by Peter Watt
Jock could see from the glass cabinets affixed to the walls displaying vials of drugs that the building was some kind of medical dispensary. Alex was placed in the single cot to one side of the one-roomed clinic. When the priest spoke his voice was a rich baritone. A man in his fifties with a mop of snow white thick hair, black bushy eyebrows and a tanned bearded face he was wearing a flowing white cassock but no clerical collar. He was indeed a man to be respected, Jock thought, and was disappointed to learn that the priest only spoke Italian, German and French. None of the languages he knew.
‘What do you think?’ Hirsch asked the priest, now bending over Alex who had fallen into a delirium and was mumbling unintelligible words in English.
‘I do not like what I can see,’ the priest replied, forcing a thermometer into Alex’s mouth. ‘I think that this man has little chance of surviving. I am sorry, Herr Hauptmann,’ Father Umberto said, standing stiffly to examine the mercury tube. ‘He will be lucky if he sees another sunrise.’
The German militia captain shook his head. He had a decision to make. If Captain Macintosh died of natural causes then his mission was over. He’d be relieved of a duty he did not relish. But if the Australian recovered then he would be forced to remain and confirm that Macintosh was indeed a spy. But Hirsch had an ace up his sleeve; the Italian priest was not aware of the fact but one of his staff close to him was an informant to the German administration. That person had the priest’s confidence and would be able to report just about everything back to Hirsch.
Dieter Hirsch made a decision to remain until Alex either died or gained his health. He turned to the priest and requested quarters for himself and his men. When Father Umberto agreed that Hirsch and Jock could share his quarters and the police a men’s dormitory in the station, Hirsch ordered his men to bunk down and they were guided away by one of Father Umberto’s Tolai assistants.
‘I will have one of the good sisters sit with Mr Macintosh,’ Father Umberto said. ‘My nuns will take turns keeping an eye on the man.’
Arrangements were made and two very black-skinned nuns wearing white dresses and veils were summoned and although they were young they appeared competent in their nursing duties.
Holding a lantern, Father Umberto accompanied Jock and Hirsch across a flat, open ground to a spacious Tolai-built hut with European verandahs. Inside his quarters Jock could see that the priest had surrounded himself with shelves of leather-bound books – mostly on medical procedures – and some items of European furniture. Geckos scurried into corners of the thatched ceiling upon their entry into the building. ‘I presume that you might like a wine before retiring,’ the priest said to Hirsch, lighting another couple of kerosene lanterns. ‘It is not often that a most distinguished member of the administration pays our humble mission station a visit.’
Hirsch accepted the offer and Father Umberto produced a bottle of red wine from a cupboard along with three glasses. Hirsch gestured to the glass and wine. Jock understood the invitation and nodded his head. The three men sat at a sturdy wooden table and raised their glasses. Although Jock did not understand the words in German he did recognise Alex’s name and presumed that it was a toast to his boss and friend recovering. ‘To Mr Macintosh,’ he responded, with feeling.
Meanwhile Alex was fighting for his life in the clinic across the open ground between the two buildings. Swigging back his wine, Dieter Hirsch wondered if he might yet have to kill the Australian and this soured the taste of the fine Italian red. Maybe the man was better dying from the tropical illness than recovering only to be killed at a later date.
9
The location for the meeting had been well thought-out. Busy Circular Quay with its milling crowds embarking or disembarking from the ferries of Sydney Harbour was a place to disappear in. Herr Bosch, the assistant to the German consul in Sydney, knew whom he was to meet. He stood by the exit to the Mosman ferry watching the ladies in their long dresses hurrying for shelter and holding down their hats against a wind flurry while gentlemen in suits and straw boater hats joined them.
As rain clouds gathered in the skies overhead Bosch waited patiently under the shelter over the pier until he saw the man he had come to meet.
‘Mr Macintosh,’ he said in English when the man wearing an expensive, tailored suit approached. ‘We should walk and talk.’
George Macintosh fell into step with the assistant consul. They made their way with their heads down against the southerly wind now blowing sleeting rain towards the streets of Sydney. Trams clattered into life, conveying ferry passengers to their places of occupation. ‘You have news of my brother?’ George asked.
‘Ja,’ Bosch answered. ‘Our last report was that he has been intercepted in Rabaul and remains under the observation of our government there.’
‘Have your people in Rabaul uncovered any signs that he is on a spying mission?’ George asked, crossing a busy street filled with trams, horse-drawn wagons and automobiles spewing fumes.
‘Not so far,’ Bosch answered. ‘But if we do I cannot be responsible for what may befall your brother. You must understand that his life is in dire peril if he is a spy.’
‘I appreciate what you are trying to tell me and be assured that I would not hold your government responsible if my brother were to have an unfortunate accident in the jungle.’
Maynard Bosch glanced at him with an unconcealed expression of disgust. ‘I cannot understand how a man could speak so lightly of the possible death of a brother,’ he said.
‘You must understand, Herr Bosch, before you judge me, that my feelings towards my brother come second to the future of the family fortunes. If my brother is on some foolish mission to commit a crime against your government then he must understand that he runs a terrible risk of jeopardising his own life and, worse still, our investments with your country. What is the sacrifice of one man worth in the interests of many?’ George said.
Bosch nodded although he still did not understand why any man would betray his brother. ‘My government is very appreciative of your assistance in the matter and hope that your suspicions are unfounded. From what I have been able to glean about your brother, Captain Macintosh, he proved very popular with the officers in Rabaul. It would be a shame for the world to lose such a man.’
George listened but felt no emotion concerning his brother’s fate. He had passed on the information to curry favour with the German government as well as solve his problem of Alex sharing in any future inheritance. His plan to discredit Fenella appeared to be progressing well and before the end of the year he aimed to have both out of the family – one way or the other – leaving him the sole beneficiary of the vast Macintosh fortune. The heavy investment in the German chemical industry was fast becoming a small fortune in its own right as the Germans were leading in this field. George could see their discoveries as the basis of a huge pharmaceutical industry in the future. If Lady Enid Macintosh had still been alive she might have approved of his concern for the family name and fortune, he thought. She had no time for the weak and approved of his ruthless strength. He could bide his time either until his father died or eventually handed him the total control of the companies.
‘Do you have anything else for me?’ George asked, stopping outside one of Sydney’s more exclusive hotels.
‘It would help us if you could uncover more of what your father and Colonel Hughes are plotting,’ Bosch said. ‘I am sure that you could make yourself present when they meet at your father’s house.’
‘I do not see them together there very often,’ George replied. ‘My father normally discusses military matters with Colonel Hughes at Victoria Barracks.’
‘It is a shame that you do not have a commission with Colonel Duffy’s regiment like your brother does,’ Bosch said. ‘You could prove to be invaluable to us.’
‘I am not a spy like my brother,’ George retorted. ‘I have passed on the information that I had because I felt I had justification to do so. But I am not a traitor to my country.’
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��I did not say that you were,’ Bosch countered. ‘What you have passed to us is really in the interests of peace between our two nations. It is better that the activities of men like your brother be neutralised to maintain stability in the region.’
George knew that the assistant consul was throwing up a feeble defence of counterespionage but did not care. So long as they helped dispose of Alex and remembered his favour in the financial dealings he had with their industrialists he was untroubled by what they said about his role in the affair.
‘Well, if there is nothing else I will bid you a good afternoon,’ George said. ‘I have a luncheon meeting with my company directors. But I would be very grateful if you would inform me immediately if anything should befall my brother. In the meantime I can assure you my cooperation will continue.’
Bosch watched as George Macintosh entered the main entrance to the hotel. It was a place that would have cost him a month’s salary just to eat one meal. Bosch was a straightforward man who loved his country and his family. The idea that a man could so easily condemn his brother to death was beyond him, no matter what was at stake. Bosch’s own brother was a farmer in South Australia. Sadly, he was a professed patriot of his new country and unaware of Bosch’s activities in espionage. If it came to war between Germany and England Bosch worried that the ensuing hostilities would divide him and his brother in their loyalties.
He shook his head in disgust and turned to walk back to the consul office. At least he had the powerful and influential George Macintosh over a barrel. To not assist him could have dire consequences for Mr George Macintosh.
With Matthew Duffy in Queensland, Randolph Gates found that he had a lot of time on his hands in Sydney. He had an excuse to stay around the film set and assist with the project because he needed to be expert in the use of the camera. But he also found the work interesting as they changed locations and he helped set up the props as backgrounds for the scenes in Arthur’s epic love story of passion and betrayal. Fenella was not hostile to his presence but simply seemed to ignore him. But his persistence seemed to be paying off. After a week, Fenella fell into small talk with him between scenes being shot.
This day Arthur had selected a location on one of Sydney’s more remote northern beaches where he owned a beach cottage. The entire cast and crew camped out there and an impromptu party began when the sun went down over a glorious autumn day. At least that is what the cast and crew thought. In fact, Arthur had a good stockpile of food and alcohol for the shooting of the last scene in his film. He saw the occasion as a way to celebrate the conclusion of what had almost been a terminated project.
Randolph impressed them with his ability to find driftwood in the tussock-covered sand dunes and build a bonfire on the beach, while Arthur truly endeared himself to his employees by producing big, succulent steaks to grill over the fire. Potatoes were thrown into the hot ashes to bake in their skins and slabs of fresh bread acted as plates. Crates of beer completed the abundant feast.
Bob Houston stepped forward to hand out the bottles, and Arthur made a small speech congratulating his people on the fine job they had done of turning a script into a visual story. A breeze gently stirred the sand around their feet as the stars mixed with sparks swirling skywards from the fire into the clear skies.
Randolph had noticed how Guy Wilkes hovered around Fenella and was astute enough to see that she was not encouraging his presence. The American sat on a large driftwood log sipping his beer and chatting to the cameraman whom he had befriended on the set. Bob Houston, his teacher and now a good friend, commented that he should consider a career behind the small wooden box cranking the handle. ‘You have a gift, Texas Slim, that you should take seriously.’ He raised his bottle to the stars. ‘I am sure Arthur would find you a spot in the team.’
Randolph was only half listening; his attention was on Fenella and Guy Wilkes who were apparently arguing. He could see them silhouetted against the star-studded moonless sky and did not answer Bob.
‘Are you going senile, or something?’
‘Sorry, what?’ Randolph replied.
‘You’re not listening, are you, cobber,’ Bob said, prodding Randolph in the ribs.
‘Just thinking about things,’ Randolph said, swigging his beer from the bottle. Suddenly, he handed Bob his beer and rose to his feet. ‘Just got something to see to.’
Bob watched as Randolph walked into the dark towards the beach. The American had noticed that Wilkes appeared to be getting very pushy with Fenella. He had his hands on her shoulders and appeared to be shaking her.
‘Anything wrong?’ Randolph asked, looming out of the night beside the couple. They were standing at the edge of the sea, water breaking around their bare feet.
Wilkes swung on Randolph, his hands dropping from Fenella’s shoulders. ‘None of your business,’ he snarled. ‘Get lost, Yank.’
As Randolph took a step closer, ready to fight, the actor noticed his threatening stance.
‘Are you okay?’ Randolph asked Fenella who had her head down as if she had been crying. She responded by shaking her head. ‘Maybe you should come with me back to the party,’ he urged gently, ignoring Wilkes who he sensed was not about to take any action against him.
Randolph took Fenella’s hand in his and led her away. She did not resist and as they were nearing the blazing fire he stopped to gaze into her face. He had been right in his guess; Fenella had been crying.
‘I don’t know what was said between you two,’ Randolph said, producing a clean handkerchief and passing it to her. ‘But I do not like to see you so upset.’
‘It was nothing of any consequence,’ Fenella answered, passing back the handkerchief after wiping away her tears. ‘I will be all right, but thank you for your concern, Randolph.’
The American felt a surge of warmth hearing Fenella use his first name. ‘Would you like to join me on my log?’ he ventured lightly.
‘I think that would be nice,’ Fenella said, with a weak smile.
Randolph led her to where Bob remained with the two bottles of beer in his hands. When he saw Randolph with Fenella he handed the half-empty bottle back to the American and discreetly excused himself from their company.
‘Do you have another bottle of beer?’ Fenella sniffed.
‘I did not think that ladies drank beer,’ Randolph answered. ‘But I will fetch one for you.’
‘There is a lot that you do not know about me, Randolph,’ Fenella said quietly. ‘A lot that you may not approve of.’
Randolph felt awkward. ‘I doubt that anything you have done could shock an old cowboy like me,’ he replied. ‘I think that you are the finest lady I have ever met.’
‘Oh, Randolph,’ Fenella said, squeezing his arm impulsively, ‘I wish that were true, but I think that you would change your mind if you knew what I would like to confide to you.’
‘Does it have something to do with the argument you just had with Wilkes?’ he asked, gazing towards the eastern horizon. When Fenella did not reply Randolph rose to his feet. ‘I will go and get that beer for you,’ he said.
When he found the crate of beer he also found Arthur.
‘Is Nellie okay?’ Arthur asked.
‘Why would you ask that?’ Randolph replied, scooping a bottle from the crate and removing the lid.
‘I saw you go down to the edge of the beach. Guy just stormed past me headed for the cottage. I doubt that your intervention in whatever happened between them improved his humour.’
‘Miss Macintosh is fine,’ Randolph answered defensively. ‘We are just in conversation.’
In the flickering shadows by the bonfire Arthur’s expression of concern was visible. ‘Take care, Mr Gates,’ he said. ‘Believe me, Nellie has a problem that is beyond your assistance.’
Randolph was intrigued by the producer’s warning, but knew it would not be wise to ask him any more on the subject. Surely Fenella would explain when the time was right.
When Randolph returned Fenella was sitting w
ith her arms wrapped around her legs and her head on her knees.
‘Your beer,’ he said, passing the bottle to her. She accepted it and took a long swig from the slender neck. Randolph sat beside her with his back against the trunk of a tree that had washed ashore.
‘If you want to talk about what is troubling you just consider me a shoulder to cry on,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m kind of used to being out on the range listening to the noises in the night.’
‘Thank you,’ Fenella replied. ‘But I would rather you and I talk of things near and dear to our hearts – rather than about my problems.’
Randolph shrugged. If that is what Fenella desired, then so be it. Strangely, he found that she changed from someone beset by despair to the bright, young woman he had first met at the Macintosh house by the harbour. Without heeding time they talked and laughed together until the bonfire on the beach was only a smouldering glow of hot coals and the crew had crept away to sleep. The constellation of the Southern Cross was on the horizon before they realised the time and bid each other a good night.
Fenella leaned over and kissed Randolph on the cheek with more than friendly affection. ‘Thank you,’ she said, gripping his arm. ‘You are truly a remarkable man with a beautiful spirit.’
Before he could reply, she rose and walked towards the cottage, leaving him with two empty beer bottles and swirling thoughts. He remained in the dark, his mind going over the events of the evening. If Fenella was hiding something, it meant little to him. He was in love with her.
The following morning dawned a perfect day for filming with clear blue skies and a gentle breeze. The cast and crew moved sluggishly but cheerfully. A small gauge rail track was laid out along the beach and a hand-propelled trolley set up for the cameraman to move with the action. A saddled, spirited shiny black stallion was led down to the beach by its handler for the scene.
Arthur stomped around the beach issuing directions and checking angles. Randolph stood idly by, watching the commotion but mostly keeping an eye out for Fenella. He knew that this was the scene where Guy rode along the beach at full gallop, swung himself from the saddle and swept Fenella into his arms while she stood up to her knees in the surf.