by Peter Watt
East of Sydney, far across the Pacific Ocean, the residents of California were coming awake. Fenella Macintosh felt the silk sheets clinging to her naked body as the sun rose in the clear, blue sky. She groaned softly, realising that the evening before she had consumed more wine than was good for her. As she woke she also realised that she was not alone in the huge bed. Beside her a man snored softly. Fenella focused on him through bleary eyes. It was the handsome Italian actor whose name eluded her for the moment.
‘Dominic,’ she said, shaking him awake. ‘You have to leave.’
The young man awoke and mumbled something in Italian before pulling himself up into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He too was naked, his clothes discarded on the plushly carpeted bedroom floor. ‘Ah, Fiona my love?’ he asked with a leering grin. ‘You no want to make love now?’
‘Enough, lover boy,’ Fenella said, slipping from the bed and heading towards the bathroom. ‘I have to be at the studio in a couple of hours. And you have to be on your own set by lunchtime.’
‘I would like we make love again,’ Dominic said, lying back against the bed end with his arms spread to reveal his hairless, olive-skinned chest. ‘We make handsome couple.’
Fenella paused by the door to the bathroom and glanced back over her shoulder. She could see the remaining heroin on the bedside table and wondered whether she should partake of some before having her chauffeur drive her to the studio. The drug had returned to her life along with the many lovers, wild parties and alcohol. For just a moment she felt guilty about how her life had evolved, with fame and fortune coming to her from the make-believe world of moving pictures. In a sense she had been able to proudly show her father that, as a woman, she was capable of building her own small empire based on her talent and looks. But she felt uneasy at how readily she had been seduced by the decadence that came with such acquired fame and fortune. Fenella was discreet in her personal life – something that the studio bosses were adamant about when it came to protecting the clean-cut image of their rising stars. On the screen, the public adored the image of a heroine who was pure and chaste. In her private life, however, Fenella had become all that was opposite. She had tasted the forbidden excesses money could buy. There were times she had awoken beside more than one man and occasionally young, aspiring starlets. Drugs and alcohol helped her to forget what she had become but still she had twinges of guilt about the one man she knew loved her more than his own life. The man who had travelled halfway across the world to find her despite his suspicions that she was not faithful to him.
‘You are a fool, Randolph,’ Fenella whispered to herself, turning to enter the inlaid marble bathroom with its gold-plated taps. But tears welled in her eyes. In her self-loathing she had ceased writing to her father and now it was only a matter of time before she would also lose the only man who loved her as much for her soul as for her body.
Karolina Schumann loathed herself for what she was about to do. The distinguished British naval officer was a man about her own age and had already confessed that his wife had remained in England when he was posted to Sydney to oversee the shipping of troops and supplies to the war in Europe. She stood in his hotel room as he poured champagne.
‘Well, Mrs Schumann,’ he said passing her a flute. ‘Here is to a chance meeting with the most beautiful woman in these damned dreary colonies.’
Karolina raised her glass, accepting his toast, and took a sip. She had convinced the naval officer that she was a Swedish citizen, not so difficult as she was fluent in the Swedish language. The British officer, however, did not seem to care what nationality she was. He was far more interested in what lay beneath her long, expensive dress.
The officer placed his glass on a table and grasped Karolina in an awkward embrace, kissing her passionately on the lips. She did not resist, allowing him to force her back on the bed. In her mind was her husband who had died because the Australians had invaded German territory in the Pacific. He would still be alive had the local tribes living near their plantation not risen up when they heard the rumour that German rule was over. For that alone she would have given her body to destroy her hated enemy. Even her son-in-law was considered to be one of the group that must be defeated by her Fatherland, although this did not extend to her beloved grandson.
In her thoughts Karolina was again on the verandah of their sprawling house on the plantation, standing beside her beloved husband. She hardly felt the enemy officer enter her but before the sun rose the next day he had whispered secrets to her across the pillow, boasting of his importance when she chided him for not being aboard the bridge of a fighting ship. When he asked her to promise to meet him again she had readily agreed. When Karolina left his bed before the sun rose over Sydney, she had in her head not only details of future troop movements to Europe but the names of the ships they would be travelling on. The information would be passed onto Herr Bosch when next she visited the internment camp on the outskirts of Sydney.
Fenella had completed her work on the set of her latest film and had changed to attend a dinner with a group of friends that evening. From there, they planned to go to a nightclub and dance the night away.
When she stepped from the studio onto the street and saw Randolph dressed in the uniform of a Confederate soldier and trailing an old-style musket, she remembered that her studio was making a period production on a lot a few blocks away. He had his back to her but turned to catch her eye. She felt a twinge of guilt and wanted to hurry away to avoid having to confront him. It had been over a fortnight since they had last been together alone and that was simply a meeting on a film set where they chatted, Fenella complaining of the heavy workloads that forced them apart. Somehow, she knew that she had not fooled him and rebuked herself about why she had not already told him that it was all over for them. But another voice nagged her that the man in the Confederate uniform was different to all the others who had come into her life simply on account of her aura of fame.
‘Nellie,’ Randolph said, walking towards her. ‘It has been a long time since we last spoke, let alone shared some time together.’
Fenella hoped that someone would step through the door behind her, providing an excuse not to talk to Randolph. ‘Oh, you know how busy I have been,’ she said with a forced smile. ‘Work, work and more work.’ She gave a wave of her hand.
‘And at nights?’ Randolph replied. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
The tension between them was palpable. Fenella was aware that Randolph’s eyes were holding her own. ‘There is,’ she replied. ‘But this is not the time or place to discuss the matter.’
‘I thought so,’ Randolph sighed sadly. ‘But I will save you your valuable time,’ he continued. ‘I leave tomorrow to enlist. I doubt that either of us will have much opportunity to see each other before then.’
‘But America is not at war,’ Fenella countered. ‘Why would you want to give up the good job you have here to receive a soldier’s pay?’
‘I didn’t say I was enlisting for Uncle Sam,’ Randolph answered, a deep sadness in his eyes. ‘I am returning to Australia to join up. I figure that I may as well be with your brother and my cobber Matthew in the fight against the Hun. I gave my notice yesterday and my pal Joe has helped me get a berth on a ship steaming for Sydney. As a matter of fact, it is one of your family’s ships.’
Fenella paled. From what she had read in American papers about the huge casualties suffered in the European war it was more than possible that she would not again see this man who had loved her with all his heart for so long. She was suddenly confounded by her reaction and impulsively stepped forward, raising her hand to touch Randolph’s cheek.
He gently gripped her hand and lowered it.
‘Don’t pretend to be sorry, Nellie,’ he said softly. ‘I have known for a long time about your private life – and understood that it does not include me.’
‘Randolph, my darling,’ Fenella choked, fighting back tears. ‘I think that we
should take time to talk. I know that my life has been a bit out of control lately but I feel you should not be so hasty in enlisting.’
‘Why not?’ Randolph frowned. ‘You are now a big name in the studios and have the fame and fortune which seem to be so important to you. Why should you be concerned about talking to a man whose only claim to fame is that he can take the falls for fancy actors? At least back in my old life I knew who my enemies were and who would stand by me. I hope that you find everything that will make you happy.’
Fenella realised that tears were running down her cheeks. She was finding it difficult to accept that Randolph was saying goodbye to her. No man in his right mind could do that, she told herself angrily. She was about to reply when a man stepped out of the doorway behind her.
‘Fiona, my love,’ he boomed. Randolph turned to see the handsome Italian actor beaming at Fenella. ‘I have come to take you to dinner.’
Randolph shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘Have a good life,’ he said and turned to walk away, even though he had the impulse to smash the smiling Italian’s face in. But he knew the beautiful daughter of Colonel Patrick Duffy now belonged to a different, make-believe world and soon enough he would be travelling back to the real world of war.
‘Randolph!’ He heard her call his name but continued to stride away. ‘Randolph, do not walk away from me.’ But she did not run to him.
Only George Macintosh remained in the company boardroom with its massive teak desk dominating the gloomy space. The pungent aroma of cigar smoke hung in the air. Already George had a portrait of his grandfather Sir Donald Macintosh on the wall at one end of the room to remind the directors who had founded the financial empire in the Antipodes many years earlier. Missing from the wall was a portrait of his own father, Patrick Duffy, in spite of the fact that he was the actual head of the companies. Not that his father could comment on this. He was far away fighting a war, George mused.
The matter of purchasing a substantial share in the Broken Hill Proprietary company had been discussed, and approval given to buying a large package of shares. The mining concern was bringing out lead, silver and zinc from its production, and lead was needed in the manufacture of bullets. George felt that the newly formed company had a grand future and would one day prove to be a good investment.
But he frowned when he realised that he was due to make his routine payment to a member of the New South Wales Police Force. Inspector Jack Firth would be waiting in an out-of-the-way hotel in the city for his envelope containing a generous amount of pounds. It was outright blackmail but keeping the man’s silence on certain matters that had occurred before the outbreak of war was essential. George had also curried the crooked policeman’s friendship, and he was proving to be unwittingly useful to George’s strategic plan to make himself the sole beneficiary of the Macintosh empire. Tonight, he would meet a man whom the corrupt policeman had identified might be employed by George in whatever enterprise he was currently considering.
George counted out two piles of pound notes and slipped them into their respective envelopes before placing both inside folded newspapers. Satisfied, he left the boardroom, wishing the doorman a good evening as he strolled away.
Within minutes he found the hotel Jack Firth had nominated and went inside. It was not far from the docks and was filled with the stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies. The patrons were mostly labourers and seamen and George’s entry into the bar caused a couple of heads to turn at the sight of the well-dressed man carrying a briefcase. If any of the less than savoury characters thought about robbing the businessman, they changed their minds when they noticed George approaching a table where sat the much feared policeman with his distinctive huge frame. They turned away to continue drinking, allowing the civilian-dressed policeman his privacy.
George took a folded newspaper and pushed it across the table. Firth deftly slid the envelope from inside and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He had no reason to count his payoff; he knew the man on the other side of the table was not about to cheat him. He alone had been able to secure the file containing the notes on the well-known businessman’s contacts with suspected German agents. Firth had since discreetly destroyed the paper trail. In a world limited by its ability to reproduce documents, the policeman had been able to track down each and every copy, stopping distribution to all but himself. One hand did not know what the other was doing and Firth liked it that way. George knew that the policeman, now working in a counterintelligence role, had the power to seriously embarrass him.
Firth opened the paper as if reading it. ‘The man you want will meet you outside in the lane,’ he said softly. ‘He expects to see some money up front.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ George replied, glancing around the crowded, smoke-filled bar. ‘How do I know that the man I am about to meet is not going to rob me?’
Firth looked up at the businessman with an expression of annoyed surprise. ‘Because I told him to look after you,’ he replied, presuming that no spivvy crook was about to cross the feared policeman if he knew what was good for him. ‘So bugger off and let me take a look at the racing pages in peace.’
George rose from his seat and pushed his way out into the warm Sydney night. He turned down an alley and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he entered the cobbled, narrow, unlit street that stank of urine.
‘You the man I was told to meet?’ a voice growled from the shadows behind a pile of empty wooden crates.
‘I presume so,’ George replied, gripping the briefcase tightly to him. ‘If you are able to help me with a small matter.’
The man stepped from the shadows and George could just make out his features. He was thin faced, clean-shaven and around forty years of age. But he moved with the stealth of a cat and George wondered who this man really was.
‘I have a job to be done in America,’ George said. ‘It will pay very generously and I will be able to get you there as a crewman aboard one of my ships.’
‘What kind of job?’ the man asked, reaching in his pocket, extracting a cigarette and lighting it. When the match flared George noticed that the man had a long scar from the edge of his mouth to his ear. It looked like the result of a very sharp blade. Possibly a razor, George thought. He had read that many in the Sydney underworld carried such in lieu of a gun.
George swallowed nervously and glanced around to ensure that they were truly alone. ‘Are you prepared to kill someone? A woman?’
The man looked up at him through the mist of cigarette smoke. ‘It don’t matter to me,’ he grunted. ‘Just so long as the money is good.’
‘I can promise that,’ George said, opening the briefcase and retrieving the second newspaper. He passed it to the man who simply rolled it up and placed it in the pocket of his suit coat without attempting to see what was inside. George was impressed by the way Jack Firth could elicit such trust from a gangster. ‘You will find all your instructions with the first payment. Also a ticket. You are to report to the ship in a week’s time. If you have any questions I would rather you direct them through Inspector Firth.’
‘That bastard,’ the man spat. ‘I would rather rape that Jew Big Lenny’s sainted mother than work for Firth. But, as he is being generous with your money I will accept the deal.’
Presuming that Big Lenny was an underworld figure, George did not question the relationship the hired assassin had with the crooked policeman. He was not about to correct the thin criminal either on the matter of saints and Jewish religious beliefs.
‘If everything you have in your instructions pans out,’ the thin man said, ‘I will get your job done. I always wanted to see the US of A.’ Satisfied that their business was done, he quickly turned on his heel and walked into the darkness of the alley, leaving George alone with his briefcase.
George waited until the man was out of sight before stepping from the dingy lane into the lamplit street. An electrified tram rattled by, throwing sparks from its contacts wi
th the wires. All going well, Fenella would be dead before the year was out. That would only leave Alex, George mused, praying that the army would grant his brother’s wish to serve overseas on active service.
5
In the pre-dawn, Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corp vomited. To ensure that he was not seen doing so, he had walked some distance from his tent at the airfield laid out in the arid lands of the Gaza. The bilious attack had not been brought on by any physical ailment but by the fear he was fighting. He knew he was not alone in this when in the company of his fellow aircrew, as death was a constant companion. Just the day before, he had narrowly escaped being shot down by a prowling German fighter plane. It was only because he had been able to outfly his predator and been able to bring the German aviator within range of the airfield’s anti-aircraft defences that he had survived the attack.
He had flown without his gunner, Sergeant Bruce Forsyth, who was recuperating from a badly smashed leg, the result of ground fire on a mission in the Romani region. The squadron commander had suggested that, in place of the forward gunner, Matthew could carry spare fuel drums so as to be able to fly further on his recon missions, then land, refuel and return to base with photographic intelligence of Turkish military formations. The idea had worked and the plan would be repeated with Matthew flying a solo mission towards Palestine.
The Ottoman Turks, along with their German and Austrian allies, were slowly retreating north to Jerusalem and Damascus with the Australian Light Horse relentlessly pursuing them as part of Allenby’s forces. This mission was in support of British ground forces and for a short time Matthew would have the protection of his brothers on the ground as he flew north in his fragile aircraft. The desert air still held a bitter chill but with the rising of the sun the day would become unbearably hot. Matthew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and surrounded by three of the ground crew walked back to his aeroplane. They stood waiting for him to carry out his last-minute ground checks before pulling himself into the rear cockpit. Already the spare drums of fuel had been loaded. Matthew had requisitioned a Lee Enfield with five spare magazines of ammunition to be placed in the forward cockpit, as the twin Lewis guns had been stripped to allow a greater load of fuel. He wanted at least some protection when he was on the ground refuelling.