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cock. And there’re even some who’ll say that he did in Bormann there at the end, but that’s cock too—although there’s no doubt about the SS Major General in Cologne and that Gauleiter down near Munich and maybe two dozen others.”
    â€œSo you’re looking for him?”
    â€œThat’s right; we are.”
    â€œWhat’re you going to do if you find him—put him up for an OBE?”
    â€œThe war’s over, chum, long over.”
    â€œOne year,” Jackson said. “One year and twenty-seven days.”
    â€œOppenheimer hasn’t heard. Or if he’s heard, he hasn’t paid any attention.”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œSince V-E Day?”
    Jackson nodded.
    â€œAt least nine, perhaps ten, perhaps more. Mostly minor bods and sods, nobody very important, but still, we’d’ve liked to have got our own hands on them. It’s almost as though he were going around tidying up for us—to save us the bother, so to speak.”
    â€œAnd now you’re afraid he might turn his talents to Palestine.”
    â€œBaker-Bates took another swallow of his beer. You know what’s going on there, don’t you?”
    â€œThe Empire’s in trouble,” Jackson said. “When the League of Nations handed you the mandate for Palestine back in—when, 1920?”
    â€œOfficially, it was ’23.”
    â€œOkay, ’23. That was when you promised the Jews a national homeland. That was in one breath. But in the next you swore to the Arabs that the Jews wouldn’t create any problem. But the Hitler started in on the Jews, and those who could get out decided to take you up on your promise. The Arabs didn’t much like it.”
    â€œI was there,” Baker-Bates said.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn Palestine during the troubles. I went out with Orde Wingate in ’36 in the Fifth Division. In ’38 I helped him organize the Jews into special night squads. He spoke it—you know, Arabic. But he turned into a bloody Zionist. He also proved that Jews make damn fine soldiers. Or terrorists. You were in Burma; you ever know him there?”
    â€œWingate?” Jackson said, not bothering to ask how Baker-Bates knew about Burma.
    â€œMmm.”
    â€œHe was before my time.”
    Baker-Bates nodded—rather gloomily, Jackson thought. “Some of those chaps that Wingate and I trained are probably in the Irgun now—or the Stern Gang,” Baker-Bates said, his tone as gloomy as his nod.
    â€œGroup,” Jackson said automatically.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œStern Group. They don’t like to be called gang.”
    â€œNow, that’s too bloody bad, isn’t it? You know what they’re doing, don’t you—your precious Irgun Svai Leumi and your Stern Gang?”
    â€œThey’re blowing up your hotels and killing your soldiers.”
    â€œLast July, the King David Hotel. Ninety-one killed; forty-five wounded.”
    â€œSo I read.”
    â€œBut that’s not all. There’s a rumor.”
    â€œWhat kind of rumor?”
    â€œThat the Irgun’s recruiting in Europe. That they’re looking for killers, good ones. That they don’t even have to be Jewish—if they’re good enough.” Baker-Bates paused and then went on. “As I said, that’s rumor. But this isn’t. This is fact; they’re looking for Oppenheimer.”
    Jackson finished his beer. “Do his father and sister know?”
    â€œI might have mentioned it to them.”
    â€œWhat did they say?”
    â€œWe only had our one little chat. That was earlier this month, and then they turned mysterious on me. It took only a few quids’ worth of pesos to find out why. A certain telephone operator on the hotel switchboard is frightfully underpaid. But that’s how I got on to you and that rotten little dwarf. I ran a check on you. You’re rather harmless. But he’s bad company,