New Jerusalem

  NEW JERUSALEM

  by

  John Meaney

  copyright © John Meaney 2010

  All rights reserved

  John Meaney is the author of eight previous novels, including one of the Daily Telegraph Books of the Year, and an Independent Publishers Novel of the Year. He has been three times shortlisted for the British Science Fiction Association Award.

  He has a degree in physics and computer science, and is a black belt in shotokan karate. Having been a globe-trotting IT consultant, teaching software engineering on three continents, he now hides away in a Welsh valley to write.

  Part I

  WINTER

  ONE:

  HAMBURG, November 1962

  Who is this man in the cobbled street, alone on his thirty-third birthday, heading for a crowded nightclub cellar? Perhaps in love, his dream-woman – he's phoned her already – living abroad with her husband – yes, husband – a country and a lifetime away. And the funny part? Both he and the beautiful Fern owe their lives to the same man: her husband and his friend, also mentor: the one who taught him to survive in this, the most dangerous of professions.

  So what do you call this man, myself?

  I call him David Wolf, the man in the shaving-mirror every morning; but the name in my passport can be anything. It depends on the country, on the operation. Keeping track of who you are is part of staying alive.

  And here was Hamburg, in the north-west of my adopted country. Off duty, alone outside a nightclub. The idea was to meet up with Moshe Boaz – call it a rendezvous if you like – but where was he? At least the environs were safe, because this was home ground.

  I stopped at the entrance to the cellar, listening to the muted pounding of the music, wondering at the significance of a thirty-third birthday, perhaps some second coming-of-age when illusions drop away. There'd be no drowning of sorrows tonight because you know what happens when you let down your guard: queues for the cattle trucks, stone-faced men with guns who prod you aboard the terminal express. You think the dark times are always in the past? That they can't happen again?

  For God's sake, relax.

  I let out a breath and descended the steps into noise.

  There was darkness spliced with red and blue spotlight beams. It was warm and crowded. On the stage, a band was playing with energy, their presence electric.

  Please hug me, do—

  I want to hug you...

  Easing through the spaces between people, I reached the bar. Everyone else was intent on the band. The bartender approached.

  "Careful, sir." He pointed to a puddle of beer on the counter.

  "Always," I said. "And I'll have an orange and soda."

  Beside me, two young women, gazes focused on the stage, danced to the beat.

  "Besser als den König, ja?" The bartender gestured while popping the bottle-top. "Better than the King."

  "You mean Elvis?"

  "Sure." He poured the fizzy drink. "Those four boys have got something, you know?"

  "If you say so." I pushed a five J-Mark note across the counter. "Keep the change."

  "Really? Thank you."

  Glass in hand, I turned back to scan the cellar. There was a phone behind the bar, and the bartender might let me use it, but who was there to call? I'd already phoned Brooklyn to talk to Uncle Isaak. And Paris, where Fern had answered: "Happy Birthday, cheri."

  "Sacré bleu," I'd said. "I must be getting old."

  "Yes. I miss you... Are you celebrating tonight?"

  "I'm meeting Moshe. But I wish you—" Then crackling had filled the phone, and I'd stopped for a moment.

  "Take care of yourself, my l..."

  That was when a deep voice had sounded in the background – Jean-Paul calling out – and the line had clicked and buzzed. Unsatisfying as hell.

  Here in the club, as the music continued, an older couple got up from their table to leave. Good. "Timing is everything," Brummie Greenmore used to say, though he'd been thinking of warfare, not the social graces.

  I manoeuvred past four young women who were bouncing in their seats, unable to look away from the stage, their skirts revealing enough inner thigh to give their rabbi a heart attack. Their boyfriends, in dark suits and loosened ties, were shiny-faced and grinning.

  Perhaps the band did have something.

  A waitress reached the empty table at the same time as me, and picked up the used glasses. I smiled at her and said thanks.

  "You're welcome." Her hair was long, dyed fashionably black. "What do you think of the music?"

  "I like it."

  She nodded, then moved away with something vulnerable in her walk, something compelling; but then I thought of Fern, in Paris with Jean-Paul. I sat down, my right shoulder against the wall. It's my preferred position, being left-handed: it frees up my stronger side. And the glass could form a weapon in case of—

  For God's sake, shut up.

  My eyelid began to twitch. I took in a breath, held it, then released just as the band's number came to an end. Cheers and applause multiplied as one of the singers leaned close to the mike and spoke in a Liverpudlian accent: "You like it? That song's our new one."

  Assenting yells rose from the crowd.

  "Do we still like Be-bop-a-lula?"

  More yells.

  "Can't hear you..."

  And more.

  Then the band were into it and the joint was rocking again, the old brickwork throbbing with sound. But there was another faint vibration: something primal, biochemical, nothing to do with music.

  I haven't mentioned the reptile brain. We all have one. Most civilized men and women ignore its messages and still survive; others live closer to reality.

  Danger? Here?

  An overweight man, his raincoat dull, was heading this way. He stopped, took off his glasses, then polished the lenses. A self-effacing action. So why was he noticeable? Because the gesture was deliberate, therefore false?

  He approached my table, replacing his glasses on his nose. Possibly the lenses, in their black heavy frame, were plain: a mild disguise.

  "Shalom." He stopped before my table. "Can I sit with you?"

  "Yeah, shalom." There was something familiar about him. "Who are you?"

  "A writer, like yourself." He looked at the stage. "Hoping to catch a good act. Um..." He patted his pocket. "I forgot my arnak."

  "Uh-huh."

  Arnak meant wallet, but the important thing was that it started with the letter aleph and ended with koph.

  "Then you're supposed to say," he continued, "haven't you got any kesef?"

  He meant money, but only because it began with the letter koph, matching the last character of the prompt-word.

  "You told the Duty Officer" – he sat down, heavy and uncoordinated – "you'd be at the university library."

  "So I changed my mind."

  A paper by Otto Hahn had filled the afternoon, because Schröder had told me to brush up on nuclear physics. Hahn's paper modelled a splitting atom as a large raindrop rupturing in two, electric repulsion fighting against surface tension. It made me think of Fern, married to Jean-Paul. Welcome to my reality.

  The waitress came over. The heavy man ordered a Carlsberg. They both looked at me, and I shook my head. It was getting harder to talk as Be-bop-a-lula built to a crescendo.

  After the waitress had left, I said: "I'm not on standby."

  He said nothing, and we waited. The waitress returned, plumped down golden beer, picked up agorot coins, then threaded her way to the bar.

  "Did I ruin your chances, Wolf?"

  On stage, the band were starting a new number.

  "No. Who are you?"

  "Call me Pinchas. I'm here to ask for a favour."

  In the classics, Pinchas me
ans oracle. "You're here to enlighten me?"

  "No." He gave a tiny smile. "Not entirely."

  We let the conversation hang once more as the music grew louder. Then he leaned forward, pitching his voice bass-deep: "You're expecting Moshe Boaz, is that right?"

  Moshe, why aren't you here?

  Have you ever watched two cats staring each other out? The impasse lasted until I grew impatient.

  "What's going on?"

  He gave a miniscule shake of his head. "When did you make the arrangement?"

  "Two months ago." My stay this week in Hamburg, at an academic conference, had been scheduled a long time back. "Before Moshe went to Czech."

  Pinchas raised an eyebrow. We were speaking English, and Czech sounds like check, not that anyone could eavesdrop in this din. But we're not supposed to talk about our whereabouts, not when there's a mission involved.

  So where the bloody hell was Moshe?

  Blank-faced, Pinchas stood up. Then he turned away and slipped among the dancing bodies, and was gone. Expecting me to follow?

  "You're fantastic!" On stage, the four musicians stood in a row, their instruments propped at the back of the stage. "We love you, Hamburg!"

  They turned around in unison, backs towards the audience, to reveal the embroidered skullcaps they wore. Each yarmulke bore a glittering letter B.

  The crowd screamed.

  It was perfect showmanship. The band members pulled the yarmulkes from their heads and sent the round caps sailing one by one into the audience. Dozens of hands reached up to grab them.

  But there was no place for me here.

  I pushed my way through the young crowd, then climbed the exit steps, the din receding behind me. Outside in the night, the cobblestones were frost-slick, the air was icy, filled with shadows, my natural home.

  There was no trace of Pinchas. Black waters glimmered with reflections, foreground to the new town hall across the river, gleaming in the spotlights. Aching white against the night, stood the Star of David flag.

  Behind me, like some trailing quantum connection, I felt a link to the cavernous club where innocent youngsters enjoyed the happy, mindless warmth with no regard to the stark machinations that keep them safe. The dark things that some of us must deal with.

  To my left, a hundred metres distant, a shadow-shape moved. Pinchas, passing behind a fountain.

  So where is Moshe?

  Tramlines glinted along the cobblestones, silver reflections shifting as I walked. From the lampposts, iron flower-baskets hung, empty and forlorn on this November night. The clubs pulsed with neon-lit noise. There was scattered foot-traffic, normal for this hour. Most street corners held at least one prostitute with a handbag at her feet: the Reeperbahn maintaining its peculiar charm.

  I caught a glimpse of Pinchas's raincoat as he reappeared and was gone, turning a corner up ahead.

  "You looking to make love, dearie?"

  "Sorry, not tonight."

  Bare-headed, I walked on in the chilly breeze, shoulders a little hunched, head tilted down while scanning my surroundings.

  The environment looked clear as I swung wide of the corner by reflex, leaving plenty of room. All remained status-green (in our simple coding structure) entering a narrow street called Saul Rachov. The pavement sloped upwards, and I liked the extra physical work, lengthening my stride. It was a partial warm-up in case Pinchas wasn't who he claimed.

  My perceptions shifted to status-amber, threatening red. This stuff is more intelligent than it sounds, because these mental models have to operate in tenths of a second. How long does it take to pull a trigger?

  There was a Sabra saloon waiting at the kerb, engine idling. My adrenaline began to surge until I recognized the stone-faced man sitting behind the wheel. He was Branch 7, his face familiar, his name unknown.

  Pinchas got into the back, leaving the door open, and slid over to the far side. I got in after him and pulled the door shut as the driver slipped the car into gear. We headed into the Altstadt, the Old Town, following a zigzag route designed to check for surveillance. The driver was professional, making good use of his mirrors, and after a few minutes I stopped checking on him. Pinchas began to speak.

  "You've been on active work with Moshe Boaz. Three operations, right?"

  So he was getting to the point.

  "Not really. Two of those," I said, "were peripheral contact. Handing over documents. The third wasn't even a mission."

  "Then what was it?" And, seeing my glance flicker towards the driver: "Don't worry, he's fully cleared."

  "No offence."

  The driver gave a tiny nod as he swung the Sabra parallel with one of the smaller canals (the Yiddish-speaking locals use the old German name, Fleeten) and continued driving.

  "So about Boaz...?"

  "Moshe and I were in England, seconded to the SAS for several months."

  "SIS?" He meant British intelligence, alias MI6.

  "No, the Special Air Squadron."

  "Ah. How was that?"

  "Cold."

  The Brecon Beacons in winter make for a harsh training environment, not to mention the drain on mental resources. Above all I learned the meaning of endurance. Expecting muscular heroes, what I found were small, lean, quiet men with watchful eyes and inhuman discipline. Men who never, ever gave up.

  "How did you get on with Boaz?"

  "He knew his stuff. And he hung on in there when things grew tough."

  Dangling over a precipice by one hand with a devil-may-care grin on his face. Waterfall crashing below, fingers crimped around slick wet rock, nerves and muscles already at the limit from eight days trekking across fog-bound mountains with minimal rations.

  And his innocent laughter when I hauled him up. I would not forget Moshe Boaz in a hurry. Was he even still alive? Because we never, when it boils down to it, miss a rendezvous, not even a birthday drink. Not unless the mission blows apart.

  "So what—?" But the car was slowing, so I leaned toward the driver. "Problem?"

  "No, just checking the perimeter. We're almost there."

  "All right."

  We decelerated.

  Ten minutes later, Pinchas stood beside me, briefcase in hand, upon a deserted dock. We watched the Sabra recede, then turn a corner and drive out of sight. Ten feet away – sometimes I think in feet and inches, other times in metres: the least of my conflicts – and perhaps fifteen feet below us, the canal's black waters lapped, thick and viscous in the night. There was a faint, continuous bumping sound. Tied up immediately below the dock was a small fleet of barges. A dinghy was touching a barge, rubbing against it.

  The clear channel stretched along the far side of the waterway. As we watched, a police launch sailed along the open route, its bow-wave phosphorescent beneath the winter moon. But the movement was all on the water. On the dock, cargo cranes stood like black iron skeletons, waiting for the morning and a return to life.

  "Are we meeting someone?"

  "There." Pinchas inclined his head. "See?"

  Moonlight shifted, and just for a moment a winged shape, pale as bone, floated half a mile away upon the waves. Then clouds slipped across the moon, and the image was gone.

  "That's a Beechcraft," I said. "Seaplane."

  "Correct. It arrived at lunchtime today from Berlin, and Moshe should have been aboard. Hitching a lift."

  "Hmm. And when did he arrange that?"

  "About two months ago." Pinchas turned toward me. "When you and he decided that tonight would be a good time to meet up."

  "Yes, but—"

  There were warehouses to my left, and just for a moment I'd felt – not seen – a shadow move against shadow.

  "Is there any chance," I murmured, "that Moshe's been arrested in Czechoslovakia? That he's been interrogated?"

  "There's every chance" – Pinchas had condensed into immobility – "that something's gone wrong. What have you seen?"

  "Maybe noth—There. Shit."

  Three shadows, possibly four, shi
fted against the darkness beneath a warehouse's fire-escape. Behind us, the police launch grew loud as it sailed back, returning along the cleared channel. But there was no point in yelling for help – we'd be dead before they noticed us.

  And far along the dock was something else: a silhouette against the corner where our Sabra had turned off and disappeared. Had the bastards surrounded us?

  "We should walk," I said.

  Pinchas and I turned together, as if about to stroll away; but four men stepped from cover. Everyone stopped. They positioned themselves in a loose arc. Three of them held black handguns pointed toward the ground. The fourth clutched a Bren submachine-gun, held close like something precious.

  Oh God, Fern. I want you so much.

  A propeller kicked into life. The seaplane was starting up.

  "Er..." Beside me, Pinchas began to shake, swallowing. "Please, um... You want the share certificates?" He held up his briefcase. "Take them. Please... Just don't... Don't."

  The man with the Bren gun looked toward one of the others, a crew-cut bulky guy in a short coat, and held out his left hand. The bulky guy handed over his automatic – you don't carry a weapon into an enemy's grabbing range – then walked toward Pinchas.

  "P-please." Pinchas was shivering now. "Here."

  He offered the briefcase.

  The seaplane's engine grew thunderously loud, and beneath the din grew another note. I didn't dare look along the dock, but the sound came from a car. With luck, a Sabra saloon.

  Please let it be him.

  Three things happened simultaneously.

  As the bulky man approached, Pinchas whimpered and launched himself forward, ramming the briefcase into the man's throat. At the same time the Sabra's engine roared and the brakes squealed, a stench in my nostrils as blue smoke poured from beneath the wheel arches; and the guy with the Bren gun was bringing it to bear, but a lifetime too late as the Sabra saloon swung through a handbrake turn like a giant's baseball bat and there was a wet smack. The gunman cartwheeled through the air, flung like a broken toy.

  God oh God oh God.

  And I was moving while my nerves screamed and it was fear that galvanized my thrusting fingers into eyeballs – wet and soft – before spinning away, my elbow into another man's throat and my heart pounding as I clenched his forearm against my chest, hugging like a desperate lover to control the gun. My knee went in, and again, then once more as his fingers weakened, so I stripped away the gun and used it to hammer down, and he was on the ground.