Black Cross. Greg Iles
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“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 among 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.
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