by Peter Watt
‘I have come this far,’ Karl said. ‘I have to at least attempt contact with the German woman to ascertain if she is of any use to us.’
He turned to the doctor. ‘What is the attitude of the Japs to the French in Saigon?’
Nuyen shrugged. ‘Maybe a certain amount of indifference. The local French population is lying low, trying to avoid the attention of the Kempeitai.’
‘Do you think you could get me papers identifying me as a Frenchman?’ Karl asked and both men looked at him as if he were insane.
‘I can do that,’ the doctor replied. ‘But I do not think it will work.’
‘If I am in the streets and stopped by Japanese patrols, all I will have to do is produce the papers and use a few words of French,’ Karl said. ‘I doubt the average Jap would know the difference between French and German, and if they do I will say that I am from the Alsace region, where we also speak German.’
The Vietnamese doctor stared at Karl for a moment and broke into a smile. ‘All Europeans look the same to us,’ he said. ‘You might get away with it.’
Pham did not have the same optimistic expression. ‘I would keep that cyanide capsule very close, if I were you. If the Japs take you prisoner, Colonel Hitachi will torture you himself.’
Karl tried not to think about that. Instead he wondered about the radio transmitter he had been told about during his brief back in Australia. That seemed a lifetime ago now. Apparently, though, the French resistance in Saigon kept a radio to maintain communication with Allied intelligence. The transmitter was constantly being moved to avoid detection by the enemy. Karl had been given the name of the operator, and he wondered now whether the man was still at liberty or had been interned and perhaps killed.
‘I have the name of a Frenchman in Saigon,’ Karl said, addressing the doctor. ‘I will need your help to find him.’
The doctor appeared anxious and Pham seemed surprised at Karl’s mention of a French contact.
‘Saigon is a dangerous place now,’ the doctor said. ‘You are asking much.’
‘I understand,’ Karl said. ‘But from what I know of you, you are a true French patriot.’
Pham said something in Vietnamese to the doctor, who nodded, then turned back to Karl.
‘I will help,’ he said. ‘I will need the papers that identify you as a German engineer. We will alter them so that you are a French citizen. It will take at least a week and until then you will be safe here.’
Karl thanked the doctor. He knew he would be risking his life, but he was not prepared to leave Indochina until he knew whether or not his mission was still viable.
*
Several days after she had been imprisoned – she wasn’t exactly sure how many; one day drifted into another without much distinction – Ilsa was visited by the Gestapo officer. Until then she had seen no one but her gaoler, who would bring her a daily ration of rice and fish, and allow her out of the cell to empty the bucket into the sewerage system that was out in a concrete yard within the prison compound. It was then that Ilsa saw the copious amounts of fresh blood on the cement, and the clouds of flies drinking from the red patches. She guessed that the yard was being used for executions but had not heard any gunfire. Ilsa shuddered. The condemned were being beheaded.
One day she had met Herlinde Kroth face to face for the first time. They had not spoken since that initial exchange; Ilsa thought that perhaps Herlinde had been moved to another cell too.
They were fortunate enough to be left alone while their guard sauntered away on another task. Both women sat down in a quiet corner of the open courtyard and struck up a conversation. Ilsa could see that Herlinde had been badly treated by her captors.
‘Why are you imprisoned?’ Ilsa asked, gently touching the other woman’s hand.
‘I was betrayed,’ Herlinde replied, and Ilsa saw that the young woman had a beauty barely concealed by her cuts and bruises. ‘My lover betrayed me to the Japanese.’
‘What could you possibly have done to have deserved this fate?’ Ilsa said.
Herlinde glanced away and then looked back at Ilsa. ‘You are an American despite your German birth. You live under a system of fair laws, but here the enemy make up their laws to suit their own means. My French lover told the Japanese that he suspected I was going to defect to the Americans or British. That was all they had to know to . . .’ Herlinde did not end her sentence but stared with vacant eyes at the opposite stone wall of their prison courtyard. Ilsa guessed that what the Japanese had done to her was more than she could bear to remember and squeezed her hand in a gesture of understanding.
Herlinde turned to Ilsa. ‘Why are you here and not in a prison camp for women?’
‘It is a long story,’ Ilsa answered, wanting to avoid going into detail about her father’s history. ‘But I think that we may have an ally close at hand who will be able to help us both.’
A bitter smile crossed Herlinde’s swollen face. ‘You cannot trust anyone here,’ she said. ‘Just look at me. Henri said that he loved me more than his own family but when it came to deciding between his family and me, I was expendable. He used me to barter with the Japanese for his own skin.’ Herlinde looked up then and turned even paler under her bruises.
Striding towards them, accompanied by the guard, was the dreaded commandant, Colonel Hitachi. Ilsa felt terror at the sight of him and she saw that Herlinde was trembling.
‘You,’ he said in heavily accented French. Ilsa and Herlinde glanced at each other.
‘You,’ Hitachi said again, stepping in front of Herlinde. ‘Come.’
Herlinde struggled to her feet, her head down, and was escorted across the courtyard into the building.
Later, back in her cell, Ilsa had called out loudly, ‘Herlinde!’ but she had received no reply. After that she had been left alone until Captain Wessel’s visit.
The Gestapo officer stood inside her cell, smoking a cigarette; he offered Ilsa one and she took it, despite the fact she did not smoke.
‘I have organised for a message to be sent through the International Red Cross to inform your country that you are alive and are a prisoner here of the Japanese in Saigon,’ he said, lighting Ilsa’s cigarette. ‘So far Colonel Hitachi has left you alone because you have officially been a prisoner of my department.’
Ilsa took a long suck on the cigarette and let the nicotine flow through her body. She suddenly felt self-conscious about the fact that she must have smelled rank to anyone as clean as this man. She had not been able to wash since the time on the U-boat and had once again lost weight; her skin was covered in sores from the bites of the myriad insects that came in her cell at night.
‘Thank you for informing my country that I am still alive,’ she said and meant it.
‘I expect a favour in return,’ Wessel said, looking Ilsa directly in the eye. ‘You probably do not know it but Germany has fallen – we have surrendered and are no longer an ally of the Japanese Empire.’ He blew smoke into the stale air of the cell while the gaoler hovered outside the door. ‘I always thought that sending you to us was a waste of time – it was obvious you would have been too young to know much about your father’s pre-war activities – but Himmler insisted. I have heard that our noble leader has killed himself now the Fatherland has been defeated.’
‘What favour can I grant you?’ Ilsa asked.
‘At the moment Colonel Hitachi has ignored my status as a member of a defeated nation, but I will be on a list for arrest by the Allies and could be executed for so-called murderous activities committed by my department. You are a well-known and respected American journalist and I will need you to stand as a character witness to my good behaviour. You will be able to tell your people how I have ensured your wellbeing whilst you were my prisoner.’ Wessel crushed the stub of his cigarette under his heel. ‘I need you to promise me that you will speak on my behalf to the Americans.’
Ilsa finished her cigarette and let the smouldering stub fall to the concrete floor. ‘I cannot do that
if I am a prisoner in this place,’ she said.
‘What if I get you out of here?’ Wessel said softly.
Ilsa looked at him with interest. ‘How could you do that?’ she asked. ‘I doubt you hold much influence with the Japanese now that Germany is defeated.’
Wessel stepped closer to Ilsa. ‘I have ways, and if I satisfy my part of the bargain to get you free of this place, I expect you to honour your deal to protect me against any misguided American or British sense of judicial revenge. I would also require assistance to resettle in Spain. As a fellow Fascist, General Franco is sympathetic to our plight.’
Ilsa knew that she would do anything to be out of this place, knowing it was only a matter of time before the Japanese came for her.
‘If you can get me out of here, along with another woman, Herlinde Kroth, I will honour my side of the bargain,’ Ilsa answered.
The German Gestapo officer looked pained. ‘Kroth is a prisoner of Colonel Hitachi,’ he said. ‘It would be madness to interfere in matters of personal concern to him. She is a traitor and has been working against the Japanese Empire. She has confessed during interrogation as to her complicity with the English.’
‘Herlinde is a German citizen; surely you have an interest in protecting her from the Japanese.’
‘That no longer matters now we are a defeated nation,’ Wessel replied. ‘All that matters is that we survive. If you do as I say, I can save you. I cannot save Kroth.’
For the first time in months Ilsa considered the possibility that she would survive to return to America. This would be possible because of a man she would rather have seen executed for what she knew he must have done, as a Gestapo officer, to innocent men, women and even children. But Ilsa would have signed a contract with the devil himself if it meant being freed. She had the discomforting feeling that she’d done just that.
SIXTEEN
Captain Featherstone prided himself on his ability to remain emotionally detached from those he commanded. He was acutely aware that many of the missions he assigned men to would prove fatal; he couldn’t do his job effectively if he weren’t able to send men to their deaths. But he found it difficult to be completely removed when it came to Major Karl Mann, although he could not explain exactly why.
He sat in his Sydney hotel room, enjoying the luxury that both his rank and family fortune could buy, and pondering the sheet of paper stamped Top Secret. The sealed document had been delivered to him by an American courier wearing the uniform of the Signals Corp.
A Miss Ilsa Stahl, respected war correspondent for a well-known New York newspaper, had been listed as a prisoner of war, currently being held by the Japanese in the Indochinese city of Saigon.
Featherstone looked to the signatory and could see that it had been authorised for release by a known colleague in the American OSS. What really caused him to sit up, almost spilling his Scotch, was the paragraph detailing how the said female American journalist was the first cousin to an Australian army officer seconded to his department, Major Karl Mann.
‘Good God!’ Featherstone exclaimed, rising from his big leather chair.
Why had the OSS sent him this information, Featherstone asked himself and knew that the message was some kind of bait by the Yanks. He just had to work out what it was they wanted. They seemed to know about Mann’s presence in Saigon; perhaps they wanted to use him to extract Stahl.
He would find out, but there was something else he felt he must do first. Call it being sentimental, but what he had just learned fitted like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. He took out paper and an envelope from his briefcase and began writing.
A few hours later, Colonel Ben Basham met Featherstone in a small park overlooking the harbour. It was one of those parks tucked away from public view, and both men wore civilian suits. Evening was falling and Featherstone stood gazing out at the flotillas of warships at anchor.
‘Hello, Ben, old chap,’ Featherstone said when the American colonel approached, puffing on a large cigar.
‘Featherstone, pleased to see that you understood my message,’ Basham said, accepting the British officer’s handshake. ‘I’m pleased to see that we can talk.’
‘What exactly did your message mean?’ Featherstone asked, taking out his packet of cigarettes.
‘We know that your Aussie major is in Saigon – or at least in the area,’ Basham said.
‘How would you know anything of the sort?’ Featherstone countered, cupping a cigarette in his hands as he lit it with a Zippo lighter.
‘Your man was up in Malaya, and one of our men was on the same team Major Mann was temporarily posted to. It was not hard to find out where he went after leaving the team,’ Basham said. ‘We also know all about that Frenchie officer he was with – Indochinese, pro-French, orders to assassinate a couple of high-ranking Viet Minh operatives in Saigon. It seems that the French badly want their old colony back after this war.’
Featherstone baulked at this revelation from his American counterpart. The mission had been full of holes from the start, and under pressure from London he had reluctantly given support to something he saw as not in British interests.
‘What has all this got to do with our operation in that part of the world?’ Featherstone asked, suspecting he knew.
Basham removed the cigar from his mouth and rolled it in his fingers. ‘Miss Stahl works for a very prominent newspaper in New York and they want her back at all costs. And it just so happens that the owner of the paper is a good friend to our new president, so we have orders to make it happen. Which is where you come into the picture – you have the only person within goddamned of the forsaken place. Indochina will be of no consequence to us after this war, but the owner of the paper will be very important to the future aspirations of our new president.’
‘Are you suggesting that Major Mann attempt a rescue of Miss Stahl?’ Featherstone asked, gazing out at the shipping now being cloaked by the last rays of the setting sun. ‘That was not his mission.’
‘Featherstone, old man, we have always known that you limeys were out to snatch an anti-Hitlerite from Saigon for debriefing, but I can tell you unofficially that she was executed by the Japs just a few days ago. Major Mann’s original mission is over and now, in the spirit of Anglo-American cooperation, you would be doing us all a favour by reassigning him to Miss Stahl. I’m sure he’d be grateful – after all, she is a blood relative.’
Featherstone shrugged. ‘I am afraid that I have lost all contact with Major Mann since he left Malaya. I am not sure whether he is dead or alive.’
Colonel Basham took a long puff of his cigar. ‘You’ll find a way to contact him, I’m sure. And there’s something else we want from him.’
‘What is that?’ Featherstone asked with a note of suspicion.
‘We would look very favourably on your man eliminating that Frenchie officer, before he goes upsetting the apple cart,’ Basham said casually. ‘Our president is still taking advice on whether to side with the Viet Minh in any future declaration of independence. Frankly, I can’t see that happening because Ho Chi Minh is a goddamned commie, but there you go. If Mann can guarantee Pham is dead, we will be in a position to lend assistance to extricate him from Indochina. All I have to do is make contact with our agent in Saigon and the support will be provided by Uncle Sam.’
Featherstone was silent for a moment. ‘I understand what you are telling me and I will reassign Major Mann – if we have any future contact with him,’ he conceded. ‘However, what if we are unable to extract Miss Stahl?’
‘Well, the matter is officially in your hands, and we can report back that we did everything we possibly could to save the lady,’ Basham shrugged, ‘but you Brits bungled the job. Plausible denial.’ He tilted his head at Featherstone and then turned and walked away.
Featherstone lingered for a moment, lighting another cigarette, and reflected on how quickly the world was changing. Britain, once the most powerful nation on earth, was being quietly shuffled aside b
y a brash but energetic young nation of former British colonists. The Russians were even now occupying half of Europe, and when the war was over, which would be very soon if the rumours of a new bomb were true, the noncommunist world would be confronting a new and formidable enemy. Britain and America would be forced to work together, and Featherstone didn’t relish the prospect.
With a sigh he dropped the glowing stub of his cigarette to the grass and crushed it out under his shoe.
*
Jack Kelly was surprised to see a letter addressed to him on his desk.
He had been discharged from hospital once the bullet wound had started to heal and, thankfully, he could walk without a limp. His grief was still with him but his intelligence work kept him occupied. At times he wondered if he had been born without human feelings because he could still function as a soldier. But he also knew that he had become hardened to the death. He loved his son more than anything else on earth, but his long experiences of war had also taught him to cope. Jack was able to block this terrible episode from his mind during the day, and only at night in the privacy of his bed did he let himself remember. Then he would break down and sob.
The envelope was typed, and when he opened the letter he immediately noticed it had no address or even signature. All it had was seven extremely import words . . . Do not despair, your daughter is alive.
Jack slumped into his swivel chair, rereading the note. ‘What in bloody hell,’ he said softly.
He picked up the envelope and noted that the letter had a Sydney postmark, but nothing else identified where it had come from, or from whom. But the words echoed in his mind and then filled him with hope. Ilsa was alive!
Jack sat under the slowly whirling fan and stared at the map of the world. If what the note had said was true, where in the hell was she?
*
The long night dragged on. Sweat trickled down Ilsa’s body. She tried not to scratch at the infestation of lice and flea bites, but the itching was unbearable. She kept praying that the German officer would honour his word and somehow free her from this nightmare.