by Peter Watt
The wooden door of the room creaked open and Karl snapped from his meandering thoughts, feeling a surge of hope when Marie appeared in the doorway. She was once again wearing the traditional dress of Moslem women but he instantly recognised the startling blue eyes behind the veil.
‘You come,’ she commanded, beckoning with her hand.
Once the door was fully open Karl saw Abdul standing behind her. He rose stiffly to his feet and followed Marie. He noticed that this time Abdul was not behind him when he walked down the stairs behind her.
In the lower room Karl saw Fritz standing by the main entrance.
‘I must apologise for the uncomfortable time you have spent here, Flight Lieutenant Harmstorf,’ Fritz said without much sound of apology in his tone. ‘However we had to verify that you are who you said you were.’
Karl breathed an inward sigh of relief. At least his cover story had stood up to scrutiny and for that he knew he could thank the meticulous work of Captain Featherstone and his organisation, whoever they really were. ‘Does that mean you can get me home?’ Karl asked.
‘We will. Berlin has authorised the means to get you out of here and back for a debriefing. It appears that they think you are an important man.’
Karl felt a twinge of uneasiness. Featherstone had obviously not briefed him on everything that he needed to know about the dead man he was impersonating. Fritz seemed to know a lot more about him than Karl did. ‘What arrangements have been made to get me out?’ Karl asked, riding on the back of his perceived importance to the Third Reich.
‘One of our U boats will rendezvous with a fishing boat tonight off the coast. You will be taken aboard.’
Karl’s heart skipped a beat. That the Germans would risk such an important asset so close to the presence of the Royal Navy truly indicated that whoever Flight Lieutenant Harmstorf was in life, it was worth risking a U boat and its valuable crew to save him. The thought chilled Karl. If he was that important no doubt he would be closely guarded to ensure that he did not fall into the hands of the British – something he badly wanted to happen. The future was looking bleak again. He may as well have been back in the jungles of Papua – blind, alone and in Kukukuku country. At least his chances under those circumstances were better than if he fell into the hands of the dreaded Gestapo. At least the lethal little warriors of the jungle killed a man outright for his head and body to eat. They did not indulge in pulling fingernails out and other unspeakable tortures in order to extract information from a man who would be deemed both a traitor and spy. ‘That is good,’ Karl replied as cheerfully as he could. ‘Soon I will be home drinking schnapps and toasting your brave efforts deep in enemy territory.’
‘If the damned British navy do not spoil our plans,’ Fritz said less optimistically, and Karl prayed that Fritz’s pessimism might be well founded. ‘In the meantime you will remain here with Abdul, Marie and her mother, Fatima. Fatima will cook you a good meal to give you some strength for your journey. I will return just after dark to take you to the fishing boat that we use. Do you have any questions, Flight Lieutenant Harmstorf?’
‘Does Marie’s mother make strudel?’ Karl asked in an attempt to sound lighthearted.
Fritz broke into what could almost be called a smile. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, making his way to the door. ‘She is really a half-caste Chinese who I have been told once lived amongst the cannibals of Papua.’
Fritz did not see the sudden flush that came to Karl’s face. Papua! A name he had never expected to hear so far from home. The casual remark gave him hope. If the woman had once lived in Papua perhaps there was a slight chance she might be sympathetic to him if he called on her help as a last resort.
Karl was allowed to remain downstairs away from the stifling room above the tenement. He guessed that he was somewhere in the Arab section of Jerusalem. If so, he also knew that German sympathisers dominated the back streets and alleys amongst the local Arab population. He knew that if he attempted an escape in broad daylight Abdul would kill him. His only hope was to play along and try to lull his menacing Arab bodyguard into a false sense of security. While he was pondering the options to escape, a woman entered the house wearing the same style of dress as Marie. Karl could see from her eyes that she was part Asian. They were beautiful, partially slanted dark eyes, that somehow reminded Karl of a cat watching him. From the manner of greeting between Marie and the new arrival, Karl guessed that the older woman was Fatima, mother of Marie and wife of the Corsican. They spoke in Arabic and Karl knew that he was the topic of their conversation. Fatima was carrying a cloth parcel and stone jar which she placed on the table. She unwrapped the parcel to reveal a freshly baked loaf of bread, block of cheese and a jar of black olives. Karl was famished and the delicious aroma of the bread wafted in the room.
‘You wish to eat, Herr Harmstorf?’ Fatima asked in good German but with an accent.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied gratefully. ‘I could not help but notice your German has a strong English undertone,’ he added and watched the woman’s eyes closely for a reaction. ‘Where did you learn to speak German?’
Fatima’s expression changed at his question and her eyes switched to her daughter standing to one side. ‘It is not important where I learned to speak German,’ she replied softly, and Karl sensed that her evasion had something to do with her daughter.
‘I am sorry,’ Karl said as Fatima broke off a chunk of bread and passed it to him. ‘I was merely attempting to make some conversation. I have had little opportunity to speak with anyone for the past couple of days.’
Fatima passed bread to Marie and Abdul who then helped themselves to the cheese and olives. Karl declined the cheese which had a rancid smell. The stone jar contained water and Fatima poured its contents into a tin mug she found on the single shelf in the room. Karl accepted the water, washing down the bread. It was now or never, Karl decided, and asked his question.
‘I was told that you lived for some time in Papua?’
This time Fatima looked startled. Her eyes swung to him. ‘How did you know this?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Fritz mentioned it to me,’ Karl answered with as much innocence as he could muster. ‘I once visited that country and was curious that an Arab woman should have lived there.’ Fatima glanced nervously at Abdul. ‘Does Abdul speak German?’ Karl asked softly, leaning slightly towards Fatima. Their conversation did not appear to interest either Marie or the Arab.
‘No,’ Fatima answered, but still appeared nervous. ‘When were you in Papua?’ she countered.
‘Oh, in 1938,’ Karl replied. ‘I was visiting a distant relative over there who had a plantation just outside of Port Moresby. A family called Mann. Did you know them?’
Fatima shook her head. ‘I do not know that name but I also once lived just outside of Port Moresby with my sister and brother-in-law, Kwong Yu Sen.’
Now it was Fatima’s turn to be surprised by the reaction of the German pilot who had visibly paled. What had she said that should cause such a reaction?
Hardly believing what he had discovered, Karl asked in an almost strangled tone, ‘You would not also be known by the name of Iris?’
He did not see the look of shock on Fatima’s face as she suddenly pulled the veil further up her face and turned away. Her reaction was noticed by Marie who said something Karl did not understand, which caused Fatima to reply in a short sentence that seemed to reassure her daughter. Fatima turned to Karl with a desperate plea in her eyes. ‘How could you know my real name?’ she asked.
Karl knew that this was the turning point. Whatever he said next could either save him or condemn him on the spot.
‘I am not what I appear to be,’ Karl said softly. ‘My real name is Karl Mann and it was my father who went in search of you many years ago up the Fly River. He was sent by your brother-in-law, Sen, to rescue you but unfortunately failed. My father was once the best friend of Jack Kelly and I have heard the story of how you were taken captive by O’Leary and
spirited out of Papua. I have also heard the stories of how you loved George Spencer …’ Karl hesitated. He could see the tears welling in Fatima’s eyes and felt her hand on his arm.
‘Is George well?’ Fatima choked.
‘I am sorry,’ Karl answered gently. ‘He did not return from the expedition that he and Jack Kelly went on into the Morobe province. He was killed by natives and mercifully never learned of your abduction by O’Leary.’
Fatima held her hands up to her face and wept openly as the pain of the years swept over her. Marie could see her mother’s distress and glared at Karl as she moved to place her arms around her mother in comfort. Karl felt uncomfortable that it had been he who had delivered the news of George Spencer’s death and brought anguish to a woman he had only heard about in the stories of Jack and his father which had become part of their family lore. Karl experienced a strange calm. He would use this diversion, calculating how he might overpower Abdul who was well armed with pistol and dagger.
‘You German pig,’ Marie spat in English. ‘What have you said to upset my mother?’ As Abdul hovered uncertainly at the edge of the room, Karl continued to pretend that he did not understand her and shrugged with an imploring expression on his face. ‘I am sorry,’ he said in German.
‘What has this man said, Mother?’ Marie asked, holding the weeping woman close.
Karl was not sure of the loyalties of the Corsican’s daughter but it seemed so far that Iris had not betrayed him. ‘I am well,’ Fatima replied in English. ‘Herr Harmstorf was just telling me how he has lost his wife and children in this terrible war.’
Karl felt his hopes surge. Not only had Fatima lied, and in doing so indicated that she was prepared to protect their secret, but Marie appeared to believe her mother’s story and cast Karl a sympathetic look of condolence.
Fatima wiped her eyes with the edge of her veil, and without looking at Karl, sat down on a stone ledge against a wall and stared at the floor. Abdul frowned and snarled something in Arabic at Fatima who ignored him. Karl knew all was not going well and he had yet to enlist Fatima’s help in getting a message to Featherstone at headquarters. Just because they had established a bridge between them did not necessarily mean Fatima would help him. The day was moving towards night and when that time came Karl would be shuttled to the U boat and by then it would be too late to help either himself or the mission, which was becoming more confusing the deeper in he got. Karl was beginning to strongly believe that from the outset he had been tagged as easily expendable. Was this simply a mission to uncover a spy ring operating in Palestine? Or was the target something else? He guessed that he would find out within the next twelve hours – if he lived that long.
TEN
Fuji should have known better. Had he not been trained to never use the same track twice? He was almost at the beach to meet with Keela when a young native man stepped out to block his way. Fuji stopped in his tracks and eyed the stranger who he recognised as a Motu. Fuji guessed the boy was around Keela’s age and his bare chest rippled with muscle from years of rowing the outriggers in the tropical waters. A deadly machete, honed razor sharp, swung casually in the young man’s right hand and the hostility in his stance spoke of death.
‘You will die, Jap man,’ the young Motu warrior roared, charging with the broad blade swinging above his head.
Instantly Fuji snatched for the knife in his waist-band and assumed a combat half-crouch with the knife extended to meet the attack. All he could think was that his assailant must be the boy Keela told him was her betrothed and somehow he had learned of her liaisons at the beach and had chosen to ambush him on the track.
In the blink of an eye the two men were face to face. Fuji could see the killing rage in his opponent’s eyes who was a head taller than himself and had the body of a man in his physical prime. The native boy swung the machete down in an arc but Fuji was fast and brought his free arm up to block the downward swing. Their arms met and without hesitation Fuji thrust the knife at a sideways angle, using all his strength to slide the finely honed blade between his attacker’s upper ribs. The blow was perfect and the blade found its mark in the beating heart of the native boy. With a long scream he slumped to the ground, his eyes rolling in pain and the machete fell from his hand. Clutching his hands around the handle of the knife, he feebly attempted to drag it from his chest.
For a brief moment Fuji remained very still, standing above the boy. This was the first man he had ever killed and despite all his training he still felt weak with shock at how easy it had been to rob a man of his life. He continued to watch his attacker until, with his eyes half closed in despair, the native boy stopped breathing. Only then did Fuji remove and wipe the blade clean on tussock-like grass beside the track and replace it in its sheath. Fuji glanced around the surrounding scrub but it appeared the native boy had been alone; no other warriors had appeared to give assistance to their comrade.
Fuji realised that the boy had probably boasted to friends and relatives that he would settle a matter of honour in the traditional way. When he did not return, the news of his failure was bound to spread and possibly even reach the ears of the district police, who would attempt to locate him. Even if the killing had been in self-defence the matter was moot. To be discovered in Papua would disrupt his mission as even now he was preparing to be picked up by the submarine lurking in the Gulf of Papua. His mission had been extended to the town of Rabaul on the island of New Britain. He had important work to do there and this incident had the potential to seriously disrupt the pick-up due to occur within forty-eight hours.
The sun was high overhead and Fuji knew that he was late for his meeting with Keela. Without another thought for the body sprawled on the track he turned to continue his walk to the beach.
Keela was waiting and her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the blood soaking the front of Fuji’s white shirt. She rushed to him and flung herself onto the slim young man. ‘Have you been injured?’ she gasped.
‘It is not my blood,’ Fuji replied dispassionately. ‘I think it is the blood of your betrothed.’
Keela pushed herself away and covered her face. ‘I came to warn you that he was boasting in the village that he would kill you,’ she said. ‘But you have killed him.’
‘It was either him or me,’ Fuji frowned. ‘He did not give me any choice but to defend myself.’
Fuji felt suddenly weary. How would Keela view the matter of honour settled between men? Fuji had a grudging respect for the man he had killed as he had shown that loss of face was worth risking his life for. That the Motu man had failed to keep face still meant he was honoured as a fallen warrior by Fuji, who fervently believed in the tradition of the samurai, and at least the native boy’s soul would not be lost.
‘I am glad that you came to me,’ Keela said calmly. ‘He was a strong man but you were stronger. That is a good thing for the children of such a man.’
Fuji reached out to touch Keela gently on the face. Still shaken from the fight to the death with her betrothed he realised just what the young man’s death had really meant. Fuji had put his life on the line for the woman he loved more than life itself. ‘Keela, I want you to be my woman.’
‘I already am,’ Keela answered, eyes downcast shyly. ‘I think I am with your child.’
The news startled the normally impassive young Japanese man. He was to be a father! His emotions reeled. Keela was not of Japanese blood and therefore considered by his own people to be less than human. But she now bore his blood within her body. He was a warrior of the Emperor dedicated to the God King. He had been trained to dismiss all personal ambitions and desires. Nevertheless, standing at the edge of a beach in the land where he had been born, with the woman he loved, the mother of his unborn child, standing at his side, Japan and its strictures seemed so far away for now. The reality of his life was right here and now amidst the gentle sounds of the Papuan bush and surf.
‘You are not pleased?’ Keela asked in a frightened voice.
<
br /> ‘I am pleased,’ Fuji said. But he was confused by the situation and needed time to sort out his feelings and priorities. ‘It is unexpected.’
Keela wondered at his remark. Surely it had to be expected when she was in the prime of her womanhood and had given herself to him each time they had met. Now it was only a matter of what he would do to support her and the child she carried. She had missed her monthly bleeding and the wise old women in her village considered her pregnant. Fuji had been the only man she had lain with. ‘What will we do?’ she asked. ‘I do not know what we should do.’
Fuji considered the situation. It seemed an impossible dilemma. He could not go to Keela’s village for not only were the native boy’s relatives honour bound to exact revenge, but he was an educated Japanese man who was not fated to live like a savage, fishing from the sea, whilst his woman tended the vegetable garden and children she would bear him. Nor could he take her with him. He was a sailor in the service of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Looking into her trusting eyes he felt a terrible surge of guilt. ‘We will find a way to be together,’ he said gently, a lump in his throat. ‘You will be my woman forever. I will not return here tomorrow lest the dead man’s relatives lay in ambush for me. I will get a message to you, one way or the other, at your village, of where we are to meet again.’