Black Cross (8 page)

Duff Smith clenched his hands; Stern’s words had electrified him.

General Little looked hard at the young Zionist. “You’ve made an eloquent case, Mr. Stern. This board will take your comments under advisement. Sergeant Gilchrist?”

Stern stared at the general with alarm. “Could I have one more moment, General?”

Major Dickson groaned in exasperation.

“Be quick,” Little said.

“If you won’t bomb the camps, will you allow me to take a small commando force into Poland and attempt to liberate one concentration camp? I know the British Army is training a few Jews to parachute into Hungary to try to warn the Jews there to resist. General, I’m not asking you to risk a single British life. If I fail, what would you have lost? A dozen Jews. I’m an experienced guerrilla fighter—”

“I’ll bloody bet you are!” Major Dickson bellowed with sudden savagery. “Experienced at murdering British soldiers!”

The red-faced major was on his feet. Stern made no move toward or away from him. Instead, he raised his cuffed hands to the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down. From the left breast of his khaki shirt flashed the glint of silver and blue. It was the George Medal, the second-highest British decoration that could be awarded to a civilian.

“Major Dickson,” said Stern, “this medal was pinned on me by General Bernard Law Montgomery for reconnaissance actions at El Alamein. The second award I received for aiding the British Army at Tobruk. Auchinleck pinned that one on. Both those officers are better men than you, and if you had any brains or heart whatever you might have understood at least part of what I’ve said here today. I’ve stood here as a soldier asking only for the chance to fight. To show Hitler something he has never seen — something he
needs
to see — a Jew who can fight, who
will
fight. Myself and twenty Haganah guerrillas, properly equipped, could destroy a concentration camp, I am sure of it.”

“Now we’ve got to it!” Dickson roared. “The bloody Haganah!”

Duff Smith felt like boxing Dickson’s ears for him. Thankfully, General Little waved the major down. “Such a raid is out of the question, Mr. Stern, for more reasons than I can name. Take a bit of advice. The best thing you can do is go back to Palestine and help your own people.”

“My people are dying in Germany,” Stern said.

“Yes . . . well. There are a lot of people dying all over the world just now.”

Duff Smith watched the shackled hands rise up and point accusingly at Little. “General!” Stern said in a voice booming with prophetic power. “One day soon the world is going to ask England a very embarrassing question. Why did you refuse to grant sanctuary to the Jews who were being slaughtered by the millions in Europe? Why did you throw the lucky handful who managed to reach Palestine into British concentration camps? And most of all—”

“Enough!”
shouted Little. His cultivated British reserve had finally cracked. “You
dare
march in here and preach to us? You insubordinate upstart! You’re not a soldier. You’re a bloody terrorist! It takes a lot more than a gun to make a soldier, Stern. Why, if it weren’t for us standing alone against Hitler in 1940, your people would have been wiped out years ago!”

Major Dickson pointed at Stern. “The only reason you were allowed to come to England was to answer our questions about terrorism in Palestine.” Dickson’s eyes glowed with a cruel light. “And I’m happy to say that, as a major of intelligence, your interrogation will fall to me!”

Stern flexed his fists in rage and frustration. Duff Smith saw Captain Owen edging closer in case his friend’s self-restraint snapped. General Little gathered up the papers from Stern’s file and dropped them into a satchel at his feet.

“Place him under arrest, Sergeant Gilchrist,” he said calmly.

Captain Owen shouted, “Wait!” but he was too late. As the sergeant approached, Stern swung his cuffed hands straight up from his waist with animal quickness. Gilchrist was grabbing for his truncheon when the steel cuffs caught him on the point of the chin. He hit the floor with the deadened thud of an unconscious boxer.

Major Dickson groped for his sidearm, then remembered he had left it with an aide for cleaning.

“Stop this nonsense!” cried General Little.

“Jonas!” Peter Owen yelled. “For God’s sake!”

But it was all for naught. As the second guard charged, Stern swept up Gilchrist’s truncheon from the floor and jabbed him in the belly, then spun to the wall beside the door as the man went down. Almost on cue, a sentry burst into the room with his revolver drawn. Stern’s stolen truncheon crashed down, snapping the man’s wrist and sending the pistol clattering to the floor. Stern lunged for the door, but the sentry caught him by the collar with his good hand and jerked backward.

There was a sound of ripping cloth. Stern’s jacket came off, and his khaki shirt fell around his waist. He whirled.

“Bloody hell!” gasped the guard. “Look at that!”

The sight of Stern’s exposed torso stunned even Brigadier Smith. The young Zionist’s back, shoulders, and abdomen were transected by a netting of livid purple scars, some made by blades, others obviously by fire. The scars on the abdomen ran straight down past the waistband of his trousers. The moment of stillness lasted several seconds. Then Stern knocked down the sentry, snatched up his shirt and bolted through the door.

“After him!” Major Dickson screamed as footsteps pounded down the stairwell.

Captain Owen threw himself in front of the door. “General Little! Please let me talk to him!”

“Out of the way,” Major Dickson growled, “or I’ll order my men to shoot you down.”

“For God’s sake, General!”

“Attention!”
General Little roared.

The guards froze where they stood. Duff Smith had remained motionless throughout the confusion, as if watching a staged musical.

“Steady, Dickson,” General Little said. “I’m going to let Captain Owen bring him back. There’s no sense in unnecessary bloodshed. You can question Stern at your leisure after you’ve calmed down.”

“Sounds like a good plan, Johnny,” Duff Smith said, speaking for the first time.

Major Dickson stood white-faced and shaking. “I’m going to throw that bastard in irons and sweat him until he diagrams the Haganah’s whole batting order! He’s one of the ringleaders. You can just
tell
.”

“He’s only twenty-three, sir,” Owen said. “But you’re probably right about him being a leader.”

“I’d hate to see that chap chained to a wall,” said General Little. “He’s got guts, even if he is a Yid.”

“Interrogating him would be useless anyway,” Owen said in a monotone.

“Why’s that?” asked Dickson.

“Major, Jonas Stern could probably tell you every key man in the Haganah’s ranks. Probably in the Irgun, too. But he
wouldn’t
tell you. He’d die first.”

“A lot of men say that,” Dickson said. “In the beginning. That attitude doesn’t last long.”

Owen shook his head. “Stern’s different.”

Dickson smirked. “How’s that?”

“Didn’t you see the scars? He’s been there before. Tortured, I mean. And nothing like our methods, believe me. He was running from a raid near Al Sabah one night when his horse broke its leg. He was only seventeen. The Arabs were hot behind the raiding party. They ran him down almost immediately.”

“What the hell did they do to him?” asked General Little.

“I’m not sure, sir. He doesn’t talk about it. They only had him for a night and a day, but they were real tribesmen, the ones that got him. Murderous brutes. Stern somehow managed to escape on the second night. He never told them a thing. I heard some of his mates whispering about it during the North African campaign. He’s a legend to the Zionists. I never saw him with his shirt off before today.”

“Good God,” Little muttered. “I saw the results of some Arab interrogations in the Great War, near Gallipoli. It’s a miracle the fellow survived.”

“Like I said, sir. Not much use in questioning him, to my mind. He won’t talk unless he wants to.”

“I see what you mean,” Little agreed. “We’ll sort out this mess tomorrow. You’ve got four hours to bring him in of his own volition, Owen. After that, Major Dickson’s men will have a free hand.”

“I’ll find him, sir.”

Little nodded. “That’s all, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.” The Welshman darted through the door.

Brigadier Duff Smith rose slowly, nodded to Little, and followed Owen outside.

7

Jonas Stern stood alone in a coal-dark doorway, his shivering body pressed against cold stone, and watched the broad avenue of Whitehall. He had nowhere to run. He had come so far to get here. All the way from Germany at age fourteen, with his mother in tow and his father left behind. Thousands of miles overland in a refugee caravan where smugglers robbed them of all they had before taking them farther down the illegal route to Palestine. Weeks in a battered freighter that bled salt water through its rusting hull while people belowdecks died of thirst. Years of struggle in Palestine, fighting the Arabs and the British, then in North Africa fighting the Nazis. Then finally from Palestine to London, to the room with the British staff officers with their trimmed mustaches and haughty blue eyes. Major Dickson had at least told the truth: the only reason they’d let him come at all was to interrogate him about the Haganah.

Stern tensed at the sound of running feet. Peering around the brickwork, he breathed a sigh of relief. The feet belonged to Peter Owen, and the Welshman was alone. Stern reached out and caught him by the jacket.

“Jonas!” cried Owen.

Stern let go of the jacket.

The young Welshman rolled his shoulders angrily. “What the hell was that back there?”

“You tell me, Peter. Are Major Dickson’s men after me?”

“They will be if you don’t turn yourself in within four hours.” Owen struggled to light a cigarette in the frigid wind. Stern finally did it for him. “Thanks, old man,” he said. “Christ, I’ll take the desert over this any time.”

“Those smug bastards,” Stern muttered.

“I told you you were being unrealistic. It’s a matter of scale as much as anything. Compared to the amphibious landing of a million men in Occupied Europe, a few thousand civilians — particularly Jews — don’t garner much attention in military circles.”

Stern held up his cuffed hands. “Get these off, Peter.”

A pained look crossed Owen’s face. “Dickson will have me up on charges.”

“Peter—”

“Oh, hell.” Owen fumbled in his pocket and brought out a key.

Stern snatched it away and began walking toward Trafalgar Square. The opened handcuffs tinkled on the cement like change thrown to a street urchin. He put the key in his pocket and kept walking. With blackout regulations still in force, the stars over London shone like distant spotlights, illuminating a sign advertising bomb-shelter space in the Charing Cross tube station.

“You’ve got to turn yourself in, Jonas,” Owen said, struggling to stay abreast of him. “You’ve no alternative.”

Stern noticed that he had begun leaning into the wind with his head turned slightly away as he walked. He hadn’t walked with that gait since his childhood in northern Germany. Some habits never died.

Owen grabbed his sleeve and stopped him in the road. “Jonas, I won’t blame you for anything you do at this point. But I can’t be responsible for you, either. No matter what happens now, I consider the Tobruk debt paid.”

Stern stared at the young Welshman with eyes that said many things, but he did not speak.

“I said Tobruk is wiped clean,” Owen repeated, but the tone of his voice was uncertain.

“Sure, Peter.” Stern started to add something, but his words were drowned by the sudden growl of an engine. A long silver Bentley floated over to the curb and stopped beside the two men, engine running.

Stern shoved Owen against the passenger door and began to run. He heard the Welshman’s voice calling him back. He turned. Owen had snapped to attention beside the Bentley. Focusing on the car’s interior, Stern saw only a driver and a single passenger. He walked cautiously back. Someone had rolled down the rear window. Framed in its dark square Stern saw a weathered face lit by bright eyes, and the shoulder boards of a brigadier general.

“Recognize me?” asked a deep voice with a Scottish accent.

Stern stared at the face. “You were at the meeting.”

“I’m Brigadier Duff Smith, Mr. Stern. I’d like to have a word with you.”

Stern looked at Peter Owen, silently asking if this could be a trap. The Welshman shrugged.

Brigadier Smith held up a silver flask. “Have a dram? Beastly cold out.”

Stern did not accept the flask. As he stared at Brigadier Duff Smith, he felt a sudden certainty that he should run like hell. Get clear of this man and all his works. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he was walking away from the Bentley.

The car kept pace, coasting along beside him. “Come on, lad,” Smith called. “Where’s the harm in a little chat?”

“What kind of chat?”

“A chat about killing Germans.”

“I’m German,” Stern said, still marching into the wind. He glanced up at the dark face of Admiralty House. “According to Major Dickson, anyway.”

“Nazis, I should have said.”

“I killed plenty of Nazis in North Africa. That’s not what I’m after.”

Smith’s reply was barely audible above the rumble of the Bentley’s motor, but it stopped Stern in his tracks. “I’m talking about killing Nazis
inside Germany
.”

The Bentley rolled to a standstill beside Stern. The brigadier’s eyes glinted with black humor. “That sound like your line of country, lad?”

The Bentley’s driver got out and opened the rear door opposite Smith, but Stern still hesitated.

“You speak good English,” Smith said, to fill the silence.

“Don’t take it as flattery. Know your enemy, that’s my motto.” Stern pointed at the brigadier. “Can you get Major Dickson off my back?”

“My dear fellow,” Smith said expansively, “I can make you disappear off the face of the earth, if I so choose.”