Zion (17 page)

Asher’s hand was on the ignition key. “Something must have gone wrong.”

“We can’t leave, Ash. Either we drive out with the files or they take us out in a pine box. That’s it.” Netanel’s voice sounded curiously detached.

“You’ve got ice water in your veins, Netya.”

“Dying the first time is hard. After that it gets easier.”

The side door opened and a tall, pale man in a pinstriped suit appeared. Netanel jumped out of the jeep and met him at the foot of the steps. He saluted. “Lieutenant Brian Jenkins, sir.”

“Make sure these arrive safely,” Talbot said, and handed Netanel a heavy briefcase. “I shall expect to have these returned to me at five thirty at the very latest.”

“Yes, sir,” Netanel said, and saluted again. He jumped back into the jeep, the briefcase cradled on his lap.

Talbot watched them disappear along the drive, the tires crunching on the gravel.

Chapter 13

Kfar Herzl Kibbutz

On bright warm days the washing lines at the kibbutz would flutter with washing; but today there were no flags of drying clothes flying on the breeze. Instead, the wooden pegs held thousands of sheets of newly printed photographic negatives.

Sarah stood outside the laundry at this spectacle. The washhouse behind her - as well as the school and the dining hall - had been seconded for the day by the Haganah. Cameras, chemicals and developing tanks had been brought in the previous day by
Shai
photographic specialists and fifteen of the
kibbutzniks
had been placed at their disposal by Yaakov Landauer.

The moment Asher and Netanel had arrived with their prize, the group had swung into action.

The two men - still in their British uniforms - were lounging at a table on the veranda smoking cigarettes. When he saw Sarah, Asher got to his feet and followed her to the end of the veranda. “Got a few snaps for the family album?”

“You would not believe what was in that briefcase,” Sarah said, keeping her voice low.

“Try me.”

“There is everything the British have on us . . . the Haganah, the Palmach, Stem, and the Irgun Zvai Leumi. Thousands of names, in alphabetical order. Age, address, employment, even duties within the organization. They have far more than we suspected, far more.”

“Anything about me?” Asher asked her.

“You’re listed under ‘L’ for liabilities.” Then she was serious again. “They could destroy us. They have details on our internal structure, how the Palmach is deployed, weapons estimates, the lot. If they want to destroy us, they can.”

“What’s the good news?”

“That is the good news.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “There was also found a large white envelope, sealed with red wax, bearing the official seal of the British government. It was countersigned by Sir Alan Cunningham and the Chief Secretary of the government. We believe no one else - until today - has seen the contents.”

“You’re making me curious.”

“There are fourteen typewritten pages, an operational order for the military. The code name for the operation is Broadside. The objective of the operation is to destroy the Haganah.”

Asher said nothing. He watched the
kibbutzniks
scuttle back and forwards from the washhouse to the laundry lines.

“There are maps of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and Haifa, pinpointing the houses of our senior commanders. There are also maps of many of our
kibbutzim
showing the locations of suspected
sliks
. There’s no doubt about it, Attlee wants us destroyed.”

“What size operation are they planning?”

“As soon as Cunningham receives the password from Whitehall, he will order an immediate curfew. The order outlines military operations against forty-nine separate towns and settlements using armor and infantry. It even authorizes the use of the RAF and artillery in the event of resistance.”

“God in heaven. When?”

“The operational orders are signed April 16th. That’s nearly two months ago. The order could come into effect any day.” Sarah glanced at Netanel. “This is just between the two of us,” she said.

‘This is making my leg ache,’ Asher said and eased himself into a sitting position on the verandah rail. “What’s going to happen now?”

“We’ve sent a preliminary report to the Red House in Tel Aviv. Anyone named on the list will have to be moved immediately. We’ll need new command centers in all the major towns, and almost every
kibbutz
will have to make new
sliks
. We’ve checked out what the British have on Kfar Herzl for example. They have our cache pinpointed exactly.”

“How did they get all this?”

“The CID have been in Palestine for thirty years. Perhaps it’s the aggregation of three decades’ work, or perhaps there’s a high level leak. The important thing is we shift all our pieces before Bevin and the Red Poppies have a chance to checkmate us.”

“Thank you, Henry Talbot!”

“He may not look like Moses but our English gentleman has parted the sea for us. He’s shown us the way out.”

The Hill of Evil Counsel

Henry Talbot stood at the window of his office and stared at the Old City. It was late afternoon and the sunlight bounced off the golden Dome of the Rock, hurting the eyes. The Dome was built, the Muslims said, to commemorate the place where Mohammed rode to heaven on his horse, El-Bureq.

The towers of the
yeshivoth
rose from the ancient Jewish Quarter, where the ones called the Forgotten of God had kept the faith since the time of the Diaspora. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on Golgotha, the site of Christ’s crucifixion, was lost in the heat haze. So many beliefs jostled for purchase down there.

Men needed religion, Talbot thought, not to teach themselves to love, but as a justification to kill. If there had been no Christ, no Mohammed, they would have had to invent one.

Or perhaps that was exactly what they had done.

If the devil needs a disguise, he thought, then he would call himself God. In that guise he had set Catholics against Huguenots, Saracens against Crusaders, and now Arabs against Jews.

The
muezzin
high in the minaret of the Al-Aqsa began the call to
Asr
, the late afternoon prayer. His song echoed around the Kidron valley and the Mount of Olives. Talbot looked at his watch. If the briefcase was not back by five thirty, it was all over for him.

Perhaps it was anyway.

Judean Hills near Al-Naqb

Netanel cradled the briefcase between his knees as the jeep bounced between dark stands of pines. The steep sides of the
wadi
crowded in, throwing dark shadows across the road. The sound of the motor echoed along the rock walls as the jeep labored up the ridge. The stillness made Netanel uneasy.

“What do you want for yourself, Netanel?” Asher said.

Netanel shrugged and did not answer.

“Come on, what do you dream about? Everybody has a dream.”

“Do they? What’s yours?”

“I want to start a new
kibbutz
, in the Negev. I want to build it up from nothing, like Yaakov did with Kfar Herzl. I want to create an oasis in the desert. That’s what I want when this is over.”

“Do you think it will ever be over?”

“Yes. One day.”

Although there were still a few hours of sunlight remaining, the high walls of the
wadi
had imposed a premature dusk. The pines were black and malevolent, and the air cool.

“You’re a dark horse, Netya, I’ll never understand - ”

Asher heard a crack like a whip as a bullet zipped through the air close to his face. He heard a
clang-clang
as more bullets slammed into the jeep. He stood on the brakes.

“Get out!” he screamed.

He grabbed Netanel’s shirt and pulled him down the slope beside the road. When they reached the bottom of the
wadi
they lay on their bellies in the dust and listened.

“Where are they?” Netanel whispered.

“I don’t know!” Asher fumbled for his holster. The only weapons they had were standard issue British Webley specials. They were only any use in close combat, not in a sniper duel.

A bullet slammed into the dirt just a few inches away from his face, and fragments of stone peppered his cheek.

“The trees!” Netanel shouted. He pulled Asher to his feet and they zigzagged towards a stand of pines. Two more shots whipped at the ground as they ran.

They threw themselves face down in the dirt, breathing hard. Silence, except for the whine of mosquitoes.

“Are you all right?” Netanel whispered.

Asher put a hand to his face. It came away wet with blood. He couldn’t see out of one eye. “I don’t know.”

Netanel wiped the blood away with his sleeve and examined the injury. “You’ve got a cut over your right eyelid and another one on your forehead. Must have been stone fragments. Nothing serious.”

“I’m also getting bitten to hell by mosquitoes.” Asher twisted around. “Where are the bastards?” He wriggled behind the trunk of one of the pines and stared up at the road. Netanel took up a position five yards away, his own revolver cradled in the crook of his arm.

“Here they come.”

A shadow slipped down the hillside towards the jeep. There was more movement on their left, and he heard the tumbling of a small rockfall.

“I’ll drill the sons of whores,” Netanel whispered.

“Wait until they’re closer. We only have ten rounds between us. See how many there are first.”

A figure scampered across the road and took cover behind the jeep. Asher squinted into the false dusk. The man appeared to be dressed entirely in black, not like an Arab at all.

But if it wasn’t an Arab, then who was it?

“Did you see that?”

“
Herrgottsacrament!
” Netanel said.

They heard whispering to their left. The words carried to them on the still of the evening with absolute clarity.

Hebrew.

Asher sat up and sang out the words of his religion’s most sacred prayer:
“Shma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehaaa-aaadr
…’ He drew out the final syllable in the traditional way, in imitation of Ben Joseph Akiba’s final dying breath, as he was flayed to death by the Romans.

“Hear O Israel, the Lord Our God, the Lord is One.”

His voice echoed around the
wadi
, and was greeted with a silence.

“Who are you?” a voice shouted eventually, in Hebrew.

“Haganah! Who are you? Irgun, Stem, what?”

He heard someone curse.

Asher stood up, scrambled over the dry wadi and up the slope to the road. A man with thinning black hair and tortoiseshell glasses was leaning against the jeep, a Sten gun cradled in his arms. He was wearing a black jersey and black trousers.

“Asher Ben-Zion.”

“Moshe Meodovnik.”

“Irgun?”

Meodovnik nodded. “We thought you were British soldiers.”

Asher examined the jeep. There were a dozen bullet holes in the coachwork and the radiator was shattered. Water hissed on to the road, sending up a white plume of steam. Asher roared with frustration and kicked the tire.

“Shame. Nice vehicle,” Meodovnik said.

“Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

“It was a mistake. These things happen.”

Netanel followed Asher up the slope. “Take it easy, Ash,” he said.

The rest of the Irgun gang had converged on them now. They were mostly Yemenites, Netanel noted, peasants and fanatics.

Asher’s right fist took Meodovnik on the point of the chin and sent him sprawling on to the road. He lay there for a few seconds, stunned, then scrambled for his gun. Before he could reach it Netanel was already standing over him, holding his revolver to the man’s head. “Why don’t we all calm down?”

“
Sabra
prick,” Meodovnik hissed.

The other Irgun soldiers had their weapons pointed at Asher. No one moved.

Netanel clicked the safety off his revolver. “Let’s just say it’s been a bad day all round,” he whispered in the Irguni’s ear.

Meodovnik put up his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Yes. Let’s not forget we’re on the same side. All right?”