suddenly leaned at the window and said, ―Let‘s go. It‘s
clear.‖
>> <<
Sarah wondered whether she‘d ever look at a German face and not
see someone who was willing to send her to a concentration camp or
simply kill her on the spot. She‘d never met any Germans, nor even
talked to one. Do I hate them or just fear them? she thought. That was
what she was going to find out in a few more minutes.
Klein gave his name to the porter of the hotel and was told the
people were waiting for them in their suite. Klein led his three
colleagues to the top floor. It was a bad collection of features. There
was no light on in the halls, the sole illumination coming through the
stained glass windows at the opposite ends. The wallpapers were pale-
brown and it was hard to find a square foot where it wasn‘t peeling.
Along with the bitter stench of fungus, a mixture of unpleasant smells
seemed to be trying hard to make them feel sick.
Klein stopped in front of room number thirty-two. ―Here we go,‖ he
said, and gave a signal-type rap on the door.
It was opened a fraction a few seconds later. A dark eye in a pale
face looked at him, and the door was swung fully open. It was a man
of about twenty-five, sweating hard in his cream-colored, long-
sleeved shirt.
―Bonsoir, monsieur. Ça va?‖ Klein said.
―Entrée,‖ the man told Uri as he studied the faces of the three others.
―Merci,‖ said Uri.
―Vien, si‟l vous plait,‖ the man said, now waving all of them inside
and checking the bottoms of the corridor.
Klein was the first in. When they all stood in the center of the tiny
living room, a pair of towering men came out of the bathroom. Both
were armed with revolvers.
Cohen‘s heart sank. ―You said the lady had only one assistant, Uri,‖
he said in French.
―That‘s what she told me,‖ Klein said, his hand slowly moving for
the gun at the back of his waist.
―It makes no difference,‖ one of the threatening-looking men said.
―Of course it does,‖ Klein replied. ―Who the hell are you?‖
―We all are Ms. Wolff‘s friends,‖ said Gunther, the one known by
Klein. ―I‘m sorry I didn‘t mention my two collaborators, Mr. Klein.
We‘ve got to be extremely careful, you see. One thing we learned

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back at our Fatherland is that surprise is on the side of who‘s not in

numerical advantage.‖
―I see,‖ Uri said. ―Which is our case now.‖
―Again, I‘m sorry. We must trust no one. Ms. Wolff will join us if
you don‘t mind being searched for guns.‖
The tension was almost tangible. Cohen, brow full of rivulets of
sweat, looked at Brzezinski and shook his head very slowly; the Pole
was about to draw his gun.
―Absolutely not,‖ said Klein, holding his arms apart. He looked at
Cohen and Brzezinski. ―Fellows, please?‖
The frisking took endless three minutes. Cohen had a small French-
made.22 pistol, Uri his treasured Webley .45. Already the Pole was
ready for a battle: he was found with two .38 revolvers, forty extra
shells, a knife, a hand-grenade, and a length of strangling wire. For a
moment everyone was staring at the items laid out on a desk.
―Mon Dieu!‖ Gunther said.
―I think I left my iron knuckles at home, sorry,‖ Brzezinski said in
heavily-accented German.
The man who‘d searched him smiled and said in his tongue, ―Look
what we‘ve got here––a Polack.‖
―So what?‖ the Pole said, staring angrily at the German.
―No German must be spoken,‖ Gunther said in French, addressing
all. ―It attracts too much attention and the walls here are too thin. Our
neighbors are people from Eastern Europe; so they‘re likely to
understand some German, but not French.‖ He turned to Klein. ―But
you people may talk in Hebrew. It‘s safe; sounds very much like
Arabic.‖
Klein translated it in Hebrew to the Pole in a low tone.
Cohen looked at Gunther and said, ―For a moment I almost forgot
we‘re on the same side, mister.‖
―You must understand it‘s for Ms. Wolff‘s safety, sir.‖
―Very well.‖
Gunther turned away and stepped for the bedroom door. ―Julia?‖ he
said as he slowly opened it. They exchanged some words in French,
and he stood aside for the others to enter. ―Come in, please,‖ he said.
Sarah was the first in. The German woman was seated in a chair in
the corner of the room, hands on her lap, face down, staring at her
toes. When she looked up, Sarah took immediate pity on her. She was
blond and around forty, and there were dark smudges under her
grayish eyes, which were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Her looks was

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that of someone who‘d been for a long time away from home; of
someone who‘s been missing her parents and siblings and children.
She motioned for them to sit on the edge of the brass bed. It had a
greenish spread and pillows the same color. The walls were painted
green too, and this seemed to add to the heat despite the rattling
ceiling fan. Sarah felt as if they were in a greenhouse.
―Twenty minutes, Mr. Cohen. I hope that will be enough. Sit down,
please,‖ Julia Wolff said in perfect French. ―There are some
countrymen of mine in need of our help in this city.‖
―That‘s more than enough, madam, thank you,‖ Cohen said and
turned to Sarah, who didn‘t speak French enough. He said in
Hebrew,―If you remember anything else other than what you‘ve
mentioned, don‘t bother interrupting me, right?‖
―Okay,‖ Sarah said and smiled at Julia, who didn‘t return the
gesture.
―Well,‖ Cohen began in French. ―We‘ve found certain references––
places and names––in an Abwehr file.‖
―And where is it?‖ Julia interrupted.
―We were not able to seize it, unfortunately,‖ Cohen said.
Julia sighed. ―Carry on.‖
―Do the names Johan Shiel and Kurt Dopfner mean anything to you?
Have you ever heard or read what their role in the Reich is? I mean,
are these two men of any relevance?‖ He repeated the names.
The four Germans frowned. Julia made a face. ―They‘re completely
unknown to me,‖ she said.
Cohen pressed on, ―Have you ever heard of any operations
involving the Nazi espionage organs and Arab characters like the
Heusseinis?‖
―I need stronger references, Mr. Cohen. Names, dates, and facts.‖
―There is an operation being run by SS secret agents in Libya—
that‘s a fact.‖
―But it‘s still so vague,‖ Julia said and exchanged glances with
Gunther. ―It‘s not the way it works, I‘m sorry.‖
Cohen felt like being called an amateur. ―It‘s all we‘ve got.‖
―To be honest,‖ Julia Wolff said. ―The only important fact about
Heusseini that‘s grabbed my attention is that he lives in Berlin in a
house on Klopstock Street that used to belong to a Jew.‖
―It was a Hebrew school,‖ Cohen said.
She sighed. ―You see now? It‘s all about swapping details that may
lead to a major conclusion. I‘m afraid we won‘t be able to help you on
this matter.‖

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―Maybe if you had the files….‖ Gunther said.

―Yes. Just maybe,‖ Klein said and shot an angry look at Sarah. ―The
rest is fishing in an empty pond.‖
Sarah looked as if frozen in place. She‘d understood the word
fishing in French. Fishing…fish…she could swear she would at any
second remember the name she‘d seen on the papers White had
photographed…
―We‘re wasting our time‖, Cohen said and bowed. ―Thank you for
your precious time––‖
Sarah half-jumped from the bed. ―Fischer! Colonel Berthold Fisher
of the SS,‖ she said in English in a low tone. ―There was this name on
one file.‖
Julia‘s face flustered. ―Colonel Fischer, you said?‖ she stammered in
good English.
Sarah nodded. ―There seemed to be a whole page concerning him in
the docs.‖
―It was you who was there, then?‖ Julia said.
A nod. ―Uh-hum.‖
The German woman took a long breath. ―This man is a top agent of
the Foreign Intelligence department.‖
Klein said, ―How can we recognize him?‖ now all were speaking in
English in low tones.
―There are no graduation yearbook photos of him, nor trustable
descriptions besides his being an average man in his thirties with dark
hair and gray or blue eyes. He even doesn‘t have the blood type tattoo
under the left armpit, which all SS men are supposed to have.‖ said
Julia. ―Rumors have that he works alone––amid the locals or the
targets themselves.‖
―What else can you tell us about his profile?‖ Cohen said.
―He‘s known to have had a meteoric rise in the RHSA after a series
of successful missions––before the war. He was one of the first
Intelligence officers to be decorated with the Knight‘s Cross with dark
leaf cluster, the highest award for bravery.‖
―Where were the missions that granted him such a medal?‖ said
Cohen.
―In all corners of the globe; either serving at embassies and
consulates or undercover as a staffer at some German firm‘s branch
overseas.‖ She took a breath and went on, ―After the beginning of
hostilities, he ran operations that ended up in the imprisonment of
resistance members and Allied spies in Holland, Italy, Germany, and
France.‖

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―A number of our best people were captured by him a couple of

months ago,‖ Gunther put in. ―That‘s why we decided to flee.‖
―There must be some way to identify him,‖ Sarah said. ―By his
accent, maybe. Germans have a characteristic accent.‖
Julia chuckled. ―Fischer can speak several languages and blend with
the environment like no other agent. Spooks usually are pretty good
linguists, but Fischer is beyond that. He absorbs a language like a
sponge absorbs water. I wouldn‘t doubt he‘s able to talk in Arabic by
now, since he‘s supposedly working with pro-Nazi Arabs.‖
Klein said, ―Fine. He‘s a polyglot. But is he any smarter save from
that?‖
―He‘s known to be able to argue a dog into thinking it‘s a cat, if you
know what I mean. His victims never suspected him until they were
handcuffed and thrown into a police car or prison cell. In France he
was taken as a milkman by a group of experienced resistance
members for a week. Once we picked up Fischer‘s signals in Northern
France and then the bastard materialized in Southern Italy half an hour
later.‖
―You mean there‘s a big chance of his already being here in North
Africa?‖ Uri said.
Julia craned her head toward Sarah. ―If she‘s right about the mention
of his name on the files, yes.‖
Cohen said, ―It sounds like Hitler‘s sent his best hawk down here.‖
Julia almost grinned. ―Strange as it may sound,‖ she said. ―Fischer is
no enthusiastic Nazi.‖
Cohen was surprised. ―Say again?‖
―He‘s become what he is because…he‘s damn good at it. He‘s just a
man trying to prove something to himself.‖
Sarah said, ―He must be insane.‖
―No, he‘s just someone like us,‖ Julia said. ―And he‘s the best in his
job.‖
Gunther checked his watch. ―Time‘s up, my friends,‖ he said.
―We‘ve got other matters to attend.‖ He looked at Klein. ―Would you
have a last question to ask Ms. Wolff?‖
Klein nodded and turned to the woman. ―I think we‘d better assume
Fischer is operating somewhere in North Africa with the aid of
Heusseini‘s men. What do you recommend we do about it?‖
―Be extremely careful,‖ she said. ―If he‘s really here, there must be
something big, really big on the make; and someone willing to steal
the cheese out of a mousetrap.‖

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**************
34
The temperature was finally decreasing as the trucks moved with
painful slowness, taking care not to lift tails of dust. High plateaus
stood by the sides of the caravan paths tens of miles away, shrouded
by brush and dotted with boulders and cushions of orange sand. The
esplanade of generalized dryness wherever the men in the patrol set
their eyes on was depressing. Most of the tiny flowers brought to life
by the strong rain seemed to have shrunk. No more than a couple of
hundred yards to the sides of the scabrous trails, spires of naked rock
reached up toward the sky like brown icebergs sunk into the sunbaked
soil.
Sand blew against their faces, forcing the drivers to go easier on the
gas pedals than necessary. The thin flying dust made the Americans
feel suffocated despite the rags over their noses and mouths, the
goggles always smudged and clouded with perspiration. Collins began
looking down at his lap to fight off sickness. In the other trucks,
Palmer, Keyes and Barrett tried to beat boredom by examining the
lavish wildlife that crisscrossed the path before them: migrant gray-
white birds, multi-colored butterflies, lizards, and pert Jerboas (fluffy,
rabbit-sized kangaroo-like animals) which disappeared with the sight
of the trucks roaring toward them like famished antelopes.
Tranquility reigned with total absence of nomads and enemy troops.
The only noise was the engines of the trucks mixed with the unceasing
crunch of pebbles beneath their wheels. To Dalton, it was a perfect
run: uneventful.
Then the insipid voyage was interrupted by a faint hum drifting from
the north. One by one all men noticed that was the typical sound of
engines.
Miller was in the passenger seat of a truck in the center of the
column. Helped by the dusty wind bringing the sound, he quickly
figured out that the noise was coming in their direction. It was
somehow familiar. Straining his hearing, he identified to which type
of engine the noise belonged: airplanes.
Stuka dive-bombers! the words yelled in his head.
Miller stood up on his seat and grabbed the top edge of the
windshield, startling the corporal beside him who‘d been driving like
a statue for hours. Face transformed by tension, Miller waved his arms
wildly and shouted at the top of his lungs, ―Fan out! Fan out! Stukas
coming in!‖

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 Season of Revenge

The men in all vehicles cranked their necks toward him, and readily
understood what was going on. With no further delay, the drivers
abandoned the track and spread out the vehicles, moving into a
different direction each. Jolting violently on the terrain alongside the
caravan trails, they looked nervously for something resembling a
shelter.
―What gives now?‖ Collins asked Dalton, eyes bulging behind his
goggles as the captain wrung the wheel to the left.
―We‘ve done this thing many times already. Save your nerves,‖
Dalton said, unaware he wasn‘t able to hide his own fear as he
searched for any satisfactory haven in the vicinities.
Collins held his breath as he scanned the skies. The roar of the
engine a few feet from him barely muffled the sound of his heart
drumming in his chest. Looking around, he couldn‘t see any of the
other trucks, only their trails of dust moving in different directions.
Instinct told him not to disturb Dalton as he drove savagely with his
teeth gritting.
―Get up, man!‖ the corporal manning the machine gun shouted at
Collins. ―Try and find somewhere to camouflage the vehicle.‖
―Look to your right,‖ the other corporal at the back shouted. ―I‘ll
look left. It must be where our camouflage blends with the
surroundings.‖
―Okay,‖ The American said aloud and began doing as he was told,
the rush of wind snatching the soft cap from his head. He was feeling
like one who knows he‘s in a dream but still can‘t wake up.
Dalton shouted, ―Show me a place to hide, for fuck‘s sake!‖
A moment later Collins slapped Dalton‘s shoulder and pointed into a
direction. ―I see a clump of small trees over there,‖ he said over the
wind and engine noises.
Dalton glanced where Collins was pointing and smiled. It was an
island of bramble bushes covering the barren ground, less than two
hundred yards to their right. ―Good. Let‘s get mimicked,‖ he said, and
swung the Chevrolet in an arc, making for the bushes.
A minute later all five trucks were stopped in a radius of less than a
half mile at safe places to take shelter. It was either copses of scrubby
trees or the angled side of a rocky outcrop. The steady buzz-like whir
of airplane engines was swelling fast.
The troopers hurriedly leaped out of the vehicles and started to draw
the bales of meshes over the Chevrolets. Everyone worked feverishly
as the sound issuing from the approaching airplanes grew louder and
louder.

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―Come on, cowboy,‖ Dalton told Collins in jest despite the situation,
while they stood on the sand laying the nettings over the truck.
―We‘ve got just some seconds to arrange this stuff before the crows
pass above us.‖
He was right. Seconds later they could see the sharp outlines of a
pair of Stukas on the horizon, coming rapidly to this area. Still
standing on the truck, the Welshman took a last look around to make
sure the other vehicles had stopped moving. As he saw no more flying
dust, he nodded to himself and clicked his dry tongue. He jumped to
the ground and rolled over into the underside of the vehicle to see
Collins‘ unshaven, lobster-red face stare at him.
―Think we‘re safe now?‖ the American asked, acid burning at the
back of his throat.
―More or less.‖
―What if it‘s less.‖
―So we pray everyone can find those bloody roundels.‖
>> <<
The gull-winged German planes were painted in desert-style
camouflage scheme and bore shark mouth insignias. They were on a
routine mission, looking for enemy intruders in this remote part of
Libya––especially commandos. When they reached the area where the
trucks were stationed, the vehicles were all finally disguised,
chameleon-like. They were blending almost to the perfection with the
terrain around. Almost.
The Stukas went past their positions, flying side by side, no more
than five hundred feet off the surface. The pilots scanned the ground
through their goggles and the multi-paned canopies, paying special
attention to the caravan paths. They‘d seen nothing for miles and
miles. But Johan Keller knew there wouldn‘t be anything there; at
least not exposing itself. He was looking for enemies hiding in the
vicinities.
Keller had engaged enemies both on the ground and in the air maybe
a hundred times in Europe. That gave him the coolness a bomber pilot
needed to be precise, attentive, and unhesitating.
The moment he looked at the round cluster of bushes a hundred
yards to his right, his watery blue eyes blinked with surprise. He was
aware he‘d spotted a suspect form. The late-afternoon sun made it cast
an immense shadow, a lot longer than the bushes around it. He looked
at it with total attention. It was a rotund callus on the terrain wreathed
by dried vegetation––or camouflage.

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―Guess I see something,‖ he spoke alarmingly into his intercom,

eyes fixed on the bulge.
―Where?‖ his tail-gunner shouted, head craning sideways.
Keller hit his radio button. ―I saw a suspect thing.‖
―Show it to me,‖ Jacobs, the other pilot, said in response.
―Right, follow me,‖ Keller said and stood on his rudder pedal,
engine revving wildly as he made a tight curve. He sighted the brown
cluster he‘d seen seconds ago and dived at it. His Stuka zoomed a
hundred feet above it, and then the other did the same next.
―Hell!‖ Keller shouted into the radio again. ―There is something
topped by palls of nettings back there. I‘m strafing it to see if someone
will react.‖ He flicked he safety catch off on his stick and glanced at
the machine guns protruding from his wings.
―Wait, wait!‖ Jacobs said. ―The chief told us our troops keep small
ammo and fuel dumps by the trails, remember?‖
Keller replied, ―That was months ago, for Christ‘s sake.‖
―I‘m not doing anything before I‘m sure of what‘s down there,
okay?‖ said Jacobs.
―Let‘s take another pass. But if I don‘t see any markings, I‘ll
fucking blow it to pieces!‖
―Fine. Let‘s check it out.‖
>><<
Resting on his belly beneath his truck, Dalton had seen the planes
swoop down once toward a specific point three hundred yards away,
and make a U-turn and head for it again.
―They did spot someone,‖ a corporal told him.
―Blast!‖ the Welshman growled and said, ―Let‘s get ready.‖
They both crawled out from underneath the vehicle. Then they
slipped into the flatbed through a partition in the nettings and began
fumbling with the machine gun.
―If they take a firing-pass pattern,‖ Dalton said, ―fire at the bastards
a full discharge.‖
―Aye,‖ The corporal said, loaded the first cartridge into the
Browning and took aim at the plane on point.
Dalton was conscious the moment he opened fire the mission would
be thwarted: the Stukas had powerful radios. The pilots would surely
make a transmission to their base on being fired at, and a backup unit
would come along. Worse than that, the nearby garrisons would be
gotten aware of them in this part of the caravan trails.
Cassel stared in horror as the Stukas banked steeply and headed
toward him a second time. Flying even lower now, engines snarling

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deafeningly, they looked like shark-mouthed ravens that had lost their
prey on the ground. He was lying underneath the Chevrolet together
with Jones, the two English corporals and Palmer.
―Shit. They‘ve seen us,‖ Cassel said, cigar in his mouth, heart
drumming in his chest. ―I think––‖
―Don‘t move,‖ Jones said, rolled away from him, and clambered
into the truck.
―Hey! What are you doing?‖ Cassel shouted.
The planes were no more than fifty yards away now, and all they
could do was freeze in position and wait for the best. Framed by the
spotless blue sky, the drab-colored aircrafts zoomed over the
camouflaged vehicle stirring bushes and raising dust.
―I say we should run,‖ Palmer said as he listened to the noise of
Jones scavenging for something in the truck. ―I bet those fuckers will
start shooting very soon.‖
―No, stay still,‖ one of the corporals said, his gutra clinging to his
sweat face. ―Jones knows what he‘s doing. Just do as he said.‖
Next thing they saw was a wide green-white-red roundel flop on the
ground a few feet to their left. It bore the colors of the Italian flag in
concentrical circles.
A half minute later the Stukas roared above them again, making a
pass fewer than a hundred feet.
―There it is,‖ Jacobs said into his mouthpiece. ―There was a damn
roundel on one side of the thing. It‘s some Italian ammo dump.‖
―Yes, I saw it too,‖ Keller said in defeat, replacing the safety catch
on his control bar.
Jacobs said, ―Let‘s get back home before you spot something else.‖
>> <<
Jones stared at the bombers heading into the horizon, a large grin on
his gray-with-fear face. He removed part of the camouflage and
jumped onto the ground.
―Everyone still alive?‖ he asked the others, who now stood on their
feet, patting the sand off their clothes.
Palmer smiled broadly at the Englishman. ―Dude, that was mean.
Only you guys could think of a trick like that.‖
―You all right?‖ Cassel asked Jones, who was sweating profusely
and looking sick.
―Gawd, no,‖ said Jones, grinning. ―I almost pissed my shorts.‖
Keyes and the two British corporals burst out laughing, awkward
smiles replacing the terrified look on their faces.

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Dalton was afraid of more patrol planes. He nodded to no one in

special and decided not to risk the incursion anymore under daylight.
Still wide-eyed with tension, he turned to Collins. The American was
on his feet now by one side of the truck with the other man who‘d just
left its underside.
―A close call, eh?‖ said Dalton.
―We nearly got caught in the open,‖ Collins said, his sweated face
still wearing great apprehension. ―Geez, the Krauts spotted us on the
first pass!‖
Dalton saw Jones in the distance, standing on his truck and swaying
the roundel aloft and shouting something that he could swear was bad
language. He grinned. ―That‘s why we always keep a card up our
sleeves.‖
Collins reached for his canteen and took a gulp of water. His hands
were trembling.
―But we might not be so lucky next time,‖ Dalton said. ―We‘d better
stay here until night falls.‖
―I agree totally,‖ said Collins, wiping the muddy sweat from his
face.

**************
35
Darkness was descending on Casablanca. As the temperature fell in
pace with the passing minutes, desert winds blew toward the coast
engulfing the city in a blinding haze. Even before sunset it was
already alive with lights from vehicles, streetlamps, and buildings.
Seen in the distance, they seemed flashing dots of fireworks. No one
seemed to give importance to the blackout orders.
Sarah stood by her bedroom window surveying the dirt road that led
the small villa to the city walls, oblivious of the beautiful scene. Klein
and Cohen hadn‘t returned yet. They‘d driven here after the meeting
with the Germans, dropped her and Brzezinski off, and hurried back
to the city. No explanation had been given. But she could bet it was
something to do with this Nazi agent whose name she‘d recalled from
the files in Tripoli.
Fischer.
What if it‟s not? Are they trying to reach Allan in Egypt without my
knowing? That could well be. It‟s not fair!
She screamed inwardly several times and began chewing a nail. The
idea of volunteering to travel to meet up with him over in Alexandria
and make copies of the files crossed her mind.

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Klein‘s Renault suddenly materialized out of the flying dust. It

moved very slowly toward the villa along the dirt road, lights doused.
For some reason they didn‘t want to raise attention. Sarah‘s tension
turned into fear.
A moment later she was at the front door waiting for them.
Brzezinski was at her side with two guns tucked at the back of his
belt. The car pulled up at the driveway and she headed there.
―Do you care telling me what‘s going on?‖ she said, addressing both
Klein and Cohen as they climbed out of the car. ―I think I still am in
the team.‖
―Inside,‖ Cohen said.
When they all stood in the living room, she took in a lungful of air
to calm herself down. Her legs trembled. ―So?‖ The girl said, looking
Cohen in the eye.
―We were cleaning your shit,‖ Klein said.
―I don‘t know what you‘re talking about,‖ she said nervously. ―I‘ve
done nothing wrong.‖
―Nothing is a good word,‖ Klein went on. ―That defines yours and
your English boyfriend‘s contribution to us.‖
―Go to hell, Uri,‖ she said. ―That name: Fischer. Let‘s start with it,
okay? It‘s going to unravel a lot of information because we were there
sticking our necks out––not you!‖
―Enough,‖ Cohen said harshly.
Sarah swallowed her anger. ―I was worried,‖ she said. ―What
happened?‖ Her eyes shone with tears.
―Pipe down, okay,‖ Cohen said as he turned in the direction of the
kitchen, Sarah at her side. ―I just wanted to be sure our
communications are still safe. We paid a visit to the telephone
exchange to learn whether there are any new switchboard operators. If
this Colonel Fischer‘s in the neighborhood, he‘d plant someone there
in the first place.‖
―Any chances of an LRGD patrol coming as far as Morocco?‖ she
said as he opened the fridge.
―Of course not. Are you kidding? Four thousand miles away!‖
―But I told you that Allan…the British agent mentioned that some
friends of his on one of those patrols were the likeliest target of this
man Fischer.‖ She paused, thinking, and added, ―So he must be
somewhere in eastern Libya or Egypt.‖
Cohen shrugged as he placed a slice of cheese into a roll of bread.
―That‘s a possibility.‖
―And what if he doesn‘t know how dangerous this Nazi agent is?‖

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―It means his friends are in trouble.‖

―So when are we telling him about it?‖
―We‘re not,‖ Cohen said while munching his sandwich.
―Why?‖
―Just because.‖
Sarah placed her hands on her temples. ―I can‘t believe my ears!‖
―You heard the man very well,‖ Klein said aloud from the doorway.
―The deal was that he was to provide our man in Madrid the copies of
the stuff in Tripoli. And he didn‘t do it. So we‘ll just sit and wait.‖
Klein paused and smiled wryly at Cohen. ―Can I tell her?‖
Cohen shrugged as he bit into his sandwich. ―Go on.‖
Klein stepped into the kitchen and said, ―Your boyfriend sent us
another message. He wants to know whether we know anything about
Fischer and someone named Paul Cassel.‖
Sarah frowned. ―Paul Cassel?‖
Cohen nodded. ―White said he‘s with the patrol. And he thinks he‘s
the Kfir.‖ He and Klein began laughing.
―What did you say in response?‖ he said.
―Not a thing,‖ Cohen said.
―I don‘t believe it‘s happening,‖ Sarah said, lifting her arms in a
gesture of exasperation. ―It‘s crazy!‖
―White deserves our silence by not sending the copies,‖ Cohen said.
Sarah said, ―How can he be in two places at the same time? He had
to go to Alexandria to warn his friends. And you two well know
that…the Kfir––‖
―I‘m past caring whether the Abwehr or the Security Service catch
every goddamn Tommy in North Africa,‖ Cohen said. ―We had a
deal. We risked you to do our end in it. Now, if they want to play
games, we‘ll play games too.‖
―What‘s got into you, Sarah?‖ Klein said, staring angrily at her.
―You almost got killed and still you seem to be on their side.‖
―There are two sides: ours and the Nazis‘. And I know where I am.
More, I didn‘t get captured or killed because White saved me.‖
―How can you be sure he‘s not going to keep the information in the
docs only for the MI-6?‖ Cohen asked, finishing his sandwich.
―I can. Everything he did in the eight hours or so we were together
indicates he‘ll stick to his promise. Hell! He risked himself until the
last minute to have me going in safety to the train station.‖
―That changes exactly nothing, you naïve girl,‖ Klein said. He
chuckled, saying, ―Eight more hours and you‘d have married him,
wouldn‘t you?‖

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―I don‘t know; but I‘d never marry you!‖ She turned to face Cohen.
―Sir, let him know about Fischer‘s methods. This maniac must be
passing by someone else to get near and harm the colleagues of the
British agent. Our allies.‖
Cohen put his both hands on his hip. He sighed audibly. ―I won‘t,
my dear, I‘m sorry.‖
―Please, sir. We‘re their only chance of knowing how these men will
be entrapped. I …I give you my word Allan‘s giving us the copies as
soon as he can.‖
―I‘m sorry. Until he does that, I‘ll be only waiting.‖
―But it can be too late. Allan may not have time to warn the men in
the patrol, for God‘s sake! And now this man with the patrol…‖ she
paused, thinking. ―What made the British think this man is the Kfir?‖
―I don‘t care,‖ Cohen said.
―But you should!‖ Sarah shouted.
―Stop it, Sarah,‖ Klein said, glaring at her.
―Are you answering to White‘s message or not, sir?‖ she said.
―No, he‘s not,‖ Klein said.
She didn‘t wait for an answer from Cohen. A second before the first
teardrop rolled down her cheeks, she turned away and went into her
bedroom upstairs, slamming the door.

**************
36
The Tiergarten was a vast, densely-forested park in central Berlin.
Drained of color by the autumn, it wasn‘t the most pleasant of sights
at the moment. The Reichstag and several other government buildings
and embassies were located in the vicinities. On its eastern rim stood
the Brandenburg Gate, the city‘s postcard symbol.
Like in every chilly November pre-dusk minutes, it was nearly
deserted. Bare-leafed trees pointed to the fast-darkening sky as gusts
of freezing breeze hissed around their branches. A few heavily-clad
people shuffled along the paths that cut through the woods. Some
women with children or dogs in their tug and the same number of
Sunday workers contented themselves with a walk back home during
the last moments of daylight. They all seemed oblivious of the man
who stood at the parapet overlooking the lake in a black-leather
overcoat. Already Baltzer regarded those passersby with thoughts that
had never occurred to him.
Could they be aware of anything that‟s happening in the world I‟m
part of? No, it‟s well kept in secrecy. Will they ever learn what‟s

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going on in the concentration camps? Or in far-flung Abyad? Very

unlikely. And what might happen to the Reich if the bulk of the
population found out? There would be a huge commotion, for sure.
Maybe not. What if it did occur? Could some new leader outspeak
Hitler and topple him? Damn, it‟d be the same as sending me to
Stalingrad.
The thought of Russia made him shiver with what he immediately
figured out was more imaginary cold than a draft of gelid wind. He
turned to face the lake, whose waters looked like mercury in the fast-
fading daylight, a thin mist creeping from it. The sight made Baltzer
raise the collar of his coat and hug it around him. No, this freaking
cold isn‘t only imaginary, he thought, blowing into his hands.
Another breeze rushed past him, and with it came the sudden
materialization of General Joachim Weber at his side in a brown
overcoat, a dark green scarf looped around his neck. The older man
touched his hat in salute.
―No darts this time, General, for Christ‘s sake,‖ Baltzer said.
―Only talking, Major. Only talking,‖ Weber said. ―Had your bosses
done so instead of evoking lines from Mein Kampf, we‘d be in a warm
meeting room now.‖
―Oh, but how could we live without a pretty girl cheating you by
pushing a stroller? If the men who are in meeting rooms right now
hadn‘t turned the planet upside down, we––the dirt handlers––
would‘ve taken their places, don‘t you think? Just like in a fucking
banana republic.‖
―I doubt it. My personnel are giving their blood for a noble cause.‖
―Bullshit. They‘re just medal-starved boy scouts.‖
―They‘re soldiers.‖
―Toy soldiers, more like. The last real soldiers I saw were on an
isolated beach in Libya standing on their toes for their final
operational instructions.‖
―Very well, then. So you‘ve changed your mind?‖
―About?‖
―About sharing with me the details of that op in Libya.‖
―Don‘t push it, Weber. You‘ll learn in due time.‖
―That‘s what I expected to hear from Kaltenbrunner, not from you.‖
―I can‘t reveal it; my chances of staying clear depend on it.‖
―Who are you protecting: Fischer or Kaltenbrunner?‖
―Both could well go to hell by me. I‘m more interested in saving my
own ass for the time being. But since you mentioned him, yes, I‘m
protecting Fischer. I have to.‖

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―Okay, let‘s start it over,‖ Weber punched Baltzer on the shoulder.

―You called me, and here I am. Now, what can this Jew-lover, fifth
column do for you, comrade?‖
―I need two gold bars.‖
Weber chuckled. ―Aren‘t you loaded enough yet?‖ he said, then
took a serious tone. ―What happened? They found out about your little
tricks?‖
―No, but they will very soon if I don‘t get to replace those fucking
bars.‖
―How many?‖
―I already told you––two!‖
Weber shook his head. He lit up and looked the man in the eye. ―Are
you serious?‖
―Yes, I‘m serious, damn it!‖
―How the hell could I help you get those bars? In practical terms.‖
―You have access to anyone in the Reichsbank? Anyone from whom
you can pull some strings?‖ Weber nodded without much enthusiasm
and Baltzer went on, ―I guess I‘ve money enough to both bribe some
clerk and pay for the two bars.‖
―Nuts!‖ Weber had a little fit of coughing and added, ―If you have
the money worth the bars, why the heck do you need to buy them?‖
―The stuff belongs to Heusseini now. The guy‘s a freak; got a fetish
for gold. And he wants the bars, not cash.‖
Weber‘s face was like thunder. ―So he‘s the newest member of the
club, huh?‖ He began walking in a circle around Baltzer. ―But he‘s the
one selling.‖
―Selling what, for fuck‘s sake?‖
―Hideouts in Syria; it‘s a lot closer than South America.‖
―What are you saying, man?‖
―Your friend Ziegler flew to Argentina yesterday morning, did you
know that?‖
―Yes, I…‖
―Well, his task was to buy the local authorities off so that people
like your boss had a nice place to stay should we lose the war; or the
Wehrmacht generals stop being stupid and overthrow them.‖
Baltzer laughed out aloud. ―Forget about this coup-d‘état dream of
yours. Do you know the thing about mice?‖
―No.‖
―Did you know one can keep them on a table without a cage,
because they‘re afraid of jumping off high vertical drops?‖
―So what?‖

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―It‘s like us Germans.‖ Baltzer held out his both arms. ―Your heroic
Wehrmacht and most citizens would rather have the whole country
smashed to rubble than being humiliated in another peace treat.‖
―It makes you feel sort of untouchable, doesn‘t it?‖
―It did. Then the raghead stepped into the picture.‖
Weber flung his cigarette stub away. ―Okay. Let‘s try some quid pro
quo now. You tell me if I‘m wrong or right, okay?‖
Baltzer hesitated. ―All right.‖
―This mission was Heusseini‘s idea, right?‖
―Yes.‖
―The militia is tasked with destroying the LRDG patrols.‖
―No.‖
―So what is it?‖
―Can‘t say. Try something else.‖
―Who killed my two men in Tripoli?‖
―I don‘t know. It could‘ve been a million people––from the Mufti‘s
men to the Haganah.‖
Weber lit another cigarette. ―Fischer is coordinating the op with this
General Matouk at his side, is he?‖
―More or less.‖
Weber let out a snort. ―The Grenadiers waiting on the beach––Team
Lion; what‘s their role in this thing?‖
―I don‘t know. They were Fischer‘s idea.‖
―He didn‘t tell you what he was planning for them?‖
― ‗Course not. It‘s Fischer we‘re talking about, isn‘t it?‖
Weber ran a hand through his thinning hair and said, ―The LRDG‘s
the scourge of Rommel‘s supply lines. Is Kaltenbrunner trying to win
him over to his side by annihilating them?‖
―Ask the ogre about that.‖
―General Kesselring‘s recent promotion to Chief-in-Chief South has
something to do with this thing, no?‖
―Maybe.‖
―You‘re turning me around.‖
―Am I?‖
―Yes, you damn sure are.‖
Baltzer looked up at the dark sky and said, ―There‘s one more thing
you gotta be aware of.‖
―What?‖
―This job may get out of control any moment. The militia attracted
an avenging LRDG patrol by ambushing and murdering a unit of
Scottish troopers. Those fuckers gutted the survivors alive.‖

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―They broke the Geneva Convention! Whose idea was it?‖

―Kaltenbrunner and Heusseini‘s.‖
―How come you and Fischer agreed to it?‖
―We didn‘t, for fuck‘s sake. But the ogre and the raghead never
changed their minds.‖
―Filthy assassins!‖
―There‘s more. The savages killed a lot of civilians in a village in
the middle of nowhere while looking for informants to the Brits.‖
―Oh my God. Still you won‘t help me stop it.‖
―No chance.‖
―What the hell could happen if you told me what this set-up is for?‖
―It would leak and the op would be wrecked, and I‘d be in deeper
shit than now.‖
―How could it be wrecked?‖
―This whole shit depends on surprise. It‘s propaganda, okay! The
ogre wants to…‖ he stopped himself.
Weber took a long brooding drag on his cigarette. ―Well, well, well.
So Goebbels‘ still Rommel‘s number one fan, isn‘t he?‖
―Never ask anything you already know the answer.‖
Weber‘s face reddened. ―Insane bastards! Swine! This whole thing
stinks!‖
―Are you helping me with the bars or not?‖
―Scratch that. Those bars have serial numbers.‖
―I don‘t care! Leave the part of making up excuses to me.‖
―Listen, I‘ll see what I can do to play for time. In the meantime, stay
away from your office. Call in sick or something. It‘ll be easy; you
look like shit.‖
―Thanks.‖
―Just trying to help.‖
―Good point––why are you trying to help me?‖
―Because you‘re no kind of psycho. I know you never killed or
tortured anyone in all these years in the SD. You‘re just a conman in
uniform.‖
Baltzer chuckled. ―You never tire of flattering me, do you?‖
―Do you have any shit to splat Kaltenbrunner with after he learns
you cashed the bars in Rome?‖
―Not a thing,‖ Baltzer said, shaking his head.
―So you better find one––and fast. Try to find any traces of
Kaltenbrunner‘s misconducts. It‘d come in handy as well as those
gold bars.‖

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**************
37
Roger Laurent‘s big colonial house in Casablanca faced one of the
most depreciating views a real estate broker could think of: a
cemetery. More than the hair-raising imaginary fears that graveyards
cause on the average human imagination, this one had an important
political value in the city. Thirty-five years back, the French
administrators had attempted to build a railway passing right through
it. The results were riots erupting throughout the city.
But Laurent hadn‘t witnessed that. He‘d been only twelve years old
and was thousands of miles away. Born in Quebec, Canada, he‘d
moved to America at the age of fifteen with his parents. At the age of
eighteen he‘d joined the U.S. Army, and made the rank of lieutenant
three years later. Assigned to an artillery battalion during World War
I, his observation missions behind enemy lines pinpointing enemy
supply routes via telegraph had caused so much harm to the Germans
that he‘d become another of so many unsung heroes of the American
expeditionary force.
A peaceful twenty-one year interlude accompanied him until his last
day in the army as a radio-telegraph specialist. But when the first
German U-Boats were seen in the Atlantic, Laurent was taken out of
retirement by ―Wild‖ Bill Donovan, head of the Office of Strategic
Services. They‘d first met at a small village in France in September
1918. Since then, Laurent had become Donovan‘s special advisor on
matters of communications technology. Posted to Casablanca
undercover as a vice consul and next metamorphosed into a
commercial attaché for the Turkish government, Laurent had been
doing what he was best at: creating communication chains for the
Allies and friendly nations. Touched by the desperate Jewish families
who poured into Morocco fleeing the Nazis, Laurent had offered the
local Haganah circuit his relay network deployed in neutral countries.
That was how Moshe Cohen got his messages through to Telaviv fast
and unhindered.
Trying to get his mind out of those complications as much as he
could, Roger Laurent lay comfortably on the mohair couch of his
study, sipping the eighth or ninth cup of tea of the day. It was his sole
vice. The book-lined room was a near-perfect reproduction of the
small library of his house in Virginia, save for the exquisite tapestries
he‘d never find in America.
When he began to wonder how his wife, two daughters, and four
grandchildren were doing in the States, the front doorbell rang. He

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placed the cup of tea on the coffee-table at the center of the study,
replaced the loose suspenders over his undershirt, and got up. He
stepped out of the study with a heavy frown on his pugnacious face,
his heartbeat quickened.
Who the hell could it be? Thieves? The pro-Nazi Vichy police? A
lost spirit from the cemetery?
He stopped and glanced at the drawer in the bureau-bookcase to his
left; his gun was in there. He decided otherwise and went on toward
the door.
He undid the latch and swung the door open. The white-clad figure
in the porch nearly made him suffer a heart attack.
―My goodness‖, he said in English, left hand flat on his chest,
gawping at the ghost-like pile of bright Moroccan garments that stood
motionlessly in front of him.
―Mr. Laurent?‖ a woman‘s voice with a little accent came through
the silky veil on her face.
Laurent, still regaining control of his legs, peered through the veil in
search of her eyes. ―You shouldn‘t do that to anyone who lives near a
graveyard, my dear,‖ he said in faulty Arabic.
―Oh, I‘m sorry,‖ the woman said in English and lifted her veil. ―I
think you know me.‖
Laurent recognized her at once despite they‘d never been properly
introduced. ―You‘re Sarah Gavrir. Cohen‘s assistant, right?‖ He‘d
shifted into English, too.
―Yes,‖ she was shivering with cold despite the layers of fabric.
―Could we talk for a minute?‖
―But of course. Come on in, child; before you freeze to death,‖
Laurent said, waving her inside.
―Th…thank you,‖ Sarah said, teeth chattering, and went in.
Laurent lingered at the doorway to make sure she hadn‘t been
followed. He peered myopically into the hazy pall of dust and saw
nothing. He closed the door behind him as he examined the girl
standing in the center of his living room.
―It‘s a pity that in our business we can neither pay social visits to
each other nor be introduced in public.‖
She smiled meagerly. ―That‘s true, sir.‖
―You came all the way from the villa on foot?‖
―Yes,‖ she said, rubbing her hands together. ―I had no other option.‖
Laurent nodded approvingly. ―Brave girl,‖ he said. ―Like a good
sabra.‖

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―Stupid, too,‖ she said. ―Silk dresses are useless against this night
desert wind at night this time of year.‖
―I believe it‘s the same in Palestine.‖
―Worse, sometimes,‖ she said as her face regained color.
―Well,‖ he said, placing his hands on his hips. ―This must be some
sort of emergency.‖
―Yes, it is. I‘ve got to contact Telaviv as soon as possible.‖
―Is there any problem with the phone at the villa?‖
Sarah shook her head like a child denying to have broken an
expensive vase. The helplessness about her was disarming. She said
nothing.
―Does Mr. Cohen know of this?‖
She repeated the gesture.
―Is it going to land me in trouble?‖
The girl shook her head dubiously. ―I don‘t know, sir. But I do need
to deliver a message––still tonight.‖
Laurent scratched his snub nose and glanced at the black telephone
on the wall-set. It will land me into trouble, he thought. ―I hope it‘s at
least for a good cause,‖ he said.
―It definitely is, sir,‖ Sarah‘s face glowed with relief. ―Trust me.‖
―Does it have anything to do with the German resistance members
Klein met yesterday?‖
Sarah made a face. ―I thought you only relayed the messages, Mr.
Laurent.‖
―No, we share our findings, too. Why are you surprised?‖
She bit a lip. ―So it means you‘re telling them about my coming
here.‖
He nodded with a trace of sadness. ―Yes,‖ he said, and then smiled.
―But not tonight.‖
Sarah smiled. ―Thank you, Mr. Laurent. Thank you so much.‖
―My pleasure,‖ he said, nodding to himself, and smiled at her.
―Would you like some tea?‖

PART 4

38
It was a few minutes past seven in the morning when the black
Volvo limousine slipped out of the growing Monday morning traffic
and slowed to a halt on the curbside. A cold drizzle was falling,
making the vehicle‘s paintwork shine and the hood steam as if its

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engine were revving at full power; but the driver had already switched
it off.
In the backseat, a baggy-eyed Joachim Weber lit his eight cigarette
of the day as he gazed at the Berlin stadium, way to his left. His lungs
whistled while he breathed pensively, eyes fixed at the ominous giant
of concrete gawping at the gray sky. It bore several red banners on
poles at its top ring, all wet and motionless with the lack of wind. It
gave him a feeling of timelessness, a scene frozen in time. A
considerable time had passed, though. Six years. The year the
craziness had really taken shape for the first time. In there. In the
stadium.
Weber inhaled at his cigarette while recalling the wave of fanaticism
that had invaded hearts and souls during the Olympics of 1936. The
year the armed forces believed they were right at giving the Nazi party
the green light to pursuit some of Hitler‘s ideas. Its spur had been
Hitler‘s successful restoring of prosperity and the purging of the so-
called profiteers. That blended with the high level of soldier-like
obedience deeply rooted in the Teutonic mindset made it into an
irresistible wave of lunacy that turned Germany into a tyranny-ridden
police state. Now Weber knew they‘d been catastrophically wrong.
Including himself and his chief. Now the two of them were going to
meet here and try to fix yet another outcome of regretful decisions.
Weber opened the window a few inches to let some air in and smoke
out, for the immense relief of his non-smoking chauffeur. Cold bit
into his face, and he quickly cranked it closed again. At that moment a
dark car curbed behind the limousine. A tall, hatted figure dismounted
and crossed to the Volvo, joining Weber in the backseat after the
latest‘s chauffeur had opened the door for him.
―Aren‘t you being a little paranoid, my friend?‖ asked Wilhelm
Canaris, the Prussian who was the head of the German army
intelligence service. ―The offices are checked daily for mikes.‖
―I know. But we were wiretapped by Baltzer once. Others may be
doing the same now.‖
―That‘s what I call paranoia,‖ Canaris said, placing a wet copy of
the Berlinen Zeitung on his lap. ―His interest in everyone‘s little flaws
is what worries me.‖
A shrug. ―He only keeps those dossiers to protect him from small
fish like himself.‖
―Which won‘t suffice now. Did you find them in his apartment?‖
―No. He must keep them in his office. Christ! But he does take
risks.‖

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―So…which way will Baltzer go now? Any chances he grows a little

conscience and has second thoughts?‖
―It‘s hard to say. Cunning the way he is, he might even tell
Kaltenbrunner it was we who planted that money in his account to try
to save his ass.‖
―Kaltenbrunner is a cold maniac, not a stupid bureaucrat. He and his
closest friends want to steal alone––they‘ll punish any other
embezzlers with no mercy.‖
―That‘s exactly what I told him, but…‖
―Relax, will you,‖ Canaris said, took off his hat, and ran a hand on
his prematurely white hair. ―You tell him of those pals of his in
Russia?‖
Weber sighed. ―I did. It‘s just that I‘ve got a feeling he was given
too much time. We‘re being too obvious.‖ Weber shifted in the seat,
wincing at the pain below his belly button.
―Your bladder again?‖ Canaris said, looking pitifully at his long-
term colleague. ―A week off would do you, man. Think about it.‖
―We don‘t have a week,‖ Weber said as he dabbed at his forehead
with a kerchief. ―Fischer and Heusseini are going to turn up in glory at
the chancellery sooner than that.‖
―To be frank,‖ Canaris said. ―I‘m so curious I barely can wait. The
idea came from the top, and the rebellious bastard took it. A pig like
Baltzer was assigned to work with him, and he accepted him in the
team.‖ He nodded to himself. ―All Fischer wants is to get it done.‖
―It‘s so Fischer.‖
―I wonder whether he‘s willing to be in his bosses‘ circle of secret
prosperity.‖
―No, not him,‖ Weber said, shaking his head. He was looking at the
stadium again.
―Why not probe Stenzel a little?‖ said Canaris. ―He‘s got to have
some dirt under the carpet.‖
―You may be right. He‘s too straight to be for real. But we‘d spend
several days to find out something.‖
―Forget it, then,‖ said Canaris. ―Our deadline is too tight.‖
―Christ!‖ said Weber. ―But what the hell‘s going to take place until
the middle of the month? The reference is clear. Their timetable is
based on this thing. But what‘s it?‖
―You bet I‘ve thought a lot about it, too,‖ said Canaris. ―There‘s no
massive operation in the area to be made by the Afrika Korps.‖ He
chewed on a lip as Weber lit up once more.

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―When it finally happens,‖ Weber said. ―If it happens, one thing is

for sure: we‘ll be very angry at how obvious it was. I can even see our
faces now.‖
―We‘re getting older, that‘s what.‖
―And soon we‘ll be older and decadent––thanks be to Fischer.‖
Canaries bit a lip again. ―We shouldn‘t be waiting. Knowing and
waiting. Kaltenbrunner‘s aware––at least he must be––that this job is
so big we couldn‘t have overlooked it.‖
―Or maybe he‘s counting on it,‖ Weber said. ―On our sitting and
trying to figure out Heusseini‘s plans.‖
Canaris nodded thoughtfully. He said, ―He is counting on us to do
that and find out nothing. The humiliation would be bigger that way.‖
―I say we shouldn‘t sit and wait, then.‖
―So let‘s put our finger on it,‖ Canaris said angrily. ―I have an idea. I
just need to have a little talk to that scar-faced son of a bitch; and
rattle his cage a little, of course.‖
―Baltzer calls him ogre,‖ said Weber.
Canaris laughed. ―I‘m beginning to like him.‖
Weber had a spasm of coughing and smashed the cigarette butt in
the ashtray. ―What if Kaltenbrunner is expecting you to go to him to
learn something about this operation?‖
―He must be waiting for me to confirm Fischer‘s mission involving
the troops on the beach near Mersa Brega––but not to offer help,‖
Canaries said with a grim smile.
Weber was dumbstruck. ―You‘re offering collaboration?‖
―Yes––officially. Well…almost. Let‘s open a file mentioning we‘re
part of it, because of our men on that beach, and then we‘ll let it leak.
We can‘t interfere in the results, but the surprise factor will mean
nothing.‖
―Problem is, he does know we don‘t have much on this thing.‖
―So what?‖ Canaries laughed curtly. ―But he‘ll hate me twice as
much only for calling a meeting with him.‖
―I wonder what his reaction will be when you mention what little we
know.‖
―Well, he won‘t send me to the firing squad for this. At least not
yet.‖

**************
39
―That‘s all we needed,‖ Dalton said when the windstorm started to
blow from the empty heart of the Sahara a couple of hours after dawn.

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It rarely happened this time of the year. The bright sunlight and the
yellowish flying dust rapidly turned the surroundings into an
atmosphere of Saint Elmo‘s fire.
Collins said, ―I‘m beginning to suspect the desert likes making our
stay here unbearable.‖
Thin dirt was kicking into their faces, and it forced the drivers to put
the vehicles to a near crawl. It was as if they were heading into the
dust wave caused by the implosion of a building. Enfolded in an
endless beige veil moments later, the trucks plunged into the mass of
flying sand with visibility almost nil. It felt like driving into a funnel
with waves of dust slapping against them, the earthy smell filling their
nostrils. The scene was as if the desert were being slowly dissolved by
a cataclysm. They could do nothing but stop.
After the vehicles had been sheathed in their camouflaged meshes to
fight off the whips of sand, the crews produced wrenches, hammers,
wheel jacks and screwdrivers, and set about tending the vehicles to
pass the time. The storm stiffened even more, swallowing them as
they plodded away at the minor repairs. Everyone looked unruffled,
enjoying the forced stopover. Some troopers used the time to take
long, enlivening snoozes in their sleeping bags. Others cooked meals
or smoked while sitting Buda-like on the soft soil. A few were reading
books in their tents. A little group that lounged together in the covered
rear of a truck was gazing hungrily at the glossy poster of a
voluptuous pin-up girl that Keyes had brought in his backpack.
Already Cassel fell silent for a long time, an introspective frown on
his face. His complexion was sometimes grave, sometimes
expressionless. Every ten minutes or so he put his head out of the
layer of camouflage and peered into the bottomless storm as if
searching for something.
>> <<
The storm died two hours later, and the patrol was on the move
again. The surroundings seemed emptier than ever as they gathered
speed toward the west. The bigger bushes were caked and hard with
dust, the smallest ones almost buried to their tops. The desert was
quiet like a monster in repose.
Half an hour further on, a twenty-yard-deep substratum of hard-
baked ground appeared on their way. It was a gigantic cut in the
ground as far as eye could see. The last rains hadn‘t done it any good
besides filling its banks with tiny wild flowers. Where there should be
water were rocks and pebbles and stubby acacia trees.

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Dalton halted a few yards from the brink of the wadi. The vehicles
behind did the same in succession. Then he shivered with an odd fear,
like a jungle animal scenting danger.
―After we‘ve crossed it,‖ he said addressing Collins and his two
corporals, ―we‘ll get the Chevys covered again and wait for the
nighttime. We‘re too close to Agedabia to bust this mission.‖
―Got it,‖ Collins said, and he and the trooper manning the machine-
gun leaped out to pass the instructions on to the other crews.
The navigator climbed out with stiff-limbed difficulty, and walked a
few paces down the soft slope of the ravine, which was maybe a
hundred yards wide. Rubbing his back, he took a good look at the
giant crevice while walking along its edge, searching for a bank-to-
bank stretch without pools of very soft sand. But there seemed to be
none. The only paths crossing the wadi that were free of sandtraps had
boulders obstructing them. A few more minutes of mental calculations
of angles and speed were wasted before he gave up.
―Lots of pits of loose sand everywhere. Pockets of mud, too,‖ the
corporal told Dalton afterward. ―My guess is the whole thing became
a bloody trap with the last rains. We‘ll have to make use of all of the
sand channels and cross our fingers for them to hold.‖
―It‘ll take ages,‖ Dalton said and put on a grave face. He headed
down for the center of the wadi. The corporal and now Collins as well
followed him, testing the ground with their heels on the way.
Suddenly they got themselves stuck in the sand.
―Bloody hell, you‘re right,‖ Dalton told the corporal amid a stream
of curses as he wrenched his feet off the pool of sucking sand that
seemed to run the whole extension of the ravine.
He turned from him to Collins and said, ―Olivier‘s in charge of
fitting the sand-channels. Why don‘t you cowboys go and help him set
up that stuff?‖
―Sure,‖ Collins said. ―Learning something new every day.‖
The three Frenchmen came up each with two pairs of perforated
steel planking, and the Americans joined them as apprentices. Called
sand-channels by the British commandos, these lengths of perforated
metal railing were being used on the war theaters all over the world by
the Allies to build roads and airfields.
Olivier was teaching Barrett how to put the railings together as they
came to the edge of the wadi. While dragging strenuously the four
planks, he explained: ―We‘ll lay these things across the bed of the
ravine for the truck tires to roll along the pits of soft sand. That‘s how

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we won‘t get bogged. The trick is placing most of the length of the
planks covering the sandtraps. Do you follow?‖
―Yeah,‖ said the American. ―I thought it was much trickier.‖ He
took two of the planks from one hand of the European, and they two
descended into the parched river. Walking down the slope while
dragging the rails in both hands, Barrett glanced up and down the
ravine for signs of enemies. But all he saw was Collins, the two other
American sergeants, and the pair of Frenchmen coming up behind
them.
―Here,‖ Olivier said, thumping his right foot on the floor. ―Let‘s
start from here.‖
―Okay,‖ Barrett said and knelt down. As he mortised the planks
together, his attention was caught by treads made by vehicles just a
few yards away. He stepped closer. The tires had carved long, narrow
spurs across the cushion of soft sand. And those are fresh marks, he
told himself.
Whoever they are, they‟re near!
He stood up and called to Olivier, ―Yo, buddy, get over here. Take a
look at this.‖ He pointed alarmingly at his feet.
The Frenchman was leaning on one of his planks, trying to light a
cigarette. He was only slightly surprised as he went over and bent
down to check the scooped treads.
―Putain!‖ he said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes widening.
―What d‘ya think, pal?‖
―Probably Bersaglieri troops. Perhaps still by the opposite bank.
Hard to say.‖
―I guess these ruts were made just a coupla hours ago. And they
didn‘t get washed away by the wind ‗cause they‘re deep inside this
damn cleft.‖
―Correct,‖ Olivier said, nodding. ―Follow me.‖ He led the American
across the ravine in a diagonal path between its inclines, walking
carefully around the sagging patches of quicksand. Once on the foot
of the opposite embankment, they had to work their way up foot by
foot on a broad rocky stretch of the incline, the European always
leading. They stood on the edge, lungs burning, and raked the line of
the horizon with their wary eyes.
There was nothing moving in the direction of the tire marks, which
clearly disappeared behind the closest dunes, a mere fifty yards away.
The men who‘d crossed the wadi before them were still there.
Olivier could swear there was a butterfly in his stomach. ―Let‘s talk
to Dalton,‖ he said.

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>> <<
Dalton didn‘t seem to go very worried. Talking in a circle formed
around him by all men, he caught sight of Collins‘ eager leave-it-to-us
expression.
―Are you cowboys game?‖
―You can bet that, sir,‖ Collins said.
―Listen, it‘s no big deal. All you‘ve got to do is have a peek at the
blokes behind the dune, right?‖
―Piece of cake,‖ Keyes said.
―Just a squint,‖ the Welshman told them. ―I want to know who they
are and what guns they‘ve got.‖
―Okay,‖ said Barrett and Palmer said in unison.
Dalton said, ―In any case, shoot to kill.‖
―Got it, sir,‖ Collins said.
―Go when you‘re ready. Take your time,‖ Dalton said and walked
away, hoping it would give them self confidence. The other British
and the French did the same.
―One more thing,‖ Dalton said from a few yards away.
―What?‖ Collins said.
―Keep your trigger fingers under control and don‘t think twice
before running away if it turns up too dangerous. Courage‘s just a
temporary lapse of judgment.‖
Collins chuckled. ―Sure.‖
―Move off when you‘re ready,‖ said the Welshman.
Collins briefed his men rapidly as to what and how they should do
it. They then checked their guns and strapped on webbings with Colt
automatics in their holsters, grenades, pouches of extra ammunition,
and knifes in sheathes.
Each one of them took a long breath before starting toward the wadi.
Eyes wide open with apprehension, tongs suddenly dry in their
mouths while walking, they remembered how badly they‘d longed for
this moment: debut.
Moving slowly and wary of any sound, they surmounted both walls
of the gorge, feet sinking into soft yellowish sand. Outside, they began
following the pair of treads.
Collins halted and pointed to the tire spurs, his finger following
them all the way as far as the top of a dune. He murmured to his men,
―Let‘s get to the first base.‖ They flipped off the safeties in their
submachine guns and went up the incline.

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Crouching on the top of the dune, they realized that the treads
disappeared into a hollow among fifty-foot-high hills of sandstone
glued to one of its side.
Collins whispered, ―We go crawling as far as the border of the hole,
come on.‖
They dropped to the ground and started off, feeling the thrill of a
hunter as he closes with his prey. The soil was as hot as embers, but
tension and fear numbed their senses. They crept on and got to one of
the hills, their move silent on the huge mound of sandstone.
There was a metallic noise in the hollow, only twenty yards ahead
now.
Collins predicted contact with the enemy at any second. ―Get
ready!‖ he murmured.
Crouching again, they put their Thompsons leveled forward from
their hips, grenades hanging invitingly on the belts. They inched
carefully toward the junction of the hills, hearts drumming in their
chests. Sweating hard, they reached the edge of the hollow, which had
nearly a hundred feet of diameter, and finally sighted the enemy.
Two individuals of considerable stature lay facedown on the sandy
bottom. They were apparently taking a nap. Beige blankets wrapped
them from waist to head to protect them from the sun and dust. They
wore sand-colored pants and leather sandals. Each one was
perceptibly hugging a submachine gun, the blankets sagging with the
guns‘ barrels. Along with the sleeping men there were two
motorcycles loaded with small bundles of equipment, and extra fuel
cans. In one was a radio transmitter with a directional antenna. The
clinking was being produced by a gleaming aluminum mug: hanging
by a string to a handlebar, it swung with the drafts of wind and
bounced like a bell against its mudguard.
It was hard for Collins to bear out the identity of those men without
seeing their faces. He froze in position, looking dubious, imagining
what he should do next. He thought of capturing them. The thought
that there might be others nearby suddenly struck him.
At that moment one of the men in the hollow stirred, and rolled
slowly over still asleep. As he unconsciously pushed one side of his
blanket away, he revealed his face and part of his waist. He was an
Arab with a tangled beard, his head in a black turban. There were
scrawls in Arabic on the front of his combat fatigues, and a scimitar in
a leather scabbard at his waist.

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When Collins finally made out to whom those extravagant

characteristics epitomized to the perfection, he felt coldness in his
belly.
As the patrol had stopped during the sandstorm, this pair of
watchers––who were to have taken over the surveillance at some point
after dawn––miscalculated their pacing and passed by the dust-
cloaked trucks. On losing visual contact, they decided to loiter here
until the patrol reappeared on the caravan trails.
Of all that Collins had no idea.
Instead, he contemplated again sneaking up and having those two
militiamen with their arms held high, taken by surprise. But he
changed his mind as a little voice in his head warned him off.
Two lacks of judgment in fewer than five minutes, huh? Get out of
here, you fool!
Collins beckoned to his men, and they backed away silently.

**************
40
The smell of fresh coffee made Sarah wake up. Without opening her
eyes, she let her nostrils itch in search of the source of the vapors.
Then she remembered she wasn‘t in her bedroom. She opened her
eyes to focuse on the red silk cover of a cushion. She was lying on her
stomach in Roger Laurent‘s living room couch, her head covered with
a pair of other cushions the same color.
It took her a few seconds to realize she‘d had a good seven- or eight-
hour‘s sleep. For the first time in two weeks––since the day she‘d
been given the job in Tripoli––she felt replenished on waking up. No
nightmares, no jerking sleep; no long hours of dreary thoughts and
fatalist predictions before falling asleep. Nothing. This time she felt
good. She wasn‘t tired or with a headache or a bad taste in her mouth.
Nothing.
She moaned lazily still in the same position, rubbing her toes against
the soft fabric of the large couch. The smell of coffee increased, and
she decided to get up to lend Laurent a hand in the kitchen––and learn
of any outcomes of the messages they‘d sent during the night.
She rolled over, pushing the cushions gently away. Yawning, her
eyes blinked in response to the slats of sunlight through the Persian
windows. What she saw next made her let out a little scream and jump
to a sitting position.
―What are you doing here? How…‖ she was choking on the words,
staring in surprise at the man in front of her.

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―How I knew you were here?‖ Uri Klein said, his face neutral.
―Laurent told me. He had to.‖
Laurent emerged from the kitchen carrying a silver tray filled with
china cups and small dishes of fried eggs and goat cheese. He looked
proudly at the contents of the tray and grinned. ―Good morning,
everyone,‖ he said.
―Why did you do that?‖ she said aloud, head turned in his direction,
her voice almost a cry. ―You should‘ve waited at least for me to wake
up before calling them!‖
―You‘ll never believe how sorry I am, darling,‖ Laurent said. ―I feel
like a double agent––the worst creatures on earth.‖
Sarah grunted and repeated, ―You should‘ve waited.‖
―Again, I‘m sorry,‖ Laurent said. ―But I couldn‘t imagine how
important your information was.‖
―It was to me. If it were to my colleagues, they wouldn‘t have held it
only for themselves.‖ She glared at Klein as he dipped a tiny spoon
into his cup. The young man said nothing and sipped the black liquid
in his cup with the tranquillest of expressions.
―Good coffee,‖ Klein finally spoke.
Sarah said, ―Now these same colleagues of mine are going to have
the pleasure to give me a pep talk and humiliate me at will,‖ she said
and spun her head toward Klein. ―Or am I wrong, Uri?‖
He drank a little more of his coffee and looked her in the eye. ―Yes,
you‘re wrong.‖
She was dumbstruck. ―I‘m serious, Uri.‖
―So am I,‖ he answered.
―My dear Sarah,‖ Laurent said. ―Can‘t you see what‘s happened?
Everything‘s changed.‖
Sarah looked at Klein again. ―Care to explain why everything‘s
changed?‖
Klein ate a piece of cheese and said, ―Fantastic, Mr. Laurent,‖ Uri
said as the Canadian-American put the tray on his lap. ―I almost
forgot how your breakfast can get one suddenly hungry.‖
Sarah shrilled at him. ―Uri!‖
It was Laurent who spoke. ―He and Cohen were wrong about not
alerting the British about Fischer‘s profile. Your message was of vital
importance to sustain the good level of relationship between the
Haganah and the MI-6. And now your colleagues do admit they
should‘ve already sent it.‖
Sarah laughed. ―No, they‘ll never admit they were wrong––not to
me.‖

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―Don‘t start getting pedantic, Sarah.‖ Uri said between sips of hot
coffee.‖ Your clumsy, passionate decision to try to warn the Brits just
made our commanders agree on one subject without a full hour of
breast-beating and name-calling, that‘s all.‖
―As far as I know,‖ Laurent said while smiling, ―such thing is a
feat.‖
Sarah sighed in relief. ―Thank God I caught all in Telaviv in a good
mood,‖ she said as if not giving much importance to her most
immediate achievement. ―When are we going to contact the LRDG,
then?‖
―We‘re not,‖ Klein said. ―The old goats want to do it by
themselves.‖
―Why so?‖ Sarah said.
―Politics, naturally,‖ Laurent said. ―The Allied fleet just poured
troops into Morocco and everyone is willing to be a good boy now.‖
She deflated. ―But it‘ll take a lot of time.‖
Klein nodded pensively. ―What do you have in mind?‖
Sarah nearly gasped in surprise.
―See?‖ Laurent said addressing her. ―You‘ll be heard from now on
about important issues, my dear. No more pep talks or humiliations by
those two brutes.‖
Sarah fluttered her eyelashes clownishly at the man. ―You make me
feel like a queen.‖
―But you are a queen,‖ Laurent reached for her hand, lifted it to his
lips, and kissed it.
―Aw, come on,‖ said Klein. ―Cut the crap, will you, Laurent. You‘re
an American. American‘s don‘t behave like that. Leave it to those
limey bastards.‖
―Well, I‘m still a Canadian at heart.‖
Klein scoffed. ―Thicker than Americans!‖
―He still thinks all men should be rude like himself,‖ she said to the
older man.
―Rudeness keeps people alive in the field, okay?‖ Klein said. ―I
guess that was what your boyfriend did in Tripoli.‖
Laurent cleared his throat. The conversation here was becoming
personal and was going to heat up. ―I‘ll leave you two with some
privacy. Let me see what I‘ve got for lunch. You‘re both staying for
lunch, of course.‖
Klein said, ―Why not, my friend? Thanks a lot. I‘d work for Hitler to
have your food in my stomach more often.‖

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―I‘ll bear that in mind in case I keep on this habit of acting like a
double agent,‖ Laurent said and both laughed. The older man tapped
the younger on the shoulder and withdrew.
Klein was silent for a half minute. Then he said, ―You risked a lot to
help him.‖
She shook her head. ―To help a group of Allied soldiers in danger.‖
―That‘s what I meant. I‘m proud of you; really am. And I was
wrong, okay?‖ His face melted into a smile.
She crossed to him, knelt at his side and hugged him. ―You fool.
You made me feel terrible to do this.‖
―You‘ve definitely changed a lot since Tripoli. For better; in all
aspects, I guess.‖
―You think so?‖
―Of course! You‘re getting pretty much like myself––confident,
reckless.‖ There was pride in his face, his chest swelling.
―Very reckless, indeed. You‘ve been dating three Moroccan girls at
the same time.‖
He was shocked. ―Who the hell told you that?‖
―It doesn‘t matter,‖ she said, grinning and shaking her head. ―Uri,
Uri…‖
―Oh boy, I thought you didn‘t know...‖
―I knew; always did. And that story of my getting like you... hum, I
don‘t know. At least I have only one boyfriend––so to speak––and
thousands of miles between us.‖
He was still smartening from the blow. ―He owes you a lot.‖
―And I owe him.‖
Klein sighed. ―It feels so good helping who we like, doesn‘t it?
That‘s how I feel in relation to you.‖
―Don‘t start with that kind of mealy-mouthed talk. I know you‘d tell
everyone about the hogs my parents were raising.‖
―Aha! So it‘s true! I knew it, I knew it!‖
She punched him on a shoulder. ―Stop it right there. No one else
must know about it. Promise me––now.‖
―Okay, I will––but on one condition.‖
―Oh, no. Here comes old Uri again. What‘s it?‖
―Tell me, what‘s it taste like––the hog…barbecued.‖
She shook her head, laughing in disbelief. ―We were raising those
things to sell them to the Christian families in Safed.‖
―Save the excuses. Come on. Tell me!‖
She laughed, made an orgasmic face, and licked her lips. ―It tasted
like mortal sin.‖

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―You little devil!‖ He grabbed her and both fell to the thick rug in a
roll, giggling and poking at each other‘s ribs like they‘d done so many
times before in their kibbutz as innocent children and adolescents.
Their childish noises filled the large room for long minutes.
Exhausted, they lay on their backs, panting and staring at the ceiling.
After a while Klein said, ―How did you get out of the villa, by the
way?‖
―Down the rain pipe, of course.‖
Klein chuckled. ―That‘s so David.‖
She smiled broadly. ―Yes, that‘s exactly what my brother would‘ve
done.‖
―Back to business now. You heard the moosehead: the Allies just
landed in Morocco.‖
Sarah said, ―I guess it means we‘ll be soon on some sort of
vacations.‖
―Exactly,‖ Klein said and rolled to one side, chin resting on the palm
of his hand as he smiled at Sarah. ―Any plans?‖
Sarah‘s eyes lit up. She sat on the rug, biting her lip. ―Do you think
Laurent would mind sending just one more message to Alexandria?‖

**************
41
The red-brick sausage house overlooking the Landwehr Canal had
been there for at least three generations. Its owner seemed to try hard
to keep it as old-fashioned as possible. The windowpanes crisscrossed
with adhesive tape to prevent flying glass in case a bomb landed
nearby had been its only modifications in several years. It was
certainly twice as old as the four-storied buildings that flanked it. In
its more recent history, in the distant year of 1919, it‘d been a
gathering point of officers of the post-war German armed forces
(Reichswehr) and of the anti-Bolshevik Freikorps. Here they‘d
discussed several times their next moves in the fighting against the
communist menace that hung over the country. From such meetings
leading military figures like Admiral Wilhelm Canaris arose on the
armed forces‘ side. On the Free Corps‘ side came many members of
the SS. Now the old restaurant housed the antagonist intelligence
organs of the Fatherland in damage-control meetings. Their turf war
was escalating as the faltering invasion of Russia cost Germany the
lives of thousands every day. And Canaris was the most famous
lukewarm on Hitler in the military.

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Since the invasion of Russia in June 1941 (rebuked by the majority

of the Wehrmacht Generals as insanity) Canaris had had meetings
with his counterpart in the RHSA in order to exchange information
that couldn‘t be exchanged officially, confirm or deny gossips, or put
out quarrels between high-ranking officers of the Wehrmacht and the
Waffen-SS. Their latest meeting had been the motif of his single
encounter with General Ernst Kaltenbrunner, four weeks ago, three
days after Himmler had appointed him Adviser of Operations of the
RHSA; which in practice meant he‘d be heading all SD and Gestapo
ops until Hitler decided to confirm him as the new chief. Their
conversation had clarified the purpose of the fast-growing installations
run by the SS named Auschwitz. Or at least what the SS wanted to
reveal.
The admiral sat in a corner booth, a cup of coffee at his elbow, head
leaning against the ply-board partition, fingers drumming impatiently
on the table top. Milky sunlight streamed into the place and made it
look dusty. The SD officer searching for hearing devices on the
underside of his table was what bothered him the least; he‘d find
nothing.
Kaltenbrunner was running late on purpose; and that was the
problem. It was past eleven in the morning, and Canaris knew that a
good number of government clerks enjoyed having their midday
meals here. Soon the first ones would be looking in through the front
windows to discover why the sausage house was still closed. Why risk
being seen by a bunch of rumor-spreading bureaucrats? Canaris
thought in mounting anxiety. For the time being, the yet-to-be new
head of the RHSA was only worried that neither Hitler nor Himmler
got to know the topic in question.
Canaris didn‘t trust Kaltenbrunner, nor vice-versa. But if people in
the government began thinking otherwise, the Abwehr‘s sources of
information could change their minds. Canaris was struck by the fact
that connections between him and Kaltenbrunner could endanger his
position in the future––a near future without Hitler and his sidekicks.
He‘d promised to himself not to talk secretly with the ugly Austrian
again. But today‘s meeting would be worth it, he decided; the Nazis
were dangerous enough only by themselves, no telling how more so
while conspiring along with men like Haj Amim al-Heusseini.
―Admiral,‖ the young SD man said as he stood next to Canaris‘
overcoat hanging on a peg on the wall. ―May I?‖ He had a V-shaped
magnetometer in one hand.
―Go ahead, son,‖ Canaris said.

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―Thank you, sir,‖ the nervous-looking man said, and set about
patting the admiral‘s coat with the magnet finder.
Canaris was afraid the man had a heart attack if the owners of the
place reappeared behind the counter before the time. But they knew
better than that. A minute later the agent seemed to have finished his
sweep and gave a signal by scratching the top his head.
Kaltenbrunner knocked at the door and stepped in. The young
officer hurried to meet him by the entrance, exchanged a few words,
and left after certifying that the ‗closed‘ sign was hanging to the
doorknob.
―Sorry I‘m late, Admiral,‖ the Austrian said as he peeled off his
coat, extending a hand for a shake.
―Never mind. We all have our problems, don‘t we? How have you
been?‖
―Good, thank you. You look great, comrade,‖ Kaltenbrunner said as
they shook hands.
―Thank you, my friend,‖ Canaris said as the Austrian slipped into
the booth, sitting opposite him.
Kaltenbrunner said amiably, ―Speaking of problems, I hope we can
rule one of them out today.‖
―As we‘re not having this talk officially,‖ Canaris said, smiling,
―that can even get to happen.‖
The admiral sat there waiting for a flicker of reaction from the
Austrian, but there came none. Then he said, ―Would you like
something to eat? They‘ve got excellent Nuremberg sausages here,‖
he said pointing to the huge wall chart. ―Or just a cup of coffee?‖
―No, I‘m good, thanks,‖ Kaltenbrunner said and looked around. ―It‘s
been exactly four weeks since we first met here, right?‖ he lit a
cigarette.
―Well, these last weeks have been quite eventful; maybe more than
the ones preceding our last meeting.‖
―That‘s what I meant.‖
―Is that a bad or a good sign?‖
―Hard to say,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, forcing a grin. ―What do you
need from me, old buddy?‖
Old buddy! Don‘t push it, you prick, Canaris told himself. He
almost smiled as he recalled Baltzer called him ogre. ―Well, two of
my men got killed in Tripoli three days ago. Did you know that?‖
The Austrian frowned and shook his big head.‖ No, by whom?‖
―Not a trace about whom, so far. But there‘s a coincidence: they
were preparing a report on a job being done there by Baltzer, Stenzel,

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and Fischer. And it‘s one big file. They learned of an armored cavalry
unit withdrawn from the line and a shipload of fuel, supplies, vehicles,
and weapons enough for a full motor battalion also detoured from the
front to a…an unknown destination.‖
Kaltenbrunner was rigid and soundless as the admiral spoke. Canaris
went on, ―We investigated and confirmed the cavalry unit is sitting
and waiting on a beach in Libya. And yesterday I was told of Arab
militiamen, very recently released from jail in Libya too, bearing
authorization letters signed by General Kesselring and making use of
supplies of the Afrika Korps––possibly the same that came to Africa
for the use of this cavalry unit in question.‖
Kaltenbrunner was blinking faster than usual, which meant a lot.
―Admiral,‖ he began, while scratching the scar across the left side of
his face. ―I can tell you two things: one, they didn‘t mention killing
anyone––least of all any compatriots. Two, you and I know that
Haganah agents have been trying to beef up their fame in the area.
They must have something to do on this incident.‖
―And about the rest of the story?‖
The Austrian threw his both hands up in a signal of distress. ―The
presence of three SD men makes it obvious that there‘s a secret
operation in progress. I believe you must concur I‘m not supposed to
release any facts about it yet.‖
―I disagree, my friend.‖ My friend! Canaris felt revolution at
himself. ―There‘s about fifty cavalrymen and two million
Reichsmarks in equipments of the Wehrmacht in it. So why shouldn‘t
I be aware of what‘s going on in there?‖
―Because we don‘t mess with each other‘s operations, that‘s why.‖
―My field of responsibility is too involved for me to ignore this
thing, don‘t you agree? How could I not worry as to what a company
of assault troops and a horde of militiamen would be able to do with
all those resources?‖ Canaris decided to pretend he knew nothing of
what was really going on. ―What should I expect from it––a coup to
get the Italians out of Libya, maybe?‖
Kaltenbrunner shook his head slowly, pursing lips, eyes half closed.
Canaris continued, ―You know that if we help to form some kind
Arab legion or stir the Egyptian military to lend us a hand against the
British, it won‘t be enough to bring Turkey to our side. More likely,
the Arabs will go to the enemy‘s side faster than we think.‖
Kaltenbrunner‘s brow was beginning to show drops of sweat. ―Trust
me, it‘s only a minor job.‖

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―Even considering the Mufti‘s obvious interest and counseling in

it?‖
The Austrian shrugged. ―He‘s full of ideas; some are good, others
not.‖
Murdering civilians and prisoners is a good or a bad idea, you
bastard? Canaris thought. He said, ―Very interesting. But, sincerely, if
Rommel didn‘t produce such fantastic propaganda, I‘d bet it was
something against him.‖
Kaltenbrunner chuckled. ―On the contrary,‖ he said. ―Rest assured
of it, comrade.‖
Canaris lifted an eyebrow. ―Why did you need to rake up a small
army, then?‖
―To prevent useless killing and to assure it‘d be made in time, that‘s
all.‖
―In time for what? When will it be done?‖
The Austrian smiled at the man‘s subtle attempt to get it out of him.
―I still can‘t tell you, comrade.‖
―Come on. I didn‘t ask what; I‘ll give up, okay. It‘ll be a secret for
the sake of whatever it may result. No problem there. But let me know
when I must be waiting for the great news from Libya. It‘s not
compromising at all.‖ Canaris produced a file holder from his lap and
pushed it across the table. ―Here. Take this as mutual collaboration.‖
Kaltenbrunner read through the pages in the cardboard holder. There
were long transcriptions of conversations among Allied generals
somewhere in England, plus copies of MI-6 reports on himself.
―One of my best moles ended up in prison to get hold of this
material. He‘ll be probably facing a firing squad by the end of the
year.‖
Kaltenbrunner sighed. ―All right,‖ he said as he thrust the folder into
his coat, which was bundled on his lap. ―The mission in Libya will be
concluded within the next days.‖
Canaris decided to bait the hook. ―The ten next days, like?‖
―Less, much less,‖ Kaltenbrunner said. ―And, once more, don‘t
worry. It‘s a mere special forces mission to make the man at the
chancellery happy.‖
Canaris nodded. He‘d gotten all he needed. ―I believe in you. Let‘s
wait, then.‖
―Good.‖ Kaltenbrunner checked his watch. ―I‘m sorry, Admiral, but
I‘ve got to go.‖
―Me, too.‖ They shook hands and rose. Kaltenbrunner left first,
Canaris one minute later.

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>> <<
The admiral opened the door of the black Mercedes and sat on the
back seat. Weber was on the wheel; the Admiral‘s chauffeur hadn‘t
come. What they were going to discuss couldn‘t be heard by anyone.
―How did it go?‖ Weber asked, keying the engine.
―He said exactly nothing we already knew.‖
―We knew he wouldn‘t,‖ Weber said, defeated.
―It must be some plot to gain Rommel‘s sympathy. Kaltenbrunner
must be wanting to be the genius who swung a Wehrmacht general on
to their side. Ever thought about that?‖
―I‘d rather not,‖ Weber said. ―We‘d be unemployed.‖
―Or dead, more like.‖
―Now we sit and wait for it to happen?‖
Canaris was staring through the windshield at nothing, his eyes
angry. ―It won‟t happen. Let me see the draft.‖
Weber gave him two handwritten pages containing everything they
knew about the mysterious operation. The admiral took a fountain pen
from a coat pocket and wrote two lines at the bottom of the second
page.
―To tell the truth, he told me something of extreme importance,‖
Canaris said and laughed humorlessly. ―I made the bastard relax for
just a second and he unknowingly told me when it was going to be
finished. All we need now is that the right people will know how to
use this little detail.‖
―Who‘s the right people?‖
―Here,‖ Canaris handed him back the report. ―It‘s going to be a long
cable.‖
Weber read the first line: it was saying the mission would be
accomplished within the next forty-eight hours. The second line made
him jump in the seat: it was the codename and call sign of an Abwehr
officer based in Athens, Greece. They‘d recently learned something
very useful about him: his newest mistress was an informer for the
Haganah. They hadn‘t turned her into a source of disinformation yet;
so whatever she found out would be taken seriously by her controller.
―God damn it!‖ Weber said and had a fit of coughing.
Canaris said, ―Funny thing is that Scarface told me to be aware of
the activities of the Haganah in the area. I just can‘t think of a better
way to ruin the whole thing without getting involved.‖
―As the Bedouin profess,‖ Weber said, ―every enemy of my enemy
is my friend.‖
―Nice thinking. Let‘s just hope the Jewish girl gets to do it in time.‖

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―Why not let it leak straight to the Brits instead?‖

―They wouldn‘t listen; or would write it off as disinformation.‖
Weber sighed audibly. ―I still don‘t like it.‖
Canaris leaned forward and slapped the general on the shoulder.
―Don‘t feel guilt, old friend. Just remember Machiavelli: the ends
justify the means.‖
―And what would be the ends in this case.‖
―Not letting the man at the chancellery and his friend Heusseini be
happy.‖

**************
42
Colonel Robert Cameron stood by the door of the LRDG room at
the office of the Naval Intelligence gazing at a typed sheet of paper,
his brow wizened in deep thought. When he finally reached for the
doorknob, White and Latif walked around a corner and joined him.
The Englishman was wearing a brand-new beige suit, his previous set
of clothes in a paper-wrapped bundle under one arm. He‘d also shaved
and taken a long shower.
They‘d spent the night before examining and discussing the
information in the files. He, White, and Catherine had slept in bedrolls
in the room waiting expectantly for Dalton to report some sort of
disaster. To everyone‘s relief nothing had happened.
―Good afternoon, Colonel,‖ White said, studying the Scot‘s face.
―One can tell you‘ve just received bad news.‖
Cameron opened the door and waved them inside. ―Forget about me
for a while. Where have you lads been?‖
They entered the room to find Catherine sitting at the desk with the
transmitter, black headphones crowning her red head. She stole a
glance at the three men and returned her stare into the frequency band
of the radio. Cameron shut the door softly behind him so as not to
disturb her.
―We had lunch at Mustapha‘s,‖ Latif said. ―Next I took him to a fine
tailor I know so he could buy himself some new clothes.‖ He gave a
tip-to-toe wave of hand at White.
―On the taxpayers‘ expense, both things, am I correct?‖ Cameron
added.
―Certainly,‖ White said as he moved toward Catherine. ―Just like
everything we‘ve been doing for the last years.‖
―I see,‖ the Scot said.

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White stood behind Catherine, bent down, and whispered into her
ear, ―You shouldn‘t work so hard.‖ He had the satisfaction of seeing
the almost colorless hairs at the back of her neck stand up.
―Suffering is my surname,‖ she said concealing a grin as she took
the headphones off. ―Life will be so boring when the war‘s over.‖
―And nothing so easy to buy,‖ he said. ―Promise me we‘ll have
dinner some time. I‘m sure I‘ve found the best restaurant in the city.‖
―Latif took me there already,‖ she said.
White feigned surprise. ―Have you?‖ he said, turning toward the
Egyptian.
Latif looked as if he needed a place to hide. ―Yes…um…three
times, I think.‖
―Four,‖ she said while turning a dial on the transmitter with her long
fingers.
―You little devil,‖ White said as he turned away from Catherine.
―And I thought you were an ally.‖ He crossed to the coat hanger
where his holdall was. He looked inside it, grinned at Sarah‘s purse,
and shoved the bundle with his clothes there.
―Be careful, my friend,‖ Cameron said, addressing Latif. ―He‘s bad
influence.‖ The Arab laughed.
―Still you once wanted me to be one of your Chevy-driving
cavemen, didn‘t you?‖ White said, eyes narrowed playfully.
―Yes, and it‘d have been the biggest mistake of my life,‖ Cameron
said, lips trembling to fight off a smile. ―I‘ll never forgive Dalton for
recommending my recruiting you. Jesus!‖
Latif laughed. ―I think I‘ll never understand this sense of humor of
yours.‖
Catherine said, ―You see now why I prefer to deal with messages
from the enemy, Latif?‖
Cameron clapped his hands. ―All right, let‘s get back to work, shall
we?‖ He handed White the paper in his hand and said, ―That‘s the
intercept of a transmission between Wehrmacht headquarters in Italy
and Rommel‘s listening post in Tobruk. Long story short, it‘s about
petrol and battle tanks. A ship from Naples escaped our fleet and must
be reaching some big port in North Africa at any moment. Tobruk‘s
too dangerous at the moment, so the bloody vessel must be heading
for the Gulf of Syrte.‖
―Too far away,‖ White said.
―I doubt they‘ll risk trying to get the ship anywhere else,‖ Catherine
said without turning around in her chair. ―Rommel knows better than
that. He‘s obviously noticed Monty will push into Tobruk within the

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next days. I‘d bet he‘d rather spend some of his fuel by having lorries
carry it along the coast road than have it burnt by air raids.‖
White said addressing the Scot, ―There isn‘t much you can do about
it, is there?‖
Cameron crossed to the wall with the map pinpointing Dalton‘s
patrol‘s likeliest position. It was fewer than a hundred miles from the
Gulf of Syrte. He nodded pensively and said, ―I wouldn‘t be so
disappointed.‖
White grunted, reading the man‘s mind. ―Hasn‘t the bloody Taffy
got troubles enough yet?‖
―Dalton could do that before or after finding the militia‘s base
camp,‖ Cameron said.
White shrugged. ―If he doesn‘t matter being exploited by you…‖ he
said and sat at the table in the center of the room.
As the colonel and Catherine made the transmission, he read the
report carefully once more. The information was divided into sections
of a few sentences that confirmed and detailed the data in the
intercepted message, which had been previously decrypted. There was
a reference to the Scaranzi as a dry-cargo ship that had made several
trips to Libya. Also was a five-line paragraph on a German armored
unit with several armored cars and thirty or thirty-five Mark IV tanks–
–the most modern in the Wehrmacht––that were supposed to have
received a load of fuel from the ship Proserpina. Another reference
said it‘d been sunk several weeks back.
―Who compiled all this data?‖ White asked, rattling the paper in the
air as Catherine tapped the message to Dalton.
―The lads upstairs,‖ said Latif.
―Meaning they‘ve got copies of every file from which they prepared
this report?‖
―Naturally,‖ said Cameron.
White sighed, shaking his head indignantly. ―You should‘ve told me
that the moment I arrived.‖
>><<
―Everything in those files is confidential data,‖ Catherine said, then
her voice fell to a whisper, ―I‘m not even totally certain we‘ve got all
the clearance to examine it at our will.‖
―That‘s what my life‘s about, darling,‖ White said as they entered
the stuffy files room, followed by the Royal Navy officer on duty.
The man pointed to steel file cabinets lining the wall across the
doorway. ―There you‘ll find teletypes that came from our code-
breaking station at Bletchley Park––‖

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―Forty miles from London. I know the story, mate,‖ White added.
The sailor nodded smilingly, and checked his watch. ―Well, I
wonder whether you two could manage your research by yourselves
whilst I have something to eat,‖ he said.
―By all means,‖ White said. ―Take a full-hour lunch break if you
like.‖
―Thank you, sir. I think I will. Good luck, then,‖ the man said and
went out.
White went around the desk in the center of the room and tugged a
drawer open. There were stacks of hundreds of pages in it. He
whistled, pushed the heavy drawer closed, and looked sideways at
Catherine. ―Have you got anything urgent to do in the next hours?‖
―It depends on what you‘re planning for the two of us in this
mothball-smelling cove.‖
He smiled devilishly. ―First things first, Lieutenant––unfortunately.‖
―So?‖ she said, grinning.
He cleared his throat and said, ―I want to find some familiar names
on these sheets.‖
―Very well, Major.‖
White pointed at the report Cameron had given him. ―What‘s this
eight-word code at the bottom of the decrypted message stand for?‖
―It‘s the identity of the German radio-operator. Lots of them have
been identified.‖
―Identified?‖ White said, startled. ―But how?‖
―By the way they wield the Morse keys. It‘s something that takes
lots of practice, but it‘s feasible.‖
―Never imagined those chess-playing slackers in Bletchley ever
worked hard.‖
―The Americans have made good part of the job, actually. There‘s
this monitoring station of theirs on Chopmist Hill in Rhode Island.
They get to intercept distant enemy signals, including transmits
between tanks of the Korps, can you believe that?‖
He made a face in awe. ―You radio jockeys surprise me every
minute. What shall we do next?‖
She said after a moment‘s thought, ―As you said, let‘s check on the
names in the files you photographed.‖ She pointed at a drawer. ―That
one‘s got the most recent stuff, I think.‖
―All right,‖ he opened it and stood there staring into the open
drawer; there were sixteen file holders, each as thick as a telephone
list. On labels pasted to their fronts were written the months which
they referred to.

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White said, ―I believe the reports of the two last weeks should
suffice.‖
―Um-hum,‖ Catherine mumbled and extracted around thirty
printouts from a holder. ―Here we go.‖ She handed him half the
papers.
Most the transcriptions were in German. About a third of the words
were misspelled or scrambled and with quotation marks, meaning the
deciphering hadn‘t been possible. However, it took White just twenty
minutes until he spotted something.
He said while reading, ―An operator who signs his messages with
the codename FISCHER accounts for several messages.‖
She said, ―The same Fischer of the Tripoli files, the SD colonel?‖
―So it seems,‖ he said. ―His destinations are only two: Berlin, via the
relay station in Rome, and an operator that signs his
acknowledgements with the codename Truppe Löwe.‖
―Team Lion,‖ Catherine said with a sparkle in her eyes.
―Well, well,‖ the Englishman mumbled, his eyes roaming over the
page in his hands.
―Anything of value about their messages?‖
He pursed his lips. ―Basically, it‘s the same stuff in the files in
Tripoli: something concerning loads of military equipments and the
like.‖ He fell silent.
Catherine was perusing the papers in front of her again, twisting a
strand of hair between her fingers. Fifteen minutes later she tapped a
finger on the printout she was reading. She said, ―Does the name
Nabil Hanoun mean anything to you?‖
White lifted his eyes from the paper in his hands, thinking. ―No, his
name wasn‘t in the files I photographed,‖ he said. ―Think he might be
anyone of importance?‖
―I haven‘t got the foggiest. But a message was sent to Fischer by
him um…ten days ago,‖ she ran her finger down the page. ―And nine
days ago again…and eight days ago.‖
He frowned and said, ―What subject?‖
She took in the few readable contents of the messages and her eyes
bulged suddenly. ―It‘s about the hamlet of Abyad and the town of
Agedabia.‖
―The village where the locals were killed––along with Dalton‘s
informants,‖ White said, not asking a question. ―And Agedabia‘s
where his other informants live.‖
―Oh my God,‖ she said. ―This man was the one feeding Fischer with
information on us.‖

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―Who do you suppose he is?‖

―He could be either Young Egypt or a member of the Mufti‘s gang.‖
White drummed his fingers on the desk and said, ―Latif‘s still got
reliable contacts in the underworld here, I hear, yes?‖
She nodded. ―Yes. It won‘t be so difficult for him to unearth who
this bloke is.‖
White collected the papers and replaced them in the file holder.
―Good. I think if we get to find this man, we‘ll learn what this
character Fischer is up to.‖
―And where he is,‖ she added.
―Perhaps,‖ he said, and handed her the holder and she shoved it back
into its drawer. As she did so, he gazed hungrily at her with a crooked
smile. She noticed it out of the corner of her eyes and grinned.
When she turned around from the steel cabinet, he grabbed her by
her waist and planted a kiss on her thin lips. She half gasped with
surprise, then closed her eyes and her mouth was soft and yielding. He
moved his lips from her mouth to her neck, kissing gently as her
fingertips traveled down his arm.
He whispered into her ear, ―I was planning to do this since we met at
the port.‖
She felt electricity run through her. ―Really? What took you so
long?‖
He took her head into his hands, pulling it toward him. While
kissing, he ran his hands up and down her sides. She moaned and her
ribcage began contracting heavily with her breathing. He slid a hand
into her blouse and underneath her bra, his palm feeling the hot,
swollen nipple of the soft breast…
The doorknob rattled and they broke the clinch in a flash. The navy
officer on duty came in, removing crusts of food form the corners of
his mouth.
―Any luck?‖ he said.
―More or less,‖ Catherine said, her face blushed.
―All right,‖ the man said innocently.
―To tell the truth,‖ White said with his hands in his pockets stifling
his erection. ―I‘d bet we‘ll make it pretty soon, my friend.‖

**************
43
Collins told the description of the Arab soldiers as the commandos
knelt in a circle around him and the three American sergeants. It was

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terribly hot, but no one seemed to mind the scalding heat and the gusts
of sand.
―What the devil are they doing here?‖ Dalton said, stroking his
beard.
Miller shrugged. ―Does it make any difference?‖
―Let‘s entrap the cunts in there,‖ said Jones.
Dalton pursed his lips. ―I want those two alive. Perhaps we can
squeeze some information about the rest of them.‖
―That‘s exactly what I was thinking,‖ said Collins.
Dalton turned to Olivier and said, ―Bring me a few cans of petrol. I
think you know what I‘ve got in mind.‖
―Yes,‖ said the Frenchman, grinning savagely.
The Welshman looked around at his men. ―We‘re not crossing the
wadi with the lorries, gentlemen; that‘d make too much noise. We‘ll
have to sweat and practice a little of our motto.‖
Collins remembered their motto was NOT BY STRENGTH, BY
GUILE.
―You heard the man,‖ Miller said aloud, clapping his hands. ―Let‘s
get ready.‖
Each of them loaded his submachine gun and collected some hand-
grenades. Next they shifted their gutras for steel helmets, crossed the
ravine, and made for the circle of hills behind the dune. Moving fast,
the nineteen commandos and Cassel ran around one side of the dune,
and silently climbed the walls of sandstone. They put four yards
between each other, ringing most of the thirty yards of the hollow‘s
diameter, and lay flat on the ground not to create shadows. It left
uncovered only the sloping passageway between two of the mounds of
hardened sand the militiamen had probably used to drive into it with
their motorcycles. Out of sight of the others, Dalton and Olivier
headed exactly for the gap, four gas cans in their hands.
A minute later the Welshman labored himself up one hill and gave a
thumbs-up to Miller, who acknowledged him promptly. Dalton looked
around to make sure everyone was in position, lying on their bellies a
few yards from the edge of the hollow. Then he filled his lungs and
shouted in Arabic, ―You‘re surrounded! Turn in your weapons––
now!‖
There was a long moment‘s silence.
When the answer came, it was in the shape of a stick-grenade. One
of the militiamen had thrown it toward the likely position of the
source of the voice. But the man had been wrong. It landed and set off

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ten feet in front of Miller, who‘d instinctively shouted ―Grenade!‖ two

seconds before it detonated.
―Miller!‖ Dalton cried.
Miller coughed as smoke and dust settled around him. Shards of flak
had bounced off his helmet, which spared him of lethal punctures. A
single piece of hot metal had cut harmlessly through his shirt sleeve.
―I‘m all right––I think,‖ Miller shouted, momentarily deaf, the blow
wailing in his ears.
―You filthy cunts!‖ Dalton growled and snatched a pair of grenades
from his webbing belt, pulled the pins, and hurled them into the
hollow. They exploded five seconds later kicking up gray smoke
mingled with dust.
―You‘ve killed them!‖ Cassel shouted, cigar in mouth, peering into
the huge smoky hole in search of the Arabs. ―Congratulations.‖
―I don‘t care!‖ Dalton said furiously, giving vent to the thoughts that
gnawed inside him. ―They were given a chance to surrender. This
ain‘t Yom Kippur day, chum.‖
―What?‖ Cassel was mystified.
Jones came toward him, fuming. ―Good fanatics are dead fanatics,
right? I suddenly remembered this story about a Haganah gunman
Dalton put in jail in ‘38. You know him, old boy?‖
―I remember him clearly now,‖ Dalton said with a humorless laugh,
and turned to Cassel. ―He was even fond of cigars––just like you.‖
―Yes,‖ Jones said, scorn showing on his face. ―What a coincidence,
eh?‖
Cassel put his hands on his hips, his expression of pure shock. ―So
you came to the brilliant conclusion I‘m a bloody Jewish spy.‖
―And please don‘t waste your energies playing dumb, all right?‖
Dalton said accusingly.
Cassel flung his arms about. ―Now that‘s the maddest––‖
Suddenly there was a loud call in meaningless Arabic from the
hollow. The militiamen were alive!
They‘d crouched low behind their motorcycles and suffered only
flesh wounds caused by the grenades‘ shrapnel. Before the smoke and
dust dissipated totally and exposed them, they collected most of their
gear scattered about and mounted their Zundapps. Then they kicked
them to life, and accelerated noisily the powerful engines so as to dart
off the hollow and flee in maximal speed.
Dalton knew they were going to rush through the passageway within
the next seconds. He shouted, ―Light it up, Olivier!‖

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The Frenchman dropped a burning match onto a strip of hardened

sand littered with the twenty gallons of gasoline from the cans they‘d
been carrying, and a roaring firewall went up across the twenty-foot-
wide opening between the hills.
The moment the Arabs reached the opposite end of the gap, they
found themselves in a broiler. They insisted in crossing it and their
sun-dried clothes caught fire, turning them into moving torches. In the
hope the fire would extinguish by itself, they moved on.
But it didn‘t.
Fifty yards farther on, they came off their bikes. Pain and
desperation chocked their screams as they writhed up on the sand to
put out the flames that devoured their clothes. The engines of the
Zundapps cut out.
―Let‘s help put out the fire from their bodies and capture both,‖
Dalton commanded, seeing the militiamen from the top of the hill.
They all slid down the sandstone walls to the bottom of the hollow,
checked rapidly the gear the men had left there, and moved toward the
opening.
Dalton was aware of Cassel falling into step beside him, his Enfield
revolver in one hand. ―As you just saw,‖ Dalton told Cassel, ―They
ain‘t dead.‖
―Um-hum,‖ was the man‘s answer, tension on his face as he looked
through the passageway between the hills. But from ground level it
was impossible to see the militiamen because of the blinding barrier
of fire.
Thrashing about and plucking at himself to put out the fire on his
clothes, one of the Arabs noticed the vague outlines of armed men
moving behind the flames. He croaked a warning to the other, who
was a few yards away patting his smoldering uniform. They looked
into one another‘s coal-black eyes for a moment.
―I‘d rather die than be captured by those infidels,‖ one said
savagely, forgetting the pain of his wounds.
―Yes, brother,‖ the other said. ―Allahu akbar!‖
―Allahu akbar!‖
They scrambled to their feet and picked up their guns. They glanced
at each other again and stood a few feet side by side. Then each
opened fire with his Schmeisser at the human forms behind the
firewall.
―Seek cover!‖ Collins shouted, one hand shielding his face from the
firewall.

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The commandos hurled themselves to the sands. Before he could do

so, a British corporal was caught by a burst of bullets in his belly, and
crumpled to the ground.
Diving to the earth as bullets hissed through the flames, Dalton
realized that Cassel had disappeared from his side. Bullets wheezed
above his head and kicked up puffs of dust on the soil around and in
front him. They could not move.
The two militiamen used fury and crazed shouts to conceal their
pain as they moved forward in a crouch, firing randomly at their
would-be captors. While one blasted the rounds of his weapon, the
other got back to his smoldering motorcycle and lifted a satchel from
a saddlebag. It was a charge of ten pounds of potent explosive.
He snapped the thirty-second fuse cord and shoved a fresh thirty-
two-round magazine into the underside of his Schmeisser, and cried
something to his companion as he caught up with him. Breathing hard
as if raving insane, they went to meet their opponents, again side by
side. They discharged short bursts as they stumbled forward,
conscious they wouldn‘t have time to reload; nor would need to.
Blinded by the fire screen that remained ablaze enough to keep them
from seeing the Arabs, the commandos opened fire; but they didn‘t
succeed in hitting any of the two. Worse than that, they were neither
aware that they were approaching nor imagined that one of them
carried a devastating bomb.
In fifteen more seconds the charge would set off. The militiamen
counted down the seconds as they staggered toward the fire curtain,
eyes bulging with wrath as if possessed by sudden dementia. The air
seemed alive with gunfire. Projectiles sang past their bodies, missing
them by one or two inches, and they simply ignored them.
Hallucinated smiles crossed their hairy faces, foam surging in their
mouths as a hypnotic voice guided them. Very little time remained
between here and paradise, they thought. In five or six more seconds
the bomb would explode, and they would die together with their sinful
rivals. This sacrifice would be their last worship, the final penitence…
When they were about to rush through flames and between the hills,
they spotted the man standing defiantly by a corner of the firewall.
The man‘s piercing blue eyes stared coldly at them, and the Arabs
hesitated in their attack. They stopped firing, and the one with the
charge made a movement as if to swing the satchel away to one side.
Cassel dropped to one knee, took aim, and put three bullets into each
man.
The two militiamen fell to the ground.

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The bomb detonated three seconds later with an ear-splintering

thunderclap explosion. The blast all but disintegrated them, turning
their bodies into a thousand gory crumbs strewn across over a hundred
yards. The detonation also produced a ten-foot by eight crater in the
soft soil.
Nearly deaf after the explosion that finally silenced their opponents,
the commandos leapt over the offing barrier of fire and rushed
forward with their Thompsons ready to shoot. As they gathered
around the crater opened by the charge, they realized it was little more
than twenty yards from the point they‘d been until seconds ago.
They felt saved by the ring.
Flustered and panting, Keyes gazed down at the smoky crater. ―Holy
shit! Look at the size of that thing!‖ he said, seeming scared, figuring
the power of the detonation. ―They were coming to us with a freaking
bomb!‖
―And it‘d have killed us all,‖ said Dalton, face plastered with muddy
sweat. He turned from the hole to Cassel while wiping his face with
one hand, and made a curtsy-like gesture. ―Were it not for your
surprising assets with a revolver,‖ he added. ―And you must really
believe in luck.‖
―Ah, not for this, mates,‖ Cassel said acidly, the unlit cigar jutting
from his lips. ―What else could a Haganah agent do in such a
situation?‖
Everyone blinked in surprise as the man looked around at them.
Cassel went on, speaking unemotionally, ―Who knows, if we start
working together––trusting each other––we can get this job done and
go back home.‖
Dalton nodded in silence.
Cassel walked back to the passageway and pointed to the trooper
shot by the Arabs. He was nearly dead, sprawled faceup, dull eyes
gazing into space. Black liver blood oozed from three bullet holes,
making a little pond beneath his body. Two French commandos were
in vain trying to bring him back to life. After a while they felt his
pulse and gave up.
―For starters, let‘s at least avoid the rest of us be killed like that poor
youth,‖ Cassel said aloud enough to be heard by the others twenty
yards away, while staring at the bloodied man.
There was a long silence. Dalton felt miserably wretched, wondering
how come they‘d messed everything up. He said, ―Our mistake––my
mistake––was underrating those animals. I‘d forgotten they‘ve
suicidal tendencies. It won‘t happen again. Hell!‖

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Keyes nodded gloomily and said, ―If those zombies wouldn‘t have
been vaporized, I could bet they‘d still be trying to kill us….even with
their bodies in flames.‖
―Listen, Dalton. We ought to go to El-Agheila,‖ Cassel coaxed
impetuously, moving back to the circle of men around the crater. ―My
lads on the plane were killed by Messerschmitts based exactly there.
I‘d like to make their deaths worthwhile by destroying those damned
planes.‖ He paused, looked around, and added, ―And I believe you all
owe me a favor now.‖
Dalton shrugged. ―That‘s a possibility,‖ he said, beaten.
Jones was stooping low near the motorcycles, examining pieces of
flesh and bones and cloth strewn in all directions as if in search of
clues. His eyes fell on a piece of paper jutting from the smoky, blood-
stained remaining of what seemed a pants pocket. He dropped to one
knee and picked up the paper very carefully, indicator finger and
thumb moving tong-like. The paper‘s upper half had burnt to ashes,
but what he saw at the other half sufficed him. His knowledge of
German wasn‘t enough to read a novel, but basic military terminology
was always restricted to something around two hundred words. And
he‘d memorized each one of those.
―Mother of God,‖ Jones exclaimed, eyes fixed to the mimeographed
half page. ―These bandits were carrying some sort of warrant signed
by bloody General Kesselring.‖ The others bunched around him, and
he handed it to Dalton.
―That‘s right,‖ the Welshman said after reading the two paragraphs
that had survived. ―This thing seems to give them all freedom of
action within Libya and access to Wehrmacht supply depots.‖
Miller said, ―Kesselring, eh? So Rommel mustn‘t be involved in
whatever the militia‘s doing.‖
―Why so?‖ Collins said.
―Rommel isn‘t so fond of Kesselring,‖ Dalton explained in lieu of
Miller. ―Most importantly, Rommel would never rely on this scum for
anything.‖
―How can you guys be so sure?‖ Collins said.
―Listen to this, cowboy,‖ Jones began, but instead of looking at the
American he turned to Cassel. ―Rommel was told by Hitler to shoot
any Jewish soldiers in the British army who were captured. Guess
what happened: he never passed the order on.‖
―Well,‖ Cassel said with a shrug. ―The last thing I heard about
Rommel is that he's got a birthday coming up.‖ He paused and

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laughed out loud. ―Maybe the man deserves some kind of gift for
being so…polite.‖ He burst out laughing again.
Dalton frowned at Cassel‘s reaction. Then he said, ―The Desert
Fox‘s our adversary but he‘s still a very fine soldier; something these
fanatics aren‘t.‖
―One more reason for us to keep going after them,‖ Jones said.
Collins laughed after taking a sip from his canteen. ―We must keep
going after them?‖ he said, reciting each word with irony. ―I beg to
differ, fellows. I guess that, so far, they have come after us.‖
Collins pointed to the Zundapps. ―See all that gear?‖ he said glaring
at Dalton. ―They had a fucking transmitter with a directional antenna.
That stuff can flash messages plenty of miles away.‖ He realized the
radio connected to it was a tangled mass of burning wires. ―Too bad
it‘s been destroyed; now we can‘t discover the waveband that our
admirers were using as they trailed us.‖
Dalton frowned hard at him. ―What makes you so certain about
that?‖
―The sound of motorcycles near the creepy village, of course,‖
Collins said. ―The militia left men behind staking it out. Look at the
bikes––German models,‖ he kicked at the symbol of the Afrika Korps
painted on the two fallen machines in white paint: a palm tree crossed
with a swastika. ―It was the sound we heard back there, wasn‘t it?‖
Miller nodded. ―Yes. Those are Zundapps.‖
―I was wondering whether the Stukas yesterday were called in on
pinpoint by them,‖ Jones said.
Collins took a breath and added, ―We‘re lucky they didn‘t zap the
lot of us on the move,‖ he lifted the canteen his mouth for another
gulp.
Dalton folded his arms in front of him and shot Collins a serious
look. ―And what does your enormous experience in desert operations
say we should do from now on?‖
―Don‘t get me wrong, sir,‖ the American said. ―I just think we‘re
doing everything by the book. They‘ve spotted us first; period. Now
we must disappear from their sight and somehow surprise them.‖
Miller patted Dalton‘s shoulder and said, ―How about striking some
important target? It seems obvious they‘re doing the dirty work for the
Krauts in this area. I can bet they‘d send a party after us. It‘d be
another chance to capture some alive.‖
―Perhaps you two are right,‖ Dalton succumbed.

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Miller said, ―We‘ve got to learn the password used by the enemy
first. Otherwise we‘ll neither cross checkpoints nor get into restricted
zones.‖
Cassel came up to Dalton and punched his shoulder softly.
―Excellent,‖ he said, chewing on his cigar. ―I‘m longing to wreck
those Messerschmitts at El-Agheila.‖
Dalton nodded in silence, looking preoccupied. Minutes later he was
digging a grave to bury the dead corporal.
>> <<
The two Arabs sat cross-legged in the shade of a small, gnarled tree
as their Zundapps rested on their stands in the inclement sun. Between
the two men was a backpack radio.
One of them scratched his lusty beard and looked over his shoulder
to check for any movement on the opposite direction of the caravan
trails. Something drew his attention. It was a trail of dust to the west.
He jumped to his feet.
He brought the binoculars slung around his neck to his desert-slitted
eyes and peered into the distance.
―It‘s them!‖ he said in alarm. ―They‘re heading north now.‖
His companion glanced at the radio, making sure it was on. ―Why
didn‘t those two idiots tell us they were going that way?‖
―Incompetents! It almost cost us losing contact with the cursed
patrol.‖
―Want me to contact Azziz to find out what happened?‖
―No. We can‘t waste time,‖ the other said, crossing to his
motorcycle. ―Let‘s go after them.‖

**************
44
―Yasir Othman, the name in the files you photographed,‖ Latif said,
―is…um…how shall I say…is fake. His real name is Nabil Hanoun,
which was the name you saw in the intercepts.‖
―Which still means nothing to me, my friend,‖ White said. ―Carry
on.‖
Latif took a lungful of air. He sat at the table in the LRDG room at
Naval Intelligence with Cameron, Catherine, and White. The Arab
looked drained and his voice was rough. Cameron and Catherine
knew why: he‘d had to put on a tremendous bark-show to get this
information from some of his once-militant anti-British acquaintances.
The Egyptian went on, ―Hanoun is an agent of the Mufti of
Jerusalem. Qadir, his nephew, is his controller. Hanoun was active in

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Syria, gathering data on the British forces and flashing it to Berlin by

means of a small spy wireless. Then he began paying visits to Cairo to
do the same job from there.‖ His expression suddenly changed. ―It
seems he‘s replacing Kareem, the Mufti‘s spy eliminated by the Kfir
last month.‖
―Good,‖ said Cameron. ―We‘ll have to go after only one instead of
two.‖
―I‘m not certain it should be that easy,‖ said the Arab.
―Why so?‖ the Scot said.
White said, ―He means a bloke in this business who‘s got two names
must be…um…how shall I say…a very slippery and dangerous
individual.‖
―Yes, he must be,‖ said Latif. ―If the Nazis gave him a radio and
money, they probably have given him weapons too––and taught him
how to use them well.‖
―Let‘s take all precautions, then,‖ Cameron said, lifting his both
hands defensively.
White filled a glass of water and handed it to Latif. The Englishman
said, ―Where can we find him?‖
Cameron lit a cigarette. ―Cunt must be in Beirut having a swim in
the Mediterranean and smoking hashish with Hitler‘s money.‖
Latif chuckled. ―There we‘re lucky; he‘s in Alex right now.‖
Catherine almost bolted upward. ―Have you got a description of
him?‖
The Arab shook his head. ―No. He contacted my source by
telephone.‖
White said, ―Where he‘s staying?‖
―My source didn‘t know that,‖ Latif drained his glass of water and
added, ―It‘s Hanoun‘s first time here....so said my informant. He‘s
being very cautious.‖
―Of course, he is. Blast!‖ Cameron raged.
Latif nodded once at the Scot. ―See what I mean now, sir?‖ he said.
―Hanoun‘s a real pro.‖
Catherine leaned back in her chair and sighed. ―If we put Field
Security in alert and asking for new faces in town, this man will soon
be aware of it and disappear without leaving traces.‖
―Well,‖ Latif said, grinning. ―I thought exactly the same as I talked
to my source.‖
White also grinned. ―Then you asked your informant, since it‘s
Hanoun‘s first time in Alexandria, whether he‘d ever queried about
discreet places to go, for example, at night. Am I correct?‖

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Latif‘s face was of pure satisfaction. ―Couldn‘t be more, my friend.‖

―And?‖ Catherine said.
Latif said, ―There‘s a big chance of his going to a certain restaurant
in Bacos tonight. The trick, in my opinion, is setting a trap without his
knowing.‖
―No big deal,‖ Cameron said. ―The moment he steps into the place
I‘ll have it surrounded with Field Security and MPs.‖
―What next?‖ White said.
―Then we‘ll have a crack at him to make him spill the beans.‖
―Like Dalton did in Haifa?‖ White said, and glanced at Catherine‘s
face to see her reaction. ―Beat him up and burn the sole of his feet
with cigarettes till he spills the beans?‖
―Perhaps,‖ Catherine said angrily. ―He‘s not any better than those
terrorists in Palestine.‖
―It won‘t work,‖ White said.
―Why not, for Christ‘s sake?‖ it was the Scot now.
―He‘s a fanatic,‖ White said. ―He‘d rather die than reveal anything.‖
He looked into Catherine‘s face. ―That‘s what happened in Haifa
when Dalton was there; I heard that from himself in England: he
tortured those bastards for days, almost to the point of killing each one
of them before they revealed anything. You must be sure you have the
guts for this thing once you get started, all right?‖
Latif said, ―That‘s right. There‘s always the possibility that he‘ll try
to hang on till he thinks the mission in course is finished and reveals
something only to save his skin.‖
―Precisely!‖ White exclaimed, pointing at the Arab.
―We‘ll decide how to extort any confessions after we‘ve caught
him,‖ said Cameron.
White slapped his both hands on the table top. ―Excellent! We‘ll
make him sweat in a dungeon for days, punching him for breakfast
and pulling his nails for lunch.‖
Cameron said sarcastically, ―That‘s an approach.‖
White scoffed and said, ―Let‘s think, shall we? If we take too long to
find out what this Fischer‘s up to, the patrol may not have the chance
to save itself from some sort of trap.‖ He rose and crossed to the
drinks cabinet. He glanced at Cameron. ―Unless you‘re feeling like
calling him off.‖
―No,‖ was the Scot‘s answer, ―he‘s staying in the field till he locates
the bloody militia.‖
―Very well,‖ said White, picking up a bottle of brandy.

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Latif was observing the Englishman serving himself a shot of liquor

and his soft brown eyes lit up. He got up and began roaming the
shelves across the room. They were full of gadgets: spare radio
batteries, sun compasses, helmets and webbings captured from the
enemy, maps rolled up in cases…and a camera with a tripod. Next to
it was a small can with a roll of film and some discarding flashbulbs.
―Latif?‖ Catherine asked suspiciously.
―I think I had an idea,‖ he answered, and took the wooden tripod
carefully from its shelf. It was pretty heavy and measured nearly four
feet.
White sipped his drink and winced. ―God almighty! You‘re not
thinking of shoving that thing up Hanoun‘s arse to make him talk, are
you?‖
Latif laughed. He held his hands out making a square as if putting a
camera into focus. ―No, but it‘ll have the same effect.‖

**************
45
The young, black-haired man in a British Army uniform went down
the narrow, cobbled alley of Jerusalem with his left arm on a sling and
a holdall slung over the right shoulder. It was past four in the
afternoon and the sun still was hot, its slanted rays bouncing on the
pink stone walls and making him squint as he walked. He turned onto
a broad street and realized the last thunderstorms seemed to have
washed the whole city clean.
He peered through the glass windows of the small stores along his
way in search of tourists shopping religious gadgetry, but there were
none. Located close to the Via Dolorosa, this promenade had been full
of them at Easter this year despite the war, he remembered. He loved
it here, he told himself while adjusting the sling that had gotten him a
two-week medical leave. He was always amazed at the city‘s splendor
of cupolas, the majestic walls, and shiny-domed houses of prayer.
Until he was seventeen years old, Jerusalem had been the only urban
area he‘d ever been to. Before then it‘d been his entire world along
with his kibbutz. Most importantly, he was so fond of the place for he
was a Palestine Jew, one in thousands serving in the British army. His
name was David Gavrir.
The only vehicle parked on the street was a black Ford T, the first
car to roll out for mass production. In perfect shape despite its twenty-
some years of age, it caught Gavrir‘s attention. Like maybe all men at
his age, he felt a strong desire for automobiles. And he‘d never driven

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any made in America. In fact he‘d only driven a small Peugeot and a
plowing tractor during his twenty-five years of age. He wondered
whether he‘d survive to make a little dream come true: travel to
Detroit. There must be plenty of fine cars there to be driven, he
thought, still eyeing the Ford T.
A block farther on he crossed the street and entered a small, glass-
fronted gift shop squeezed up between two derelict inns. A tiny bell
rang when he opened the door. There were no customers in it.
Wooden shelves were arranged across the store, loaded with a
multitude of cheap souvenirs ranging from earrings to heart-shaped
chocolate boxes.
There couldn‘t be more innocent-looking a place to be the front for
the Haganah in Jerusalem.
The pretty-looking attendant lifted her almond-shaped eyes from the
cash register and looked at him with something other than surprise.
―Shalom, Leah,‖ he said and frowned at her shocked stare.
―Already back? Oh…shalom, David.‖ She was only twenty-three,
and looked younger than that, her curly dark hair in total disarray over
her shoulders.
―Has anything happened?‖ he queried, growing curious.
―Yes; you are here, Lieutenant.‖
He was a lieutenant in the British army. In the Haganah he was a
figure of much more prominent relevance, though.
―This uniform doesn‘t make me a mind-reader,‖ he said. ―Will you
please explain yourself?‖ He removed his sling, flexed his arm, and
pocketed the strip of white fabric.
―A broken arm again. It‘s the second time in four months, isn‘t it?‖
she said, grinning as he leaned against the wooden counter. ―They
may become suspicious some day.‖
―Let‘s hope not.‖
She realized the indicator finger of his right hand was very swollen.
―Ouch! That finger alone would‘ve been enough to grant you a whole
month off duty. It must be throbbing like hell.‖
―Tell me about it. This stupid private from Bethlehem let go of a
crate as we took supplies out of a truck, and guess where it landed?‖
he said and blew his swelling finger as if it might help.
―You poor thing. I feel like kissing it till it gets better,‖ she made a
sexy face, her pinkish lips protruding.
He felt his groin light up. ―Before doing that, how about telling me
why you almost fainted when I stepped in?‖ he said and pinched her
cheek. ―Didn‘t the boss tell you about my coming down?‖

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She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes. ―I thought you‘d come back
to accomplish that promise unto me, but...‖ she sighed disappointment
and angled her upper body devotedly toward him.
He sighed too. ―No, not right now. But I might be free after the
meeting.‖ He winked at her. ―Any idea as to what he needs me for?‖
She shrugged. ―No, but you‘ll learn soon,‖ she said, ran a hand
through her hair in a teasing attitude, and depressed a button set in the
concrete floor with her toe. A false wall at the back of the shop
yawned open and a pistol-bearing man of Gavrir‘s age came out
seconds later.
―David! Already back?‖
Gavrir chuckled. ―Is that question epidemic or what? How have you
been Isaac?‖
―Not bad. Boy, your thumb looks like a sausage!‖
―Yes, it‘s a long story,‖ Gavrir said as they shook hands, and leaned
to whisper something into his friend‘s ear. Both men smiled after he‘d
done so.
Leah pointed a slim finger at Gavrir and said, ―Hey, you two stop
chatting right now.‖
―It‘s not about you, okay?‖ Isaac said.
―David,‖ she said in a serious tone. ―Get moving, will you? He must
be wanting to talk you yesterday.‖
―Dinner at your place tonight, then?‖ he said, beaming his most
irresistible look at her.
―I doubt it,‖ she said and pretended to wipe dandruff off one
shoulder. It was their private code; it meant yes.
>><<
David Gavrir walked up a flight of steps to the living quarters above
the shop and reached a dimly lit hallway. It was flanked by wooden
booths equipped with telephone lines, oversized radio transmitters,
and their respective operators. All were armed with pistols and
revolvers. Men and women sat with their backs to the corridor
immersed in their work. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in layers in
the air.
One of them glimpsed at Gavrir and sprang up. ―How‘re you doing,
my friend?‖
―Good,‖ they shook hands.
―How‘s Alexandria these days?‖
―A mess,‖ Gavrir said and picked a grape from a bowl at his friend‘s
desk.
―Still in the supplies battalion?‖

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―Yes,‖ Gavrir said with a sigh. ―Helping the Brits defeat Rommel
with toilet paper and soap,‖ he said while munching the piece of fruit.
―Look, the guys here are planning a card game at seven. You free
tonight?‖
Gavrir grinned hugely. ―I really hope not.‖ He spat the seeds into a
trashcan and patted the man‘s shoulder ―Got to go. See you around.‖
―Sure,‖ the man said as Gavrir went past his booth.
The door at the end of the corridor was ajar, and Gavrir pushed it
fully open after a couple of knocks. ―Excuse me, sir. Er…good
afternoon.‖
Joab Epstein was laboring over paperwork in reading glasses. Small
piles of papers were scattered about his desk, a cigarette burning in a
half-full ashtray. A tiny plump man of around fifty-five, he had a
shiny bald crown to his head. He was one of the creators of the
Haganah, having taken part himself in the heroic defense of the
settlements in the Judean hills during the Arab revolts in the twenties
and thirties. Years before that he‘d been in the Gallipoli battle,
attached to the Zion Mule Corps of the British army as a corporal.
―You arrived, at last,‖ the older man said. ―I was about to summon a
dispatch rider to contact you, son. Have a seat. How are you?‖
―Great, thank you, sir.‖ He sat down at the desk across from Epstein.
―Do you know the reason you‘ve been called back so soon?‖
―Not at all, sir.‖
―Has your sister contacted you lately?‖
―Not exactly. I last heard from her by a letter from Casablanca;
maybe a month ago. She was a little worried, I think,‖ he scratched
the end of his nose, remembering the message. ―Something like a
stakeout in Tripoli.‖
Epstein reddened. ―She wrote it on a letter?‖
―In our most incongruous kibbutz slang, sir. You know, the codes
kids use for talking about secrets at school like having a date or stuff
like that.‖
Epstein shook his head. ―Sarah, Sarah.‖
Gavrir said, ―It‘s safer than most official stuff I‘ve seen, sir. Trust
me.‖
Epstein breathed soundly and sank deeper into his comfortable
chair. ―Well, let me tell you the reason I summoned you here today.‖
―Yes, sir, please.‖
―It‘s very important. To begin with, I‘m relieved you made it here in
time. Thank God the Brits didn‘t make a fuss about giving you a leave

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for another broken arm,‖ he gave a little chuckle. ―My father believed
that good surprises often precede small miracles. Let‘s see about it.‖
Shit! I can start biding goodbye to my romantic night with Leah.
―We‘re in need of one, sir––a miracle?‖ Gavrir said.
―Nah, far from that. It‘s a matter of some delicacy, though,‖ he said
and took a long breath. ―It‘s time for the Kfir to leave the shadows.‖
―Sir?‖ Gavrir raised an eyebrow.
Epstein rubbed the palm of a hand across his bald head and looked
into the young man‘s eyes. ―Sarah helped the MI-6 encounter files
linking Heusseini‘s people supporting the SD on a mission whose
target was––and probably still is––a patrol of the LRDG.‖
―She did?‖ Gavrir sounded proudly surprised.
―Yes, yes. Well, I checked and found out all LRDG units are back to
Cairo––all but ‗F‘ patrol.‖
―Dalton‘s team,‖ Gavrir said, warming up his mental files.
The torturer of Haifa.
Epstein said, ―It‘s hard to say whether the patrol‘s being marked for
an ambush or merely spied on.‖
―If they‘re in the field now, they‘re too exposed,‖ the young man
said, imagining the patrol like a drop of water in an ocean of sand,
without safe places to hide, nor backup. ―The patrol should be called
back.‖
―No chance of that happening. They‘re hunting that band of
terrorists Mussolini bred to spare Italian blood in Ethiopia.‖
―The Beasts?‖ Gavrir‘s mental files were operating at full force
now.
―Matouk‘s men ambushed and murdered a company of Scots
Guards. The survivors were given special treatment, if you know what
I mean.‖
Gavrir frowned. ―Sounds crazy. Everyone knows what happened
when Cameron‘s men were killed like that in Palestine. What‘s
Cameron done?‖
―He convinced Montgomery to give him green light to blow them all
to hell, of course. That‘s what Dalton‘s doing right now.‖
―Revenge,‖ Gavrir said in a tone of murmur. ―The main cog of war.
But where does this reveal-the-Kfir thing come in?‖
―Well, the patrol rescued a downed pilot who they‘re sure to be the
Kfir.‖
Gavrir nearly laughed. ―Why so?‖
―The hell if I know! They simply are sure of it! Maybe they see us
everywhere since Sarah…‖

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The young man leaned forward in his chair. ―Since Sarah…‖

―She was superb on her mission in Tripoli, according to Cohen‘s
report. Your little sister led the Brits to top-secret files and eliminated
a Nazi agent on the same night.‖
―Killed?‖
―Yes, but…I was told she‘s fine––physically and mentally.‖
Gavrir said, ―I‘m not sure that I should be proud of her for that.
Anyway, it‘s not a British thing to be overly impressed at other
people‘s deeds.‖
―But now this MI-6 agent who met her in Tripoli is supposedly
advising Cameron to make a follow-up to the Mufti‘s gang‘s
connections in Egypt.‖ A smile came on Epstein‘s face. ―And it
somehow led him to our mysterious Kfir.‖
Gavrir smiled and shook his head in disbelief. ―I don‘t know what to
say. This is taking the shape of a joke.‖
―I know. But it may turn out a disaster for us,‖ Epstein said. ―We
can‘t stand either being responsible for the failure of the patrol‘s
mission or its capture.‖
―I understand. Any names of the SD agents involved?‖
―We just got told by a source in Athens. The man leading it is
Fischer, Colonel Berthold Fischer.‖
―The multi-faced bastard, eh?‖ Gavrir paused, thinking hard. ―How
ironic. Now the Kfir must be introduced to the Brits because of
Fischer.‖
―Simpler than that, son. Cameron‘s aides just need to know where
he is and where he is not.‖
―Who am I to contact?‖ Gavrir grinned sarcastically. ―Latif?‖
―No. You‘ll find the name and address on this paper,‖ Epstein
pushed a scrap of paper across his table top.
Gavrir read and memorized it. ―I think I know how to make the
approach to this person in a…controllable situation,‖ he said and gave
Epstein back the paper.
―I knew you would,‖ the older man said.
―Consider it done, sir.‖ Gavrir puffed out his cheeks. ―I wish all my
errands were this easy.‖
―Stay smart, son. If Latif catches you, God knows what kind of
violence he might do with you.‖
―I don‘t think so,‖ Gavrir went silent for a few seconds, then said,
―He‘s a good man, though. Just pretends we‘re not on the same side.‖
―Maybe we should‘ve already tried to convince him that not all Jews
are as selfish as his father‘s friend was.‖

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―Maybe.‖ There was a moment‘s silence.

―One more thing. The source stressed this op must be coming to an
end within the next forty-eight hours or less. Think you can get to
Alex still tonight?‖
A shrug. ―Easily enough.‖
―Very well. Have a nice trip, David. And good luck.‖
―Thank you, sir.‖
―And don‘t get caught.‖
Gavrir shrugged again. ―No problem there.‖

**************
46
Dalton drove in silence, chain-smoking tensely as they moved
toward the coastal line. The sun had set forty minutes ago. Beside
him, Collins stared into the yellow cones thrown by the truck‘s
headlights while chewing gum. All around them, the heights known
by the locals as Jebel Akhdar (Green Mountains) swam out of the
gloomy landscape like sphinxes of mammoths. The parched
vegetation on the sides of the tracks used by goat shepherds was
changing mile upon mile, giving way to plush shrubs and trees in the
valleys.
After a three-hour drive at no more than twenty miles an hour they
reached the coast road. It connected the most important towns on the
Gulf of Syrte like an umbilical cord. In the unearthly skylights, it
looked like a snaking black river. There was a tall barrier of cactus-
like bushes running alongside a stretch of the road on one side. They
stationed the trucks a hundred yards behind it, outside range of
headlights, and jumped out with guns in hand.
Now it was just to wait for a defenseless vehicle to appear. But they
wouldn‘t attack it literally. Miller would take care of that on his own
way. The others should remain lurking quietly behind the bushes.
Dalton explained the Americans what they were going to do as
Miller still readied himself in his truck.
―It‘s maybe the craziest way to get information from the enemy,‖
Collins said.
The Welshman shrugged. ―We‘ve done that before.‖
Miller came up to them a minute later. ―I‘m ready,‖ he said.
―So are we,‖ Dalton said. ―Good luck.‖
―Thanks.‖ Miller had shaved his beard, put goop in his dark hair,
and slicked it back. He‘d also changed into an Italian army uniform

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with sergeant‘s badge he kept in his truck for these ‗special

situations‘.
Miller went and stood in the center of the road, muffled in a double-
breasted coat with brass buttons, waiting keenly for his first victim.
He had his revolver in the inside pocket.
After fifteen minutes flapping his arms to beat the bone-chilling
cold, silvery shafts blinked two or three miles away to the north, a
moving oasis of light on the road. Miller smiled broadly, rubbing his
hands together.
The truck driver saw the man flagging him, and curtailed speed. He
tensed, and glanced at his carbine resting on his dashboard. Then he
recognized the man‘s uniform as he drove past him very slowly and
pulled over. He turned on his ceiling light as the man approached; a
curious smile had replaced the tension on his face.
Miller was smiling, too; he did have a reason to do so. The truck, a
covered-in 6-ton Lancia, was being driven by a young Italian––alone.
The Englishman went to the driver‘s door as the man cranked down
his window. He identified himself as an Italian sergeant, and they
exchanged a salute. In the dimly lighted cab, while the Italian saluted
him, Miller saw the butt of the carbine resting on the dashboard.
―My damn car ran dry,‖ the Englishman said in a precise, musical
Italian voice, his words cracking with the cold air. ―Do you have any
extra fuel?‖
―Absolutely, sir,‖ said the Italian, elbows resting on the bottom of
the steering wheel. ―I‘m sure there‘s at least a can in the flatbed.‖
On the opposite roadside, Dalton and Collins crawled through a gap
in the thorn thicket. Inching snake-like, they headed for the Lancia‘s
back, the stench of the pitch in the sand-swept strip of asphalt filling
their nostrils.
Millers asked, ―You coming from Barce?‖
―Yes,‖ the Italian said. Then he killed the engine and lit a hand-
rolled cigarette. ―I‘m hauling dried meat to a training camp near
Regima, sir,‖ he said, stretching himself. ―The most boring chore in
the army.‖
It was the sort of cue Miller was waiting for. ―Are you taking it to
the Arab troops?‖
―Arabs?‖
―Yes. There‘s an Arab unit riding motorcycles? You ever taken
supplies to their base camp?‖
The Italian laughed. ―No, sir. All the local troops I ever saw were in
watchmen duty––and riding donkeys.‖

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Bollocks! Miller thought, How come he knows nothing about the

bandits. Now it was the time for plan B.
The Italian jumped off the cab, the cigarette in his mouth.
Discreetly, Miller reached into his coat.
The Italian glanced around once, twice, and asked, ―Where‘s your
car, sir?‖ He looked around a third time searching for it.
Miller‘s right hand swept up, holding the Smith & Wesson. He
touched its barrel on the Italian‘s chest and said, ―Forget the car,
fellow. Raise your hands.‖ The man did so and froze in position.
In the center of the road, Dalton and Collins saw that Miller had
mastered the Italian. They sprang to their feet and hurried to examine
the cargo bed of the Lancia. They climbed into it quickly, pistols in
hands, and shed light on the darkened compartment with flashlights.
In the light of the flashes, they saw wooden barrels on a slatted pine
base, eight in all, plus a coiled up manila rope, a spare wheel, and a
fuel canister.
―Disappointed?‖ Collins said as they sidestepped along the barrels
toward the cab.
Dalton lifted the lid of a container, took out a chunk of dried meat,
and took a bite. ―Not at all; I‘m hungry.‖
A strange luminosity suddenly filled the truck‘s back.
Dalton snapped his head to one side to see more vehicles come into
sight. They were coming from the north too. It was five or six
vehicles, their strong shafts of bright light only a mile or so away.
―Shit!‖ Collins said in alarm. ―Miller is in the front of the truck
frisking the guy. He won‘t get to see them in time.‖
The Welshman swore. It‘d take too long to get back and jump over
the tailgate. Then he swung his body over the barrels to the other side
of the compartment and tumbled onto the two feet of room between
the containers and the sideboards. He negotiated the way of his head
through the junction of the canvas top with the sideboards and called,
―Hey, Miller, more amici coming up!‖
Miller immediately stepped out of the Lancia‘s headlight. He
glanced at the approaching headlamps and his heart skipped a beat.
There were many vehicles coming and possibly a lot of enemy troops.
―Dammit!‖ he said.
The men lying behind the bushes read the situation and got
themselves ready for action, guns poised.
―Everyone stay calm,‖ Jones said aloud to the troopers after he‘d
heard the clicks of bolts being pulled.

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Palmer, who lay on his stomach on his side, said, ―Think they gonna
buy Miller‘s shit?‖
―Cross your fingers, mate,‖ Jones said to the American.
Palmer swallowed hard.
Miller turned on him, facing the Italian, his eyes wide. ―Get back
inside,‖ he commanded thickly. ―And keep your mouth shut.‖ Miller
took a long breath. ―I have eighteen men giving me cover. I just want
to avoid an unnecessary shooting. Is it clear?‖
The Italian nodded, looking frightened. He docilely climbed behind
the wheel, his arms crossed and his face pale with fear and cold.
Seconds later, a number of medium-sized, open-top trucks pulled up
alongside the Lancia, engines still racing, one illuminating the other.
Tough-looking Italian troops in drab greatcoats and soft caps sat in the
front seats, Beretta machine pistols hugged to their breasts. Miller
caught sight of kegs and cardboard boxes heaped in the compact
flatbeds.
Leaning against the Lancia, the Englishman waved a hand to greet
the newcomers. He was confident he wouldn‘t speak himself into
troubles––for he couldn‘t afford any slips. More than nervous he was
eager to talk to them: they‘d confirm the password he‘d just made the
Italian driver tell him; and might even come up with a clue to the
whereabouts of the militia.
He crossed to the leading truck at the passenger side and salutes
were rendered as he ‗identified‘ himself again.
―My other man is sick at his belly, sir. Dysentery, perhaps,‖ Miller
was saying convincingly to the middle-ranking officer in the leading
truck. ―He must be dirtying some square yards of desert in this very
moment.‖ It raised a laugh.
―Christ!‖ the Italian said. ―That‘s happened to me twice on this very
road.‖
―Where are you heading?‖ Miller said, faking a yawn.
―Benghazi,‖ told the man. He narrowed his eyes as if he were short-
sighted.
Miller said nothing, just nodded.
The Italian paused for a good moment and jerked a thumb to the
back of his vehicle, ―We‘re taking some ale beer, tankards, and bottles
of Chianti to maybe a hundred pilots and Luftwaffe ground personnel.
They‘ll celebrate what the hell I don‘t know later tonight,‖ he
mumbled gravely and completed, ―given we‘re losing this shitty war.‖
―Um-hum,‖ Miller mumbled with disinterest.

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There was another long pause and the Italian went on, ―They‘ll give
a party on a depot ship, the Scaranzi. It‘s anchored off the harbor;
arrived this morning from Naples, bringing something almost as
important as booze: gasoline.‖
Miller interrupted the pointless conversation and asked what he
deemed necessary. ―Have you seen local troops around? I think I saw
some of them riding Zundapps and using German guns this morning.
Did you come across these men lately––or know where they‘re based?
Maybe they‘re in need of part of the food I‘m transporting.‖
The Italian officer exchanged a puzzled glance with the man driving
the truck; it had sounded very strange to both of them.
―I don‘t think so,‖ said the officer. ―Actually, I haven‘t seen askaris
using vehicles for ages.‖
The driver put in, ―Last time I saw a local soldier in action, the poor
bastard was just a sentinel with a stick in one hand.‖
That was very disappointing. No one knows of the militia! Miller
thought in crescent rage. Irritated, he decided to fish the information
he still needed.
―By the by, sir,‖ the Englishman said with a casual ring. ―Some idiot
told me the interpellation ‗Alfa‘ and the response ‗Romeo‘ have been
extinguished. Is that true? You know, I don‘t want to get stuck at the
gates of the base in Regima with my assistant shitting his guts out as
some dumbass inspects my cargo and next frisks us because I didn‘t
have the latest silly codes.‖
The Italian shook his head and gave a little laugh. ―It‘s going to be
‗Alfa‘ and ‗Romeo‘ till the end of the week, at least. The guy was
playing a trick on you, man.‖
―Yes, I think he was––that idiot,‖ Miller said, deeply relieved.
―Thanks a lot, sir. Nice journey.‖
The trucks drove off as Miller waved them farewell. Easy, very
easy, the commando told himself, let‘s hope everything continues like
this.

**************
47
Bacos was a middle-class district of Alexandria. It was as clean and
neat as any neighborhood in America or Western Europe. For those
facts alone a number of people from there who lived in Egypt had
chosen the area to reside or open their businesses.
One of them, an Englishman from Portsmouth, opened the Royal
Club sixteen years back. Its outside showed very little glamour, which

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mustn‘t have been the founder‘s intention at the time he‘d chosen the
name of the place, which was in big block letters above the double
door. The nightclub‘s frontage was badly in need of a coat of
whitewash, the glass windows were all cracked in places, and the
single light at the entrance had burned out.
Its inside, however, was another story. It had a checkerboard marble
floor, the walls bore new papering, and roman milestones decorated
the corners. There were a dozen tables of thick dark wood with stuffed
chairs around them, and in the ceiling of the main lounge hung an eye-
catching chandelier. There were bead curtains over the windows and
several ceiling fans. A marble-topped counter stood in front of a
mirrored wall serried with shelves of bottles of all kinds of liquors
from each corner of the globe.
Tonight, despite being a Monday, the place was crowded. There
could be found here war correspondents, local merchants, wealthy
Pashas (landlords), soldiers on leave, government clerks, and
whatever kind of people one imagined. Obviously, boozers of lesser
importance and gamblers were here, too.
So was Nabil Hanoun.
Just like the other Arabs in the Royal Club, he wasn‘t drinking
alcohol. He was seated on a stool at the counter in a white tuxedo and
black pants, his back to the array of bottles, a cup of tea at his elbow.
From there he could survey the behavior of the other men. It was
indeed an English bar, he thought: no women around; also just the
way it was at his uncle‘s coffeehouse in Damascus.
Arabs and non-Arabs shared the same tables, many playing
backgammon. The Europeans gorged themselves on beer and other
alcoholic drinks as the locals enjoyed tea and smoked narjeel. Lines
of tobacco and hashish smoke trickled up from the tables and were
merged together in a blue cloud by the cones of wind made by the
rattling ceiling fans.
Hanoun discreetly shook his head in displeasure. Such proximity
with the Crusaders would be punished.
You all will be consumed by God‟s rage in the Great Day of the
Fire! Everyone who‟s acted in disaccord with the Koran will be
severely punished .Very soon, I hope. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem
will return. And then you infidels shall see God‟s wrath.
He froze at a sudden questioning. Heusseini was scheming for the
Nazi takeover of the whole region. Would the Germans be any
different from the British about religious matters? Would they accept

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the fact that diseases are caused by an evil spirit and consequently sick
people need prayer rather than medicine?
Oh God, may You forgive me, the words came when he
remembered the treatment in his kidneys he‘d undergone in Damascus
last year.
Ah! God will understand. I‟m special––a leader. He shall forgive
great men like me, who commit certain slips so as to continue working
healthily for the accomplishments of His wishes.
Or so I hope…
He‘d decided to go to the men‘s room and hit the small pouch of
Persian opium in his pocket to help numb his thoughts when a man sat
heavily on a stool to his right. It was a Caucasian in his middle-thirties
in a rumpled beige suit. His dark hair was askew, his half-closed eyes
displaying the amount of drinks he must have had earlier. His clumsy,
uncoordinated ways were typical of an intoxicated person.
―Evening, mate,‖ the man spoke to him. He was British, Hanoun
was sure, and his breath reeked of whisky.
―Good evening, mister,‖ Hanoun said in a precise English. There
was the pop and the bright flash of a photograph camera on a tripod
across the room and it made Hanoun squint.
Hanoun saw the British swivel himself on the stool and lift a finger
at the sight of the attendant, who was a good-looking Arab.
―Yes, sir?‖ the attendant said solicitously while polishing a glass.
―First of all,‖ the European said with a drunken voice. ―Where am
I?‖
―At the Royal Club, sir,‖ the barman said patiently.
―Hmm…is it also a hotel?‖
―No, sir.‖
―Blast! I‘ve come to the wrong place!‖ the British slurred,
scratching his head. ―But I won‘t waste my long walk. Bring me the
best Irish juice you‘ve got, chap.‖
―How about Jameson, sir?‖
―Perfect!‖ he man said and hiccupped loudly.
The bartender grabbed the bottle and a glass from separate shelves
and placed them in front of the man. He filled the glass to the brim.
―Leave the bottle here, all right? It‘s going nowhere on its own
volition.‖
―Haven‘t you drunk enough tonight, mister?‖ the attendant said with
a scowl.
The British gave another loud hiccup and pointed a stiff finger at
him. ―That‘s nobody else‘s problem but mine. Here,‖ he fished a five-

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pound bill in his jacket pocket and dropped it on the marble counter.
―Keep the change.‖
―Very well,‖ the barman said, took the bill, and withdrew.
―And don‘t blow it on booze,‖ the drunk called, raising his glass in a
salute.
Hanoun sat impassively, observing him out of the corner of his eye.
Then the man placed the bottle on the stool between them and said,
―Join me, chap?‖
―No, thank you,‖ Hanoun said, and another flashbulb popped as a
second photograph was taken.
―Come on, just a glass––I‘m paying,‖ the European said, smiling,
his blue eyes not entirely focused.
―I mustn‘t drink, sir.‖
The British held out an unsteady arm. ―Name‘s Stewart,‖ he said,
his half-closed eyes staring into those of the Arab.
They shook hands and the camera‘s flashbulbs popped yet again.
Hanoun released the drunk‘s hand and looked at the man behind the
tripod with the camera. Like most large photograph machines, there
was a black fabric cover for the photographer, and his face couldn‘t be
seen.
―Hullo,‖ the British said, waving one hand at him; his other held the
bottle of whisky. ―I‘m not so confident as to put that bottle back onto
the counter.‖ The man was swaying on his stool. ―Do you know what
I mean?
―I‘m afraid not.‖
―Will you put it there, mate? It may slip from my hand and… you
know.‖
―All right, then,‖ Hanoun grabbed the bottle and placed it on the
counter. In the meantime, the camera had taken one more photo.
Conversations fell silent in midsentence in the nightclub. All heads
swiveled to the orange-tanned redhead who‘d entered in a clinging,
sleeveless apple-green cocktail dress. The female colossus moved for
the bar, giving the open-mouthed men a daring grin, her luxuriant hair
cascading down to the middle of her back.
―Now this fleabag will be smellin‘ a li‘l better,‖ a heavily-accented
English voice rang out. All other customers seemed to laugh, and all
the sounds of the place returned to the normal state.
The appetizing girl stood in front of Hanoun, only four feet away.
―Good evening,‖ she said, smiling.
―Goo…good evening, madam,‖ was the Arab‘s stammering reply.

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Her left hand ran down her curvaceous side almost in slow motion
to smooth the dress over her hips, and next slipped into the small
black purse she had in her right hand. The Arab couldn‘t help gazing
lustfully at her. She took out a cigarette case and opened it.
―Who have we got here?‖ the drunken British whispered, leaning
very close to Hanoun. ―It makes one have some ideas, doesn‘t it?‖
Hanoun smiled and the European reached out to give a slap on his
knee.
One more time, a flashbulb snapped across the big room.
The redhead fumbled in her purse for a while and spoke to Hanoun,
―Got a light, mister?‖
―By all means, ma‘am,‖ he mumbled nervously and sank his both
hands into his pants pockets. One hand took out a book of matches,
the other a small pouch of opium; the latest he immediately returned
into the pocket.
―Very kind,‖ she said, her feline green eyes beaming into his as he
lit the thin cigarette in her lipsticked mouth.
Another photo was taken.
―You‘re welcome, Miss…‖
―Angela,‖ she said and nodded toward the stool between Hanoun
and the British, ―May I?‖
―By all means,‖ he said and waved her onto it. She sat down, and he
shot a disconcerted glance at her generous bosom.
―Polite men are so rare these days, don‘t you agree?‖ she said with a
come-to-bed voice and let out smoke while tilting up her chin, breasts
pressed out toward Hanoun.
―If you say so,‖ Hanoun said and frowned charmingly at her. ―Tell
me, what‘s a fine lady like you doing in a lounge like this unescorted?
You‘re British, aren‘t you?‖
She blinked her eyes purposefully slowly and blew smoke into the
air. When she was going to answer, a wad of Pound bills clipped
together fell from her purse. ―Oops,‖ she said.
―Allow me,‖ Hanoun spoke gladly and dropped to his knees to pick
it up. When he straightened up again, the camera flashed once more.
This time he saw the mustached face of the photographer look up
from the eyepiece at him.
―Is that man taking pictures of us?‖ Hanoun asked to nobody in
special, staring at the camera.
―Are you an important figure in this city?‖ the girl asked.
―No, I‘m not even from Egypt. I‘m…er...I‘m a businessman from
Syria,‖ he said and handed her the money. Another picture was taken.

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―As I said,‖ the girl commented, ―you‘re a rare type of gentleman.‖

Before he could give a reply, the British drunk was making a
vampire face, pretending to be about to bite her long suntanned neck.
Hanoun‘s face contorted itself into a little laugh he couldn‘t help let
out.
One more time, a photo was taken.
>><<
Abu Ishmael stepped into the Royal Club wearing his best set of
clothes, a finely cut gray suit with a black tie. He was going to meet
up with his new controller, the one replacing his friend Kareem, killed
by a Haganah assassin. That was probably the reason Hanoun had
chosen a public place to meet: it was full of Europeans and the Jews
wouldn‘t dare attack them in here.
Ishmael estimated he‘d need a half-hour with the man to give his
report. As was his routine, he‘d been wandering watchfully about the
port, the airfield, and the train station in search of any scrambles that
could interest the Germans or Haj Amin al-Heusseini. He did hope it
continued as simple as this. A few days back he‘d had to probe the
embattled El-Alamein area to spot Scottish troops and broadcast their
positions to Hanoun with his spy radio.
He walked confidently around the tables, breathing all the smells of
beverage and smoke, and scanned the bar for Hanoun. When he
sighted him, he froze in his tracks.
His face contorted with something between fear and rage, maybe
both. He didn‘t know what to do.
There was Hanoun at the bar talking to Catherine Nowell of the
British Military Intelligence and attached to the LRDG. Across the
lounge was Colonel Robert Cameron taking pictures of all of them.
But of course! The dark blue Bentley outside is Cameron‟s.
His pitted face was transformed by rage. There too was Latif––the
traitor––playing bar tender. The other one with them was the only
man without a uniform that had left the submarine the day before and
taken away by Nowell in the car––no question a MI-6 spy!
At last Hanoun spotted Ishmael. He‘d never met the man, but his
clothes and the pineapple face were his identifier. He smiled thinly at
the Egyptian, who stood motionless in the center of the room. It took
the Syrian two or three seconds to realize the alarm on the man‘s face.
Ishmael croaked words in fast Arabic and drew a Luger automatic.
The place went silent.
Among the ones at the counter, only Hanoun and Latif understood
what he‘d shouted: ―They‘re enemy agents! This is a trap! Run!‖

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Ishmael pointed his gun at Catherine, who had no reaction but

stopping breathing in horror. He began moving toward the bar, and
thumbed the pistol‘s hammer to firing position.
Cameron reached for his gun tucked at his back at the waist. He
tried to draw it, but it wouldn‘t come out; it‘d slipped two inches
downward, enough to make the massive drum snag on his leather belt.
Ishmael took aim. He decided to shoot the woman first, next the spy,
then Cameron, last Latif. He gritted his teeth.
A foot tripped him and he crashed to the hard floor, the gun flying
off his hand.
―Where are you manners, you idiot,‖ the well-known Pasha who‘d
tripped him said in Arabic. He got up swiftly, picked up the gun, and
stood over Ishmael pointing the Luger at him. ―Someone call the
police,‖ he said in English. ―It seems we‘ve got some Young Egypt
fools here.‖
―If I were you,‖ White said, wrapping a fist around Hanoun‘s wrist.
―I‘d be very quiet now.‖
The Syrian spit on the Englishman‘s face, grabbed the bottle of
whisky, and smashed it on his head. White curled up in pain, eyes
burning with the liquor, blood dripping from the top of his skull.
Latif leaned over the counter and tried to grab him by the lapels of
his jacket, but all he saw was Hanoun‘s gnarled fist dash toward his
face. Latif ducked in time, but his chin hit the marble top, and he was
out of action for precious seconds.
Hanoun saw the mustached man behind the camera draw a revolver.
The front door was out of question now. He regretted leaving his gun
at the hotel. Before it was too late he leapt over the counter and burst
into the depths of the bar. He knew there was a service entrance; he‘d
checked it out before entering.
Cameron was beside White in a second. ―You all right?‖
―I see blood in your hair,‖ Catherine said.
―Sod it! Go after him! I‘ll take care of the other one.‖
―This way,‖ Latif called, summoning the Scot to the corridor that led
to the back entrance of the bar. An instant later they both were striding
along it, feet thumping on the stone floor. The door at its end gave
onto a loading bay and then onto a narrow alley. Hanoun had stormed
out of it a few seconds before.
Latif went through the doorway on the run and was hit by a large
plank in his stomach. He puffed out all the air in his lungs and
tumbled onto the filthy ground.

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Hanoun dropped the plank, which had split in two, turned around
and dashed along the darkened, cobbled alley.
Cameron skidded to a halt and bent low to see whether Latif was
hurt. ―Gawd! It was he?‖
Latif was still breathlessly sprawled on the ground. He nodded
toward the man hurrying down the alley. ―Go get‘m, sir,‖ the
Egyptian managed to say.
The Scot growled a curse and tore after the man, gun in hand.
Hanoun was only thirty yards away, but he decided not to shoot. He‘d
probably hurt him too seriously, and everything would have been in
vain.
The heavy footsteps behind told Hanoun there was somebody else
after him. He looked around for another big piece of wood, but there
were none. All he saw in the semi-gloom were trash baskets and
empty crates in tall piles along a good stretch of the passage. He
looked over one shoulder. He saw the gun in his pursuer‘s hand and
nearly panicked. His arms began flailing in search of some kind of
weapon in the crates standing against the walls as he ran. As a result,
several of them cascaded down from the piles and turned into
obstacles to his chaser.
Cameron hurtled over the first crate, and then over a second one.
After he‘d jumped over the third, his feet landed on a slippery surface,
and he fell comically on his buttocks. His gun had flown away.
Hanoun glanced over his shoulder again. His chaser had crashed to
the ground and still lay there reactionlessly. Beyond him, the man
he‘d hit with the plank was only beginning to get up.
He smiled as he sprinted. His escape was going to be easy now. No
one would reach him. In a minute or so he‘d get to a broad street and
grab a cab and disappear.
Next thing he saw a dark blue car swerved around a corner and
braked to a stop in front of him with a squeal of tires. Too close in
front of him; he still was running very fast.
It was his turn to skid on the slippery cobbles and lose control of his
pacing. He collided into the side of the car, his face banging violently
against its hard metal. Almost unconscious, he fell flat on the ground,
choking with broken teeth and blood.
Catherine climbed out, leaving the engine running, and hurried
around the car. She looked down at him. This time she had a gun in
one hand.
―You‘d better stay still now, Mr. Hanoun.‖

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Moments later, Cameron and Latif were beside her. They were
gasping for breath, their clothes torn in places and very dirty.
―You all right?‖ Latif said worriedly to her.
―I‘m safe and sound,‖ she said and nodded at Hanoun. ‖Unlike
him.‖
―Stopped to say hullo?‖ Cameron said, smiling scornfully at the
fallen man.
Hanoun made a move as if he were trying to roll away. Catherine
cocked the hammer of her revolver. ―Hm-hm,‖ she said, shaking her
head.
At that moment two Field Security men in plainclothes who‘d been
waiting in the shadows across from the club on Cameron‘s
instructions came around the corner on a run.
The Scot knelt down, struck a match on a cobblestone, and lit a
cigarette. ―As you‘re going nowhere else tonight, we might well have
a little chit-chat. What do you say?‖
Hanoun barked a stream of Arabic, glaring at him. Blood and pieces
of teeth were spat out as he spoke.
―What did he say?‖ Cameron asked Latif.
The Egyptian hesitated, shook his head, and said in a low tone, ―It
was something about your mother, sir.‖

**************
48
When Dalton was told by Miller of the fuel being delivered at
Benghazi, an alarm rang in his head. It was the confirmation of the
message Cameron had flashed him: Rommel would lay hands on that
precious gasoline in fewer than twenty-four hours and mount a
counter-attack from Tobruk. A terrible danger occurred to him: it
could even get the Korps back into the Egyptian frontier.
―That fuel is a good candidate for a sneak raid,‖ he decided. Miller
and he were hogtying the Italian in the truck‘s cab.
―I‘d rather have got something about the militia,‖ Miller said,
disappointment on his face.
―Too late now,‖ said Dalton.
They whisked the Lancia off the road, parking it close to the
Chevrolets. The men moved into the welcoming warm of the topped
stowage unit of the large truck. Some flashlights provided a good
lighting. Like in a tutorial, they leaned against the wooden barrels
arranged in pairs across the length of the flatbed to discuss what they
should do from now on.

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―It‘s unbelievable,‖ Miller was saying. ―Nobody‘s got a clue to the

whereabouts of the Beasts; albeit they‘re supposed to be under
command of the Germans. They‘re plenty of men with modern
armament and motorcycles, but no one knows they‘ve been active.
How come?‖
Collins said, ―It‘s like they‘re running covert actions.‖
―Must be,‖ said Miller.
―Let‘s forget about them for a while, all right,‖ Dalton said. ―I‘m
also curious to know what the devil is going on, but we must put it
temporarily aside now.‖
Miller said, ―The Italian officer said there are pilots and more
personnel of the Luftwaffe preparing a party on a ship off Benghazi. It
means we‘ll find, besides the vessel itself, a fuel dump and ill-guarded
planes in Berka airfield just waiting for us.
―So we must go there to blow up the supplies and the planes––and
sink the ship,‖ Dalton said. He turned to Jones; the Englishman had
been to Benghazi last year on a mission with his previous LRDG
patrol. ―How‘s your memory for alleys in the dark?‖
Jones gave a half salute. ―Still working. I‘ll be your guide,‖ he said.
Standing beside the Welshman, Cassel frowned hard. ―But you told
me a few hours ago we were going to attack the Messerschmitts at El-
Agheila,‖ he said, addressing Dalton.
―Not anymore,‖ replied Dalton. ―We can‘t waste these precious
hints. No sense in going where we‘ve got almost no information.‖
―Boy, a ship and tons of fuel are too good targets to pass up,‖
Collins said.
Cassel punched the barrel in front of him. ―But I gave you lads an
aerial photograph of that damned spot when you found me!‖ he said.
―That shows edifices that resemble recently-built hangars. We can
draw upon it to sketch the raid.‖
―That‘s not satisfactory, either,‖ Dalton said. He paused and added,
―It‘s very handsome of you to take the trouble to avenge your dead
men, but it‘s unviable.‖
Dalton stiffened a chuckle. Why are you still trying to convince us
you‘re just a pilot? he asked himself, staring at Cassel.
Cassel‘s mood changed suddenly. He was visibly worried now, as if
trying to think something over. He fidgeted feverishly with his fingers
on his chin, scratching the five-day stubble growing on it.
Already Dalton was full of enthusiasm. ―We‘ll split up to the three
objectives,‖ he said, ―Fuel and ship in Benghazi, and the planes in
Berka. We‘ll enter both places riding our newest acquisition.‖ He

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pointed a finger downward indicating he meant the Lancia. ―The rest

of the job is the habitual,‖ he crackled him fingers and said, ―Any
suggestions?‖
All men shook their heads.
Dalton went on, ―Captain Cassel will stay here, guarding the Chevys
and watching the prisoner till we come back.‖
Cassel scowled. Then he widened his eyes as if an idea had
flourished in his mind, and interrupted Dalton as he lectured, ―I can
help attack the aerodrome. You must let me go wearing the uniform of
the Italian driver.‖
There was a moment‘s silence, everyone staring at Cassel with
incredulous expressions.
―What‘s the matter? Should we toss a coin to decide?‖ Cassel
exclaimed indignantly, a note of hostility in his voice.
―Do you speak some Italian?‖ Miller asked.
―No, not a word. But I‘m sure you can speak for both of us. I‘ll
leave the talking to you, all right?‖
Miller nodded in acceptance.
―I suppose you know if you get nabbed in that uniform, you‘ll be
summarily killed as a spy,‖ Dalton said.
―That‘s part of the game,‖ Cassel said dismissively with a shrug.
―And I won‘t be the only one breaking the Geneva Convention lately,
eh?‖
Dalton approved with reluctance. ―All right, you may come….as
long as you don‘t get yourself into trouble,‖ he said.
Cassel sighed with relief and smiled broadly, looking immensely
elated. He jumped out and went around to the truck cab to take the
clothes of the Italian private.
The others got out next and headed back for their vehicles. In
notches of three or four, they began to check their array of weapons
and explosives. They‘d be put into bundles tied to lengths of wood
and carried across the men‘s shoulders.
Dalton handed them one by one the disguises everyone going to
Benghazi should put on: peach-colored galebaya robes. The
Americans were also given leather sandals and gutras.
―What the hell!‖ Keyes said as he was given his robe.
―All men going into the city must be dressing as unsuspicious
natives, my friend,‖ said Dalton. ―Bloody place‘s brimming with
enemy troops in garrison duty.‖
The American sighed. ―Okay,‖ he clicked his tong and shook his
head. ―Some wardrobe.‖

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Deeply bronzed and with heavy growths of dark stubble

accumulated on their faces, the Americans would look like penniless
vagrants without much effort, Dalton was sure. It was necessary only
to put an additional smear of dirt on their faces, he reckoned as he
examined them.
The barrels in the Lancia were spacious enough to occult men
inside. So eight would be smuggled into the airbase inside them. The
three Frenchmen and five out of the six Welshmen––the shorter men
in the team––would crouch there with guns and explosives until the
moment to attack. Olivier and his two men took out the dried meat,
and perforated the bottom of the barrels with knives for ventilation.
Dimly lit by the beam of a flashlight with infrared filter, Dalton
solitarily checked an inflatable rubber raft on the fender of his truck.
He planned to use it to get to the ship. As Cassel put on the uniform of
the Italian, his attention was caught by what the Welshman was doing.
He froze in position, deep in thought as he observed him. He glanced
around and saw two corporals busying themselves with timing devices
for explosive charges next to another truck. His face lit up in a
malicious grin, and he headed for the Welshman.
―Mate,‖ Cassel called as he got close. Dalton was packing the black
one-man raft into a haversack. ―I think a corporal‘s looking for you to
help them fix some explosives.‖
―I‘m a little busy here––‖
―Nah, go and help them. I can finish that for you.‖
―Thanks, I‘ll be right back,‖ Dalton said and walked away.
Cassel continued the process of shoving the raft into the haversack.
But he also observed the Welshman walk away out of the corner of
his eye.
After walking thirty yards across the cold gloom, Dalton saw a pair
of his men working in the light of a flash. They were opening a
wooden case with pencil-shaped glass fuses. As he got closer, he
wondered why they apparently were neither having difficulties at that
nor looking around for him to help them.
―What‘s the matter?‖ the captain enquired.
The corporals exchanged a puzzled glance. There was a silence and
one of them finally said, ―Uh…well, which fuses, sir?‖
―Um...let‘s use the ones for thirty minutes.‖ He lingered there
watching them select the devices and inspect the yellow 250-grain
sticks of C-3 plastic explosive. Then he went back to his truck.
Cassel handed him the raft neatly packed into its bag.
―Good job,‖ Dalton said.

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―Not so bad for a half-breed spy, eh?‖ Cassel said.

―Is that a confession?‖
―Perhaps.‖
―Mazeltov, then.‖
Cassel smiled, shaking his head. ―What are our real chances on this
thing? Sneaking into a city full of enemies in the middle of the night
sounds like sheer suicide, man.‖
―To be honest, it‘s going to be the safest part of this whole mission.‖
―Excellent. I do feel like going back home.‖ He realized that Dalton
had shrunk. ―What about you?‖
―It depends on your conception of a home.‖
―Sorry, mate,‖ Cassel put a hand on Dalton‘s shoulder. ―I couldn‘t
help hearing the men telling stories about the death of your wife. A
couple of them said you didn‘t refuse this task so you had a chance to
avenge her.‖
Dalton was motionless. He didn‘t even blink as Cassel spoke. It was
all true.
Cassel said, ―Funny is that those same blokes said they‘d do exactly
the same.‖
Dalton finally spoke, ―Never imagined that‘d motivate them to go
on this mad run with me. I just hope no more of them dies for it. It‘s
my revenge; only mine. I‘m the one to pay the price if it comes to it.‖
Cassel nodded several times in silence. ―Well, that is a confession,‖
he said.
>> <<
They spent nearly an hour righting their equipments and disguising
themselves to the minor details, top to toe, in the grimy outfits of Arab
nomads. Then they climbed into the Lancia carrying submachine
guns, revolvers, grenades, explosives, and flare pistols. Everything
was hidden in bundles of fabric tied with strings and straw baskets, a
layer of dried meat covering the weapons.
Dalton instructed Miller, ―Give the bloody wop some water and a
coat, and then let him go. Tell him to head north, following the road.
He‘ll get to Barce by daybreak; that if no one gives him a lift first,
which mustn‘t happen. It‘s about the time we need to get through with
the targets and come back here.‖
Miller went to the cab and unbound the hands and ankles of the
Italian, who‘d been wearing only undershorts for the last hour. He
took his gag off and gave him an overcoat and a canteen with water.
Last he told him as Dalton had instructed. Looking frightened, the

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man waddled briskly away along the road in his bare feet and
disappeared into the darkness.
Dalton saw Collins awkwardly straightening his loose galebaya and
the gutra in the light of his own flash. He involuntarily put on a broad
smile and headed for the American as he lit a cigarette.
―My goodness! Anyone could bet you‘re Lawrence of Arabia
himself!‖ Dalton said, without concealing the mockery stamped on his
hairy face.
―No,‖ the American said wryly, the flashlight in one hand as he
adjusted his gutra with the other. ―I‘m looking more like my
grandmother in one of those old pajamas of hers.‖
Dalton laughed and patted the back of the lieutenant. He turned
aside and checked on the men in and close to the Lancia, working a
checklist in his mind. And then he was aware that someone was
missing. Soon he discovered it was Cassel.
―Where‘s Mr. Kangaroo?‖ Dalton asked Collins. ―We‘re wasting
time here.‖
―I don‘t know,‖ Collins said, peering into the murk in search of the
man.
―Bloody hell!‖
They stood looking around, shining flashlights without the red lens
into the night for almost two minutes. Finally Cassel came out of the
blackness, caught by the light of the American.
―There he is,‖ Collins said, illuminating him.
Dalton crossed to Cassel with a heavy frown. He flicked his
cigarette away and said, ―What the devil were you doing?‖
Cassel looked disconcerted. In the drab Italian uniform, he put the
half-smoked cigar in his mouth and said, ―I was trying to find one of
my cigars. Think I let it fall out of my pocket back there.‖
―Forget it, we have to go,‖ Dalton rasped and shepherded him to the
back of the Lancia.
The three of them boarded the truck, Dalton and Collins into the
rear, Cassel into the cab. Miller settled himself behind the steering
wheel as Cassel fell in beside him. The Englishman turned into the
paved road, and started along it. He headed south, making for
Benghazi, fifty miles away.
The Chevrolets had been stationed side by side behind the wall of
cacti, like bulls grazing in a trough, draped in heavy camouflage. They
would be hard to be seen even in daytime.
But one thing gave their position away.

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The object that Cassel had lost on the sands wasn‘t a cigar. He
didn‘t even have another. The one he possessed had been between his
lips for the two last days. Actually he‘d spent long minutes spelling
out the word BERKA and a lettering reading LANCIA 44103 with
pebbles. Next to the lettering, resembling a minuscule lighthouse, he‘d
embedded the stick of a curved flashlight fitted with red lens into the
sand, and turned it on. The stain of red light in the blackness could be
noticed by anyone several miles away, who‘d just need to glance in
this direction.

**************
49
Colonel Cameron poured generous measures of brandy into three
glasses. Smiling broadly, he handed White and Catherine their drinks.
They were back to the LRDG room, still wearing the clothes they‘d
used at the Royal Club.
―To ourselves?‖ the Scot said, proposing a toast.
―Why not?‖ White said. ―And to the man who invented the
photograph machine.‖
―Agreed,‖ Catherine said with a huge smile, and the three of them
drank.
Nabil Hanoun and Abu Ishmael had been taken to the main police
station. Latif, Cameron, and the local chief inspector of the Egyptian
police had interrogated them for over an hour, and both remained in
stubborn silence. Not even the prospects of decades of imprisonment
for association with Heusseini‘s gang had made any effect. The three
interrogators had known they wouldn‘t talk. They‘d been just studying
the two men––and waiting.
The seventy or eighty minutes spent in the musty interrogation room
had been the time White and Catherine needed to get the photos
Cameron had taken in the nightclub processed. Then they drove to
police headquarters.
Hanoun spit on the ground when they entered the interrogation room
and said in his language, ―The English clown and the green-eyed
serpent of the Nile.‖ Latif translated it and everyone laughed.
―I do enjoy your sense of humor, mate,‖ White said as he took four
photograph frames from his jacket pocket. ―Now I hope you enjoy
these photos.‖
―Be honest,‖ Cameron said, the smoke from his cigarette spiraling in
the light bulb over Hanoun‘s head. ―Despite being an amateur, they
turned up rather good, no?‖

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―Indeed,‖ White said and laid the frames on the table in front of
Hanoun so that he could see himself in them. His reaction was a gasp
of shock.
―You‘re very photogenic, you know?‖ White said.
Stiffening a chuckle, Catherine said, ―Just forgot to say cheese.‖
Cameron said, ―What might happen if some people in Palestine or
Berlin got copies of those? They‘re so revealing, don‘t you think?‖
Hanoun couldn‘t help trembling as he stared at the photographs.
There he was holding his lighter for a British Army Intel female
officer; grabbing a bottle of whisky and talking with an MI-6 man;
holding a thick bunch of Sterling Pounds. Horrendous scenes began
floating in his mind. Those images could imply anything to whom
looked at them. To his fanatical cohorts, he knew exactly what it‘d
mean: the sin of drinking alcohol would cost him a session of whip
strokes on his back, already that money suggested treason––and it
would be punished in a different way.
―You made it up!‖ Hanoun snarled in English through his broken
front teeth, eyes red in a mixture of rage and fear. ―No one will
believe it!‖
―Come now, man,‖ the chief inspector said in Arabic, ―I‘ve got a
number of witnesses in the Royal Club who could swear you were
having a good time with this gentleman and this beautiful lady.‖
―Say nothing else!‖ Ishmael shouted at his associate.‖ These infields
want you to compromise yourself!‖
―Actually, we want you to save your own arse,‖ Cameron said
addressing Hanoun after Latif had translated the last sentence to him.
―Your friend Ishmael will be kept in a cell for ages while you will be
released in a gesture of…um…good will.‖
―He lies!‖ roared Ishmael.
Latif said, ―Now, tell me; traitors are still punished by being buried
alive into anthills in Palestine, aren‘t they?‖
―How do you dare?‖ Hanoun shouted at Latif and the chief of
police. ―You two betray your Arab brothers!‖
The chief inspector noticed it was the right moment. ―Listen,‖ he
told Hanoun. ―I‘ll propose you a deal just because you seem not to be
as dumb as your friend here. You both are finished in your business.
So…I‘ll offer you a deal in exchange of a little collaboration: we‘ll let
you disappear and spread the word that you ran away from us. Maybe
your brothers will even think that you were killed by us. What do you
say?‖

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―The Grand Mufti will know you told them, you rat,‖ Ishmael said
menacingly.
The chief inspector said, ―How are you going to do that if you‘re
spending the rest of your life incommunicable in a cell?‖ then he
turned to Hanoun and said, ―Well?‖
Latif finished the translation and White said, ―Take it, man. And
these pictures will disappear the moment you get out of Egypt.‖
―Do you promise?‖ Hanoun said in a near plead.
White nodded his head.
Hanoun reacted as most men would in such conditions: he broke.
The moments that followed are known in police jargon as when the
prisoner ‗sings like a bird‘. Ishmael‘s desperate protests and threats
only confirmed the information Hanoun was giving was true. Even he
was unknowingly giving his share of collaboration by doing so; which
was the reason he‘d been kept in the room with Hanoun. And Hanoun
talked like a rescued castaway.
That had been an hour ago. Now Cameron was pouring more brandy
into their glasses and ruminating over the information Hanoun had
given. Heusseini‘s espionage ring in Egypt, run by his nephew Abdel
Qadir, had been instructed by Berlin to collect data on the LRDG
patrols, more specifically on that composed by Scots, under the
command of Captain McCrea.
It was very good news. All those men were safely on leave in Cairo
right now. The bad news was that Cameron‘s house in Alexandria had
been wire-tapped by Ishmael two weeks back, who had been
following all his steps and reporting them to Berlin via Hanoun.
Questioned about his instructions concerning the Haganah man who‘d
eliminated his predecessor, Hanoun had been clear: the Kfir should be
killed whenever identified; mainly now that a number of Haganah
cells were known to be assisting the MI-6.
―Bingo!‖ White had exclaimed, startling the ashen-faced Mufti‘s
spy. It should clarify everything––conforming his own theory: Qadir
had somehow learned that the Kfir was making his preparations to
blend with an LRDG patrol for some purpose; McCrea‘s team must
have been very active back then, which became the likeliest for so.
That information had motivated meetings in Tripoli with the presence
of Qadir and SD personnel.
Right now, White figured, this Colonel Fischer was sitting in El-
Agheila and waiting for the Kfir to come for him. His Team Lion
should be ready to come and arrest the Haganah man along with the
commandos that were––unknowingly or not––helping him. And as the

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Haganah cell in Casablanca hadn‘t answered to deny the man with the
patrol was one of their men, their silence became a proof Cassel really
was who they suspected.
The phone rang and Catherine answered. She listened for a moment,
nodded, and replaced the receiver. ―It‘s Latif. He searched your house
with the chief inspector and found the hearing device.‖
―To the few Egyptians who don‘t hate us,‖ White said, lifting his
glass.
―Excellent?‖ Cameron said. ―That all?‖
―One more thing,‖ Catherine said. ―Latif wants you to go back to
police headquarters. Field Security wants you and the chief of police
to sign a document; it‘s about the deal with Hanoun to let him go.‖
―Yes, of course,‖ the Scot said and stood up. ―Back in an hour.‖
―No need to hurry,‖ White said and glanced at Catherine who
responded with a conspiratorial raise of an eyebrow.
A moment later the colonel left the room. White crossed to the door
after he‘d gone out and latched it. ―He forgot telling us to behave
well.‖
Catherine feigned a sigh. ―This room is far from being a romantic
place,‖ she said, let down her hair in a red cascade, and shook her
head.
White took off his jacket as he moved toward the stunning figure,
dark desires showing in his meaningful grin. ―You heard the boss:
we‘ve got a full hour. Use your imagination,‖ he said when they were
a few inches from each other.
―I‘ll try,‖ she said, biting one lip, her face glowing with desire. Then
she stretched languidly, lifting her arms and arching her bare
shoulders back so that her breasts were thrust forward and flattened
beneath the tight green dress.
White went crazy. He pinned her to the nearest wall while kissing
her in a frenzy of lust. He began running his tongue on the soft skin of
her neck while both his hands fondled her breasts. She moaned, eyes
closed, hands caressing the sides of his head. She pushed him gently
away after a little while, and pulled down her lacy underwear. Then
she sat on the floor, staring into his eyes, and lay on her back
invitingly.
His carnal urgency subsided into a gentle, practiced act. In the end
she was wriggling pleasurably, again looking into his yes, and gave a
series of little orgasmic screams.
They lay there side by side on the hard floor for over a minute in
total silence, regaining their breath.

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―I can bet the lorry driver‘s never done anything like this with you,‖
White said.
―So this is a competition for you two?‖ she said as she rose and
picked up her panties. Face very hard, she slipped into it and
smoothed her dress over her hips.
―Forget it, will you?‖ he said after he‘d sprung to his feet, and
grabbed her by her shoulders and planted a kiss on her lips.
It was too late. She pulled herself free of him, turned away, and
headed for a file holder.
―Does it make any difference if I promise I‘ll never tell Dalton of
anything what happened here?‖
―No,‖ she said coldly and came back to him with two sheets of
paper, ―because nothing happened here.‖ She handed them to him.
They were messages to him. One was a cable from Barcelona,
signed by Lloyd: YOU ARE IN DEEP SHIT MY FRIEND. HOPE
MINX IN TRIPOLI IS WORTH OF IT. GET BACK HERE
IMMEDIATELY. SO SAYS THE BOSS. END.
The other was signed by ‗S‘ from Casablanca: SUGGEST YOU
COME TO RETRIEVE YOUR BELONGINGS PERSONALLY IN
CASABLANCA. MANY MATTERS TO SETTLE. AWAITING
YOUR ARRIVAL. END.
―So your man in Tripoli wasn‘t exactly a male, eh?‖
White smiled. ―No need to be jealous, darling.‖
―That‘s supposed to be funny?‖
―All right, it‘s my fault. Sorry I reminded you of Prince Charming.
Just don‘t ignore where we are and what our métier is. We all had
better have a good time before anything unavoidable happens to us,
don‘t you agree?‖
She grinned falsely. ―I never think too hard about that. I plan to live
much longer still, Major. Very much longer.‖ She turned away and
left the room, banging the door behind her.
White shook his head, recalling a phrase he‘d heard from the
German agent in Tripoli. ―Eins zu null für dich,‖ he said in a low tone.
‗Score one for you‘. Then he added. ―Herr Dalton.‖

**************
50
―Berka?‖ Matouk said, frowning, hands on his hips. ―Why should
they go to Berka?‖
―It‘s full of airplanes, sir,‖ Kodro said, rubbing his hands together.
―They‘re possibly going to try a raid.‖ There was a hiss of static from

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one of his radios. He swiveled himself around on his stool to face it

and replaced the earphones around his head. He waited, listening
attentively, but it wasn‘t another message coming through; just static.
―We‘re over a hundred and fifty miles away from Berka,‖ said the
general.
―I know,‖ Kodro said as he took his headphones off and unplugged
its cord so that he could hear any incoming messages from the
loudspeakers. ―It‘ll take you and your men maybe two hours and a
half to get there with the motorcycles.‖
―That‘s not what I meant,‖ the Arab said. ―Problem is it‘s nothing to
do with what we‘ve planned; there are no preparations in case they
headed somewhere else than this town. Not to mention it‘ll be
complicated for us to get into this airfield full of German and Italian
soldiers.‖
―Use your letters of authorization,‖ Kodro said. ―That‘s the reason
they were given to each one of us.‖
―I still think we should wait until we‘re able to revert to the original
idea.‖
Kodro seemed to grow impatient. ―Sir, I believe we‘ve been
extremely lucky so far. Let‘s seize the chance before we––‖
―All right,‖ Matouk said, putting up a hand. ―I‘ll get the men ready
to go.‖
―Very well, General.‖
Matouk closed his single eye and shook his turbaned head with
suppressed indignation. ―I hope you understand why I‘m acting this
way, brother.‖
―Sir?‖ Kodro said a second before turning for his transmitters again.
―Nothing‘s going as planned. Nothing at all, you see. Abrupt
changes in the operations, I‘d be willing to recognize; but there‘s one
thing you must agree to be unacceptable.‖
Kodro was afraid of revealing he was aware of it, but he felt he had
no choice but saying, ―Yes, sir, I understand. The Mufti hasn‘t
answered to your demand of being appointed governor of Cyrenaica,
isn‘t it?‖
―Do you think I asked something absurd?‖
―Absolutely not, General. Muslims must be ruled by Muslims.‖
―Even you, a European, agrees to it. Heusseini, however, behaves as
if he belongs to somewhere else.‖ He filled his lungs and switched his
voice: ―‘The word of the Mufti is our bond‟, I heard a hundred times
from Thamer in Palestine.‖

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Kodro nodded, and then shook his head. ―I don‘t know what to say
in their defense––much less whether to do so is really necessary, sir.
Not yet.‖
Matouk closed his one eye again and tilted his head up, mouthing
words to someone only he could see. ―May God have mercy on them
if another betrayal is what they‘re counting on. I‘ve forgiven the
Mufti for letting me in that prison; I was patient and loyal enough to
keep my mouth shut about certain things about him despite his
betrayal. This time, it will be different if it comes to it.‖
Kodro said desolately, ―That we‘ll never know before our task is
concluded, I‘m afraid, sir.‖
―You‘re right. May He bless your words, brother. You‘ve just
proved you‘re willing to be a soldier of God before being a mere
soldier of the Mufti‘s.‖
Kodro said, ―Thank you, sir.‖
―But I‘m almost sure Heusseini had already taken his decisions
before sending his tax collector.‖
Kodro swallowed hard. ―Can you prove it, sir?‖
Matouk thought deeply for a while and was struck by an idea,
―Woman!‖
The communicating door opened seconds later and Hana emerged
from her room in the black burqa, staggering blindly while adjusting
its top around her head and debating which way to go. She glanced
around through the dark veil in the semidarkness in search of the
general and saw the two men in the alcove. As she turned that way,
her toe caught a box full of rolled up maps. She lost her balance and
landed on the floor on her elbows. The veil fell off her face.
―Whore!‖ Matouk roared. ―You‘re a filthy whore!‖
―I‘m sorry, master…General,‖ she said, kneeling now, hurriedly
bundling her head with the dark fabric. ―I didn‘t see the box and––‖
―Shut it!‖ the general snarled and drew his scimitar. He took off her
headcover in a smooth snatch and bunched her hair with one fist.
Hana gasped in horror. Then he placed the tip of the scimitar under
her jaw.
Kodro watched the scene in silent motionlessness, not even blinking.
―Now,‖ Matouk said. ―If you lie to me, I‘ll kill you. And do trust
me; I‘ll know if you lie, understand?‖
―Yes, yes,‖ she said between sobs, barely opening her mouth for
fear the blade would cut her skin.
―Thamer bought you from the muktar of a village near Tripoli,
correct?‖

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―Yes.‖
―Then you came down here by car with Thamer?‖
―Yes.‖
―What did you hear him talk about his orders from the Mufti of
Jerusalem––or about me?‖
―I heard nothing, Master, I swear.‖
―Liar!‖ Matouk roared. ―You‘re going to die!‖
Urine ran down her legs.
―You were in the same cursed car all the time,‖ the general said in
sputtering rage. ―How dare you lie?‖ he pressed the tip of the sword
against her neck and saw a trickle of blood appear on the blade.
―Oh my God…‖ she said in a near whisper, hands raised in
supplication. ―I‘m not lying, Master. Please…don‘t…‖
Matouk drew his scimitar from her neck and began holding it like a
club as if summoning strength to chop her head off. ―You‘ll die right
now if you don‘t tell me what you heard Thamer say.‖
―I couldn‘t have heard a thing, sir. Please trust me!‖
―How come you heard no conversations during a several-hour drive,
whore? How?‖
―Because I was in the trunk all the time,‖ she said, and began to cry
uncontrollably.
Matouk was taken aback. ―What?‖
―Mr. Thamer‘s driver laid a rug on the bottom of the car‘s trunk and
told me to stay there,‖ she said amid choking sobs. ―I never heard a
thing they said.‖
Kodro sighed. ―I think we‘ll never know what or whether the Mufti
had something planned for us, General.‖
―Yes,‖ Matouk said, face bathed in sweat. ―Silly of me to
underestimate Thamer‘s intelligence.‖ He took a long breath and said,
―Go away, woman.‖
Hana rose, slinked away like a cowering dog, and vanished into her
room.
―We‘ll have to wait, sir,‖ Kodro said. ―We must do our end of the
deal and wait. It‘d be a terrible mistake to forejudge our commanders
and ruin the whole operation.‖
Matouk sheathed his scimitar. ―You‘re right. But I‘m terribly afraid
I‘m correct. You, my men, and I will be used up and discarded
according to the wish of the Germans and Heusseini.‖
Kodro became rigidly quiet. He didn‘t even try to formulate
anything to say in his bosses‘ defense.

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Matouk scratched the lids over his non-existent eye, thinking. ―But,
like you said, first let‘s do our job.‖
>> <<
As Matouk and his men readied themselves, Kodro tapped out the
letters of the last news to Berlin. He could bet Heusseini and
Kaltenbrunner were waiting for it and had given orders to let them
know about these developments despite the hour. His message would
have first to be decrypted and typewritten very carefully, which
should take at least another half hour. It meant no problem at all.
Showdown was very near, Kodro was sure. And the two masterminds
of this daring operation would never hesitate leaving some Party
meeting or even their warm beds in the middle of the night to learn of
its final phase.
The rumble of the thirty-two Zundapps in the courtyard of the
tannery made its walls vibrate and pieces of plaster fall off the walls.
From his stool Kodro pictured each machine being laden with its load
of extra gasoline and its driver climbing into it armed to his teeth; he
hoped they‘d never use their weapons, though. The next thing he
heard was Matouk‘s footsteps behind him.
―We‘re ready to go,‖ the Arab said.
―Excellent, General,‖ Kodro said, assurance in his voice. ―May God
follow your every step.‖
―He will. It‘s His will this mission succeeds.‖
―Do you need anything else, sir?‖
―Yes, I do.‖ Matouk stepped closer. ―You have to report it to Team
Lion, correct?‖
―Positive, sir.‖
―I‘d like you to give us some time in advance. You know, it might
be disastrous for our morale if those men got there before us.‖
Kodro nodded. ―I understand, sir. I‘ll give you one hour.‖
Matouk placed his both hands on the European‘s shoulders. ―I knew
I could trust you, brother,‖ he said with a golden smile.
A grin. ―What other behavior should I have before my brothers,
General?‖
―Yes, yes,‖ Matouk said and froze in position pensively for a long
moment. ―Do you feel good working with me and your brothers?‖
―Totally, sir.‖
The general nodded. ―I knew it. You‘ve become a brand-new man.
God only helped me influence you positively. Never forget this: we‘re
not Heusseini‘s or Hitler‘s soldiers––we‘re soldiers of God. When this

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thing‘s over, you‘ll be part of our legion. God has many missions for
us; real missions.‖
Kodro‘s eyes seemed to grow moist. ―I barely can wait, my
General.‖
They embraced and Matouk left the building in confident strides.
Soon afterward the procession of heavy motorcycles was threading
their way out of the sleeping town and onto the coast road, going east
at high speed.
Kodro did as he‘d promised. He waited for one hour before
contacting Captain Heinz.
Then he sat at his desk and reached for the dial to adjust it to the
correct waveband. The instant his indicator finger touched it, a hiss of
static filled his ears. Next a series of pings issued from the
loudspeaker of the Telefunken radio. It was Berlin.
As he turned the Morse code signals into words in German, his hand
almost went limp. It read, REPORT TO TEAM LION TO EXECUTE
INSTRUCTIONS OUTLINED IN SEALED ENVELOPE. MATOUK
MUST NOT BE TOLD ABOUT IT. END.
Kodro almost leaped from his stool. What‘s going on? he thought in
disbelief. I was never told of such secret message given to Captain
Heinz. And why mustn‘t the general know of this…
A shiver ran through him as he stared at the dimly lit radio and it
seemed to be staring back at him. Matouk was right: he was going to
be stabbed behind his back after the job‘s done.
Betrayal! Betrayal!
Kodro still needed to know what the message said. There was a
slight chance that he was wrong. He reached for the dial and adjusted
it to Team Lion‘s frequency. The beach where the Grenadiers sat in
wait was barely twenty-two miles away, still within voice capacity
range.
He cleared his throat and spoke into the mouthpiece in German,
―This is Fischer. Team Lion, do you read me? Over.‖ He repeated it
three times before the answer came.
Peter Heinz‘s voice crackled through heavy static. ―Team Lion here,
sir. Am I coming through well? Over.‖
―Pretty well. What‘s your current status?‖
―Ready and waiting.‖
―There‘s a sealed envelope you must open and read. Do you confirm
it?‖
―Affirmative, sir.‖
―Go for it and read your instructions. Stand by for further details.‖

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―Affirmative, sir.‖
―Over and out.‖
Kodro finished the transmission and waited for five endless minutes.
When he reached for the radio again, his fingers were sticky with
sweat.
―Team Lion, you there?‖
―Affirmative, sir.‖
Kodro could tell the man‘s voice was shaken. There was something
outrageous about this secret message.
―I need you to confirm the contents of the written message you‘ve
just read.‖
―Sir?‖
―You hear me well?‖
―I do, sir. But it says here I‘m not supposed to reveal it to you until
we meet personally.‖
Kodro gritted his teeth. ―Captain Peter Heinz, is that you?‖
The voice hesitated. ―Sir…I assume we should stick to our code
names.‖
―Never mind. There‘s an urgent situation. Listen, this is Colonel
Berthold Fischer. I may not be able to meet you tonight. That‘s why I
must acknowledge these instructions immediately. Understood?‖
The voice vacillated again. ―Very well, sir,‖ then Heinz began
reciting the message over the radio.
Kodro‘s jaw fell open. Flashing dots filled his field of vision as his
heartbeat quickened.
Betrayal! Betrayal!
Kodro was breathless with rage and indecision. He could make
Heinz not follow his instructions. But before long Berlin might
contact Heinz to know of the developments and find out. It‘d be a
tremendous breach of security, but it certainly would happen if he
disappeared. Then Heinz and his troopers and armored vehicles would
be sent out…after him. He pictured those heavy vehicles on their way
to Berka. They‘d have to cover about one hundred and fifty miles to
get there, plus the same distance on the way back. They killed a lot of
gas. How much extra fuel do they have, Kodro raked his brains trying
to remember the quantity of gasoline that had been given to Heinz‘s
unit. He remembered: very little. Each vehicle had its full load of gas
and a few extra cans. All the planning had been made for them to
make a few trips from the beach near Mersa Brega to El-Agheila.
They‘d be able to go to Berka once, but never twice.
Team Lion must go to Berka.

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―Still there, Colonel?‖ Heinz‘s voice sounded over the loudspeaker.

―Positive, Captain. Carry on with the instructions. Good luck. Over
and out.‖
Kodro finished the transmission and wriggled himself from the
stool. He felt as if his weight had doubled. He crossed to the window
overlooking the courtyard and stuck his head around the sill, looking
down. What he saw in the patio made him sigh with relief: Matouk
had left three men guarding the place…and one motorcycle with a
backpack radio in its sidecar.
―Hello there!‖ he called in Arabic, and the turbaned men looked up
from their cooking fire at him. ―How much gas does that bike have?‖
―Tank‘s full, sir,‖ one of them called back.
―Good. I need you to take me to Berka.‖

**************
51
The Lancia plowed on into the freezing night at full throttle, its
dinner-plate headlights bearing a silvery tunnel into the gloom, the
coastal road a ribbon of black tarmac. Miller drove in silence, eyes
glaring into the hundred yards of asphalt illuminated before him.
Cassel sat at his side in the uniform of the Italian private. Apparently a
size too small, it hadn‘t fit him well; he looked a bit chubbier now. He
was shaving his dark five-day stubble with a razor blade to look more
properly as a normal soldier. The cab reeked of stale sweat along with
a smell of rough tobacco that was accentuated by Cassel‘s ever-
present unlit stub of cigar in his mouth.
―Don‘t you think you‘re abusing of this piece of junk at this speed,
mate?‖ said Cassel. ―Bloody engine sounds like it‘s being strangled.‖
―Chill out,‖ Miller said. ―It‘s as strong as a bull.‖
―Fine. I just want everything to go smooth,‖ Cassel mumbled as he
pocketed the razor blade.
Miller grinned. ―I said exactly the same on my first outing eight
months ago.‖
―That‘s a good coincidence, then. Many missions and not a single
wound, eh? Hope the same goes for me.‖
―Someone up there must be fond of me.‖
Cassel threw up his arms. ―Insh‟allah,‖ he said.
Miller‘s pressure on the accelerator went almost null as he jerked his
head around to look at Cassel. ―What the devil did you say?‖
―It means ‗the will of God‘ in Arabic.‖
―You said you didn‘t know any other languages?‖

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―No, I said I didn‘t speak Italian. Watch the road, man, or we‘ll
meet Him very soon.‖ Miller did so and Cassel added, ―I learned a
few words with the duskies, all right?‖
―So did I,‖ was Miller‘s reply.
―Really? Like what?‖
―Izbah al-Yahud,‖ Miller said. ―Know what that means?‖
―No.‖
Miller swiveled his head very slowly to meet Cassel‘s eyes. ―It‘s
‗death to the Jews‘.‖
―What‘s happening?‖ Dalton called through the rear cab window.
―Why are we so slow?‖
―Nothing‘s wrong,‖ Cassel said aloud. ―Someone here‘s too jumpy,
that‘s all.‖
Miller grunted. ―Fuck off.‖
The men in the flatbed were excitedly concentrated. They keenly
rehearsed each step of the task, chain-smoking as they pictured what
they should do in the following hours on their targets. At times a
trapped wind raced around the compartment, washing over their
robes. For both teams the basic thing was to try to reach the target
unperceived, get rid of sentinels discreetly, put the charges in place,
and make a fast getaway. Benghazi was an enormous place in
comparison to the towns they‘d already raided, but it would be of
help; a few more men in the middle of seventy thousand others
shouldn‘t raise any suspicions.
Miller‘s fluent Italian and the password should get him inside Berka
airfield with his truckload of commandos. After that a number of
unmanned hangars full of planes would be at their disposal. Jones had
spent a week in Benghazi after the British Eighth Army had taken it
from the Italians the year before, and left it with the Korps on its
heels. Months afterward his LRDG patrol had led a team of Special
Air Service commandos into the city. He spent several minutes
illustrating the raid to the others.
It was if Jones had read Collins‘ mind. His telling of the story
seemed more useful than Dalton‘s generic instructions. The American
still needed to believe that someone could do such a thing with the
same coolness of kids painting graffiti on a wall. Now he felt more
confident.
Miller‘s oversized nose wrinkled when a smell of something like
scorched insulation drifted into the cab. A moment later the engine
shuddered, lost power, and faltered.
―That‘s all we needed,‖ Miller said with a grunt.

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―Oh-oh,‖ Cassel mumbled. ―I told you, man. I told you. Engine‘s

going to pack up; poor bastard must be too hot.‖
―Must be nothing,‖ Miller said as the engine caught again. ―Let‘s
pull up and have a check.‖
―Not on the roadside, for fuck‘s sake,‖ Cassel said in sincere fright.
―We could be accosted by enemies offering assistance.‖
―I know, I know.‖
Miller sighted a secondary road to the right. He swung the big truck
onto it, the worn tires scraping on pebbles strewn across the dirt. The
Lancia bucked along the rutty surface lifting a tail of dust. Its
headlights revealed that the track had big bushes and plenty of trees to
either side. A rare stench of rotting vegetation invaded the cab.
―Miller?‖ Dalton shouted from the rear.
―It‘s all right. Got to have a look at the engine, that‘s all.‖
A hundred yards farther on, the headlights picked up what seemed a
disused ancient building. Drawing closer, the sprawling mass of ruins
revealed a gaping archway of latticework in its walls. Miller pulled in,
tires crunching on wind-swept detritus of decades of abandonment.
He braked for a halt in a courtyard, among four platforms of
limestone, its stonework wreathed with climbing plants. Moths
clustered thickly around the truck‘s lights.
Cassel was gazing at the large bats streaming out of the ports and
crannies in the fifty-foot-high towers with childlike interest. ―Ottoman
fort. Eighteenth century, perhaps,‖ he said. ―Now just a specter out of
the past.‖
―You learned about that with the duskies too?‖ Miller said as he
brought the toolkit that had been beneath his seat onto his lap.
Cassel thought for a moment. ―No. At school, I think.‖
Cursing, Miller switched off the headlights, jumped out, and strode
to the truck‘s front. A hundred owls seemed to hoot all around. He
shivered and turned on a flashlight. He clenched it between his teeth
and threw the hood open. Next he placed the toolkit at his feet and
screwed off the radiator. It was empty. He waited a few minutes for
the heat to dissipate, and reached in to feel the hoses leading out from
the radiator, his hands wincing at the hot metal parts. Soon he found a
hose with a big crack.
The men in the cargo compartment peeked outside and found
themselves flanked by tall mossy walls with stone grilles and eerie
effigies. Looking down, they saw grass growing between cracked
flagstones. They sat in total silence for five minutes in their sweat-

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laden atmosphere and then became restless. One by one, they began
getting up.
―Whatever is going on,‖ Dalton said to calm everyone down.
―Miller must‘ve had a good reason for––‖
Someone materialized at the tailgate to hear the metallic clinking of
hammers of pistols and revolvers being pulled back and safeties
released.
―Christ!‖ Miller said, staring at the guns aimed at him. ―Don‘t shoot
me till I get this shitty junk mended, all right?‖
―It broke down?‖ Dalton asked.
―Nay. Radiator‘s leaking. Give some water bottles, will you?‖
Pressing the little mountain of canteens against his chest, Miller
waddled back to the truck‘s front. In the light of his flash he found a
small can of glue for repairing tires and pieces of rubber band.
It took him over one hour to patch the crack in the hose.
Next he patiently squirted the water of each canteen into the
steaming radiator, his face sweating with the heat that still issued from
the massive engine.
―Nothing to worry about,‖ he told Dalton as he dumped the empty
canteens over the tailgate. ―Now we wait for the glue to dry up
enough and then we get back to the road.‖
At that moment there was a sequence of loud roars from the main
road, the noise reverberating on the derelict walls like distant thunder.
―What‘s that?‖ Dalton asked as Miller stood motionless, eyes
bulging in the dark. All men leapt over the tailgate and stood around
him.
―Big vehicles. Lorries, perhaps…‖ Miller said as if in a trance.
―Going past the junction of the road with the track leading here.‖
―Germans or Italians,‖ Jones asked.
―None. It‘s…Chevys. Two of them.‖
―Impossible,‖ Dalton said.
―I‘m sure of it,‖ Miller said, ears straining into the fading sound.
―They‘re heading south––like us.‖
―Another LRDG patrol?‖ Collins suggested. ―Or SAS?‖
―Cameron said we were on our own,‖ Dalton said, scratching his
head.
―Feel like going back to the trucks and contact him?‖ Jones said
after a while.
―Are you joking?‖ Dalton said.

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Miller added, ―Let‘s not forget that perhaps a third of the vehicles
used by the Korps nowadays were captured from our own troops last
year.‖
A tense silence fell. Everyone was expecting the Welshman to
decide what to do.
Cassel joined them, face extremely tense. ―Can we get back to work,
lads?‖

PART 5

52
Peter Heinz sat at his footlocker for a long moment staring at the
typewritten page he‘d extracted from the sealed envelope. He was in
the off-chance hope that Colonel Fischer would come through the
radio again and cancel Major Baltzer‘s orders. Several minutes went
by. It wouldn‘t happen. The time had come. The ‗Sheep‘ must be
captured and the others…
It can‟t be true! I‟m a soldier not an executioner. And my company
isn‟t a damn firing squad!
What about Fischer? he thought, scratching his head. Was it a joint
decision of his with Baltzer, or had it come from the top through the
latest? And why should his unit move to the coast road instead of into
El-Agheila where Fischer was?
These questions lasted in his mind only until the scenes of some past
events came back: gun shots, explosions, fire, lines of tracer bullets,
fear, blood, screams of pain, smell of burning flesh. Those were the
memories he and his men had from battles. But he had to follow his
orders. Orders from whom? he mused. From Fischer, of course,
Baltzer had only signed it.
Hugo Dieckmann came into his tent carrying mugs of steaming
coffee and stopped dead when he saw Heinz‘s face. ―What‘s up,
man?‖ he shifted his gaze to the radio. ―The SD guys send any
message?‖
―It was Fischer. The job‘s tonight.‖
Dieckmann shivered and tossed the two cups into a corner, the
coffee in them seeping into the sand. ―In El-Agheila?‖
―No, Benghazi.‖
―Damn, it‘s a three-hour drive. I‘ll get the men ready.‖
―Okay.‖
Dieckmann sensed something strange in his friend. ―Are you all
right?‖

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―Sure.‖
Dieckmann sounded a horn, piercing the silence of the darkened
bivouac area. Five minutes later the troopers who had been wearing
trunks and idling on the beach for so many days had turned into the
cream of the German armed forces again. One by one they stormed
out of their tents in sand-colored uniforms, steel helmets, and calf
boots. Rifles and submachine-guns were perfectly oiled and loaded.
Grenades were stuck into waist belts. Pouches with extra ammunition
were strapped about chests. Sharp bayonets hung from hips.
From beneath the canvas tops appeared six half-track troop carriers
and four fighting vehicles. Two of the latest were scout cars armed
with 20mm automatic guns. The two others were turreted, eight-
wheeled steel crustaceans bearing a pair of machine-guns and a
devastating 75-mm cannon. All vehicles were turned on at the same
time, a rumble that scattered the seabirds huddling in the trees in a ray
of two hundred yards.
Heinz strode to the front of the column of roaring vehicles and their
headlights were switched on. A minute later his troopers gathered
behind him in the oasis of yellow light. Half the soldiers dropped to
their knees. The others stood behind them, hands clasped on their
companions‘ shoulders like an oversized football team posing for a
picture.
The vehicles blocked most of the fierce beach blizzard, and Heinz‘s
words were easily understood. ―We‘re going back to action tonight,‖
Heinz growled in his best style.
―Yes, sir, Captain!‖ the answer came from all his men in a collective
shout.
―Our job is to capture and keep under our guard a group of enemy
soldiers––British commandos. Understood?‖
―Yes, sir, Captain!‖
―These men will be rendered harmless by Colonel Berthold Fischer
of the SS and…um…a band of Arab mercenaries. Is it clear?‖
―Yes, sir, Captain!‖ Now the potency of their answer had reduced by
half and murmur was heard.
―Colonel Fischer may be hard to be identified among the others.
He‘s in disguise; and I‘ve been told he doesn‘t have the blood-type
tattoo SS officers have in their armpits. So, don‘t open fire unless it‘s
extremely necessary. He will come to us and identify himself.
Understood?‖
―Yes, sir, Captain!‖ All men shouted and began exchanging puzzled
glances.

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Heinz took a deep breath and gave the final instruction. ―After
we‘ve put the enemies in the carriers, we must disarm the Arabs
and…wait for the orders from Colonel Fischer. Any questions?‖
Heinz stood there looking around at his men‘s faces, almost praying
for them not to ask anything; he was afraid he wouldn‘t have all the
answers. But no one dared a single question. ―That‘s it, then. Move
it!‖
Dieckmann came up to him as the men climbed into the vehicles.
―Jesus H. Christ! These mercenaries…it‘s not right.‖
―I was thinking exactly the same.‖
―Why‘s the fucking SD trusting that kind of people a mission like
this?‖
―I don‘t care,‖ Heinz said, his face saying otherwise.
―But it‘s wrong!‖
―Yes, it‘s wrong. So what? We got our orders.‖
―Are they armed?‖
―Of course they are.‖
―What if they try to resist?‖
―They won‘t.‖
―They will! You know they will, damn it. They‘re mercenaries!‖
―So you know what to do,‖ Heinz said, gritting his teeth and turned
away massaging his throbbing temples.
Hell, I can‟t tell my men to kill people in cold blood, Heinz thought
in agony. Not even shitty mercenaries!

**************
53
It was past eleven o‘clock when the Lancia was on the road again. It
flew across a sort of pass, rocky peaks standing like totems to the
sides of the road. There was a village on one side, the first one on the
road so far, maybe seventeen miles east of Benghazi. Some lights
were defiantly shining there, its adobe houses mere specters behind
the pall of dust.
Fewer than twenty minutes later, as they got to the summit of an
elevation in the road, Miller and Cassel saw a sprawl of buildings
unfold itself before them two miles away.
―Welcome to Benghazi,‖ Miller mumbled, hunching over the wheel.
Even under blackout, because of the threat of Allied air bombings,
the row of prominent, several-story buildings lifting to the sky on the
shoreline could be sharply seen from here.

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The Lancia reached the outskirts of Benghazi. Telegraph poles stuck

up along the road like threaded needles against the starlit sky, the
buildings in the distance just a misted abstraction through the whirling
sand. The vague shape of encampments of nomads came into view, a
myriad of cone-shaped tents made up of strips of woven goat and
sheep wool.
As soon as the silhouettes of the tents faded into the blackness,
Dalton said, ―The city must‘ve been full of peddlers till a few hours
ago. If we don‘t grab any attention we‘ll get to our targets without a
trouble. No darting glances or peeking into windows, you hear?‖
Everyone nodded.
―If anyone should speak to you, ignore him,‖ Dalton added. ―I‘ll
take care of the talking, all right?‖ He paid special attention to the
nods from the Americans.
―And if soldiers look at your faces,‖ he went on, ―get your bloody
eyes nearly shut; not so many locals have got blue or gray eyes.‖
―What if they try to frisk us?‖ Collins said.
―Then you do nothing,‖ said Jones. ―They might search you for
guns, but they‘ll certainly leave your baskets in peace.‖ Everyone
nodded, and glanced at their bundles full of weapons and explosives
under a layer of pieces of dried meat.‖
Dalton nodded. ―Correct. Play dumb and deaf, simple as that.
Questions?‖ Again he swiveled his head toward the four Americans,
who shook their heads. ―Good.‖
Jones clapped his hands. ―Let‘s get going, mates.‖
The French troopers and five of the Welshmen slipped into the
barrels with their loads of guns and explosives. The lids were put over
their heads one by one by Dalton and Jones, who bid them good luck
by means of their usual variety of obscenities and punches on the
shoulders.
―Bonne chance, mon ami,‖ Olivier told Dalton as they shook hands.
―Merci beaucoup. Be seeing you in a few hours; just like on our
previous joy ride near Tobruk. Good luck.‖
―Like they say in the theater,‖ Collins told Olivier, ―break a leg.‖
The bearded, rough-looking Frenchman laughed. ―In France they
only say merde.‖
―Well, vive la France, then,‖ the American said aloud.
―Oui! Vive la France!‖ Olivier said a second before Dalton placed
the lid above his head.

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Jones made his way around the barrels to the glass partition of the
cab and rapped on it. Miller looked briefly at the downwardly motion
of the man‘s flat hand and curtailed speed.
―See that?‖ Jones shouted to be heard through the glass and pointed
to a certain place ahead on the right. ―Rendezvous point.‖
Miller nodded. It was the city‘s old oil press, a derelict building of
mud and straw that sat eerily still in the gloom a few hundred yards
from the Arab quarter. There was a smattering of trees around it along
with huge mounds of olive seeds, rusting cans, and rotting crates.
―Meeting you lads there after everyone‘s done, understood?‖
Miller and Cassel gave a thumbs-up.
―Deadline at four o‘clock,‖ Jones said, and thumbs went up once
more.
Cassel mouthed a ‗good luck‘ and winked at him. Jones felt a shiver
run through him and mouthed back a ‗thanks‘. Then he went around
the barrels and knelt by the tailgate.
―I do like that ‗break a leg‘ theater shyte,‖ Jones told Collins.
The tense-faced American almost managed to smile. ―Really?‖
―But don‘t do that factually in the next seconds, all right?‖
Miller kept the truck gliding softly along the road, and glared into
the side view mirror. A moment later he saw bundles, lengths of
wood, and baskets being tossed onto the asphalt and next nine men
jump out of the rear. They hit the pavement running. A few lost their
balance and rolled over once or twice, then sprang up. Inside a fog-
like screen of flying dust, each one hurried to collect his packs.
It was extremely cold, the only sign of life the Lancia speeding up
again along the road, already a quarter of a mile away. For a good
moment, kneeling in the roadside with their backs to the oil press,
they felt numb with tension, as if not knowing what to do next.
Jones peered around into the blackness. He‘d spent a whole week
moving around Benghazi once, before the Afrika Korps kicked the
British army back to Egypt, but not a single building seemed familiar
to him. He grew scared as the possibilities of being lost fed his
adolescent terrors. Seconds later he thought he remembered a row of
two-storied houses to his left. He sighed with relief.
He gave a little whistle and pointed in a direction. Dalton nodded at
him, and Jones took the lead into the nearest alley of the Arab quarter,
the length of wood balancing his two baskets on his shoulders yoke-
like. When he was sure there was no one in sight, he looked a last
time across the starlit landscape at their rendezvous point down the

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road. Then he returned his gaze toward the hodgepodge of adobe

hovels unfolding before him.
―Perfect night for a stroll, eh?‖ Jones said when Dalton was within
earshot.
Dalton chuckled. ―And we even get paid to do it.‖

**************
54
The road became very bumpy. Miller looked over his shoulder and
through the glass partition to see the eight barrels rock in the flatbed.
He wondered whether his eight colleagues were as sick as they should
be anxious. It was too late to give up their hiding places. As long as
they didn‘t reveal themselves by rising from the barrels to vomit,
everything was under control.
―They must be all right,‖ Cassel told him as if reading his mind.
―Um-hum,‖ Miller replied coldly.
Less than a mile away, a searchlight went suddenly ablaze, scanning
the sky for enemy bombers.
―Welcome to Berka,‖ Cassel said.
Berka airfield had been built no more than three miles south of
Benghazi. It‘d been raided by British commandos before, several
planes being hacked to pieces. That was what worried Miller. The
lightning bolt would have to hit the same spot twice.
They drove on in total silence, a heavy, tense silence for a full
minute. Cassel seemed strangely relaxed, his brow only slightly
crooked by a frown.
―We‘re almost there,‖ Miller said. ―Keep your mouth shut; pretend
you‘re drunk or bored.‖
Cassel cleared his throat. ―You got it.‖
Slowing down, Miller swung onto a gravel road flanked by a
number of hovels that had germinated outside one corner of the
several-acre airbase. From here he already could see endless palisades
of concertina wire and low-lying bunkers of sandbags every hundred
yards.
―Place seems a bloody fortress,‖ Cassel commented.
―It is a fortress,‖ Miller told him. ―From now on, not a single word,
hear?‖
―Yes, sir.‖
The Englishman drew level with the base‘s security post through
which all entries and exits were made. It was a pair of white booths
with horizontal red stripes flanking the twenty-foot-wide passage with

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a spiked chain across it. As expected, sentries came toward the truck
as soon as it halted a few yards from the chain.
Miller counted three of them. Another trio of rifle-bearing helmeted
soldiers poured out of an unlit guardhouse and headed for the barrier.
One of them, a chubby, jackbooted German soldier waved a hand at
them and moved to the truck‘s rear.
Miller froze.
The man stood on tiptoe by the tailgate as he leniently examined the
flatbed‘s contents with a flashlight resembling a pack of cigarettes. He
held the shaft of light on the top ring of one of the barrels, paying
special attention to the greasy stains on it.
The German switched off his light and crossed to Cassel‘s window.
―What‘s inside those?‖ the man asked in passable Italian.
Miller filled his lungs to give him a sentence he‘d been rehearsing in
his mind for one hour.
But it was Cassel who spoke. ―Just dried meat, my friend,‖ he said
in German, taking in the sloth stamped on the man‘s pulpy face.
―Want some of it?‖
―No, thanks,‖ the man said, a little startled. ―Your German is
excellent, you know?‖
Cassel shrugged. ―Thanks.‖
Miller still had to give another man the open-sesame codeword
before they were beckoned across the rampart. When they were fifty
yards from the gates, Miller exploded.
―Fucking hell! I can‘t believe what you did!‖
―Kraut was a bloody slacker. He‘d never drop any sweat to clamber
into the truck to examine the barrels.‖
―What are you trying to do? You don‘t need to show off to me.‖
―I wasn‘t showing off; just trying to save our skin.‖
―By me you can save all of your tricks till you‘re back amongst your
mates in Jerusalem or Telaviv, all right?‖
Cassel shrugged. ―No problem.‖
Amid puffs of anger, Miller was quickly aware that a small village
had blossomed within the base, too. It was unmistakably for big fishes
of the Korps. There were small wooden buildings resembling
European cafes, barber shops, and bars, the starry sky throwing silver
dust onto their outlines. The base was totally silent and still, though.
As the Lancia coasted between two piles of wooden boxes, the
reduced roar allowed them to hear the echo of the tires crunching on
tiny pieces of rubble strewn across the dirt path.

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Miller was squeezing the steering wheel eager to reach the air
terminal and then start the action. The scenes from the mission in
which they‘d attacked an airfield at Barce in September were fresh in
his mind. And this time it should be even easier, he imagined, for the
pilots and ground crews weren‘t around.
Looking to his left, Miller had a sharp view of a dimly lit
watchtower a quarter of a mile away. Picturing a bird‘s eye view of
the base, he estimated they were just a few blocks from the hangars
now.
Cassel held Miller‘s right arm firmly, almost keeping him from
driving. ―Listen,‖ he said, ―we‘d better have a break before attacking
the planes. Pull up.‖
Miller frowned puzzlingly. ―Are you off your rocker? There‘s no
point in––‖
―Pay attention,‖ Cassel cut in venomously. ―Remember when I told
you were fucking this engine all over? Hadn‘t you been so stubborn,
we could‘ve finished this job by now.‖
―So what?‖ Miller almost shouted.
―Well, I‘m having one of those sixth-sense feelings again.‖
―For fuck‘s sake!‖ the Englishman hissed.
―Trust me, please,‖ Cassel said with a hand on Miller‘s shoulder. ―I
hate to pull rank, Lieutenant.‖
Miller drove on for a moment, cursing under his breath, and turned
off the headlights. Then he stopped at the curb, merging with the
shadows of a quad of prefabricated lavatories, and killed the engine.

**************
55
Collins was feeling strangely comfortable in the ragged galebaya.
The shabby goatskin poncho and the gutra pulled over his head had
proved themselves excellent protection against the cold; the sandals a
relief for the calluses on his feet. Inhaling the crisp night air, senses on
total alert, he soon became aware that his eyes were totally adapted to
the dark like those of a cat. He was able to identify everything as they
wound through the crooked streets of decaying cottages. Heaps of
debris and enormous bomb craters were clear evidence of the British
air raids that had been molesting Benghazi during the last year. The
attacks had taken their toll especially on civilians, and several half-
ruined buildings and houses with exposed rafters could be seen all
around.

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The myriad of narrow alleys of the Arab quarter was not suitable for
vehicles, making it unlikely for them to blunder into checkpoints or
sentry boxes on the way to the city center. Which was why they were
here: Jones had surely mapped out the likely checkpoints on his mind
before setting out, he thought. The problem left was they were
breaking the curfew.
Ahead of him, Dalton and Jones herded the line, their Arab dresses
hitched into leather waist belts, their baskets balanced on yokes.
Jones‘ sense of direction seemed trusty. He never hesitated when he
had to choose which night-cloaked alley should be followed.
The clipping sound of their footsteps on pebble-strewn hard earth
echoed between the walls, and this was the only sound for long
minutes. The whole labyrinthine ghetto was deathly silent and
somber, a foreboding quiet. It was as suspenseful as the trip across
open desert. Dogs started barking hollowly from somewhere close by,
and it made them yet more nervous. Collins felt like a mouse in a
maze. No, he thought, more like a mouse with a sign at his back
reading ENEMY.
They came to a darkened bazaar street, detritus of uncountable years
crunching beneath their sandals. The place was a mound of shouting
people in the daytime, a ghost town at night. Skylight bathed it with
an eerie white, giving phantasmagoric outlines to everything. The
howling winds seemed to whisper in their ears like human voices.
Now this is more sinister than the depths of the desert, Collins
thought, his head snapping in the direction of every noise.
Then what they feared most happened. A quartet in trenchcoats
emerged from the shadows, tramping in their direction through the
narrow street. Soldiers. One of them had a stormlamp, another a
submachine gun hugged to his chest. The four silhouettes slowed their
pacing on seeing the entourage of bearded figures, and exchanged
some words among themselves. They spoke in Italian, Dalton could
hear.
Dalton looked over his shoulder and whispered, ―Don‘t forget we‘re
harmless peddlers, lads. Look innocent.‖
The soldiers were only ten yards away now, shoulder to shoulder,
blocking the street. Dalton realized the glint of a silver automatic
pistol in the hand of one of them. Another soldier shed light on Jones
with his oil lamp, and examined his baskets visually.
Feeling his hairs stand up, Dalton was sure they‘d search him. He
had to do something.

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He was struck by inspiration. He moved around Jones, gave a half-

step forward, and genuflected.
―N‟un Ndheb el‟ah souk,” Dalton said, stooping as if looking for
something on the ground. It meant ‗We‘re on our way to the market‘
in Arabic.
―Souk,‖ one of the Italians said, repeating the only word in Arabic
he‘d understood. “Market?”
―Na‟am sayyidi,‖ Dalton replied. ―Yes, sir.”
The Italian made a face and Dalton lifted the rag covering one of his
baskets and canted it toward a soldier. The Italian plunged his hand
into it, picked up slices of dried meat, and handed them around to his
colleagues.
Another soldier said while munching, ―Nessun problema, andare
avanti.‖––―No problem, go on.‖ His three colleagues stepped aside,
giving passage.
Dalton gave a stiff bow and went on down the street, his head still
low. His men followed him.
As he passed by the Italians, Jones bobbed his head and said,
―Shukran.”–– ―Thank you.‖
In reflex, the Italians nodded slowly, almost in unison, and waved
him away.
One of them sniggered and said aloud, ―Porci”––―Pigs.‖
Dalton looked back a minute later and saw the men disappear
around a corner. ―By the skin of our teeth,‖ he said after a whistle of
relief.
Collins finally managed to breath and said, ―Phew. Thank heavens
they ignored the rest of us.‖
―I can‘t believe those guys bought we‘re just a troupe of peddlers,‖
Keyes said.
Jones chuckled. ―Or thought we might be lepers, more like.‖
They soon reached the European sector of Benghazi. Now the streets
were broader and paved with cobbles. On its sides stood villa-like
homes in a medley of European neoclassical and traditional Arab
architecture. The single similarity with the Arab quarter was that the
electricity was off as well, dead lampposts spilling gloom everywhere.
Collins noticed that the British were sniffing the air. He came up to
Dalton and asked, ―We‘re trying to smell it out?‖
Dalton spoke, ―It‘s all we can do.‖
―Just like hyenas,‖ Jones observed, smiling. ―We‘ve done this
before, too. Smell of fuel against the wind; all we need.‖
Collins grunted. ―Christ! This is gonna be fun.‖

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Dalton smiled crookedly. ―Relax. Night‘s still young.‖

They peered across to the sea through the chain of buildings erected
along most of the waterfront, searching for the cargo ship. The
skylights reflected palely in the calm waters of the Gulf of Syrte, a
splendorous view. The bulk of a lonely dark-hulled ship could be seen
afloat in the mirror-like seawater, maybe a hundred yards or so off
shore, certainly lying at anchor. There were visible lights and a great
deal of people moving frenziedly around in on the foredeck. It was as
if a party was happening there…
The Scaranzi!
―What a vista,‖ Collins said.
―Exactly as told by our good Italian friends,‖ Dalton murmured, a
grin changing his tense expression. ―We‘ve just got to find the petrol
dump now.‖
Jones and Collins traded a mischievous look, and could see the
expression of relief and satisfaction in one another‘s face. The others
badly could control their glee.
―A cinch, the rest of this thing,‖ Jones said.
As they crossed the three last blocks to the port area, the lingering
scent of gasoline wafting in the air abruptly grew stronger. Following
the thread, they walked around the next corner and emerged onto a
street of stucco houses with iron grills at head-height windows.
Peering into the murk down the street, they noticed that it ended in a
sort of paddock a few blocks onward. As they started along the first
block, the smell of fuel became stronger as the wind spiraled
throughout the street.
―We‘ve found it!‖ Dalton whispered to Jones.
―Rommel will be loving us like never before tomorrow,‖ his bearded
friend replied.
There was a dead-end wall at the bottom of the street, a five-foot
barrier of rotting brickwork. Looking over it, they saw the contours of
the paddock lift out of the shadows. It was an unkempt area the
dimension of three or four football fields, encircled by a low stone
wall across a broad cobbled street. And it was thronged with hundreds
of dark drums standing on wooden pallets down its center, serried in
piles ten feet high. The sickening odor made clear that they were full
of gasoline.
―Ask and ye shall receive,‖ recited the Welshman, peering over the
wall.
―Wow,‖ Collins breathed. ―Its eventual destination: Rommel‘s tanks
in Tobruk.‖

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―You can bet your bollocks on it,‖ Dalton murmured, rubbing his
beard.
―Very clever,‖ Jones commented. ―A petrol dump in a corner of the
city, safely across from where the fuel-storage tanks must be––all
empty.‖
―Lads, huddle,‖ Dalton said, and the men did so. ―This is where we
split. Collins and I will put the bomb on the bloody ship. You can take
care of things there.‖ Heads nodded.
Dalton continued, ―Some of you ought to steal a vehicle for a fast
getaway to the olive press. It‘s got to be a lorry, evidently.‖ He sought
out his wristwatch hidden deep in one bag and checked it. ―It‘s 12:15.
See you all there on the dot of four.‖
The others produced their watches too, synchronized them, and
nodded.
Dalton instructed, ―First, get rid of the bambini guarding the lot.
There must be some of them asleep somewhere in there. Do it very
discreetly, all right? Then get the wicks burning and fuck off out of
it.‖
The fake Arab peddlers nodded in the dark, a look of mischief
crossing their grimy faces.
Dalton patted Collins on the shoulder and said, ―Let‘s get going. The
timer‘s running.‖
A moment later the two parties split up, strolling in opposite
directions, the bigger team over the wall.
Jones was the first on the other side, and set about helping the others
to do the same. Barrett hurled himself over the wall by himself two
yards to the Englishman‘s left and landed on a soft dark mass the size
of a car tire.
―Shit!‖ the American hissed, ankle-deep in the mound of animal-
dropping.
―Literally, my friend,‖ Jones said, stifling a burst of laughter. ―But
this I could do without.‖

**************
56
Catherine thanked the corporal who‘d driven her to her apartment
and climbed out of the jeep. The young man in a white navy uniform
watched her walk to the entrance of her apartment block from behind
the wheel. Had another man seen his concentrated expression, he‘d
know he was trying to memorize the shapes of the curvaceous woman

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in a tight-fitting dress that would occupy his thoughts in yet another

lonely night. After a moment he drove away.
The building was in Mansheya, the city center. It was a four-story
affair that lodged low-ranking British officers. Most of its occupants
often slept over at their officers, and the building always seemed to be
nearly empty. She wasn‘t surprised as she saw no one in the stairwell
as she went up the flight of steps to her door.
She unlocked it with a large brass key, pushed it open, and clicked
the ceiling light on. The small living room had light blue papering on
the walls, and crudely woven rugs were tacked to the floor. Lacking a
proper cleaning––the last one had been several weeks before–– the 3-
room apartment smelled of dust and must. Overhead, the wooden
flooring groaned as someone moved and then there was a loud
rapping of plumbing.
She placed her purse on the coffee-table in the living room, and took
the heavy .38 from it. She opened a drawer in a cheap wall-set and
dropped it there. It felt so good not to be caring it. She didn‘t like
guns. May Cameron never know it, she thought. Then she kicked her
shoes off and bent down to lift the hem of her green silk dress. In a
swift movement she peeled it off and draped it on a chair next to the
coffee-table. Wearing only panties and bra, she entered the bathroom
and let water flow in the sink. It was cold, and she gave a little shiver
as she rinsed her face and neck.
Rubbing herself with a towel, she stepped into the study. A grin
came immediately to her lips. Here were the first acquisitions of her
newest hobby: archeology. A crude wooden shelf lined one wall,
where potsherds in the process of restoration sat among other small,
low-priced archeological finds she‘d bought in Cairo. Hanging on the
walls, pictures of dig sites and pyramids depicted what she liked best
about the country. She only regretted to have to wait for the war to
end before dedicating herself to it as she wished. She licked a cracked
vase with a worn tiny brush for a few minutes and felt suddenly filled
with a childlike delight. On doing so she‘d even forgotten the tension
of the last hours. Now that everything seemed under control, all
questions answered, she presented herself by leisurely practicing her
pastime for long minutes. She‘d be back at the LRDG room in five
hours to send a message to Dalton for him to come back before the
Jewish spy led them unknowingly to a trap and all would be over.
There was movement upstairs again, and a chug-chug of water
through the ancient plumbing. My neighbor must be having problems
with the cold water, too; he or she seemed to be bathing in stages, she

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thought. She dipped the old brush into a tin mug, made a mental note
to buy a new one, and walked out of the study unbuttoning her bra
behind her back with one hand. It landed soundlessly on the floor.
When she stood in the center of the living room she slid off her
panties. Time for a real bath, she thought as she picked up a hair comb
in her purse. She thought: now it‘s time to stand this damned cold
water and––
A silver object on the coffee-table next to her purse caught her
attention. It wasn‘t here when I came in, she told herself. She held out
an arm to pick it up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow in
the bedroom move. A pair of eyes was staring at her from there,
glowing like white embers in the darkness.
She jumped in reflex, mouth gasping in shock. She gave two steps
backward and hit the wall-set with her nude hip. Breathing wasn‘t
coming in, and her legs felt suddenly weak. Hands trembling, she
swung around and opened the drawer that contained her gun. In her
despair, she missed its handle twice, and finally got it open and
fumbled for the gun in it. She whipped around pointing the revolver at
the shadow in the bedroom.
―Who the devil are you?‖ she said in a cracked voice.
―No need for alarm, Lieutenant Nowell,‖ a soft voice said in
excellent English. ―I mean no harm.‖
There was the little rasp of an accent in his voice, she thought. It
sounded like Scottish or Irish. ―What do you want?‖ she said firmly as
the gun wavered in her hand.
―Say I‘ve decided to get something straightened out.‖
―Come into the light––now!‖ Her eyes were straining in their
sockets with tortured awe and exasperation.
―I like it this way better, Lieutenant. Hope you don‘t mind.‖
―But I do,‖ she said, rivulets of sweat pouring from her brow. ―Step
over––at once,‖ she pulled back the hammer with a shaky thumb.
―Like I said before, no need for alarm,‖ the man said from the
gloomy bedroom, and flung the shells of her revolver one by one onto
the rug between them.
Catherine uttered a murmur of sheer terror as she looked at the
useless gun in her hand. ―Oh…‖ she gasped and now her hands were
becoming numb too. Her look was of complete defeat. Only then she
recalled she was standing in her nakedness. She dropped the gun to
the floor and covered her breasts with one arm, her pubis with the
other hand.

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―Why don‘t you put your clothes back on,‖ the voice suggested with
a touch of embarrassment.
The Welshwoman gave two steps to one side and picked up her
dress from the chair. As she awkwardly slipped into it the thought
came: his accent! It‘s neither Scottish nor Irish––it‘s an oriental
language. Arabic! Young Egypt!
―Sit down, please, Lieutenant Nowell,‖ the man said. ―You look a
bit upset.‖
―Shouldn‘t I?‖ she said, sure he had a gun on her. She obediently sat
on the chair that had been covered by her clothes. ―Who are you?‖ she
said firmly.
―Have a look at the coffee-table.‖
She grabbed the silver object that had mysteriously appeared there.
It was a medallion. There was a scrolled flow of a Hebrew inscription
in the center of the Star of David. On the back there was the image of
a knife with a streak of lightning intersecting the blade.
―Haganah!‖ she said in surprised relief.
―Maybe you‘ll be a little more composed now, eh?‖
―Why didn‘t you contact me at Naval Intelligence––like a normal
allied agent?‖
―But I‘m not exactly a normal allied agent, you see; at least in your
friend Latif‘s opinion. He‘s been so keen to find me lately; and to kill
me, perhaps.‖
It was as if a siren were blaring in her brains. ―You…you‘re the
Kfir,‖ she said, fact and fantasy converging to become one.
The man gave a little laugh. ―I don‘t appreciate that codename so
much, mind you. It‘s just a silly nickname that caught on.‖
―Why give the medallion to me?‖ she asked, holding it in one hand.
―I wanted you to be sure it was us, not someone passing for us. You
know, on speaking English, some people who were raised speaking
Hebrew and Arabic sound a little like––‖
―Irish, maybe.‖
―Yes, something like that.‖
Catherine was suddenly aware what the man wanted to clarify.
―But…if it‘s not you with the patrol, who‘s it?‖
―I don‘t know.‖
―Certainly a friend of yours of the Haganah.‖
―I doubt it.‖
―How about those right-wing elements of the Haganah that
disbanded to form––‖

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―The Irgun and the Lehi. No, I don‘t think it might be them; my
organization would know. To begin with, why did you conclude it
was me with the patrol?‖
―We‘ve found Abwehr files in Tripoli establishing connections
between the SD and the Mufti‘s gang on an operation in progress in
Libya.‖
―The file claiming SD Colonel Berthold Fischer was heading this
job,‖ the Jew put in.
―Correct. And there was a mention of a ‗Team Lion‘. We supposed
it was a unit of the German army detached to…hunt you down in
reprisal for the killing of Young Egypt members working for the
Nazis. Well, Kfir means lion, doesn‘t it?‖
The mystery man chuckled. ―Whoever translated it to you was
wrong, Lieutenant.‖
―It was Latif.‖
The man sighed. ―Kfir doesn‘t mean exactly ‗lion‘; it means ‗young
lion‘. ‗Lion‘ in Hebrew is Lavi. And you all also ended up being
wrong about the likeliest purpose of this Team Lion. It mustn‘t be
after me––it must be after your men in the patrol. That‘s the way
Fischer works.‖
―What do you people know about him?‖
―A lot. Fischer‘s the smartest and most dissimulate SD Ausland
operative. He acts by blending with his preys and leading them into a
trap not even the most imaginary person could think of. In that fashion
he‘s wrecked many espionage rings in Europe organized by the Allies
or the German resistance.‖
Catherine seemed to grow apprehensive. ―Did he torture and kill
them?‖
The man‘s tone of voice changed. ―No, he‘s not a Nazi psycho like
the average SD. We were surprised to know about that, too.
Answering your question, he gave his prisoners the chance to commit
suicide before being tortured by the Gestapo.‖
She was open-mouthed, shocked speech-less.
―Has the patrol bumped into the militia yet?‖
―Yes…in a way. They got to a village where two of our informants
lived. Both had been killed––along with all others in the place.‖
A sad chuckle. ―I wonder whom by,‖ said the Kfir. After a pause he
went on, ―There‘s no telling what can happen from now on. This
killing in the village…To me, Heusseini‘s men won‘t let Fischer give
those commandos a chance to die like soldiers.‖
―But it can‘t be Fischer. We‘ve intercepted signals signed by him.‖

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―Signed with his name, which also is his call sign?‖

―Yes. And it keeps coming from somewhere in the Gulf of Syrte.‖
The Jew brooded for a moment. ―Listen, this man the patrol rescued
could be anyone––even who he claims to be. What matters is that it is
Fischer who‘s behind this thing. As much as I‘ve been told, this man
is able to make a fool of the smartest person and ensnare him when
it‘s least expected. Worse than that, he seems to have a strange habit
of materializing out of nowhere followed by an arrest squad.‖
Catherine‘s voice was panic itself. ―How does he do that?‖
―It doesn‘t matter, does it? It‘s a race against death now. And you
Brits are losing it. As for you, milady, you must hurry and save your
colleagues.‖
―I don‘t know what to say,‖ Catherine said, her face ashen.
―Don‘t say anything to me. Go and tell your friends the patrol‘s in
grave danger. They must be heading into an ambush at this very
moment.‖
―I want you to come with me to meet Colonel Cameron and an MI-6
man,‖ she said and stepped toward him.
―No, stay there,‖ the man said and held out a hand, which was
illuminated by a shaft of light from the bulb in the ceiling of the living
room.
Catherine stopped dead at his gesture. As he shook his indicator
finger negatively, she noticed his thumb was purple and badly
swollen.
―Turn around, please,‖ he said.
She did so. After ten seconds of silence she said, ―Now what?‖
There was no answer.
She looked over a shoulder and realized he was gone. She entered
the darkened bedroom and flicked on the light. He‘d disappeared. The
window that gave to the street was open.
―Wait,‖ she called, still standing by the doorway. But he wouldn‘t.
There was a metallic rattle as he shinned down the drainpipe and then
the sound of his feet landing on the hard surface of the sidewalk.
It took her thirty seconds to get to the entrance of the building in her
bare feet. A gust of cold air welcomed her on the sidewalk as she
looked around in search of the mystery man.
A helmeted MP riding a bicycle came from around a corner, saw the
distressed woman, and headed her way.
―May I help you, Madam?‖ he said after he‘d halted beside her.
―You crossed with a bloke that…er…‖ she kept glancing around in
search of the Kfir.

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―Did he do anything to you?‖ said the soldier and drew a revolver

from a holster at his waist.
―No, I‘m all right,‖ she said as she examined the man‘s thumbs with
her eyes. None was sore; it wasn‘t him trying to pass for a Tommy.
―So what do you want me to––‖
―Forget it, nothing‘s wrong,‖ she said, deciding to go back to her
apartment to call Cameron and tell him about her encounter.
The soldier shrugged and rode away as she crossed back to the
entrance of her building.
Fischer! Fischer! The name exploded in her mind. What the
Haganah man had told her seemed worse as it sunk in with all its
possible outcomes. She felt her heart sink. The Jewish spy was right!
The men in the patrol were, in practice, witnesses of the massacre in
Abyad––committed no doubt by the militia! What men like Matouk
feared most was being caught harming his own.
We‟ve got to try and save them––I‟ve got to save Dalton!
Only then she noticed the medallion still was in her hand.
―Sergeant!‖ she called for the MP, who already was over thirty
yards away on his bicycle.
The man made his bike squeak to a halt and looked back at her. She
was running to catch up with him.
―I‘m Lieutenant Catherine Nowell, Military Intelligence. You must
take me to the office of Naval Intelligence––right away!‖

**************
57
Collins and Dalton emerged onto a street with ornate iron lampposts
that ran all the way to the waterfront. It‘d take them to within two
hundred yards of the ship on the bay‘s northern side, Dalton figured.
They walked in soft steps, nearly on tiptoe, bodies in a stooped gait as
their ponchos flapped in the wind. Spirits lifted, the Welshman looked
more impatient to start action than nervous. He felt that nothing could
go wrong. For a moment he envisioned himself as a treasure hunter in
a catacomb, searching for the immaculate chamber of the pharaoh.
Already the American had the sensation that a thousand pairs of eyes
hiding in the shadows peeped at him.
A block from the seawall, they could already hear the whisper of the
sea. A rundown fish-market loomed out of the darkness patterned by
patches of silver skylight on the ground. It was a small place, no more
than forty yards by thirty, and there was no sign of life there.

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As they cut alongside the smelly stands, Dalton said excitedly, ―It‘ll
be a splendid blow. Not even the SAS has succeeded in sinking a ship
yet.‖
Collins chuckled. ―So it‘ll call for a celebration,‖ he said. ―Maybe
we should invite the SAS guys, you know…just to be polite.‖
―No way!‖ Dalton said with a little laugh, ―They‘ll be mad when I
tell them how I got hold of our chemical detonators, the limpet bomb,
and the raft.‖
―What do you mean?‖
―I stole them precisely from the SAS the last time we drove back a
team of theirs from a milk run like this.‖
Collins shot back an accomplice‘s rueful grin. ―I‘ll be watching my
wallet more carefully from now on.‖
With mounting optimism, they moved on toward the seafront street,
calmly yet a little faster now, chins shot into the neck. It was a bit of
doing to fake to be wretched Arabs, Collins concluded. Arriving on
the bottom of the street, Dalton stuck up his head and peeked around a
corner searching for soldiers. He scanned up and down the seafront
street. There were none.
―Coast‘s clear,‖ he said, stepping onto the broad street, which was
badly cratered. The cobbles were wet and slippery, his toes becoming
slightly numb with the cold.
They crossed to the seawall and Dalton saw a moldy path of stone
steps leading toward the beach. ―Down we go,‖ he said.
They took it and plunged into pitch darkness. They descended the
steps and came to a fringe of shingly sand beside a stubby wave-
breaker. It was a thirty-yard-long glistening rectangle of large stones
stretching out into the water. The Scaranzi was maybe one hundred
and fifty yards to their left, against the deep velvet of night sky, her
bow pointing to them. The party on deck continued, even seeming to
grow noisier, rewarding enough to make those men defy the air
attacks.
―Now you‘ve a ship to call your own,‖ Collins said.
The Welshman laughed quietly. ―Yes. Gift-wrapped.‖
The American took a look around, the yoke still across his
shoulders, sea wind clamping his Arab costumes to his body. The salt
smell of the water filled his nostrils as the starry sky mirrored in the
Mediterranean. The seawater seemed a black mirror, the whitecaps
like threads of cotton. The fascinating view inevitably distracted them
from their work for some seconds.

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Collins was half-paralyzed by the beauty of the sea. Already Dalton

had been seized by memories. The unique view of the Mediterranean
at night used to make him and Samara stand in the balcony of their
apartment for long minutes every day, embracing and kissing... He
closed his eyes and shook his head pursing his lips. He hated when
these little things reminded him of how badly he missed her.
―All right, let‘s get down to business,‖ Dalton said.
They dropped to the sand and set about preparing the inflatable raft
and the powerful eighteen-pound limpet bomb. The flat cone of
explosive on a base studded with copper bosses was heavily
magnetized, able to stick clam-like to any metallic surface. It‘d be
detonated by the same chemical fuses used in their other charges; but
this one would give Dalton two precious hours to get away. The
Welshman studied the tide and the intensity of the waves. He figured
he could paddle back across the distance separating the ship from the
beach in about forty minutes, with nearly one hour and a half to spare.
The men on the Scaranzi‘s deck were tremendously busy with
tankards of beer, and listening to Lily Marlene‘s melancholic songs
from a gramophone. They all wore dark blue Luftwaffe uniforms.
―We‘re decidedly in luck,‖ Collins said. ―Those guys must be all
drunk, high as kites. They‘ll never see you approaching.‖
Dalton said, ―You know…parties in Cairo and Alexandria are better.
This music is too sad.‖
The American laughed in a low tone, nodding. ―So let‘s improve
this one with fireworks,‖ he said, patting the case housing the limpet
bomb. ―I don‘t know why, but I hope those tipsy bastards manage to
bail out with the lifeboats before that old bucket sinks.‖
―Of course; so do I,‖ Dalton said, staring at the crowd of partying
airmen. Forgetting his compassion, he imagined the Scaranzi joining
up with the other ships squatting on their backsides in the bay‘s
bottom. Others had only their masts and chimneys protruding from the
water, pointing to the sky as if marking their graves. You‘re next,
darling, Dalton thought, eyes locked on the ship.
Helped by the dim skylights, they worked feverishly on their knees
as the Germans went about with the party. A crab stirred the seaweeds
on the cold sand between them as they unpacked their equipment and
disappeared. The wave-breaker was blocking most of the wind, and it
was less cold now. The only sound besides that of distant Lily
Marlene‘s voice was the surf lapping against the stones every few
seconds.

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Using his sensitive fingers with hushed delicacy, it took Dalton

about three minutes to get the time detonator of the limpet bomb
ready. He‘d memorized every touch on it as he‘d been in the Lancia.
He handed it to the American. Leaning over the raft now, Dalton
began working vigorously a small pump, groaning with the effort.
Five minutes later he still didn‘t feel the wrinkled rubber inflate a bit.
―As if I didn‘t have enough in my mind,‖ he complained, his face
streaked with sweat, clothes clammy with humidity. And he was
longing for a cigarette.
Collins sat down gazing with expectant eyes at the Welshman
busying himself with the blow gear. Sucking the lower lip between his
teeth, he surveyed the vicinities of the beach waiting for his turn on
the pump. He realized the raft was totally empty. ―What the heck is
wrong with this thing?‖ he said.
He groped for an extremity of the raft. The moment he grabbed the
sagging black rubber he felt something strange on it. He patted the
upper surface of the raft with his right hand. Then he stopped
suddenly and widened his eyes.
―Holy shit! There‘s small nicks in this thing!‖ he said incredulously.
―That‘s why it won‘t fill with air!‖
Dalton was taken aback. He put his hand flat against the rubber, and
felt air fizzing out. The cuts were very small, hardly palpable, inflicted
probably by a razor blade.
―Oh no!‖ Dalton babbled, stupefied, staring at the hopeless raft. ―I
can‘t believe it!‖
Open-mouthed, he tried to organize his thoughts. For a long moment
he pictured what had occurred hours ago as he checked it on his
truck‘s fender. It had been perfect, neither perforations nor any other
glitches at all. As he narrowed it down, the view of Cassel asking to
help him with its packing jogged his brain. He‘d spent a long time
doing that on his own…
He stopped breathing. ―Cassel did this,‖ he said. ―Sodding bastard!‖
―What the heck for?‖ Collins said with bewilderment. ―Why should
a Jewish agent prevent a Kraut ship from being sunk?‖
―I don‘t know, I…‖ Dalton closed his eyes, putting his visual
memory to work. He slipped back in time, recalling Cassel‘s prompt
refusal to search for survivors of his crew, the enigmatic accent and
next the cigar always drooping from one corner of his mouth; the
superb ability with the revolver…
Dalton opened his eyes. ―Do you remember what happened back at
the wadi, during the shootout?‖

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―Like what?‖
―Seconds before the bomb went off.‖
A shake of the head. ―I don‘t get you.‖
―When Cassel went ‗round the firewall to shoot at the militiamen.
For a moment I could swear that the bloody fanatics saw him and––‖
Collins‘s eyes bulged. ―Yes! They stopped shooting like…like
they‘d recognized him!‖
A circuit closed in Dalton‘s brain. He suddenly popped his eyes and
said, ―Hell! We walked right into the net.‖

**************
58
Cassel and Miller sat in the cab of the Lancia, observing every
movement of the vast, starlit airbase, which was almost none. All
they‘d heard and seen so far was the distant hum of an electric
generator and rolling tufts of dried grass dancing in the fierce sea
wind. Tension was nearly tangible, though.
―How long are we waiting before your sixth sense tells us what to
do?‖ Miller asked.
―I don‘t know. Not yet,‖ Cassel said.
―Fantastic.‖
At that moment a military type rounded a corner on a motorcycle
and moved toward the Lancia, his headlight off. Miller sprang into
action.
―Dung!‖ he said. ―A soldier is coming up to us.‖ The throb issuing
from the machine was strangely familiar to him: it was a Zundapp.
The man reduced speed as he headed for the front of the truck, as if
trying to identify it. There was a weapon perceptibly slung over one
shoulder of his. He stopped a few yards away, his bike‘s engine still
running. Then he turned a flashlight on and shone it onto the truck‘s
registration number: it read 44103. The light of his flash also revealed
his looks: he had a brutal, fleshless face sheathed in a turban and a
tangled beard.
Miller‘s blood ran cold. ―It‘s one of them!‖ he said shakily. ―The
others must be near! Let‘s go back to Benghazi and look for Dalton.‖
He reached for the igniter at the same moment the militiaman did a U-
turn, switched on his headlight, and drove away very slowly.
―Calm down, man,‖ Cassel said with a grim smile across his clean-
shaven face, the cigar butt clenched between his teeth. ―How can you
be certain it‘s one of those bloody militiamen? Follow him. Let‘s at

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least confirm it‘s them before start screaming like schoolgirls, all
right?‖
―What the devil are you up to?‖ Miller said. ―They also may
recognize us! That makes us ten against a half hundred or more.‖
―Don‘t argue, just go,‖ Cassel said and then goaded him on gently,
one hand on Miller‘s right sleeve. ―I know what I‘m doing, never
fear.‖
―I must be going mad,‖ Miller said and started the engine. He eased
out of the shadowed curb with his headlights off, and followed the
slow-moving Zundapp among the darkened, lifeless buildings in the
southern corner of the airbase.
―Are we really stalking him?‖ Miller asked. Cassel said nothing in
reply. A moment later he took a sideways glance at Cassel and saw
the beginnings of a grin on his face.
Shortly after, the motorcyclist slipped into a huge corrugated-steel
shed with large extractor fans.
―It can‘t be far now,‖ Cassel said.
Heart hammering in his chest, Miller took the same way as that of
the bike.
Cassel drew his revolver. ―Let‘s capture that cunt and see what
gives,‖ he said. ―And keep the headlamps off.‖
―You‘re completely mad!‖
―Go!‖ Cassel urged, holding his gun with both his hands, a savage
look in his face. ―Let‘s go and get‘m!‖
Miller looked over his shoulder into the flatbed. ―We‘ve got to warn
the men in the barrels!‖
―Not yet! Keep going!‖
Only as he swerved into the shed Miller realized the Arab had
doused his light. Cassel made a lunge for the igniter and killed the
engine. The truck skidded to a halt a few yards from the entrance of
the shed. It was pitch dark.
Miller scowled, but didn‘t do anything else. He‘d already figured
out what was happening.
There was the sound of a switch being flicked. A dozen electric
bulbs suspended from the central girder of the high vaulted ceiling
were turned on, revealing around forty armed Arabs in Afrika Korps
fatigues in front of the truck in a semicircle.
―I was right. It‘s them,‖ Miller said, filled with a strange fatalism as
the militiamen surrounded the Lancia with their submachine guns
ready to fire.

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Against the walls of the shed were numerous Zundapps, some fitted
with radio transmitters and portable directional antennas. Two of the
trucks the commandos had left near the coast road plenty of miles
from here were now parked in the background.
―That explains the sound we heard from the road,‖ Cassel said
coolly.
Miller felt a dry cold ran over his naked stomach when he saw in his
sideview mirror a pair of men roll an enormous wooden gate on its
metal tracks and trap them in the shed. He felt as if falling into an
abyss.
―You‘re not trying to react, are you?‖ Cassel said.
―No,‖ Miller said numbly.
―Good,‖ Cassel patted his shoulder amiably and reached for the
revolver Miller had in his waist holster. ―It‘s for your own sake, old
chap.‖
―Be my guest.‖
―Very kind of you,‖ he took the gun and shoved it into his belt at the
back, a smile on his face.
―How about some explanation, old chap?‖
―Certainly,‖ Cassel withdrew the stump of cigar from his lips. ―I
don‘t need it to disguise my accent anymore. Too bad those four
months in Australia in ‘39 weren‘t enough for me.‖ He paused and
added, ―You know something, this is even better than that Tyrolese
accent you use to disguise your English brogue.‖
―I must say you‘ve lost me. Were you hiding a Hebrew or a German
accent?‖
―German. My true name is Fischer, Berthold Fischer. I‘m a colonel
in the SD, the SS Intelligence Service.‖
―That explains a lot,‖ Miller said dispassionately. ―Have you killed
the real Paul Cassel? Or he‘s in the hand of those monsters too?‖
―No, of course not. He‘s supposed to be in an internment center in
the town of Derna at this moment, surrounded by big-bosomed
Bavarian nurses treating his broken bones. The same goes for you
boys. You‘re my prisoners, under my protection.‖
―What an indistinct pleasure.‖
A sigh. ―I‘m honestly sorry about everything,‖ Fischer courteously
held out his hand to shake, but Miller snubbed him. ―It‘s all
Cameron‘s fault, mind you. The man who devised this thing knew
he‘d launch commandos to avenge the killing of the Guards by the
militia. The rest was just a conspiracy of favorable coincidences: the
downed Australian pilot; your mates in Alex picking my assistant‘s

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radio transmissions using my call sign to confuse your Intel people;

your mistaking me for this Kfir character; Oh….let‘s not forget about
the tinned pork.‖
Miller shook his head. ―Should I tell the men in the barrels to come
out?‖
―No, I‘d rather wait a bit longer. There‘s a unit of German armored
cavalry on the way to take you lads and I to Benghazi in safety.‖
Miller grinned. ―Why am I not surprised you don‘t trust the militia,
eh? The answer is so simple: you know what those cunts are fond of
doing. Sooner or later they‘ll stab you in your back. We‘ll end up in
the same grave, you daft Nazi.‖
―Daft I may be. But I‘m no Nazi, my dear. I‘m just like you and
Dalton.‖
―Go fuck yourself.‖
―Don‘t you ever wonder what boosts you boys to travel thousands of
miles in the desert? To wreck planes almost without fuel? No! To
blow up ammo dumps full of rusting shells that hardly would be used?
No, it‘s not that, either! You and I know what it is, right? Dalton is
here to punish himself for those men he killed and tortured in
Palestine; and, with a little luck, meet up with his wife again. Already
the two of us are different; we‘re not after revenge; nor after a sop to
our consciences; nor after committing any cruelties. All we are after is
to do what seems to be impossible.‖
―Never heard that much of bullshit,‖ Miller retorted.
―I understand. This is my turn to win, and you didn‘t cope with it
yet. But you will, trust me. You‘re not the first,‖ he winked at the
Englishman to see him grow furious. At that moment he decided to
quit it before Miller lost his temper.
Fischer climbed out and slammed the door shut. As he turned from
the truck, General Hassan Matouk came up to him. The German
obsequiously saluted the older man with the Salaam––a low bow with
the right hand touching the forehead. The Arab clicked his heels
together, raised his right arm, and exclaimed, ―Heil Hitler!‖
Fischer stifled a strong desire to laugh. ―For a moment I was afraid
you wouldn‘t find my signal near the coast road in time, General,‖
Fischer said in perfect Italian.
―God works in mysterious ways,‖ said the Arab, hands clasped
behind him, returning Miller‘s hateful gaze at him from the truck cab.
The German frowned. ―Very well,‖ he mumbled and cleared his
throat. A grin suddenly seized his face. ―I still can‘t believe how easy
it was to lay hands on them.‖

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―My compliments, by the way,‖ Matouk said. ―Are all the saboteurs
in the truck?‖
―No. Half of our guests were dropped off back at Benghazi. In the
vehicle we have nine men, eight of them cooped up in barrels on the
flatbed. But I know exactly how, where, and what the others are doing
in this very second. Your men will catch them easily within the next
hour or so.‖
Matouk smiled malevolently. ―And I for a moment thought you
would never make it, Colonel.‖
Fischer told the Arab about Dalton‘s plans. ―You must dispatch
some of your men to get underway to try to arrest them–– with the
help of the local garrison if necessary. General Rommel wouldn‘t like
to have all that fuel destroyed.‖
Matouk spoke to a group of his men, apparently passing the
instructions. Then he told Fischer, ―I haven‘t heard back from one of
my surveillance teams,‖ the general said with a touch of indifference.
―You know what‘s happened?‖
That was the two-man relay unit they‘d bumped into near the wadi,
Fischer concluded immediately––both men killed by himself. ―No, I
don‘t have the least idea,‖ he lied, speaking feebly.
―Pity. I‘m worried about them.‖
―Don‘t be.‖
Matouk scratched his beard. ―The men in the truck are all Scots,
yes? The Scottish patrol of the LRDG?‖
―No, they‘re a sort of replacement patrol; very little data on them.
They‘re French, Welsh and English…oh…and Americans.‖
A loud chuckle. ―I was betting Colonel Cameron would come
himself.‖
Fischer said, ―So was Mr. Heusseini, wasn‘t he?‖
―The reports from the Grand Mufti‘s spy never mentioned this
patrol,‖ Matouk said.
―I know,‖ Fischer recognized one of the trucks as that of Dalton‘s.
―But the Mufti knows a few facts about their commander.‖
―I beg your pardon,‖ Matouk said.
Fischer crossed to the Chevrolet at the back of the shed and jumped
into it as the Arabs readied themselves to head for Benghazi. He
opened the compartment where the Welshman kept his Koran. ―Here
you are,‖ he said to the book and took it. He climbed out.
A moment later ten militiamen jumped into the two Chevrolets
armed to the teeth. Soon afterward the rumble of their engines and the

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smoke from the exhausting pipes filled the shed. The gates were rolled
open and the vehicles went out, lights burning.
―You‘ll find this very interesting,‖ Fischer told Matouk as the gates
were being closed again. He handed the book to him. ―See the piece
of newspaper in it.‖
Matouk‘s single eye bulged at the photograph of a young, clean-
shaven Lieutenant Clive Dalton. ―The Torturer of Haifa!‖
On the day he was decorated for arresting and hanging four of my
best men!
Matouk‘s hands were shaking. ―It belongs to Dalton?‖
―Yes. It was given by his father-in-law, an Arab. His wife was killed
in Haifa. You know anything about it?‖
The Arab turned away, scratching the roughly-sewn lids covering
his inexistent left eye.
―Are you all right, General?‖
―Yes,‖ the man said as the image of the woman flashed in his head.
The one who‘d been his object of retaliation. It was so real, so very
real. One moment he was again chasing her down the alley on her
usual way back home after shopping…suddenly he was lying on top
of her with his dagger, her hand tightened around his wrist as the
blade hovered an inch from her throat. Her screams rang in his ears
again, vividly. He could even feel her smell, her breath; the pain when
her nails stabbed into his left eye…the blood gushing from her neck
soon afterward.
He looked at the photograph one more time. Foam was gathering at
one corner of his mouth.
It‟s your turn to die, infidel! You will pay for what your whore did to
me!

**************
59
Peter Heinz sat on the turret of the scout car in full combat gear, one
foot resting on the barrel of its 75-mm cannon. A cigarette was
burning between his fingers. It was his third one since he‘d led the
column into a dirt track that ran in parallel to the coast road a half-
mile from Berka. He peered over the gnarled trees that bound the track
at the vague shapes of the buildings of the airbase. The starry sky was
throwing a faint, weird phosphorescence onto the outlines of the sheds
and hangars, but it didn‘t help to distinguish any movement of people
or vehicles in there. Apparently, there was none.

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Hugo Dieckmann also was chain-smoking, but inside the other scout
car. Looking around the dimly lit interior of the vehicle, he wondered
which of these good men wouldn‘t come back after this absurd
mission. The youngest ones seemed strangely relaxed, chatting in low
tones; the more experienced were silent, smoking cigarette after
cigarette, as if they were foreseeing what was going to happen.
Dieckmann thought about their families, and the lies that‘d be told to
parents and wives to justify their pointless deaths. What about the
ones who ended up getting crippled or blinded––or irremediably
crazy––in the firefight soon to occur?
God damn it!
Dieckmann checked his watch and cursed. They‘d been sitting here
for twenty-three minutes listening to the hoot of owls and a weird
shriek that rolled through the darkness like a gloating witch‘s glee. He
gave a grunt of impatience and crushed out his cigarette. Then he
climbed out of his armored vehicle and joined Heinz on top of the
other.
―How longer are we waiting?‖ he asked Heinz as he adjusted his
buttocks into a soft bundle of camouflage nettings tied to a corner of
the turret.
―I have no idea, man,‖ Heinz answered, only his lips moving on his
face.
―I hate waiting,‖ Dieckmann said. ―Even more now.‖
―Why?‖ Heinz said, again without moving a muscle but his lips.
―Because this is so crazy!‖
―I know.‖
―That all you got to say? We‘re supposed to assemble with a bunch
of Arab hoodlums and tell them kindly to lay down their guns and file
up to go to prison. Crazy, crazy!‖
―Yes. Crazy, isn‘t it? But for a real living it‘s necessary some
frequent confrontation with death.‖
―Bullshit. Let‘s hope they‘ve no more than daggers and muzzle-
loaded rifles and camels.‖
―Sorry to disappoint you, but they‘ve got Schmeissers, grenades,
mines, explosive charges, a sniper rifle, and Zundapps.‖
―Jesus Christ!‖ Dieckmann said convulsively and almost fell off the
turret. ―Where did they get all that stuff from?‖
―From us.‖
―Us who?‖

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―The SD guys and General Kesselring. They tasked this militia with
seizing a team of enemy commandos and gave them those supplies we
never saw. That‘s all I know.‖
―Then, as a reward, they‘re sent to jail next,‖ Dieckmann said
shaking his head and biting his lower lip. ―It smells rotten, man.
Those guys won‘t lay down their weapons; they‘ll smell a rat.‖
―I know.‖
―What if they resist…shit, they will resist!‖
―Then we‘ll kill them. We were trained to do that, weren‘t we?‖
―They‘ll be expecting it, man, can‘t you see? There‘s going to be a
fucking bloodbath!‖
―May be.‖
―How many Pervitins have you taken, huh?‖ Pervitin was a
stimulant methamphetamine tablet that assault units of the Wehrmacht
took before battle.
―As many as you have.‖
Dieckmann rose and stood looking down at his colleague. ―You‘re
longing for this, aren‘t you? To clean up your father‘s cowardice with
blood. You‘re no psychotic murderer; I know you.‖
Heinz sprang up, facing Dieckmann furiously from a few inches.
―No. You don‘t know shit about me, okay. And…‖ he shook his head
with his eyes closed. ―Damn! I should‘ve never told you about my
father.‖ He sat back on the turret.
―You know some,‖ Dieckmann said, still standing. ―Your dad was
right. We all should‘ve done just as he did twenty-five years ago. That
war was stupid; this a lot more.‖
―Then pack your bags and go back home.‖
―I wish I could. But first I‘ll have to try hard to die here in this
fucking hellhole.‖
Heinz picked up movement in the airbase. He lifted his binoculars to
his eyes and saw a pair of strong headlights bob behind the dusty
haze, taking some of the tin buildings out of the darkness. It was a big
vehicle. A truck. It was moving into the base at a very low
speed…then it stopped. Nobody climbed out.
Dieckmann was looking in the same direction as Heinz with a
telescopic sight. ―I see the truck. Think it‘s the militia?‖
―No, it must be the British commandos.‖
―Shit!‖
―If it‘s the Brits, Fischer will radio us and give the green light any
second now.‖

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―Okay, let‘s get ready,‖ Dieckmann said. ―And pray to get out of it
alive.‖ He leaped to the ground and shoved his rifle sight into a pants
pocket. ―I‘m going back to my––‖
At that moment a soldier came on the run toward them holding the
receiver of the radio strapped to his back. Heinz jumped to the ground.
The radioman stood in front of Heinz and said, ―It‘s Colonel
Fischer, sir.‖
Heinz snatched the receiver from the man‘s hand and spoke into the
mouthpiece, ―Captain Heinz here, over.‖
Dieckmann and the young trooper stood with their eyes bulging,
staring at Heinz as he listened to Fischer‘s voice crack through the
static. Then they noticed Heinz‘s tense face melted. It was as if he‘d
rejuvenated several years in one second.
―Understood, sir, over and out.‖ Heinz said and handed back the
receiver to the trooper. He just stood there in silence, eyes blinking.
Then his hands started trembling.
Dieckmann realized it; he knew it was Heinz‘s typical post-action
reaction. ―So what?‖ he said, puzzled. ―It‘s the commandos there?‖
―I don‘t know,‖ Heinz said, a grin seeping through his face. ―It
doesn‘t matter anymore.‖
Dieckmann placed his hands on his hips and chuckled. ―What the
hell are you talking about?‖
Heinz inhaled a gulp of cold air and said, ―The mission was called
off. We‘re going back to the beach.‖

**************
60
Matouk stood motionless, his single eye staring at nowhere in
special. The piece of the Palestine Post was in his hand, being
gradually crumpled to a ball as he paced about the shed. Only his
body was at the airbase in Libya; his mind was in a back alley in
Haifa, four years back.
―Any troubles, General?‖ Fischer asked.
―No, everything is perfect,‖ the Arab said dryly, returning from his
reverie.
―Is it true what the British told me?‖ Fischer asked serenely despite
the furrows on his forehead. ―Your men slaughtered all the inhabitants
of Abyad?‖
The Arab tensed perceptibly. He cleared his throat and said, ―They
had to. It was very difficult to know who the informants were, and it
got out of control. You weren‘t there to see what happened.‖

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―Madness! They were defenseless civilians; no violence at all was

called for.‖
―Yes, it was. Look, while my men interrogated some of the locals, a
gang of Bedouins sleeping over at that good-for-nothing pigsty
created a fuss about it. May God have made them descend to hell.‖
Fischer sighed. ―This thing is going to have far-reaching
consequences. I can‘t think of a way to mend it.‖
Matouk laughed curtly. ―I can. Let‘s put the blame on him––on
Clive Dalton.‖
―Nobody will believe it; neither here nor in Europe. Those villagers
were their collaborators; had been for years.‖
The shed‘s wooden gates were pushed open and the three last
Chevrolets that had been by the coast road roared into the building
manned by a pair of militiamen in each, their motorcycles in the cargo
compartments. Matouk didn‘t waste time and flew at them with a
series of instructions, and they left the shed a minute later.
―What have you told them? Where are they going?‖
―They must help the others in Benghazi. The idea of saving the fuel
from being destroyed was yours, wasn‘t it?‖
―Yes, very well.‖
One of Matouk‘s men came up to him carrying a back-pack radio,
and handed him its handset. The conversation in fast Arabic took
endless minutes, his face seeming to be contorted by each word he
heard.
Fischer sensed something was wrong. He tried to read the general‘s
lips as he recognized a few familiar words, but his knowledge of
Arabic was too thin to catch. For the first time ever he felt unable to
establish connections between words in a strange language.
―Who was it?‖ the German said after the Arab had signed off.
Matouk hesitated. ―It was Kodro,‖ he said, looking shaken.
―We still have to discuss the Abyad situation.‖
Matouk looked him in the eye. ―You must back me up. I need you to
confirm that Dalton ordered his men to slaughter those Muslim
brothers.‖
―I can‘t support such lie. It‘s a complete absurd.‖
The Arab glared at him. ―You leave me no other choice, then,‖
Matouk said and let out a stream of Arabic.
A dozen of his men hurried to the sides of the Lancia. They drew
their scimitars and began to tear the brownish canvas top with
practiced casualness. It took them a minute to remove the tarpaulin
over the flatbed with their razor-sharp swords, revealing the eight

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barrels. Other ten men mounted the spiral case leading to the forty-
foot-high overhead walkway that ran the width of the shed.
Fischer frowned hard and turned to Matouk. ―I believe I‘m entitled
to know what you intend to do by that, General,‖ he was saying with
proprietarily authority. ―Would you mind telling me? I‘m all ears.‖
―I‘m afraid the soldiers hiding in those barrels won‘t surrender,‖
Matouk said and ranted further intelligible orders. His men on the
walkway shouldered their submachine guns. They then leveled them
at the truck, drawing a bead at the barrels.
―Don‘t do that,‖ Fischer said in near panic to an unmoving Matouk.
―They‘re my prisoners!‖
―They‘ll jump out from there and start shooting at us any moment,‖
Matouk said, his face coldness itself. ―Which side are you on?‖
―Are you listening to me?‖ Fischer barked at him. ―No one‘s
shooting here, understand?‖
The militiamen close to the truck backed off, returning the scimitars
into the scabbards. Next they turned around and crossed to the corner
of the shed where Fischer, Matouk, and some other militiamen stood.
―Miller!‖ Fischer cried. ―Tell your men not to move!‖
―All right,‖ the Englishman called back. ―Tell the cunts not to shoot,
dammit!‖
The moment Miller put his head outside the cab to warn the men in
the barrels, Matouk shouted orders again.
The ten militiamen on the walkway opened fired without hesitation.
The projectiles obliterated the wooden barrels as well as the truck cab,
lifting a hurricane of flying splinters and sparks.
Fischer was shocked, a gasp rising in his throat. He went cold inside
in fascinated horror, not believing what was happening. ―Stop it!‖ He
began to yell hysterically as the truck was thrashed by hundreds of
slugs. ―Hold your fire! Stop it, you cowards!‖
There was a loud cry from the flatbed and Olivier sprang up from
his barrel. His eyes were bulging with fear, the Thompson in one
hand. Dark blood was streaking from a bullet hole in his left arm. He
swung around, looked up at the men on the walkway, and raised his
submachine gun.
The Arabs promptly concentrated their artillery on the Frenchman
before he could shoot in reply. They shot as if venting out an insane
desire to kill, squeezing off long bursts. Three seconds and a hundred
or so slugs literally hacked him to pieces. The upper part of his body
was scattered across the flatbed, the lower slumping back into the
barrel.

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In his imagination, Fischer was drawing his two revolvers and

shooting dead the men on the walkway. But all he really did was keep
shouting over the stutter of the Schmeissers. It was like something out
of a nightmare.
The ten-man firing squad only stopped the fusillade after the
screams and moans from the Welshmen and Frenchmen confined in
the barrels silenced. The bullets had penetrated the timber as if it were
butter, ripping their bodies to a pulp. Miller was in a sitting position in
the cab, head slumped back in the seat. There was a blue-black hole in
his forehead, several more across his chest.
Fischer was fuming, his mouth agape. He crossed to the truck with
quick steps, smoke and an overpowering odor of cordite hanging in
the air. He looked incredulously at the barrels. Dark blood cascaded
through the lower holes and stiff, bloodstained hands stretched out of
the tops as if supplicating for mercy. He felt a deep revulsion.
He spun around as if going to confront the Arab general. His anger
was a living thing. He was screaming inwardly, but somehow he
refrained himself. With a finger pointed at Matouk, he blurted out,
―Are you out of your fucking mind?‖ His fiery voice was hoarse after
the shouting. ―You have the intention of wasting the others too?
That‘s why your men left this place looking like dogs in heat, huh!‖
Matouk only stared dispassionately at him.
―Good heavens!‖ Fischer went on, ―You know they should be turned
over to General Rommel,‖ Fischer said, his face bathed with sweat,
dark smudges under his eyes. He paused one more time, breathed
deep, and continued, ―You can forget about the rest of your gold. I
needed them alive, you cold-blooded idiot! Rommel‘s birthday is on
this fifteenth….‖ he held his tongue.
Matouk exploded, ―What has Rommel‘s birthday to do with it? Tell
me the real purpose of this quest. Now!‖
The German said nothing. He just closed his eyes and rubbed his
forehead, lips trembling with anger.
―They mustn‘t be more worth alive than dead,‖ Matouk said. ―Why
are you making a fight of it? Spit it out!‖
Fischer opened his eyes and glared at Matouk. Then he took a deep
breath and said bombastically, ―They were his birthday present!‖
The Arab‘s jaw dropped. ―Are you serious?‖ Matouk asked. ―They
were a present for Rommel?‖
The German was simmering with righteous anger. He said nothing,
and turned around.

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―Well, I have to concur this is original,‖ the general commented.

―More glamorous than to hang around street corners or steam-open
mail.‖
―They were of unspeakable importance,‖ Fischer rasped. ―How the
hell will we manage to bag another team of British commandos? The
disappearance of these men will alert them. And we don‘t have time
to repeat the operation. There‘s only one week before Rommel‘s
birthday.‖ Fischer managed a savage smile. ―Kaltenbrunner and your
beloved Mufti will have your carcass hung out for the vultures, mark
my words.‖
The general laughed scornfully and added, ―Hitler‘s birthday is just
on the twentieth of April, correct?‖ He laughed again and added, ―You
have time enough to think of a present for your Fuehrer. Don‘t be so
dramatic.‖
―You‘ve wasted a month of planning and lots of resources, you
insane skunk!‖ he paused, breathed and gave a crazed smile. ―I could
never have imagined there might be worse people than my
workmates.‖
Matouk‘s bloodshot eye widened with rage. He grabbed the German
by the lapels of his tunic and pulled him close. ―Don‘t you ever treat
me as if I were a servant of yours? Did you really think I‘d let
something like the problem at Abyad interfere with my future as a
leader of my brothers?‖
―All you were supposed to do was please your Mufti. Now scratch
that.‖
―May God strike him blind! Heusseini‘s a pig. He wants everything
for himself. He‘d never let me or anyone else have a share of the
richness of our holy land. He left me behind to rot in jail so he could
escape to Europe without everyone knowing he kept to himself a big
part of the moneys given to him by Mussolini and Hitler to sabotage
the British mandate in Palestine. And he put the blame on me!‖
―I‘m glad you‘re used to prison cells,‖ said Fischer. ―I‘ll report you
to the authorities right away. You‘ll definitely end up your days
behind bars. My sincere apologies.‖ He walked around Matouk and
stomped purposefully toward the gate at the front of the shed,
shouldering his way through a half-dozen militiamen.
―Don‘t waste your time, spy. You can do nothing against me
anymore,‖ Matouk said, the grin on his face almost telling a secret.
―Exactly,‖ Fischer said, spinning around to face the man. ―But how
about some fifty German troops with machineguns, armored vehicles,
and cannons?‖

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―You mean Team Lion?‖ Matouk said.

―Yes, they must be out there waiting for me at this very moment.
And if you dare hurt me, I‘ve left orders with Kodro to have each of
you killed,‖ he turned for the gate again.
At that moment the gate was opened by a wild Kodro, who stepped
in shivering with cold. He was looking as if he‘d been hearing the
conversation from the outside. ―There is no more Team Lion,
Colonel,‖ Kodro said. ―You‘re alone now.‖
―What?‖ Fischer said. ―Are you fucking crazy?‖
―I‘ve dismissed them. They won‘t do what they‘ve been told––
neither by you nor by Berlin. It‘s over. I‘ve just seen them turn back
toward Mersa Brega.‖
―Are you sure, brother?‖ Matouk asked.
―Yes, my general,‖ Kodro said with savage satisfaction. ―We‘re not
tentacles of the infidels anymore. We‘re soldiers of God.‖
Fischer said, ―Do you really think the troops out there will ignore
these shots?‖
Kodro smiled. ―I just told them we were going to do some practicing
with our weapons.‖
Fischer‘s face was sheer wrath. ―You filthy turncoat! I‘ll have you
court-martialed!‖ He punched the Bosnian in the face, who fell to the
ground wide-eyed. Then he drew Miller‘s gun from his back and his
own from its holster, and began opening the gate with one elbow, his
back to it.
―You can‘t run, infidel dog!‖ Kodro said, spits of blood flying from
his mouth. By doing this he distracted Fischer for precious seconds.
Matouk growled two words in Arabic, urgency in his voice.
In a flash, two of his men flanked Fischer as he went through the
gateway. They lashed out at him with their hands, and the German‘s
both guns clattered to the ground. They had him around and shoved
him back into the shed.
Fischer struck his elbow against the face of the man behind him,
smashing his jaw, and headbutted the one in front of him, breaking his
nose. All this took no more than two seconds. The two sinister men
sank to the ground groaning, hands to their faces, blood pumping
between the fingers.
Fischer lurched toward the gate with desperate hope as an angry
chattering in incomprehensive Arabic filled his ears. Once outside
he‘d shout for help and disappear in the dark.
The militiaman who‘d driven Kodro here entered through the gate,
pulled it close, and moved threateningly toward Fischer, fists closed.

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The German moved in fast to break his momentum and pushed the
man away with all his strength. The Arab flew ten feet backwards like
a ragdoll, crashed against the gate, and fell down limply.
Fischer got to the gate trembling and sweating, and started tugging it
open with his both hands. It was his last chance and he knew it.
Kodro came up from behind him and delivered a mighty punch into
each of his kidneys. The German doubled down with a cry, panting
for breath, and four Arabs closed in on him. They grappled with him,
wounding their arms around him truculently. Iron-like fists closed
around Fischer‘s wrists and ankles, and had him standing upright like
displaying and animal carcass.
―Get your hands off me!‖ Fischer shouted hoarsely in Italian,
fighting to break free. But he was feeling weak. The stroke on his
kidneys had worked as a potent tranquilizer––a trick Kodro must have
learned at the SS training camp, Fischer thought.
More men came and started to undress him, taking off his belt and
unbuttoning his tunic.
Fischer‘s blood ran cold. He felt petrified with fear. He knew
exactly what they were going to do with him.
―Stop it, General! Now!‖ the German boomed.
Unshakable, Matouk ignored him. He stood in front of the German
and drew his scimitar.
Naked down to his waist now, while several men still grasped him
by his wrists and ankles, Fischer‘s heart froze with something
transcending horror. The blood drained from his face.
Desperate, visualizing what was about to happen to him, Fischer
muscles convulsed in terror.
The general raised the long shiny sword above his head and said,
―Allahu Akbar!‖
―Nooooo!‖ Fischer cried.
The Arab brought the scimitar down slashing the abdomen of the
German with its tip, cutting his belly open below his bellybutton. His
insides slithered down to the floor in a soggy pile and kept dripping
out. Fischer groaned like an animal as he gazed at his gory guts
hanging from the gash.
As the spy agonized, Matouk smiled savagely at the viscera spread
out on the floor in a pool of blood.
Fischer was near unconsciousness. His skin was sallow, his eyes
glazed. He was not afraid of dying anymore. The single odd sensation
in him was to realize he was feeling totally powerless for the first time
in his life.

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―Go ahead, pig,‖ Fischer said between gasps. ―Finish me off. I‘ll be
waiting for you where we belong.‖
The Arab filled his lungs: ―I‘m a holy man. I‘ll go to paradise one
day.‖
Fischer somehow managed to give a loud scornful laugh. Panting
and fixing the general with his eyes, he said, ―You‘re just a pig; just a
crazy, lying pig.‖
Matouk raised the scimitar again and shouted a word in his own
tongue. The men grasping Fischer‘s limbs relinquished the grip and
stepped aside, letting him fall to his knees. The general pivoted in
place with a loud cry.
A split-second later he brought down the scimitar, striking off the
German‘s head with a sharp, forceful stroke. Then he picked it up by
its hairs and waved it to cheers of his men.
>> <<
―I‘m so relieved you made up your mind before it was too late,
brother,‖ Matouk told Kodro as he wiped the sweat from his face. He
next embraced the Bosnian, kissing his both cheeks. ―You‘re a real
Muslim warrior now.‖
―Thank you for believing me when I said what they were going to
do over the radio. I was afraid you could think it was a trick, sir.‖
―I could see there was something in your eyes since the day we
met,‖ Matouk placed his hands on Kodro‘s shoulders. ―Had I known
we were being used for a ritual of adulation, I‘d have been more
vehement.‖
―I understand, sir. It was my fault.‖
―No worries. Your days of humiliation will be replaced by many
more of glory. I‘m sorry about the four gold bars that were going to be
been given to us, though. Do you believe there still is a way to get
hold of them, brother?‖
―That gold is nothing in comparison to what we can obtain from the
Nazis. They still believe I‘m their slave as an assistant to Fischer. It‘ll
be very easy for me to take anything from depots for the next weeks;
maybe months. Thousands of weapons, vehicles, tons of all types of
supplies…we can do and have access to just about anything with these
letters signed by General Kesselring.‖ He patted his in a breast pocket.
―Is that really possible?‖
―Yes, General. By the time they‘ve found out, we‘ll have raised tens
of thousands of men for battle. I‘m sure all those brothers will rally on
you, sir. They‘re unled, waiting for someone like you to quit all the
petty feuds among clans. The stupid infidels will have a full-fledged

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revolt under their noses before they know it. We‘ll melt into the desert
and cut their lines of communication. It‘ll rapidly wear them down,
making them spend all the resources we don‘t manage to capture.
Then they‘ll give up and abandon North Africa––and the whole
Middle East next. And you, my general, will be able to become even
the new Mufti of Jerusalem if you like––and kill all the Zionist
invaders.‖
―I think you‘re being very optimistic.‖
―No, I‘m sure of it. Our path of success was paved the day you met
with Heusseini‘s tax collector in El-Agheila. The Mufti will believe
we‘re doing all this for him. It‘ll take ages before he learns we‘re
making our own decisions.‖
―And after the war ends? What‘s going to guarantee our power?‖
Kodro filled his lungs. ―Whoever wins the war will need the oil
from our lands. And they‘ll be exhausted, we strong. We can
blackmail them forever! Even before the war is over, we could sell oil
to Allies and Axis simultaneously. We‘d sell it at outrageous prices,
favoring only those who paid instantly in cash.‖
Matouk nodded thoughtfully. ―But there‘s one thing in our way,‖ he
said and handed Kodro the piece of the Palestine Post. ―The
commander of the patrol. He‘s still alive.‖
―Yes, he knows of Abyad,‖ Kodro said, and his face shifted into a
cruel grin. ―I‘d like to disembowel him in front of you.‖
Matouk‘s chest swelled. ―No, brother; he‘s mine to kill.‖

**************
61
Dalton and Collins had to control their exasperation and fear. They
replaced the yokes across their shoulders––much lighter now since
they‘d dumped the raft and the limpet mine into the sea––and began
retracing their steps to the vicinities of the fuel dump. It was almost
impossible to maintain the hunched up stroll so as not to raise any
suspicions from any onlookers. It even seemed to be unnecessary
now. Every corner they turned they expected to bump into a
detachment of rifle-toting enemies just waiting for them. And they
feared Jones and the others had already been caught.
Fifteen minutes and a half mile of gloomy streets went by, but they
had an impression that time had stood still. Dalton let out a sigh of
relief when he saw the men sitting on their ankles behind the waist-
high stonewall around the paddock.

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―Let‘s get out of this hellhole,‖ the Welshman said after he‘d
kneeled next to Jones. ―I was wrong. Cassel––or whatever his name
is––isn‘t Haganah. He‘s a German agent!‖
Jones was shocked. ―How did you find out?‖
Only then Dalton realized there was a pair of Italian sentinels with
their wrists bound and gagged a few yards away. ―He damaged the
raft to keep us from sinking the bloody ship,‖ Dalton said. ―The cunt
must‘ve got someone else using his call sign to fool us.‖
Fischer, Dalton recalled, this was the call sign mentioned in White‘s
message: Colonel Berthold Fischer of SS Intel.
―He didn‘t damage our C-3 charges, though,‖ Jones said and peered
over the wall at the nearest stacks of drums some seventy yards away.
―Everything‘s blowing up in twenty more minutes.‖
―Good God, can‘t you see?‖ Collins said, looking very shaky. ―The
guys in Berka must‘ve been caught by now.‖
Jones‘ shoulders slumped. ―Oh hell, you‘re right.‖
An English corporal cursed and smashed his fist against the wall.
―What do we do now?‖
―Still got to think about it,‖ Dalton said. ―Where are the others?‖
―Charlie and the Yank called Keyes gone to steal a lorry,‖ the
corporal said. ―We must meet with them at the broad street down that
alley.‖
―Fine,‖ Dalton said with an embittered sigh. ―At least the Krauts
will have something to cry about.‖ He smiled wanly and said, ―Let‘s
get moving. We can see the explosions from the olive press.‖
They collected their baskets and got up. Dalton looked around, made
sure there was no one in sight, and waved for everyone to follow him.
Jones bent over the Italian sentries and removed the gags from their
mouths. The Englishman smiled. ―Ciao, bambini,‖ he said, pinching
their cheeks.
―Maledeto!‖ one said.
―Figlio della prostituta!‖ the other growled.
―Yes, yes, I love you too,‖ Jones said and replaced the gags.
Hardly had Dalton reached the sidewalk across the street that two
vehicles approached the paddock through what seemed its far side
entrance, headlights bobbing furiously. They roared into the lot at a
reasonable speed and skidded to a standstill in its center, right
between the biggest piles of drums.
Jones whistled softly and everyone ducked out of sight. He headed
back for behind the wall at an angle that allowed the likely enemy

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soldiers to be seen. The others joined him seconds later. Peering over
the wall, they began to wonder whether they‘d been seen.
Maybe ten men leaped off the vehicles and spread out. Soon
afterward they were moving in a rush and shining flashlights about the
drums. It took one of them a half minute to sight the first brick of C-3.
The man shouted his finding to his companions in a strange tongue,
and snatched the detonator sticking out from the explosive charge.
Four minutes later and all other charges had been deactivated as well.
More meaningless shouts rang out.
―Shit,‖ Barrett said. ―They knew exactly what to do.‖
―Don‘t be surprised,‖ said Dalton in boiling anger. ―Guess who told
them about every detail?‖
Jones took the parts of his Thompson from the basket, assembled it,
and chambered a round. ―That‘s enough! Let‘s blow the bastards to
hell.‖
―No, wait,‖ Dalton said. ―There‘s more vehicles coming.‖
As the soldiers moved back toward the two trucks carrying the
charges in their hands, the three vehicles that were rolling into the
paddock bathed them with their strong beams of headlights. It didn‘t
take longer for Dalton and the others to realize those vehicles were
their Chevrolets and that those enemy troops were the Arab militia.
The Welshman suppressed a curse as he fished the parts of his
weapon in his basket. ―See the good side of this situation, my friends:
we can skip the foreplays now.‖ He put his Thompson together with
practiced speed and pulled back its bolt. The others were doing the
same, faces transformed by adrenaline.
―Shoot only at the containers!‖ Dalton barked. ―Let‘s roast those
swine.‖ He opened fire, his Thompson coughing bullets and creating a
brightening muzzle flash. The others joined in Dalton‘s fire a moment
later, shooting at will, puncturing several drums.
Standing close together near the trucks, the militiamen thought they
were the target. They cowered behind the vehicles and fired in return
with their Schmeissers at the stretch of wall where their assailers
lurked behind, a hundred yards or so away. The nine-millimeter slugs
hit the stones taking little puffs of dust off it.
With the clamor of gunfire, sirens all over Benghazi were activated,
long warning blasts sounding from everywhere.
Jones grabbed Dalton by his sleeves. ―Lots of fuel must be leaking,‖
he said. ―But what can we do to set it afire?‖
―I could get close to the drums on a sprint and hurl a grenade,‖
Barrett said.

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―No chance. The heat of the explosion would cook you,‖ Dalton
called over the cacophony of shots.
At that moment the first jackhammer-like burst of 50-caliber
ordnance was heard. Two lines of bright yellow strikes from the
Brownings in the trucks zipped a few inches above the wall and
ripped big chunks of plaster off a small building across the street.
Seconds later, more tracers missed high over the wall. Then two or
three shells hit the wall. It shuddered. More rounds filled it with
cracks and loose stones in places.
―We‘d better light it up before this bloody thing disintegrates!‖
Jones shouted.
―I know!‖ Dalton shouted back and tried to decide what to do. He
flexed his fingers, thinking hard, but nothing came to his brain. At his
side, Barrett stared in horror at the hole made by a half-inch bullet that
had transfixed the wall a foot to his left.
Collins bent low, hurried to Dalton, and dropped his bags at his feet.
―Here,‖ he said and reached into one of them. ―This stuff will serve!‖
He took out a flare pistol and handed it to him.
Dalton widened his eyes. ―Perfect,‖ he said.
As the militiamen peppered the wall with all the weapons they had,
Dalton put up the pistol in the direction of the field and fired. The
glowing magnesium cartridge spiraled into the air, fell down near a
stack of drums, and hissed green-yellow sparks for some seconds.
Apart from that, nothing else happened.
The militiamen were surprised and puzzled. They‘d stopped firing to
see the flare swish skyward and next touch the ground harmlessly
some yards away from them and wink out.
―Ineffective!‖ Dalton said. ―Got more rounds?‖
―Here,‖ Collins handed him two recharges.
―Don‘t go away yet!‖ Dalton shouted in Arabic.
One of the militiamen laughed scornfully. ―Run out of rounds,
infidel?‖ he shouted back as a second star-shell made a beeline into
the paddock, hit the ground, and died.
―Get over here and you‘ll find out, camel-fucker,‖ Dalton replied as
he stuck the last flare into the pistol.
The Arab drew and twirled his scimitar above his head. ―You‘ll
meet your friends in hell very soon!‖ he cried.
Dalton went numb. He was about to fire but his hand was suddenly
limp. ―Oh God,‖ he mumbled and swallowed hard.
―What‘s the cunt saying?‖ Jones said. ―He said the word friends,
didn‘t he?‖

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Dalton regained control of his fist as rage boiled inside him. He

leveled the pistol toward the containers as roaring laughter from the
Arabs bubbled in the air. ―Yes, he did,‖ he said in a low tone and
closed his eyes.
Then he opened them, gritted his teeth, and fired.
When the flare bounced against a pile drums that had been
punctured, the militiamen stopped laughing. The sparks ignited the
fuel scattered on the ground, and a hurrying line of fire reached the
source of the streaks of gasoline two or three seconds later. A series of
colossal explosions with red-and-black balls of fire was unleashed like
volcanic belches.
Night became day.
The militiamen were quickly charred to death by the liquid fire, the
five Chevrolets swallowed up by flames. The bricks of C-3 that had
been tossed into the vehicles minutes ago were triggered by the
combustion, and increased the blossoming explosions with thunderous
detonations. Barrels in flames were propelled into the air and fell back
to earth like meteors, spraying gouts of fire on hitting the ground.
Joining the uninterrupted chorus of wailing sirens, searchlights
mounted on the terraces of the buildings along the shoreline splayed
out their beams scanning the skies.
―They think it‘s an air raid,‖ Collins said, in a strange mix of
amazement and fear and excitation.
―Don‘t be so happy,‖ Dalton said, half-blinded by the inferno of fire.
―When they realize ain‘t no planes in the air, hundreds troops will be
sent after us.‖
Jones shouted, ―Let‘s try and meet with Charlie and the Yank. Come
on!‖

**************
62
Catherine burst into the LRDG room to find White and Cameron
sitting at the table while talking cheerfully and twirling glasses of
brandy in their hands.
―Cathy,‖ the Scot said, putting down his glass. ―What‘s the matter?‖
For a moment she only stood by the open doorway, holding
something in one hand. Her eyes were burning with the sweat that
streaked down her forehead making her flushed face shine.
―Better be something important,‖ White said bitterly. ―You‘re
interrupting the first pleasant moments I‘ve had in a week.‖

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―We were wrong,‖ she said shakily and closed the door behind her.
―Terribly wrong.‖ She threw her arms in the air and let them fall
helplessly to her sides.
―Wrong?‖ the colonel said. ―Explain, my dear. You look as if
you‘ve seen a ghost.‖
―It‘s worse than that,‖ she said, stepped toward the table, and threw
the medallion onto it.
The two men gawped at it for several seconds. ―Haganah,‖ Cameron
said in a low tone while his eyes scanned the meaningless inscriptions
in Hebrew in the glistening Star of David. He looked at her. ―The Kfir
left one of these near Kareem‘s body after killing him, didn‘t he?‖
She nodded. ―Yes, he did.‖
White‘s thoughts reverted to the pile of documents and reports he‘d
read in Spain about the Jewish organization. The medallion was a way
of identifying them as responsible for an avenging act or a friendly
retribution. He was curious as to which option it stood for in this case.
White locked his fingers together on top of his head and said, ―I‘m
afraid it wasn‘t a pretty young lady just arrived from Morocco who
gave it to you. Nor should it be, for I haven‘t sent her people the
copies of the Abwehr files yet.‖
―As I said, we were wrong,‖ she spoke as she grabbed one of the
glasses of brandy on the table. She emptied it in a single gulp, closed
her eyes, and shuddered as the liquor burned its way down her throat.
―This man obviously came to me exactly for the spy ring in
Casablanca decided not to let us know about how Fischer was
dangerous. It was a little reprisal for our not sending the copies.‖
―Now I understand,‖ White said, reaching for the medallion. ―So
this thing means its two purposes in our case.‖
Still standing by the table, Catherine told them about her encounter
with the Kfir.
―Oh Lord. This is turning out a disaster!‖ Cameron said when she
was finished.
―A nightmare!‖ she said in a fit of desperation, hands placed on her
throbbing forehead. ―We‘ve acted and thought exactly the way
Fischer wanted us to; perhaps even more than he ever dreamed of.‖
―Explain,‖ said White.
―SS Intel mounted that ambush against Scots Guards betting
Cameron would send a patrol after the militia; the transmissions from
the Gulf of Syrte signed by Fischer made us think it was he
coordinating the mission from there, but it wasn‘t; next this pilot
Dalton rescued on the caravan trails––‖

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 Season of Revenge

―Who‘s obviously not the Kfir,‖ White said, brow furrowed in

thought.
―If he‘s not a Haganah agent,‖ Cameron said, ―who the devil is he?‖
―Fischer!‖ White said, thumping a fist on the table. He shook his
head and smashed his knuckles on the table top several more times in
painful self-punishment. ―Hell, it all fits now. Team Lion wasn‘t
waiting for the Kfir––but for the patrol. Fischer must‘ve had someone
to impersonate him, flashing the messages in his name. Make sense to
you?‖
She nodded. ―This is how he gets to ensnare his targets: using his
fame in his favor. It even works in his favor when it leaks that he‘s on
a mission. But instead of sitting in front of a bloody wireless, he sits
with the people he‘s supposed to capture.‖ Her last word seemed to
linger in the air, and her face dulled at it.
Cameron lifted his eyes to meet hers. ―There‘s nothing we can do.
It‘s too late. We bit the bait.‖ He let out a quivering sigh.
―And the men in the patrol have got the hooks dangling from their
mouths right now,‖ White said. ―We may be seeing them again on
some Joseph Goebel‘s propaganda newsreel in a near future.‖
Catherine let out a whimper. ―No! We‘ve got to go and try to save
them.‖
―But how?‖ the Scot said, rubbing his face in agony.
She crossed to the map hanging on the wall. ―We could mount a
rescue team with the men we‘ve got in Siwa and follow Dalton‘s
usual escape route. All they need is some supplies––‖
―All they need is a flying carpet, my dear,‖ the colonel said, ―Not to
mention most of those men are wireless operators, clerks, and
mechanics.‖
―They‘re still soldiers!‖ she protested.
―It‘s impossible,‖ Cameron said.
―I don‘t want to believe you‘ll accept their being caught, Colonel,‖
she said, her eyes shining with tears. ―Can‘t you see how terrible it is?
When Matouk finds out Dalton‘s there––the same man who sent some
of his favorite sidekicks to the gallows––everything may spin out of
control. Matouk won‘t content himself with imprisoning him. And I
doubt Fischer and this Team Lion will be able to stop this filthy man
and his militia.‖
―My dear, there you‘re probably right,‖ White said, massaging his
punished hand.
―I know,‖ she said as a thousand images swirled in her mind. In each
one of them was the SS death‘s skull, scenes of violence, torture,

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decapitation, death. She despaired at her thoughts and couldn‘t help

start sobbing. ―We don‘t have the right to leave them behind. We‘re
their only chance.‖
―Try and understand: there‘s nothing we can do,‖ the Scot said,
bewildered. Catherine seemed another person altogether now.
―He doesn‘t deserve this,‖ she said between tears, giving vent to her
inner turmoil. ―He‘s your best friend!‖
White understood in a flash: she meant Dalton. ―Now you‘re being
unprofessional, Lieutenant,‖ he rasped, glaring at her miserable
expression.
―To the devil with it,‖ she roared and grabbed Cameron by his
shoulders. ―Please, please! Let‘s put a rescue team together and go
bring them back.‖
―That‘s better: them,‖ said White sarcastically.
―Do that for them,‖ she said, crying afresh now. ―For Dalton...for
me!‖ She brought her hands to her mouth in a belated attempt to fight
down her incontrollable sobbing.
―Cathy, what‘s got into you?‖ were all the words Cameron found to
say.
―As the French say,‖ White said, ―Ces l‟amour, mon ami, l‟amour.‖

**************
63
Yellow onions of fire leaped into the night sky as Dalton helped the
last man over the wall and into the alley. There was now a mushroom
of pungent black smoke covering good part of Benghazi and trailing
with the wind. The Welshman‘s body was so electrified with tension
and alertness that he hardly managed to breathe properly as they
hurried down the dark passage. Sirens and whistles filled the air along
with the acrid smell of burnt gasoline.
Dalton motioned his both warms downwardly for everyone to fight
down panic when they already were three blocks away from the
paddock. Then they all began to walk in a line on the sidewalk to allay
suspicion. The guns were broken down and returned to the baskets or
were hidden beneath their robes, despite their barrels still being very
hot.
Jones caught up with Dalton and murmured, ―I told Charlie we‘d get
together at the olive press should the bombs have gone off before they
found a vehicle.‖
―No problem,‖ Dalton said while staring forward. ―Let‘s not grab
any attention and we‘ll be there––‖

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Just then a truck screeched around the next corner, the guttural
bubbling of its engine echoing through the alley. A second later its
headlights were blazing on the seven bearded, filthy-looking figures
carrying baskets.
Dalton‘s heart sank. The truck was certainly transporting troops
trying to find the men who‘d attacked the fuel dump, he thought.
There was no open door to enter, and the vehicle would reach them
before they could turn onto the next intersecting alley. It was the same
as being cornered.
―Everyone stay calm,‖ Dalton said.
Collins, at his side, nodded silent agreement. He knew all they could
do was remain feigning they were natives and hope for the best.
Slinking on down the cracked sidewalk, he felt almost paralyzed with
fear.
The exact moment the truck reached the center of the darkened
alley, its driver pressed the brakes, raking hard on the pebble-strewn
cobbles. He pulled up ten yards in front of the walking men. It was a
3-ton Daimler.
Collins‘ and Jones‘ heads bowed as those of blameless Arab vendors
while they discreetly reached into their clothes. They thumbed the
safety lever of their Thompsons and closed their fists firmly around
the pistol grips. Stifling adrenaline was pumping through their veins.
They were sure there were armed soldiers at the back of the truck.
They exchanged a knowingly glance: they‘d mow them down as soon
as they tumbled out of it.
―Ready?‖ Jones whispered to the American, walking on.
―Yeah,‖ he answered with a savage expression.
The man behind the wheel stuck his head out of the side window,
and a voice with a strong Texas accent said, ―Yo! We was comin‘ to
pick everyone up,‖ Keyes was grinning, then frowned. ―Jump in,
guys, quick!‖
Relief flowed into the men on the sidewalk. With minimal efforts
they could make a fast getaway from Benghazi with this vehicle.
Dalton jumped up onto the cab‘s footplate. ―What the devil kept
you?‖
Keyes said, ―I thought we should collect some fuel cans before
driving here.‖
Dalton punched Keyes‘ shoulder. ―Good. Thinking ahead like a
good Welshman.‖
Sitting beside Keyes in the cab, Charlie shouted nervously: ―Hurry
up, will you? We‘ve just seen lots of soldiers hurtling down here to

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see what‘s happening. How about thinking like a good Englishman

and fuck off out of here before being killed, eh?‖
The seven men rushed for the canvas-roofed flatbed, flung their
hauls in, and clambered over the tailgate. Keyes looked over his
shoulder to see the seven men inside the cargo compartment. Then he
put the gear change into reverse and floored the gas pedal. He backed
as far as the intersection with the nearest street, made a U-turn, and
drove in the direction of the countryside.
―Why is he driving?‖ Jones called from the flatbed.
Charlie flung his arms in defeat. ―He insisted.‖
―Look, I used to be a copper,‖ Keyes said aloud while wrenching the
wheel. ―Drove like hell all the time chasing scum in my patrol car,
okay. I can handle this kinda jumble like nobody––trust me.‖
As they accommodated themselves amid the cargo strewn across the
murky flatbed, Palmer struck a match. The little flame revealed the
load was basically equipment for use in offices: typewriters, a few
metal file cabinets, easels, and wooden racks. There were too some
carton cases filled with a miscellaneous of trifling materials belonging
either to the Afrika Korps and the Italian army.
For about two minutes Keyes drove on amid a tremendous din. He
screeched around corners and raced against the converging traffic that
had surged on either hand of the broader streets since the beginning of
the explosions. Eyes fully open and forehead sweating, the Texan
swerved on around the oncoming rabble of astonished soldiers and
purple-colored trucks of the fire brigade coming the wrong way. They
seemed to spring from every corner amid hysteria of shouts, blares,
and whistles. The city was bustling with disorientated soldiers
sweeping the streets. Armed with rifles and submachine guns and
pistols, they were bumbling eagerly through alleys and streets in
search of enemy special forces. But they had been caught napping,
literally. The noisy stream of men and vehicles thinned out and
disappeared seconds later.
―Very good indeed, Copper,‖ Charlie said with a toothy smile after
slapping Keyes shoulder.
As Collins and Dalton finally managed to sit down, they felt their
legs unexpectedly weak, muscles twitching. They looked through the
gap at the rear of the truck at the fuel drums that still blew up in
succession, brightening the darkened vicinities with dazzling balloons
of fire. The containers went up and fell back to the ground with long
fire tails, the thumping of the explosions shaking the somber town.
The glow of the flames combined with the frantic-moving shafts of

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 Season of Revenge

searchlights gave the sky a surreal touch. Unaware all that, Keyes
sped on, making for the likeliest way out, the engine revving wildly.
By satisfying coincidence, they turned onto a street lined with tanker
trucks, which had nothing else to carry for Rommel‘s tanks in Tobruk
now. Collins and Dalton exchanged a smile, celebrating in silence
their success. They knew the enemy wouldn‘t be able to restore all
that much-needed fuel before Montgomery‘s due push into Tobruk.
―How do you feel?‖ Collins asked the Welshman.
―Could be better.‖
―Yeah, sure. I still think Miller will make it to the rendezvous
point.‖
―I dunno. The bastards said they were…dead.‖
―They were lying! Of course they were lying.‖
Dalton swallowed hard. ―I doubt it,‖ he said. Instinct told him he‘d
never see them again.
A hundred yards further on was a wooden swing gate across the
street, helmeted men close to it. There were also some soldiers in a
sandbagged pit on one side, and a 20mm-caliber Breda gun mounted
on a swivel. Keyes automatically searched, but saw no side street
before the barrier. He cursed and slowed down.
―Checkpoint ahead––and no way around!‖ Keyes shouted so that
Dalton could hear him from the back. ―What the fuck am I supposed
to do?‖
Dalton stood up and floundered across the cargo to the partition
glass, hands scrabbling for a hold. He looked out through the pair of
glass screens at the barrier and soldiers. ―Run them down!‖ he said.
―That was my idea, too,‖ Keyes said, grinning dementedly.
He kept the low speed for a while, hoping not to alert the enemies.
Then the moment the truck got to within twenty yards of the barrier,
he slammed the Daimler into first gear and stomped on the gas pedal.
The evil-looking truck surged forward with a deafening roar.
A trio of Italian soldiers dashed away from the truck‘s path with
cries of alarm. They dropped to the ground, letting go of their rifles.
The Daimler crashed into the wooden gate, tearing it from its iron
hinges, and emerged onto a broader unpaved street.
Collins caught sight of men leveling the automatic cannon at them,
and cried out a warning. Two others joined him at the tailboard and
opened fired; a hail of.45-caliber bullets plowed the barrier of
sandbags. The men who manned the cannon flung themselves to the
ground and never disgorged a shell from it.

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The coast road jumped out of the darkness in the headlights. Charlie
said a left and Keyes took it without reducing speed. The rear of the
truck slid sideways on the tight turn, jolting everyone in back. Cries of
protest came from there. A half mile later, they sighted the olive press.
―Douse lights and pull up behind the heaps of trash,‖ Charlie
instructed, pointing.
Keyes did so. The Englishman reached for the light switch on the
dashboard and flicked the headlights on and off in the hope their
colleagues might be hiding there and could identify the recognition
signals.
He repeated it three more times in as many minutes. No one
appeared.
―What do we do now?‖ Keyes said.
―Now we wait,‖ Charlie replied with a sigh.
Four o‘clock arrived. Rendezvous deadline.
Dalton looked desolated as he scanned the lifeless surroundings
through the panes of glass of the cab. Miller, the Welsh troopers,
Olivier and his men had definitely been caught, he concluded in quiet
despair.
―I say we go to Berka and seek them out,‖ Jones said.
―We‘d be nabbed as well,‖ Dalton said.
―Hell!‖ Jones roared. ―How come we let this happen?‖
Dalton was fighting to keep tears from running down his face. He
fished a cigarette in his bag and lit it between shaky fingers.
―We could splinter off to twos and threes and sneak into the
airbase,‖ Collins said. ―What do you think?‖
―Nonsense. It‘s going to be full daylight by the time we‘ve slipped
into it,‖ Dalton said, and a silence fell on them.
The Welshman checked his watch again: four-fifteen. ―It‘s over,‖ he
said with glazed eyes and knocked at the pane of glass. ―Let‘s move
out.‖
Keyes nodded somberly and drove off.
>> <<
The turbaned man sat astride on his motorcycle in the darkened
roadside as the truck rushed past him. He peered into its flatbed and
smiled like an alligator. Then he reached for the backpack radio
mounted in the sidecar, flipped a switch, and grabbed the handset.
―This is Salim,‖ he spoke into the mouthpiece. ―Yes, yes, I‘m
exactly there now, brother. Listen, tell General Matouk I‘ve just seen
them.‖

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**************
64
The four Quonset huts had been erected close together and facing
one another as a protection against both sandstorms and the cold night
winds. Their front walls had been replaced by canvas flaps so that the
quadrangle of corrugated-iron shelters worked as one. It was the
solution the Germans had found to replace the previous installations
of the Luftwaffe strike squadron in the Libyan town of Barce.
The unit should have moved to Tobruk eight weeks ago. But the day
before its relocation a group of enemy commandos had sneaked into
the airfield and machine-gunned the fourteen Stukas comprising the
squadron. Incendiary fifty-caliber shells made eleven of them catch
fire and burn out. Some of the planes were parked near the squadron
barracks, and their shooting flames reached and consumed it with the
aid of the wind. The price paid by the attackers was a single truck left
behind with a punctured gas tank.
On that same night, one of the three surviving bombers set off in
search of the fleeing commandos. The instant he radioed base, the
pilot was shot-down by his targets, and died in the crash along with
his tail-gunner. Since then his colleagues of the squadron elected the
LRDG and the SAS as their priority target.
Johan Keller and Marco Jacobs flew the two Stukas that had escaped
destruction in reconnaissance missions. They‘d gotten up a half-hour
ago and headed for the hut that served as the mess hall for breakfast.
Their flight orders should be coming soon; things were going badly on
the line and an all-out effort might be called any moment.
For the moment, tranquility was total. It was half past four in the
morning and a thermos bottle with strong black coffee was all they
had to help them keep awake during those cold, quiet hours. A month
or so back, before the other crews had been sent to the Russian front,
talking would help pass the time much better. It seemed like years
ago. Keller and Jacobs missed their colleagues. At the same time both
felt lucky for staying in Africa.
Keller had his both feet on the edge of a desk as he thumbed through
a copy of Signal, the magazine of the Wehrmacht. He was a skinny
man of nearly thirty, medium-height and dark-haired. As he reached
for his mug of coffee, he noticed Jacobs was carving a wooden pipe
with a tine screwdriver.
―Hell‘s that for?‖ Keller asked before sipping his coffee.
―Hashish, of course,‖ his tall, red-haired colleague answered with a
wry grin.

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―Geez. You‘ve been walking around too much with those guys of
the transport wing, man.‖
―Did you know they traded four pair of boots for a pound of stuff?
Smart bastards!‖
Keller shook his head disapprovingly. ―Just don‘t smoke that crap
less than four or five hours before a mission, okay?‖
―You got it.‖ Jacobs chuckled. ―Hey, picture this,‖ he pretended to
be grabbing his control-stick, mouth gaping in a trance and eyes half
closed. ―Dude, I guess I got a Limey plane in my sights,‖ he spoke
with a dopey voice. ―Paw-paw-paw-paw! Oh-oh. Sorry, pal…you did
look like a Spitfire… and those flames on your ass are so cooool.‖
Keller was about to burst out laughing when a pocketful of men
entering the Quonset across from the one he sat in caught their
attention. There were four towering German military police
(Feldgendarme) in drab uniforms and a shorter man in a black
overcoat.
―Don‘t mind us, folks,‖ one MP called.‖ We‘re going to give this
guy something to eat and drink while I fill out a report for Intel.‖
―What happened?‖ Keller said aloud, surveying the man in the coat.
―Mr. Spaghetti here says he was kidnapped by British commandos a
couple of hours ago.‖
Keller‘s blue eyes bulged. ―No shit?‖
―No shit,‖ The MP in charge of the detail answered.
Keller got up and joined the MPs and the Italian at the trestle table
they used for meals in the center of the Quonset.
―He speak our language?‖ Jacobs said as he also came to the table.
―No,‖ The commanding MP said. ―But I can translate everything but
physics or chemistry.‖
―Wait,‖ Keller said, addressing the MP. ―Would you mind telling us
exactly what he‘s told you?‖
―No problem,‖ the man handed the Italian a pack of biscuits and
said, ―Seems some Brits intercepted him on the coast road and took
his truck away.‖
―Exactly how did they make him stop?‖ Keller said after thinking
for a moment.
The MP touched the Italian at his shoulder as he ate, and repeated
the question in Italian. The black-haired man seemed awkward as he
gave the answer.
―Says one of them was standing by the road wearing a uniform of
the Italian army and signaling for help. So he stopped to know what

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was going on and then you can imagine what happened next.
Aw…and the guy spoke perfect Italian.‖
Keller and Jacobs looked into one another‘s eyes thinking exactly
the same thing.
The MP said, ―If you guys are wondering if it was those fuckers of
the LRDG or SAS, you‘re right. We just got told about a raid in
Benghazi. A fuel dump was torched and next a truck broke through a
check-point and opened fire at the men in there.‖
Keller‘s face was reddening, ―Will you lend me this guy for a
while?‖
―How so?‖ said the MP.
Keller said. ―I‘ve something to show him. You got a car, right?‖
>> <<
It was almost dawning when they reached the far side of the airfield.
Keller, Jacobs, the commanding MP, and the Italian truck driver had
to squeeze up in the Kubelwagen for nearly two miles on the potholed
track that skirted the base. It was a tremendous relief when Keller told
the Feldgendarme to pull up close to what seemed a scrap yard.
The rusting fuselages of several airplanes stood on blocks of wood
in a ray of maybe two hundred feet along with other piles of junk.
These were the leftovers of the planes and the installations hit during
the LRDG raid in September. The metal skins of the Stukas were
scorched and half-melted, struts and rivets and lengths of copper wire
showing from their fire-gutted insides.
Keller led them around the wrecks to something covered by a torn
pall of canvas and encircled by camel grass. A freezing wind blew
from the sea, making the four men shiver and draw their clothes about
their bodies.
―I guess I know the story,‖ the MP said, the Italian at his side.
―About two months ago, no? LRDG raid in the middle of the night,
lots of planes blown to pieces.‖
―That‘s right,‖ Keller said, looking around in patent anger. ―Plus
two good friends of ours killed.‖
―You guys think it was the same ones who took his truck away?‖ the
MP said.
―And the ones who were in Bengazi tonight, too,‖ Jacobs said.
Keller said, ―Did he see the vehicles they had?‖
The MP translated and the Italian nodded.
―Good,‖ Keller said as he stepped closer to the covered-up wreck.
―Ask him if they had any like this,‖ he said and gave a mighty tug at
the canvas, revealing the form beneath it: a weather-beaten, desert-

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yellow Chevrolet truck with a mounting for heavy machine-guns and

a row of bullet holes stitched across its back.
The MP turned the question into the man‘s language. The Italian
nodded, pointing at the truck. ―Diavolo da inferno! Si, si!”

**************
65
―It‘s going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack,‖ White
mumbled, shaking his head.
―So be it‖, Catherine said imperiously, cocking an insolent tilt.
They both stood by the Bentley, the Englishman wearing a black
topcoat, she defying the cold winds in a brownish polo neck sweater
over her green party dress. All around them airplanes buzzed and
blinked lights. The airfield they were in, a few miles outside
Alexandria, now housed some of the bombers that hammered the
enemy fortifications in Tobruk. For the first time in two years its
bordering floodlights were shining as the planes were prepared for the
missions. The Luftwaffe had lost all of its night attack capacity after
the last incursions of SAS and LRDG teams in their bases.
―I can‘t find a reasonable explanation for this type of...madness,‖ he
said.
She looked sarcastically at him. ―What happened to the man that
once said he couldn‘t stand doing nothing as his friends fell into the
hands of the enemy? Has he changed his mind for pure reasoning as to
what it takes to get it done? Is he becoming too precautious? Or
something else‘s made him think a bit differently about one of those
to be helped out?‖
He shook his head, clearly controlling his anger. ―How would you
feel joining whoever it is in a trap? It‘s just that I haven‘t ever done
such things consciously, mind you.‖
―I‘m fed up with excuses,‖ she said.
White stepped closer to her, facing her from a few inches. ―Look, I
knew the rules of the little game I was playing with you, all right?
Dalton was a good friend of mine before becoming your charming
prince.‖
―Glad to know that. Almost changes some impressions I had.‖
―You won‘t stop, will you? Now just picture yourself with your
beautiful neck on the chopping block, depending on guesswork to
escape. Try and do that.‖

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―That‘s what a war is about, Major: taking chances. But you never
need to think about things like this on dinner parties at the embassies
in Spain, do you?‖
―Very easy when it‘s not with you, Lieutenant.‖
―I agree,‖ she said with a sigh. ―I can go in your place. We mustn‘t
waste one of the best assets of the Empire for a poor motif. Let me
talk to the colonel. I‘ll even try and forget that your brilliant
guesswork was what led us to this situation.‖
She made one step toward the dark canvas hut Cameron had entered
minutes ago. White held her by the wrist and looked angrily at her.
―What the devil do you think you‘re doing?‖ he said.
―Let go of my arm‖, she said, glaring at him.
He did so, and she went on, ―My two colleagues and I are a strange
breed that stick to their promises. At all costs. Unlike certain so-called
friends.‖
White laughed humorlessly. ―God, but you‘re simply fantastic with
words when you‘re not shrill and hysterical.‖
Cameron stepped out of the hut to see White making a face at
Catherine.
―What‘s going on?‖ the Scot said.
―Nothing,‖ the two said at the same time.
―I see,‖ the Scot cleared his throat. ―A pair of vehicles will be ready
by the time we get to Siwa––without any wirelesses, though; they‘re
all waiting for spare parts. And we haven‘t got time to scavenge for
one in the depots of Alex.‖
―The news couldn‘t be better,‖ White said. ―But it makes very little
difference, after all. They must be aware they were being led into a
trap by now. In this case, Dalton wouldn‘t make any transmissions
until they were almost across the frontier, would he?
―No,‖ said Cameron. ―The direction-finding stations would be
another threat. But, one way or the other, we still may have troubles
on our own or together with Dalton on either side of the frontier.
Bloody Luftwaffe still functions in daylight.‖ He looked about the sky
to see the first signs of dawn over the horizon to the east.
Catherine said, ―Now let‘s hope they take the usual escape route.‖
―And hope the enemy hasn‘t found out about it too,‖ White said.
There was a moment‘s silence. ―What do you say?‖ Cameron said to
White. ―Still coming?‖
White grinned and swiveled his head slowly to meet Catherine‘s
eyes. ―I wouldn‘t miss this joy-ride for nothing in this world, ol‘
chap.‖

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―Good. Let‘s get going, then.‖

Catherine‘s eyes filled with tears. She brought her hands to her
mouth and bit a thumb in a silent cheer.
Latif sat in the Lysander checking its gauges. As usual, he‘d rubbed
it clean with a wet cloth, and the brownish panels gleamed in the
floodlights.
Cameron and White went around the tail and to the steps of the
passenger hatch. ―All set?‖ asked the Scot.
―Ready when you are,‖ said the Arab.
Cameron smiled at White and waved a hand into the plane. ―Will
you take the royal throne?‖
White shrugged and said, ―Danger is my mark name,‖ then ducked
in. He contorted himself and sat on the seat at the back of the cabin.
It‘d been projected originally for two passengers, but it seemed barely
capable of housing a single one in comfort.
―I even miss that submarine now,‖ the Englishman said as he
strapped himself to the small seat.
Cameron boarded next and began to strap himself into his place.
―Quite a way to travel, no? Almost as good as Imperial Airways. Just
lacks stewardesses.‖
―How can you be so cheeky in a moment like this?‖ White said, his
forehead gleaming with sweat. ―We may have just bought our single
ticket to the elysian fields.‖
―Sorry, mate. Forgot you hate planes.‖ Cameron was laughing
inwardly, seizing the chance to exploit White‘s phobia about flying.
Minutes later the Lysander was with its revolving blades kicking up
dust. Catherine came up to the plane sided by a ground crewman. She
waved a hand at Latif. ―Good luck, all,‖ she said in a near-shout.
White called, ―The Bearded Lady of the Circus never told you that
sort of thing brings bad luck?‖
She ignored him. ―I‘ll be at the radio; let me know when you land in
Siwa, all right?‖ The answer she got was a nod from Latif and
Cameron.
A dual-engine bomber rushed along the windswept airstrip in front
of them in a thunderous takeoff. Next was the Lysander‘s turn. The
small plane ascended an invisible ramp in the sky and banked south
toward Siwa as if tethered by an invisible hand.
White felt more relaxed despite the vibrations that made loose metal
rattle throughout the small aircraft. He‘d doubted it‘d leave the ground
with his extra weight. Yet he felt it was like climbing a small tree
during a storm.

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He touched Cameron‘s shoulder. ―I‘ve got to tell you something

about that cock-teaser, chap. The poor Hanoun had his reasons to call
her the Red Serpent of the Nile.‖
Cameron broke out laughing. Then he said in a serious tone, ―You
better not feed any envies about Dalton now. We‘re risking our very
arses for him.‖
―Envy? Me? Cut it, man. There‘s a very fine piece of flesh waiting
for me in Casablanca.‖
All I‟ve got to do is get back from the depths of the Sahara after a
crazy, poorly-planned rescue mission in one piece and…Hell! No
chance of that happening!
>> <<
Catherine walked as tall and regal as a queen back to the Bentley
after the Lysander had disappeared into the night. A cold shiver ran
through her as she climbed in. As usual, a group of men was lustily
observing all her moves. She drove away as if there were no one else
around her, nearly missing a trolley loaded with flying gear.
The Bentley sped noisily by a trestle table inlaid with trays of
cookies, slices of ham, and bottles of tea and juice. Two men were
eating peacefully until they caught sight of the red-haired beauty
behind the wheel. Several others who were tendering planes in a
technical site some ten yards away were now also eyeing her.
―The streets back home will be a bit more dangerous when she gets
back, eh? Women on wheels give me the creeps,‖ said one of the two
men by the trestle, a fluffy-haired Rhodesian in an oily herringbone
twill coverall and toolbelt.
―May the Lord protect us all,‖ the black-haired one said with a grin,
following the Bentley attentively with his eyes. He wore an indistinct
British army uniform.
―I think I‘ve never seen you ‗round, mate,‖ the Rhodesian said.
The other nodded. ―Just arrived from Cairo.‖
―You‘re from Ireland, yes?‖
―How did you guess?‖ the man answered, still watching the dark
blue car ride away along a path lined with whitewashed stones as far
as the entrance of the airfield.
―You know…your accent,‖ the Rhodesian said.
―Yes, yes,‖ The other one mumbled. Then he reached for a cup of
tea and winced at the touch.
―What happened to your thumb, mate?‖
A shrug. ―It‘s nothing.‖
―Ouch! It‘s swollen like a sausage. You‘d better take care of it.‖

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The man smiled. ―I will, chum, I will.‖

**************
66
Luftwaffe pilots had the impression of changing planes on the same
rate they were given new sets of uniform. Johan Keller‘s shark-
mouthed Stuka in Barce airfield was his sixth one since his debut in
Poland three years before. But now he knew if it were written off
there would be no replacement; just like the ones wrecked on the
LRDG raid last September. For the last forty days or so, most supplies
from Europe––replacement aircrafts included––were being
systematically sunk along with the ships that carried them by the
Royal Navy. Either that or destroyed by LRDG or SAS commandos,
he though angrily. The few planes that were flown down to Libya via
Italy were immediately sent to the front. More, the gargantuan effort
of the German armies on Stalingrad was draining all resources from
the Afrika Korps. It made Keller frustrated, too. Deep in his mind, the
opportunity to give vent to his feelings couldn‘t be missed.
―You‘re so sure it‘s them, aren‘t you?‖ queried Major Arnold Wiltz,
the commander of the Stuka outfit. He and Keller had first met days
before the invasion of France. They flew together in a close-air-
support wing throughout the successful campaign, which granted
them an impressive record of enemy vehicles destroyed in dive-
bombing runs. During the attack on Greece, then flying modern night-
attack Messerschmitts, Wiltz was wounded in an elbow by a shard of
flack. Unable to fly, he was appointed commander of a squadron of
inexperienced pilots that would fly light-strike missions on revamped,
battle-scarred Stukas in North Africa. On learning that, Keller
volunteered to join him and help train his men.
Keller said, ―Everything points to it.‖ He grunted, swaying a fist in
the air. ―It can‘t be a coincidence.‖
―That‘s just guesswork, man. Come on,‖ Wiltz said derisively.
―They used the same trick to stay in the outskirts of the town before
their raid here, remember? An Italian-speaking Brit bluffing the way
for the attack trucks, wasn‘t it?‖
Wiltz pursed his lips as he nodded agreement. ―Bastards never gave
us a chance.‖
Keller said angrily, ―I want to make them pay for each plane they
destroyed.‖
―You‘re going nuts––obsessed about it––that‘s what,‖ Wiltz said.

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Keller and his squadron commander were leaning against Jacob‘s

Stuka under a dense layer of camouflage webbing, the runway a
couple of yards in front of them. Just like Keller‘s, it had fuel pods
attached to the wings. But instead of a shark-mouth artwork it bore a
witch sitting on a broomstick stenciled on either side of its fuselage
beneath the cockpit. It was barely 9 a.m. and the black strip of
bitumen already was irradiating the incredible heat it‘d absorbed from
the sun. The smell of aviation kerosene was so intense while a fuel
truck filled up the planes that everyone was afraid the heat alone could
ignite it.
Jacobs was helping his tail-gunner load his machine-gun, a gleaming
belt of 7.92mm rounds in his hands as he stood outside the cockpit,
both his feet on the root of the wing. He pretended for a while not to
be overhearing the conversation. But now he had something to add to
it.
―Benghazi said those pyromaniacs were last seen taking a dead west
course,‖ he said. ―It means they‘ll probably follow the tracks to the
south of the caravan trails.‖
―Some news, huh?‖ Wiltz commented. ―You‘ll bump into dozens of
fleeing vehicles on those trails. Our position by the frontier is history.
Those poor bastards will be in full retreat any moment.‖
―But they‘ll be heading west, not east toward Egypt,‖ said Keller.
A ground crewman loading the wing machine-guns on Keller‘s
plane called, ―Everything set here.‖
Keller answered with a thumbs-up and the man added, ―What do
you want under the belly, sir? A double-five?‖ he meant a fifty-five
kilo freefall grenade.
Before he could answer, Wiltz waved negatively at him. ―I guess the
guys in Ordnance got an experimental bomb. Its casing looks like that
of an ordinary iron bomb except that it drops grenades dangling from
small parachutes that explode ten feet off the ground. How about
that?‖
Keller nodded excitedly. ―Sounds great. Just need to know the
releasing patterns.‖
―No. You still have to convince me you won‘t burn all this fuel for
nothing or get shot for nothing.‖
―That‘s exactly what I‘ve been thinking since dawn,‖ said Jacobs,
jumping from his plane and coming up to them.
―You‘re not helping, buddy,‖ Keller said.
―I guess his right,‖ Wiltz said.

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―Listen,‖ Keller said. ―We can‘t let those bastards go back home to
laugh at us––again. So, the sooner we get going, the sooner we‘ll get
it done.‖
―All right,‖ Wiltz said. ―Now, back to what I actually wanted to
know: why should I waste my saliva with those guys in Ordnance to
get two of those frag bombs?‖
Keller rubbed his face instinctively. He was tired, really was. The
lack of sleep must been showing, he was sure. It certainly was the
reason Wiltz was so cautiously trying to delay him. He cleared his
throat, organized his thoughts, and began, ―We locate the suspect
vehicle, moving or not, and give it a close, real close look. If it‘s
heading east, it‘s probably them. If they fire at us, better still; it‘s
going to spare us a lot of thinking.‖
―I can‘t believe we‘re in the hope of someone to shoot at us,‖ Jacobs
said.
―You guys just forgot one little thing,‖ said Wiltz.
―What‘s it?‖ Keller and Jacobs said almost in unison.
―The sun shining from the east will blind you. Shining from straight
above, you won‘t get to see if they‘re under camouflage––no
shadows. Which means you‘ll be setting off only after 1500 hours.‖
Keller clicked his tongue as Jacobs shook his head, eyes closed.
Tiredness and eagerness to go after the men who‘d killed their two
friends and ruined the squadron were making them forget the basics.
―Shit!‖ Keller said.
―Exactly,‖ said Wiltz. ―You two look like shit. How long without a
good shut-eye, huh? Twenty hours?‖
―Maybe,‖ said Keller.
―More,‖ said Jacobs.
―So we‘ve got six hours to spare,‖ Wiltz slapped Keller and Jacobs
on the shoulder. ―That‘s time enough for you to take a good nap while
I‘ll get those cluster bombs.‖
―You bet,‖ Jacobs said, yawning.
Keller punched Wiltz on his chest. ―Thanks, man. For a moment I
thought you were going to deny me settling the score with those
fuckers.‖
―I don‘t care about them so much, you know. I guess they‘ve
already done all the damage to Rommel they wanted to. What worries
me most is you!‖
―Come on...‖
―Seriously. You‘re starting to behave like a kid. I was thinking you
were going to start thumping your feet on the floor and cry,‖ he put on

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a falsetto voice, ―I want to go after those bearded men! And I want it

now! Now!”
―Geez,‖ Keller said. ―That was the most ridiculous thing I‘ve ever
heard from you.‖
Wiltz regained his breath after his artistic performance inspired on a
ten-year-old nephew of his. Then he chuckled humorlessly and said,
―And going after this revenge of yours is the most ridiculous thing
you have ever done.‖

**************
67
The corridors at the office of Naval Intelligence were packed and
noisy. Staffers seemed to be carrying files, radio-message
transcriptions and the like into every room. There was also a bigger
number of people sitting or standing against the walls waiting for
messages to be delivered or orders to be accomplished. News of the
Allied landing in Morocco and Algeria had finally arrived officially.
If it succeeded, the British only needed to keep Rommel‘s forces from
being fed with too many airplanes, tanks and fuel for the next seventy-
two hours, and attack Tobruk. Then everything the Desert Fox would
have for a choice would be retreat to Tripoli. Or farther.
To Catherine, however, there was another pressing matter. Her
thoughts were far way, something between the village of Siwa and the
city of Benghazi. She‘d barged around maybe twenty navy officers
before entering the LRDG room. She closed the door with a bang,
letting the annoying sounds outside. For a moment she stood by the
door, in the dark, breathing hard. The bath and the two-hour nap she‘d
taken in her apartment hadn‘t done any good to her state of mind.
Only a half minute later she reached for the light switch and turned on
the light.
The big short-wave transmitter blinked on the desk as if calling for
her. But beside it no written messages had been left by the
communications officer of the building; Dalton hadn‘t contacted
Siwa. She strode over and slumped into a chair, her indicator finger
turning the smaller radio on and adjusting it into a specific frequency.
An excited voice was reporting some events that had just occurred on
the front. It was no news though: plenty of more enemy vehicles
destroyed, hundreds of more prisoners. She began tuning the radio
into an air force band, hoping to hear any mention of the patrol. But
all she heard was an updating of Allied planes shot down and

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geographical coordinates of enemy emplacements that had to be

bombed.
There was a knock on the door.
―Yes,‖ she said.
It was opened, and a low man‘s voice said, ―Would you like some
tea?‖
―Put it on the table, please,‖ she said without looking at the man.
―Excuse me.‖ The man came in and did so.
Catherine still was with her back toward the man as he went out and
closed the door. Then she got up and stood by the map hanging on the
wall. The area to be the likeliest position of the patrol was half the
size of England, a rectangle from the Egyptian frontier as far as the
Gulf of Syrte. She wondered whether Cameron hadn‘t told her where
he thought Dalton would hide during the daylight hours only to punish
her. It might well be, she thought.
And I do deserve it!
She sat back at the desk, elbows on its edge, fingers mingled as if in
pray. Occasionally she bit at her knuckles and groaned in despair at
the news that never came. Several minutes later she got up and
stretched. The small china jar was on top of the table as expected and
she crossed to it.
There were no cups along with the jar. So she grabbed it in order to
take it to the drinks cabinet across the room and get a cup or a glass.
She noticed the jar was empty. She shook it to make sure there was
nothing inside and heard a tinkle.
―What the…,‖ she babbled in dismay and reached in. Her fingers
took out a tiny paint brush she recognized at once as being the type
most favored by archeologists.
She still was slightly surprised with the brush in one hand when the
phone rang. She lunged at it. ―Yes?‖
―Have you checked the jar, Lieutenant?‖
―Yes…who‘s this?‖
―How do you like your little present?‖ a familiar voice in mildly
accented English said. ―I thought you needed a better one than that
you‘ve got in your flat.‖
―You!‖ she simply couldn‘t think of anything else to say.
―Still there?‖ the voice said.
―Are you mad? Half the spooks in town––friends and foes––are
after you and yet you dare monkey about this building like a
schoolboy playing hide-and-seek!‖

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―No one would pay attention to another soldier amongst a hundred

of them; especially one holding a jar without tea.‖
―Are you still inside the building?‖
―Naturally. But, listen, don‘t try to find me, or send Tommies after
me. We‘ve got more important issues to attend, haven‘t we?‖
She blinked several times to concentrate. ―Of course. Now…what
can I do for you––or vice-versa,‖ she was chewing at her finger nails.
―Ladies first,‖ he said.
She didn‘t waste time. ―Heard anything about the men in the
patrol?‖
He breathed deeply. ―They‘re in the news. What they did in
Benghazi is still rocking the wires of the Luftwaffe communication
net. The strike team managed to escape. None captured or hurt, it
seems.‖
―Are you certain?‖
―Yes, they managed to torch a fuel dump. Very well done.‖
―Where did you get that information from?‖
The Kfir laughed quietly. ―I pushed the right buttons before you
drove with your friends to the airfield.‖
―You were observing us?‖
He cleared his throat. ―My turn now.‖
―Go ahead,‖ she said, chewing on a nail.
―The plane with your three friends flew to Siwa to put a rescue party
together, am I right?‖
―Yes,‖ she said.
―Slamming the stable door after the horse‘s bolted.‖
―More or less. But I can bet it‘s not what you really want to know.‖
―I do approve your straightforwardness, my dear,‖ the Kfir said.
―Well, the two gentlemen on the Mufti‘s payroll, Nabil Hanoun and
Abu Ishmael. I got word one of them left town in a hurry bearing
some injuries. What happened?‖
―Aw, that,‖ she said with a tone of total unimportance. ―A chap of
ours found some papers indicating Heusseini‘s men were operating
with Young Egypt here. Another chap dug their names in the
underground.‖
―Latif,‖ the Kfir said, not asking a question.
She went on, ―So we ensnared them and made them sweat a little––
just a little, really––and it turned out they were monitoring the LRDG
patrols under instructions of the Mufti‘s cousin.‖
―Abdel Qadir,‖ the Kfir said.
―Correct.‖

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There was a moment‘s silence.

The Jew said, ―I‘m sorry to have to come to this conclusion so
belatedly, but I think the man rescued by Dalton is actually Fischer.‖
―So do I,‖ she said, eyes staring at nowhere in special.
After a moment he said, ―Are you still with Military intelligence?‖
―Of course I am.‖
―So why do I suspect you‘re not interested in what should be your
job?‖
She didn‘t answer that.
He said, ―I know you‘re worried about your friend––friends––in the
patrol. But…you must try and calm down. The enemy is too busy to
waste time hunting them with lots of troops. And you can bet Rommel
would be dropping leaflets all over Egypt if they‘d caught them.‖
She said with sigh, ―I hope you‘re right.‖
―Listen, if they managed to get out of Benghazi after their mission,
it means––probably means––they‘ve lost Fischer and consequently
won‘t be located by the militia.‖
―That possibility crossed my mind,‖ she said, then her tone of voice
shifted. ―You said I‘m worried about my friend. Singular. What do
you mean?‖
―We know what I mean.‖
Catherine chuckled. ―You think I‘m being…how shall I put
it…unprofessional?‖
―No, I‘d say he‘s very lucky. Me, I‘ll never forget that view in your
apartment.‖
―But you men are all the same, aren‘t you?‖
―In some aspects, so are women,‖ he laughed quietly. ―I hope we
can work together again in the future. I‘ll probably be aware when and
if you need some extra help.‖
―Yes, that can be. But, listen, can I ask you something?‖
―Just say it.‖
She took a deep breath and said enunciating each word carefully,
―Never break into my flat again.‖

PART 6

68
Corporal Charles Owen, simply Charlie among his patrolmates, took
over the wheel of the Daimler after he‘d spotted the nearest caravan
path branching off to the east. He‘d followed the narrow, brush-bound

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trail that marched into the empty darkness for almost three hours
before he had to stop to refuel.
Now they were a safe hundred miles from Benghazi, the early-
morning sun gradually turning the interior of the truck into a sauna.
Charlie recalled Dalton telling everyone once that covering a good
distance after a raid was vital not to give time to the other side to wise
up and cast a dragnet as they still were deep in their territory. So far,
so good.
The seven men bounced on the flatbed in sheepish silence, sitting on
the hard flatbed, eyes nowhere. A stony silence with the air of loss
had descended on them. The only sound was the rhythmic torque of
the truck engine and the incessant clunking of the heaps of cargo.
Dalton, particularly, was a look of abject sorrow. He looked as if
going down with some disease.
Palmer found a wooden crate loaded with fresh oranges and salami.
Using his stiletto knife, the American took the sweet fruits and the
salami to slices. He and the others tore into them gladly, at last
breaking the mourning. The next wooden box Palmer found didn‘t
raise any smiles. It was an oblong casing containing a double-barreled
shotgun.
―Dude, check this out,‖ he said, nudging Barrett. ―Krauts use this
stuff for shooting goose, ain‘t it?‖
―It‘s for shooting saucers, moron,‖ Barrett said. ―And it‘s Italian.‖
―Whatever,‖ the Oregon lumberjack said, training the powerful
weapon at the canvas ceiling. He found a few cartridges inside the
case, loaded both barrels, and replaced the shotgun in its container.
―Just in case, babe, just in case.‖
―We‘ll have to hide before long,‖ Dalton told Collins as he scanned
the cloudless sky, both sitting by the tailgate. ―The Luftwaffe will be
beating the caravan tracks at any moment.‖
Two hours and seventy miles eastward later, they were in the rocky
bottom of a wadi, two thirds of the way to the Egyptian frontier. The
parched river was the only refuge available in the area; it‘d been used
by Dalton‘s patrol five times on the return trips after raids on the
coastal towns. The Daimler was almost nothing in comparison with
the magnitude of the depression, a several-mile-long ravine flanked by
pink dunes two hundred feet high. Jones labored to the top of a dune
to find the vicinities quiet and still. It was a welcome sight after a
hair-raising escape.
As a dust haze stirred by the hot desert winds reduced their visibility
to a few yards, they all went to the shade underneath the truck to rest.

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They were bleary-eyed and looking bone-tired, drained after having

been awake for over thirty hours straight. The sands were rapidly
cooled by the shade of the vehicle, and it took only the removal of the
biggest stones before they could take a nap with their heads covered
with the flaps of their gutras.
Dalton took the first watch. He waited for the time to pass as he lay
on his stomach right beneath the cab. Only a couple of hours before
dusk they could head for the frontier in relative safety. That meant he
had many hours to kill; and a lot of thinking to do. He was eager to go
away to prevent his remaining men had the same fate as the ones in
Berka had probably had. A sob rose to his throat every time his
thoughts reverted to Miller, Olivier, and the seven others.
He knew he wouldn‘t get to sleep. Then he took the two next watch
shifts.
>> <<
With the waning daylight hours, the blistering heat and the sandy
winds lulled. Dalton thought it was time to rouse the others. He left
the underside of the truck and began whistling reveille as he dusted
himself off.
―Get up, sleeping beauties,‖ he called as he lit his tenth cigarette of
the day, ―time to fuck off out of it.‖
Collins yawned, drowsy from sleep. ―Couldn‘t get any sleep?‖
Dalton shook his head.
―Don‘t crucify yourself,‖ the American said, a hand on the
Welshman‘s shoulder. ―Just by getting the rest of us out of Benghazi
in safety, you‘ve done a near-miracle.‖
Dalton grinned. ―Thanks. Gotta admit that was exactly what I
needed to hear.‖
―This job was doomed even before it started,‖ Collins said. ―It
wasn‘t you fault.‖
―Perhaps it was. I did push our luck. Think I grew careless and
arrogant after so many successful missions.‖
―Maybe. But it wouldn‘t make one hell a difference in the end. He
did.‖
―I know,‖ Dalton said between clenched teeth at the memory of
Fischer‘s face. He suddenly remembered the German spy laughing
after joking about Rommel‘s birthday. Might he be thinking of giving
them as presents to the Desert Fox…
Son of a bitch!
Charlie ran a somnolent mechanical inspection as another corporal
poured the remaining four diesel cans into the fuel tank.

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―All set here,‖ Charlie said aloud.

―Good,‖ Dalton said. ―Let‘s get going. Brandy awaits us in
Alexandria.‖
Jones stretched himself and said, ―I‘ll have a look ‗round before we
go.‖
―Yes, do it,‖ Dalton said as he helped the first man over the tailgate
and into the truck.
Jones walked up the nearest dune that led into the ravine, leaning
forward to take the incline. He reached its top two minutes later, his
lungs burning. The hilly desert unfolded around him like a map. He
stood there scanning the vicinities for a moment, and regaining his
breath. Then his eyes suddenly widened in shock.
A rifle shot rang out. A bullet hit him in the chest and knocked him
down. He rolled down the dune and tumbled over the ledge of the cliff
back into the wadi.
The sound of the shot numbed the senses of the others down in the
ravine. They froze in position, eyes very wide and mouths agape.
Jones‘ limp body hit the rocky gorge, blood spewing out from the hole
in his chest. Dalton checked Jones‘ pulse. Dead.
―Turn the bloody lorry on!‖ Dalton cried, hastily pushing the two
last men into the rear of the vehicle. ―Get your guns ready!‖
Seconds after Dalton had hurled himself over the tailboard, five or
six grenades exploded around the vehicle. Hot fragments ragged the
canvas top in several places and chipped the wooden hull. A piece of
flying metal seared Barrett‘s muscle-bound arm, and he dropped to his
knees while cursing and pressing the wound with one hand.
―Who‘s out there?‖ Keyes asked Dalton as he loaded his Thompson.
―Dunno,‖ Dalton said as he also loaded his. ―Everyone lay flat!‖
The truck‘s front wheels spun on loose rocks but caught, hauling it
away. As it finally rocketed forward, a loud squawk in Arabic from
somewhere outside the wadi sounded like a bugle. Their hearts
skipped a beat when they concluded it was the militiamen.
―How come they found us?‖ Collins said in near panic as he joined
the Welshman by the tailboard. ―Damn fuckers materialized out of the
wind.‖
―They took advantage of the dust haze,‖ Dalton said, the floor tilting
wildly beneath him. ―But I haven‘t got the foggiest as to how they
tracked us down here.‖
As the truck bounced down the ravine, they finally saw the evil-
looking men standing on the top of the dune where Jones had been
shot, ten or so figures silhouetted against the skyline. They were over

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two hundred yards away, and their 9mm submachine-guns would have
little effect.
Another group of militiamen appeared by the edge of the ravine, at
the foot of a bordering dune. They were only fifty yards away,
scimitars in hands, looking like ghosts of death wielding their scythes.
Seconds later more stick-grenades were flying toward the truck. They
all exploded on its left side, flak splintering sideboards and tearing
what was left of the canvas top. By extreme luck, none of the tires was
blown.
Charlie pressed the accelerator to the floor, sweat pouring down his
bearded face. To him it was taking forever to reach the point where
the riverbed leveled off onto the higher plateau. When he drove
around the twenty-foot high rocky outcrops of the narrowest segment
of the wadi, he had to slow down to a crawl because of large stones on
the ground.
There was a loud bump on the roof of the cab, and a huge
indentation in it. An instant later a burst of Schmeisser was sprayed
between Charlie and the other corporal in the cab. The truck clipped
the immense boulder to the right and almost stopped.
―Get‘m, Roby!‖ Charlie cried.
Roby drew his revolver and unloaded it at the ceiling. Blood trickled
down from the score of bullets holes before the man‘s body fell to one
side and onto the rocky path.
―He jumped from the top of some damned outcrop!‖ Roby said.
―Get out of here, man!‖
―Ain‘t no other way out!‖ Charlie replied as his colleague was
fishing for fresh shells in his pockets.
A second afterward was a bump on the hood in the shape of a
bearded dark man holding a submachine-gun. He balanced himself on
all fours, grabbed a corner of the hood for hold, and fired a long burst
at the windshield one-handed. Roby and Charlie ducked in time to be
bathed by hundreds of shards of glass.
Palmer took the shotgun from its casing, cocked it, and gave the
Arab both barrels. The steel buckshot made a gaping hole in the man‘s
chest and lifted him over the hood. He fell on his back in front of the
vehicle and was crunched by the wheels against the rocky ground.
―I was longing to use this thing,‖ the American said, grinning
cruelly.
The truck regained some speed. Shots sounded from behind, and a
number of bullets sagged inwards the wooden sidewalls of the flatbed
and chipped pieces from them at the same time. Everyone was lying

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flat, hands protecting the head, breaths short with fear of getting hit.
They hardly noticed the avalanche of boxes and furniture digging into
their bodies.
Collins dared a peek over the tailboard and immediately saw a pair
of men running after the slow-moving truck while firing Schmeissers.
He rummaged for a hand-grenade in his basket and found it.
―Two bandits approaching!‖ Collins shouted over the stutter of the
men‘s guns and the sound of bullets chewing the truck. ―Let‘s frag‘em
before they do the same with us.‖ He waited a few seconds for the
others to take out their grenades and snatch the safety clip on his.
The militiamen were fewer than thirty yards away now. One was
firing, the other reloading his weapon. When both had their guns
empty in their hands, one took the stick-grenade that hung to his
ammo pouch and gestured for the other to do likewise. They were
running as they gave a tug to the fuse strings dangling from the
bottom of the sticks, and then what looked like potatoes flew out of
the rear of the truck. The resemblance between the British Mark-4
hand-grenade and harmless potatoes delayed them enough. Several
bombs went off around them, chewing their bodies with shrapnel. The
grenades in their hands exploded next, disfiguring what was left of
their torsos.
Charlie wrenched the truck onto the caravan path, its wheels
spinning furiously. The militiamen had stopped shooting. He glanced
around and concluded they hadn‘t been surrounded. He made the
engine roar deafeningly as he floored the accelerator again, and the
truck tore away at high speed.
At the opposite edge of the wadi, several Zundapps slewed
broadside on in a cloud of dirt, and the men who were on foot boarded
their sidecars. The drivers hurtled down the walls of the canyon in the
direction of the fleeing truck, negotiating the way along the
treacherous bottom and around boulders and outcrops.
The Daimler was put to the limit on the carpet of soft ground of the
caravan trail. Within a minute it hit sixty miles an hour. Roby put his
head around the window and saw the first motorcycles rush out of the
wadi and onto the track they were on, over a half mile behind.
―Cunts still on our tail,‖ Roby said as he finally had his revolver
reloaded.
Charlie‘s face was a mix of fear and confidence. ―Yes. But they‘ll
soon find out no bloody bikes can match this beauty‘s speed on loose
sand. Thank you, Krauts!‖

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**************
69
As a young boy in his hometown Stuttgart, Rolf Baltzer had a habit
of locking himself up in his bedroom every time he was responsible
for some incident. A neighbor‘s window broken by his foot ball or a
hand-fight at school resulted in a few hours sitting on his bed, while
thinking of his line of defense with his parents. Most of the times,
however, he simply made up a lie blaming someone else. But that
wouldn‘t work now.
He was looking out his fourth-floor window at the shop fronts at
ground level across the street. There was a cigarette burning in his
hand, its smoke floating up to the ceiling in the faint glow of the
outside afternoon sun. His eyes were full of images of shuffling
people with shopping bags, but his mind was a blank. He turned away
from the window and crossed to the opposite wall where his wardrobe
stood open. Weber‘s men had found its false bottom and taken almost
everything from it––Bruno Fuchs‘ fake documents, savings account
passbooks, record of deposits––to be perused, and then replaced them
there carelessly. It‘d taken Weber just a few minutes‘ examination to
figure out his scheming. What if Kaltenbrunner had done the same? he
wondered, already knowing the answer. I should feel lucky it‘s Weber
who‘s got me by the balls instead of the ogre.
He knelt down and tidied up the bunch of documents into its
cardboard holder in the false bottom, and laid the dark pane of wood
over it. He closed the wardrobe doors, and banged his forehead on it
for self-punishment.
Think! Think of something! You‟ve been in lousier situations before.
Don‟t take Weber‟s help for granted. No one can be trusted. Find a
way out!
As he pressed his head against the wood, hotly-delivered news
blared from the radio in the living room. The subject, again, was
Stalingrad. A baritone-voiced newscaster detailed the last day‘s deeds
of the German troops on their three-month-long attempt of conquering
the soviet city. The man would never comment, Baltzer was sure, that
the Fuehrer‘s fixation for that distant corner of Europe had cost more
crippled German soldiers than all the campaign in the west. Not to
mention the prisoners sent to starve and freeze to death in Stalin‘s
concentration camps. The tide of the war is turning, he thought, and
the newscaster would never comment about it; nor that coup d‘états
are born out of defeats and angry generals.
And this job in Libya is supposed to fix it as if by magic, huh?

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The vein in his temple was throbbing. Along came Weber‘s words
echoing in his head: “Joseph Klempt: killed in action near Leningrad.
Karl Briegel: killed in action on the way to Stalingrad. Both were sent
to Russia after being caught laying hands on what belongs to the big
fish of the Reich.”
A cold drop of sweat ran down his forehead. Eyes closed, he gritted
his teeth as he thought hard. All right! he screamed in silence, I‘ll play
your game. If it‘s some silly secrets what you want in exchange for
helping me replace those bars of gold, you‘ll have it. Fuck
Kaltenbrunner, fuck Fischer…and fuck Rommel!
He went around his bed, crushed his cigarette into an ashtray, and
reached for the telephone on the night-table. He‘d left the handle
unhooked so as not to receive any calls. The moment he jiggled the
hook switch button to make his call, it rang. He cursed inwardly; he
was almost sure about who this was. He let it ring three more times
before answering.
―Yes,‖ Baltzer moaned, faking illness.
―Stenzel here. You any better?‖
Go to hell, moron! Baltzer didn‘t say. ―No. What do you want?‖
―Mm…General Kaltenbrunner has been asking about you––every
single hour.‖
Baltzer tensed. ―I told Agnes to tell him I was sick, for Christ‘s
sake.‖
―She did so, and I confirmed it. But he‘s determined to speak to you
as soon as possible.‖
―It must be about the case in Libya––‖
―No, it‘s not. Well, at least it didn‘t seem to be when he came to my
room.‖
Baltzer‘s heart was hammering in his chest. ―What‘s it, then?‖
―He told me he had a talk with one Salvatore Lazzarini, a manager
of the Banco Di Roma. Next he asked if I had something to tell him
about it.‖
Goddamn you, Weber! You blew the whistle on me! It could only
have been you. You‟re forcing me to make a last-minute deal, aren‟t
you, you son of a bitch?
―Listen,‖ Baltzer said with a lump in his throat. ―Tell Kaltenbrunner
I‘ll be back in two or three days, and––‖
―No, he won‘t wait. He‘s instructed someone called Krueger and
your chauffeur to go to your apartment and bring you back to the
office.‖

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―What? I barely can walk to the fucking bathroom without puking,‖

Baltzer lied.
―It seems the general doesn‘t care. You should‘ve seen his face as he
gave the orders to the men.‖
―When was it?‖
Stenzel thought for a few seconds. ―Twenty-five minutes ago,
maximum.‖
―You took all that time to warn me––why?‖ he sounded desperate.
―I don‘t get you my friend. To warn you about what?‖
Baltzer concluded he‘d dangerously used the wrong phrasing. ―I‘m
not feeling well. I‘m going back to bed.‖
―Wait a moment,‖ Stenzel said. ―Is there anything I should know?
It‘s to do with our mission, naturally. What was General
Kaltenbrunner talking about? Should I know something involving the
Banco di Roma?‖
Baltzer paid no attention to Stenzel‘s questions. His mind was racing
so fast, he was so concentrated he barely breathed. All he wanted was
hang up and put a call through to Weber and swap details of the job in
Libya for the bars of gold. He was betting his life on Weber being
able to get hold of them. While Weber pulled some strings to be able
to buy the bars from the Reichs Bank, he‘d travel in his own car to
Switzerland and withdraw the money in Bruno Fuchs‘ name. Then
he‘d hand the bars personally to Heusseini; this should avoid
problems with the serial numbers. That‘s it! he exclaimed to himself.
I‘ve got all figured out!
Weber‘s last words echoed in his ears: “Try to find any traces of
Kaltenbrunner‟s wrongdoings. It‟d come in handy as well as those
gold bars.”
―Stenzel, listen up,‖ Baltzer spoke into the receiver. ―Do you have
your copy of the file close at hand?‖
―What file?‖
―The stuff the og…Kaltenbrunner gave us for the preparation of the
job in Libya a month ago, of course! I want you to look something up
in it.‖
The blond man took a moment before replying. ―Okay, just a
second.‖ Baltzer heard the sound of a drawer being opened through
the earpiece of the telephone.
―I‘ve got it right in front of me now,‖ Stenzel said.
―There‘s something missing in it. I need you to find out what it is.‖
―Missing? But we‘ve read it quite a few times and––‖

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―I‘m sure there‘s something missing. This stuff‘s got over two
hundred pages; it‘s five different files put together as one. We simply
overlooked it!‖ Baltzer thought for a second and added, ―Start with
the numeration of the pages.‖
Stenzel thought for a long moment and said, ―Shall I call you back
after I‘ve found it?‖
―No, I‘d rather wait.‖
―Fine,‖ Stenzel mumbled. Baltzer could hear through the wire the
hustle of crisp photocopies being flipped over in fast succession.
About three minutes later he heard Stenzel clear his throat and say,
―Still there?‖
―Yes, what is it?‖
―Listen…er…you‘re right; there‘s a page missing in one of the
dossiers.‖
Baltzer saw lightning bolts cross his sightline. ―Which one?‖
―Just a second.‖ To Baltzer, Stenzel took an hour to reply.
―Heusseini‘s file,‖ the blond man said, almost whispering.
Baltzer almost shouted: ―What page?‖
―Seventy-three.‖
Gotcha! Baltzer shouted inwardly. ―See you later,‖ he said and
slammed down the phone.
A gelid breeze whispered through the window he‘d left half open.
He stopped moving. It didn‘t bid well, he thought. He tried to reason
his odd sensation and concluded if he failed to convince Weber of the
deal, the next breeze he‘d feel would be a lot colder. In Russia.
Unless…
He loosed up his shoulders like a boxer and took a lungful of air as
he began dialing. ―Okay, Weber, let‘s make a deal and––‖
The knob of his front door rattled several times in rapid succession.
He put down the receiver and stepped into his living room to see the
door being opened by a man in a gleaming black-leather overcoat and
slouch hat. Next to him was Berger, Baltzer‘s chauffeur, in his
immaculate SS uniform.
―Major Baltzer?‖ said the first man.
Baltzer was standing in front of them a second later. His eyes bulged
with anger and surprise; and his stance was of someone ready to fight.
―What the hell do you think you‘re doing by breaking into my home?‖
Baltzer roared.
Baltzer‘s chauffeur winced and said, ―General Kaltenbrunner told us
to drive you to the office––‖

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―Did he also tell you that you could jimmy my door open?‖ Baltzer
said, playing for time. Now he had to think of a way around these
men. ―I do want some answers here.‖
The man beside Berger interrupted Baltzer‘s thinking by clearing his
throat and saying, ―Major Baltzer, my name is––‖
―I know who you are,‖ Baltzer said, staring into the man‘s glacial
blue eyes. ―That wasn‘t my question.‖
―The general wants you in his office immediately,‖ the man insisted.
―He wants that so badly he sent me down, sir.‖ Now there was a grin
in his small, effeminate mouth.
Baltzer knew Krueger was a crusty Gestapo field officer who
worked solely under Kaltenbrunner‘s orders. He just couldn‘t
remember anything about the man‘s list of peccadilloes registered in
his ‗special‘ files to browbeat him. His only way out was giving them
a slip and not to seem to be doing so.
―Very well, then,‖ Baltzer said. ―I‘ll be over as soon as I take a
shower and shave. See you two at the office in an hour. Off you go.‖
―Negative, sir,‖ Krueger said. ―You‘re coming with us right away.
One way or the other.‖ And he was smiling again.

**************
70
Every time he glanced at his sideview mirror, Charlie thanked the
German engineer who‘d designed this truck‘s powerful engine. It
could easily outpace motorcycles or any other sort of vehicles on a
soft surface. After a few minutes there was maybe a full mile between
them and the first chasers in sight. At his side, Roby was finally
managing to breathe properly.
Collins said, ―They tried to lead us into a trap for several days
without a shot. Why this now?‖
―I liked the other way better, too,‖ Dalton said. ―The spy must‘ve
told them we radioed base about Abyad. They don‘t want any
witnesses––so that they can pin their murder on us.‖
Dalton lit up as he tried to figure out how the militia had tracked
them as he jolted in the flatbed. He felt his tension ebbing away as
they pulled farther and farther from the Zundapps every minute. After
a while he stopped thinking about it. Then he questioned himself
whether Matouk might have thought of every possibility of escape,
anticipating all moves possible on leaving the wadi––including a dash
over this trail.
He couldn‘t be more right.

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A lonely militiaman wrapped in sand-colored sheets lay on his

stomach forty yards to one side of the track, waiting for the truck.
He‘d been there for the last twenty minutes, waiting. In his hands was
a string connected to a Teller mine resting by the opposite edge of the
trail. When the vehicle was close enough, he tugged the bomb to the
center of the crude road.
Eyes flickering between the path ahead and the sideview mirror,
Charlie didn‘t spot the mine until it was six or seven yards from his
left-side wheel. His reaction when he recognized the shape of the
bomb was a gasp of horror.
A split second later the mine was beneath the tire.
Its twelve pounds of explosive turned into a ferocious explosion,
raising the front of the truck and smashing the cab with a blast of fire
and hundreds of shards of shrapnel. The cargo compartment was
invaded by a rush of fire and flying sparks that swept hotly over
everyone in there. The ruined cab touched the ground an instant later,
making the vehicle tilt sideways and the ones in the flatbed tumble
about like dice. The Daimler finally plowed to a halt some ten yards
ahead, resting on its right side, immersed in a cloud of dirt and black
smoke.
At the back of the truck, Collins groped through bitter smoke and
dust until he collapsed into the outside, gasping for breath. He was
still recovering his senses when he saw the gleaming sword
descending on him. On instinct, he rolled aside.
The Arab swung the blade at him again, with both hands as if it were
a club, and missed his ribcage by an inch. He noticed the American
had reached for the gun at his waist. The man dropped the scimitar
and reached for the submachine gun slung over his shoulder in a swift
movement.
―Allahu ak––‖ he neither had time to shoot nor to finish his war cry.
Collins had drawn his Colt and placed a bullet into his mouth that
went out of his skull in a bloody splash.
―Go tell‘m personally, you sucker,‖ the American said, panting and
gritting his teeth.
Dalton stumbled out of the truck, a mask of blood on his face. He
turned on his heel and toddled for the cab. Getting there, he saw
Charlie‘s and Roby‘s torn cadavers being carbonized in the flames
that devoured the truck front. The Welshman was paralyzed, a roaring
surging in his ears.
Collins grabbed him by the sleeves, ―They‘re dead!‖ the American
shouted. ―We gotta help the others now. Come on!‖

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The four other survivors left the truck seconds later, coughing and
rubbing their bodies in search of serious fractures, not at all sure they
were still alive. Palmer had a bad occlusion in one cheek, Keyes bled
from his nose, the English corporal massaging his painful shoulder.
Taking a glance around, they found themselves in a flat land
impregnated with clusters of shrubs and boulders. Looking west, they
caught sight of the dust raised by the motorcycles about a mile and a
half away, and streaking in their direction.
Collins looked at Dalton. The Welshman still looked dazed. Then he
decided he should take command. He knew every second counted.
―Listen to me,‖ the American said. ―Those guys will be getting here in
a few minutes. We can‘t be caught in the open. Let‘s dig in.‖
He clambered up to the raised left side of the truck, unbolted the pair
of shovels and the pickax pegged to it, and tossed them to Barrett,
Keyes, and the English trooper. They immediately stabbed the ground
and began digging a line of foxholes twenty yards from the truck.
Collins jumped from the truck empty-handed and stood beside Barrett
to take shifts on the shovel.
Still looking a little catatonic, Dalton rubbed the back of one hand
across his eyes wiping the blood, and took shifts with Keyes on the
shovel. Lucidity was returning to him as he groaned with the visceral
effort as trickles of blood continued dribbling down his face. He
looked over his shoulder and saw the motorcycles maybe a half mile
away and getting closer.
Panicking, the English corporal and Palmer were digging with their
hands as the others took their shifts with the shovels. They only
stopped when their fingertips were bleeding. In two minutes the sandy
ground allowed them to hollow out three foxholes almost three feet
deep and wide enough for two men. The motorcycles were only four
hundred yards away now.
Keyes dropped the shovel and raced to the truck. He delved into the
smoky cargo compartment gathering weapons and ammunition. He
hurried out of there with several Thompsons slung over his shoulders,
pouches full of magazines and drums, and hand-grenades. Weapons
and ammunition were handed around, and then they jumped into their
holes.
Less than a hundred yards away now, the men sitting in the sidecars
of the leading motorcycles opened fire at the truck. They closed on in,
moving defiantly in a circle around it, some forty yards away. But
soon they realized where their opponents really were, and ceased
firing. They invited combat with shrill bloodcurdling cries as over

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twenty Schmeissers opened up, this time raking with bullets the
earthworks around their opponents‘ foxholes.
As slugs churned the earth around their trenches and zipped over
their heads, the commandos fired back in full automatic, swinging the
barrels in an arc. As they swapped bullets, the English corporal who
shared the foxhole with Keyes was hit in the temple and died
instantly. Blood and pieces of his brain plastered Keyes‘ face, making
the American become temporarily static with terror.
―It‘s not working!‖ Collins shouted, curled up in his hole with
Barrett at his side, after he‘d seen only a trio of militiamen getting hit.
―Gotta get‘em off the bikes.‖
―Don‘t aim at their chests,‖ Dalton shouted back. ―Seek for the
bloody petrol tanks!‖
―Okay!‖ Collins replied. ―On three we go. One, two…‖
They sprang from their holes almost at the same time, leveled their
barrels at only two feet off the ground and fired. As Dalton had
figured, the salvos hadn‘t even needed to be so accurate. A single hole
in the tanks made a stream of gasoline pour into the engines, igniting
at the contact with the sparkplugs. All except a few machines had
their gas tanks spraying into flames.
The ones carrying extra fuel exploded, scattering numberless gallons
of liquid fire and engulfing the few bikes that hadn‘t been set into
flames. Burning fuel careened off the undulations in the stretches of
hard terrain as if it were lava before seeping into the sand edging
them. A dozen or so militiamen jumped off the Zundapps like moving
torches and began writhing themselves on the ground and crying in
pain, their skin melted by the liquid fire.
All of a sudden Matouk found himself and his surviving men
cowering behind the Zundapps, most of the machines aflame. He was
nauseated from gas fumes and smell of burning flesh. He had a brief
fit of wrath and whipped his head to the men to his immediate left,
who were staring at a number of their companions who‘d been
charred to death.
―Turn your grief into bullets, brothers!‖ Matouk said. ―Go for
them!‖
For a moment he thought they‘d hesitate, but they didn‘t. The three
of them charged head-down toward the foxholes with dog-like
obedience. The general gave a savage smile.
As soon as the three men leaped over the burning motorcycles, they
were standing sideways while running so as to offer as small target as
possible, and firing their Schmeissers from their hips. Palmer had the

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top of his head disintegrated by a line of bullets he never saw where

they‘d come from. Crouching in the trench with him, Dalton glanced
at the onrushing men, but could do nothing; his gun was empty.
―Coming from the east!‖ he shouted.
Barrett and Collins whipped around in their foxholes as small
fountains of sand went up all around. The sight of those men triggered
a wild reaction in both. Throwing caution to the wind, they rose
defiantly and welcomed the Arabs, their guns bucking in their hands.
One after the other, the three runners keeled over with gasps of pain as
the hail of bullets ripped gruesome chunks of flesh off their bodies.
Collins slumped down back into his trench, arms numbed for the
brutal effort, his galebaya soggy with sweat––and blood. When he
found out that a bullet had just shot off a small piece of his earlobe, he
couldn‘t believe his luck. Breathing hard with the high level of
adrenaline in his veins, he thanked the heavens for he still was in one
piece.
―That was close,‖ he said to Barrett, and heard the big man utter a
loud hissing groan.
The Texan had taken a bullet at the side of his neck, dark blood
gushing. Collins made pressure on the wound, but Barrett died a
minute later.
Two more militiamen jumped up on Matouk‘s instructions and ran
toward the foxholes, making sudden darts right and left to confuse
their opponents‘ aim.
Collins heard their weapons popping, peered outside, and said, ―I‘m
empty here, Cap! Get‘em!‖
Dalton had just reloaded his Thompson and shoved the empty drum
into the underside of his galebaya in the hope of reloading it later. In a
split-second decision, he took a deep breath and pulled himself up
boldly, bullets singing past his body. He gritted his teeth and gave a
long burst, using all his strength to control the tremendous kick of the
gun in full automatic. It took him a hurricane of a hundred rounds, but
he managed to hit either man. They were blown into the air, guns still
firing in their hands.
One of those stray bullets hit Dalton in the chest. He let out an
agonized groan and reeled back into the small trench as wiggles of
light filled his eyes. He cupped one hand over the wound to feel for
the blood pouring from it. There was none. The slug had mushroomed
against the empty drum. He broke into an insane laughter.
Matouk was still lying on his belly behind the burning motorcycle.
And he was furious. Those few infidels had instilled fear in him. Over

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twenty of his men with deep, ugly burns and fast-bleeding bullet
wounds moaned around him. They all would be dead in minutes. He
shouldered his sniper rifle to begin to pick off the commandos at a
safe distance. Then he found out its telescopic sight had been
damaged after he‘d jumped out of the flaming sidecar.
Kodro crawled up to him, his arm bleeding after being grazed by a
slug. ―We mustn‘t waste any other man. You know each one will be
needed to bequeath their knowledge and train the jihad army.‖
―I know, brother. I know,‖ Matouk said, controlling his anger. ―How
many still able to fight?‖
―Fourteen or fifteen,‖ Kodro said as he tried to staunch the bleeding
in his arm.
―Now we‘ll wait until the sun takes the exact angle to favor our
approach from the west.‖
―Excellent, my General,‖ Kodro said. ―May God reward our
patience.‖
―He will,‖ Matouk said, eye rolling in the socket as if in a trance.
―I‘m sure He will.‖
―For the moment,‖ Kodro said, holding a bag in one hand. ―We
should have them very scared.‖
>> <<
Dalton groped around for an extra drum for his Thompson and
froze. All he had now was six bullets in his revolver. ―How are you
off for ammo?‖ he called.
―Seven shells in my Colt,‖ Collins replied. ―Got any mags to lend to
my Thompson?‖
―You joking?‖ was the Welshman‘s answer. ―That‘s exactly what I
was going to ask from you.‖
―All I got is four or five rounds in my sub,‖ Keyes shouted.
―Anyone…,‖ only then Dalton realized it was only the three of them
left. He felt a pain in his heart. Even if they managed to put each
bullet into a militiaman, it‘d probably still lack rounds for the rest of
them.
From behind the ring of roaring flames, a shout in Arabic boomed,
―Torturer of Haifa! Where are you?‖
Dalton gave a start. ―Is that you Matouk?‖ he said at the top of his
voice. ―I think I can recognize an old pig‘s voice. How‘s your left
eye?‖
Matouk shouted back, ―I have something for you, infidel!‖

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―Step over and give it to me personally. I‘ve something for you, too.
Don‘t be shy. Come here, pig. And May the virgins give you pleasure
in paradise next.‖
―God in all His wisdom crossed our destinies so that I could let you
know of something that will make you suffer in life before dying from
my scimitar. There!‖
A bloodied round object flew through the curtain of black smoke in
his direction, rolled for ten yards on the sand, and came to rest a few
feet in front of Collins‘ trench.
It was Fischer‘s head.
Matouk‘s voice rang out again, ―Is it familiar to you?‖
―That‘s how you treat your friends?‖ Dalton said, peeking over the
edge of his foxhole, trying to hide his fear.
―I don‘t mean the final tribulation of this man––nor of the other ones
who went to Berka with him.‖
Dalton flinched, unable to breath. The confirmation of the death of
his men had a devastating effect on him.
Matouk said, ―It‘s about a certain Arab woman who became a whore
to a crusader. You understand now?‖
Dalton was trembling. Impotent rage boiled inside him. He could
tell what the man was going to say next. His world spun out of orbit.
―Yes, I killed her! I still remember her smell,‖ the general shouted at
the top of his voice. ―And today you will meet with Samara in the hell
of the infidels.‖

**************
71
Rolf Baltzer stomped down the cavernous corridors of the SD
building as the clatter of typewriters filled his ears. He ignored all the
respectful bows and good-afternoon-sirs from secretaries, clerks, and
junior officers, his eyes squinting at door plates in search of the right
room. Along with his unshaven face and hair plastered to his
forehead, his uniform looked as if he‘d slept in it. And he was fuming.
His savage expression only increased as the seconds passed. Not even
the prospects of bumping into Berger and Krueger––who should be
looking for him after he‘d run away from them on stepping into the
building––seemed to bother him.
He stopped in front of a door marked COLLATED FILES and
reached for the knob. Then he froze in place. Here he was, a few yards
away from what he needed, and he still hadn‘t remembered the
archivist‘s surname. The approach he‘d figured out was based exactly

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on it. There was a detailed register on the man‘s brother‘s

wrongdoings in his ‗special‘ files; but he couldn‘t take the chances to
go to his office and look it up.
Hell, what‘s the prick‘s name? he raked his brains as his hand
squeezed the cold door handle. How come I remember their crimes
but don‘t recall their names? Too many of both, he reasoned.
Another clerk moved past him pushing a dolly loaded with carton
boxes. ―Sir,‖ she said with a half-military tone and continued toward
her room.
―Hey,‖ Baltzer nearly shouted at her. ―Is Lieutenant…um…‖ he put
on a false grin, ―I can‘t remember his name. The archivist…the one
from Vienna.‖
―Schumann, Lieutenant Schumann,‖ the young woman said, still
gawping at the disheveled figure of that well-known officer. ―That‘s
his room, Major.‖ She pointed at the one Baltzer stood next to.
―Yes! Kurt Schumann,‖ he said. The brother of Andreas Schumann–
–the smuggler. ―Gotcha,‖ Baltzer growled and flung the door open to
see a pair of startled faces.
―You,‖ Baltzer pointed at one of them, a blond-haired young man.
―Get out. At once.‖
As the man moved around him, Baltzer stepped toward the other
one, a dark-haired, bespectacled, almost chinless figure sitting at a
work-strewn metal desk.
―Major Baltzer,‖ Schumann said, shrinking perceptibly as he stood
up. He swallowed hard. ―How can I be of help, sir?‖ And then he
made the mistake of glancing at the telephone on his desk.
―Why do I have the impression you were waiting for me?‖ Baltzer
said, showing his teeth, his face a foot from Schumann‘s. ―I can bet
there‘s no need for me to say what I‘ve come here for, huh?‖
―Sir?‖ Schumann was beginning to sweat. Baltzer lifted a flat palm.
―Heusseini‘s master file. I‘m not leaving this room without it.‖
Schumann straightened out, lifting what little chin he had. ―I‘m
sorry, Major. But I have straight orders from General Kaltenbrunner
not to give access to anyone––‖
―Listen to me, you Viennese squirrel––and think––for a change. The
fact that vital information missing on the copies of that file could have
meant the death of three security service agents is no more a secret to
Herr Himmler.‖ This was a good lie, he thought. ―I suppose there‘s no
further explanation to be given.‖
―I‘m sorry, sir, but the only one with access to it is General
Kaltenbrunner himself.‖

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―Not anymore,‖ Baltzer said. He seemed about to attack him.

―Well,‖ Schumann stammered, and gripped the phone handle like a
man about to drown grips a life-buoy. ―I‘m going to consult the
general, sir.‖
―The hell you are,‖ Baltzer crossed to the wall and ripped the phone
wire with a single brutal tug.
―Major, what are you doing?‖ Schumann said with his arms wide
open, the phone dead in his left hand.
Baltzer cleared his throat. He looked totally unexcited all of a
sudden. He sat on a corner of Schumann‘s desk, ran a hand over the
comma of hair fallen over his forehead, and gave him a crooked smile.
He said, ―If you play stubborn, sonny, there are many ways to keep
me from that fucking file. But you can‘t keep me from telling a couple
of members of the Criminal Police––both good friends of mine––
about a certain smuggler supplying the black market with stuff from
Denmark.‖
He saw Schumann swallow hard. He looked deep into the Austrian‘s
eyes and decided to drop the hay to break the camel‘s back.
―You know him,‖ Baltzer said with a soft, devilish voice. ―It‘s you
brother: Andreas. He‘s been using air force planes to bring garbage
from all over Scandinavia into how many God alone knows cities in
the Fatherland. Berlin must be one of them, which means you are
involved.‖
Schumann was going to have a stroke. Baltzer poked a finger at his
chest. ―And don‘t deny it, you thief. Or I‘ll have you both court-
martialed before you know it.‖
The desperate stare in Schumann‘s face told him he‘d soon succeed.
―Boy, I wouldn‘t like to be your father.‖
―He‘s passed away, sir,‖ Schumann said dryly.
―God, it makes it even worse. Poor man must be turning in his
grave. Two sons in jail. That‘s really sad.‖
The man lifted his near-to-tears eyes to meet Baltzer‘s as if waiting
for the final instructions.
―You give me the file,‖ Baltzer said, feigning friendliness. ―And
let‘s all of us try to forget what happened.‖
Without a word, Schumann turned around and headed for a file
cabinet in a corner. It took less him less than a minute to locate the
buff-colored file holder amid so many others despite his nervousness,
trembling hands, and half-blurred sight. He passed it to Baltzer.
―Good. We have a deal now,‖ Baltzer said and flipped to the
missing page as the Austrian drifted away. There were eight

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paragraphs on the sheet of paper. The six first were apparently

summaries of three reports made by OVRA agents, whose names
Baltzer had never heard of. However they referred to exactly what
Weber had told him. He spent a few seconds brooding, looking
blankly at the wall, and began on the last two paragraphs, which had
been from a report by one Enzo Ferrara. The spook at the hotel in
Rome! he recalled.
The man‘s words were still fresh in his mind: It‟s hard to believe
what you guys have done. We‟ve sent you the dossier, right? You‟ve
seen it, haven‟t you? Well, I wouldn‟t stick out my neck like that. Boy,
you guys are as crazy as those sand-niggers.
Baltzer read the paragraphs as he recalled Ferrara‘s words and it
didn‘t disturb him. It was amazing how coarse words matched an Intel
report. Again his stare was a blank. A single sentence of the last
paragraph was repeating itself in his ears: …the Grand Mufti of
Jerusalem and General Hassan Matouk are believed to have shunted
funds for the Arab revolt in 1937 amounting several hundred thousand
Reichsmarks…
The fucking ogre is the biggest of thieves! He‟s either bribing
Heusseini or laundrying money by means of him. Or both. Definitely
both. I‟m not falling because of this. At least not alone.
He wondered whether he‘d ever be admitted into the club.
Forget about it!
Footsteps from the corridor caught his attention. He turned his head
to the door. It was half open, and Schumann was gone. Before he
managed to contact Kaltenbrunner, he‘d be probably approached by
Berger and Krueger.
Face like thunder, Baltzer stuffed the folder into his jacket and
stormed out of the room. As he zigzagged around the traffic of clerks,
he figured he had no more than two or three minutes to get to
Stenzel‘s office.

**************
72
The shooting fire from the fuel in the Zundapps subsided into small
flames and thin tendrils of gray smoke. Already the Daimler still was
a potent source of heat and black smoke; its spare tire and the rest of
the contents in the flatbed had just begun burning. After long minutes
of near-total quiet, the militiamen began to sing an ill-boded chant.
Next they took out hones and set about sharpening their scimitars.

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Collins glanced at Dalton‘s gutra protruding slightly from his

foxhole. ―Hear that?‖ he said, lips split and parched, tongue gummed
to the roof of his mouth.
―Um-hum. Terrible sound, isn‘t it?‖ was the Welshman‘s response.
―What the hell are they singing for?‖
―They‘re wailing for their dead and asking permission from God to
avenge them.‖
Collins bobbed his head a foot in the outside, and saw the glint of
several blades. He felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. It just
confirmed what Dalton had not told him: they had their minutes
numbered. If they tried to run away, the militiamen would shoot them
dead. Staying, they‘d be executed all the same. He slumped back into
his trench and curled up into a catatonic gait. He began imagining
those cruel men crawl across to him and rip him with their scimitars.
Matouk‘s single eye didn‘t move from the likely direction of
Dalton‘s foxhole. He was salivating over the prospect of quartering
him with no piety. But first he had to wait for the sun to take the exact
angle that allowed him to approach unseen.
―Still there, pig?‖ he heard the Welshman shout.
―How do you like your own funeral march, infidel?‖
―The screams from your men in the fuel dump sounded better.‖
The Arab growled. ―I can swear you‘ll scream louder than all of
them together when I introduce you to my sword.‖
―I‘m waiting,‖ Dalton said and waved the barrel of his Thompson in
the air. ―Right here. No reason to wait, pig. Get yourself over here––
now!‖
―Just a little more patience,‖ Matouk said as foam gathered in a
corner of his mouth. He squinted over his shoulder at the sun. In ten
more minutes its blinding rays would make anyone coming from the
west invisible. He gave a command and all his men came and lay flat
on his sides, holding their guns and scimitars.
Collins looked as if going crazy. ―You should be trying to think over
a way to get us out of this hellhole, Cap. Stop playing these games,
will you. Bravado won‘t make those guys give up.‖
Dalton deliberately stuck out his head outside the trench and looked
at the American. ―Can‘t you see it‘s over, my friend,‖ he said with an
ugly stare, his expression pure savagery. ―All we can do now is to try
and die like men.‖
A shot rang out and a bullet kicked dust at the edge of Dalton‘s
foxhole. ―Not good enough, pig,‖ he shouted after he‘d crouched.
―Still waiting. Come on!‖

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―Very soon now!‖ was Matouk‘s answer.

―What a fucking freak show,‖ Collins said aloud, trembling with
despair. Fear was consuming him into a stunned whiteness.
Dalton shook his head as a tear rolled down his muddy face. ―I‘m
sorry you lads got stuck in the middle of this mess.‖
He suddenly felt a terrible weight on his shoulders. So many young
men had to die because of a vendetta among generals and bureaucrats;
others had died and still were going to die because of something he
himself had started six years back, a thousand miles away.
―Forget about religion, if you lads have got one,‖ Dalton shouted to
Collins and Keyes. ―I‘ll shoot the first one who jumps at me and then
blow my own brains. I just hope it‘s the wanker I was talking to.‖ He
put his head in the opening again, to be blinded by the sun shining
almost in parallel to the ground and nothing else. ―Matouk! Get over
here, you coward!‖ he cried.
―Stop it!‖ Collins roared.
―They‘re coming at any moment,‖ Dalton said with a voice that
sounded strange even to himself. ―Don‘t let them catch you alive, my
friends. Do it now!‖
Collins looked at his weapon as if it were a rattlesnake, wondering
whether he should shoot himself rather than be butchered like an
animal. His eyes were full of tears. ―I can‘t!‖
―For fuck‘s sake––do it!‖ Dalton‘s half insane voice said in a loud
cry.
―No! I‘m not killing myself!‖
―They‘ll gut you like a fish––but you‘ll still be breathing,‖ Dalton
said, his throat constricted, tears running down his cheeks. ―You don‘t
deserve that, my friend.‖
Keyes crossed himself, eyes clouded with anguish. Then he cocked
his gun and tried to look into its barrel. His hands were trembling
uncontrollably.
―The time‘s come,‖ Matouk said to Kodro, who lay on his stomach
at his side.
―Yes, General. Let‘s get this finished.‖ The Bosnian motioned for
the others to move forward.
Scimitars in hands, they crawled around the burning motorcycles,
the seventeen men moving in a semicircle, just a few feet apart. As
they snaked past the bigger bushes, the contours of the foxholes took
shape fewer than forty yards away.
A minute later Matouk smiled insanely when he recognized Dalton‘s
position. ―The hole on the right is mine,‖ he whispered to Kodro.

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The Bosnian nodded, and the general started for it on elbows and
toes, Schmeisser in one hand, scimitar in the other. Something seemed
to fill the air between the thirty-some yards between him and Dalton.
He moved in slow motion, but his heart was pounding in his chest.
Dalton was scenting Matouk‘s proximity like animals can sense
their prey––or their predators. He closed his eyes for a moment, and
had the strangest of experiences by seeing his life flash before his eyes
in a couple of seconds. He somehow felt he was totally under control
now. He‘d changed his mind: he wouldn‘t wait anymore. He‘d jump
out of the hole and fire his last rounds at the first one he saw––and
wait to be deadly hit in response.
He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and very slowly, began
wriggling himself up. His mind filled up with light and thunder. All
his life seemed compressed into this moment.
At that moment the somber silence was broken by a distant drone.
The Welshman and the Arabs froze in position. It was the peculiar
snarling rasp of radial-powered planes merged with the receding wind.
The noise was so familiar to Dalton from that encounter a few days
ago: Stukas.
>> <<
Johan Keller and Marco Jacobs pushed their planes at a fuel-saving
cruise speed, alternately looking at the terrain and the maps on their
thighs. Two thousand feet below were the brush-bound caravan trails.
For over one hour all they‘d done was caress the throttles to maintain
their course.
The stiff flying was far from being a bore, though. Keller was sure
the team of enemy commandos that had exploded the supply of
gasoline in Benghazi would be right there. His eyes took in the next
grid reference on the map. The last radio contact made by Voeller as
he‘d tried to intercept fleeing commandos eight weeks back had been
from somewhere nearby. Keller was longing for a coincidence. And
vengeance.
He saw the vertical swirls of black and gray smoke in the horizon to
the southeast. Keller gave a grunt of victory. He was sure they‘d be
rewarded. He hit a button in his radio.
―See that?‖ Keller said. ―Bet it‘s not cooking fire.‖
―Yes, I can see it,‖ Jacobs answered. ―Let‘s take a look.‖
Keller stamped on his right rudder pedal and swung south. Banking
in that direction, he put more speed, his colleague‘s plane rumbling at
his side.

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Keller heard the familiar sound of his tail-gunner chambering a

round into his rapid-fire machine-gun. ―I‘m ready here, sir,‖ the man
said over the intercom.
―Okay. Limey bastards like firing after we pass above their heads.
Stay put,‖ Keller said, wondering whether Voeller hadn‘t known
about it.
―You got it, sir,‖ the man said in response, scanning the rushing
scenery below them with wary eyes.
A mile from the source of the smoke, they realized that several other
tendrils of fumes curled about like a whirlwind. They then leveled on
one hundred and fifty feet off the surface, flying in a narrow orbit
above what they soon learned was a battlefield. Pilots and tail-gunners
looked down through the glass canopies, trying to identify who those
men who‘d been shooting at each other were. They could see sharply
everyone on the ground with heads tilted up, motionlessly gazing at
them.
Keller lifted his goggles. There was a real pandemonium down
there. It was a tableau of burning vehicles, fallen bodies, fire-
blackened sand, and several hundred spent cartridge cases glinting in
the sun. Despite all that, it was an anticlimax. He felt unable to
identify who was friend or foe: either group of men, surrounding and
being surrounded, were nondescript bearded figures in soiled,
unrecognizable uniforms and some kind of Arab costumes.
―This is crazy!‖ Jacobs said into his mouthpiece. ―Who‘s who down
there?‖
―Have no idea,‖ Keller said. ―Damn!‖
―I don‘t feel like waiting to see who‘s shooting at us first,‖ Jacobs
said angrily. ―What do we do now?‖
―I don‘t know, man. I don‘t know!‖
―Start thinking, then. We‘ve got gas for the return trip plus eleven
minutes.‖
Keyes stared dumbly at the planes rotating in the sky above him like
angrily buzzing insects. Only his eyes moved, staring in turns at the
crosses on the wings and the eagle clawing a roundel with a swastika
at the tail rudders. He was also aware of the ominous-looking bomb
hanging in the rack below the body of each aircraft and the watchful
heads of the pair of Germans in each cockpit.
―They don‘t know who we are,‖ Keyes said aloud to himself, still
mesmerized at how close the airplanes were.

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Just then he was struck by something coming from the attic of his
mind. He shivered after the idea had popped in his head. He felt a
surge of hope. And he knew it was their last chance to survive.
Almost involuntarily, he wrenched himself up in one smooth
movement, baffling his terrified colleagues.
―Whatch you doin‘?‖ Collins said.
Keyes ignored him and glanced at the rear of the Daimler. Then he
leaped off his foxhole. He sprinted toward the truck, bending double,
the whir of the Stukas‘ swirling blades filling his ears.
The militiamen didn‘t shot at him. They were all with their mouths
agape as they stared up at the planes circling overhead, trying to figure
out what the pilots would do next.
Most of the right-side-down truck was now a roaring bonfire. Smoke
belched out of the stowage unit through the tail gap as if from the top
of a volcano. Ignoring it, Keyes lurched into the loadbed.
He bent down, delving into the heaps of stuff scattered about,
holding his breath, one hand shielding his face from the heat. His eyes
quickly became dim with tears.
When he found what he searched for, his wet eyes flared. It was a
bundle of red textile he‘d used as a pillow during his nap.
He took it outside, and dropped to one knee a few yards from the
smoky back of the vehicle. His legs were trembling to the point of
becoming anesthetized.
Breathe hissing between his teeth, he unfurled the red cloth, grabbed
it from its top corners, and waved it from side to side so that the pilots
could identify what it was. Then he summoned air into his lungs and
shouted, ―Look at this, Krauts!‖
Keller put his eyes on the fabric that the unknown man swayed in
both his hands. He instantly made out the circled black swastika on
the bright red background. During the few seconds he continued to
stare down at it, he heard a little voice in his head telling him what to
do.
He flicked a lever on his radio headset and shouted excitedly
through its mouthpiece to Jacobs, ―Look at the flag! Those men down
there are enemy commandos! They‘re attacking a German squad
trapped next to the truck!‖
Surprised, Jacobs looked at the flag, identifying it immediately.
There was a strange twinkle in Jacobs‘ eyes. ―Shit! You‘re right!
Let‘s put lead into them!‖
A second later both planes jackknifed in midair.

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To Matouk, such maneuver resembled crows after they‘d smelt

carrion. Only then he saw one of the commandos swaying a German
flag for the benefit of the pilots. He paused, thinking. When he finally
concluded the man with the flag had outwitted the pilots, a line of
bullets from one of the planes had already darted toward him and his
men. Two were mortally hit.
He saw his men break into a run, and did the same. The other Stuka
gave a low pass while emitting a horrendous grinding howl, and raked
the sands around him. Four or five more were hacked to pieces. A
hundred yards or so from the truck now, the general caught a glimpse
of one of his soldiers desperately waving his letter of authorization at
the plane that rushed toward him, and be severed by a stream of bright
yellow strikes.
Next thing he saw, small parachute mine-bombs were exploding all
around in gray, spider-shaped puffballs. Shards of hot metal made the
rest of his men fall limply to the ground. He turned and dashed in a
different direction. Seconds later there was a rumble behind him.
Matouk looked over his shoulder while running, and saw a Stuka
dive toward him in slowly, hypnotizing stages as if performing a death
dance. It set its nose toward him, the growl issuing from its engine
filling the air.
Keller watched his sight ring fill with the bearded figure of the
British commando.
The Arab felt his legs go weak, and fell to his knees praying. For the
first time he admitted to himself that the divine advice that seemed to
blossom in his mind was exactly what he wanted to hear. He stopped
praying when his body exploded in a grisly mass of red and pink after
the shells streaked into him.
Keller was pure joy. He couldn‘t think of a better stimulus than
avenging his colleagues. They orbited a couple of times over the
battlefield to make sure all the enemies had been hit. He could even
bet that one of those dead commandos down there had been the one
who‘d killed Voeller and his tail-gunner.
―Satisfied now?‖ Keller heard Jacobs‘ voice crackle in his
earphones.
―You bet! Good job, buddy. Guess our guys are in safety now.‖
―Okay, the party‘s over. How about bid them farewell and beat it
before we run dry and join them on the ground?‖
Flying low and in circles, like in an air show, the two-man crews
started to wave hands to the men near the burning truck. To their joy,
the three of them waved back.

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**************
73
His office was totally silent save for the ticking of the clock on the
wall. Almost nothing could be heard from the outside, either. The
traffic on Prinz-Albert Strasse three floors below was only a murmur.
Already the corridor was completely devoid of life. Lazy bastards,
Stenzel thought as he memorized the topics he‘d underlined on the
page of the fat tome open on his blotter. State employees never rush
enough at the end of working hours, he told himself with a shake of
his head; not even when they‘re in the middle of a war or whatsoever.
Next thing he knew was Baltzer banging his door open, face like
thunder. Anyone‘s response to that would be a nervous start, eyes
popping, mouth going dry. Not Stenzel. Not this time. He was waiting
for this to happen.
―Good afternoon––‖
―Here,‖ Baltzer interrupted, his breaths coming in shallow pants,
and tossed a folder onto his desk. ―Skip to page seventy-three.‖
―The one missing?‖ the blond man said, only slightly upset.
―Yes. We never put our eyes on it; and the stuff in it makes one hell
of a difference.‖
―If you say so,‖ Stenzel said softly and started reading the page. ―Sit
down my friend, you look stressed.‖
Before Baltzer could pull the chair from beneath the desk, Berger
knocked on the door and opened it, stepping in awkwardly. ―Major,
please,‖ the chauffeur said, puffing like a landed fish. ―Let‘s stop this
cat-and-mouse game. General Kaltenbrunner wants to see you
immediately.‖
―Leave us alone,‖ Baltzer barked at him. ―Scram!‖
Krueger glided like a ghost into the room and put a hand on Berger‘s
shoulder. He was breathing normally, that cruel grin hanging on his
killer‘s face like a layer of makeup. He glanced uncaringly at Stenzel,
crooked a finger at Baltzer, and said, ―You‘re coming with us, Major.
Now, be a good boy. Let‘s go.‖
Baltzer stepped toward the two men, standing face to with the
Gestapo agent like gladiators circling each other. ―Get out! Both of
you, or I‘ll have a prison cell for each.‖
The thick-skinned Gestapo man chuckled. ―Speaking of a cell, I can
think of one or two for officers who‘ve committed treason against the
state. Anyone spring to mind?‖

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Baltzer moved closer to the man. Krueger did the same, and they
stared at each other from a range of one inch as if in a who-will-blink-
first contest.
―Get out of this fucking room, scumbag,‖ Baltzer said between
gritted teeth.
―I will,‖ Krueger said in a low tone, ―but you‘re coming with me,
you bastard.‖
Baltzer‘s right hand closed into a fist, his elbow beginning to jerk
backward to gather force for a punch.
Krueger stepped sideways, making him loose his momentum. Then
he measured the distance between his left hand, already in the air, and
Baltzer‘s nerve spot below his ear.
A grumble from the hallway prevented Krueger from bringing
Baltzer unconscious with a stroke on his nerve. A second later he
ducked Baltzer‘s fist aimed at the point of his jaw, which nearly
missed the top of his skull.
―Enough!‖ croaked Kaltenbrunner. He was standing in the doorway,
eyes red, the scars glowing like a brand on his face. ―You can go
now,‖ he addressed the two newcomers while glaring at Baltzer.
He waited until the door clicked close. ―Are you insane?‖ he stood
six inches above Baltzer, arms on his side. ―You‘ve got one minute to
make up my mind. Because next you‘re either going to a sanatorium
or to some Russian forest to hunt partisans.‖
Just like you did to Klempt and Briegel, Baltzer thought.
―Fine,‖ Baltzer said, dizziness sweeping over him. ―You can get rid
of me the way you like, but you won‘t get to do that with him,‖ he
jerked his head at Stenzel. ―He‘s got a family with influence in the
government. And, best of all, he‘s just read the stuff you deliberately
omitted during the preparation of the job in Libya.‖
Kaltenbrunner pointed a finger at him. ―How do you dare? I learned
this morning about a certain bank account in a Swiss bank. What a
coincidence! There‘s a guy called Bruno Fuchs with the same address
and phone number as yours.‖
Baltzer went chalk-faced. Weber did turn me in, he thought. But
Why? He promised he wouldn‘t! He swallowed hard and tried to give
his face a blank expression. ―I don‘t know what you‘re talking about,‖
he said, playing for more time to think.
―Uh-hum. But I‘m sure you do. Think harder. The name is Bruno
Fuchs. I‘d love to see the picture on this guy‘s passport, you know. A
fake passport and a real scam artist!‖

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 Season of Revenge

Baltzer met his gaze unflinchingly. ―I guess you‘re barking up the

wrong tree, sir,‖ he said.
―You really think I‘ll believe your shit? I believe no one of your
kind. I‘ve seen lots of arrogant pricks like you turn into embezzlers.
And you‘re a dumb, slapdash one.‖
Baltzer grinned. ―What about the ones who believe to be
untouchable because––‖
―Gentlemen, gentlemen,‖ Stenzel said before it was too late, holding
his hands in front of him. ―Let‘s not resort to innuendos. I‘m sure all
we‘ve come to is a big misunderstanding, yes? If we start thinking
unemotionally, I‘m sure we‘ll solve this situation.‖
―What?‖ Kaltenbrunner said. ―How deep are you in this, Stenzel?‖
―Very deep, sir, indeed,‖ he answered.
―Hah! It‘s going to be really fun,‖ Kaltenbrunner said scornfully.
―There‘s no fun in this, sir, no fun at all,‖ Stenzel said, swallowed
hard and cleared his throat before continuing, ―According to
this…er…this missing part of the Mufti‘s dossier, we‘ve risked the
lives of several SS officers and probably wasted a vast quantity of
valuable military equipment and four bars of gold belonging to the
State.‖
―You‘re soldiers, damn it,‖ Kaltenbrunner said. ―You‘re supposed to
risk your asses for the Fatherland every time your superiors judge it
necessary. And those are the Fuehrer, Himmler and myself. As for the
resources in question, they‘ll pay off in due time; the mission is still in
progress.‖ The Austrian slapped a big hand on his chest and added,
―I‘ll answer to Himmler if it turns out awry.‖
Stenzel said, ―Is the Fuehrer aware of the details of this operation,
sir?‖
The giant seemed to give a discreet shiver. ―One mustn‘t bother him
with operational procedures.‖
―Why not?‖ Baltzer said. ―He‘s nuts about such things. I can bet
he‘d like to be told of an elite unit of Grenadiers waiting on a beach
instead of helping our men kick the Brits away from Tobruk. He also
would love to know about the shipload of equipment given to the
militia and the destination of those gold bars, too.‖
Kaltenbrunner stood over Baltzer menacingly again. ―The only
details to reach his ears will be about a little robber with two names.‖
―Then I‘ll tell him of a couple more,‖ Baltzer said defiantly six
inches below.
―Why this talk of thievery, gentlemen?‖ Stenzel said innocently.

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―Are you dumb or what?‖ Kaltenbrunner said, and gripped the edges
of Stenzel‘s desk with his oversized hands. ―I know Baltzer cashed
four of the gold bars in Rome and put the money in a bank account he
opened with false papers in Geneva.‖
―Yes, that‘s correct, sir,‖ the bureaucrat said evenly.
―Do you have anything to say in his defense?‖ Kaltenbrunner said.
―Or in your own defense too?‖
―No defense is necessary, only clarification,‖ Stenzel said.
The Austrian smiled sarcastically at him. ―I can‘t wait. Go on.‖
Stenzel cleared his throat. ―Captain Baltzer turned the gold into
Swiss Francs and put it in the bank under my orientations.‖
Baltzer frowned. What the hell‘s going on here? In his dizziness he
barely could be sure he was listening to exactly what was being said.
―So you two are together in this,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, head
swiveling in the direction of the two men.
―Completely,‖ Stenzel said, looking his boss in the eye through his
thick spectacles.
―So it was you who told your friend here to open that account in the
name of Bruno Fuchs two years ago––before you‘d even met each
other?‖
―No, he did that before we met, of course. And he had appropriate
reasons to do so.‖
―Yes, he did––stealing,‖ Kaltenbrunner said. ―Now, why do you
defend him like you were his lawyer, son?‖
―There‘s only one lawyer in this room: you, sir.‖
―Well, so take my advice and declare yourself guilty, too.‖
Stenzel shook his head. ―I‘d never dare intrude in your field of
expertise, sir. And I think you should do the same in relation to mine.‖
He grabbed the book on his blotter, turned it around, and pushed it
across to the Austrian. He pointed at a specific paragraph with all of
its lines underlined by pencil marks.
Kaltenbrunner frowned hard. ―What‘s this?‖
―By reading this protocol dating five years, sir, you‘ll find out
neither I nor Major Baltzer have done nothing in disaccord to our
administrative rules.‖
Baltzer was open-mouthed, standing rigidly with his hands on his
hips looking pathetically at Stenzel.
Kaltenbrunner began reading as Stenzel went on, ―These regulations
guide the management of unaccountable expenses by field agents
abroad. They say that SS Intelligence members may keep part of their
resources deposited under false identities to prevent the local

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 Season of Revenge

authorities from suspecting their intentions in case of expensive

operations.‖
Kaltenbrunner said, ―This only goes for agents working under
cover,‖ he said, poking a finger at the book.
―Which was our case,‖ Stenzel said. ―You told us not to say a word
officially to the Italians about the operation.‖
Kaltenbrunner made a dumb-looking face, just as Baltzer‘s.
Stenzel took a long breath and shot the big Austrian a candid look.
―We did every step of the job following your instructions, sir. You can
rest assured of it. The possibility of General Matouk and Mr.
Heusseini to have shunted part of the resources given to them is
another story.‖
Kaltenbrunner deflated. Fucking bastards won, he thought. I‘m the
one to blame now.
―I‘m sorry you mistook it for channeling of state property, sir,‖
Stenzel added, closing the book.
―Me, too,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, digesting his defeat.
―I‘m a member of a wealthy family and Captain Baltzer is a hero of
the Security Service, possibly your successor some time, sir. None of
us has any reasons to burn our careers on the amount in question.‖
―Certainly,‖ the Austrian nodded, recovered his poise, and turned to
Baltzer. ―Why did you make me do all this fuss unnecessarily, you
fool?‖
Baltzer made a hesitant face. He didn‘t know what to say. He
stuttered a few unintelligible words and looked pleadingly at Stenzel.
Stenzel, looking as collected as a priest, said, ―I think you should tell
him about our suspicions on Colonel Fischer.‖
Baltzer‘s face furrowed atrociously. ―What?‖ he said.
―Would you care explaining it to the General?‖
He tossed his arms in defeat. He didn‘t have any idea as to what the
bureaucrat had in mind. ―You do it, please,‖ he said.
Stenzel cleared his throat and said, ―It‘s sort of embarrassing,
but…er…we suspected of the Colonel‘s association with Lieutenant
Kodro. We decided it was best not to leave the rest of the gold in
Libya. As the job was taking forever to get done, Major Baltzer
elected to cash the bars into money as a precaution.‖
Precaution to what? Baltzer thought. The ogre won‘t buy that shit.
―Okay,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, frowning at him. ―But you know you
still have something to do.‖
Baltzer couldn‘t believe his ears.
He bought it! Fucking dwarf pulled the wool over the ogre‟s eyes.

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―Yes, yes,‖ Stenzel said. ―The major will cable the bank for the
sending of the amount obtained with that gold first thing in the
morning.‖
―No. The Mufti wants––needs––the gold. The bars,‖ Kaltenbrunner
said. ―And I‘m not allowed to take any others from the reserves
without the purpose of a new task.‖
Shit! Here I go again, Baltzer thought. ―You want me to buy gold
with the money and give it to him?‖ Baltzer said.
―What the General is trying to say,‖ Stenzel put in, ―is that you must
go over to Banco di Roma and repurchase those four bars. There‘ll be
some extra money to be spent, for the bank will want some
considerable profit on the sale, of course. But I‘m sure there are funds
enough in that account, Major. Am I correct?‖
Baltzer looked into Stenzel‘s eyes and for a second he could swear
those were the eyes of a viper. ―Yes, you‘re right.‖
―Very well,‖ Kaltenbrunner said, turning for the door. ―I want those
bars on my desk as soon as possible.‖
―Major Baltzer will be taking the flight to Rome tomorrow morning,
then,‖ Stenzel said.
―Excellent,‖ the Austrian said as he opened the door. ―You‘ll be
assuming the task force‘s control until Baltzer is back,‖ he paused and
looked both men in the eye in turns. ―Needless to say this
misunderstanding never occurred.‖ He went out and slammed the
door.
Baltzer looked at Stenzel with a grim smile. ―Congratulations,
partner,‖ he said. ―I just didn‘t know I could count on you
to..um…how shall I say…make everything clear.‖
Stenzel adjusted his spectacles and said, ―That‘s what friends are
for, right?‖
―Okay, cut the crap,‖ Baltzer said, back to his normal. ―How much
do you want?‖
―If you mean money, the answer‘s nothing. I don‘t need more than I
already own.‖
―The ogre isn‘t listening. Come on, open up, man.‖
Stenzel grinned. ―You‘ll have to pay a huge amount of profit to the
bank. Those bars must cost you nearly fifty percent more when you
try to re-buy them. There won‘t be a lot left, will there?‖
Baltzer studied the man‘s expression. Then he laughed quietly as his
instructions began to sink.

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You never wanted any money, did you, you rat? How could I be so
stupid? All you wanted was my being away for a couple of days. And
now you got it.
―So…you‘ve officially replaced me as the coordinator of this
assignment,‖ Baltzer said.
―I‘ll try to do my best,‖ Stenzel said.
―I‘m sure you will.‖
―Things will be a little different when you‘re back, though.‖
―For better, of course.‖
―Of course.‖
Stenzel grinned broadly. ―So glad you trust in me.‖
―Just realized you‘re one hell of a planner.‖
―Thanks.‖
―You‘re welcome.‖
―Have a nice trip, my friend.‖
A chuckle. ―Sure.‖
Baltzer moved to the door, shaking his head. He was angry at
himself. As he went out, he looked one more time at Stenzel before
closing the door. There were the viper eyes again, piercing and cold
behind the glasses. And now, for the first time since they‘d met, there
was a big smile in the blond man‘s face.

**************
74
Collins and Keyes scouted the perimeter and encountered exactly
what they‘d expected: dead bodies and shot-off pieces of flesh in a
radius of a hundred yards. Four militiamen were still alive, lying
motionless on the sand, blood oozing through countless bullet and
shrapnel holes. The Americans gave them the coup de grace with the
same weapons they‘d been carrying. One of them made one last effort
to babble curses in a bloody gurgle at Collins before being spared of
his deep pains. He almost regretted giving him a quick mercy.
They saw Dalton digging shallow graves. Their alleviation and
sense of accomplished duty suddenly vanished. They picked up
shovels and buried Barrett and Palmer as Dalton did the same to the
English corporal and the carbonized skeletons of Roby and Charlie.
The Welshman had a fit of anger on remembering about the others,
and hurled the pickax into the smoldering flatbed of the truck.
―Too high a price for getting rid of a shitty militia,‖ Collins said,
watching Dalton light a cigarette to regain control of his emotions.
―Higher if you admit it was all in vain.‖

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―But why?‖
―This madness is just beginning, my friend. There are thousands of
other fanatics just waiting to be whipped into line and kill and destroy
to preserve the status quo of their so-called leaders. The next
generations of this sort of maniacs will be financed by the money
coming from the petroleum fields, mark my words. Worse than that,
they‘ll be led by men who are learning many of our war techniques
with us.‖
Collins made a face. ―I‘d rather not to think about that for a while.‖
Dalton took a breath and sighed heavily. ―All right, let‘s get out of
here. There‘s a chap in a hamlet some thirty miles from here that owes
me a favor. At the worst, our watches will grant us some camels and
supplies.‖
As his colleagues talked, Keyes looked for usable parts of the
smoldering motorcycles scattered about in the hope he could get a
least one working. Two would ride on it, one in the sidecar, he
thought. After two minutes he gave up.
―We should‘ve spared these beauties of all those shots; they‘re all
wrecked,‖ the Texan said. ―It‘s over a hundred miles as far as the
frontier, isn‘t it?‖
―A little hiking won‘t kill you,‖ Collins said, slapping his
countryman‘s back, and handed him a blanket.
―I wonder whether anything else can, after what happened today,‖
Dalton said with a broad smile.
―Tell me about it,‖ said Collins, while picking up canteens and fresh
magazines for his Schmeisser. ―And if we get ourselves into trouble
again, all we gotta do is call in our new friends of the Luftwaffe.‖
Dalton and Keyes broke out laughing.
―I wouldn‘t count on that happening again in a hundred years,‖ the
Welshman said, shaking his head. Then he bent down, grabbed the
Nazi flag, and tossed it into the pile of ashes in the loadbed of the
Daimler.
Keyes stopped as he walked by the body of a militiaman who‘d had
one side of his ribcage savaged by a parachute grenade. He frowned as
he noticed that the man at his feet was beardless and had the skin the
color as his own. When he saw a trickle of blood run down the man‘s
nostrils, he chambered a round in his gun and aimed at his head.
―Don‘t mind the bugger,‖ Dalton said. ―Let him suffer; he asked for
that.‖
―Mercy doesn‘t apply for Muslin soldiers, then?‖ Keyes said.

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―They‘re not soldiers––much less real Muslins,‖ Dalton said angrily.

―This scum is just greedy assassins telling excuses into their own
ears.‖ The Welshman cut himself off by collecting a goatskin water
bag and sardine cans from a sidecar. In his head, a rough, angry voice
called, ―Good! The torturer of Haifa is back!‖
A shiver ran trough him.
―Well, I can‘t say that doesn‘t make a lot of sense now,‖ Collins said
as he draped blankets over his shoulders to fight off the cold that was
coming.
Keyes looked again at the man. He‘d stopped bleeding. He was dead
now, he thought.
―Come on, mates,‖ the Welshman said after he saw the yellow ball
of the sun plunge into the horizon. ―It‘s a long way before we get to
hitch a ride back home.‖
Dalton took the lead as a cold breeze started blowing around their
painful bodies. They headed east along the rocky caravan track. It
seemed to stretch eternally to the horizon across the plain terrain,
always flanked by shrubs and…
Two human figures sprang up from behind a bolder nearly two
hundred yards away and ran in their direction. They seemed to have
rifles in their hands.
―Shit! Who‘re those?‖ Collins said in alarm. Keyes, at his side, froze
in position.
Dalton peered into the semidarkness to see the two figures drop to
their knees, work the bolts of their rifles, and start shouting.
―They‘re gonna shoot!‖ Collins cried. ―Take cover!‖ He dived to the
ground, loaded his weapon, and took aim.
A second later one of the men fired his rifle, then the other. The
bullets zipped harmlessly between him and Keyes. Next thing Dalton
heard was one of the men shout again, now waving hands at them, and
the stutter of Collins‘ submachine-gun.
Another burst of Schmeisser came from behind them. Dalton
automatically spun around to see the pink-skinned militiaman release
several rounds into the air thanks to the bullet that had hit him through
one shoulder. The shots would have been into his back had the bullet
from the rifle missed him.
―Cease fire!‖ Dalton yelled at Collins. ―Cease fire!‖
The American did so, but immediately put a fresh magazine into the
underside of his weapon.

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Kodro fell on his knees, his right arm dead. He glared at Dalton,
croaked something in his language, and grabbed the Schmeisser with
his other hand in a grim act of will.
“Allahu Akbar!”
Collins strode toward him, fury itself, as the man slowly raised his
weapon. He glanced into Kodro‘s gray eyes. That half second felt as if
it‘d taken an eternity. Then the American opened fire. It was a thirty-
two-round burst into the man‘s chest and stomach. He wasn‘t satisfied
when his submachine-gun went silent, and kept squeezing the trigger
for a little longer. He dropped the weapon and stood there, face
contorted in a silent growl.
―Hold your fire, you wanker!‖ a voice said in the distance. The two
men got up from the cooling sands and came toward them. One of
them climbed a boulder and motioned his hands aloft to a pair of
vehicles several hundred yards away.
―I can‘t believe it,‖ Dalton said. ―It‘s Cameron––and bloody Allan
White!‖
―Who was the arsehole shooting at me?‖ White said as he got closer,
an Enfield rifle in one hand.
―Of course it was me,‖ Dalton said. ―How could I waste such an
opportunity?‖
―You lying bastard,‖ White said with a breathy voice as he stood in
front of his friend, smiling. They shook hands and then succumbed to
a hug, slapping each other‘s back forcefully.
―Forgot asking what the devil you‘re doing here,‖ the Welshman
said.
The English spy puffed out his cheeks. ―Long story short, that mad
redhead of yours wouldn‘t let us in peace if we didn‘t come after
you.‖
―That‘s my Cathy. You didn‘t put the stones on her, did you?‖
―Who do you think I am?‖
―Another lying bastard.‖
White stopped grinning and looked around. ―It‘s only you three
left?‖ The Americans nodded somberly at him.
Dalton looked at Kodro‘s thorn cadaver. ―And it wouldn‘t be any if
you hadn‘t showed up, you bastard,‖ he said.
―All right, you can think of ways to reward me on the way back to
Siwa. You look like you‘ve used up six out of your seven lives, ol‘
boy.‖
―There you‘re probably right.‖

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―Man, I‘ve got some really nice stories to tell you. You can‘t
imagine how deep in shyte you were.‖
―Don‘t be surprised if I‘ve already figured out most of it.‖
White shook his head. ―Impossible.‖
―Well, I could pretend I don‘t. Then we can find a use for some
bottles of brandy as we talk about it in one of those nightclubs in
Alex.‖
―No chance, man. I‘ve got urgent matters to attend over in
Casablanca.‖
Dalton frowned. ―Are you serious?‖
―Of course I am.‖
Dalton nodded several times, brow still wrinkled. ―I see. This
problem, is it a blond or brunette?‖
>> <<
Cameron reappeared with a pair of Willis jeeps over-laden with gas
cans, fitted with twin-barreled Lewis machine-guns, and driven by
rough-looking New Zealand commandos. The Americans squeezed
themselves up into one with Cameron, and both vehicles were soon
raising a trail of dust over the caravan track, heading east.
Cameron draped one arm affectionately around the shoulders of the
American lieutenant. ―I daresay you‘ve had a stupendous
accomplishment. Your commanders will very be proud of you lads.‖
―Yes, sir, thank you,‖ Collins said with a half-crazed look.
―Well, what else can I say,‖ the Scot said, ―I hope to hear from more
successes in either Morocco or Algeria very soon.‖
―Okay,‖ was all Collins managed to say, his face blank. As for
myself, he thought, I‘m ready to slain as many as you want me to. It‘s
so easy.
Cameron shook his head. ―Sorry about the way things turned out.
Your two other men... pity. No milk run, by far.‖
―It wasn‘t supposed to be a sightseeing trip, sir,‖ Collins said. ―It
paid off, though, didn‘t it?‖
―Yes, I think so,‖ Cameron said, surprised at the man‘s cold-
bloodedness. He sensed something was wrong with Collins. The
reason the Scot knew very well: he was struggling not to break down
under delayed shock. He decided to leave the American with his own
thoughts.
Keyes bit one lip and said, ―Is anyone going to take any pictures of
us when we get to Siwa, sir?‖
Cameron frowned. ―Not that I know of,‖ he exchanged a puzzled
glance with the New Zealand commando on the wheel. ―Why?‖

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The Texan removed the gutra from around his head. ―I just don‘t
want to get seen dressed up like this. If my army folks ever learn
about this…robe,‖ he gave a tug at his galebaya, ―You bet they‘d send
me back to the States at once––swimming.‖
There was a moment of silence and everyone burst out laughing.
―That‘s definitely the silliest thing I‘ve ever heard, mate,‖ the New
Zealander said as he himself choked in his shoulder-shaking belly
laughter.
Collins stopped laughing. He was suddenly aware of the terrible
thing that had happened to him. Here he was, rejoicing on a joke as if
they were heading back home after a camping trip. He thought: how
many have I killed directly or indirectly in the last hours––ten,
twenty?
So what? I‟m alive! That‟s what matters!
He felt detached from everything he‘d always clung to before. He
felt he‘d lost the ability to feel fear as if a switch had been turned.
Now there was only this emptiness in him that could only be filled
with…violence. He‘d entered a world he didn‘t quite understand. He
felt a totally different person. It was as if he‘d been turned into a
primitive creature. A beast.
Am I better or worse than those I‟ve murdered? We never discussed
death in the academy. Nobody told me in the Point that it had a taste.
What about Keyes? Collins mused as he swiveled his eyes to the
man. He‘d told him in Alexandria he still had nightmares about the
KKK man he‘d shot dead last year. How many more had he killed in
the last twenty-four hours? The Texan somehow seemed to be in
peace with himself now, Collins thought. He glanced at the man‘s
face: he was still laughing, stamping his feet on floor, tears coming to
eyes.
Stop it! Stop!
Collins swallowed hard, aware for the first time of his clenched fists
trembling on his lap. He was experiencing a weird absence of feeling,
physical and mental.
Oh Jesus! Will I ever revert to normal again?

EPILOGUE

Hana made her way along the deserted street of mangled, mud-
walled houses with an overwhelming sense of dejá vu. The story was
repeating itself for the third time in two years, and she always seemed
to be in the very middle of the turmoil. The Italian army attacked, and

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she was put in a labor camp. She‘d have to dig latrines and trenches,
carry heavy boxes, clean, and cook. After that, a local muktar would
be paid by the Italians. She‘d never been given a dime, though. When
the enemy counter-attacked, she‘d be left behind, starving and
roofless, and would have to walk tens of miles in the glaring sun or in
the freezing nights to find a new tribe to blend in. And the previous
tribe leader still would get paid extra money for he‘d lost his slaves.
The only change was that now she had to wear a burqa.
Before setting out with all his men but two or three, General Matouk
had told her to stay in the house of the local khadi (Muslim judge)
who was an acquaintance of his; then she‘d be sent for to go back to
doing her chores in the tannery when he‘d returned. She‘d been
waiting for nearly a week, working hard for the judge‘s two wives.
Her belly rumbled with hunger, reminding her that this time she‘d
been given neither any payment nor enough food.
Several times a day she thought of finishing her life and her misery.
It could be so easy: a walk into a mined field or a dash toward
enemy soldiers wearing a stolen Italian uniform and grabbing
something resembling a weapon. The detonation of a land-mine could
only rip one leg out, and then she‘d only get to die painful hours later.
But the second option now sounded appealing, since she heard the
British army had blasted through Tobruk three days back and should
be reaching the Gulf of Syrte very soon. However there was no Italian
uniform to be stolen. The troops had moved out of El-Agheila during
the night to man the emplacements between the salt marshes and the
road, five or six miles to the east. She doubted she‘d have the energy
to walk all that distance; her hunger pains were making her sick and
weaker by the minute.
I can make it! she shouted silently to herself. She‘d rather kill
herself than keep living like this. She wondered what her mortal sins
were. At least it‘d been the explanation given to her by all religious
leaders as to why God wouldn‘t permit her to live a life like of those
of the daughters of the Italian settlers she‘d worked for as a young
maid. She eventually only succeeded in getting beaten up by behaving
like the couple‘s teenage girls by a cruel muktar and next sold as a
slave again.
She stopped at an intersection in the center of El-Agheila. Looking
around through her black veil, all she saw was fleeing people and evil-
looking men scavenging for looting and filling baskets with
everything they found in the abandoned stores on both sides of the
market street. The sudden departure of the troops in town had thrown

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it into full-blown disorder. She turned and scampered away before

they came to steal her sandals.
It‘d rained heavily last night. Dirt and animal dung had become a
sticky, foul-smelling mass covering the narrow unpaved streets. She
moved fast, balancing herself not to slip and fall on the muddy ground
until there was no one in sight. On walking around a corner the
cracked, shell-pocked walls of the tannery loomed before her. She‘d
decided to come over with the pretext of finding out whether the
general needed her back to work. In fact, she‘d chance a visit here to
try to have some of the army meals the general‘s men had in plenty––
so that she could run with something in her stomach.
She went around to the entrance and knocked. At her touch, the
plank gate opened with a loud creaking noise. She waited for one of
the soldiers who‘d remained there to appear, but they never came.
Peeking into the corridor that led to the courtyard, she saw nobody
around. No sounds either.
―Hello? Anyone? It‘s Hana,‖ she called in the hope of attracting the
attention of the militiamen. She waited for two minutes.
―May I come in?‖ she said aloud again, and yet no response came.
Two days before she‘d come into town to carry the bags of the
khadi‟s wives, and remembered seeing the two soldiers standing at the
balcony of the office building. They might be sleeping there, she
thought; or smoking narjeel while waiting for the sun to set. The risk
of getting slapped by them was nothing in comparison to her gnawing
hunger.
She mounted the wooden spiral staircase very slowly, heart
pounding in her chest. Two flights of rickety steps later she sighted
the door to the general‘s command post. It was open. When she
stepped through the doorway, she was taken aback, mouth agape in a
soundless cry.
The two soldiers who‘d stayed to guard the place were dead in a
bloodied embrace, one of them still grabbing his scimitar. The path of
destruction across the room and one more blood-stained sword was
the evidence that they‘d killed each other in a savage fight.
Hana lifted her gaze from the bodies and looked about the room
with nervous glances. She concluded she was alone. For reasons she‘d
never understand, her fear shifted to a profound rage. Her hands felt as
strong as the claws of a wild animal, and the first thing she did was
snatch off her black headdress and veil.
Next she picked up the scimitar nearest her and swung it against the
few objects that weren‘t broken yet. Two empty pitchers and a half-

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dozen china bowls were destroyed in as many as blows. She spotted

Matouk‘s makeshift set of shelves full of map cases and old
newspapers in a corner, and attacked it with all her strength, chopping
wood and paper until the whole framework collapsed.
Exhausted, she let the sword slip from her hand and clatter to the
filthy ground as tears welled up in her eyes. Images of several scenes
of her life showed in her mind like flashes of lightning.
Maltreatments, abandonment, rape. She bent over, reeling, but there
was nothing in her stomach to be expelled.
―I could‘ve had a good life, you monsters!‖ she cried out when she
felt a little better. ―Damned be the ones who only do badness!‖
Wrath erupted inside her again. Her hands were still numb after the
previous effort, and this time she decided to use her feet. A few strides
got her close to the dead militiamen, and she delivered a strong kick
against the ribcage of the one on top.
The pain in her toes brought her second outburst of rage to a stop.
She crashed bottoms-first to the ground, moaning. She was curled up
in pain for the best part of a minute. Whatever she‘d hit was harder
then bones. Panting, she looked at the man‘s side, and made out two
brick-shaped forms beneath his tunic. She dragged herself closer and
slipped one hand between two buttons of his tunic in sheer curiosity.
The man‘s cold dead eyes staring at her made her shiver and withdraw
her hand in reflex.
After a while curiosity overcame fear and she felt courage to try
again. Eyes closed now, she outstretched one hand toward the man
and into his tunic, and she felt two heavy metallic objects wrapped in
some sort of fabric. She could bet it was containers of food.
She opened her eyes and undid three buttons of the tunic, revealing
two oblong ammo pouches hanging to straps that went around the
man‘s neck. So it was bullets, not food.
But I didn‘t kick magazines of submachine-guns, she concluded.
She took the straps from around the man‘s neck and held both
pouches. They weighed each maybe a kilo, she estimated. She placed
them on her lap, and opened one. The oblong object inside
immediately reflected a beam of sunlight into her eyes.
For a moment she thought it was a small copper box with an eagle
engraved in it…but it wasn‘t. It was a bar of gold! Gawping in
disbelief, she opened the other pouch to see another bar.
Breathing with difficulty, she reasoned why the two men had killed
themselves: two kilos of German gold. It also explained the general‘s
iron-bound trunk with its massive padlock broken in a corner of the

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room. She imagined Matouk‘s reaction on discovering that his gold

bars had been stolen, and a malevolent smile crooked her fleshy lips.
So much for loyalty among bandits, she thought.
Shouts echoed from the street.
Without further thought, she placed the straps around her neck and
began shoving the pouches underneath her black robe dangling from
them; just the way she‘d seen it on the dead man…
She was motionless.
If she were caught with these bars she‘d be either punished for
stealing, and sent to prison for countless years by the Europeans; or
killed on the spot by her compatriot Arabs who would next take the
bars away with them, leaving no witness behind. She began removing
the straps from around her neck.
Oh my God, help me make the right decision!
She heard more shouts.
Ten seconds later she was at the front gate, eyes scanning up and
down the rubble-filled street. The wind blew against her face, making
her long black hair sail. Only then she noticed she wasn‘t wearing the
top of the burqa. It felt good; rebelliously good.
God, don‘t let me be caught now, she pleaded silently while
deciding which way to go. She was so close to starting a new life. No
more starvation, no more humiliation. She could stay away from
everyone who might try to harm her. To enslave her. To abuse her.
She began weeping, and for the first time in her life she was doing so
out of happiness.
―Go away! Get out of this hell!‖ The words seemed to come from
somebody else, but it was her own voice whispering to herself. ―Let
those animals consume themselves in hate, ignorance and
superstition.‖
She meant Matouk and the khadi. And her parents who‘d sold ser as
a slave. And so many others.
God damn you all!
She recalled a friend in the slum saying she‘d try to take a ride to
Tripoli. That was what she also should do, she decided. ―May God
help me,‖ she said in a low tone and headed for the direction of the
main road.
As she walked around a tall pile of charred rubble, she noticed two
starved-looking children sitting by a rusty barrel that served as a
trashcan. She turned in the direction of the heart-wrenching scene and
said, ―Hello, are you kids alone?‖

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Looking scared, both children nodded in response. The boy‘s and

the girl‘s torn clothes were ingrained with grime, a layer of dirt on
their faces. They were no more than moving bones held together by a
bag of skin. Their eyes glistened with fever of hunger––just like her
own should also be.
Hana said, ―Where are your parents?‖
―I don‘t know,‖ said the little girl, who was no more than eight years
old. ―They talked to a man and then the three of them went that way in
a wagon.‖ At the memory of seeing them go away her lips curled up
and she started to cry.
―When was that?‖ Hana said after she‘d knelt down close to them,
hitching up her robe.
The little boy, who was maybe one year younger than his sister,
thought for a moment and said, ―This morning.‖
Hana grimaced with anger. The two bastards probably only had
money for themselves to run away, and left their children behind like
dogs, she thought. It wasn‘t so different from what had happened to
her two years back.
Hana wiped the little girl‘s tears with a thumb, and smiled at her.
―Everything‘s going to be all right. You two are coming with me.‖
―Where to?‖ the little girl asked.
―Away from here.‖

**************

The Lufthansa Condor from Vienna juddered to a halt on the rain-

swept tarmac at Tempelhof airport in Berlin under the instructions of
a plane director. The man gestured for the pilot to cut engines, and the
airliner remained vibrating for a half minute until its four sets of
propellers stopped revolving altogether. Outside, a chilly, overcast
mid-November afternoon hung oppressively in the air together with
the prospects of night air raids. Regardless of all that, the pair of blond
stewardesses standing in the aisle was as gleeful as ever.
As for all Security Service personnel, Rolf Baltzer was offered to be
the first one to disembark by one of the stewardesses. He declined
coldly, barely looking at her face, and was the last one to do it on his
own volition. As the passengers shuffled to the customs shed under
the watery sunlight, he halted on the wheeled stairway in his knee-
length black-leather coat looking for the place where he should await
the chauffeur. He sighted it and headed there, a black briefcase
connected to his wrist by gleaming handcuffs.

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His face was drawn as if he was in pain, and he was perceptibly

weary from little sleep. Airplane engines still sounded in his head and
his body ached all over after several hours of fits of turbulence and
layovers at airports. When he finally got to the small shelter, he leaned
against a red-and-white checkered wall and drew up his collar against
the cold. He looked up at the unbroken blanket of clouds and sighed,
remembering Rome had been sunny at this time the day before.
―You look like a eunuch going to an orgy,‖ a voice said by way of
greetings.
Baltzer almost jumped off his skin. It was Weber. ―Look if it‘s not
that piece of shit. Coming from you, it must mean I‘m looking like
Clark Gable.‖
―I was just trying to cheer you up.‖
―What do you want?‖ Baltzer said and looked around nervously.
―Be cool,‖ Weber said and got closer. ―Your pumpkin coach will be
a little late.‖
―You guys managed a flat tire or something so that we could have a
little talk, right?‖
―Bingo. The same way someone else fixed for you to stay five days
off your office.‖
Baltzer frowned hard. ―Yes, maybe.‖
―So…did you buy the four gold bars back?‖
―To your profound disappointment, yes.‖
―I don‘t know what you‘re talking about,‖ Weber said.
―You set me up, remember?‖
Weber had a brief fit of coughing and looked hard in Baltzer‘s eyes.
―I kept my word, okay?‖
―I know you told on me!‖
―I didn‘t! Look, that‘s why I‘m here: to know what happened. I was
surprised when I learned of this think of your rebuying the gold bars
you‘d sold in Rome.‖
―Well, someone who‘d been breathing on my neck told
Kaltenbrunner about Mr. Fuchs,‖ Baltzer gritted his teeth. ―And it was
obviously you.‖
―Wait, wait. It‘s Stenzel who‘s got your job now––not me. If you
never suspected him, it‘s your own fault. Think hard. You‘ll probably
remember him playing dumb to extract little pieces of information
from you.‖ A shake of the head. ―And it obviously ended up leading
him to your schemes.‖
―Shit!‖ Baltzer hissed as Stenzel‘s words came back to him like an
elusive memory.

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Things will be a little different when you‟re back. For better, of

course.
―That filthy squirrel!‖ Baltzer raged.
―Well?‖
―Yes, I guess I must‘ve told him a few things that compromised me.
I admit.‖
―He‘s taken your place in the chessboard now, you bigmouth,‖
Weber lit a cigarette. ―His last move was to keep you in Rome for too
long. It‘d be so easy for him to convince the bank‘s manager to help
him out, wouldn‘t it?‖
Baltzer nodded knowingly. ―I knew all that bullshit about missing
certificates of property in the bank smelt wrong.‖
―At least he saved you from being food for maggots.‖
―I thought the guy was a retard.‖ Baltzer lit up too. ―Makes no
difference anymore. It‘s all fucked up; the job in Libya, I mean.‖
―Any news of Fischer?‖
―Fed to the desert by now––that‘s for sure.‖
Weber shrugged. ―Your bosses won‘t cry a lot about it. He gave
results, but was a potential danger, too.‖
―I was wondering exactly the same on my way here.‖
―So the LRDG enterprise is finished?‖
Baltzer gave a grim chuckle. ―It had its purposes.‖
―It‘s time you tell me some details of this op.‖
Baltzer gave a despondent shrug and began. Weber listened to the
shattering truth of the mission in silence, sometimes making a face,
but most of the times shaking his head in disapproval.
―Happy now?‖ Baltzer said when he was finished.
―A complete absurd, all this.‖ Weber said, shaking his head again.
―Rommel would never patronize the Party for the benefit of the
Wehrmacht generals or soothe their ire on all the shit the geniuses of
the SS have been doing. It barely makes any sense at all!‖
A shrug. ―There you‘re probably correct.‖
―And you‘re losing your touch, you know,‖ Weber laughed quietly.
―It takes a real devil to give a runaround on a bastard like you. Two
devils, actually. Christ! Kaltenbrunner and Stenzel got you on the first
plane out of here to, unknowingly, help them.‖
―Helping with what?‖
―You never gave it a little thought, did you? Why the hell would
your bosses agree on giving the Mufti that much of gold this fast?‖
―What do you know that I don‘t?‖

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Weber took a long breath before starting. ―On one of his radio
broadcasts three weeks ago, Heusseini was advocating the
extermination of Jews. No big surprise, coming from him. So the
following day he released a handwritten note bound for Palestine
stating that he had plans to do there the same the SS are doing in
Europe: kill his opponents in wholesale at an extermination camp.
More specifically, a gigantic gas chamber in a town called Nablus.‖
―Guy‘s completely nuts!‖
―No, he‘s smart. That way he won‘t lose face among their vassals in
the Middle East––even being so far away and in complete safety
here.‖
Baltzer said, ―But that kind of information could spoil the flimsy
chances of other countries joining the war on our side, huh? Now the
ogre wants to sweep it under the carpet.‖
―And it‘s going to work because Heusseini‘s just like you: money
works wonders on him. Hell, this whole bullshit of presenting
Rommel with a team of British commandos was a mere trick for
getting some gold bars out of their vault. If it‘d worked as planned,
more bars would come along, you bet.‖
Baltzer let out a long sigh. ―Of course there would.‖
―I wonder whether they‘re already thinking of a thorough cover-up
to keep it under wraps, too.‖ Weber clicked his tongue. ―It‘s hard to
say whether the damn Bohemian corporal shares the same nest-egg as
Kaltenbrunner and Heusseini.‖
Baltzer closed his eyes for a moment. ―You think the ogre‘s next
move is getting rid of me?‖
―Hardly the case. One doesn‘t throw out the old cow till the new one
starts producing milk. Kaltenbrunner needs spooks like you to silence
the resistance and the Haganah before everyone knows about the Jews
being monoxided in the camps.‖
―It‘s going to be poison very soon,‖ Baltzer said coldly. ―Gas
crystals of Zyklon B. Some sadistic cocksucker found out this stuff for
exterminating ants can kill people huddling in air-less chambers the
same way.‖
―Mother of God,‖ Weber‘s forehead vein grew violet.
―Got any guesses for today?‖ Baltzer shook the briefcase from its
handle. ―I mean, as soon as this hushmoney‘s delivered.‖
―You can bet Stenzel and the ogre will try to extract every once of
demoralization from you.‖
Baltzer chuckled. ―I know more or less what do.‖

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―Just don‘t put yourself on a blacklist, okay,‖ Weber said. ―We fifth-
column Jew-lovers may be in need of a helping hand from a fellow
conspirator in a very near future again. Or vice-versa.‖
Baltzer scoffed. ―You never really helped me, you old fart.‖
―You sure?‖
―Yes.‖
A whistle sounded from somewhere. It was the warning for the
arrival of the SS staff car. Weber put on a hat and said, grinning, as he
walked away: ―Bullshit. You damn well know I have, you lousy
thief.‖
―Fuck off,‖ Baltzer said good-humoredly. ―You made me get
creative once or twice, max.‖
―So be creative today and make the gnome and the ogre sweat a
little. They‘re both waiting for you at SD headquarters right now. The
others too.‖
―Others who?‖
―Almost all the pigs of the sty, Heusseini and Himmler included.‖
―Shit!‖ Baltzer said, and grinned at Weber. ―I‘ll see what I can do.‖
―Great. Take that as our first joint venture.‖ Weber winked at him
and went around a corner.
A moment later the black Mercedes screeched to a standstill in front
of Baltzer. Berger hopped out and went around the hood to open the
passenger door. ―I‘m sorry, sir. I had––‖
―A flat tire,‖ Baltzer said as he climbed in.
―How come you know about that, sir?‖
―Just drive, Berger. Everyone‘s waiting for me at the office.‖
>> <<
Kaltenbrunner‘s secretary led Baltzer to her boss‘ inner room.
―They‘ve been waiting for you since after lunch, Major,‖ Edna said
without moving a muscle in her forehead.
―I couldn‘t be more honored,‖ Baltzer said, tilting up his chin.
She hadn‘t glanced even once at the briefcase, and that made
Baltzer realize the sort of person she was. Come on, you flat-chested
bitch, he thought as she opened the door for him. Try to get some fun
out of your shitty job. I wish I could tell you how––or at least that you
could see what I‘m going to do.
She held the door open for him and he stepped in. The briefcase
dangling from his hand brought all talking to a halt. Himmler,
Kaltenbrunner, Stenzel and a handful of Arabs sat around the
immense desk drinking coffee and eating sugared biscuits. One of
them was Haj Amin al-Heusseini, the Mufti of Jerusalem.

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Baltzer clicked his heels together like the bolt of a rifle, flashed up
his right arm, palm downward, and exclaimed, ―Sieg Heil!‖
As he lingered rigidly by the door as if standing to attention, the
pathetic-looking, pince-nezed Himmler looked myopically at him and
mouthed, ―Good heavens.‖
―Good afternoon, gentlemen,‖ Baltzer said louder than necessary.
―I‘m deeply sorry I couldn‘t be here sooner.‖
Stenzel rose from his chair and came up to him in his brand-new
aristocratic gait. Baltzer lifted an eyebrow at him.
Get ready, you four-eyed son of a bitch.
―This isn‘t a party meeting,‖ Stenzel whispered, his icy blue eyes
piercing his spectacles. ―What do you think you‘re doing?‖
―That‘s exactly what I was going to ask you, Mr. one-hand-washes-
the-other.‖ Baltzer whispered back
―You must be completely gone.‖
―Geez, you look like an advert for manly aftershave. What are you
doing here?‖
―Where else am I supposed to be?‖
―I mean you should‘ve gotten your ass over to Libya. How can our
mighty war machine roll on in the desert without you? You‘ve got the
man‘s blank check now. And there are a couple of hot potatoes there
to be fixed.‖
Stenzel glared at him. ―That mission is over.‖
―Absurd!‖ Baltzer said too many decibels beyond necessary, and
pointed a finger toward the table. ―It‘s disrespectful to our Muslim
advisers.‖ He was hoping the translator sitting next to Heusseini
translated it, which did happen next.
―Jesus!‖ Stenzel uttered in a hissed murmur. ―Stop this pantomime!‖
―Now you look like a bird that‘s swallowed a canary,‖ Baltzer
glanced at the ones chatting at the table before extracting another
reaction from Stenzel. ―Are you hiding something from me?‖
―No, I‘m not. Just give me the keys, okay?‖ Stenzel said,
perspiration breaking out of his forehead.
―What keys?‖
The blond man glared at him. ―For the cuffs and the briefcase.‖
Baltzer froze. ―Damn it!‖ He clapped his own forehead. ―Guess I
left them in Rome.‖
For a moment he could swear Stenzel had believed it. Then he took
a key ring from an inner pocket.
―You‘ll never change, will you?‖ Baltzer said grinning. ―Relax, I
won‘t rain on your parade.‖

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Stenzel snatched it from his hand and opened the handcuffs. When
he turned around for the table with the briefcase in his left hand,
Heusseini rose majestically from his chair in a toga-like, ivory-colored
robe. He said a few words to Himmler, who sat across from him, and
detached himself from the band of not look-alikes, his personal
translator in tow.
Baltzer was disappointed. He expected more from someone able to
manipulate hordes and order the killing of thousands. The Grand
Mufti was a smallish, gray-bearded man with eyes set too close
together, pointed ears, and an oval head topped by a featureless white
turban. Baltzer snapped his head in a half bow as the man spoke to
him while wiping crusts of biscuits off the front of his silk frock.
―Your Eminence says it‘s a pleasure to meet you, Major,‖ the
translator, a tall Arab with western clothes, said with servile
enthusiasm. ―And he‘d like to know of the whereabouts of Lieutenant
Kodro.‖
Baltzer grinned broadly at Heusseini. ―That was what my colleague
and I were discussing.‖ He had the distinct pleasure to see Stenzel
flinch.
―You were divinely inspired to suggest that brave man to go on the
mission with us,‖ Baltzer added and the translator turned it into
undecipherable Arabic. ―If it ever turns out that he‘s died on his
mission, it‘ll be a terrible loss.‖
The translator said, ―Your Eminence says this mission was to pay
tribute to a German hero; but if it happens to create a Muslin martyr,
so be it.‖
―Very honorable of Your Eminence,‖ Baltzer said, a grin pasted to
his face.
―Your Eminence says there will be plenty of other serfs of God like
Kodro in the future Muslin SS fighting corps. It only takes men like
you to guide them. From now on all efforts of Your Eminence will
regard the formation of the most brilliant fighting unit mankind has
ever seen. He‘s aware that a good team of Intelligence officers will be
necessary for the Handschar division.‖
It was exactly what Baltzer wanted to hear. He bowed curtly and
said, ―At your command. I shall get started on it whenever Your
Eminence believes it‘s the appropriate time.‖ He covered his heart
with one hand in a flourish to denote sincerity. ―Your wish is my
command, sir.‖
Kaltenbrunner crossed to them as if walking on eggshell and cleared
his throat. ―Major Baltzer can indeed be in charge of such

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preparations in a near future. For the time being, however, there are
other matters to be attended.‖ He turned to Stenzel, took the briefcase
from him, and said, ―Major Baltzer and you may continue your
conversation in your offices.‖
―Very well, sir,‖ Stenzel said.
―Good afternoon, gentlemen.‖ Kaltenbrunner said and moved back
to the table with the smiley Mufti at his side.
Two minutes later Stenzel closed his office door behind him as
Baltzer sat at a chair and propped his both feet high on his desk.
―How was your trip?‖ Stenzel said, controlling his mounting rage.
―Lovely. The weather in Rome was Spring-like.‖
―Marvelous,‖ Stenzel said.
―I even found some time to see a couple of ladies I‘d met when we
were there at the beginning of the month.‖
―Really?‖
Baltzer made a face and said, ―I suppose you‘re not telling me my
newest assignment is to sit here and help you oil the wheels of
bureaucracy.‖
Stenzel adjusted his eyeglasses for maybe the tenth time since
Baltzer had arrived. ―No. You‘re hopping the next bird to Geneva.‖
―Geneva?‖ Baltzer said and lit up.
―Yes. Haganah and Mossad agents are planting false information
about the concentration camps in the local press.‖
―Now you catch me totally by surprise,‖ Baltzer said, holding his
hands open in a gesture of innocence.
―Take as long as it‘s necessary, but get it done, if you know what I
mean.‖
―Very well.‖ Baltzer inhaled deeply and let smoke trickle out of
him.
―And you may attach as many men to your team as you judge
necessary.‖
―I‘ve heard of Haganah stations in France, too,‖ Baltzer said,
blowing rings of smoke.
―Whatever,‖ Stenzel said, and took out a treasurer‘s check. ―You
heard the boss. Get it done.‖
―Running around in two countries…I don‘t know,‖ Baltzer puffed
out his cheeks.
Stenzel made a face. ―What‘s wrong? You think you can‘t get it
done?‖

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Baltzer made a worried face. ―No, I just mean that the usual amount
of resources for unaccountable expenses won‘t suffice in this case.
And you heard the man: it‘s urgent.‖
Stenzel sighed. ―And how much would that be?‖
―Quite a lot.‖
―I don‘t think it should be that expensive.‖
―Are you willing to do some time-consuming cost-projection
analyses before deciding?‖
The icy blue eyes shone behind the glasses again. ―No, of course
not.‖
―So?‖ Baltzer lifted an eyebrow at him.
Stenzel positioned his fountain pen at the rectangular slot ending
with the inscription Reichsmark.
Baltzer said, ―Say something on the order of a quarter million
bucks.‖
Stenzel straightened up as if he‘d been stabbed. ―It‘s a mountain of
money.‖
Baltzer was blowing rings of smoke again. ―On the contrary; it‘s
nothing in comparison to having false news exploding in the papers.
Think about it: Treblinka, Zyklon B, and other terrible lies of the
kind.‖
Stenzel shook his head in disbelief at what Baltzer was doing. ―Jesus
Christ!‖
―And you heard the other man,‖ Baltzer said. ―He‘ll be needing me
very soon to help him with something related to the recruitment of this
Muslim division. Time can‘t be wasted with improvisations. You
know, these Haganah and Mossad guys won‘t be wearing beaver hats
with side-curls spilling from them.‖‖
Stenzel said, ―You may be right.‖
―I am right.‖
Are you enjoying eating out my hand, moron?
Stenzel looked at Baltzer over his glasses and said, ―A quarter
million Reichsmarks is about what those eight bars are worth. Are you
aware of this?‖
Baltzer shrugged. ―Yes.‖
God damn you, you thief!
Stenzel didn‘t pronounce one more word as he stared at Baltzer‘s
grinning face, and filled out the form.

**************

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 Season of Revenge

Captain Maximiliano Baroni watched the slow-moving line of

vehicles clogging the coast road while having a smoke, a rucksack
slung over one shoulder. Hundreds of soldiers were squeezed up in
countless horse carts, trucks, town cars, and armored troop carriers.
The road vibrated with the quaking impression of a seismic tremor.
Every few minutes the convoy cordoned into a bumper-to-bumper
traffic and stopped altogether. Horns blared and curses drifted into the
air. To the east, a blood-red sunset mixed up with clouds swollen with
rain hanging over the horizon gave the scene a hellish touch.
The bulk of the surviving Italian forces in Africa seemed to be
plunging into headlong retreat. Baroni was shocked to see that most
men in the vehicles wore wound dressings. Nearly five thousand
worn-out Italians troops that had battled savagely in the meat-grinder
that had become Tobruk until a few days ago had been recalled to
Tripoli for refitting and rest. For their looks it‘d have to be a long,
very long layover indeed. That if the ones in most critical conditions
survived the three-hundred-mile journey. As Baroni watched the
passing war-weary figures, he was aware that some of them looked at
his white hospital coat with detached interest.
Go on, keep looking at me like that. I‟ll be soon treating your
diseases, wounds, and, best of all, delousing all of you. And you‟ll
never be grateful enough, will you?
Born in a poor village near Genoa, Baroni had both seen and
experienced a lot of despair until the army gave him a desk at medical
school. Yes, the army. It was what still motivated him here: gratitude.
But I guess it won‘t last too much longer, he thought. It was his
second tour of duty in Africa, which had granted him the rank of
captain at the age of twenty-six. It‘d be over within two weeks. And
there wouldn‘t be a third one.
A chubby, uniformed man riding a motorcycle screeched to a stop a
few yards from Baroni. He lifted his riding goggles to his forehead
and said, ―What the hell are you still doing here, Max?‖
―Counting our patients,‖ he said to the man, Guido Martini, a
colleague of his since university. Martini was a captain, too. Two
tours in Africa.
―It‘s like the stuff in the bible, isn‘t it,‖ Martini said, looking at the
hectic road. ―A fucking disaster of enormous proportions. It‘s the end,
my friend. The end.‖
―I don‘t know if I should be sad or happy.‖
Martini sighed. ―If at least Rommel had gotten rid of those damn
commandos before they wrecked half his planes…maybe if the Krauts

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had at least kept those bastards from burning all that fuel in Benghazi
a few days ago…‖
―Too many ifs, my friend. Forget about it.‖
One more sigh. ―Come on, climb up here. Let‘s ride to Tripoli like
two movie stars.‖
―Oh, sure: Oliver Hardy and Stanley Laurel,‖ Baroni said, and
flicked off his cigarette. ―Thanks, but I‘m going on the next truck with
a red cross that I see. You know I hate bikes.‖
―Your choice, your mistake. See you,‖ Martini said, saluted him
mockingly, and rode off blending into the traffic.
Baroni stayed on the shoulder of the road, squinting at the low sun
that had until just one hour or so ago heated the strip of asphalt with
all its fury. The next truck with a red cross, huh? But when? He began
regretting his own decision as he saw none in a half-mile up the road.
A trio of Arabs walked along the roadside toward him, observing the
passing vehicles. Poor bastards, he told himself, they‘ll never hitch a
lift. When they drew closer, the Italian‘s gaze met the face of the Arab
girl hand-in-hand with two children. He gawped at her. She was
definitely the most exquisite woman he‘d ever seen. There was
something really extraordinary about her.
Did she remind him of some ex-girlfriend of his? he thought while
running a hand over his dark curly hair. No, it wasn‘t that, he thought
while unconsciously shaking his head. Maybe she‘d grabbed his
attention for she was extremely attractive and he was picturing
himself making love to her. Another shake of the head. What
marveled him was that she was an Arab woman without a headdress
or a veil; and there was a spring in her step he‘d never seen even in
most European girls he knew. He broke his revelry by stepping toward
her.
Hana saw him approach and slowed her pacing.
―Do you people need help?‖ he said to her as they drew closer to
each other, using all the Arabic he‘d learned in two years. ―Can I do
anything for you and your…‖
―Niece and nephew,‖ Hana said to the man who looked pathetically
at her.
―Yes, yes. I‘m a doctor in the army,‖ he said, looking admiringly
into her orange-brown eyes.
Hana frowned. ―You‘re a soldier?‖ she said and contempt showed in
her face. She turned and tugged the children away with her.

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―No, wait,‖ Baroni said, walking at her side. ―Listen, I‘m not like
the ones who exploit your people or stole your lands. I‘m a doctor, I
told you. I help people. Let me help you and these children.‖
Hana looked into his pleading cocker-spaniel eyes and relaxed. For
the first time in years she felt safe while talking to a man. ―What are
you trying to say?‖
―Aw…you speak my language?‖
―Yes, I learnt it with the daughters of the man from Italy who used
to…exploit me.‖
―I see,‖ Baroni said, shame showing on his face. ―Sorry about that.‖
She sighed. ―Do you think you‘re able to help us get to Tripoli in
safety?‖
―Of course I can, miss!‖ Baroni said excitedly. ―That‘s where I‘m
heading, too.‖
―Would you protect the three of us from slave traders?‖
―Absolutely.‖
―Can you really do that?‖
―Do trust me,‖ Baroni said and lifted a lapel of his white coat for her
to see his captain‘s pips. ―I can mend people as well as I can pull rank.
Do you know what I mean?‖
To his immense satisfaction, she smiled. ―I think I do,‖ she said.
He smiled back. ―Come on, follow me. You can call me Max, by the
way.‖
―My name‘s Hana,‖ she said, still deciding the names she‘d give to
the kids.
―You have such a beautiful name.‖
―Thank you, Max.‖
―It matches you,‖ he said charmingly and was rewarded by a broad
grin.
He led her and the children back to the shoulder of the road and
began looking for some army truck with room enough for the four of
them. Over twenty trucks packed with men and supplies drove by
before one with a few square yards of free room in its flatbed came
into sight. Baroni took off his smock so its driver could see his pips
and waved for him to stop.
A minute later he was sitting with Hana by his side as the two
children chomped their way through ready-to-eat meals the soldiers in
the flatbed had given them. He told her he‘d had his piece of the war
and was about to go back home. Then it was her turn.

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―My sister passed away,‖ she lied as she controlled herself to eat
calmly a handful of salt biscuits despite her hunger. ―I must take care
of them from now on, until they can govern themselves.‖
―Yes, that‘s the right thing to do. You‘re such a brave girl.‖
―Brave? How can you state that?‖
―For not being selfish in the middle of a catastrophe,‖ he said,
jerking his head toward the children. He looked at her flowing hair.
―And for defying the habits of your people.‖
Her face stiffened. ―I‘m tired of them; fed up with living in despair
and being considered possession of men; tired of being frightened.‖
―Good. You‘ve made up your mind about your own future. I like it.‖
―Thanks. I really have,‖ Hana said. She took a long moment looking
about his face in the pinkish twilight glow.
He half frowned, half grinned. ―What?‖
―You seem to be a special man.‖
He smiled shyly. ―Okay.‖
―And thanks again for helping us.‖
―That‘s what docs are for.‖
She looked him in the eye. ―I don‘t mean anything about doctors,‖
she said. ―It‘s about you.‖
Baroni smiled caressingly at her, his eyes mesmerized with the
features of her face and with the strands of black hair cascading over
her shoulders. He pictured himself with that lovely girl strolling along
the sea, and taking her to a restaurant, and…
―Do you think Tripoli‘s a good place for children?‖ she said.
―I know a far better place for your niece and nephew. And it‘s a
good place for beautiful ladies, too.‖
―And where would this paradise be?‖ Hana said, rewarding him with
a candid smile.
―Well, it‘s just a small village close to Genoa, in Italy.‖
―The place where you were born, of course.‖
He broke out laughing. ―Wow. Among other things, you‘re smart
too.‖
She grinned. ―So you‘re willing to enumerate my best qualities.‖
―You can bet,‖ he said, staring at her inviting lips. ―I‘m sure there
are many more. Maybe they‘ll surface when we‘re in a more
comfortable environment, so to speak.‖ He was longing to kiss her.
―Let‘s see about that,‖ she said, the same thoughts occurring to her.
He reached for her hand. ―Do you really feel like coming with me?‖
―I‘d love too,‖ she said, looking him in the eye. ―Do I have
everything you want in a girl?‖

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―Well…‖ he feigned to be thinking hard.

―Tell me, then. What should a girl be like to be invited to go there?‖
―A few things. But don‘t ask me many details yet. It‘s a little
secret.‖
―Say it‘s an Arab girl with a pair of very young relatives. They‘d
have to be accompanied by a good sum for…buying our permit into
Europe, if you know what I mean.‖
It was a sudden shock of reality for him. ―Yes, that‘d be a problem,
a big one,‖ he bit one lip. ―Especially for an army doctor‘s wage.‖
―Yes, a problem. But this lucky girl might find a way to have it
sorted out,‖ she said, grinning immensely.
He clicked his tongue in defeat. ―I don‘t know.‖ He looked up
miserably. ―My savings barely get to buy me a new set of clothes.‖
How the hell am I going to produce a little mountain of money to
pay bribes? he asked himself in agony, the thought showing on his
face.
―Max?‖ she said, squeezing his hand very gently.
―Yes?‖ he said, returning from his reverie.
―I think you weren‘t paying attention. I said that there is a solution
to this little dilemma.‖
―I don‘t get you, my dear.‖
―It can be arranged, that‘s it.‖
―How, for God‘s sake?‖
―It really can, okay?‖ she said, discreetly patting one of the gold
bars beneath her robe. ―But don‘t ask me many details yet. It‘s a little
secret.‖

------------------------------------------------------------------

HISTORICAL NOTE

The Axis forces abandoned Libya at the beginning of 1943, dueling

with the Allies in Tunisia before slinking back to Europe in defeat. The
Afrika Korps were never accused of war crimes.
General Erwin Rommel returned to Germany to coordinate the
defense of France. Accused of taking part in a conspiracy to kill Hitler,
Rommel was given two choices: the sending of his family to a
concentration camp or suicide. He chose the latest.

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Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and several other members of the Abwehr

were arrested in 1944 and sentenced to death for treason against the
State. The German armed forces intelligence service was blended
RHSA G E K
been appointed head of the organ in January 1943.
After the fall of Nazi Germany, Kaltenbrunner faced trial at
Nuremberg, and was sentenced to death for crimes against
humanity. Before being caught by Allied soldiers, he was trying to
make his escape to the Middle East.
A considerable number of members of the SS managed to move to
countries like Syria and Argentina. Eichmann was hijacked by Mossad
agents out of Buenos Aires and sent to the gallows in 1962 in Israel.
Joseph Mengele drowned in the freezing waters of southern Brazil in
1979 while taking a swim.
The Handschar Division was assembled and put into action by the
end of 1943. The Croatian-Bosnian Muslim SS Mountain Division
acted mostly in the Balkans, more as an oversized firing squad than a
fighting unit. Its main targets were Jews and Yugoslavian partisans.
During the last days of war, however, one of its battalions took part
in the suicidal defense of Berlin.
Haj Amin al-Heusseini escaped to Egypt after the end of hostilities
in Europe. He was never allowed to return to Jerusalem. After his
death, a nephew of his took over his fight against the creation of the
Jewish state. His name was Yasser Arafat.
The American-Canadian 1st Special Service Force began acting in
E I T D B
Modern-day American and Canadian elite forces units trace their
heritage to those pioneers.
A LRDG
were, the fictional adventure described in this book about those
reckless, bearded commandos is almost nothing maybe something
like a milk run.

Leonard Oaks 400