Leon Uris by Exodus

be kept out of his mind. Must he be bound by a promise he had made a dying woman? A promise he was forced to make? Would it be breaking the code of honor by which he had always lived? Wasn’t it true that Deborah Sutherland’s mind had been going on her bit by bit over the past years? She had never been a Jewess in life, why should she be one in death? Deborah had been a Sutherland and nothing else.
    What a terrible scandal would be created if he were to bury her in a shabby run-down Jewish cemetery on the poverty side of London. Mother was dead. The living—Neddie, Albert and Martha and Mary’s family and Adam would be hurt deeply. The living had to be served.
    As he kissed his mother farewell and walked from her room he had made his decision. Deborah was put to rest in the family vault at Sutherland Heights.
    The sirens!
    The sirens from the convoy of refugees!
    The sirens shrieked louder and louder and louder until they tore through his eardrums. Bergen-Belsen ... Marina ... Neddie ... caged trucks ... the camps at Caraolos ... I promise, Mother ... I promise, Mother ...
    A burst of thunder rocked the house to its very foundation, and the sea outside became wild and waves smashed up the shore and raced nearly to the house. Sutherland threw off the covers and staggered about the room as though drunk. He froze at the window. Lightning! Thunder! The raging water grew higher and higher!
    “ God ... God ... God ... God ...!”
    “Brigadier Sutherlandl Brigadier Sutherland! Wake up, sir! Wake up, sir!”
    The Greek houseboy shook him hard.
    Sutherland’s eyes opened and he looked about wildly. The sweat poured from his body and his heart pounded painfully. He gasped for breath. The houseboy quickly brought him a brandy.
    He looked outside to the sea. The night was calm and the water was as smooth as glass and lapped gently against the shore.
    “I’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll be all right ...”
    “Are you sure, sir?”
    “Yes.”
    The door closed.
    Bruce Sutherland slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands and wept and whispered over and over, “... my mother in heaven ... my mother in heaven ...”

Chapter Eight
    B RIGADIER B RUCE S UTHERLAND slept the sleep of the tormented and the damned.
    Mandria, the Cypriot, twisted and turned in a nervous but exhilarated sleep.
    Mark Parker slept the sleep of a man who had accomplished a mission.
    Kitty Fremont slept with a peace of mind she had not known in years.
    David Ben Ami slept only after reading Jordana’s letter so many times he knew it by memory.
    Ari Ben Canaan did not sleep. There would be other times for that luxury, but not now. There was much to learn and little time to learn it in. All during the night he pored over maps and documents and papers, absorbing every fact about Cyprus, the British operation, and his own people there. He waded through the stacks of data with a cigarette or a coffee cup continuously at hand. There was a calm ease, a sureness about him.
    The British had said many times that the Palestinian Jews were a match for anyone on matters of intelligence. The Jews had the advantage that every Jew in every country in the world was a potential source of information and protection for a Mossad Aliyah Bet agent.
    At daybreak Ari awakened David, and after a quick breakfast they rode in one of Mandria’s taxis out to the detention camp at Caraolos.
    The compounds themselves stretched for many miles in an area that hugged the bay, midway between Famagusta and the ruins of Salamis. The garbage dumps were a contact point between the refugees and the Cypriots. The British guarded them loosely because the garbage detail was made up of “trusties.” The garbage dumps became trading centers where leather goods and art work made in the camp were exchanged for bread and clothing. David led Ari through the dumps where the early morning bartering between Greeks and Jews was already going on. From here they entered their first