Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

  ‘Major Duffy could not be called the enemy,’ Allison said. ‘He is one of the sweetest men I have ever known. David loves him as he would love a father. As a matter of fact, David is currently in Sydney on a military course.’

  ‘David is here!’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘I thought you knew,’ Allison said, taken aback slightly.

  ‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘The last I heard of him he was somewhere up in north Queensland. Where is he staying?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Allison answered. ‘I guess with Major Duffy in his Sydney flat – or the barracks.’ She was beginning to realise that coming to Sarah to request an evening gown for a date with David had not been the wisest of ideas. She knew that the baby Sarah had borne was David’s child, but Sarah had assured her that their relationship was well and truly over and she no longer had any feelings for him. Perhaps foolishly, Allison had believed her, and seeing Sarah’s reaction to the news of his being in Sydney, she suspected that her friend had been lying about how she felt.

  ‘I suppose David will contact Donald and myself when he gets settled,’ Sarah said as if brushing off the subject. ‘Now, tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  Allison was sure now that she had made a mistake in coming here, but she did not know how to extract herself from the situation without offending her friend. ‘I know I am asking a big favour but I need the loan of an evening dress, and as you and I have swapped clothes in the past, I was wondering if I could borrow one from you.’ She only hoped that Sarah would not ask why. She held her breath waiting for the reply.

  ‘I have a couple of old evening dresses at home,’ Sarah said. ‘I can send them around to your flat today.’

  ‘Thank you, Sarah,’ Allison responded with a great feeling of relief. ‘I owe you a big favour.’

  ‘What are girlfriends for if they can’t share,’ Sarah said archly.

  They chatted for a few minutes, and all the while Allison was itching to leave. She was starting to feel very uncomfortable around her old friend, and she did not think it was purely because of David. She noticed that Sarah was smoking cigarette after cigarette, and not once did she mention her baby son. She knew that Sarah could be ruthless in business, but she had always been kind and thoughtful towards her. Allison did not want to think ill of her friend, but she was beginning to think that perhaps she was not so kind and trustworthy as she had thought.

  *

  True to her promise, Sarah had two very fine evening dresses delivered to Allison’s city flat. Both dresses fitted perfectly, and Allison selected the newer one. She regretted that she had no fine jewellery to wear with the long, body-hugging dress; all she had was a set of delicate earrings her husband had given her before he was posted to the Pacific. She held them in her hands and for a moment felt the deep sadness of his death and the loss their unborn baby, then she placed his gift carefully back in the small jewellery box and turned away.

  Right on time, David arrived wearing a finely cut civilian suit and hat. Allison saw him from the window of her second-storey flat. He was standing on the pavement below, talking to the cab driver. She had forgotten how broad his shoulders were. Her stomach was in knots as she went down to the front door to greet him. She did not know why but she felt extremely nervous. Was her hair and make-up just right? Had she applied too much lipstick? Would he find her attractive? This was silly, Allison told herself, so she took a deep breath and opened the front door.

  ‘Hello, Alli,’ David said, and she was vaguely aware that he was holding a bouquet of colourful flowers towards her.

  ‘David! What beautiful flowers,’ she said, accepting the gift from him. ‘I should put them in a vase immediately.’ She walked quickly up the stairs and placed the bouquet on the dining room table, not bothering to locate a vase but instead hurrying back down to David.

  Out in the cool evening he noticed her shiver so, without a word, he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders before they stepped into the waiting taxi. Allison found that she was very aware of every feature of his tanned face: his grey eyes, broken nose and the many small scars displaying a history of violence in his life. He was not handsome in any classical sense, but he had a rugged, reassuring face that made Allison feel secure.

  The taxi dropped them off at Martin Place and they walked from there to the nightclub. Inside, in the foyer, Allison noticed a marble bust of Napoleon, which struck her as almost out of place. As the maitre d’ escorted them to their table Allison looked around in delight. It was an elegant and sumptuous place, quite different to everyday Sydney which seemed to have grown drab with the privations of war. The place was filled with men in uniform and smart civilian suits, and women in expensive gowns and jewellery, and Allison spotted many prominent Sydney identities, including the commissioner for police.

  Allison chatted easily with David as they waited for the prawn cocktail entree to be served at their table. She could not help but marvel at the cost of the evening, but David was a Macintosh and money was like water to that family.

  When the food arrived, he raised his glass of fine hock to eye level. ‘To being in the company of the most beautiful woman in Sydney,’ he said with a warm smile.

  ‘I don’t know of a night I did not wonder where you were and how you were faring,’ Allison responded. ‘It is so good to see you safely home.’

  ‘I am not sure I would consider Sydney home,’ David said, extracting a prawn with a small fork from the side of the tall glass they were served in. ‘I guess the decision as to where home is will come with the end of the war.’

  Allison was a little disappointed at this; it seemed David was still restless. Sean loved to talk about this man he considered a son and she had learned a lot about his past. He had grown up in the old German New Guinea on a copra plantation and had attended boarding school in Sydney under the watchful eye of the Major, who had been appointed his guardian under the terms of a will. He had been imprisoned in the infamous Dachau concentration in Germany in 1936 and had escaped only to go on to fight in Spain against the Fascist General Franco. His German-Jewish grandmother had been the only female figure in his life, as his mother had died during the terrible influenza pandemic of 1919. His father had been killed in action on the Western Front in the Great War, and he had never known him. David had proved to be a very good heavyweight boxer with aspirations of a title, but he had found himself instead fighting for Australia as a soldier. He was an interesting, well-travelled man, but when Allison looked deep into his grey eyes she saw a lot of pain. Yet there was also a sense of gentleness in this tough, dangerous man.

  ‘What will you do when the war is over?’ Allison asked.

  ‘I am not sure,’ David said. ‘My first priority is to survive.’

  His statement jolted Allison as she knew from experience how fragile these men’s lives were. Her husband had died flying a Kitty Hawk fighter plane over Milne Bay.

  ‘But I have a proven record of being hard to kill, and right now all that concerns me is being in your company. There was not a night in the jungle that I did not think of you too. Your letters kept me sane.’

  Allison was suddenly aware that his hand was touching hers across the table.

  ‘How about we have a dance before the next course,’ David said. ‘Although it has been a long time, so I will apologise in advance for being a bit clumsy.’

  They made their way to the polished wood dance floor and took their place amongst the other couples. The band was playing a slow number and David took Allison gently in his arms. She could feel his strong, warm body pressed against her own. Despite his confession of clumsiness he was light on his feet, and she felt herself swept along by him.

  She placed her cheek against his chest, and for now there was no war, no possibility that the man who held her in his arms might die on a faraway battlefield; they were just two young people caught up in the momen
t. Allison realised with a jolt that she would always love this man no matter where in the dangerous world he might be. She also knew that loving him was not the same as sharing his life. She recognised that he was a restless soul and he might never settle down.

  That night David took her to her flat – and Allison took him to her bed.

  Five

  Tony Caccamo slid back the top receiver on his .45 pistol, ensuring that the movement was smooth and lubricated. Confident that it would not jam, he reloaded the magazine and pushed it into the handle until it clicked into a locked position. He then loaded a round into the chamber, and wiped his hands of excess gun oil. The weapon was ready but he had doubts about himself. For weeks he had shadowed his target in a dreary job of hanging out in the back streets of Sydney, rain, hail and shine. But his tedious task of tracking his prey had appeared to bear results.

  After his botched job of shooting the British traitor weeks earlier, he had been able to keep a low profile tracking Ulverstone who appeared to avoid returning to the Macintosh mansion, but had a habit of occasionally dining at the Imperial Service Club and the Australian Club in the company of Sir George Macintosh. Ulverstone had beefed up his protection, as Tony now noticed his army driver was armed whenever he drove him from Victoria Barracks where Ulverstone was attached on the staff of army intelligence.

  On this cold and rain-filled night Tony expected his target to be dropped off at the Imperial Service Club for dinner. Tony stood in an alleyway about twenty paces from the entrance to the elite club for commissioned officers of the armed forces and their guests. Tony wore the rough dress of a merchant seaman and a beanie cap on his head. His hands were thrust into the pockets of a tattered military greatcoat, and he could feel the grip of the deadly .45 semiautomatic pistol.

  He watched as smartly dressed military officers entered and exited the club, oblivious to him in the shadows. Tony had surprise, speed and concealment on his side in a city that was blacked out against enemy air raids.

  It was around 7 pm, the time Ulverstone usually arrived at the club to dine. Sure enough, a military staff car pulled up in front of the club and Ulverstone alighted as his driver opened the rear door for him, an umbrella at the ready. Tony waited as the driver hurried back into the car to escape the rain. Then he stepped from the shadows and began to walk towards the unsuspecting British officer.

  He slipped the pistol from his coat pocket and brought it up to fire. He was only fifteen paces away and Tony had the mass of his target in his sights. He fired and the shot reverberated amongst the concrete canyons of the darkened street. Ulverstone crumpled at the bullet’s impact, and Tony stepped forward to deliver a shot to the head. But he had made one mistake and not allowed time for the military chauffeur to drive away, and he suddenly realised that the loud crack he heard was the driver firing wildly at him. In a split second he had to make a choice: fire on the driver or finish off Ulverstone. He knew he could not kill an innocent soldier doing his duty, so he chose to fire three shots in the general direction of the armed driver, causing him to take cover.

  A whistle blew from somewhere and Tony knew from his police experience that it had to be an Aussie cop sounding the alarm. He glanced down to see that Ulverstone was crawling for cover under the car; so the shot had not killed him, then.

  The former New York policeman knew that he had no choice but to flee the scene, and he cursed himself for being so close and yet so far from achieving his mission. He turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could down the street in the teeming rain. The armed driver did not fire after him and Tony gave a quick prayer of thanks, but then he saw the outline of a big and burly police officer running towards him, waving a small baton. Tony swung around to take a path down another deserted street, and in doing so felt his leg go from under him on the slippery surface. He crashed into the concrete, hitting his head and seeing a shower of red stars swirling in the night, before he felt the crunch of the police baton strike the back of his head.

  Everything went dark, and Tony knew nothing more until he awoke in a hospital, handcuffed to the bed. As his eyes began to focus he noticed a figure wearing civilian clothes sitting opposite his bed. Tony groaned and the man put down the paper he was reading, stood and walked over to him.

  ‘I see that you are alive, sport,’ the man said and Tony could tell from experience that he was a hard-nosed detective. ‘I can now officially tell you that you are under arrest for the attempted murder of one of Britain’s finest.’

  Tony regretted that the charge was only attempted murder and not murder. He knew that his government would not come to his rescue. He was alone to face the wrath of the New South Wales justice system.

  *

  Sean Duffy still loved taking on criminal cases. As such he was well known to the desk sergeants at the inner city police station close to his law firm and was on good terms with most of them.

  It was Sean’s day to visit the station with its holding cells, and possibly solicit business for his law firm, Levi and Duffy. He stepped into the musty foyer of the station and was greeted by a robust old first-class sergeant, a former soldier from the Great War. Senior Sergeant Keith Ward was berating a young uniformed constable for not entering property details in his notebook.

  Sean limped over to the counter. ‘Sergeant Ward, top of the morning to you.’

  ‘Major Duffy, would I be right in guessing you’re here for our star prisoner this morning?’ the jovial police officer asked.

  ‘And who would that be?’ Sean asked curiously.

  ‘We copped one last night outside the Imperial Services Club in the process of shooting some Pommy lord,’ the sergeant said, turning over a page in the large charge book and running his finger to the entry. ‘A Canadian merchant seaman took a dislike to one of Britain’s gentry and shot him in the shoulder. It appears that the Pom is also a lieutenant colonel working out of Victoria Barracks in some hush-hush department. The stupid galah we have in the cells has not said a word since we brought him from the hospital, and is due to be shipped out to Long Bay this afternoon to await his trial. I presumed you had heard about the incident.’

  ‘Nothing in the morning papers,’ Sean shrugged, leaning against the front of the counter. ‘I guess it will hit the afternoon papers. But having said that, I am prepared to take his case on. Any chance of talking to my client?’

  Ward shrugged, reaching for the keys to the cells, then opened the door to the inner section of the police station and escorted Sean to the dank cells below. Their proximity was heralded by the stench of urine, smoke and rotting things better not identified.

  Sean turned his gaze on a man of medium build standing holding the bars of his cell door. The prisoner’s head was bandaged and he stared blankly back at Sean.

  ‘This is merchant seaman Peter Campbell . . . according to the papers we found on him,’ the big police officer said. ‘He’s not real talkative.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Ward,’ Sean said. The police officer ambled away to make himself a cup of tea and finish the morning paper, leaving Sean alone with the only prisoner in the small cell block.

  ‘I am Sean Duffy, solicitor,’ Sean said. ‘If you need representation I am prepared to take you on.’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ the prisoner said, still gripping the bars to his cell door.

  ‘I know American accents, and I know that you have one,’ he said quietly. ‘You are not a Canadian citizen.’

  The man froze and turned back to Sean. ‘You are a lot smarter than the average Aussie, who does not know the difference between us and the Canadians.’

  ‘You have to remember that it goes both ways, as you Yanks can’t tell the difference between us and Kiwis, when we speak.’ Sean could see the slightest hint of a smile on the man’s face.

  ‘And you don’t hold yourself like any merchant seaman I know,’ Sean continued. ‘You have the bearing of a soldier.’ He
could see that he had the man’s attention. ‘You realise that the charge you face is pretty serious. Attempted murder can pull the same sentence as actual murder in this country. You need to have a barrister represent you in court.’

  ‘Are you a barrister?’ the man asked.

  ‘No, I am a solicitor, but I can brief any barrister who is hired to defend you.’

  ‘You are presuming I will be asking for legal assistance,’ the prisoner said. ‘The local cops have me wrapped up. They have the gun, and a witness to me shooting the limey colonel.’

  ‘So you knew who the man was that you took a pot shot at,’ Sean said. ‘Not every day we get cases of Yanks posing as Canadian seamen trying to kill high-ranking British officers – although in the last lot I would have liked to shoot a few Pommy officers myself. So what reason would you have to go after the man?’

  The prisoner turned his back, walked to the far wall of the cell and sat down. ‘There is nothing I have to say on the matter,’ he said.

  ‘There is a lot,’ Sean countered. ‘For a start, who are you really? Is Peter Campbell your real name?’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Duffy, but there is nothing else to say.’

  Sean shrugged and walked away. What motive would an American have to kill a British officer? And why wouldn’t he speak out to defend himself ? It was a mystery, but if the man was determined to keep his secrets there was little Sean could do.

  *

  ‘He is a fighter,’ the doctor said, bending over the cot where Michael Macintosh lay looking up at the world with curious eyes. Valery Keevers, his nanny, was also looking down at the small baby with loving eyes.

  ‘In my experience baby Michael is a miracle child,’ she said. ‘He has defied the odds that said he should have died soon and he’s growing stronger every day.’