by Peter Watt
Confused, Alex continued to crouch in the tropical night. Why had Giselle not joined them as they had planned? Had she become lost in the dark? Was she safe? The questions tumbled over each other in his mind. No matter what the answer, Alex realised that time was running out if they were to use the tide in their escape. ‘I’m with you,’ he said, following Matthew towards the small single-masted ship secured to the wooden jetty.
The two men moved cautiously, each step dogged by the fear of being recaptured. In a short time they found themselves on the wharf. A lantern flared and both men froze.
‘Hands up!’ a voice commanded from the cutter and in the lamplight Matthew and Alex could see the German foreman levelling his rifle at them. ‘I have been expecting you.’
Obeying the command, both men raised their hands. The big German stepped off the cutter onto the wharf, followed by two of the plantation workers, also armed with rifles.
‘How did you know?’ Matthew asked.
‘Fraulein Schumann gave you away,’ Herr Schmidt sneered. ‘Herr Schumann is extremely angry that you have broken your parole, Captain Macintosh.’
‘Giselle?’ Alex uttered in his shock at the news she had betrayed their escape attempt. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Schmidt shrugged and gestured with his rifle for them to turn around and march off the jetty. For a moment, Matthew considered the possibility of attempting to overpower the German, but dropped the idea when he considered the two armed men accompanying the foreman.
‘Lie down and put your hands behind your back,’ Schmidt commanded when they were on the beach.
For a terrifying moment both men entertained the thought that they were about to be executed. Instead, they felt rope being wrapped roughly around their wrists, securing their hands. When the task was completed they were hauled to their feet.
‘As much as I would dearly like to shoot you both here and now I am under orders to return you to the shed,’ Schmidt said, prodding Matthew in the back with the rifle barrel. ‘We have news that the navy will take you off our hands tomorrow and your treacherous activities will be revealed to the world.’ Stumbling forward, Matthew and Alex marched in silence to see Herr Schumann awaiting them at the shed, a pistol strapped to his belt. The expression on his face told the two escapees that they were lucky to be alive.
‘It was my idea to escape,’ Alex lied but was cut short by Matthew.
‘Captain Macintosh is lying to protect me,’ he said. ‘The escape was my idea, not his. He only came under threat from me to expose him as a coward if he did not.’
‘Your sentiments to protect your cousin are very noble, Herr Duffy,’ Schumann said. ‘But I have ascertained Captain Macintosh was a willing participant in your plan. I could have intercepted when you left the shed but I wanted to be sure that you really were going to steal my cutter. You certainly confirmed that by your actions and I will be glad to see the last of you both. A soldier who breaks his parole loses any right to claim his commission.’
Herr Schumann was indeed stating a fact in the rules of war. Alex felt deeply ashamed. He hung his head and remained silent, glancing at Matthew to see the anger directed at him from his cousin.
‘Inside, both of you,’ Schmidt ordered, pushing at Alex who stumbled forward to collapse against a wooden pole supporting the tin roof. Matthew followed as the door slammed behind them and they heard Schumann order that the guard be doubled for the night.
Matthew remained standing while Alex sat on the earthen floor. ‘We would have made it had it not been for your misguided trust in your beloved,’ he snarled. ‘No wonder she did not turn up at the rendezvous point. She was selling us out.’
‘I don’t believe that she did,’ Alex said softly but with a pain of doubt he would not admit to. ‘I think that they are lying.’
‘Maybe her father had her whipped to force her to confess,’ Matthew said sarcastically. ‘We were so bloody close to getting away and tomorrow the German navy picks us up. I doubt that we will have any chance of escape then.’
Alex did not respond but sat staring into the dark depths of the shed. He was not thinking about the imminent arrival of the German authorities the next day. He was more concerned about how the woman he loved, and whom he had thought loved him, could have betrayed them. Despite his attempts to deny that she had, the thought still crept into his mind. His thoughts were in turmoil; there had to be an explanation.
Hauptmann Dieter Hirsch found that he was spending more time in uniform than he was performing his civil duties for the governor. Dressed in his field dress and covered in grime, he dismissed his junior militia officers from a debriefing of the latest military exercise on the outskirts of the German frontier town. The young officers ambled away to their units of Tolai soldiers, to stand them down after a gruelling two weeks in the surrounding jungle.
Dieter retired to his tent where he would spend the day writing up reports on the observed strengths and weaknesses revealed by the exercise designed to repel an invasion. He opened the flap, sat down in a folding field chair behind the table where he formulated tactics and issued orders at briefings. He had hardly taken off his hat when Major Paul Pfieffer appeared dressed in his field uniform. Dieter stood and snapped off a salute to his superior officer.
‘At ease,’ the intelligence officer said. Dieter had not seen Pfieffer during the exercise, guessing that he was preoccupied with intelligence matters.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Hirsch said.
‘Hauptmann Hirsch,’ Pfieffer said. ‘I have learned that the mines intended to sink the Macintosh ship appeared to have either been faulty or interfered with. It seems that they did not detonate until the ship was almost within anchorage of the Schumann plantation. I was wondering if you knew anything about the delay to the timing devices of the detonation fuses.’
Hirsch had been dreading the question and had hoped that the delay might be written off as the devices being faulty. But he should have known that the man questioning him was no fool.
‘I am sorry, sir, I do not know what you mean,’ Hirsch lied.
Pfieffer stared hard at the officer. ‘Then my source that has informed me you made a visit to view the mines just before they were taken to the ship is wrong?’ he questioned. ‘That you were alone with the mines before they were rowed out to the English ship is also wrong?’
Dieter Hirsch could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck and knew it was not just because of the rising heat of the morning in the tropics. Yes, he had altered the timing devices so that the men aboard the ship would be ashore when they went off. They were not at war and his conscience would not allow him to murder a man he had befriended. The report had returned that the ship had been delayed by a storm and the mines exploded just off the plantation. At least Captain Macintosh and Matthew Duffy had survived. It was not as if he had completely sabotaged the operation – after all, the ship was at the bottom of the Solomon Sea.
The intelligence officer continued to stare directly at Dieter Hirsch. ‘If it could be proved that you in some way tampered with my mines I would not hesitate to have you court-martialled, Hauptmann Hirsch, for an act of treason. You would join your English friends before a firing squad. Do we understand each other?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hirsch replied stiffly.
‘Good,’ Pfieffer replied and in a chameleon-like manner suddenly changed persona. ‘Now, I think it is time to retire to the club for a good breakfast and a cold beer. You will be my guest, in recognition for all the good work that has been reported to me for the exercise you have conducted with our boys.’
Hirsch blinked. One minute he was threatened with a court martial and possible execution and the next the same man was inviting him to breakfast as if nothing had been said. ‘Sir, I must complete my reports and . . .’ Hirsch attempted to protest.
Pfieffer held up his hand. ‘That can wait for the moment, Hauptmann Hirsch,’ he said. ‘You have earned a good breakfast where we can discuss the fate of the
two prisoners soon to be returned to us.’
Hirsch realised that arguing his case was not an option and followed his superior officer through the tent flap. Major Paul Pfieffer worried him. He had a devious mind and even the breakfast invitation must have some significance.
Like a young German officer in far away Rabaul, Colonel Patrick Duffy found himself spending more time in his uniform than his civilian suit. International events were drawing the world closer to war in Europe and he found himself briefing government committees, answering questions from the politicians responsible for defence about the status of his militia unit, as well as holding conferences with John Hughes. At least the Macintosh companies were in the capable hands of his son who was also monitoring the search for Fenella.
Patrick marched down the sandstone colonnade of Victoria Barracks, taking a salute from a smartly uniformed warrant officer. He entered John Hughes’ office complex to be cheerfully greeted by the English officer’s assistant, Major Oaks. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, bracing at his desk. ‘Colonel Hughes is expecting you, so just go straight through.’
‘Thank you, Major Oaks,’ Patrick replied.
‘It’s official, Patrick,’ Hughes said by way of greeting. ‘A cable came through last night. The Serbians have made a formal request for the Tsar to mobilise forces to help them defend against the Austrians.’
Patrick slumped in a chair. ‘It has to mean war,’ he sighed.
‘Maybe we will stay out of it,’ Hughes responded. ‘From what I have been able to glean from my sources in England, it does not appear that we are all that keen to get involved in a Balkans war – even if the Kaiser commits forces in support of his Austrian allies.’
‘What about the French response?’ Patrick asked.
‘The French might go in on the side of the Russians and there is a pact for the French to side with the Tsar if they go to war with Germany. Maybe the Kaiser will show some commonsense – who knows.’
‘Have we any further news about my son and Matthew?’ Patrick asked. Days earlier, he had been informed that an intercepted message between the Germans in the Pacific had mentioned their survival and subsequent detention on the Schumann plantation.
‘Only that they are to be shipped back to Rabaul today,’ Hughes answered. The fact that they had been able to intercept German naval radio traffic in the region was classified top secret. They had not been able to read coded transmissions but some of the messages had been transmitted in clear on the logistics airwaves when not considered of tactical importance. Or had the signal transmitted in clear been the Germans’ way of ascertaining whether their electronic mail was being read? A reaction to the message would have exposed the Australians reading their signals and Hughes clearly knew that. That the two Australians were in German military custody was not officially recognised in order to conceal the intercepts being made. As much as it frustrated Patrick he fully understood the importance of keeping secret their reading of the German transmissions.
‘At least they are alive,’ Patrick responded. ‘What do you think the Germans will do with them?’
John Hughes frowned. ‘Considering that they most probably know they might be on the verge of war with the Russians I am sure that they will be more concerned about those matters. After all, we are not at war with Germany and if all goes well England will remain neutral. If so, as a gesture of friendship I am sure that the Germans will be very quick to hand Alex and Matthew over to us.’
‘But what if England gets tangled up in a war on the European continent?’ Patrick asked quietly.
John Hughes did not respond.
22
The Macintosh ship made good time to the American territory of Hawaii and Randolph found himself at home among the accents of his former countrymen. As the trading ship was scheduled to remain in the harbour for a week to load cargo he chose to use it as his base in an attempt to locate Fenella.
Clearing Customs, he made his way to the street. His first port of call would be the hotel Fenella had been staying in before she mysteriously disappeared. As it was not far from the shore he was able to walk the distance, stretching his legs on land to eliminate the swaying stance he had adopted from the rolling deck of the ship. The sun was pleasantly warm and the island had a holiday atmosphere. In the foyer of the plush hotel a balding young man was busy behind the reception desk.
‘My name is Randolph Gates and I would like to ask some questions about a past guest of your hotel,’ he said.
The young man looked suspiciously at the imposing stranger on the other side of the desk. ‘Are you a policeman?’ he asked.
‘No, but I am in the employ of an important Australian searching for his daughter, a Miss Fenella Macintosh who may have also gone under the name of Fiona Owens,’ Randolph said. ‘I would like to ask if you knew of the lady.’
The clerk glanced down at his log of accommodation bookings. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I am unable to answer any questions concerning the lady you ask about,’ he replied politely. ‘I would suggest that you take up your enquiries with our police department. I think that a Detective Amos Devine might be able to help you. I can direct you to the police station.’
‘I know where it is,’ Randolph answered. He had once been a guest of the Hawaiian Police Department on an earlier trans-Pacific voyage to Australia to take up employment with Kate Tracy. There had been a bar room brawl and Randolph had laid out two sailors. He had been arrested but was able to make bail before skipping on the next ship to Australia.
‘Well, sir, if I cannot help you any further . . .’ the man said without looking at Randolph, making himself look busy with his paperwork.
From his pocket Randolph slipped a wad of American dollars he had been given before leaving Sydney and peeled off a generous sum. He noticed that the clerk had seen his gesture. ‘All I need to know is whether Miss Macintosh made contact with anyone that you could tell me about?’
The clerk eyed the money on the shiny desk top between them. He licked his lips like a hungry man and placed his hand casually over the notes, pulling them towards him. ‘There was one man, an Australian,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘A Mr Duffy; I think he was her attorney. He would visit and they would dine together.’
Randolph felt a twinge of jealousy but knew that the clerk was not far from the truth when he said that Mr Duffy was acting as her legal representative, having learned this for himself back in Sydney. Randolph slipped an equal amount of money onto the desk.
‘I will double this if you can provide me with something more substantial,’ he said.
The clerk glanced around the foyer nervously. He stepped away from the desk, leaving the booking counter unmanned. Randolph waited patiently for the clerk’s return. When he reappeared he slipped a couple of letters into Randolph’s hand. ‘These came after Miss Macintosh booked out of the hotel. She had paid in advance and so we had no interest in pursuing her for unpaid accommodation, although she had said that she would be staying longer than she did.’
True to his promise, Randolph peeled off a few more notes and handed them to the clerk who quickly concealed the bribe in his trouser pocket. Randolph thanked the man for his assistance and walked from the hotel foyer into the bright sunlight of a day that promised to be pleasantly warm with a cooling sea breeze.
When he returned to the ship he went to his tiny cabin and sat on the bunk. From his pocket he retrieved the letters. One was from Arthur Thorncroft but the second had been posted from the USA. Randolph opened the American-posted envelope first and when he scanned the letter he smiled grimly. Carefully placing the folded letter in the envelope he hoisted himself from the bunk to depart for a shipping office. He would need to take the next available ship to San Francisco and then make his way to the town of Los Angeles. The letter was from a film producer stating that he would accept Arthur Thorncroft’s recommendation and provide Fenella with an opportunity to demonstrate her talents in his studios. From his time working with Arthur, Randolph was we
ll enough acquainted with the workings of a movie studio to know what to do next. All he had to do was get to Los Angeles. But first he would go to the Macintosh office on the Pearl Harbour waterfront and cable Colonel Duffy, informing him that he was on his way to the USA to find and bring Fenella home. So far everything had fallen into place.
When he had ensured the cable would be sent, Randolph returned to the ship. In a fine mood, he walked to the gangway of the Macintosh trader to see two tough-looking men obviously waiting for someone. The larger of the two intercepted Randolph at the bottom.
‘You Randolph Gates?’ he asked.
‘Who wants to know?’ Randolph retorted, sensing trouble.
‘Detective Amos Devine,’ he replied, reaching for the handcuffs jammed into his trouser belt and revealing a holstered pistol next to them. ‘Put your hands behind your back,’ he continued.
Randolph tensed. ‘What in the hell is going on?’ he demanded.
‘I have a warrant for your arrest on a matter a few years back when you skipped bail,’ the police detective said. ‘Thought Uncle Sam had forgotten, did you?’
For a moment Randolph was confused until he remembered the case a little over thirteen years earlier. To resist would be futile and so he surrendered to the detective’s order. He felt the cuffs bite into his wrists. ‘It’s not really about the warrant, is it?’ Randolph said as he was roughly spun around.
‘You’re goddamned right about that, fella,’ Amos said with a smirk. ‘Heard that you were asking around at the hotel about that Australian dame we would like to find ourselves. Then I got lucky when I found the outstanding warrant for your arrest in our files. You know that you will most probably go down on the charge and, I can assure you, this island is no tourist paradise for men in prison. You could end up doing a few years’ service to repay Uncle Sam.’
‘What do you really want from me?’ Randolph asked as he was marched across the wharf.