To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5

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To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 Page 19

by Peter Watt


  ‘You had better have a bloody good plan, cousin,’ Matthew said lightly. ‘I have all the intentions of returning home in one piece to take your brother’s lady friend away from him.’

  Alex looked at his cousin with gratitude for his unflinching loyalty and held out his hand.

  ‘You think you Australians could do better with your crazy patriotism than us New Zealanders,’ Bob Houston butted in. ‘I think it is best that I stick with you to show you how New Zealanders really are superior to you Australians. After all, we fought together in the last war.’

  His response brought forth light laughter from the two Australians. Matthew punched Bob playfully in the shoulder. ‘I don’t ever remember you New Zealanders being around when things got hot for us from the Boers, but if you stick with us, you just might learn a thing or two about handling dangerous situations.’

  Despite their apparent levity each man knew how much the deck was stacked against them. Each was well aware that what had once been a dangerous mission had now become suicidal. But the bravado of young men was something they lived with.

  ‘Go and find a cold beer,’ Alex said. ‘I am going to need one to think this through. And I don’t have to remind you that the conversation we just had stays in this cabin. Not even the captain of the ship is to know what may lay ahead of us.’

  Matthew and Bob nodded their understanding and left Alex alone to agonise over how he would carry out his mission and somehow avoid the waiting German armed forces. At the back of Alex’s mind was just one nagging question: how in hell had they been betrayed?

  15

  An overhead fan in the Rabaul Club stirred the tropical air, pleasantly cooling the spacious room deserted of its patrons in the mid morning except for two. Both men sharing coffee wore civilian clothing although they were relatively senior officers. A Tolai steward hovered in the background prepared to provide more coffee should the pot empty or more late breakfast pastries be required.

  Major Kurt von Fellmann sipped from his cup, watching the older and slightly overweight officer facing him. They had exchanged courtesies, and Major Paul Pfieffer, the resident intelligence officer, had politely enquired as to Kurt’s sea voyage back from Sydney and his experiences while in Australia.

  ‘I chose to cut short my inspection,’ Kurt had replied, ‘considering the news coming out of Berlin concerning the Serbian incident.’

  ‘During your short stay in Sydney were you able to make contact with our man in the consulate?’ Pfieffer asked.

  ‘We met,’ Kurt replied. ‘He was very helpful.’

  ‘So,’ Pfieffer said, reaching for a small, sweet pastry. ‘Do you think that we are moving towards war with the Serbians?’

  Kurt shrugged. ‘From the little that I have gleaned from the British newspapers nothing much seems to be happening on either side. I would presume that you know more than I considering your role here.’

  The German intelligence officer shook his head. ‘My information equates with your knowledge,’ he said, taking a napkin to brush away the pastry crumbs from his mouth. ‘I suspect that the Austrians will demand that the Serbians turn over the conspirators to maintain what the Orientals call face. The Austrians are looking for any excuse to teach the Serbs a lesson.’

  ‘And if the Serbians refuse?’ Kurt asked, leaning forward.

  ‘Then that is another matter,’ Pfieffer answered, placing his napkin on the table beside his coffee. ‘Who knows what will happen after that. However, as you are to return to the Fatherland I am sure you will be in touch with matters further. I believe that you are scheduled to leave us tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Kurt answered. ‘I will be submitting my report on the woeful defensive measures in this part of the Kaiser’s empire.’

  ‘I doubt that they will listen in Berlin,’ Pfieffer said. ‘All attention is on Europe. However, we will soon enough find ourselves embroiled in a confrontation with the English in our little outpost.’

  Kurt placed his coffee cup on the wooden table and gazed at the open doorway at the end of the room. Outside, he could see the soft glare of the tropical sun and the shady, evergreen trees. It was hard to imagine that this little piece of paradise could shortly be one of the first battlegrounds if war broke out between Germany and England. How the world had shrunk, he mused. Was it possible that the events in Europe could impinge on God’s garden in the Pacific? The ominous feeling was not unlike living in the shadow of the volcano behind the German settlement; there was always the chance that it would erupt without warning. ‘You are sure of your intelligence concerning Captain Macintosh and Mr Duffy?’ Kurt asked.

  ‘I am sure,’ Pfieffer answered. ‘Our source is so close to their planning that we have known every move since the English mission was initiated by Colonel Hughes.’

  Kurt thought about the ramifications to his distant Australian relatives’ lives if all that was known by the intelligence service of the Imperial German Navy was correct. As he had met both men and taken an instant liking to them, he wished that the information had proven to be incorrect. He sensed that both men would be killed and that Berlin would use their spying activities to embarrass the English government on the other side of the world. ‘It is a pity,’ he sighed.

  ‘I know of your relationship to Captain Macintosh,’ Pfieffer said. ‘I regret that we have to deal with this matter but I suspect our adversaries are just as knowledgeable about what the Serbian matter could lead to. In a sense we are already at war.’

  Kurt understood the portly intelligence officer’s statement. Despite there being no declaration of such the intelligence community always perceived themselves to be at war. He finished his coffee and excused himself. When Major Kurt von Fellmann stepped into the sunlight he blinked and gazed around. Life was going on as if tomorrow would be the same. He did not want to think about tomorrow.

  There was blood with the pain and Fenella doubled over in her cabin gasping. Although she had never experienced a miscarriage, she instinctively understood what was happening to her body – it was expelling the partially formed baby.

  She cried out but in the luxurious cabin she was alone. The ship rolled gently beneath her in the calm waters and she collapsed on the bed, grasping her stomach. ‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please, God, help me.’

  As if answering her prayer she heard the knock on her cabin door. ‘Miss Owens,’ Sean Duffy called cheerfully from the other side of the doorway. ‘Are you ready for some games of shuttle board?’

  Fenella remembered that she had made a date with the young Sydney solicitor and he had turned up punctually to escort her to the games deck. With all the effort she could muster, Fenella forced herself off the bed, and doubled over, made her way to the door to unlock it.

  Sean Duffy’s cheerful expression disappeared immediately when he saw the trail of blood and the ashen colour of Fenella’s face. ‘Oh my God!’ he gasped. ‘You need to lie down while I fetch the ship’s doctor.’

  He stepped inside and assisted Fenella to her bed where he lay her gently down on her back. ‘I will be straight back,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Just hold on.’

  Fenella nodded weakly as Sean disappeared from the cabin to return within a few minutes with the ship’s doctor, carrying his black bag. Sean hovered in the cabin until the doctor turned to him and with a gesture of his head, indicated that Sean should leave so that he could attend to his patient.

  With expert hands he examined Fenella, ascertaining quickly the source of her distress. It had not been the first time on the ship that he had attended to miscarriages. ‘You are losing your baby,’ he said, opening his black bag to retrieve what he needed. ‘I am sorry. Where is your husband?’

  Fenella did not answer and the doctor did not ask any further questions. He understood that his patient was unwed and probably wealthy, using the voyage to America to avoid a family scandal.

  Standing outside the cabin with a gentle breeze in his face, Sean Duffy experienced a flood of e
motions. He had spent over a week in the young woman’s company and had convinced himself that he was falling in love with her. He had not once suspected that she was ill and wondered at the reason for her serious haemorrhage. It did not occur to him that she might be pregnant.

  The doctor stepped out onto the deck with his black bag and a bloody towel with something wrapped in it. ‘Are you a friend of Miss Owens?’ he asked.

  ‘We have known each other for a little over a week,’ Sean answered. ‘I would like to consider myself as a friend on this voyage.’

  ‘Miss Owens will require bed rest for a couple of days,’ he said.

  ‘Am I able to speak with her now?’ Sean asked.

  The doctor’s expression reflected his hesitation. ‘I have given her a strong sedative,’ he finally replied. ‘It might be best that you attempt to speak with her in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ Sean replied. Sean stood for a moment trying to take in what had happened. When he saw the bloody bundle in the doctor’s hand it dawned on him what he had witnessed. But he was at a loss as to what to think about the situation.

  Closer to Rabaul the Osprey II altered course for its destination into German territorial waters. On the bridge the ship’s captain, Ernest Delamore, scowled at the instructions given to him by young Alexander Macintosh. Although he had not been privy to the actual mission of the Macintosh ship he sensed that trade was not the priority as he had been briefed in Sydney. The mysterious crates in the ship’s hold were carefully guarded by his three passengers but it had been his chief engineer who had volunteered what he thought they contained.

  ‘I think the laddies have one of those flying machines stowed away,’ Jock McLeod had said over a cup of coffee on the bridge. ‘Dinna know why they would be carrying an aeroplane on this trip when we will be needing the space for copra.’

  The ship was now to anchor off a beach identified on the charts by Alex Macintosh but the captain did not like the look of the alteration at all. Changing from their original course along the east side of the German island to the west side stank of nefarious practices. But he was subordinate to the ship’s owner, Patrick Duffy, and had no choice but to accept the orders.

  Alex joined Bob Houston and Matthew Duffy at the bow of the ship as it chopped into a deep trough before punching through a wave. Fine spray swept over the three men.

  ‘It’s done,’ Alex said above the hiss of the spray swirling around them under the grey skies above.

  ‘So we take the Germans by surprise,’ Matthew said. ‘Are you going to cable the colonel of our change of course?’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Alex replied. ‘If there is a breach of security close to us it is better that only we three know of the final plan.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of the word final,’ Bob said. ‘Maybe alternative plan is a better choice.’

  Matthew smiled. ‘I’m with you on that, Bob,’ he said, slapping the New Zealander on the back. ‘So, who goes on to Rabaul with the ship?’

  ‘We all will,’ Alex replied. ‘The German authorities will probably be waiting for us on the other side of the island with their navy if what we know about being compromised is correct. Instead, we will turn up in the harbour as innocent traders and any search of the ship will find no trace of our cargo. We will stay a couple of days and then depart. Needless to say, that should convince the Germans the information they have been fed is completely erroneous and they will stand down their operations to intercept us.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Bob said, frowning. ‘But where do we dump the aeroplane?’

  For the first time in days, Alex broke into a broad smile. ‘That, gentlemen,’ he trumpeted, ‘is all under control. You are about to meet the woman who will one day be my wife.’

  Startled, Matthew looked sharply at his cousin. Had he gone mad? ‘You do not mean that young lady you met on her father’s plantation up the coast from here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alex answered. ‘Miss Giselle Schumann.’

  ‘But she is German!’ Matthew exclaimed. ‘Why do you think she and her family will help us?’

  Alex bit his lip. He did not know but this was the only chance he could see in carrying out his mission to reconnoitre the German territory he had been assigned. He understood how important it was to military planning to know what lay ahead of any beach landing. ‘I think that I might be able to persuade her to help us,’ he said, ignoring the expressions of doubt on the other men’s faces. He prayed that he was right; it was the only option he had short of a suicidal mission.

  Despite his promise to John Hughes to question George, Patrick Duffy had avoided confronting his eldest son with any questions concerning the security breach. He had convinced himself that his eldest son had no way of learning anything about the covert operation. John Hughes had to be wrong and should be exploring other possible sources, Patrick thought as he thumbed through the newspaper before him on the breakfast table. Outside the French windows the heavy rain pounded with a steady beat.

  ‘Master Macintosh is here, Colonel,’ Angus MacDonald announced from the doorway.

  ‘Send him in,’ Patrick said, closing the newspaper.

  ‘Father,’ George greeted, shaking off the cold as he entered the room. ‘I have come to remind you that we have a meeting with the board of directors before noon.’

  Patrick had forgotten many of his business commitments which had been sidelined in favour of his duties as commanding officer of the city’s infantry regiment. ‘Thank you, George,’ he said and watched as his son poured himself a cup of tea and took a seat at the end of the highly polished table.

  ‘It seems that we have lost contact with the Osprey II,’ George said, sipping the lukewarm tea. ‘I was wondering if you could cast some light on the matter?’

  Patrick looked sharply at his eldest son. ‘Why is that of any interest to you?’ he asked. ‘You know the radios on our ships have a limited range. No doubt the captain will signal his position in good time.’

  ‘As Alex is on a trading venture back to Rabaul it is my concern that everything runs smoothly,’ George countered. ‘After all, it appears that I am the only one worried about keeping the family fortunes afloat.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Patrick flared, ‘I am still the final decision-maker when it comes to how the companies are run. I have trusted that you have obvious talent when it comes to making money and therefore do not interfere in your decisions. But ultimately I am responsible for what happens.’

  ‘I did not mean to say that you are not,’ George answered quickly. ‘But considering the incident with Guy Wilkes and the sudden disappearance of Nellie, I feel that you are under a lot of pressure. My question regarding Alex’s current whereabouts was born out of a natural desire to coordinate the trading venture with the Germans.’

  ‘How much do you know about what Alex does for me?’ Patrick quietly asked.

  George frowned, feigning surprise. ‘I am not sure I know what you mean,’ he replied. ‘Naturally I know that he shares a lot of your time playing soldiers with the regiment.’

  ‘We don’t play soldiers,’ Patrick retorted indignantly. His son had cunningly caused him to go on the back foot, defending his part-time military duties and not pursuing the former line. ‘I am hoping that Alex will consider choosing the regular army as his career.’

  ‘It seems to be a family tradition,’ George said and Patrick understood that he was making reference to Patrick’s own father, the legendary soldier of fortune Michael Duffy. ‘It is fortunate that I inherited some of that Macintosh blood rather than the Papist, Irish blood of the Duffys.’

  Patrick realised that his son was baiting him and cautioned himself to keep a calm head. He felt guilty that he could not truly warm to his eldest son and often looked upon him as a total stranger. Patrick knew that it was not right for a father to differentiate his affections between his children, favouring one over the other.

  ‘I will ask you again,’ he said. ‘Tell me precisely
what you know about recent events with your brother’s activities.’

  George put down his cup of tea, rose to his feet and pushed the chair from the table. ‘We have an important director’s meeting very soon,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘I hope I will see you there.’

  Patrick watched as his son walked out of the room and brooded on the fact that George had not answered his question. As if reading his thoughts, George paused at the door and turned to his father. ‘You should not be quick to forget that I am your alibi when the police eventually come to speak with you about the murder of Guy Wilkes,’ he said with the trace of a sneer.

  Patrick felt his blood run cold. There was no mistaking the blackmail his son had inferred: don’t ask me any more questions concerning your military operation.

  Then George was gone and Patrick could hear his son speaking with Angus as he left the house. Patrick sat staring out the French windows that framed the dining room at the incessant rain. Somehow George had confirmed his knowledge of his covert military life but Patrick had also realised just how fragile was his future in the hands of his eldest son. He was right. Sooner or later the police would come with their questions and only George could clear him of suspicion.

  Patrick sighed heavily, rose to his feet and walked to the large window overlooking the manicured garden. Alex had not revealed his new plan to carry out the original aim of the mission. For all Patrick knew he could have fallen into German hands and already be dead. Nellie’s whereabouts could not be ascertained and she could be anywhere in the world. His hands were trembling. He had not experienced such a physical manifestation of his fears since the battlefields of Africa. How could a father accept that he had a son who was a traitor to his King and country? He wished that he could believe in God as much as he was becoming a believer in the ancient Aboriginal curse on the family. It was as if a giant wheel was turning in time, repeating the events that had so tragically dogged the Duffys and Macintoshes in the past.

 

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