City of Secrets (8 page)

The stake truck liked the makeshift road even less than the Peugeot had. In back, the shovels clattered as they dropped into holes, Fein and Yellin hanging on to the sides like seasick greenhorns hugging the rails. At his last work camp Brand had taken care of a fleet of diesels with the same sluggish three-speed. Afraid of getting stuck, he kept to first gear as they followed the sandy wadi, the engine protesting. Once on the highway, he shifted up, and Fein and Yellin took shelter behind the cab.

The sun was higher, flattening shadows, bleaching the valley. Though it was cold, liquid ripples of heat played over the
road. The distant smoke they'd seen on the plain was gone. Here there was nothing—a crow jabbing at something in the dust, a tin cross commemorating a pile of stones, a signpost with a pitted arrow pointing off across the desert. Asher opened his valise and unfolded a map covered with scribbles. Brand was too busy driving to read it. Between them sat Lipschitz with his machine gun under his kaftan, his glasses smudged with makeup. Where did he get the Sten, and had he used it before? Again, Brand had underestimated him.

“You don't have to go so fast,” Asher said, and Brand let up on the pedal.

“Are we almost there?”

“It should be right up here, if this is right.”

Had he not cased the crossing? Someone must have, probably the kibbutzniks, since they knew the area.

“There,” Asher said, and Brand slowed until he could see the lollipop marker with the railway logo. When he turned off the highway, the front end dipped and he heard Yellin swear.

“About a mile,” Asher said.

Before he could put the map away, they saw the tracks—or the telephone lines attending them, stretching to the horizon in both directions. At a distance, the grade was noticeable, a steady climb into the hills, though as they drew closer, bouncing over the ruts, the valley seemed absolutely flat. The tail of dust that gave the Peugeot away didn't matter here. They were a railway crew in a railway truck, and by the time anyone suspected otherwise, it would be too late.

The tracks sat atop a raised berm along which ran a goat
path, the churned earth in the middle darker, the fringes holding hoofprints.

“Go left,” Asher said. “In a half mile there should be a culvert that goes under the tracks.”

It was there they stopped and got out. After traveling all morning they were stiff. Fein fell getting out of the bed, knocking off his keffiyeh.

“Next time I'm driving,” Yellin said.

“Leave the radio on.” Asher pointed toward the hills. “They can see us, in case anything happens.”

Brand squinted, trying to find the water tower, but the sun was in his eyes. He waved to Eva anyway.

Asher called them together—to go over the plan, Brand thought. Instead he had them set aside their weapons and showed them how to rig the mine. Today they were using gelignite, and as they watched him pack it into an old tobacco tin, Brand remembered the high school and decided Asher was a teacher. He gave Lipschitz the job of crimping the fuse, then, live mine in hand, led them to the culvert. The second lesson was tamping—using the materials at hand to direct the force of the explosion. By digging a hole under the tie, they'd not only blow up the tracks but collapse the culvert, which would actually take longer to repair.

“Think damage,” Asher said, handing the shovel back to Fein.

They had to wait, gathered by the open door of the cab for the radio to let them know the train had left the station in Ramleh. The code word was Cunningham, the British high commissioner, and there it was at the top of the news, eliciting a cheer.

Lipschitz was given the honor. Asher held the fuse for him while the rest of them peeked from behind the truck.

Lipschitz scampered down the berm, making them laugh. Asher came strolling after him, checking his watch. He joined them, counting out loud: “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six . . .” He stopped when he got to thirty and cocked his head, listening.

“Maybe you—” Yellin said, and was drowned out by the report.

Once, in Naples, Brand had been standing on the docks when a crane lost its counterweight. The crane was five stories tall, the counterweight ten thousand pounds, multiplied by a pulley system. Over the years the braided wire cable holding it had corroded, unraveling strand by strand, weakening until, in an instant, it let go. Though he was a ship's length away, he felt like he'd been punched in the chest, and for several minutes couldn't stop shaking.

This wasn't a surprise, but still made him cringe. The blast seemed to go on a long time, rolling across the desert, echoing off the hills, leaving an isolated, high-pitched whining in his ears. Rocks and clods of dirt rained down around them, hopping off the hood of the truck like hail.

“Let's take a look,” Asher said, waving to show it was safe.

The ends of the track were bent and blackened, the section between them gone, atomized by the release of energy. If the culvert hadn't collapsed, as Asher had hoped, it was badly cracked. They celebrated, shaking their heads as if they never expected it to work. Brand laughed, but thought: That's the easy part.

“Five minutes,” Asher said, and they hurried to take their places, pushing the empty wheelbarrows up the berm and lifting them onto the tracks. They filled them with dirt, a feeble barricade, then leaned on their shovels like a real crew taking a break. Fein's keffiyeh was cockeyed. Like a valet, Yellin straightened it. From the truck Asher brought a red flag no larger than a pillowcase. As they stood in the lucid sunlight, peering into the shimmering distance, he briefed them a final time. The plan was to walk the engineer back to the mail car, disarm the guards and blow the safe. No one gets off. Show your weapons so they know you mean business. Brand thought he was getting ahead of himself. First they had to stop the train.

As the minutes passed and nothing happened, Brand imagined it wasn't coming, that it had broken down or derailed or, by mad coincidence, another outfit was right now holding it up. Then he saw the smoke.

Asher nodded. They all saw it.

It was just a smudge—it might have been a car—that gradually resolved into a dot. How slowly it approached, without sound, a dark blot around a wavering headlamp, bright even in the sunlight. As it drew closer, the engine took shape, the black boiler and open cab and matching tender. Smoke gushed from the stack, hung suspended above the coaches in a thick plume, a crosswind thinning it, pushing a sooty cloud over the desert.

At their feet the rails sang, faintly at first, then insistent, a steely shivering like a knife being sharpened on a wheel. Through his kaftan Brand touched the butt of his pistol to make sure it was there. Beside him Fein dug into the berm and
threw another shovel of dirt into the wheelbarrow. Yellin took his cue and did the same.

They could hear the engine drumming, gathering speed to make the grade, the rhythmic clicking of the wheels filling the air. By now the engineer would have spotted the truck and wondered why they were on the tracks, yet didn't slow. How long did it take a train to stop?

On it came, growing. Though Brand saw locomotives every day at the station, they were at rest, tamed. Here, at full bore, its power seemed elemental, barely controlled. The noise surrounded them, overwhelming. Brand prepared to run. When the engine derailed, it would take the rest of the train with it, the whole thing sliding sideways like a snake off a rock.

Asher stood in the middle of the tracks, waving the flag in long arcs above his head like a signalman hailing another ship. The train kept on, bearing down on him, the pistons shuttling, until finally, as if it had received his message, the engine relented. The whistle shrieked a warning, shocking Brand's heart, the brakes caught and the wheels ground against the rails, squealing, steel on steel, bowing a long, drawn-out note. The engine slowed, chuffing, coasting till it loomed close over Asher, and with a lurch, stopped, its boiler hissing.

Asher planted the flag between the ties, walked over to the ladder and climbed into the cab.

The other four dug, still pretending to be workers. Brand listened for gunshots. He thought Lipschitz should have gone with Asher, but it was too late now. The train idled like a sleeping beast, bleeding off steam.

The engineer climbed down, followed by the fireman. They stood with their hands clasped behind their heads. From the ladder, Asher waved Lipschitz over. He ran, holding the Sten high across his chest. Brand, who'd pegged him for a scholar or an artist, was surprised at how fast he was, though it made sense. He was by far the youngest of them.

Asher dropped down and waved his pistol, the signal for them to break out their weapons. He had his keffiyeh wrapped around his head like a bandit, only his eyes visible.

Brand arranged his the same way and drew his pistol. Fein had a long-barreled revolver like his Parabellum, Yellin a nickel-plated snub-nose.

Asher and Lipschitz took the engineer and left them the fireman, a red-haired, red-cheeked Scot with yellow rodent's teeth. Fat, in patched overalls, he was sweating and kept taking a hand off his head to wipe his brow. “Sorry,” he said, then did it again.

They weren't supposed to talk. Yellin gestured with his gun for him to walk ahead of them. Brand followed, his finger on the trigger guard so there was no chance it would go off. They were supposed to fire their weapons only if absolutely necessary, a rule Brand clung to. He'd thought the gun would make him feel powerful. Instead, it magnified his weakness. If the fireman took off running, would he wait for Yellin or Fein to shoot him? Was that any better than shooting him himself?

As Asher had said, there were only two coaches. Between the three of them they could cover all the doors. Most of the passengers had drawn their shades, but a curious few glared out at
them. Yellin had the fireman lie flat on the ground, pointing his gun at his back, and Brand thought of Nosey making him and Koppelman grovel in the snow just to get them wet. It had been a game to Nosey, one Koppelman finally tired of. The little German tormented them at random, according to his whim. It could have been Brand on the floor of the machine shop that morning—a thought that crossed his mind as, with the rest of the prisoners, he watched Nosey stomping Koppelman's head long after Koppelman had stopped moving. The idea that he was watching someone kill another person—that Koppelman had died—wasn't a surprise. What was more important was not drawing attention to himself, though soon enough, with Koppelman gone, Brand became his favorite target, and for a long time—even now, if he was honest—he blamed Koppelman.

Farther down the train, Asher held his pistol to the engineer's temple. After the briefest of negotiations, the door of the mail car slid open. Lipschitz covered the guards as they threw their Thompsons out and clambered down. Once he'd collected their weapons and everyone was on the ground, Asher climbed inside.

As they waited for the charge to go off, the faint burring of an engine reached them. Fein and Yellin looked to Brand with concern. It reverberated all around them, swelling, a thrumming like another train, growing louder and louder. It wasn't possible—Asher would have checked the schedule—and then Fein pointed to the sky. A plane. It took Brand a few seconds to find the dark cross, high up: not a Spitfire sent to strafe them but a fat transport droning for the coast.

The fireman swabbed his forehead, and Yellin kicked his foot.

Inside his keffiyeh Brand was sweating, his hot breath caught in the cloth. He watched the rear door of the second coach, stealing glances at the windows. Having picked up his share of passengers from the station, he'd wager there were soldiers onboard, possibly armed. As he searched the windows for a flash of army khaki or RAF blue, a woman's face stopped him, at once strange and familiar, the striking cheekbones and straight nose of an heiress, bright hair tucked under a beret. With the glare, he thought it might be a trick of the light, but on second look he wasn't mistaken. Though he'd seen her only twice, both times in a kind of costume, he knew her the way he knew Victor or Gideon, indelibly. Peering out at him with the hauteur of Garbo was the blonde from the Eden Hotel.

He was trying to decide if she was Asher's plant when the mail car exploded, sending broken boards pinwheeling skyward, peppering the hostages with debris. He saw Lipschitz drop his gun and grab his throat with both hands, stagger sideways a few steps and fall to his knees.

Brand ran over and picked up the Sten, pointing it at the engineer and the guards, who were sitting up, bleeding from a dozen cuts, their uniforms torn. Flaming paper snowed down around them.

“Lie down!” Brand threatened, and they did. “Hands on your head!”

A splinter the size of a steak knife stuck from Lipschitz's neck. He'd lost his glasses and his keffiyeh had unraveled, giving away the masquerade. He looked at Brand without recognition.

“Can you hear me?”

Lipschitz nodded, as if afraid to speak.

Brand pried his fingers apart. Where the splinter entered, it was no thicker than a pencil. Brand gripped it tight and yanked. He was ready for a gush of blood, but only a little welled up, overflowing the hole. It had missed the jugular. He stanched the wound with the keffiyeh and made Lipschitz hold it in place.

“I can't see,” Lipschitz said.

His glasses were intact, a few feet away. Brand hooked them over his ears. Lipschitz looked around, dazed, as if he were just waking up.

“Go back to the truck,” Brand ordered, then had to steer him in the right direction, pointing at Fein to take him.

Something must have gone wrong with the charge. One wall of the car was gone, and part of the roof, giving Brand a view of steamer trunks and packing cases and shipping crates piled like a child's building blocks. With all the smoke he didn't see Asher, and, backing around, keeping the gun trained on the hostages, made his way up the berm. The floor was at eye level, and, like the crates, badly splintered. He could see only the rear of the safe, a lacquered black box taller than he was. From inside came a busy rustling, like someone stuffing a mattress with leaves.