To Ride the Wind

by Peter Watt

  Jack sat up. Maynard Bosch! He and his department had placed the former German consul on the top of their list of principal spymasters. Before the war Bosch had been in contact with Mr George Macintosh and because of that link Jack had been able to blackmail the wealthy captain of industry when he had been transferred from his criminal investigation duties to counterintelligence. At least the transfer had come with a promotion. Coincidence, Firth thought. There was no such thing as a coincidence in the world of crime – only circumstantial evidence. But Jack also knew that all mail coming into the camp and going out was closely scrutinised and so far the people in the intelligence world had not been able to find anything that looked like a code in any of Bosch’s letters.

  Jack eased his large bulk from behind the table and stood up to stretch his limbs. He was still stiff and sore from the very rough and tough game of rugby he had played on the previous weekend; his reputation as a policeman made him a target in the forwards to those less than sympathetic to the law. He walked over to a window with a view of the camp grounds. Men, women and children went about their day of limited routine under a hot summer sun. Tiny shops and places of trade had established themselves among the residents of the camp.

  Surely Bosch was not stupid enough to send coded letters, Jack mused. He would have a courier and most likely that was the German woman. All he had to do was intercept her after a visit and have her searched. If they were able to find any incriminating documents on her she would face the death penalty. After all, it was good enough for the Huns to execute the British nurse Edith Cavell in Belgium, so why not tit for tat?

  ‘Do you wish to interview any of our inmates?’ an army sergeant asked, poking his head around the door.

  Jack rubbed his face with a big, meaty hand. ‘Not at this stage, sergeant,’ he replied. Jack was not about to tip off anyone in the camp about his copper’s suspicion that the German spymaster, Maynard Bosch, was still well and truly active and that he had help in the form of Frau Karolina Schumann. As for the Lutheran pastor, he was not so sure. If his suspicions proved to be right then he would be holding high stakes in a dangerous game of blackmail. After all, Karolina Schumann was related to the Macintosh family through the marriage of her daughter to Alexander Macintosh and a scandal of that magnitude could cause the house of Macintosh to come crumbling down. George Macintosh was a man who would be most likely seeking a future knighthood for his services to industry and the Crown would not look kindly on any future recommendation of a man linked to subversive members of the family.

  It was time to return to HQ in Sydney away from the dust and flies of the desolate western district of Holdsworthy.

  ‘The enemy is between us and your base,’ Saul said, pouring a glass of wine for Matthew and his house guest. ‘We have not been able to get word to your army that you are still alive.’

  Matthew gazed into his wine. It had the rich red hue of blood. Saul’s house was comfortable and would keep out the bitter chill of the winters. None of the rooms were large but the stone building had a solid feel that was comforting. They currently sat in a room that doubled as a kitchen and living room and was lit by a kerosene lantern that cast a yellowish light into the deep shadows.

  ‘They will have listed me as MIA by now,’ Matthew replied, guessing that his two weeks’ stay in Saul’s settlement would warrant such a decision. ‘A telegram to that effect will break my mother’s heart.’

  ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ Saul said. ‘But I cannot risk my men attempting to break the Ottoman lines to get you back. The safety of my family and community must be my first priority.’

  ‘I fully understand,’ Matthew said, taking a swig from his wine.

  It was then that the third party – the guest – spoke. ‘I can take Captain Duffy south with me,’ Joanne suggested. ‘After all, I am an American citizen and therefore a neutral. The Ottomans would not dare interfere with me or my American driver.’

  Both men glanced at the young archaeologist. Her plan had merit.

  ‘If we were stopped by a Turkish patrol I would not have papers to say I was a citizen of America,’ Matthew reminded her.

  ‘Ah, that can be arranged,’ Saul grinned. ‘We actually have a former Russian who was a master forger back in St Petersburg before he discovered his Hebrew roots and decided to immigrate to Palestine. Either that, or he was just one step ahead of the Russian police and needed somewhere to run. No matter the reason, he has proved invaluable to us in producing documents. I am sure he could come up with very good papers identifying you as a mad Yankee adventurer – like Miss Barrington here.’

  ‘Your driver?’ Matthew asked, looking directly at Joanne.

  She glanced down at the table. ‘I am, after all, the daughter of William Barrington the second,’ she said, looking up and directly into Matthew’s face. ‘It is only to be expected that my father would supply a driver to look after the automobile.’

  ‘A very impressive automobile at that,’ Matthew commented.

  ‘I would presume, Captain Duffy, that as an aviator you would have some knowledge of mechanics,’ Joanne said.

  ‘I do,’ Matthew replied, taking another swig of his wine. ‘Aircraft, automobiles . . . all the same when it comes to a combustion engine. I see that you have had your Packard repaired ready to travel.’

  ‘I did that myself,’ Joanne replied proudly. ‘I did not need a man to help me.’

  ‘I am impressed, Miss Barrington,’ Matthew smiled, admiring the flash of defiance in the young woman’s eyes. ‘Not bad for a woman,’ he added, knowing that he was baiting her.

  The American heiress ignored his remark. ‘When do you suggest that we leave?’ she asked, turning to Saul.

  ‘I will borrow your travel documents and see if our Russian friend can produce what Captain Duffy needs before first light,’ he answered. ‘If so, I would suggest that you leave at dawn. The weather is starting to turn. It will become very cold and wet soon and your vehicle could easily bog on the tracks south. God knows how you seem to navigate this country as it is,’ he added with grudging respect for the American’s resilience in the harsh terrain that now was the canvas for a vicious war between invading Christians and defending Moslems with occupying Jews caught in the middle.

  ‘There is just one thing,’ Matthew said reflectively. ‘I don’t like the idea, neutral or not, of travelling south without arms. There are also the bandits. I have my service revolver but that is not enough to protect us if things get a bit ugly.’

  ‘I have my own arms,’ Joanne said with a smirk. ‘And I daresay that I may be a better shot than you, Captain Duffy, as Miss Annie Oakley herself has taught me to shoot. I carry two rifles and a shotgun in the vehicle to bring down any game that may help in the camp stew pot.’

  Matthew shook his head. This tiny woman with the wild red hair had more going for her than most men he knew. And to top it off, she had a pixie-like beauty that caught him in her spell every time she looked his way.

  Before the sun rose on a bleak, cold day Matthew felt the gentle shake on his shoulder as he lay tucked under a thick, warm quilt. For a moment the gut-wrenching sickness almost came to him as he imagined that he was being awoken by his batman to fly a combat mission, but as he focused on the room he saw Saul standing over him.

  ‘Time to go, my friend,’ Saul said. ‘I have the papers you need and it only cost me a good bottle of vodka. I also have a change of clothing for you so that you won’t look like a flyer.’

  Matthew slowly sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. A steaming mug of coffee was placed in his hand.

  ‘Miss Barrington is already up and dressed. She is bidding farewell to my wife and children, who have an unexplainable liking for the annoying Yankee. She has a hamper for your trip already stowed aboard.’

  Matthew slid from the bed, changed into the shirt and trousers provided and pulled on a heavy woollen coat to ward off the cold. He gulped his coffee down and followed Saul to the front of the house where he saw Saul’s
family gathered around the Packard. There was hugging and tears.

  ‘Time to leave,’ Saul said, placing his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘I pray that you both make it through the enemy lines without incident.’

  Matthew glanced at the pile of papers Saul had thrust into his hands and noticed that they were in his name.

  ‘I thought it best that you keep your name, even if you have changed nationality for the moment. That way you will not be caught out if quizzed.’

  Matthew nodded.

  ‘Captain Duffy . . . I mean, Mr Duffy, are you ready to resume your duties as my driver?’ Joanne asked with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Matthew answered, imitating an American accent.

  ‘You do that well,’ Joanne commented.

  ‘I spent time in the States before the war . . . even New Hampshire,’ Matthew said, climbing into the seat of the open automobile loaded with supplies and spare parts.

  Joanne climbed up into the passenger’s seat. She was wearing riding breeches and a heavy woollen coat as well as riding boots that came up to her knees. The floppy man’s hat was secured by a piece of cotton cord.

  Joanne removed a map and took out a hand-held prismatic compass from a leather case. She examined the map and took a shot with her compass. ‘We go that way,’ she said, pointing south. ‘I believe that will eventually take me to Egypt and, along the way, your airfield.’

  ‘You know where my base is?’ Matthew asked, curious.

  ‘Oh, just a guess as to where you might have an airfield,’ Joanne answered vaguely. ‘You did say that you flew from the south on your mission.’

  Matthew nodded as Saul turned over the crank handle at the front of the car to start the engine. It kicked over smoothly and Saul passed up the handle to Joanne. With a wave, they commenced driving out of Saul’s settlement and along a track that led between groves of orange trees and lines of grapevines. The cloudy sky and chill wind that whipped around them promised a day of showers. At least Matthew was returning to his squadron and, with any luck, his mother would not receive the dreaded telegram that said he was missing in action.

  The track was accommodating enough for a few miles out of the settlement but soon they found themselves manoeuvring through gullies and along craggy hillsides, occasionally passing Bedouin goat herders tending their flocks. But they made significant miles and during a stop Matthew examined the map. At this rate, he deduced, he would reach his airfield within two to three days.

  Near dusk they stopped the car and pitched a camp. Joanne carried a tent large enough to accommodate four people. A wind was rising and Matthew pegged it down against the possible tempest. They were camped in a hollow which helped act as a windbreak as on either side were low, bare ridges with just a few scrawny brushes. Matthew was able to find almost fossilised, dry scraps of timber which he made into a reasonable fire. When the sun set, the wind suddenly dropped and the skies cleared leaving a chill in the star-filled night sky.

  Joanne had prepared a rich stew from tins of Fray & Bentos meats she said she had purchased in London. They were certainly of better quality than the tins of meat supplied to Matthew’s squadron mess. The two of them sat by the flickering fire. In the distance they could hear a jackal call in the desert. Matthew had said little during the drive, constantly changing gears to cope with the rough tracks. But now, in the serenity of the night it was as if the world had gone away, leaving just this tiny space of peace in their lives. The place was as far from the war that Matthew could imagine and for a moment he felt that he could have been at home, sitting by the campfire on the vast Queensland plains.

  ‘You did very well today, Mr Duffy,’ Joanne said as he stared into the flames reflecting on the peace that he was feeling. ‘You must be a good aviator as well.’

  Matthew continued to stare at the dancing flames. ‘Well, I got myself shot down,’ he answered. ‘Not a good thing to put in one’s flying log.’

  ‘What did you do before the war?’ Joanne asked.

  ‘Made my mother miserable with my wandering all over the world,’ Matthew answered.

  ‘You must have had some trade or profession, Mr Duffy, or you would not have been made an officer,’ Joanne persisted gently. ‘From the few facts I have gleaned from Mr Rosenblum you ran away when you were very young to fight against the Dutch in South Africa. And that your family is very wealthy.’

  ‘My father is long dead,’ Matthew said, looking away. ‘He was an American prospector who came to Australia for the Victorian gold strike of the 1850s. It was my mother who made our fortune on the frontier, hauling supplies to the miners of the Palmer River strike in the 1870s. I suppose I can say that my real profession is flying aeroplanes.’

  ‘Surely that is not a real profession for someone such as you,’ Joanne said. ‘I might say it is a pastime – a hobby at best.’

  Matthew turned to stare into Joanne’s face. ‘When this bloody war is over, aircraft are going to change the face of our civilisation in ways we can hardly imagine,’ he said with conviction. ‘Even in your hobby of searching for lost civilisations aircraft will do everything from transporting and supplying to reconnaissance for possible sites of hidden ruins. We don’t just go up to ride the wind.’

  ‘My hobby, as you call it, is actually my profession, Mr Duffy,’ Joanne replied stiffly. ‘I will have you know that I have spent countless hours studying at one of our finest academic institutes to become an archaeologist.’

  ‘From what Saul told me about you I am surprised that your father allowed you to travel halfway around the world to this godforsaken place in the middle of a war just to scrounge around the desert,’ Matthew countered, hurt by her opinion that flying was a trivial pursuit.

  Joanne poked at the fire with a stick she found at her feet. Tiny red embers flew skyward. ‘My father forbade me to pursue my love of ancient things,’ she replied softly. ‘You see, Mr Duffy, my mother died when I was very young and my father dotes on my older brother. To my father I am his precious princess who has only one role in life – to meet the right man of good breeding stock and marry him to produce babies for my father to bounce on his knee. It is my brother who will one day take the reins of our fortunes while I will simply fade into the background.’

  ‘So that is why you are out here in this place,’ Matthew said gently. ‘To prove to your father that you are more than simply an item to be married off like a company in a business merger.’

  ‘No,’ Joanne said, looking up from the fire and into his eyes. ‘I am here to prove to myself that what I do might have an impact on what we know about our past in this part of the world, the crucible of civilisation itself. I am here because I have a desire to experience life beyond the ivy-covered walls of my father’s mansion. The only way I was able to finally get my father’s grudging support was by threatening to run off with a papist Irishman of not so good breeding from Boston. In my father’s world, the Irish and Jews are not acceptable people.’

  Matthew broke into a broad smile. ‘Would you have run off with an Irishman if your father called your bluff?’

  ‘Am I not with an Irishman now?’ Joanne said sweetly.

  ‘Australian of Irish and American descent,’ Matthew said, feeling a giddy headiness. He had an overwhelming impulse to reach over and draw her to him, but something warned him she would see this action as boorish. It was a game they both knew they were playing and Matthew wisely held off making a fool of himself. Strangely, he thought, reflecting on the women he had known albeit briefly in his past life, this was one woman he wanted to know more about before he made any move to express his evergrowing desire for her.

  ‘I will lay out my swag under the car,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I am sure you will be comfortable in your tent.’ Matthew thought he could see just a hint of disappointment in Joanne’s face at the way he had broken the moment between them.

  ‘Matthew,’ Joanne said as he pulled his pile of blankets from the car. ‘I have enjoyed your co
mpany today.’

  Matthew turned to her. ‘I had a good day, too,’ he replied, surprised at her small but heartwarming compliment.

  ‘I hope we reach your airfield safely,’ she continued, staring into the fire with a distant look on her face.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Matthew asked, frowning at her pessimistic expression.

  Joanne looked up at him with a sad smile. ‘It is nothing to be concerned about, and you need your rest if we are to tackle the trail tomorrow.’

  Matthew shrugged and dropped his blankets on the ground, careful to avoid any scorpions or spiders. But these were not the only nasty things in the chill of the desert night and Joanne knew it.

  7

  The thin man had a name. In fact, he went by many names depending on who asked – especially the police. Only fingerprinting would reveal that he had been born in one of the tough, inner-city working-class suburbs to alcoholic parents of Irish descent. Written on his birth certificate was the name Michael Patrick O’Rourke but to his criminal acquaintances he was mostly known as Mick.

  O’Rourke had not gone to school by choice. He hated any form of discipline but had oddly enough taught himself to read and write. The young thug actually had an IQ to rival the best and because of his natural intelligence had fought his way to the top of most feared killers in Sydney. He was not a man to philosophise on the fact that he felt no empathy for anyone else and perceived that the world owed him. He could be charming when it suited – but only as a means of achieving his own ends.

  Disembarking at San Francisco and travelling to Los Angeles, he noticed the difference in the mood of the country he had been sent to on his deadly mission. On the streets he noticed a festive air, whereas Sydney had been draped in sadness for the ever-mounting casualty lists posted in the newspapers. So many young men would never be coming home.

  He took lodgings in a hotel that was one level above the mean streets, knowing that if anything went wrong, the local police would turn over the cheap hotels that catered to what the thriving capitalists called the working classes and unemployed. Mick had become fascinated with the writings of Karl Marx and saw himself as a victim of exploitation. His lodgings catered to the middle class: travelling salesmen, those employed in the burgeoning film industry and tourists to the town.