“Okay,” he nodded finally, not certain it was the right thing to do but unable to come up with any better alternative. “Give me a few minutes to stow the guitar?”
“That’ll give me a chance to speak to the girls and send them packing,” Eileen agreed, smiling. “See you in ten... you know where it is...”
She climbed to her feet without another word, bending slightly to kiss him lightly on the top of the head before heading off toward the distant lights of the main compound with a definite sense of purpose to her stride. For the first time since they’d met again at the port in Suez, Eileen Donelson felt as if she and Thorne were finally reconnecting after so long apart.
He released a sigh of frustration as he watched her depart, shaking his head in recognition that the situation was becoming more complex rather than simpler.
“I don’t have bloody time for this,” he muttered to himself, “nor the inclination. Kransky’s MIA, we’re on the verge of being overrun by the entire bloody Wehrmacht, and every day I’m away from the office is another day’s delay in something going into production. “I wish I bloody-well did have a beer with me, now…!”
You’re not going to her tent...! The icy thoughts flared in his mind and vanished in an instant, leaving him feeling almost physically chilled. The voice was cold, hard and most definitely feminine.
“Don’t you bloody start either,” he growled, releasing another sigh of frustration. “I thought I was rid of you after I left The States… no such luck, it appears…” He gave a dismissive shake of his head. “It’s just a talk anyway… that’s all!”
‘Just a talk’, the voice mimicked unkindly, twisting the tone into something jealous and unpleasant. It’s always ‘just a talk’ until they’ve got your cock in their mouth or you’re banging away like crazed weasels...!
“Very unlikely,” Thorne snapped in return, although even he was surprised that his instinctive response hadn’t been one of offence or one that ruled the possibility out entirely.
You know what she’s like! This time there were layers of venom and disgust behind the tone. You only have to snap your fingers and she’ll open her legs…! Hasn’t she always…?
“Enough…!” He snarled angrily, clambering to his feet and barely managing to keep his tone low enough that Eileen didn’t hear. “That’s enough! Putting up with mindless drivel that’s a figment of my own imagination is one thing, but you will not insult her in my presence!”
I can hardly insult her out of your presence, can I…? There was almost a laughing tone in the voice now, but rather than make Thorne angrier – which had been the intention – it instead drew from him a snide, lopsided grin of his own.
“See… that’s a dead giveaway now, isn’t it!” He pointed out, the sound of minor triumph in his words. “You might sound like Anna, but you speak like me… just my luck to finally lose my marbles and discover the voice in my head belongs to a bloody smartarse…!” He turned around and gently placed the guitar back into its case, taking care not to kick any sand about in the process. “Eileen is actually someone I care about a great deal. She’s also someone I have a great deal of respect for. Because of that, I am going to go back to the camp and force myself to sit through this bloody impromptu therapy session she appears to think is important. You can shut the fuck up and mind your own goddamn business!”
There was a pause and for a moment – just a moment – Thorne thought that perhaps, against all odds, he just might have for once gotten the last word.
This is my business… the thought flickered darkly in his mind, hard and heartless, and this time the tone and timbre was most definitely male. Mark my words, you’ll be sorry… and so will she…!
There was nothing more, and Thorne was left standing mute beside one of the parked tanks in an otherwise featureless desert night, campfire flickering faintly as he stared off at Eileen’s retreating silhouette against the lights of the compound beyond. Far more than threats or insults, that one simple phrase said in emotionless resignation left him shaking and filled with fear.
AWA Tower, Sydney
New South Wales, Australia
October 1, 1942
Thursday
The sun hung low on the horizon, shining bright and clear through sparse, broken cloud as an end drew near to Sydney’s fifth day in a row of temperatures in the high twenties (Celsius) in what had been warm but relatively normal spring month for the NSW capital. Ferries plied their usual trade around the harbour, funnelling in and out of Circular Quay as aircraft both military and civilian buzzed overhead through the darkening skies. A huge proportion of its one and a half million people – those who’d not already left the city due to military service or essential war work – were now filling the train stations and ferry terminals of the Central Business District as they made their way home from work on that first fine evening in October.
The Sydney Harbour Bridge was of course the centrepiece of the city: the great ‘Coat Hanger’. A multitude of cars, trucks, buses and trains flowed across its span in both directions, adding to the cacophony of sounds that were the usual noises of a busy modern city. With construction commenced in 1923 and taking nine years, the project had kept thousands in employment during the Depression era and had earned the structure the nickname of ‘The Iron Lung’ for the support it had provided Australian workers during that period.
No more than a kilometre or two away, the AWA Tower rose high over York Street in the centre of the Sydney CBD. Just three years old, the 15-storey building had been constructed for Amalgamated Wireless Australasia Limited and atop the 55-metre-tall Art-Deco structure was a distinctive radio transmission tower of iron and steel lattice-work that rose a further 48 metres. Built with an observation deck just a few metres from the very top, the tower itself was an integral part of military and civilian communications networks controlling shipping throughout the Pacific and Indian Ocean and wore a huge ‘Beam Wireless’ sign for all to see as an attestation to that fact.
Rupert Isaiah Gold mopped sweat from his brow with a small, white handkerchief as he stared out through the sunset haze from his upper floor window, the shining surfaces of bridge’s huge arch clearly visible in the dying sunlight. He knew that a temperature of around eighty degrees Fahrenheit wasn’t high by Australian standards but he was sweltering all the same, his previous lifelong experience of a London climate of no use to him whatsoever in his current environment.
His eyes flicked away from the window for just a moment to throw an annoyed glare at the fan whirling away above his desk, one of a pair fixed to the ceiling of his large corner office. It helped about as little as leaving all his windows wide open – as they currently were – and accomplished nothing in his opinion save for assisting the already-hot air in making regular, humid circuits about his desk as it mingled with a gusting breeze from outside that seemed equally warm.
An air conditioner was on order – a one-horsepower Sherman model from the United States – but the newly-developed window-mount, reverse-cycle model had become such a hit in the first year of its release that there was now a long waiting list for everything the factory in Massachusetts could supply.
That Rupert was the PA of the man who’d provided most of the investment capital behind the new company making them meant he would only wait a few weeks instead of several months – there were definitely some perks attached to his position – and he could only hope that would be a short enough delay to avoid the hot weather still to come.
Ethel, his secretary, had warned that the worst was yet to come. She’d seemed to have enjoyed telling him... he suspected she was actually revelling in it: bragging about the heat appeared to be a national obsession with Australians from what he’d been able to ascertain so far. She’d told him there’d apparently been some kind of record set just three years ago. During January of 1939 the temperature had passed 113 degrees (45.3 degrees Centigrade), and Ethel had passed on that little titbit of information with the same, almost evil glint in h
er eye.
He really wasn’t looking forward to summer...
Rupert Gold was thirty-two years of age. He was tall and dark haired, and save for his immaculately well-groomed appearance and stylish, tailored clothes he might well have been considered almost painfully thin. Prior to the 1940 invasion, Rupert had lived almost his entire life in London and had worked as a personal assistant to just one man: an incredibly rich and singularly unusual man named James Brandis.
All that had changed during the middle of 1940. With the Germans poised to stream across The English Channel in droves and Britain staring down the barrel of total and utter annihilation, Brandis had divested himself of the huge majority of his wealth (a wealth that had included over three and a half thousand tonnes of gold bullion) and passed it all on to another man; the same man for whom Rupert now worked.
Max Thorne. Little had been known of the eccentric Australian in those days. That certainly wasn’t the case now. Rupert gave a wry smile as he considered that fact. It was understandable the man’s recognition had spread since then: becoming by far the wealthiest man on Earth through the acquisition of several billion dollars worth of gold was bound to raise one’s profile somewhat.
In his own way, Max was almost as strange a character as Brandis had been, possessing a similarly over-developed flair for the dramatic, although the brash and on occasion quite blunt Australian had none of the same enigmatic desire for anonymity that his predecessor had displayed... quite the opposite in fact.
Yet for all that, Rupert couldn’t have hoped for a better employer. Thorne was honest, fair and direct, and he always made it quite clear exactly what was expected. Those expectations were often high, but no higher than he expected of himself, and Rupert couldn’t fault the man for that. Thorne was also on occasion quite light-hearted and funny in his own sometimes crude way, but in the two years they’d worked together he’d never heard his boss make one single disparaging remark regarding another person’s race, gender or beliefs (save for the customary Anti-Axis rhetoric everyone engaged in).
That was something else that was particularly significant. Although he was by no means a devout man, Rupert had been born into a middle-class Jewish family and had learned from very early on of how rampant anti-Semitic behaviour was within British society during the early years of the 20th Century. That he’d also realised he was homosexual from a relatively early age compounded the precariousness of his social standing dramatically, and it was an incredible source of good fortune in Rupert’s opinion that even though he was almost certain Max Thorne (much like James Brandis) knew that he was gay (he certainly knew that his PA was Jewish), none of that appeared to concern the man whatsoever.
He often wished the rest of the world could be so open-minded. Judaism might’ve been the source of much discrimination from many sectors of many communities in Britain and around the world but it wasn’t illegal, as homosexuality was. Of course that didn’t prevent men and women of same-sex orientation from living their own lives behind closed doors – so long as it was done discreetly, as had been the case for hundreds (if not thousands) of years – but there was nevertheless always the danger of ridicule, beatings, arrest (often with more beatings) and subsequent prosecution for those who chose to flaunt their sexuality too blatantly.
Rupert had learned well that subtlety was a far better course of action, and he kept his private life exactly that: private. He’d been truly fortunate so far that he’d encountered two successive employers who had no interest in that private life – employers whose only interest was how well he could do his job, and Rupert could do his job very well indeed.
The phone on his desk rang at that moment and he moved away from the window to pick it up. It was his secretary of course. If Rupert worked back late, she also worked back late: that was the deal. That her husband was serving in New Guinea with the CMF and her sons were in the Navy meant that she in any case had no pressing requirement to be home at a regular time, and working back late suited both reasonably well. Rupert also made sure for her own safety that one of the company drivers always dropped her home if she stayed after dark, which helped.
“There’s a call for you, Mister Gold,” she advised from her desk outside his door. As he glanced up in reflex, he could see her staring at him with a smile and a professional attitude. “It’s a ‘Mister James’ wanting to speak to you...”
“I’m not sure that I know anyone of that name, Ethel,” he replied with a frown, thinking heavily. “Did he mention what the call was regarding?”
“I did ask him, sir, but all he would say was that it was a personal matter – that he was an old friend from London...”
A ‘James’ from London... Rupert mused silently for a second before realisation struck him with the force of a large house brick. “Of – of course, Ethel... put him through... thank you...”
“Poor form to keep an old friend waiting, Rupert,” Brandis pointed out softly as he came on the line, the smile on his face clearly evident in his tone.
“Poor form after a decade’s good service not to hear from someone for two years, then have them call up completely unannounced...” he countered, slightly annoyed at the sudden and unexpected contact and at the same time also a little apprehensive. “You did tell me once you might call from time to time to ask for information... I gather this is one of those times then?”
“Straight to the point, eh...? You were never one to mince words, Rupert, but we were friends too, once... at least, I’d hoped we were.” The faint sounds of mild disappointment had crept into Brandis’ words now as he recalled times that were fond memories for both men. “Still, under the circumstances I suppose I should expect no better...” There was a short pause. “I haven’t much time, but rest assured however that right now it’s me who’s calling to give you some information, so no need to be too defensive, old chum...”
There was another pause as Rupert thought hard about what his one-time employer had just said before finally releasing a long, tired sigh of resignation.
“I’m sorry, James... of course it’s good to hear from you... just unexpected... that’s all. Working for Max has been every bit as demanding as working for you ever was and it just keeps getting busier as his investments and industrial interests continue to expand.”
“Of course it does,” Brandis agreed with pride in his voice. “That’s why I made sure he had the best PA at his side that a man could ask for... but enough of that,” he added, moving on before Rupert had time to act humble over such high praise “...I’ve called to give you some information, as I said...” There was another pause, one Rupert instinctively recognised after years of service as a moment taken while Brandis took a deep breath prior to advising of bad news.
“You’re going to need to get down to the RAAF base at Tocumwal within the next few days... Thorne’s going to need you there by the weekend...”
“But – but Max isn’t even in Australia at the moment,” Rupert stammered in confusion. “I can’t tell you where he is, but he’s not here...”
“I don’t need you to tell me where he is,” Brandis growled softly in return, a little more curt than was deserved. “I know where he is and while he may be pissing about in the ‘sunshine’ with his new toys right now, that’s going to bloody-well end very shortly. They’re about to have some unexpected ‘friends’ drop in – quite a lot of them – and he and Donelson and the rest of them will be legging it back here as a result. He’s going to need help getting out of there and he’s damn sure going to need you on site when he gets back.”
“But...” Rupert stammered again, almost feeling as if it was the only word he could manage at that moment “...but there’s no reports of those ‘friends’ having any intentions as yet.” He had understood the man’s coded remarks but hadn’t caught the underlying tone of urgency clearly enough to know better than to argue.
“I’m not on close speaking terms with the bloody Germans at the moment so I can’t give you an exact fucking da
te, but they’re coming all the same...” Brandis snapped angrily, for a second or two, forgetting the unsecure nature of the open phone line. “Look, I don’t have time right now to explain... just take my bloody word for it: he’ll need to be out of there within the next few days.”
“All right, James... all right,” Rupert relented, “you’ve never been wrong before so I shouldn’t doubt you now. There’re a few things I came here to Sydney to do that need finishing but I should be able to head down there by Sunday afternoon.”
“No later...!” Brandis warned, the seriousness and hint of fear in his voice – something Rupert had never before heard – making the young man even more nervous. “You must be there as soon as possible...!”
“I understand, James...” Rupert reassured, nodding faintly “...but please... tell me how you’ve been...?”
It was immediately apparent that the question had been pointless: the line had already gone dead at the other end.
A few city blocks away inside the nearest PMG phone exchange building, two forgettable men dressed in bland, non-descript suit each lowered a set of headphones from their ears. They sat at a small table inside an cramped office within the equally-small building, little space left for anything else save for themselves, the table and chairs and a reel-to-reel tape recorder that sat atop the table; the same unit that one of them now turned off.
“Now there’s a voice we’ve not encountered before, lieutenant” one observed softly, utterly intrigued by the conversation they’d just heard. “What was that accent...? German...?”
“Definitely European, sir,” the other agreed and then shook his head, “but don’t ask me what ‘breed’. Sounded a bit all-over-the-place... a bit bloody ‘Heinz Fifty-Seven’, like it was a load of different accents all mixed in together.”
“Either way, FX is gonna want to hear the tape.”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 45