Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

  Tom Duffy instinctively ejected the spent cartridge and reloaded. He did not know if he had been successful, but placed faith in his record as a marksman in the army. He had seen the side window shatter, and noticed the occupant in the back seat jerk, as if hit by a bullet. But Tom did not know that his bullet passing through the shattered glass of the side window had been slightly deflected, missing the centre of Ulverstone’s head.

  Tom quickly stripped down the rifle and picked up his few items in his hide. He was careful to cover any trace of him being there, and made his way down the hill to trek across country to his RV with Harry Griffiths, unaware that he had failed to kill the British traitor.

  Lord Ulverstone held a padded handkerchief to his neck as the driver put as much distance as he could between the car and the ambush site. Blood oozed between the British officer’s fingers and he shouted at the driver to go faster. He knew that he must get medical treatment or he might bleed to death.

  ‘How far to the nearest hospital?’ he yelled.

  ‘Not far, sir,’ the driver said over his shoulder. ‘Just hold on.’

  Ulverstone slumped back against the seat and found that he was actually praying to any god that might be listening. He did not want to die.

  ‘Sir!’ the driver shouted. ‘Hold on. We have a problem.’

  Ulverstone leaned forward to peer out the front window where he saw a stationary car parked across the road. He knew immediately that it was a trap.

  ‘Go around it!’ he screamed at the driver, but the car had been so well placed that any way forward was blocked by table drains. The driver swung the steering wheel, and the staff car slid sideways into a drain and stalled. Ulverstone was acutely aware how silent the surrounding bush was, as if holding its breath to see what would happen next.

  The British officer carried a revolver in his briefcase and scrambled to get it out, but he was too late. A masked figure, wearing a balaclava was beside his shattered side window pointing a revolver at him.

  A female voice yelled at the driver, ‘Stay down and don’t move.’

  The terrified army driver obeyed, hugging the front seat, where he heard four rapid shots.

  Ulverstone did not have time to consider that his killer was a woman. The four bullets found their mark: three in the head and one in the chest.

  ‘Keep down for at least ten minutes,’ the female voice commanded the driver. ‘If you do not, the sniper will finish you off.’

  The driver realised that it had been an unseen sniper who had fired the first shot, and he was not about to question the woman giving him the orders. He heard the car start up but did not see it depart as he remained huddled on the front seat with his head down. After all, he had accepted the job as a staff driver because it was safer than being shipped to the Pacific. He was going to make very sure that he did not die at home in Australia.

  *

  ‘He wasn’t dead,’ Jessica said as her father and Harry stood by the truck at the RV. ‘But I am bloody well sure that he is now.’

  ‘What in hell did you think you were doing?’ Tom asked in his exasperation at his daughter’s dangerous and violent act.

  ‘I knew that we had to be sure Ulverstone was dead, so I made a contingency plan, and I was right to do so,’ Jessica said. ‘He might have lived if I had not ambushed him and finished the job.’

  ‘Where did you get the pistol?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Better you don’t know,’ she replied, and Tom noticed Harry shift uncomfortably.

  ‘We had better get out of here,’ Harry said. ‘I would say that the coppers will be swarming all over the scene pretty soon.’

  Jessica took a route north to Newcastle while Tom and Harry headed south.

  Harry was correct about police attention as he and Tom returned to Sydney, brazenly driving up to a roadblock manned by uniformed police. They were stopped but, after brief questioning, waved through. The old lorry did not attract any undue attention and by nightfall they had arrived back at Strathfield. The telephone rang a couple of hours later, and Jessica informed her father that she was in a Newcastle hotel. They had all made it safely.

  The following morning Tom went to the hospital where Sean was still a patient. He made his way down the ward and found Sean sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette. A newspaper lay on the bedsheets.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ Sean said by way of greeting his old friend. ‘Pull up a seat.’

  Tom pulled a chair up to Sean’s bed, and Sean picked up the paper.

  ‘I was reading the paper this morning and came across an article about a fatal car accident on the road to Newcastle,’ he said. ‘It appears a staff car went off the road, and one of Britain’s lords was killed in the accident.’

  Tom blinked. ‘Is that what they’re saying about Ulverstone?’ he asked, hardly believing his ears.

  ‘It seems that a government spokesman has declared the incident a tragic accident,’ Sean said. ‘No mention of any nefarious activity.’

  ‘Why would they cover up the fact that Ulverstone was shot?’ Tom asked, still unable to believe that the execution of such a high-standing British officer would be reported as a mere traffic accident.

  ‘It is possibly because Donald Macintosh had a word in the PM’s ear about what was known of Ulverstone’s treachery,’ Sean said. ‘By claiming it was an accident, it can be written off without any embarrassment to the government, who had posted him to such a sensitive area in our intelligence services in the first place. I also have an idea the Yanks would have verified Ulverstone’s treachery to our PM’s department. No doubt our government would have eventually acted to remove him, but this is a better outcome for them because the thorn has been removed without any pain to our government.’

  ‘What about the driver?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I am sure that he has been threatened with dire consequences if he ever attempts to talk about what really happened,’ Sean replied. ‘As for the police who were sent to investigate, I am sure they were threatened in the same way – in the name of national security. So you can sleep soundly tonight, knowing that you are not a wanted man, and I am sure if young Lieutenant Caccamo is looking down on all of this, he will be celebrating the conclusion of a mission that cost him his life.’

  Tom did not tell his friend that Jessica had fired the killing shots. He wanted no one else other than himself and Harry Griffiths to have that information about his daughter.

  ‘I have convinced the doctors that I can be discharged from here tomorrow morning,’ Sean said. ‘Then you, Harry and I can head down for a cold beer at the pub to celebrate.’

  Tom nodded. His mind was still reeling at how lucky they had been in the matter of Ulverstone’s death. Maybe old Wallarie had come to him the night before the ambush and touched him with his magic. Now Tom could safely return to Queensland and Abigail. But one thing disturbed him: Jessica was still wanted by the military and he knew they would eventually track her down.

  *

  ‘I know it is a big risk,’ Donald said to Jessica across the formica table. ‘But you have to return to MacArthur’s HQ in Brisbane. We need you there.’

  Jessica had received the telephone call to meet Donald at this cafe. The killing of Ulverstone had been playing on her mind and causing her nightmares. She felt she was adrift in a world where evading the authorities was her only purpose, but constantly looking over her shoulder was wearing her down, and she missed her old life in the WAAAF.

  ‘I was told by my father that you might have tipped off the government about Ulverstone’s treachery,’ she said.

  ‘I might have,’ Donald replied evasively. ‘But that is not why we are here. We need to get you reinstated in your old job. I know that you accompanied your father on his mission, but he has informed me you had no active part in the killing of Ulverstone.’

  Donald was confused by Tom’s account as the t
op secret police report he had read said that the body had been shot numerous times with a revolver and he had concluded privately that Jessica had killed Ulverstone. But he was not about to question the man who had risked everything to keep his daughter out of the conspiracy.

  ‘If I return to Brisbane and show up at HQ, I will be immediately arrested and charged with desertion,’ Jessica said.

  A slow smile crossed Donald’s face. ‘Do you really think I would ask you to risk that?’ he asked. ‘I have pulled a few strings with the Yanks. Trust me when I say the best thing you can do is return to Brisbane.’

  Jessica stared at Donald, pondering his words. Then he slid his hand across the table and took her hand. ‘I have already spoken with your father, and he agrees that this is the best course of action.’

  Jessica sighed and glanced out the window of the small cafe at the people on the footpath. They went about their daily routines, grumbling about the rationing, going to their dull jobs in retail stores, factories and offices. One thing about her life was that it was far from dull. ‘I will do it,’ she said and Donald squeezed her hand.

  ‘I want you to be safe,’ he said.

  ‘Is that all?’ Jessica countered, and Donald slowly withdrew his hand from hers.

  ‘That is all,’ he lied. He felt unable to express how he really felt about her, considering all that had occurred in the last few days. When the time was right he would do so, but when that time would come, he did not know. In war nothing could be planned for, not even love.

  *

  James Duffy knew the best place in town to ask questions was the drugstore. It was the gathering place of the town’s youth; they would drink Coca-Cola and eat ice-cream sundaes whilst swapping gossip.

  He stepped through the doors and immediately recognised a few faces. When the girls saw him in his marine air force uniform there was a squeal of delight from one of the pretty young ladies sitting on a stool at the counter.

  ‘James!’ she said. ‘You look so handsome. We have all been reading about you in the papers.’

  The girl’s name was Betty, and for a brief time in college James had dated her. She had a blonde ponytail and a milky white complexion. James smiled at her and she slid from the stool to greet him.

  ‘I am sorry about your sister,’ she said in a grave tone. ‘She and I were close friends while you were away.’

  ‘Maybe I could buy you a Coke and you could tell me about her,’ James said disarmingly, and Betty jumped at the invitation. James ordered two bottles of Coke and led Betty to an empty corner booth with a view of the street.

  ‘How long are you home for?’ Betty asked.

  ‘I have to leave tomorrow morning,’ James answered, taking a swig of the frosty drink.

  ‘Oh, what a pity,’ Betty pouted. ‘I would love to hear all your stories about Hollywood. Did you meet Frank Sinatra? I love him.’

  James had met Sinatra but was not impressed by the man who it was rumoured had got out of military service with the help of certain dubious Italian organisations. Now young girls swooned over him, forgetting boyfriends on the front lines. ‘Yeah, I met him,’ James said. ‘What can you tell me about Olivia and Edgar?’

  James’s question caused a dark cloud to cross Betty’s face. She looked around to ensure that they were not overheard. ‘He used to beat poor Olivia,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I heard that he beat her to death and made it look like she was driving and ran off the road. When they found Edgar, and your poor sister on the side of the road, he was drunk. He said that the shock of the accident caused him to drink a half-bottle of Jack Daniels while he was waiting for the sheriff. I hope the son of a bitch gets his own one day.’

  ‘Betty,’ James said, leaning forward. ‘Do you know if there were any witnesses to the beating he gave my sister?’

  Betty was about to answer when her attention was drawn to the doorway of the drugstore.

  ‘Hey, flyboy,’ said the deputy, and the place fell silent. He was not alone: another deputy that James did not know stood behind him. ‘Your vehicle outside is defective.’

  James felt his blood reach boiling point. He knew that the car he had borrowed from his grandfather was in perfect condition, so Deputy Hausmann must have done something to it. ‘You had better come outside so I can write you up.’

  James rose from the booth and walked over to the law officer. He knew he should not do this, but the sneer had to be wiped off the man’s face. Hausmann did not even see the punch coming and it had enough force to send the deputy flying across the tiled floor. James was now looking into the barrel of a revolver pointed directly at him by the deputy’s offsider.

  Hausmann rose unsteadily from the floor, rubbing his mouth and spitting blood. ‘That is a serious offence,’ he spat. ‘Assaulting an officer in front of so many witnesses, too. That can get you a long time in the county lockup.’

  James looked around him and could see the fear in the faces of the customers – young and old.

  ‘Okay, take me to the sheriff,’ he said, stepping past the two deputies. ‘We will sort this out down at the station.’

  Both deputies followed James from the drugstore while James cursed himself for being so impulsive as he knew they now had an excuse to hold him until he caught his train out of town. He was pretty sure that Sheriff Mueller would let him go, despite the protests of his deputies.

  They stood by the deputy’s vehicle and James looked up to see Edgar Wilson only a few feet away with his arm around a young girl.

  ‘You should have stayed away, James,’ he said. ‘I don’t like you going about town alleging that I murdered your sister.’

  ‘Pray that I get killed overseas,’ James said as he was forced into the back seat of the police vehicle. ‘Because if I live, I will come back and kill you. I swear on the soul of my sister.’

  James saw a flicker of fear in Wilson’s face, and afraid the coward should be because James meant every word.

  Twenty-four

  Detective Sergeant Preston sat in Sir George’s library with his hat in his hand. ‘I read the report on the death of Lord Ulverstone,’ he said. ‘Don’t believe what you read in the papers. Ulverstone was murdered, but the bloody government has put a D notice on any report about his killing.’

  ‘I appreciate you providing me with the facts,’ Sir George said as he stood at the centre of the gloomy room.

  ‘The driver said he thinks a woman finished off Ulverstone, but she was wearing a balaclava and he was forced to keep his head down when she fired the fatal shots into the car. The police at the scene had a visit from counter intelligence who warned them not to divulge anything about what they had seen on pain of very severe repercussions. Whatever your cobber Ulverstone was involved in is a very touchy matter. I hope it does not come back to you, as it is well known that you and Ulverstone met on a regular basis.’

  Sir George felt a shiver of fear. Any hint of a scandal could easily bring the companies’ government contracts to an end, but worse than that, if he was linked to Ulverstone’s traitorous activities he could end up in the kind of trouble not even he could buy his way out of.

  ‘Where was Sean Duffy during the unfortunate event?’ Sir George asked.

  ‘I asked the same question, and he has an alibi,’ Preston answered. ‘He was in hospital.’

  Sir George paced the room. Had the hated solicitor conspired with someone to carry out the execution? After all, Sir George was certain Sean Duffy knew who had arranged Lieutenant Caccamo’s death. Ulverstone had discovered the man’s real identity from his access to top secret files. If Sean Duffy had organised such an audacious killing, what was stopping him from coming after Sir George?

  Sir George turned to face Preston. ‘The man you hired to kill Duffy failed,’ he said. ‘While Duffy lives, my life is in peril.’

  ‘Duffy is a tough nut,’ Preston shrugged.


  ‘What about the man you hired?’ Sir George questioned. ‘You said Duffy was able to wound him. Is he still alive?’

  ‘He is,’ Preston answered. ‘He is holed up in the Rocks recovering. As far as I know he has kept his mouth shut.’

  ‘While he lives he is a threat to us both,’ Sir George said. ‘Should he reveal that you hired him it could be traced back to me. Neither of us can afford that, Sergeant Preston.’

  ‘You are right, Sir George,’ Preston agreed. ‘I will have to make sure the problem goes away – but it will cost you.’

  ‘I am not worried about the financial cost. Just get the job done,’ said Sir George, ‘and you will be well paid.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Preston said. He replaced his hat and let himself out, leaving Sir George in a sweat of fear. This war was now between himself and Duffy, and it seemed the damned solicitor had a female assassin on his side. Sir George was deeply troubled. Who could she be?

  *

  Sean Duffy was sharing his kitchen with his friends, Harry Griffiths and Tom Duffy. It was mid-morning and they had skipped tea and gone straight to beer. The three sat around the table adorned with half-a-dozen large bottles of beer. It was a small celebration of the successful mission to eliminate a traitor.

  ‘Well, that is one down,’ Harry said. ‘Is Sir George Macintosh next?’

  ‘Harry, we are not murderers,’ Sean said, taking a sip of his beer. ‘We were once soldiers and probably killed a lot of men who did not deserve to die, but I still believe in the law. Killing Ulverstone was an act of war.’

  ‘You bloody well know that attack on you had to be sanctioned by Sir George,’ Harry said.

  ‘I do,’ Sean replied. ‘But my best bet is to find the man who attacked me in the park and put him before a court where he can reveal who hired him. My real concern is for the safety of young Patrick. If I go after my assailant Sir George will do his best to stop me. I don’t want Patrick caught in the middle.’