The Gates of Zion by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene Page B

she had felt the gaze of men on the prowl before.
    Moshe stepped quickly between them and Rachel and spread his hands in a gesture of harmlessness. “We’re so glad you chaps have come along,” he said in a crisp British accent. At the sound of his refined accent, the whoops and stares ceased, and the men assumed an attitude of deference.
    “Right, sir,” said the baby-faced officer as he trudged toward Moshe at the front of the vehicle. He had obvious trouble concealing his amusement at the man in his underwear stranded so far from civilization. “Having a bit of difficulty, I see?”
    “Thank God someone in authority is here,” Moshe barked. Then he commanded the leering driver, “Get the lady something to put around her, will you? Can’t you see we’re in distress here?”
    The smirk slid off the driver’s ruddy face, and he snapped to attention, rushing to the jeep to retrieve an army-issue blanket.
    “You can do better than that, Wilkes!” barked the officer. “Get her your overcoat!”
    Moshe snatched the blanket from the driver and wrapped it around Rachel’s shoulders while the driver rummaged through the back of the jeep for a heavy overcoat.
    A frown creased the brow of the officer. “He’s still not calmed down from last night’s celebration, sir.”
    “Indeed.” Moshe found himself wondering if the celebration had been for the defeat of Partition or its victory.
    “The chaps can’t believe we’ll be going home, y’know.”
    “Hmm.” Moshe took the coat from the driver and helped Rachel put it on as the soldiers turned their backs. “That’s no excuse for this sort of behavior toward British subjects obviously in distress,” he spat, leading Rachel to the jeep. “Sit here, my dear,” he said, helping her into the officer’s seat. Then he wrapped the blanket around his own shoulders, realizing that the British would be going home.
    Partition had passed.
    “Robbed, were you, sir?” asked the officer, now suitably humbled.
    “You and the lady? At the celebration, I’ll wager.”
    “Well, see for yourself, man!” Moshe exclaimed in mock outrage.
    “I said it wasn’t safe on the streets last night for a British subject.
    Sir, you and your, er, wife?”
    Moshe lowered his voice in confidence. “My wife is back at the embassy, Captain.”
    The officer winked slyly. “Quite. A ticklish situation for you, sir.
    Did you say ‘the embassy,’ sir?” he asked, clearly intimidated.
    “You heard me!” Moshe roared. “Gads, man. Can’t you see this in that cursed Jewish rag of a paper? The honor of Britain is at stake!
    Take your clothes off.”
    “Wha … what?” The officer stepped back a pace.
    “Well, you can’t expect me to go back to Tel Aviv like this, not possibly.”
    “Why, no. No, sir.”
    “I’ll send a driver back for you. We’ll have his clothes as well.”
    Moshe stared down the now-humbled driver, who immediately began unbuttoning his tunic. “For the lady,” Moshe added.
    “R-right, sir,” stammered the driver.
    “Now see here―,” the officer protested with bravado.
    “We’re looking at a major political incident, Captain, when a member of the embassy is kidnapped, robbed, stripped, and left on the beach with a young woman. Now the Jews, you may be sure, will make something of the fact that the woman is not my wife. I intend to make the incident as pro-Britain as possible, and you will assist me.
    As far as you are concerned, you never saw this young woman; is that clear?”
    “Yes, sir!” the officer saluted.
    “Well, then, let’s have your trousers!”
    Without another word the officer removed his uniform and meekly handed it over to Moshe, who rubbed himself briskly with the blanket, then dressed, down to the shoes, which were a tad small.
    The dejected officer stood to the rear of the jeep in his undershorts and gartered socks with the likewise-undressed driver.
    Rachel quickly pulled on the driver’s uniform, then tucked her hair under