Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (105 page)

So it was true what sailors claimed, she thought with an
anticipatory little smile. You
could
smell land from out at sea.

Captain Goodhew interrupted her thoughts. 'Yer goin' to
be spendin' some time in Haifa?'

She opened her eyes and turned to him. She shook her
head. 'Not for the time being. As soon as we've docked, we're
heading straight to Tel Aviv.'

'You have friends there?'

She looked at him. 'Just somebody
...
I know.'

He smiled. 'Best way to see this territory. From the insider's
point of view. Just be real careful now. Can be a lot more
violent in these parts than in Europe or America. Much as
we've tried, it's still not what yer'd call civilized.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' she said, glad when he went inside
to check the ship's bearings. He had gone out of his way to be
nice to her, and she could only wonder what his reaction would
have been had he known that she was the daughter of the
single biggest thorn in the British Mandate's backside—the
notorious Jewish gunrunner, Schmarya Boralevi. Would he
have lectured her. Washed his hands of her completely?
Alerted the authorities?

One thing she did know. From here on in, she would have
to exercise extreme caution. One slip of the tongue, and the
British authorities might follow her. She didn't doubt for an
instant that they would try to use her to get to her father.

She felt a quiver of fear as the ribbon of land grew in size
until she could see the individual houses on the steep green
hillside with the naked eye. Well, here I am, she thought
shakily. I'm no longer Tamara, the screen legend. I'm plain
Tamara Boralevi from now on. There's no glamorous facade
to hide behind now. I'm just like anybody else. A woman
scared stiff of the future. Now I'll finally get to see if I've made
the right choice—or the worst mistake of my life. She took a
deep breath, making an effort to calm her nervous antici
pation.

The captain returned to the dock, and Tamara turned to
him. Her eyes were bright with a feverish impatience.
Pale
stine! At long, long last!
'Where will we be docking?' she
asked, fighting to keep her rising excitement subdued.

'Over there, to the right,' Captain Goodhew replied. 'Har
bour's deepest there. Dredged again last year.'

'Look! There's a boat coming out to meet us!' Inge cried.

'Ah, the launch. That'll be one o' the harbour pilots and
the British customs agents. They will help guide us into the
harbour and begin the passport and visa checks. I radioed
ahead that yer's onboard, and they agreed to let yer disembark
here at sea. You ought to be able to skip most o' the formalities
and be onshore long before anyone else. Yer're all packed
now?'

Tamara nodded. 'Our cases are in the cabin ready to go.'

'Good.' Captain Goodhew went inside the wheelhouse.
When he came back out he smiled. 'I've arranged for your luggage to be brought up on deck. Now, if yer'll be so kind as
to excuse me, I must take over from the first mate.' He
extended his hand. 'It's been a pleasure to have yer on-board,
mum.'

Tamara smiled and shook his hand warmly. 'And the voyage
has been a most pleasant one, Captain Goodhew. I thank
you.'

Another firm handshake and the captain was gone and Tamara and Inge hurriedly descended the embossed-metal
companion way to their cabin, two decks below. Tamara found
herself humming. Had it not been for the heat already streaming in through the two open portholes and the shabby gentility of the ageing ship, she could have imagined herself on a dream
yacht, hovering somewhere between ocean and heaven.

'I'm so glad to see you happy,' Inge said cheerfully. 'You
did not sing to yourself for a long time.'

'That's because one of my dreams is finally coming true.'
She took both of Inge's hands in hers and squeezed them. 'Just
think, Inge. We're almost there!'

'Ja,
that we are.'

They gathered up their purses and hats and checked the
cabin to see if they might have left anything behind. Then
Tamara sat in front of the little built-in vanity mirror and tilted
her hat rakishly over one eye. She smiled at her reflection. The hat matched her light silk dress, the big red polka dots
on the white background looking at once chic and bright. It
matched her mood.

They went back up on deck, where the purser awaited them.
He formally handed them their passports, which, according to
maritime custom, they had had to relinquish upon boarding.

Tamara snapped open her purse, took out a hundred dol
lars, and pressed it into his hand. 'You will be so kind as to
split this gratuity among the crew as is customary?'

'With pleasure, Miss Tamara.' He gave a gracious bow. 'And may I thank you for the pleasure of your company?'

The ship's engines slowed, the launch arrived, ropes were thrown down, and a gangplank lowered. The harbour pilot
and two customs agents wearing khaki uniforms with sharply
creased shorts and knee-high socks climbed easily up the rick
ety steps to the ship. The luggage was carefully carried down,
and when the porters finished, Tamara and Inge carefully fol
lowed, clutching the rope banister on both sides. As soon as
they were helped onboard the launch, they sat in the stern,
the ropes were untied, and the engines sputtered to life. Bow
high in the air, they raced toward shore, the hull slapping the
water, sending showers of cool spray back.

As Tamara watched the distance close, warm excitement
within her surged and built. Her newly found heritage . . . her
faith . . . which had been buried for so long, could no longer be contained, manifesting itself through the sheer proximity
of the Promised Land. Her spirits rose: just another half mile
to go now, and she would set foot on the soil of Palestine.

The small customs office was sweltering, despite the open win
dows and the lazy currents of air raised by the slowly revolving
overhead fan.

Brigadier George Edward Diggins eyed them suspiciously from behind the desk, his fingers strumming the pages of their
passports as if they were a deck of cards. His expression was
the same as those of the customs officials in all the Mediter
ranean ports where the
Lerwick
had docked and she had gone
ashore—except that he was British, and the British were
notorious sticklers for exactitude. His assistant, Sergeant
Carne, was stationed by the door.

As if we're criminals intent upon escape, Tamara couldn't
help thinking.

The brigadier stared thoughtfully at her passport picture
and then at her, and Tamara stared right back at him, glad at
least that her hat hid one eye so that she felt that much less
vulnerable. She didn't chat or volunteer any information. Cus
toms men were like policemen; one let them do the question
ing.

She considered Diggins, who lifted a brow and pursed his
lips as he studied her photograph. He was a slim, pale-eyed
Englishman with sandy, sun-bleached hair, a pockmarked
face, gaps between yellowing teeth, and a pencil-thin moustache. The moment she first laid eyes on him, she knew he
would be difficult. There was something self-important about
him, more than a little of the strutting martinet. Clearly
he was a dyed-in-the-wool career officer who considered
civilians, no matter what their exalted status, far less than
his equal.

She was becoming annoyed. 'I was under the impression
that I was taken ashore by the launch so that the usual formalit
ies would be sped up,' she said, placing her elbows on the arms
of the chair.

'Sometimes that is the case.' He spoke with slow
deliberation and frowned, his fingers idly fanning the pages of
the passports. 'Oftentimes it's not.'

'Such as?' She held his gaze.

'
There might be questions which need answering before we allow certain visitors to remain ashore.' He pushed his chair back on its squeaky casters and leaned back, eyeing her ston
ily. 'You used a one-way ticket to get here. Does that mean
you intend to emigrate?'

'I'm a visitor. In case you haven't noticed, I have another
ticket with me, a round-trip ticket. I changed my travel plans
and took the
Lerwick
only because it was the first ship leaving
Marseilles for here.'

'A visitor.' He nodded to himself. 'A pilgrim? A tourist?'

'A tourist.'

'And your destination?'

She laughed softly. 'Why, here, of course. Palestine. Isn't
that obvious?'

His voice was quiet. 'I meant specifically.'

She shrugged. 'There's a lot to see. I decided to begin with
Tel Aviv.'

'That's a curious choice. Most people go to Jerusalem first.
Why Tel Aviv?'

'Why
not
Tel Aviv? I hear it's cooler by the shore, and
besides, it's centrally located. From there I can travel north
to Lake Tiberias, south to Jerusalem or the Dead Sea . .
.it's convenient.'

'I see. Do you have hotel reservations?'

She shook her head.

A glimmer of interest brightened his eyes. 'Then you will
be staying with friends?'

'No.' She was becoming more annoyed. 'Why are you ask
ing me all these questions?'

'Then with whom are you planning to stay?'

'It was my intention to stay at the Rehot Dan Hotel. It came
highly recommended.'

'The Rehot Dan?' He frowned and sat slowly forward.
'That's not exactly the kind of accommodation I would have
expected such a distinguished visitor as yourself to take.'