City of the Sun (24 page)

“It made sense,” Mickey said, shrugging off the compliment.

Kirk patted him on the back again.

“Donovan was a little surprised, frankly,” Dorothy continued. “But obviously Erik Blumenthal could be important enough to the building of a Jewish state that top-level Zionists would want to find a way to get him there. Our COI guy back there has no leads yet.”

Mickey took a seat on the rattan chair across from Dorothy’s
desk. “I’ve learned something interesting about Chaim Weizmann,” he started. “Of course he’s well known as a champion of Zionism, but did you know that he is also a scientist? In fact, he studied at the Polytechnic in Berlin, the very same university Erik Blumenthal attended.”

“Weizmann could never get involved in this,” Dorothy objected. “He’s a statesman, and it would be political suicide for him to risk alienating the English. They hold the key to his dream of a Jewish homeland in Palestine, and he would never risk losing their goodwill over one man, no matter how important.”

“I agree,” Kirk added. “But other highly placed people could be involved. David Ben Gurion has openly challenged the White Papers.”

Mickey was only half listening as a sheet of paper on Dorothy’s desk caught his attention. He pulled it toward him when he saw the word LICA in bold capital letters.

“Is this the list of the LICA board members?” he asked.

There were a dozen names on it, including those of publishers, doctors, lawyers, and other professionals in Cairo and Alexandria. “Yvette Cattaoui?” He frowned upon finding that name. “Is she related to Simon Cattaoui?”

“She’s his sister, and she’s the number-one lady-in-waiting to Queen Nazli, Farouk’s mother,” Dorothy answered.

“Wow! The queen’s closest confidante is a Zionist activist!” Mickey crossed his arms. “I wonder how she felt when her brother forced her out of business.”

The shrill ring of the telephone made everyone jump.

Dorothy grabbed it. “Yes, it’s Miss Calley.” She did not say anything except a few “rights” and “uh-huhs” for a long while.

“He’s here. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him. Jacques Antebie,” she mouthed at Mickey. “Just checking if we need anything,” she said, her hand covering the mouthpiece.

Mickey waved urgently for her to hand him the receiver. She hesitated, but he snatched it from her.

“
Bonjour
, Jacques. Mickey Connolly. Yes, I got a hold of Hans Nissel, thank you. But I’m a little confused. Why didn’t you tell me there had been Zionist organizations here in Cairo until recently?” he asked sharply.

“Ancient history. And they were never very significant,” Jacques protested, his voice booming over the telephone. “We were talking about the present situation.”

“Tell me, was there a connection between the Egyptian Zionists and LICA?”

“No,” Jacques replied. “The Zionists fight to help Jewish immigration to Palestine in order to create a Jewish state, while LICA fights against anti-Semitism everywhere and helps Jews resettle all over the world, not necessarily in Palestine.” He cleared his throat and added, “Some members of LICA were Zionists, but most strongly opposed it. This created a lot of friction within the group, but again, this was a while ago.”

“I see,” Mickey said. “What about Yvette Cattaoui? Was she a Zionist?”

“Very much so.”

Bingo. Mickey thanked him hurriedly and hung up. “I have to speak to Yvette Cattaoui,” he demanded. “If anyone would know how to get false papers, it would be her. She might have a personal axe to grind, a score to settle with her brother.”

“Slow down, kiddo,” Dorothy said. “We appreciate what you’ve done, but this is Donovan’s worry now.”

“Connolly,” Kirk said, visibly flustered. “You’ve carried the ball up to this point …”

“It sounds like you’re showing me the door,” Mickey interrupted, the smile on his lips quickly fading as he realized they were serious.

Dorothy lit a cigarette and looked away from him.

He was shocked that she wasn’t taking his side. “What’s going on, Dorothy? I thought we were pals.”

She lowered her eyes and shook her head, her face showing her forty or so years of age as she frowned. “I am being your pal,” she said softly.

“Ambassador?” Mickey sought a response from Kirk, who continued to avoid his eyes as well. “Hey, I may not be an expert, but I know my way around the Jewish community here better than any new COI guy you’d bring in.”

“We don’t know how Donovan wants to go about this,” Kirk said hesitantly.

“Donovan is taking over,” Dorothy said. “He’ll be in Cairo in two weeks.”

“Two weeks!” Mickey was appalled. “Blumenthal is a moving target. Things can’t stand still for two weeks, you know that,” he said angrily.

“Sorry. You’re off the case, Mickey,” she insisted, her face flushing. “The stakes are way too high to include anyone who isn’t a pro.”

“Well, I’m sorry, too, but I’m not done yet,” Mickey declared. “You did too good a job recruiting me.” He crossed his arms.

Kirk and Dorothy exchanged glances.

“Maybe we ought to think this over,” Kirk said. “Let me talk to Donovan.”

“I don’t think we can put him in touch with Madame Cattaoui without compromising ourselves,” Dorothy said to Kirk, sensing defeat.

“What about that big B’nai B’rith affair that the king is throwing on his yacht?” Mickey said. “I can’t imagine Madame Cattaoui not being there.” He turned to Dorothy with a big grin. “I’ll bet my bankroll you can find me a ticket, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER 23

Photo of scientist can be found in Copenhagen University Science Journal, Spring 1936 issue. Check library at Fuad University.

Kesner let out a victory cry as he deciphered Washington’s radio communiqué in response to Fastball’s inquiry. Sitting in his claustrophobic communication room, swallowing dozens of Benzedrine pills, and pissing into a bottle the liters of water he’d drunk to fight off sleep, he’d been waiting for this for the past thirty-six hours. Although the American Embassy in Cairo sent its transmissions out at fixed hours, Washington was unpredictable, and Kesner couldn’t afford to be away from his radio lest he miss this one. This was his chance to catch the American spy, who would undoubtedly be going to the library to retrieve the photo. Kesner would follow him and eliminate his rival.

He furiously radioed Tripoli, which had reiterated that this assignment was top priority.

Am on the trail of the American spy. Schwarze Hund.

Forgetting his aches and pains and general exhaustion, he climbed back upstairs to his bedroom, his heart beating rapidly from the rush of adrenaline. What a story this will be to tell his son one day! It was 6:30 AM. He pulled out a guidebook and
found that the library would open at 7:30. He had time for a quick shower before going down there to study the terrain and wait for Fastball’s arrival.

As he anticipated, there was very little traffic on the road, with the Arabs just stirring from their Sabbath prayers, and it took no time to reach Fuad University. To his puzzlement, when he got there at 7:15, the doors to the main library were already open. He went straight to the mezzanine, where the scientific journals were shelved, and had no problem finding the journal in question.

He anxiously flipped through it, only to discover that the page he wanted was missing, a fresh, clear tear along the side. Furious, he threw the journal on the table. “Someone has torn a page from this journal,” he complained bitterly to the librarian in charge.

“Ay! It must have been that woman from the American Embassy,” the man said as he inspected the damage. “She’d called before and asked as a favor to the embassy if we could open the library early.”

“When did she come?”

“Shortly before 7:00. She showed me her card. I could not deny this courtesy to the secretary of the American ambassador,” the librarian explained in a plaintive tone. “But I will call the embassy and insist she bring the page back.”

“You remember her name?”

The librarian shook his head. “They all sound the same to me.”

Kesner started out, but his nose twitched from the faint smell of tobacco. On one of the nearby desks, he found an ashtray with two lipstick-stained Viceroy cigarette butts. Fastball?

All Kesner had to do to transform himself back into a Westerner was to exchange the tarbush he had been wearing with his suit for
a fedora he’d bought at Cicurel. He stuffed a handkerchief into his chest pocket for added panache.
Et voilà
! Just another European dandy. He’d also bought at the department store a women’s purse, which he’d filled with basic feminine paraphernalia—face powder, lipstick, a mirror, and a comb.

An hour later, he walked into the American Embassy with a relaxed gait.

“She forgot it on the banquette at Groppi’s,” he said, laying the purse in front of the marine manning the reception desk. “She mentioned she worked with the ambassador.”

“Must be Miss Calley, Ambassador Kirk’s secretary,” the young marine replied, his crisp white-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes. “Let me buzz her. I’m sure she’ll want to thank you in person.”

“That’s quite all right. I’m in a hurry. Just tell her to be more careful next time.” As he spoke, his hands started to twitch and his scalp itched as if it were crawling with bugs. The damned Benzedrine! He quickly turned on his heels and pretended to head for the exit, but instead slipped into the visitor’s telephone booth, where he could observe the front desk. He removed his hat and gave his scalp a good scratching.

A few minutes later, a strawberry blond in a tight black skirt and a white ruffled blouse strutted in. She examined the purse and shrugged. After looking around, she returned it to the marine.

“Oh, my darling, aren’t you a lovely one,” Kesner muttered under his breath as he exited the embassy and walked to a bench a little way down the street. He checked that his Mauser pistol was securely tucked into his belt and leaned his head back. The sky was blue and cloudless. Another beautiful day. Like the banks, most embassies were open only half a day on Saturday. It wouldn’t be long before Blondie came out.

Shortly after one, the American girl, wearing white cotton gloves, descended the steps and strolled down the street.

“Excuse me, madame. May I bum a cigarette?” Kesner asked her.

“Sure thing,” she said in a raspy voice. “I hope you like filters.” She dug out a pack of Viceroys from her bag. “Here, finish the pack. I have another.”

Kesner smiled. He had found his prey.

He could hear her humming along to the strains of “Lili Marlene” on the radio as she shuffled around in her bungalow, calling out, “Fiji, come here, kitty.” Gun in hand, Kesner stood motionless behind the entry door, which had been left ajar for the cat, his heart and mind racing. He’d never considered that Fastball could be a woman. He hadn’t killed a woman before. He did not like killing. He had even thrown up the first time. “You can’t think about it; you just have to do it and forget it,” he had been told on his first day of training. “This is war.” He felt nauseous, but he had to press forward. Suddenly he felt a warm body brushing against his feet. It was her damned cat, and it refused to go away. Kesner kicked it, sending the cat scurrying away, meowing loudly.