The Age of Exodus Page 9

  But the encounter was not going to be as simple as either of them imagined. Even as Casement reached out to sign the bar book an immense paw landed on his shoulder and Forrester looked up to see a huge man with a strong, sunburned face and intelligent, piercing eyes.

  “G’day, Jack,” said the man. “Fancy meeting you in the lap of luxury.”

  Casement swung round, and for the first time, for a brief moment, Forrester saw fear in his expression. Then he smiled, showing his surprisingly small, even teeth, and took the man’s hand.

  “Billy Burke,” he said. “Good to see you again.”

  “That surprises me,” said the Australian. “But I’m certainly glad to run into you after all these years.” He smiled as he spoke, but the smile came nowhere near his eyes.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asked Casement. “We’re having brandy.”

  “I’ll have a beer,” said Burke, his steely gaze not leaving Casement’s. “For old times’ sake.”

  “So how’s business these days, Billy?” said Sir Jack, turning away to the barman.

  “Better than it was when I was involved with you, mate.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” said the industrialist. The beer arrived, Burke picked it up in a massive hand and swallowed most of it in one gulp. There was a silence, and Casement, uncharacteristically, seemed to want to fill the gap.

  “So what are you up to now?”

  “Diplomacy,” said the Australian.

  “Really?” said Casement, genuinely surprised.

  “Fortunes were recouped, donations were made, and a grateful government in Canberra has asked me to go to the United Nations as part of the Australian contingent.”

  “Congratulations,” said Casement.

  “Yeah,” said Burke. “Your lot haven’t sent you as well, have they?”

  “No,” said Casement. “I’m going to the States on aviation affairs.”

  “Well, I hope whoever’s doing business with you comes out of it better than I did,” said Burke, then he put the glass back on the counter with surprising delicacy and walked away.

  “These Australians,” said Casement, smiling – but his face was pale.

  * * *

  That evening Forrester sat at one of the round tables in the first-class dining room and surveyed his fellow guests. Ernest Bevin and the Foreign Office contingent were two tables away, close enough for Forrester to keep a dutiful eye on them but far enough away for them not to have to acknowledge one another. He recognised the plump outline of Crispin Priestley among the men surrounding Bevin, and there beside him was the tall, thin figure of Richard Thornham, flicking that lock of fair hair from his forehead. Neither of them saw him but he caught a quick, shrewd glance from Toby Lanchester, looking more world-wearily like James Mason than ever.

  But no one who looked anything like any of the eager, suntanned young men he had trained in the arts of silent killing back in wartime Palestine – and when he drifted past the table assigned, according to the purser, to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, he saw two benign, elderly white-haired souls who looked as if they should be on the cover of The Saturday Evening Post.

  Relaxing, he concentrated on the unfathomable delights of the menu, which was replete with such American treats as Seafood Cocktail, Louisiana Coleslaw, Southern-Style Fried chicken, Missouri Beef Brisket and Baked Idaho Potatoes. At the bottom of the menu the Cunard Line claimed, almost unbelievably, that if any guest wanted something not on the menu, they should not hesitate to ask. The red-faced military man sitting beside Forrester noted his expression of astonishment and leaned across confidentially.

  “Just to test them a chap from Texas once ordered rattlesnake steaks for four in mid-Atlantic,” he said. “And lo and behold they came out with a great heap of roasted eels on a silver platter, with a posse of waiters rattling maracas they’d borrowed from the band. Pretty good show, eh?”

  The elegant, horse-faced woman on Forrester’s right chimed in. “Our famous British sense of humour. How much it has allowed us to get away with.” She offered her hand. “Mrs. Theresa Palmer,” she said. “Is this your first crossing?”

  Though the woman was at least ten years older, Forrester could not help but be aware of her frankly appraising gaze as she spoke to him. For a fleeting moment he thought how uncomplicated a shipboard romance would be with such a woman, instead of the dangerous minefield he was entering with Gillian Lytton. And then he cursed himself for the thought, and gave an unthinking reply about the archaeology conference in New York, suddenly realising he had more of her attention than he had been bargaining on.

  “You study the past,” said Theresa Palmer. “I too have a great interest in what has gone before.” She fixed Forrester with eyes which were a deep violet and somehow hypnotic.

  “In what sense?” Forrester asked, not wanting to know the answer, but feeling strangely compelled to ask.

  “In the sense that the past pervades the present, and I want to understand how. I believe there are great patterns in human history, of which we are a part. I believe the study of history can reveal the nature of those patterns.”

  “I agree,” said Forrester, with studied neutrality. “The development of civilisation is a fascinating process.” He turned back to the menu.

  “I’m not talking about inventing the wheel and writing cuneiform messages on clay tablets, Dr. Forrester. I’m talking about getting in touch with other dimensions.”

  At the mention of cuneiform tablets Forrester abruptly stopped reading the menu.

  “Other dimensions in what sense?” asked Forrester.

  “You don’t believe we live in a universe of only three dimensions, do you?” said Mrs. Palmer reprovingly.

  Forrester smiled. “Four, if you include time.”

  “Oh, many more than that, my friend. I believe we are like Plato’s prisoners in the cave, observing only shadows. That in each of us there are other realities, wrapped one inside another, if only we could see them. That is the true meaning of magick.” And from the way she said the word Forrester knew she was spelling it with a “k”, as Crowley did.

  “Ah,” said Forrester. “The occult.”

  Theresa Palmer smiled forgivingly.

  “I see you are not yet a believer,” she said, “but even now you should not turn your back on psychic forces.”

  “Why? Do they threaten me in some way?” He looked at her hard, challenging her. She leant closer.

  “I saw you earlier with a lovely girl in the Observation Lounge. And I wonder if I might give you a word of warning.”

  “What kind of warning?”

  “I saw you introduce the girl to Sir Jack Casement. A very sinister aura glows around that man and as I watched it enveloped her too. Hers, when you and she were alone, was bright. As he approached, it dimmed.” Forrester’s mouth was dry. He strove to remain calm, to not let this woman unnerve him.

  “What do you conclude from that, Mrs. Palmer?”

  “That she is in danger, Dr. Forrester. That Sir Jack Casement is an evil man, and he wishes her harm. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I felt it my duty to tell you what I had seen. It’s your decision whether or not you believe it.” As she spoke she glanced towards the door and when Forrester followed her gaze he was almost certain he saw none other than Aleister Crowley peering into the room. But before he could be sure the door closed and the figure disappeared.

  Without thinking Forrester rose to his feet and strode across the dining room and through the door. There was no sign of anyone immediately outside, but Forrester was certain he could hear retreating footsteps on the stairs. He began to descend them, two at a time, holding onto the bannisters to swing himself around the corners.

  At each landing, the stairwell was empty.

  Then, two decks down he saw a pair of double doors still vibrating on their springed hinges, took a chance, went through them, and saw, twenty yards ahead, a man walking at an unhurried pace past the rows of cabin doors. He paused at one of them and turned
to glance casually back at his pursuer.

  It was the Australian diplomat, Billy Burke.

  He cursed himself for a fool. He had let that woman throw him off balance, distract him. Or had it been more than a distraction? Had she used some sort of mental technique to project the image of Aleister Crowley into his mind as he looked up from the table? Had she deliberately tricked him into leaving the dining room before—

  He raced back along the corridor and up the stairs. Several heads turned as he hurried past them, and as he arrived back at the Grand Salon he saw Ernest Bevin and his entourage emerge, unharmed. Bevin himself appeared not to see him, but Richard Thornham did, and registered mild, polite surprise. Priestley’s look, on the other hand, was distinctly startled. And then they were past, and Lanchester, behind them, glanced interrogatively at Forrester.

  Forrester shook his head, and as he did so remembered, with a sickening feeling, Theresa Palmer’s warning about Gillian. He turned to a steward, demanded directions to the tourist-class dining room and found himself pelting along the companionways again, his heart beating wildly till he found the entrance and pushed through it.

  And as he looked across the immense room he saw, to his relief, Gillian chatting gaily to a tableful of other young women and let out a long breath of sheer gratitude. But even as he was regaining control of himself a plump, bespectacled young man rose from a table near Gillian’s and walked out past Forrester, carrying something in his hand, and the sense of relief vanished as if a cold blast of Arctic air had suddenly blown through the room.

  Because the last time Forrester had seen the plump, bespectacled young man was in the Palmach training camp in the mountains of Palestine.

  9

  THE MAN FROM PALESTINE

  He had first met Aubrey Eban when they had both been in Cairo, where the scholarly Jew had been a British army officer charged with censoring Arab letters and newspapers. They had liked each other at once; Eban was a Zionist with a surprisingly strong interest in Arab culture, and he had introduced Forrester to a blind Egyptian novelist called Taha Hussein, who believed Egyptian nationalists should take their inspiration from Greek and Latin culture rather than what he regarded as the sterile Wahhabism of Saudi Arabian Islam. Trapped in his darkness, Hussein was profoundly grateful for the conversation Eban provided, and spending time with Aubrey Eban and this dignified, courtly writer was for Forrester a refreshing change from the cynical, corrupt, alcohol-fuelled atmosphere of Egypt’s capital in wartime.

  Then, as Rommel’s tanks rolled closer and closer to the Suez Canal, Forrester, on Churchill’s orders, had been sent to Palestine to train the Jewish settlers in guerilla warfare. Within days Aubrey Eban had been transferred there too in order to liaise between the SOE and the Zionists. Their friendship had continued, but it had been strained as Forrester realised he and Eban had different loyalties. Eban believed passionately that after the war Palestine should become a homeland for all Jews, but Forrester’s goals were much simpler. Before anything else could be considered, Hitler had to be defeated.

  Eban must have known, Forrester thought, that many of the men who were now England’s enemies had been trained in the arts of murder and sabotage during his time as liaison officer. It was very hard for an outsider to know the backgrounds of all the men who attended the SOE courses Forrester had taught, but he was certain that many of them belonged not to the legitimate settler defence groups, but to the Irgun and the Stern Gang.

  And now here Eban was, aboard the very ship that was taking Ernest Bevin to New York. As Eban walked away from the dining room, unaware that he had been observed, Forrester went after him.

  Eban peered into one room after another – a bar, a library, a smoking room – as if looking for somebody, before finally going through an outer door onto the deck. The night was cold and the ship was rolling harder as it hit the great Atlantic waves, but Eban walked steadily towards the stern, disappearing and reappearing as he passed in and out of the areas illuminated by deck lights.

  Forrester tried to see what he had in his hand, and could not.

  When Eban finally stopped by the stern rail and peered out into the darkness, Forrester waited in the shadows for five minutes, and then strode across the deck to stand a few feet away, as if he had come to look down, like his quarry, at the ship’s boiling wake. And then he glanced across at Eban, and feigned surprise.

  “Aubrey?” he said, tentatively, as though he had just realised this was someone he knew. Eban turned, puzzled. Forrester stuck his hand out. As he did so he saw that what the man had been carrying was a book. “Duncan Forrester. Good to see you again.”

  “Good God,” said Eban, transferring the book to his pocket and taking Forrester’s hand in a firm grip. “What are you doing here?” He seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

  Forrester explained about the archaeology conference. “And you?”

  “I left the army to work for the Jewish Agency,” said Eban. The Jewish Agency was the body which officially represented the Yishuv, the Jews already in Palestine, and was charged by the Zionist Congress with trying to establish a Jewish state there. “I’m going to New York to act as the Agency’s liaison with the United Nations.”

  “Do you know Ernie Bevin’s here as well, also headed for the UN?”

  “I do,” said Eban, guardedly.

  “I don’t imagine you have a very high opinion of him,” said Forrester.

  Eban met his eye. “Good guess,” he said. “Though I certainly don’t approve of those who have been trying to assassinate him.”

  “Who do you think they were?” said Forrester.

  “Almost certainly the Stern Gang, and as you know the Jewish Agency has no control over them.”

  Forrester knew this was true – up to a point. He also knew that the Agency was quite prepared to exploit the results of the terrorists’ violence if it brought closer the creation of a Jewish state.

  “In my view killing Ernest Bevin would set back your cause by decades,” said Forrester. “He’s a hero to a lot of people in Britain.”

  A sudden wave hit the ship, and Forrester had to hold tight onto the rail to avoid cannoning into Eban. Eban touched the book in his pocket as he secured himself with his other hand, and Forrester had a sudden conviction he was waiting for somebody. The deck lights were swinging wildly now, and it was hard to tell if there was someone else out there in the shadows.

  “Duncan,” said Eban. “It’s good to see you again and I remember our time together in Cairo and Jerusalem with great pleasure. The last thing I want to do is quarrel with you, or imply that I in any way approve of anyone trying to assassinate those who oppose us. But I must tell you this: as far as the Jews are concerned Mr. Bevin’s behaviour since he became Foreign Secretary has been monstrous.”

  “Monstrous? Seriously?”

  “Britain committed itself to providing a homeland for us in Palestine in 1917. The British Labour Party has voted year after year for that promise to be fulfilled. When Labour came to power two years ago and Ernest Bevin went to the Foreign Office we expected that commitment to be honoured. Instead, the opposite has happened. Hundreds of thousands of Jews who survived in concentration camps are still being kept behind barbed wire in Germany when they are desperate to go to Palestine. When a few of them get out and board some rust-bucket of a ship to run the British blockade they are caught, beaten up and put behind more barbed wire on Cyprus. All this because Bevin does not want to offend the Arabs.”

  “The Arabs have been living in Palestine since time immemorial,” said Forrester. “The Jews left two thousand years ago. It’s as if the Italians said they should all be allowed to settle in Britain because the Romans were once here.”

  “No one has been trying to exterminate the Italians,” said Eban. “Within the last decade six million Jews died in the gas chambers. Don’t you think the wretched survivors deserve a country of their own?”

  Forrester was silent for a few moments. The truth was that
since he had seen what the Nazis had done in the concentration camps he had understood all too well the desperation felt by Europe’s surviving Jews. But he also knew the kind of difficulties Ernest Bevin was dealing with – and Bevin had asked for his help.

  “The problem is, Aubrey, Britain has a mandate to keep order in Palestine between the Jews and the Arabs and Russia’s just waiting to exploit anything that goes wrong. Bevin has to weigh all those things up while Irgun and the Stern Gang are murdering British soldiers. Trying to kill him is crazy.”

  “There I agree with you,” said Eban. “I think Menachem Begin and his ilk are dangerous thugs. But what about the kind of Arab leaders Britain has been promoting? Who appointed al-Husseini as Grand Mufti of Jerusalem?”

  Amin al-Husseini had become the Grand Mufti in the 1920s, and when in the 1930s Nazi persecution of the Jews led thousands of refugees to flee to Palestine, he had fomented an Arab revolt in which thousands died. During the war he fled to Berlin, and encouraged Hitler in his pursuit of the Final Solution. Now he was busy coordinating Arab resistance to the establishment of a Jewish state.

  “I don’t know who appointed him,” said Forrester. “I assume it was us.”

  “Specifically, he was the protégé of the wretched St. John Townsend,” said Eban. “The great champion of the Arab cause.”

  “Townsend?” said Forrester. “The chap who translated the Sumerian myths?”

  “The same,” said Eban. “He’s regarded as a hero, a desert scholar, but he constantly championed the rights of the Arabs over the Jews. A perfect example of the kind of man who has far too much influence on the British Foreign Office.”

  “Where is he now?” said Forrester.

  “Last heard of in deepest Arabia,” said Eban, “selling oil rights to Stamford Oil on behalf of the Saudi royal family. And as a result of the influence of people like him, Britain has carved seven Arab nations out of the ruins of the Ottoman Empire and is refusing the Jews just one.”