by Peter Watt
Karl was surprised by the transformation of Marie from a traditionally dressed Arab girl to a modern young Frenchwoman. She had done so to drive Karl to a destination outside the city and now looked a different person. When she noticed his curious, questioning look she said in English, ‘It is easier to explain why I am driving. Arab women do not drive in this country – if you can understand what I am saying.’
Karl did not answer but merely smiled, nodding his head as if not understanding but attempting to be polite.
They walked a short distance through the alleys to a sun-warmed house on a broad avenue where Marie spoke French to a man who answered the door. Gesturing for Karl to follow she directed him to the back of the house where an old, battered sedan of dubious mechanical quality was garaged. Karl sat in the cramped passenger seat and Marie took the driver’s seat. The car sputtered to life and the young woman deftly manoeuvred it out onto the street.
On the journey no words were spoken and Karl had an opportunity to appraise the girl. She had a slightly olive skin that was flawless and a thick mane of dark hair with just the faintest of streaks of gold. Her eyes were a stunning blue and he could clearly see that she was not altogether European in her parentage. There was something very exotic about this extraordinary beauty that intrigued him.
Their journey took them via a route designed to avoid army sentry points and Karl guessed that Marie had done this journey before. After an hour of driving outside the city they arrived at a squalid Arab village of mud buildings and numerous goats with a view of the Mediterranean Sea. When they rattled in on the pot-holed dirt road the Arab men glared with suspicion and hostility at the car and its occupants and Karl felt uneasy.
‘This is where we stop,’ Marie said, more to herself than her passenger. ‘You can get out Herr Harmstorf.’
Karl stepped warily into the dusty street and instinctively scanned the surrounding locale for possible avenues to escape should things go wrong.
‘Follow me,’ Marie commanded with a slight frown. ‘We go inside.’
Karl followed her into a mud-and-thatch house off the street. It was dim inside and it took long seconds for Karl’s eyes to adjust from the hot glare of the day outside. When they did he noticed a rickety wooden table at the centre of the room. But more importantly he also noted a blond-haired man dressed in European clothes sitting behind the table, and closely watching him across a Luger pistol lying on the table. Karl stood in the doorway while the man took a packet of Turkish cigarettes from the top pocket of his sweat-stained white shirt. Karl guessed the man to be in his late thirties and he looked very dangerous. There was a disconcerting hardness behind his cold eyes and no sign of welcome in his face, which only softened slightly at the sight of Marie. Her beauty could do that to any man, Karl thought observing the slight change in the man’s demeanour.
‘Sit down, Herr Harmstorf,’ the man behind the table said in German, pushing a chair with his foot towards Karl. ‘A cigarette?’
‘Thank you,’ Karl replied, taking both the seat and the offered cigarette from the pack that now lay on the table beside the Luger. Karl was fully aware of the significance of the gun on the table and was tempted to snatch it. But it could have been unloaded, a test, he considered. For now he would let things ride as he suspected that the man behind the table was of extreme interest to Captain Featherstone. Possibly the very agent the naval officer was after, he thought. The man was obviously German, judging by his speech and appearance.
When Karl was seated the German held out a match to light Karl’s cigarette. ‘As an officer in the air force you would naturally be familiar with this gun,’ the man said, leaning back in his chair. Karl noticed uneasily that Marie was no longer in the room.
‘I am,’ Karl replied, taking in a draught of smoke.
‘Then you would have no problem showing me how to strip and assemble the weapon?’ the man asked, watching Karl’s reaction carefully.
The Luger was not a simple machine pistol but an intricate device in comparison with later models of German pistols such as the Walther. Karl stared at the Luger for a short time. It was not a weapon familiar to many of his army. He knew that if he fumbled the stripping and assembling process he would give himself away in this first test. He reached for the gun and expertly broke the weapon down into its main parts, placing each part on the table in sequence for reassembly. The man behind the table seemed impressed as Karl glanced up at him for approval to reassemble the pistol. In the stripping Karl had noted that the magazine held no rounds. The German nodded and Karl quickly reassembled the pistol.
‘That is not a skill easily acquired by a British agent,’ the man said, sucking on his cigarette and clouding the still air of the dark room with the acrid smoke. ‘You said that you were shot down working with the Italians?’
Karl was surprised to hear this information. He had not volunteered it to the German and guessed that he had some kind of communications system that went back to the Corsican. At least two radios, Karl thought, as he had seen no sign of telephone wires on his car trip into the Arab village. He was beginning to feel more at ease and thanked God that his father had taught him the intricacies of the Luger from one that he had purchased from a prospector down and out on his luck in Papua. Paul Mann had bought the pistol for nostalgic reasons as much as for protection on a dangerous frontier of cannibals and head-hunters, and Karl had spent many hours stripping and reassembling the 9mm weapon in the lounge room of his father’s house in Papua. It had been a close thing as the German on the other side of the table might have asked him to strip and assemble one of the newer pistols issued to German officers. Had that been so, Karl would have in most probability been a dead man by now. ‘I was, but I escaped from the British and have been on the run for over a week now,’ Karl answered.
‘Needless to say you don’t have any papers to prove who you are,’ the German said. ‘But you do have European clothing – if you could call the rather shabby condition of your clothes that.’
‘I robbed a Jewish house,’ Karl replied, hoping that the story Featherstone had fabricated for him would stand up to scrutiny should anything he said need to be verified. Although the Jewish house was not robbed, its occupants would corroborate any inquiries to that effect should the occasion arise. They were on Featherstone’s payroll – as were many others hired to support the story of a German pilot shot down – and on the run.
‘You will only know me as Fritz,’ the German said, without attempting to offer his hand. ‘You will be taken back to Jerusalem to a safe house until given future orders.’
‘You will help me get home?’ Karl asked, feigning excitement.
‘I will,’ Fritz answered, taking the pistol from the table and slipping a full magazine of bullets into the pistol grip receiver. ‘Or kill you, if you do not check out as who you say you are. For all I know you might be one of those damned Jewish agents the British Special Operations Executive uses in Palestine. So for now you will be watched and I strongly suggest that you do not make any attempt to escape or contact anyone other than myself.’ As if on cue a young Arab man entered the room behind Karl. ‘Abdul here will be your escort, Herr Harmstorf. He and Marie will take you back to Jerusalem.’
Karl turned carefully to see the Arab standing behind him. He was armed with a Luger tucked behind his belt, and a wicked-looking, curved dagger in a sheath at his waist.
‘You can go now,’ Fritz said, without rising from the table. ‘We will meet again.’
Karl rose and stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the table. The Arab was careful to remain behind Karl as he walked out of the house and into the squalid street where Marie was waiting beside the car, conversing in fluent Arabic with three Arab children. She was laughing lightly and Karl was struck by the contradiction: the young woman appeared so beautifully angelic at one moment, yet she was obviously working with a Nazi organisation known for its brutality. She glanced up at him and he thought that he saw just the slightest hint of
interest that he had left the house alive. Karl cursed himself for feeling attracted to Marie – for she was also the enemy.
SIX
The warm waters of the Pacific lapped along the shoreline of Townsville’s harbour. Victoria Kelly did not feel the heat as much as her taller and older companion on the walk as they strolled arm in arm, taking in the late afternoon sea breezes of the tropical capital of north Queensland.
‘Uncle Bernie, you should slow down,’ she chided gently. ‘You are walking too fast.’
Bernard Duvall checked his military pace to accommodate his niece. ‘I’m sorry, Cherry Blossom,’ he apologised gruffly. ‘I’ve been in Washington too long to change to civilian ways.’
His pet name for his much loved niece went back to when she was a student of Japanese language and culture in California prior to her travelling to Papua, meeting Jack Kelly and subsequently marrying him. Victoria’s father had served with distinction with the United States Army and she had lived in both China and Japan when Colonel Owen Duvall had been posted as a military attaché to those countries.
‘So, are you going to tell me why you are here, and why the covert military operation for me to steam down to Townsville to meet you? I smell secrecy in the whole matter, Uncle Bernie.’
The distinguished man with the thick, short-cut, greying hair slowed to a stop to gaze out to the calm waters of the harbour. ‘I miss you very much, Cherry Blossom. I kind of hoped that you might come and live with your old uncle in Washington when my brother passed away.’
‘I would have except I met the man I was destined to be with,’ Victoria replied, also gazing out to sea. ‘I am extremely happy sailing with Jack. No two days are ever the same when we are together.’
Bernard Duvall turned to his niece with a pained expression. ‘It would be safer if you returned to the States,’ he said. ‘There will be a war in this part of the world and I don’t think it will go well for the Aussies.’
Victoria frowned. Her personal knowledge of the Japanese had long convinced her that what her uncle said was true. She had often thought it was only a matter of time. Sadly, many Europeans could not understand the fierce Oriental belief in saving face, and had trodden on Japanese honour without any respect for their national pride. She well knew of the samurai tradition and had watched it being awakened in the people of the island nation to the north. Like a kamikaze wind they would one day explode out of their home islands to sweep south. ‘Then that is all the more reason why I should be by Jack’s side when the time comes,’she said with a sad note in her reply.
‘I guess you know that my visit here is more than personal,’ her uncle said. ‘We have been quietly liaising with some members in the Aussie government and defence about putting in place a plan for when the inevitable happens. You can understand that I cannot tell you much.’
‘I know,’ Victoria said with a sigh. ‘I was not the daughter of a military man for nothing. I understand that you work for the Office of Naval Intelligence and that says it all. You forget that a few years back I worked with Joe Oblachinski to film around Papua for the Department of Defense back home and I still keep detailed notes and photographs of places of military interest for Uncle Sam.’
‘Does your husband know what you are doing?’ the American naval man asked.
‘If Jack does, he never lets on,’ she said, and added, ‘He is an extraordinary man – and husband.’
‘From your repeated declarations that he is superman it sounds like I will never be able to convince you that it would be safer to return to the States with your Uncle Bernie,’ the naval officer said with a gentle touch to Victoria’s face. ‘So I am going to ask you on behalf of your Uncle Sam to do some things for us in the name of national security.’
‘I half-expected that when I came down to see you,’ Victoria said. ‘I feel that I can help my country by staying in this part of the world if … when, the Emperor unleashes his bushido warriors on the Pacific.’
The American was hesitant to brief his niece and turned again to gaze out at the blue waters beyond the harbour before speaking. ‘I cannot tell you how we know but it has come to our attention that the Japs are stockpiling supplies around the islands for their submarine fleet. We know that the Brit navy is also aware and will be mounting an operation to hunt down and destroy those dumps before the Japs declare war on us. I know that you are currently perfectly placed with the operations of the Independence to help us locate a Jap agent who is responsible for covert activities right under the Aussies’ noses in your part of the world.’
‘Why don’t you give this information to the Australian authorities and let them hunt down the man?’ Victoria asked with a frown of disapproval.
What Commander Duvall could not tell his niece was that United States counter-intelligence had broken the Japanese diplomatic code, which they named Purple, and that since 1939 the US Navy was partially able to read the new Japanese navy code they had designated JN 25. In the intercepts they had stumbled across references to a well-placed agent actively working in Papua, codenamed Krait, and his controller, Leading Seaman Fuji Komine. As it was, the USN code breakers were one step ahead of the Japanese agent by virtue of the fact that they had partially deciphered a routine message between Japanese commands that Komine was to be reassigned to the island of Bougainville. As far as they knew, not even the Japanese agent was aware of his new posting. But this information was called intelligence and was on a need to know basis. Despite the close cooperation between the United States government and the Australians, it was still deemed by some in the secretive world of counter-intelligence that it would not be wise to reveal too much to a government that just might fall in the opening shots of a war. After all, the Australian government had its finest troops on the other side of the world fighting for the British in North Africa and the Middle East, and the country would be virtually defenceless against a sudden and overwhelming attack from the north.
Bernard bowed his head. ‘We are not in a position to leave it to the Australians,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I can trust you, as a patriotic American, to carry out the task of locating a Japanese by the name of Fuji Komine.’
‘I know that name!’ Victoria exclaimed. ‘It has to be a coincidence, but I know that name.’
Bernard Duvall was startled by his niece’s statement. ‘How could you know this man?’ he asked.
‘When I first met Jack there was a tragic incident involving an attempted murder on some friends of Jack’s near Moresby. Jack was actually wounded in the incident and later learned that a young Japanese man born in Papua was involved in almost having him and his friends killed. His name was Fuji Komine. His parents still live just outside of Port Moresby and his father is a well-respected boat builder. Young Fuji used to sail with his father all around the islands. In fact, Jack tells me that Fuji was educated in Port Moresby along with his son.’
‘It fits if what you say is true. This Komine would be the perfect agent for the area of operations around southern Papua and the islands of the Torres Strait. Have you seen him lately?’ Bernard asked, hopeful that he might receive a positive answer.
But his niece shook her head. ‘If anyone could track down Fuji it would be Jack,’ she said. ‘He is a born hunter.’
‘I would prefer that we keep your husband, er, Jack, out of this.’
‘I trust my husband with my life,’ Victoria snapped, annoyed at her uncle’s bureaucratic response. It seemed that a bit of Washington had worn off on the man she had always respected for his diverse opinions in the face of plodding government thinking.
‘I am sorry, Victoria,’ her uncle said apologetically. ‘I did not mean to infer that Jack could not be trusted. I suppose I have to go off the record, as they say in the world of newspapermen, and leave how much you confide to your Aussie to your intelligent judgment. But you did not hear that from me.’
Victoria grasped her uncle’s elbow. ‘You know that my loyalty to Uncle Sam is beyond question and I also tr
ust Jack to be discreet in this matter. I sense that he knows Australia will need the US in the future if it is to survive in a war against Japan – although most of his pompous friends at the club still believe that the Brits will save them. The Brits are hardly in any position to save themselves right now and after all, we and the Aussies share the edges of the Pacific.’
Bernard nodded and turned to walk with his niece back to the hotel where he had organised comfortable accommodation for her. Tonight they would share a meal and he would complete his briefing. Along with his knowledge that the Japanese were in the process of planning a war against the Western powers in the Pacific was his unshakeable trust in his remarkable niece’s loyalty and abilities.
A clatter of something metallic and the strong, pungent, lingering smell of chloroform impacted on Lukas Kelly’s senses in his world devoid of light. Something had happened and he struggled frantically to remember.
‘Easy Lukas,’ he heard a soothing male voice say, and desperately tried to recall whose voice it was. His hand came up and he touched a swathe of bandages around his head. More voices now but muted by distance.
Luke’s throat felt dry and nausea welled up. As he struggled to sit up to vomit he felt a gentle but strong hand assist him into a sitting position.
‘Nurse,’ the voice called, but it was too late, and Lukas felt the spasms force up bile to splash on the bed.
‘I have him, Mr Oblachinski,’ a female voice said and Lukas felt the moistness of a cloth wiping his face.
‘Joe?’ Lukas queried to ascertain if his mind was functioning.
‘It’s me,’ Joe answered and Lukas smelled the strong aroma of cigars when Joe Oblachinski leaned forward. ‘Take it easy, young fella, you have just come out of the operating theatre.’
‘What happened? I just remember flying Errol somewhere.’
‘It seems that you had a bird-strike on your plane and you went down a bit hard on the strip. You are in a private hospital. When Jack Warner’s people heard what happened they had you sent by ambulance directly here.’