by Peter Watt
‘What do you think?’ Jack asked bitterly.
‘That you were rammed by a Jap sub because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Bernard replied, gazing across the yard through the rows of coconut trees to the beach below. ‘I think that you know not to ask me how I know,’ he continued. ‘But it was the I–47 commanded by Lieutenant Kenshu Chuma – on a mission to pick up an agent, Fuji Komine. I believe you know Komine.’
Jack paled. Fuji! It was as if the attack on the Mann plantation years earlier had come to life again and the intervening years had been merely an intermission before Fuji finished something personal against him and Paul. Jack did not doubt the American naval man’s knowledge. He suspected that he had access to secrets so sensitive that even to confide what he already had was breaching all that he stood for. Jack was grateful. ‘I tried to find him when Victoria came back from seeing you,’ he said. ‘I only wish I had tried harder. Maybe Victoria might be alive today if I had found the bastard. Then the Jap sub would not have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Bernard offered. ‘You and I have both seen war and know how fickle the gods of fate can be. Komine was sent here to set up a network. We believe that he has done that but all we know is that the agent in the Port Moresby district is code named Krait. We were kind of hoping that you might be able to help us find out who Krait is.’
‘Why me?’ Jack asked. ‘I’m no bloody spy.’
‘Because it would have meant something to Victoria. She always was a patriot. I suppose you could say to uncover Krait would honour her memory.’
Jack stared at the wild bloom of colour in the garden and remembered how the heavily scented, waxy frangipani flowers had been his wife’s favourites. Other than having Victoria alive and by his side, the thing he desired most in his life now was to wreak revenge on the men responsible for her death. Maybe it was an impossible hope as the Japanese were not at war with his country, but in finding Krait there was a good chance of tracing the link back to Fuji. ‘If I can I will try to find out who Krait is,’ Jack replied. ‘And I do not promise to take him alive.’
Bernard shifted uneasily but tacitly agreed with Jack’s sentiments. ‘Just don’t get yourself into trouble in doing so,’ Bernard warned. ‘The conversation we had never occurred.’
Bernard Duvall stayed at the plantation for the night and proved to be a pleasant guest. After the evening meal the three men removed themselves to the verandah to drink more of Paul’s fiery schnapps and reminisce about the Great War, in which all three men had served for their respective countries.
As they sat chatting Jack mused on the task he had accepted. He did not care that he was probably indirectly already working for the United States. Right now their priorities were also his. The Independence had been beached and was now under-going repairs and Lukas, according to his last letter, was due home soon. So at least his son could take control of the business. Jack wondered if he would ever be able to step aboard his ship again when it held so many memories. If only he had lost the schooner and not his wife; inanimate objects could be repaired as they did not have souls, his mother had once told him. However the Independence was different; over the years it seemed to have been invested with Victoria’s soul.
Thousands of miles away Lieutenant Karl Mann sat in a comfortable leather armchair in a hotel room of the King David Hotel. Opposite him, Captain Featherstone sat puffing on a cigarette, its smoke swirling lazily around his head under the slowly rotating ceiling fan.
‘Fatima is an extraordinary woman,’ Featherstone said. ‘It took great initiative to play her hand the way she did.’
Karl frowned. The SOE man had explained how she had seemingly betrayed Karl to gain the confidence of the network around her. By doing so she was beyond suspicion in the eyes of the German agent in the vital hours she needed to be out of sight of Karl’s captors. This enabled her to slip away to make contact with the SOE man at the King David Hotel.
At first Featherstone had been stunned by her revelations about the planned U boat rendezvous and even more amazed when Fatima revealed a little about her own background. But he had acted immediately and, making contact with the Royal Navy, he was able to go through headquarters channels and have a British destroyer stationed to ambush the U boat. The destroyer had one vital piece of equipment that the German submarine did not have – radar – and with this they were able to locate the surfaced U boat in the dark. Although no wreckage of the U boat was found, the skipper and crew of the British warship were claiming a kill. The explosion before the sub was able to submerge indicated a direct hit on her hull.
When the warship had steamed over to the last sighting of the surfaced sub they had picked up Karl in the water. At first the sailors thought they had captured one of the sub’s crew. A string of oaths in a broad accent soon convinced them otherwise. They had picked up something just as odious – a colonial!
When the destroyer docked, Karl was able to have his identity confirmed and he was taken under military police guard to British headquarters to be debriefed on the operation.
‘Did you pick up Fritz and his people?’ Karl asked.
‘Sadly, the man has slipped through our fingers but we have faith in our Jewish allies eventually locating him for us. They have eyes and ears all over Palestine and no love for the Germans or any of their Arab allies. Thanks to you we have an idea of where to start looking, and also thanks to you we may have bagged a U boat. I have put you in for a gong to recognise the risks you took for King and country,’ Featherstone added casually. ‘But I am afraid you will not be able to tell anyone how you earned it – a bit like our chaps who won their VCs back in 1919 when they led attacks on the Red fleet in their home ports. They got the medals but could not tell anyone why they had them. Personally, I think that you have a nose for our rather secretive operations.’
‘With all due respect for what you do, sir, I am looking forward to returning to my battalion.’
‘Understandable, old chap,’ Featherstone said. ‘Not everyone’s cup of tea dodging around in back alleys saving the world without seeing the sun. The offer remains should you ever decide to jump boat and join us.’
‘If that is all,’ Karl said, standing. ‘I have been informed that I will be joining a truck convoy heading north with supplies.’
‘If there is anything we can do for you, old chap,’ Featherstone said, thrusting out his hand before Karl could put on his hat and salute. ‘Don’t hesitate.’
‘Just a couple of things, sir,’ Karl replied. ‘First, I think I have earned the right to know the real aim of the mission which almost cost me my life.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Featherstone frowned. ‘I think an explanation is deserved. As I briefed you before the mission, we had need to locate the German agent and confirm our suspicions concerning the role of the Corsican.’
‘But there was more,’ Karl quietly prompted. ‘Wasn’t there?’
‘There was,’ Featherstone replied, and Karl noticed that it was the first time that he had ever seen the British intelligence man look uncomfortable. ‘We knew that the man whose identity you assumed was of some great importance to Berlin. We guessed that they would go to any means to get him back – maybe send a seaplane or E boat for the rendezvous – but the deployment of a U boat was a surprise and only confirmed the dead man’s value. You see, when he was captured he was in possession of some papers whose veracity we had to test. It’s all part of our game to confirm such matters by any devious means possible. Fritz and his network were of importance to us but not as much as confirming the identity of the man you pretended to be. Now we know, and the bagging of the U boat was a bonus beyond our greatest hopes.’
‘I don’t suppose you are going to tell me any more about the man I was supposed to be,’ Karl said with a note of bitterness in his voice.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ Featherstone answered apologetically. ‘A need-to-know matter. But what is your second request?’<
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‘Make sure that the promise to get Iris … Fatima and her daughter Marie back to Australia is kept,’ Karl said. ‘I think the lady deserves that much for her role in your mission.’
Featherstone broke into a broad smile. ‘I can promise you that much, Mr Mann. I have already made arrangements to ship her and her daughter back to the antipodes within the week. My department is arranging to send word to her brother-in-law in Papua of her arrival. In the meantime, they will remain as guests of His Majesty here. Can’t have them wandering around the town – under the circumstances.’
For reasons of security Karl appreciated that Featherstone really meant that Iris and Marie were actually under a form of ‘house arrest’. At least they would be safe and well treated. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Karl said gratefully. ‘The fact that Iris is still alive has ramifications for a very good friend of mine in Papua. All going to plan and allowing for the vagaries of the law, both he and Iris are fated to be very rich people when they next meet. It has been almost a quarter of a century since they last saw each other.’
‘Ah, that smacks of intrigue, not unlike the world at the front you are leaving for,’ Featherstone said with a chuckle. ‘Or maybe a love story in the truest traditions of romance.’
Karl was not about to disillusion the English officer and was at least grateful to be able to get Marie out of Palestine. There was something about the young and beautiful woman that had touched him. At least in Australia he might get the chance to see her again. If he survived the war, that is, he thought, closing the door behind him.
‘I hate you, Mother,’ Marie screamed. ‘How could you do it?’
Iris stood by the hotel window, gazing down at a section of British soldiers changing the guard at the King David Hotel.
‘I did what I did for you,’ Iris replied, calmly turning to her daughter standing in the centre of the room and raging at the world.
‘You betrayed my father to the damned British. God knows if he is still alive.’
‘Knowing Pierre as I do, I doubt that the British will have captured him. I suspect he is up in the hills with his German friends at this very moment planning his return to Casablanca.’
The two women stood facing each other across the hotel room provided by Captain Featherstone. Iris remained dressed in the chador whilst Marie wore a European skirt and blouse. It was a true contrast of generation and culture as Marie had never adopted her mother’s religion but was at her father’s insistence loosely a Catholic. The Corsican held only contempt for the people who he had mixed with for most of his life and regarded the Moslems as people who had invaded Corsica in the past and attempted to force their culture on his own.
‘I will escape from here and join my father at the first possible opportunity,’ Marie warned, lowering her voice. ‘We will leave Palestine together.’
Iris had expected this resistance from her daughter. She had virtually been taken to the hotel under armed guard when Featherstone sent a patrol of military police to fetch them. ‘Please sit down, Marie,’ Iris requested gently. ‘There are things you should know before you make any foolish decisions to escape to Pierre.’
Marie remained standing, glowering at her mother, her arms folded defiantly across her breasts. ‘Why should I believe anything you are about to tell me? Traitor!’ she spat.
‘Traitor?’ Iris questioned with irony in her voice. ‘Traitor to what?’
Marie walked to the window to gaze down on the street below. ‘You have sided with the British against our government in Vichy,’ she replied with her back to her mother. ‘That is an act of treason.’
‘I am not French,’ Iris answered. ‘The only country I can feel any real affiliation to is Papua which is under Australian administration. So I am not siding with the British.’
‘The Australians are puppets of the British,’ Marie snorted. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘You don’t know the Australians like I do,’ Iris said. ‘They are good people.’
Marie swung away from the window to stare at Iris. ‘You have betrayed my father. That is a treason in itself.’
‘He is not your father,’ Iris replied quietly. ‘Your real father was killed on orders I suspect strongly came from Pierre. Your real father was a gentle, wonderful German soldier in the French Foreign Legion. Have you never suspected that Pierre was not your father?’
Marie paled, her hands fell to her side. Iris could see that what she had told her daughter about her parentage had struck a chord. It was as if the girl had been struck dumb.
Yes, Iris thought, you have always suspected something was wrong. The times Pierre scorned you when you were young, the lack of real feeling in their father–daughter relationship. You must have suspected all was not well. ‘I swear on my love for you and in the eyes of Allah that what I tell you is true,’ Iris said aloud. ‘Pierre helped another evil man kidnap me many years ago from my family. I was raped and he forced me into slavery. The piece of paper saying that we are man and wife is a forgery and when he learned of my pregnancy he attempted to kill me.’
‘I cannot believe that,’ Marie finally said. ‘My father would not do that.’
Iris stood and suddenly dropped her chador around her ankles. With horror Marie stared at her naked mother. She had never seen her unclothed before as her mother’s modesty had forbade revealing herself to anyone other than her husband. But what was even more horrifying were the terrible scars covering her mother’s body. ‘This is what your father did to me in a rage when he learned I was carrying you. I would have died and so would you except for an old kindly Moslem woman who took me in and cared for me until you were born. Pierre came for me and only when I threatened to kill him if he ever attempted to hurt you did he accept that you were part of my life, if not his.’
‘He was the only father I knew,’ Marie uttered. ‘He must have wanted me.’
Iris picked up the chador and dressed. From a hidden pocket she produced a small leather satchel and removed a scrap of well-worn paper. ‘This is your certificate of birth,’ she said passing it to her daughter. ‘Read it.’
Marie took the paper and read the entry. Iris could see from the expression on Marie’s face that the French birth certificate confirmed all that she had said.
‘It does not list Pierre as my father,’ Marie whispered.
‘He insisted that his name not be linked with your birth. He could have done so but rejected you from the day you were born.’
Marie slumped into a chair and stared with unseeing eyes at the floor. She was hardly aware of her mother’s arms around her as the tears rolled freely down her face. The betrayal had not been by her mother, Marie realised between silent tears. It all made sense now, but that did not stem the flood of pain. The only family she really had was her mother.
Captain Featherstone was true to his word and within twenty-four hours Iris and Marie were transported out of Palestine and heading for Australia. For Marie a whole new world was waiting on the other side of the world. For Iris, she was finally going home to her family in Port Moresby.
THIRTEEN
The great expanse of sail flapped with the rising gusts of wind and the Independence leapt forward with the stiff breeze. Momis and the two other Solomon Islander crew members were back on deck with broad grins spread across their dark faces.
Lukas Kelly spun the great, teak-spoked wheel to steer into the best breeze he could find and, responding to his touch, the schooner heeled over at an acute angle, and sliced faster through the white caps. Flying fish glided from wave to wave as if attempting to outrun the schooner, racing with the sou-westerlies of the Gulf of Papua.
Momis and the crew cheered as they gripped masts for balance on the sloping deck and Jack Kelly smiled. It had been almost half a year since the death of his wife and it had only been the return of his son from the United States that had brought Jack back onto the deck of his schooner. Lukas, with his black leather eye patch jauntily in place over his left eye, had helped b
y taking charge of the business.
‘Since the services won’t take a one-eyed former flyer I figured you might have a berth for a pirate,’ Lukas had said. ‘I brought my own eye patch and will get a parrot as soon as it is possible.’
With that, father and son had returned to the sea. As the months passed Jack’s resumption of his friendship with the Manns and the return of his son snapped him from the lethargy of not having anything to live for. Not a day passed when something aboard the schooner didn’t remind Jack of Victoria but he was able to console himself that her soul almost possessed the schooner itself.
On some nights when his father was at the helm under a starry sky Lukas had heard Jack talking aloud as if speaking to Victoria. Lukas accepted that his father was not going mad, merely missing the woman who had only brought love and happiness to his tormented life, and he would creep away, allowing his father the privacy that a man and spirit might share.
Jack made his way to the helm with a half mug of steaming tea for his son.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Lukas said taking the mug from his father. ‘With this wind we will make port in a day.’
‘Then unload and return to Moresby,’ Jack added. ‘And be home for Christmas with your Uncle Paul and Aunt Karin.’
Home, Lukas thought. Papua was truly home. Home was a Christmas at the Mann plantation, sharing the warmth of their unconditional love. Karl Mann had been like a brother, sharing his life when they had been school friends together. And now Lukas envied Karl for the fact that he was fighting overseas for his country whilst he, Lukas, was safely sailing the tropical waters of the South Pacific.
Letters from Karl had arrived from the Middle East, describing the world he was seeing as an infantry officer plodding through the craggy, arid lands of the Bible. How Lukas would have given his good eye to be with Karl, sharing the adventure and danger. Surely there was some way he might be able to get into the action? He was physically fit and the only disability he had was the loss of his binocular vision. He could see extremely well from his good eye so why would the army at least not take him? At every chance he had, he read the latest reports in the newspapers of the Australian armed forces’successes in North Africa and the Middle East. They had only plagued him with guilt at what he considered was shirking danger when he should have been fighting. It was just part of the Kelly blood to be a fighter.