City of the Sun (18 page)

“She’s right,” Joe agreed. “It is not the Jews, it’s the imperialist English, with their drinking and cavorting, who are the real enemy in the eyes of these extremists. They target us because we work closely with the British. But how can we not be friends with the English? They are protecting us from the Nazis.”

Erik kept silent. Maya knew her brother wasn’t so sure that the English were really such good friends of the Jews.

“I found some new war magazines for you,” Joe said to Erik, opening his attaché case, happily changing the subject. “Here we are.
The Navy, Review
, and
Blighty
. Lots of fighter plane stories for you. You don’t know how hard it was to find these.” He handed the magazines to Erik, who began flipping through the pages immediately.

“And you, my dear,” Joe turned toward Maya. “I don’t know
what you do to men, but my boss keeps asking when you’ll come back and help us again in the office, and he told me that the American journalist came again yesterday asking about you.”

“What American journalist?” Erik asked, confronting Maya.

“Nobody!” she said. “Just some American who found a book I left at the Shepheard’s Hotel.” She quickly moved away lest Erik detect the flicker of excitement she felt upon hearing that the American reporter had been asking about her.

CHAPTER 17

Mickey was surprised to find liveried marines standing guard at the embassy gate, where a number of chauffeured cars sporting Union Jacks on their fenders were parked. Dorothy came out to meet him in the reception area, which was crowded with British officers.

“I wish you’d call before barging in,” she said, looking frazzled. Traces of her normally perfect lipstick were caked on her lips. “I told you not to come more often than you usually do.”

“It’s only my second time this week,” Mickey retorted, trailing behind as she strode toward her office. “Why didn’t you return my calls the last two days? I think I may have a lead. I need to use the embassy phone to call Jerusalem.”

Dorothy stopped in her tracks and looked away, biting her lower lip. She seemed conflicted, and Mickey could see the wheels turning in her head.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that I think that from now on you should be more discreet,” she snapped, resuming her stride down the corridor. “There’s a back door to these offices from the PX. Give me a ring when you get there and I’ll unlock it for you.”

“Something happened?” he asked, trotting to keep up with her.

“Nothing. Just precautionary, that’s all.” She turned and noticed his black eye. “What happened to you, anyway? Fell off your horse?”

“It’s a long story.”

They entered her office and she practically slammed the door behind them. She leaned against it and looked at him intently for a long while. “Swear on the most important person in your life.”

“About what?”

“This is not the time for you to display your journalistic prowess, Connolly. Swear that I can trust you.”

He slowly walked closer to her, holding her gaze, his right palm raised toward her. “I swear on my mother’s grave I won’t say a word to anybody.”

She sighed and went to pull a cigarette from the pack in her purse. “Tobruk has fallen,” she finally said, her voice cracking on the last word. Her hand shook as she lit up.

“Oh, God.” Mickey sat down hard on the chair across from her desk.

“It’s likely that most of the South African Second Division are dead,” she added dully. “Thousands. They fought hard, but the Germans bombed the Allied troops without mercy. General Klopper eventually surrendered, after destroying all the fuel and water reserves in the town. I’m sure you understand the gravity of this news.”

Mickey nodded. He understood perfectly well.

A small coastal town in Northern Libya, Tobruk had been staunchly defended by the Allies as the German advance continued east toward the Egyptian border. The town had been under siege for months, cut off by land from the rest of the Allied lines, though the Royal Navy had continued to supply it by sea, but at a terrible price. The route, known as the “Spud Run,” was plagued by German
Stukas
that regularly destroyed supply ships as they
unloaded. Still, High Command wanted to keep this toehold in Rommel’s flank to prevent him from concentrating all his forces on Cairo, and until now it had been a thorn in his side.

“Who are all those people in the reception hall?” he asked.

“Ambassador Kirk has been in meetings with the British ambassador, Sir Miles Lampson, and members of the British military. It’s been nonstop since yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Mickey’s head jerked up. “I thought it just happened. How come nobody … the press—”

“Forget the press, Connolly,” she interjected, annoyed that by now he still hadn’t learned that the press was the last to know anything. “It will be announced at tomorrow’s briefing. Sir Miles is making plans to evacuate the women and children from the city, and he’s already made arrangements to transfer the gold reserves to Khartoum.”

“Wait a second,” Mickey said, getting up from his chair. “Isn’t this a bit premature? Aren’t there other Allied outposts between Tobruk and Cairo?”

“A few. Mersa Matruh is the next one. About three hundred miles west of here.” Mickey swallowed hard and sat down again. That’s where Hugh was probably headed.

“And the old Desert Fox will slice right through it,” she continued under her breath.

“Don’t say that,” Mickey reproached her. “What are we doing about this?”

“Churchill is sending reinforcements. They’re going to sound the bells in Westminster tonight, as if it were a funeral. They’re calling it a catastrophe.”

“It’s not over yet,” he assured her. “Perk up, Dorothy.”

“I’m just blue today. Let’s not talk about it anymore,” she said as she walked over to her desk and pulled a revolver in its shoulder holster from the drawer. “I forgot to give this to you. All of our
COI agents have one.” She weighed the pistol in her hand, serious. “This is a German Walther PPK, a Detective Special. It holds six rounds. Supposedly the agents of MI5 don’t even bathe without it.”

“So the Brits do bathe?” he asked.

“This is not the time to be funny, Connolly. You ever used one of these before?”

“Never used a PPK, but my father keeps a Browning in the house, just in case.” He took the weapon and ejected the cartridge cylinder, spun it quickly, and clicked it neatly back into place.

“The trigger is stiff, and I guarantee you the recoil will be pretty snappy,” she warned.

He whistled, impressed with her knowledge.

“My ex-husband collected them, along with a wide variety of women,” she volunteered, closing the desk drawer and straightening her blouse. “He left me for a rail-thin brunette.”

Behind that tough exterior was a broken heart, Mickey saw. He started to mumble, “I’m sorry to …”

“Don’t fret about it. I’m better off,” she stopped him.

He handed her back the gun. “Thanks, but I’m not a COI agent, and I like to take my showers unarmed. What I do need, though, is a phone line to Jerusalem. I want to talk to a professor at the Hebrew University who wrote an article about recent advances in quantum physics—‘Jew science,’ as the Nazis call it. I gather their physics and chemistry departments are world renowned. I bet Erik Blumenthal is—”

There was a knock and the door quickly opened wide. “Oh, Mr. Connolly. I didn’t know you were here.” It was Kirk. He looked worn out. “I’m glad to see you, though. Did you tell him about Niels Bohr?” he asked Dorothy.

“I didn’t have a chance.”

“Donovan spoke to him yesterday. Dr. Bohr has relocated to the United States, at least for now. He said Erik Blumenthal has polio.”

Mickey looked at Dorothy with an “I told you so” smile. He’d guessed from the photo there was something wrong with his legs. He turned to Kirk, encouraged.

“What else did he say?”

Kirk exchanged wary looks with Dorothy before answering. “In the last letter Blumenthal wrote to him, he promised to send Bohr the paper he’d been working on, but he never did.” Kirk started to leave. “Dorothy, when you’re done, I’d like to talk to you. Ambassador Lampson has gone.” He was about to close the door behind him when Mickey called out.

“About the fighting in the desert, sir,” he glanced hesitantly at Dorothy, who glared back—he’d better hold his tongue. “Is everything all right?”

“It will be.” Kirk winked and exited.

“Sorry that with all the excitement we haven’t had a chance to talk about Blumenthal,” she said as she sat behind her desk. “Interesting news. Erik is traveling with an older man and a young woman. His father and wife, we presume. We’re looking further into this.”

“Interesting,” Mickey said, but before he had time to muse on this, she continued.

“I did hear from the LICA folks in New York. They’re sending me a list of all the past members of their Cairo branch.” She picked up a note. “I’ve also received a message from the UK General Electric that Mr. Nissel is not interested in talking to anyone from the press.”

“Maybe I can change his mind,” he shrugged. “I’ll get his address from the Jewish community center.” He knew that most Jews were registered there.

Later in the day, Mickey headed home, feeling tired and discouraged. He had phoned the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but the professor he was looking for was now teaching at Princeton,
and no one there had heard of Erik Blumenthal. They had suggested he try the Daniel Sieff Research Institute in Rehovot, a new advanced research facility established by Chaim Weizmann, who was the Hebrew University’s founder and was also the president of the World Zionist Organization. Mickey had left the embassy curious to learn more about Weizmann, and Dorothy was going to get the COI agent in Tel Aviv to poke around the Rehovot institute for him. She was taking his new lead seriously.

When he arrived at his building, Hosni, his bawab, took a good look at his purple and swollen eye and prescribed: “Vitamin E oil, mixed with two or three drops of the milk of the jenny, the female donkey, and a bit of honey. Three times a day.” He also gave him a note from Hugh inviting him to join in an evening promising women and alcohol galore. Mickey smiled, but he was too despondent to do anything tonight. As he neared his apartment door, he heard the phone ring. He raced to open the door, but the key got stuck in the lock. When he finally freed it and was able to unlock the door, he rushed to the phone, but the line went dead just as he picked up the receiver. Damn it.

He didn’t have to wait long before the phone rang again.

“Pronto,” he found himself saying.

“Pronto? Don’t you say ‘hello’ in America?” a voice teased.

A grin spread over his face. “Maya!” he said.

CHAPTER 18

With al-Banna free, more acts of terrorism can be expected against Jews. In a joint statement yesterday, Rabbi Haim Nahum Effendi, the Chief Rabbi of Cairo, and Simon Cattaoui, the president of the Jewish community, urged Jewish shopkeepers to close their businesses next month on the anniversary of the Balfour Declaration, as a precautionary measure.

Erik read aloud from today’s newspaper, his feet propped up by pillows as he lay reclining on his bed. He finally glanced up at Maya, who was standing at the doorway, shaking her head, while Vati, his back turned, was bowing silently in prayer, facing the window.

Of course Maya was interested in learning about the extremist group, but this was not the time. She had just stopped by to say good-bye to her brother and father on her way out to her secret rendezvous with the American journalist, and she was impatient to extricate herself. She’d planned the whole outing carefully. She was to meet him at Groppi’s, a coffee house in the center of town, and had carved out the whole afternoon on the pretext that she was visiting the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. What she didn’t bargain for was that the entire family would be home today because of a school holiday. She had to
get out of the house before some crisis or another made her escape impossible.

“This is horrible,” Maya said, crossing her arms and discreetly peeking at her watch. “Why is it that wherever we go we find bad news for the Jews?”