Eden

by Peter Watt

  Fatima did not know Paul Mann but she knew Jack Kelly. He had been George’s best friend and a man who Fatima knew her fiancé had trusted with his life. If this young Australian of German birth was close to Jack Kelly then he must be a good man, Fatima rationalised. However, he was also the enemy and his assuming the identity of a German aviator seeking an escape route out of Palestine was obviously a ruse to betray her and her daughter – along with the others – to the British. That could only mean certain death for them all by a military firing squad. Surely the goodness of Allah would not allow His devoted follower to be slain by the infidels? Somehow she did not believe that was why Karl Mann had come into her life. It was time to go inside and discreetly continue their conversation. They would again speak in German. That way neither her daughter nor Abdul would understand. Nevertheless they would still have to be careful.

  ‘From the stories Uncle Jack told us it seems that George Spencer was really a British aristocrat, Lord Spencer,’ Karl said quietly, attempting to make his tone sound conversational. ‘It also seems that if you were back in Australia and able to prove your identity, you and Jack would share the fortune George left to you both. Under the conditions of his will it required both your signatures to make the claim. I don’t know why that was so but Uncle Jack seems to think his friend George wanted to ensure Jack would look after your interests if anything happened to him.’

  Fatima listened as Karl told her as much as he could about her family in Papua. The more she listened the more real the scent of the frangipani became in her mind.

  ‘Why do you work for the Nazis?’ Karl asked.

  ‘I do not,’ Fatima replied. ‘My husband is loyal to Petain and his government in Vichy.’

  ‘There are also many Frenchmen fighting for freedom from the Nazi occupation of France,’ Karl pointed out. ‘You do not have to remain loyal to an unjust cause.’

  Searching the eyes behind the veil, Karl could see the pain in the woman’s soul. He also felt a tiny hope that by reminding her of Papua he might have swayed her loyalties.

  ‘I am sorry Herr Mann but my daughter is the most precious thing I have in my life,’ Fatima finally said. ‘I will not risk her life under any circumstances.’

  ‘What if I could get you and your daughter out of Palestine and back to Australia?’ Karl countered. He did not know how this was possible under the current circumstances but he had nothing else to offer. ‘You would inherit a fortune that I know you could use to help not only yourself but also Marie. She is a beautiful young woman and has her whole life ahead of her. Do you honestly think she is better off here?’ He could see that Iris was considering his proposal and guessed that somehow she feared her common law husband enough to dismiss the tempting offer. ‘All I would need you to do is go to the King David Hotel and ask to see a Captain Featherstone. Tell him where I am and what Fritz has planned for me and I promise that both you and your daughter will receive protection and an eventual passage to Australia.’

  ‘Your offer is tempting,’ Iris conceded. ‘I have wondered if Allah has sent you here to fetch us back to Papua and my family. But I must also consider the wrath of my husband and that I am now a follower of the ways of Mohammed. This place is close to the roots of my life now.’

  Karl was becoming desperate. Abdul still stood nearby, guarding him until Fritz came to smuggle him to the rendezvous he had with the U boat. It had not passed by the Australian officer that the knowledge of a U boat’s location was worth much in military terms. The dreaded steel sharks of the sea had wreaked a terrible toll on supplies crossing the Atlantic, and there was a strong possibility that they may even bring the besieged British Isles to surrender as the rise in shipping tonnage sunk outstripped the ability of the Americans to replace the losses. So far Britain was losing the war in the cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and being able to get a message to Featherstone about the German sub was vital. It was no less significant than him taking a strategic hill or French fort in Syria. Indeed Karl had come to accept that leading Featherstone to the U boat was becoming more important than his own life. He was after all a soldier and expected to take such risks. At least this target was worth it.

  ‘I could possibly help you slip away from here,’ Iris said. ‘I could find an excuse to have Abdul leave his post for a short time.’

  Karl again experienced a surge of hope at her suggestion. At least she was not going to betray his real identity. ‘I wish I could do that but I am an officer of His Majesty and must do my duty. I need you to go to the hotel and seek out Captain Featherstone. Tell him all you know about where I am and the fact that I am going to be picked up tonight by a submarine. It is all I can do.’

  Iris did not answer. However she had considered a very dangerous plan to excuse herself from the presence of Abdul. She turned and walked to Abdul and said something to him in Arabic. He answered angrily and glared at Karl. In a couple of strides, Abdul crossed the room to slam Lukas in the side of the head with the butt of his pistol. Karl saw swirling red stars but stood his ground. Without a further glance at Karl, Iris left the room. Wavering on his feet, Karl felt sick with despair. Whatever she had said was not what he had hoped for. The bread and olives he had consumed seemed to be rebelling and he fought off the nausea. It seemed that all hope was gone and now it was time to keep a clear head to seek a means of escape. But Abdul was watching him with more than casual indifference, his hand close to his pistol.

  Fritz arrived just after sunset and Karl watched his reaction to a short discussion he had with Abdul in Arabic.

  ‘I see that Abdul and Fatima have looked after you,’ Fritz said with a thin smile. ‘I am sure that you will have a lot to tell the Gestapo in Berlin, Herr Mann.’

  So she had betrayed him after all, Karl thought sadly, staring at the Luger in Fritz’s hand which was pointed at his belly. It was all over. Fritz continued. ‘Fatima also mentioned that you asked her to contact a Captain Featherstone. I have heard of him. He works for the British Special Operations Executive and thus I can only conclude that so do you. Your knowledge of their activities makes your capture worth the risk of a submarine pick-up. So the operation to get you out of Palestine is not wasted after all.’

  Karl had not even heard of the SOE. So at least under torture he could not betray much to the Gestapo, he thought bitterly. He cursed Featherstone to hell for allowing him to be trapped in this world of dark intrigue. He had enlisted in the Australian Army to fight a war on the battlefields, leading men with what he hoped would be skill and courage, not to be part of this devious war of espionage. Spying was just a case of relying on luck to stay alive and now Karl knew death would probably come to him in some lonely and unglorified way.

  As Abdul secured Karl’s hands in front of him with a rope all Karl could think about was being deceived by the woman who his father had once attempted to save. It was the ultimate betrayal.

  Karl was bundled into the dark, now deserted alley. The curfew had forced the populace indoors and as Karl stood flanked by Abdul and Fritz he wondered how they would transport him to the seashore. His question was answered when he heard the distant sound of a car engine. He recognised it from days earlier when he had first been taken out of the city. The car came to a stop and in the dim light Karl could make out Pierre behind the wheel.

  Without a word Karl was bundled into the back seat. Abdul got in beside him and jabbed the barrel of the pistol painfully under Karl’s ribs. All Karl could hope for now was that they would be stopped by a British patrol. The noise of a car on Jerusalem’s roads was bound to attract attention. Maybe the German agent’s plan was not so well thought out after all, Karl thought. Even so, he suspected he was still a dead man if they were stopped. It did not take much strength to pull a trigger. At least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that in all probability his executioner would in turn be killed by a patrol of armed British soldiers. He sensed from the tension in the car that what he was thinking was also in the thoughts of his captors.r />
  With a crunch of a transmission badly in need of adjustment the car lurched into motion. Karl strained to listen in on the conversation between Pierre and Fritz in the front seat, but as they were speaking in French he could not keep up with what was being said. French had never been a favourite subject when he was at school and nor was Latin for that matter. What he could deduce was that both men were very tense and even concerned. That was to be expected, Karl thought, since they were placing themselves in great danger to transport him.

  After an hour or so outside the city they came to the beach. Karl knew that they had arrived as he could smell the salt air and hear the gentle hiss of the Mediterranean Sea against the shore.

  Abdul gestured with the pistol, indicating that he was to get out. Karl obeyed and stretched his legs once he was standing outside the car in the dark. He considered whether it was worth making a break for freedom but knew that he would not get far with his hands bound.

  ‘Walk,’ Fritz commanded.

  Karl stumbled in the dark and was hauled to his feet by Fritz. ‘I would just as soon shoot you now,’ he hissed in Karl’s ear. ‘You are in my opinion a traitor to the Fatherland where it seems you were born. It is only what you know about the SOE that keeps you alive for now.’

  Regaining his balance Karl wondered if he could get the German agent to shoot him now so he could avoid the Gestapo. He was already imagining some dank, dark cell in Berlin, dripping with his blood as he screamed out what little he knew. But he doubted that Fritz would grant him a quick death.

  He was marched through the dunes to the beach where a small open fishing boat with a single mast rocked in the gently lapping surf. The moonless night was illuminated faintly by a single lantern at the stern of the boat, which was manned by two men dressed as Arabs. In the boat lay a mess of fishing nets. Karl was forced aboard and felt a heavy hand on his back force him down to his knees. Fritz said something and Karl suddenly felt the weight of the nets tossed over him, their weight forcing him face down and helpless into the bottom of the boat where he could smell the strong stench of tar and fish.

  He heard the small concealed motor splutter into life and the boat was pushed out from the shore. As far as Karl could ascertain, Pierre and Abdul had remained ashore. Only Fritz and the two silent crew members were accompanying him to the meeting with the U boat.

  For what seemed like about ten minutes, Karl could feel the vibration of the engine pounding against his cheek through the planking of the fishing boat. Suddenly the engine stopped and the boat rocked in silence on the swell of the sea. A hand hauled him to his knees and out from under the nets. Karl gazed over the side of the boat and felt his will to live falter. The sinister shape of a submarine was silhouetted against a brilliant night sky of stars. The U boat was about a hundred yards off the fishing boat’s portside and drifting towards them. Half a dozen men were scurrying on the deck of the U boat, preparing to grapple with the fishing boat and draw her alongside. For a moment Karl thought he saw a flash on the horizon followed by a strange whisper in the air. It was a sound he was very familiar with and he instinctively crouched on his knees lower in the boat.

  The shell exploded in a shower of water, drenching the occupants of the fishing boat. The U boat was being fired on and suddenly the night was lit as a powerful, piercing searchlight fixed the U boat. The crew scrambled back to the conning tower as the sub prepared for a crash dive to avoid the finger of light and shower of shells that now poured down on her. Karl did not hesitate and with all his strength he barrelled into Fritz who had swung on him with a pistol. With his impressive size and weight, Karl easily cleared a path to the edge of the fishing boat where he dived into the safety of the inky dark waters.

  In the water Karl struck out as best as he could, wanting to quickly make some distance between himself and his captors. He could hear the sound of the fishing boat’s engine as it came to life and lumbered off into the cover of night. The searchlight did not follow the fishing vessel but instead kept the U boat in its grasp.

  Karl stopped swimming and began to tread water. He did not know how long he could do this with his hands tied but was determined not to die a lonely death so far from his beloved Eden. Somehow he kept himself afloat while the shells continued to bracket the U boat as she desperately blew her tanks to take in water for a crash dive to safety. Another searing flash in the night and a heavy explosion indicated that the unseen ship firing on the sub had scored a direct hit. Fragments of metal spattered down around him as he fought to keep afloat. Karl did not cheer the hit. To do so would have meant taking in sea water. Was drowning a more pleasant way to die than from a bullet? He didn’t really want to find out.

  TWELVE

  The well-meaning Methodist minister droned on about God’s Grace, intoning prayers for the dead. Sweat trickled down his stiff white collar as he held the prayer book in his hands. Jack Kelly stared at the simple burial casket being lowered into the grave. Rock solid and seemingly without feeling he stood under the blazing sun.

  Around him in the dusty cemetery outside Port Moresby a small group of men stood, hats in hand. They had known Jack from the days when they were young prospectors on the Papua and New Guinea frontiers, both before and after the Great War. They had come to pay their respects to a lady who they all had seen bring happiness and serenity to their old friend.

  Amongst the mourners stood Paul Mann with his wife Karin and their daughter, Angelika. Tears poured down Karin’s face and she dabbed at them with a tiny lace handkerchief. She held Paul’s hand as he remained stony faced opposite his estranged friend, Jack Kelly.

  ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes …’ the young minister said, and the tough old prospectors replaced their broad-brimmed hats as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

  Jack bent down to take up a handful of Papuan earth. Paul saw a fleeting expression of gratitude in his old friend’s eyes. He alone understood Jack’s seemingly unfeeling demeanour. They had been men who had survived the carnage of the Western Front and had sadly come to a point where the public expression of emotion was not something that came easily anymore. To those who had not been there this stolid stance in the face of personal grief was alien.

  The minister moved to Jack’s side and mumbled the usual condolences. Jack nodded. Old friends came one by one to awkwardly offer their sympathy. How did one express sorrow for such a loss?

  Finally the graveyard was empty except for Jack and the Mann family. It was Karin who stepped forward to gently embrace Jack. ‘Oh, Jack, I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘We all loved Victoria.’

  Jack bowed his head and the tears flowed uncontrollably. The tears became sobs. Not even the conditioning of a past war could now contain his grief and in Karin’s embrace the pain of loss overwhelmed him. ‘God, I miss her,’ Jack sobbed. ‘The bastards murdered her.’

  ‘Come home with us, Jack,’ Paul said. ‘You need time to be with your family.’

  Jack stepped back and wiped his eyes. In the simple offer he found a tiny fragment of peace. ‘Thank you, cobber,’ he replied. ‘I will accept your offer. We have much to catch up on.’

  At the Manns’ copra plantation west of Port Moresby, Jack sat on the verandah of the comfortable timber-and-iron bungalow surrounded by lush tropical gardens. The explosion of flowers around the house brightened the outlook to the beach and happy laughter drifted from the stately rows of coconut palms where the native labourers tended the plantation.

  It had been a week since the funeral and in that time the tender care of Karin and Angelika had helped heal a fraction of Jack’s emotional wounds. The company and conversation of Paul had eased his grief a little more, and such was the easy manner in which he was treated it was as if the men had never been apart for the past two years. If nothing else, Victoria’s death had brought the Mann family back into his life.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ Paul said, striding across the front yard towards the verandah. The tall, middleaged man with Paul wore a dark suit not us
ual for the tropics and sweat glistened on his face. Jack could feel the authoritative presence of the stranger as he approached.

  ‘Mr Jack Kelly?’ the man asked, extending his hand. ‘I am Victoria’s uncle, Bernard Duvall.’

  Jack took the hand and felt the firm grip. ‘I have heard a lot about you,’ he said. ‘Victoria told me that you were in Townsville.’

  ‘I came as soon as possible when I was informed of Victoria’s death,’ Bernard said. ‘Sadly, I was unable to be at her funeral.’

  Jack could see the pain in the American’s face when he mentioned the funeral. It made him aware that the loss of his wife was also the loss of a beloved niece. ‘Would you like to pull up a chair and join me?’ Jack offered gently. ‘I am sure that the sun is beyond the yardarm somewhere in the world.’

  The expression of gratitude in Bernard’s face was a reward in itself as he sat down in one of the battered cane chairs under the shade of the tin roof.

  ‘I will go and see Karin,’ Paul said. ‘And we are able to provide you with a bed for the night, Mr Duvall, if you would prefer to spend a little time here?’

  Bernard glanced up at Paul. ‘I would like that, Mr Mann,’ he responded. ‘It is mighty hospitable of you.’

  ‘I thought that you and Jack might need a little time together. It would be good for you both.’

  Paul disappeared inside to speak to Karin and tell her that they had another guest. He took a bottle of schnapps onto the verandah and discreetly made excuses to go back to the packing sheds.

  ‘I have heard how your schooner was rammed by a Jap sub,’ Bernard said as Jack poured them both a shot of the fiery liquor. ‘Naturally the Japanese government denies any such event occurred. They suggest that the collision was probably caused by a whale.’