by Peter Watt
Louise put down her palette and her brush and wiped her hands on her paint-stained apron. ‘That was when Wallarie was alive,’ she said. ‘But only if you believe in such superstitions.’
Donald shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe the curse still exists and I would be tempting fate to go up to Queensland and work on the property,’ he said, desperate to remain in Sydney with its bright lights and sinful living.
‘You, the son of the mighty Sir George Macintosh, should be the last to believe in old Aboriginal stories,’ Louise said with a definite note of sarcasm. She walked across to her son and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I think the break from Sydney will do you a lot of good. I remember when Giselle was living there, she wrote that the country has a magic you have to experience first-hand. Her own son, David – your cousin – lived his first years at Glen View before going to New Guinea with his grandmother, Karolina Schumann. I promise to visit you. I have always wanted to see the magic Giselle wrote about.’
With his last hope dashed, Donald resigned himself to travelling north. Two years was a lifetime to a young man, and the thought of such isolation frightened him. The only thing he knew about cattle was how to choose a good steak at a restaurant.
*
That evening Louise lay in the arms of her lover, Sean Duffy. They curled together, absorbing the soft warmth of each other’s bodies. Sean puffed on a thick cigar, content after an evening of good food, wine and lovemaking.
‘Sean, my love,’ Louise said gently, waving away a cloud of rich-smelling smoke. ‘You must give up smoking or it will hasten your demise.’
Sean stubbed out the cigar and kissed Louise on the lips.
‘The war tried to kill me but it could only take my legs,’ he said. ‘The rest of me still works – as you damned well know.’
Louise giggled and snuggled closer to the man she had rediscovered in the last couple of years when she’d finally accepted her love for him.
Sean untangled himself, secured his artificial legs and hobbled across to the large window leading out onto the balcony with its spectacular view. He leaned on the doorframe, staring out at the harbour twinkling with lights from ships and boats lying at anchor.
‘You’re distracted this evening, my love. Are you worrying about David?’ Louise said, leaning on her elbow and sipping from a flute of champagne.
‘I’ve not had a word from him since he stupidly enlisted in the International Brigades,’ Sean said without turning around. ‘He could be badly wounded in some Spanish hospital or . . .’ Sean did not finish the sentence. Louise padded across the room and joined Sean in the doorway. She placed her arm around his shoulders. ‘I am sure that in some way or other if anything were to happen to David you would be informed. From what you have told me he is a remarkable young man, and very independent. Your worrying won’t keep him any safer.’ She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘I love you, Sean Duffy.’
Sean turned to look at her and she lifted her face to his. ‘Why don’t you divorce George and marry me?’ he asked.
‘We have a wonderful situation, which, I am afraid, would be ruined by George if I sought a divorce,’ she replied. ‘He does not bother himself with me when he believes that you and I are not lovers. If I sought a divorce, George would make our lives miserable.’
‘He’s only a man,’ Sean scoffed. ‘We could cope with anything he threw at us.’
Louise reached up and touched Sean on the cheek. ‘I know that, but I like my life as it is,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you, but I feel at this stage in our lives our love is enough to give us the happiness we deserve. We are together because we wish to be, not because a piece of paper declares us man and wife.’
‘You present a good argument,’ Sean said with a smile. ‘I’m glad that I don’t have to go up against you inside a courtroom.’
‘Then we will agree to love each other until death do us part,’ Louise said with her own smile. ‘Because that is the only thing that would take me from you.’
‘Agreed,’ Sean answered, taking her in his arms and holding her tight.
*
On the other side of the world Captain Matthew Duffy stomped his feet and blew warm air into his gloveless hands. The biting cold wind had dropped the thermometer below freezing and all aircraft were grounded. The collar of his fur-lined leather jacket was pulled up and he gazed at his own Ford trimotor sitting forlornly on the tarmac, covered in an icy sheen.
But at least one vehicle was moving. Matthew saw an army staff car drive up to his hangar. Major Guy Wilkes alighted, walking quickly towards the shelter to get out of the wind.
Matthew hurried after Guy and invited him to his office where a brazier burned, warming the small room.
‘I didn’t see Miss Hatfield’s kite when I drove in,’ Guy said, warming his hands over the small flames.
‘She had an assignment in Germany,’ Matthew answered, locating a bottle of good whisky to share with the British officer. ‘I would say she is probably grounded with similar weather.’
Guy sat down on an old lounge chair and accepted the tumbler Matthew passed him.
‘Cheers, old chap,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘I doubt that you came all the way out here to freeze your arse off when you could have remained in your much warmer office in Basra,’ Matthew said, sitting down opposite the major.
‘I missed your colonial hospitality,’ Guy responded with a smile. ‘And thought that you should know I would like you to wrangle an assignment to visit our German friends up on their dig – as soon as the weather clears.’
‘What in hell for?’ Matthew countered.
‘We need to find out more about what the Huns are up to,’ Guy replied, sipping his drink. ‘Our department has reports that a couple of tribal leaders in the north who usually spend their spare time killing each other have suddenly united. It does not bode well and we think that they have done so with the prompting of German gold, and a promise of arms and explosives to be flown in from Germany in the very near future. As a matter of fact, we have access to certain intelligence that Miss Hatfield may be bringing back the said arms and munitions.’
At the mention of Diane being involved in such a treacherous act Matthew experienced mixed emotions: betrayal and sorrow, and yet he couldn’t change his feelings for her.
‘Do you have definite proof of the delivery?’ Matthew asked.
‘Fairly reliable, old chap,’ Guy replied. ‘That’s why we need you to be with the Huns when her aircraft arrives. I suspect that she will unload her cargo at their site before returning to Basra.’
‘You do realise that the bloody Germans have already attempted to kill me,’ Matthew said rather than asked. ‘What are my chances they won’t succeed a second time around?’
‘You are a man with an impeccable reputation for getting out of tough scrapes,’ Guy said lightly, raising his glass to stare at the golden whisky. ‘I am sure that you will take all precautions necessary.’
‘Okay, I’ll do what you want,’ Matthew agreed with a sigh. ‘I’ll take Tyrone with me as copilot. I’ll have to brief him on our real mission at the Germans’ camp.’
‘That’s a good chap,’ Guy said, swilling the remainder of the whisky. ‘But I would caution you that he is only briefed on what he needs to know, and nothing more. I’m sure you’re aware how sensitive things are between Berlin and London. Our government will do anything to appease Herr Hitler in order to avoid a conflict with the Germans.’
‘You can depend on my tact, Major Wilkes,’ Matthew reassured. ‘First break in the weather we will fly up north with the excuse that we’re just checking on their welfare after the latest bout of blizzards.’
‘See, you already have everything in hand,’ Guy said, rising from his chair and slipping on his fur-lined gloves. ‘I look forward to catching up with you in the officers’ mess when you return. It will be my turn to supply a round of drinks.’
Matthew watched the British intel
ligence officer leave and wondered what the hell he had got himself into this time.
*
The following day the weather cleared enough for a takeoff.
‘We’re flying to the German camp,’ Matthew told Tyrone when they were both in the cockpit carrying out pre-flight checks.
‘I didn’t notice any cargo when I came aboard,’ Tyrone said, buckling his harness.
‘There are a few things you need to know about this flight.’ Matthew went on to explain that they were actually carrying out an espionage mission for the British army, without elaborating on who was behind the request. When Matthew explained that Diane was a suspected Nazi sympathiser, Tyrone uttered his disbelief.
‘I don’t believe that for one minute,’ he said with a frown. ‘She’s too decent a lady to be tangled up in Nazi politics.’
‘Well, she is,’ Matthew said, checking the oil pressure gauges when he kicked over the three engines. ‘I also have to warn you that our lives will be in danger when we land at the German camp, so carry a pistol at all times and watch my back.’
‘Bloody hell, Skipper!’ Tyrone exclaimed. ‘I didn’t sign on to get myself killed by a bunch of archaeologists!’
‘You won’t,’ Matthew replied as the engines roared into life and their vibrations shook the Ford trimotor. ‘I promise that no harm will come to you.’
Tyrone shrugged and adjusted his harness as Matthew taxied onto the airstrip and roared down the dry, concrete-like earth. The aircraft climbed into the clear cold sky, and Matthew set a course north of Basra. After a relatively short flight they saw the earthen strip below and made their landing.
When the aircraft came to a stop they were met by a puzzled Derik Albrecht.
‘What do we make of your unexpected visit, Captain Duffy?’ he asked as Matthew and Tyrone emerged from the cargo door.
‘We were just flying north to Baghdad and thought we would drop in to ensure that your party had weathered the recent blizzards okay,’ Matthew lied. ‘We wouldn’t mind a good hot cup of tea and a stopover tonight, Dr Albrecht.’
‘You must realise that we are very busy here, Captain Duffy,’ Albrecht said with a note of hostility in his voice. ‘But you are welcome to stay for the night – if you are prepared to look after yourselves. I have not yet expressed my regrets for the unfortunate incident of your crash after you left us last time.’
‘Oh, just one of those things that happens to flyers from time to time,’ Matthew said casually, seething inside. He suspected that the man standing before him was the architect of the crash landing intended to kill him. Or was Matthew really angry at the handsome German scientist because he had slept with Diane?
Albrecht led them to a small encampment away from the archaeological dig and had one of the Iraqi workers prepare a pot of tea. He excused himself and left Tyrone and Matthew sitting on wooden crates under the canvas shelter, sipping the hot tea from tin mugs.
‘What do we do now?’ Tyrone asked, gazing across the flat land at the mound where the ancient buildings were slowly being exposed for the first time in three or four thousand years.
‘We wait for Miss Hatfield to fly in. If the weather holds, that should be tomorrow morning,’ Matthew said.
‘Then I must be hearing things,’ Tyrone said with a wry smile. ‘Because I swear I can hear Junker engines.’
Matthew strained to hear the sound as Tyrone rose with his mug of tea to stare at the horizon. Eventually Matthew caught sight of Diane’s aircraft descending in preparation for landing. She was a day early and, if Wilkes was right, she was carrying arms and ammunition for the Iraqi rebels. Such a cargo would seal her guilt as a collaborator with the Nazis. Matthew prayed that she was not, but his prayer seemed to be whisked away on the desert wind.
Diane’s aircraft taxied to a stop beside Matthew’s and within minutes she jumped down from her aeroplane.
Matthew gazed at her and felt a strange regret that this time all his suspicions might be confirmed. He could read the expression of shock in her pale face. It was obvious that she was not pleased to see him. Yes, Matthew thought. She has the look of a guilty person caught in the act.
‘Matthew, Tyrone, what are you two doing here?’ Diane asked.
‘Just passing through,’ Matthew answered with a forced smile.
14
That evening Matthew and Tyrone joined the archaeological team in their main tent. By the light of kerosene lanterns they shared a hearty meal of hot soup and sausage, followed by bottle of schnapps.
Matthew noticed that Diane seemed to be keeping her distance from him, although she was polite. Erika made it a point to sit close to Matthew and engage him in conversation. He sensed her desire and under different circumstances he might have considered letting the rather pleasant situation develop into something more interesting.
Outside the cold winds blew. Matthew finally made their excuses and he and Tyrone retired for the night. Both men left the tent and were buffeted by the chilling winds as they struggled over to their aircraft to make an inspection of its vulnerable sections. A seal had been placed on the fuel tank inlet. As they passed Diane’s Junkers, Matthew noted that a man was huddled under the wing, a heavy cloak covering him and the barrel of the rifle poking from the cloak.
Satisfied after their careful inspection, they climbed aboard the Ford. Matthew and Tyrone wrapped themselves in heavy blankets in the freezing cargo hold to wait out the night. Although they had been invited to remain in the shelter of the excavations Matthew had declined saying that they had adequate warmth in the Ford.
‘Did you notice that they didn’t unload whatever is in the Junkers?’ Matthew said and Tyrone nodded.
‘I have a feeling I know why – our unexpected arrival,’ Matthew mused. ‘And sometime in the early hours of the morning we are going to have a look inside the Junkers.’
‘What about the sentry?’ Tyrone asked.
‘I strongly suspect he will desert his post to join his fellow workers inside the warmth of their tent,’ Matthew replied.
‘What if he doesn’t?’ Tyrone countered.
‘Then we kill him,’ Matthew replied. Tyrone winced as Matthew withdrew a razor-sharp hunting knife from
a sheath on his belt. Both men dozed fitfully until around
4 am, when Matthew shook Tyrone awake.
‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Make sure you have your revolver.’
Tyrone struggled reluctantly from under his pile of blankets and they slipped out into the pitch-black night, carrying hand torches with them. Matthew was pleased to see that the wind had dropped. The night was still and the air was sharp. Matthew flicked on his torch and swung it to where the guard had been posted. He was satisfied to observe that the guard had indeed sought a warmer place to pass the night. Matthew switched the light off and both men moved cautiously towards the German aircraft. Tyrone was behind Matthew as they made their way to the side cargo door. Matthew helped Tyrone up inside the fuselage and crawled inside with the help of his copilot, where he turned on his torch to play it over neatly stacked wooden crates stencilled in German to indicate what they held: rifles, grenades and ammunition.
‘What do we do?’ Tyrone questioned in a whisper. ‘Blow the cargo?’
Squatting, Matthew turned off his torch leaving them both in the dark. ‘No, my orders were simply to confirm the contents of the cargo,’ Matthew answered in a low voice, feeling crushing despair. It was now clear that Diane was working with the Nazi scientists to incite rebellion against the British in Iraq.
‘Our job is done,’ Matthew said. ‘Time to get back to our aircraft.’
Tyrone let out a sigh of relief. It had all gone off without incident and they could take off in the morning for a return trip back to Basra. They made their way in the dark to the cargo door and exited. Both men were on the ground when Matthew suddenly became aware that they were not alone. A shape loomed up in front of them and Matthew instinctively knew that the sentry had returned to his post.
He stood frozen only a matter of inches from Matthew, who had his hand wrapped around the handle of his knife. Without hesitating Matthew threw himself on the Iraqi, plunging the knife with as much force as he could into where he guessed the startled man’s throat was. With more luck than skill Matthew found his target and the knife cut through the tough cartilage, choking off any cry of alarm. Warm blood splashed over Matthew but he continued to drive the man into the hard earth, twisting the knife as he did to inflict maximum damage. Matthew continued to hold him down until his thrashing ceased.
‘Bloody hell!’ Tyrone hissed only feet away. ‘Is he dead?’
Matthew found that his hand was shaking uncontrollably. In all his years of warfare, from Elands River in South Africa to the skies over Palestine, he had never killed a man so intimately before, with the dying man’s last breath on his face. ‘He’s dead,’ Matthew replied in a flat voice, pulling the knife from the Iraqi’s body. ‘We have to get rid of him and cover any trace of what has happened here.’
He glanced around to see if the short, violent episode had attracted any attention. He dared not use the torch again to survey the scene and was desperately attempting to think of a way to dispose of the body.
‘We get him back to our kite and wrap him in blankets,’ Matthew said finally. ‘We spread rocks on the blood and pray the evidence is not found. The Huns will hopefully think that their man deserted his post and went walkabout. If we do a good job of cleaning up we will be out of here before any evidence of our involvement turns up.’
No sooner had Matthew uttered his instructions than they were suddenly lit up in the strong beam of a torch.
‘Matthew?’ a female voice asked in a puzzled tone. ‘What are you doing over there?’
Matthew realised that he still held the knife in his hand. Diane was advancing towards them and was only a mere ten paces away when she gasped in horror.