Exodus - Leon Uris [9]
“Sir,” he persisted, “in case Parker does become curious and does decide to snoop around, don’t you think it would be wise to have a couple of CID men watching him?”
“See here, you leave him alone. Just tell a newspaperman ‘no’ and you’re apt to stir up a hornet’s nest. Refugee stories are out of style these days and I don’t believe he would be interested in their camps here. None the less we are not going to run the risk of arousing his curiosity by forbidding him to do anything. If you ask me I think it was a mistake for you to see him today.”
“But, Brigadier ... after that trouble in Holland ...”
“Bring the chess table, Freddie!”
There was something absolutely final about the way Sutherland said “Freddie.” Caldwell grumbled under his breath as they set up the chessmen. They made their opening moves but Sutherland could see that his aide was unhappy. He set down his pipe and leaned back.
“Caldwell, I have tried to explain to you that we are not running concentration camps here. The refugees at Caraolos are merely being detained on Cyprus until those blockheads in Whitehall decide what they are going to do with the Palestine mandate.”
“But those Jews are so unruly,” Caldwell said, “I’m certainly in favor of some good old-fashioned discipline.”
“No, Freddie, not this time. These people are not criminals and they’ve got world sympathy on their side. It is your job and mine to see that there are no riots, no outbreaks, and nothing that can be used as propaganda against us. Do you understand that?”
Caldwell didn’t understand. He damned well thought that the brigadier should be much tougher with the refugees. But no one wins an argument with a general unless he happens to be a bigger general and it was all so deep—so Caldwell moved a pawn forward.
“Your move, sir,” he said.
Caldwell looked up from the board. Sutherland seemed completely withdrawn and oblivious of him. It was happening more and more lately.
“Your move, sir,” Caldwell repeated.
Sutherland’s face was troubled. Poor chap, Caldwell thought. The brigadier had been married to Neddie Sutherland for almost thirty years, and suddenly she had left him and run off to Paris with a lover ten years her junior. It was a scandal that rocked army circles for months, and Sutherland must still be taking it hard. Terrible blow for the brigadier. He had always been such a decent sort of chap. The white face of Sutherland was lined with wrinkles, and little red veins on his nose turned bright. At this moment he looked all of his fifty-five years and more.
Bruce Sutherland was not thinking about Neddie, as Caldwell believed. His mind was on the refugee camps at Caraolos.
“Your move, sir.”
“So shall your enemies perish, Israel ...” Sutherland mumbled.
“What did you say, sir?”
Chapter Five
MARK LED KITTY back to the table, both of them breathless. “Do you know the last time I danced a samba?” she said.
“You’re not so bad for an old broad.”
Mark looked around the room filled with British officers in their army khakis and navy whites and their high and low English accents. Mark loved places like this. The waiter brought a new round of drinks and they clicked glasses.
“To Kitty ... wherever she may be,” Mark said. “Well ma’am, where do you go from here?”
Kitty shrugged, “Golly, I don’t know, Mark. My work is finished at Salonika and I am getting restless. I’ve got a dozen offers I can take around Europe with the United Nations.”
“It was a lovely war,” Mark said. “Lots of orphans.”
“Matter of fact,” Kitty said, “I got a real good offer to stay right here on Cyprus just yesterday.”
“On Cyprus?”
“They have some refugee camps around Famagusta. Anyhow, some American woman contacted me. Seems that the camps are overcrowded and they’re opening new ones on the Larnaca road. She wanted me to take charge.”
Mark frowned.
“That’s one of the reasons I couldn’t meet you at the airport. I went to Famagusta to see her today.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I told her no. They were Jews. I suppose