Israel (63 page)

The footsteps grew louder and then stopped. Herschel briefly imagined that somebody was standing on the other side of the windowless steel door.

A hallucination, Herschel decided. It had to be.

A fellow locked up by himself in the dark was easy prey to hallucinations unless he disciplined his mind. Say he let his thoughts wander, got to thinking about the roaches, spiders and the like. He couldn't see them, of course, any more than he could see his own hand in front of his face, but he knew they were there, and if he concentrated, he could hear the tiny clicks of their legs as they scrabbled across the concrete—toward him.

So if a fellow knew what was good for him, he didn't think about the blasted bugs that might or might not be there. He calmly refused to acknowledge the itching along his spine, resisted the impulse to scratch, because giving in to that itch would spawn a dozen more, and before long he would be tearing at his skin in the dark, convinced that he was being eaten alive.

The footsteps, Herschel reminded himself. Had they stopped before his door? Not likely. It seemed too soon for release, although these days he did not have the best grasp of time. Was this his fifth or sixth spell in solitary? It was bad not to be able to remember.

What day was it? What month? Let's see, the usual stretch in solitary was seventy-two hours, but after a man's third offense the sentence was often extended to a week. When had he gone in? Before. When would he be released? After.

Goddamn it, Herschel thought—or had he actually said it out loud? He couldn't tell. Was he awake or asleep? He pinched himself. Pain—he was awake. He knew his name, and that this couldn't last forever. Consciousness, identity, the knowledge of time's passage—these three formed the tripod on which Herschel Kol's sanity rested.

The door slot slid open. Herschel winced and shielded his eyes. The slot slammed shut and the door to his cell was wrenched open. Somebody half-dragged, half-carried him from his cell, back into the world.

“What day? What month?” Herschel begged.

“April twenty-fifth, a Thursday. You've been in five days,” someone with a British accent replied. “You'd be in for another two but for your luck. Come on, liven your pace. We've got to get you cleaned up, mate. Someone very important is here to see you.”

Herschel was allowed to shower and shave. They gave him clean clothes, not the usual prison garb, but
trousers, a shirt and sandals, reasonably well-fitting. They gave him a meal he could only pick at because he had been on starvation rations so long. Then a doctor came and gave him an injection that made him itch worse than the imaginary bugs but feel very alert and strong.

Finally he was escorted to the office of the chief magistrate of the prison. It was a spartan room with stone walls painted yellow, a metal desk and file cabinets and several straight-backed chairs with missing rungs.

The chief magistrate was absent. In his place, seated behind his desk, was a British colonel in his sixties with grey hair and a matching iron-hued slash of mustache. Standing respectfully to one side was a youngish captain with a number of file folders clasped under his arm. The captain was pale and gaunt, clean-shaven and bespectacled. Despite his uniform he looked far more like a bank clerk than a military man.

“Mr. Kol, how nice to see you.” The colonel beamed, actually standing and extending his hand.

Herschel hesitated, mindful of the guards around him. Moving without permission usually earned an inmate a painful taste of a guard's baton.

The colonel evidently understood Herschel's hesitation. “You men wait outside,” he ordered. The guards saluted, turned and marched out of the office.

“Now then, Mr. Kol, why don't we shake hands like gentlemen, eh?” the colonel remarked pleasantly. Herschel, nodding dazedly, did as he was told. When the colonel invited him to sit down, Herschel sat. “Would you care for a drink?” He indicated a bottle of whiskey and one glass on the desk.

“I don't drink.”

“A cigarette, then?” The colonel took a silver case out of his pocket and offered it.

“I've given up smoking. Please, who are you and what do you want from me?”

“Yes, of course.” He snapped the cigarette case closed and returned it to his pocket. “I am Colonel Ian Richards of General Sir Archibald Wavell's staff. Do you know who that is?”

“No.”

Colonel Richards glanced at the captain. “How long has he been in?”

The captain scrutinized the contents of a cardboard folder. “Twenty-one months, sir.”

Richards nodded, his smile reappearing as he turned back to Herschel. “General Wavell is Prime Minister Churchill's chief of staff in the Middle East, and the general himself has sent me from Cairo to see you, Mr. Kol. To ask for your help. Things have been happening while you were our guest here.”

“Yes, and some of it I know about. For instance the way you have been condemning my people to death by refusing to grant them sanctuary from Nazi persecution—”

“Be quiet and listen, Mr. Kol,” the colonel said patiently. “I have not come here to debate my country's immigration policies with you.”

“Why are you here?”

“Get some respect,” the captain warned.

“What if I don't?” Herschel laughed. “What can you do to me that hasn't already been done? Now then, Colonel Richards. You've said you want my help. How so?”

“Several weeks ago we suffered a bad setback in Iraq,” Richards began. “Our treaty afforded Britain two air bases and the right to transport troops across Iraqi territory. In exchange Iraq was granted independence. At our request the League of Nations terminated our mandate to rule—”

“The Anglo-Iraqi Treaty was ratified over a decade ago,” Herschel said.

“A treaty is a treaty,” the captain exclaimed.

“I'm amused,” Herschel smiled, “at how the British
have so little understanding of Arabs when they profess to have such an affinity for them.” He glanced at the captain. “Was that respectful enough for you?”

“Mr. Kol, we are well aware that you are finding this interview as distasteful as we are, so let's get on with it,” Richards said. “There has been an Iraqi coup d' etat. We thought we had a strong pro-British government in place, but a bloke named Rashid Ali, backed by some nationalist fanatic types, ousted our people.”

“Rashid says he'll hold to the 1930 treaty, but we know he's in Hitler's pocket,” the captain added. “When the time is right Nazi military assistance will flow into Iraq via the Vichy forces holding Syria. The mufti's holy war against Britain will—”

“Just what the Prussians promised the Turks in World War One,” Herschel mused. “‘Side with us,' they coaxed the Ottoman Empire, ‘and we will give you back your former glory.'”

“Yes, I suppose,” Colonel Richards agreed absently. “In any event, Rashid Ali would dearly like us to recognize his government. Accordingly, he's allowing us to land our troops, but the Germans are at him. Yesterday Rashid informed our ambassador that from now on there would be a quota—only so many British troops in for so many leaving Iraq—something strike you funny, Mr. Kol?”

“It is satisfying to see Britain chafing under a foreign nation's immigration policies,” Herschel smiled. “What was your government's reply?”

“That we will decide how many troops will land and Rashid had best keep his nose out of it. That is where things stand. We believe Hitler will soon officially endorse Rashid's government—that is something we cannot do, of course. Rashid will most likely put his facilities at the Nazis' disposal, the most important of which at the moment are the oil installations near Baghdad.”

“I still don't understand what you want me to do.”

Colonel Richards smiled coldly. “Only what you do best, Mr. Kol. That is, blow up those oil installations before the Germans can make use of them. You're rather keen on blowing up things Arab, aren't you?”

Herschel stared at the two officers and burst out laughing. “Surely there are British soldiers who far surpass me in grenade-hurling ability.”

“It would be—embarrassing—if Englishmen were caught destroying Iraqi property,” the captain said stiffly. “There's the treaty, of course.”

“Of course,” Herschel crowed. “None of your Arab allies would undertake such a thing, so who else can you send but Jews?”

“Not just any Jews,” Colonel Richards said. “We've already recruited a few of your lrgun associates. We've released them from various prisons and detention camps and have grouped the team at our RAF base at Habbaniyah, approximately fifty miles west of Baghdad. The plan is for the team to pose as Arabs. Like you, the rest have received lrgun terrorist training—”

“You mean military training.”

“Commando training then.”

“Colonel, look at me,” Herschel commanded. “I have blond hair and blue eyes. I had limited success pretending to be British, but I would have none at all playing an Arab.”

“Now, now, Mr. Kol. Fair coloring never stopped your father,” the captain put in, tapping one of his folders. “We know all about Haim Kolesnikoff's exploits on behalf of the Allies during the First World War. If your father could pass as a Bedouin, we see no reason why you—”

“Don't tell me about my father,” Herschel snapped. “What happens to me if I agree to join your team?”

“Assuming the Iraqis don't kill you, you will be amnestied.”

“I go free?”

The colonel hedged. “We'll see about getting your sentence reduced.”

“Amnestied means go free.”

Colonel Richards shrugged. “A lot would depend upon your willingness to perform other missions for the Allies.”

“Consider the altenative,” the captain said. “We say good-bye to you and you remain here for—” he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “For twenty-three years and three months, give or take a few days.”

“Tell me one thing,” Herschel asked. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble to persuade me. Why? Any number of imprisoned lrgun members could do it.”

“Quite right, Mr. Kol.” Richards nodded. “But the so-called commander in chief of your lrgun, David Raziel, specifically requested your participation. Raziel is leading the team, you see—”

“I'll do it.”

At dawn the next day Herschel was flown under guard to the RAF base on Lake Habbaniyah, which itself was just a few miles from the Euphrates River. From the air the base looked more like an English resort than a military outpost. Herschel saw a polo ground, a swimming pool, cricket and football fields and rows of neat bungalows with red tile roofs and garden plots. There was also a large white villa. Herschel was informed by his guards that it was the residence of Vice Marshal Smart, air officer commanding in Iraq.

Habbaniyah looked like a resort, but one that had fallen on hard times. Due to the confrontation between the British and Rashid Ali's nationalist-backed government, British dependents had been evacuated from Baghdad, with hundreds taking refuge at the base. Iraqi forces had established positions on a high plateau a scant half-mile
south of the base. There were Iraqi armored cars within sight of the air strips.

It was time for Habbaniyah flight school to become a combat-ready unit. Air Vice Marshal Smart had eighty planes, more than the Iraqi air force did, although the planes themselves—ancient Gladiators and worn-out Audax and Oxford trainers—were far from battleworthy.

Besides, there were no experienced pilots to fly them. Almost all the pilots were students, and the instructors were too rare and precious to send into combat.

As Herschel's transport plane taxied to a halt he spied a pair of rusted World War One field guns and several antiquated armored cars. This was the extent of Habbaniyah's heavy ground defense. Out on the golf course the greens were trampled and volunteers fumbled their way through hastily improvised rifle drills.

Herschel's guards escorted him to the white villa, which they called Air House. There, amid fine furniture and exquisite Persian rugs, Herschel was greeted by Major Thomas Lemon, the officer in charge of the raid. Lemon had thinning dark hair and watery blue eyes. He was in his forties and stocky in a soft sort of way. He had a potbelly and wore his revolver high on his right hip in deference to it.

“Glad to have you with us, Kol,” Major Lemon began, then paused to sneeze. He took a balled-up handkerchief from his trousers pocket and dabbed at his weepy eyes. “Blasted oleanders,” He muttered. “Come along then.”

“Where is Raziel?”

“I'm taking you to him,” Lemon managed before the next sneeze. Herschel was seized with anticipation as Lemon and the guards led him from the villa to a waiting car.

David Raziel, with the poet-warrior Abraham Stern, had guided the Irgun after its split from Haganah. Both men were imprisoned in 1939. Raziel had been released
from Latrun Detention Camp in exchange for his willingness to cooperate with the British against the Axis powers.

Herschel had never met Raziel. As the car drove past a church and a cinema, dark since Habbaniyah's siege began, he remembered how Frieda used to talk about Raziel, how jealous Herschel once felt. That was all long ago, or so it seemed to Herschel, despite the way he missed his lost love.

The car pulled up in front of a barracks flanked by two more old armored cars and by a squad of British regulars on guard duty. Herschel noticed bars on the barracks windows and the heavy-duty hasp and padlock on the outside of the door.

“This will be your home for the time being,” Major Lemon said, sniffling. He did not get out of the car.

Herschel's guards removed his handcuffs and then escorted him to the entrance, where the door guards lightly frisked him.

“Just routine,” the sergeant-major in charge told the insulted guards who had gotten Herschel this far. “You're my responsibility now, Kol,” the noncom went on. “My name's Foster. We'll get along fine. Don't you worry.”