Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

There was no challenge. Marinetti was the next to go over, weighted by the equipment he carried. Evans followed as lithely as Jones had done; Sneider went last. The three men sprinted, bent double, towards the house. Behind them Jones was splayed out on the ground, in firing position, the sniper’s rifle to his shoulder, every part of the house clearly visible through the image-intensifier sight.

Evans stopped with his back hard against the farmhouse wall, Uzi at the ready across his body. Sneider halted at the corner, covering the side of the house. Marinetti remained at the door, kneading plugs of the explosive into place around the locks and bolts, fitting the detonator caps and threading the wires to connect the three. He backed away, like a fisherman running out a net. Evans watched until the explosives expert disappeared around the corner of the house towards the second door at the rear.

Evans looked up, frowning at the sky. There were clouds but they were tattered and threadbare, jostled and torn by a bustling wind that swept them in front of a too full-moon; it wasn’t as bad as it seemed because he knew where to look, but in several moments of brightness he could see Jones clearly outlined in the garden.

Evans detected the movement as soon as Marinetti reappeared around the corner. The man stopped there, bending to twist the final connection for his wires, making them live. He looked up, giving the signal to Evans and Sneider and in turn Evans jerked the Uzi, a back-and-forth motion across his chest, knowing Jones would have him focused in the night-sight. There was a smooth, shadowy movement and the Jones arrived alongside. There was another sign from Marinetti, and Evans and Jones retreated from the door, hunching down beneath the window. With a minute to go, each man screwed in his earplugs against the percussion grenades. At two minutes to three, Marinetti fired the charges.

Marinetti had balanced it perfectly, using just enough charge to shatter the locks and hinges but no more. The noise came as a crack, the sort of sound that would have carried, like the sound of a poachers’ shot, as far away as the village. Evans and Jones were on the move as the door burst in, unrestrained by any inner bolts. They ran over it, darting immediately sideways and out of the framing rectangle of light. They reached the large room simultaneously with Hinkler and Bartlett entering from the rear. Perfectly coordinated, Evans got to the stairs first, halting at the bend with Jones directly behind him: the stun grenades went one after the other, tossed lightly just to clear the upstairs bannister. There was more noise this time, the crump of explosion and then the invisible sonic shiver which they all felt despite their protection. There was hardly any pause as they raced on, no confusion even here, Evans going for the farthest door, with Jones, then Bartlett, then Hinkler taking the bedrooms which had been assigned to them from the brochure details, each door burst in with one experienced kick directed against the lock.

The house was deserted.

They all reassembled at the central corridor. Evans snapped on the light, jerking the plugs from his ears.

“They’ve gone,” he said unnecessarily.

“Fuck it!” said Jones.

“We get paid.” Hinkler grinned.

“Three minutes to search every room. Take anything that looks like proof,” said Evans.

There was instant, unargued, unqueried obedience, each bedroom and the downstairs area searched hurriedly but well. Marinetti and Sneider remained at the shattered front door, alert for any signal from Melvin. They darted away singly, Evans first to establish guard at the gate, Marinetti staying in position until last at the doorway. Re-formed, they filed back down the lane, moving this time with less caution because they knew there would be no observation. Melvin rose from the ditch when they reached him, looking inquiringly back along the line.

“Too late,” said Evans.

They reached the van unchallenged, driving back towards Mulhouse with the rear interior light on so they could rub the night-black from their faces and remove their dark overalls.

“That was like jerking off in a whore house,” said Melvin, the man who liked to fight.

“Whoever owns that place is going to be mad as hell,” said Marinetti. “We sure made a mess.”

“There would have been a lot more, if they’d been there,” said Evans.

It was not as big as the first farmhouse, more a cottage this time, but it was much farther away from any neighbouring houses or villages. Karen hadn’t really been trying to measure, but she guessed there had been a gap of about ten minutes from the time they had passed through the last sleeping township until they pulled off the road to the new location. Twice, during the hurried departure, Azziz had been sick, ashamed despite his fever at showing weakness in front of a woman. The boy had been her first concern when they had arrived. She had cleaned him again, still careful to avoid any direct physical contact, and had told one of the men to stay with him, mopping him with cold towels. It seemed to be working back at Rixheim. They didn’t bother to manacle him to the bed anymore. Despite Levy’s attempt to prevent it, there was an inflamed ring of soreness around the boy’s ankle.

The house was stocked in readiness. She and Levy ate together off cold meat and wine and fruit. Afterwards, without discussing it, they both went to the same bedroom. They undressed each other with the undiminished excitement of discovery and made love twice in quick succession, as if aware that their relationship had a time limit, not wanting to waste one second allocated to them.

“This place was prepared, just in case,” said Karen. The windows were newly barred, like the farmhouse.

“Of course,” said Levy. “Everything’s been anticipated.”

“By schoolmasters and settlers?” She nuzzled against him, arm tight around his waist as if afraid he might try to escape.

“Underberg’s no schoolmaster. Just a Zionist who thinks like we do.”

“Underberg?”

She felt him tense slightly at disclosing the name. Almost at once he relaxed. “He brought us together,” said Levy. “Until then, there’d been no organization, just a lot of people making a lot of noise, but getting nowhere.”

“Why did we have to leave in such a hurry?”

“Underberg thought it best.”

“You mean they’d found out where we were?”

It was several moments before Levy replied. Then he said, “He’s not sure, but it was a possibility.”

Now it was Karen who remained silent, reminded of what was actually happening to her, that it would have to end; that there was a time limit. “Love me again,” she said huskily. “Quickly, love me again.”

They were trying to conceal the nervousness they had all felt at the abrupt departure, but two empty wine bottles were evidence of the general unease.

“Our leader finds a different way to relax,” said Leiberwitz.

“Maybe he’s gone to bed,” said Kahane loyally.

“He has!” said Leiberwitz. “With the whore.”

“He’s stupid to get involved,” said the smallest man of the group. Mordechai Sela was thin and bespectacled, a schoolmaster like Levy.

“He’s treating us like shit,” complained Greening. “Tete-a-tete meals which we’re expected to serve, like bloody underlings.”

“It’s not causing any problem, is it?” said Kahane.

“Not if he’s just screwing her,” said the fifth man, Levi Katz.

“What does that mean?” said Greening.

“What happens if he becomes fond of her?”

“Rebecca’s my cousin,” said Leiberwitz. “I’m expected to sit by while a man married to my cousin is rutting upstairs with some gentile whore.”