Good night.
What were the things she knew, things Uncle Ike could have said, but didn't?
Good night.
What did it mean? With that question, I laughed at myself. What else could it mean? I didn't want to think about it. Outside of my dad and Uncle Dan, there wasn't a man in the world I respected more. We were some kind of distant cousins, on my mom's side. She was related to Aunt Mamie, so the general and I weren't exactly blood relations but he was family. Problem was, so was Aunt Mamie. Jerusalem was a world away from Boston and Abilene but even so I didn't think it right. I felt a bit like a prude but I couldn't help it, maybe because I looked up to Uncle Ike so much. He always seemed to know the right thing to do. He was the one I looked to when I couldn't tell right from wrong, the one who taught me the terrible mathematics of war. Some will die today so that more will live tomorrow. He bore the weight of that equation silently, and you had to look closely to see how it burdened him.
I didn't want him writing love notes to Kay. I didn't want her lecturing me on how to work things out with Diana, and I didn't want Diana going off and getting herself killed. I wanted everything to be exactly as it was before we came to Jerusalem.
"Billy? I thought I'd find you here," said Mickey McKeogh, appearing from behind palm leaves. "The boss wants you, pronto."
"OK, Mickey," I said, draining my glass. "We going back to the war?"
"Dunno, Billy. Be a shame to leave this place. Almost as nice as the Plaza."
Mickey was a fellow Irishman who had been a doorman at the Plaza Hotel in New York City before the war. He knew his hotels. Since nothing was as nice as the Plaza, this was high praise for the King David. I followed him through the lobby, hoping that whatever came next would take my mind off Diana, Kay, and Uncle Ike.
I couldn't get that postcard out of my mind. A picture of the Garden of Gethsemane on one side, Uncle Ike's unsigned declaration on the other. I thought about that slab of rock in the church, the one the monks said Jesus prayed and wept on. And then I remembered another thing from my Sunday School lessons about the Garden of Gethsemane.
It was where Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus. With a kiss.
CHAPTER THREE
Mickey gave two short raps on the hotel-room door, opened it, and gestured to me to enter. I wondered what he knew about nighttime whispers and things left unsaid. What he knew would never pass his lips; he was as loyal as they came. He patted me on the back and shut the door behind me, leaving me in a narrow hallway, face to face with Uncle Ike. I felt as if an accusation was written across my face.
"William," he said, his face lighting up with his trademark grin as he put a hand on my shoulder. "Come in, come in. Are you all right? You looked flushed. Too much sun today?"
"No, no, sir," I said. "I'm fine. Really." He stared at me oddly for a second, searching for some hint of trouble. I put on my cop face and the look vanished.
"Good. I'm glad you were able to come along with me on this trip. I haven't felt so relaxed since we came over from the States. I slept ten hours last night; can you believe it?"
"Yes, sir, I can. You look good."
He did. The bags under his eyes didn't look as dark as they had back in Algiers, where he had been running a war while organizing a visit by a president and a prime minister. I craned my neck to find out who was in the room but couldn't see around the corner. I never called him Uncle Ike in front of anyone else, and I didn't think we were alone now, so I held back. He seemed to read my thoughts as he lowered his voice.
"Thanks, William. You deserve more rest yourself, but something's come up." He dug a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and lit up, glancing toward the room as he did so. "I'm afraid you're going to have to cut this trip short. Do you remember Major Cosgrove?"
I remembered. Major Charles Cosgrove, supposedly a representative of the British Imperial General Staff. In reality, he worked for MI-5, their counterintelligence and security division. We'd met when I first came to England, and he tried to use me in his intelligence games. I hadn't liked him then, and he didn't take to me. I doubted he'd changed much. I had-plenty-but it only served to make me more suspicious of him than I had been before.
"Sure, General. Swell guy."
"I know you two didn't get along during that affair with the Norwegians, William. But this time he's come to ask you for a favor, and it might be one you won't mind doing."
"It sounds like I'm going to be working for him, General."
"William, don't make it sound like a prison sentence. Remember, we're all on the same side, even though at times it may seem more trouble than it's worth."
He smiled, letting me know he understood and that he had his own English cross to bear. General Bernard Law Montgomery had been a constant source of irritation to Uncle Ike-and most Americans, for that matter-with his condescending remarks about U.S. troops and his overblown opinion of his own military genius. But Uncle Ike never said a single negative thing about him, in public anyway, for the sake of Allied unity. He rested his hand on my arm, raised his eyebrows, and waited for me to let him know I had gotten the message.
"I understand, sir. I'll be on my best behavior, I promise."
"Good, William. I knew I could count on you. Have you written to your mother lately?"
Uncle Ike walked me down the corridor, lecturing me on the virtues of writing to loved ones at home. I thought of Aunt Mamie looking forward to his letters, and of the brief but passionate postcard he'd written Kay. Did Mamie know all the things he could say but didn't? I tried to shake off the thought before I blurted out anything stupid, assuring Uncle Ike I would write soon.
"My young American friend! Good of you to drop in for a chat," Major Charles Cosgrove said. Sinking his cane into the carpet like a bayonet, he lifted his well-tailored bulk up out of a comfortable chair, teetered a bit as he got his balance, huffed as he took a few steps over to me, and shook my hand. "You're looking well, young Billy."
"You too, Major," I said, hoping the lie wasn't too apparent. There was more gray in the thinning hair than there had been, and in his waxed mustache too. He was still elegant, if you didn't count the sweat beading his brow or his immense girth held together by a spit-shined Sam Browne belt. Somebody else's spit, not his.
"Lieutenant Boyle, I'd like you to meet Subaltern O'Brien," Cosgrove said, stepping to one side as he took me by the arm. I hadn't been able to see anyone behind him as he stood but when he moved, a woman rose from another chair and held out her hand. A young woman. A young, pretty woman. And, judging by the sprinkling of freckles decorating her nose, as well as her name, a young, pretty Irish woman.
"Subaltern Slaine O'Brien, Lieutenant Boyle. Pleased to meet you." She was a bit on the short side, her eyes angling up to meet mine. They were green, her skin white, and her hair the color of honey, a mass of curls pulled back in a vain attempt to contain them.
"Same here," I said, enjoying the lilt in her voice. She both looked and sounded Irish, so her being with Major Cosgrove, wearing a British uniform, seemed damn odd to me.
"I'll leave you together to talk about this investigation," Uncle Ike said. "William understands the situation and will give you his full cooperation."
"Excellent, General Eisenhower, thank you so much for lending us the lieutenant," Cosgrove said, lifting his mustache in a broad smile.
"It was an honor to meet you, sir," O'Brien said, folding her hands like a schoolgirl as she faced the general.
"How do you spell your first name, Subaltern? I'm afraid that bit of Gaelic confused my midwestern ear," Uncle Ike said, all smiles for her after a sharp glance at Cosgrove, who seemed to be dismissing him.