Exodus - Leon Uris [319]
Foster J. MacWilliams smelled a rat.
“How was the trip, old buddy? I’m sure glad to see you.”
“Just fine. Now if you’ll give me my back pay, old buddy, I’ll just shuffle off to Paris. I got my hooks on a real goer and a month before I hitch a ride to Rio D.”
“Sure, sure,” Stretch said. “Got the check right here in the safe.”
Stretch watched Foster MacWilliams’ eyes bug out. “Four thousand, five hundred and no zero zero’s!”
“The extra five bills is to prove that Stretch Thompson ain’t no hog,” Stretch said.
“You’re a big man ... always said that.”
“Y’ know, Tex, this here is an interesting place. Just about everybody around here is a Jew. Been here a week and I can’t get used to it.”
Foster was reluctant to ask why Stretch was here—but he did.
“Name on the door tells the story. Palestine Central Airways. I thought of the name myself. You see, these guys here haven’t had too much experience running a first-class line, so they induced me to stay. First thing I told ’em ... boys, I said ... if you want a first-class operation, you have to have a first-class chief pilot and I got the best goddam chief pilot any goddam airline ...”
“I’ll see you around,” Foster said, standing up quickly.
“What’s the fire?”
“I’m on my way to Paris.”
“I got a deal for you.”
“Not interested.”
“Do me the courtesy of listening.”
“I’ll listen but I’m not buying. I’m going to Paris if I got to swim there.”
“Here’s the pitch. Like I said, everybody around here is a Jew. They bought out the old Arctic Circle so’s they could haul more Jews in. Man, I hear they got them stashed everywhere in the world, and they all want in. All we got to do is bring the bodies in. Can’t you see it? Every load a pay load. Cash on the line ... per head. This is dream stuff, Tex boy. Stick with me and you’ll be bathing in it. You know me, Tex ... I ain’t no hog.”
“I know what I’ll be bathing in. I’ll drop you a card from Rio D.”
“O.K., Foster ... been nice knowing you.”
“Now, don’t get mad, Stretch.”
“Who’s mad, who’s mad?”
“We’ve had our times in Nome.”
“Sure ... sure ... well times. I froze my butt off.”
“Well, put her there,” Foster said. Stretch shook his hand halfheartedly.
“Now, what’s the matter, Stretch? You act like I’m putting a knife in your ribs.”
“Going to level with you, Foster. I’m in trouble. We got a hot flash that a bunch of these Jews are sitting around and waiting to be picked up at a place called Aden. I had some pilots but they chickened out on me.”
“That’s tough titty. You don’t con me. I’m going to Paris.”
“Sure,” Stretch said. “Go to Paris. If I was you I’d go too. I don’t blame you. Those other pilots ran like striped apes when they heard there was danger of the Arabs firing on them.”
Foster was on his way out. He stopped and turned around.
“You’re right, Foster. No use getting your brains blown out. This is a real rough run ... even rougher than flying the Hump or running dynamite over the Andes.”
Foster J. MacWilliams licked his lips. Stretch went into some more dramatics but he knew that the bait had been swallowed.
“Tell you what I’m gonna, Stretch. I’ll make this run for you just to help you off a spot. By the time I’m back you’d better gotten your hooks on some pilots. Just one run. Now where the hell is this Aden?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Well, let’s get a map and look for it.”
As Foster J. MacWilliams, American tramp pilot for Palestine Central, nee Arctic Circle, took off from Lydda airdrome he opened a twentieth-century fantasy out of the pages of the Arabian Nights.
He flew toward the British protectorate of Aden at the bottom of the Arabian Peninsula, moving right down the Red Sea.
The story actually began three thousand years before Foster’s time in ancient Sheba. In the time of the Queen of Sheba, the southern part of the Arabian Peninsula was a land of richness. The people had learned the art of constructing spillways and dams and cisterns to trap and conserve water and, with