by sarvar. bhat
Two Rural Fire Service volunteers stood on an exposed escarpment high above the burning forest, their eyes firmly fixed on the fire spreading through the gullies below. They knew the real danger was always the wind, and the wind was picking up. The old timber cottage behind them stood directly in the path of the advancing blaze. Unless the wind changed direction, the fire would soon reach the cottage. A third volunteer—a young woman in sweaty yellow overalls—was kneeling on top of the roof. Frantically cleaning out the blocked gutters with her bare hands, she too was anxiously watching the fire.
The wind didn’t change direction. The fire jumped across a waterfall and burst into a densely wooded gorge just below the cottage. Trapped in the narrow gorge, the wind intensified, funnelling the blaze upwards. As it reached the top of the escarpment, the firestorm roared out into the open and raced towards the cottage. Moments later, the cottage drowned in a sea of flames.
Jack Rogan raced along the motorway in his MG and was fast approaching the foothills of the Blue Mountains, a popular holiday retreat one hundred kilometres west of Sydney. He enjoyed driving fast, but not that morning. A familiar feeling began to claw at his empty stomach—danger. Chewing his bottom lip, Jack smiled; danger had a twin—excitement. Jack loved excitement. The bright morning in Sydney suddenly gave way to a gloomy twilight yellow-red; foreboding of the bushfires that lay ahead. The sun had disappeared behind a giant, mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke, and visibility was poor. Large flakes of ash rained down from above, smudging the windscreen. Singed gum leaves carried along by the hot wind surged towards him like swarms of hungry locusts ready to attack. Jack switched on the headlights.
As he neared his destination, Jack carefully threaded his way through a convoy of fire engines and water tankers heading up the mountains and then suddenly stopped in front of a row of police cars blocking the road. Jack got out of the car, the smoke and intense heat making it difficult to breathe. The destruction ahead reminded him of a car bomb site he’d photographed in Kabul the year before. The smouldering tree trunks looked like the chimneys of a destroyed village buried under a carpet of powdery ash. Accusing fingers pointing to angry gods who have forsaken the faithful, thought Jack.
Jack walked up to a policeman and asked for the fire chief. The agitated policeman ordered him to get back into his car and leave the area. Jack’s press ID didn’t help. Neither did the baggy green shorts, crumpled t-shirt and thongs.
‘It’s all right, Officer, there’s a way around the fire’, came a familiar voice from behind him. ‘He can come with me.’
The policeman shrugged and turned away.
‘Will!’ Jack exclaimed, barely able to recognise his friend in his sooty yellow overalls and battered fire helmet. ‘Sorry it took so long; I know you said it was urgent but the traffic was diabolical.’
‘No worries. If we hurry, we might just get through’, said Will. He handed Jack a helmet and jacket, and pointed to a four-wheel drive with its engine running. ‘Hop in. It’ll get a little rough, I’m afraid. Shoes would have helped, mate’, he added, shaking his head. ‘You’ll never change.’
Will turned the car into a narrow fire trail leading into the bush. ‘As long as the wind stays like this, we should make it’, he said, wiping his brow with a wet towel. ‘One of our girls died in the firestorm this morning, just up the hill from here. Horrible; burnt beyond recognition. She was trying to save an old cottage. I’ve known her since she was a little nipper in kindergarten’, he added. ‘Her father doesn’t know yet. He’s fighting the fire on the other side of the mountains and can’t be reached. Poor bastard.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But that’s not why I called you. It’s what we found under her body you’ll find interesting’, said Will, barely missing a smouldering tree trunk.
‘What is it?’ asked Jack, frowning.
‘Wait and see. We’re almost there.’
A shiver raced down Jack’s spine. Often the best stories found him in the most unlikely places. He was wondering if he was heading for just such a place.
What was left of the body of the young woman was covered with a wet tarpaulin. A group of dejected looking firefighters stood next to it, staring into space—waiting.
‘The police chopper’s on its way’, said Will. He guided Jack through the smoking ruins of the cottage towards a brick chimney leaning precariously to one side—the only structure still standing. The corrugated iron roof had collapsed and all the walls had burned to the ground.
‘That’s what we found when we moved the body’, said Will, pointing to a small green tin lying in the rubble next to the fireplace. ‘I think it was hidden somewhere inside the chimney—that’s why it hasn’t buckled.’ Will cleared away the ash next to the tin with the tip of his boot. ‘We’re supposed to leave everything just as we find it,’ he continued, lowering his voice, ‘but, well, you know how it is ... curiosity ...’ he said, picking up the box and opening it. ‘Here, have a look at this.’
Jack stared at a sepia photograph, slightly singed around the edges but otherwise undamaged.
‘A bit brutal, wouldn’t you say?’ said Jack, holding up the picture. ‘He’s only a kid, for Christ’s sake.’
Will pointed to the back of the photo. ‘Look, there’s a date here: November 1944.’
‘Anything else in the box?’ asked Jack.
‘Yep. All this weird stuff. Here, look.’
‘Interesting ...’
CHAPTER 2
Jana Gonski peeled back the ivy, opened the iron gate, and walked up the moss-covered stone steps. Then she pressed the doorbell, and waited. She wasn’t surprised when no one answered. In one way, she was quite relieved. She hadn’t seen the guy in years, and their parting had occurred under circumstances—she was sure—he’d prefer to forget. Taking a deep breath, Jana looked around: the terrace house appeared deserted. Crumpled envelopes—chewed around the edges by snails—bulged out of the letterbox. Several mouldy, rolled-up newspapers were rotting on the landing.
‘I don’t have to remind you how important this is’, she recalled her boss saying. ‘The press is having a ball, the minister is screaming for answers and the Director of Public Prosecutions is breathing down my neck. Need I go on? As usual, the journalists seem to know a lot more than we do. We must get to the bottom of this—now. Do what you have to do, but do it fast—I need results!’
As the agent in charge of Special Projects, Jana was used to pressure. She dealt almost exclusively with the sensitive and the unusual.
Jana was just about to leave when the door opened and a man in faded jeans, torn at the knees, and a striped pyjama top unbuttoned to the waist, squinted out at her.
‘I can’t stand getting up this early in the morning. What do you want?’ he demanded, running his fingers through unkempt hair.
‘Still chasing that big story, Jack?’
‘Jana?’ said Jack, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Well, what a surprise! What have I done wrong this time?’
Jana laughed. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong except not returning my calls’, she said. ‘I’ve left several messages on your answering machine.’
‘Is that a federal offence now?’ he asked.
‘Seriously, Jack, I want to talk to you about a dead firefighter, a newspaper article, and a photograph.’
‘You’d better come in’, he said. ‘But I have to warn you, my cleaning lady took the week off ...’
‘I can see,’ said Jana, smiling.
The tiny lounge room on the ground floor looked like it hadn’t seen a cleaner for at least a year. A scratched coffee table was covered in empty beer cans, bottles and crushed milk cartons, and the sofa in front of the fireplace was barely visible under layers of old newspapers, magazines and various items of crumpled clothing. A lonely ironing board stood in the middle of the room with a basket full of limp washing nearby. Newspaper cuttings littered the floor.
‘It’s been, what, five years?’ said Jack, clearing a space on
the sofa for Jana to sit down. ‘I was just making coffee—would you like some?’
‘Let me help you. Is this the way to the kitchen?’ asked Jana, pointing to the back of the house.
‘It is, but even I’m a little afraid to go in there just at the moment’, said Jack. ‘You stay right here. And besides, I make excellent coffee ... remember?’
‘Sure’, said Jana, crossing her legs and smiling at him.
‘Poison’, said Jack, touching his nose with his finger.
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘Dior, you’re wearing Dior’s Poison. I hope it’s not an omen.’
He’s good, thought Jana, sitting down on the sofa.
She’s obviously working out. She looks great for the wrong side of forty, thought Jack. Her simple black dress accentuated her trim, athletic body, and her short, honey-blonde hair showed off her dark tan.
After a lot of clattering around and cursing, followed by a long silence, Jack swept into the room balancing a steaming coffee plunger and two mugs on a tray. He’s put on a fresh shirt and combed his hair, Jana noticed.
‘When I take on an assignment, I often work through the night nowadays’, he said, pouring the coffee and searching the room in vain for a cigarette. ‘I hate distractions. I haven’t listened to my answering machine since my divorce last year. My ex and her lawyers used to call all the time and leave messages. Every time I called back, it cost me money. Then I just stopped listening’, he rambled on. ‘It worked, you see. They don’t bother me anymore.’ Jack drained his mug of black coffee and sat down next to Jana.
‘Single again?’
‘Sure am. So, what would you like to know?’ asked Jack.
‘Your article in last Sunday’s Herald ruffled a few feathers in parliament ...’
‘That’s gratifying; I like my readers to show interest.’
‘Your pictures were rather provocative.’
‘Quite deliberately so; it was a shocking death.’
‘Surely your point wasn’t the death of the unfortunate woman, but where and how she died: “Whose property was this brave young volunteer trying to save?” “What is the meaning of the Nazi memorabilia found in the ruins of the house?” “Who is the SS officer in the photograph?”’ said Jana, quoting from the article.
‘Not bad. A little selective and out of context perhaps, but still, impressive’, Jack replied. ‘It’s just an interesting story to be read on a Sunday morning on the terrace with your latté and croissants, that’s all. In a week or so it’ll be forgotten. It’s always the way.’
‘Really? Then why are you working on a follow-up article?’
‘We are well informed.’
‘Your editor talked ...’
‘I should have known. The old fart could never resist a pretty face and a short skirt.’
‘Spoken like the true blue chauvinist you are. Honestly, you haven’t changed at all, Jack. In actual fact, my tools of trade are a little more sophisticated than that.’
‘You’re the one leaning on me’, Jack replied, pointing to the door.
‘All right, all right. Truce, please?’ said Jana, holding up her hands.
‘It’s your call.’
‘You seem convinced that there’s a connection between the officer in the photo and the owner of the cottage’, said Jana, coming straight to the point. ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Instinct.’
‘Instinct alone isn’t enough; you need proof.’
‘I’m aware of that, but in my line of work instinct is important.’
‘Let me think ... what was it last time? Accusing the Archbishop of paedophilia without sufficient evidence? I stopped you just in time, remember?’
Jack frowned, annoyed. ‘Thanks for reminding me; I was just wondering when you’d get around to that.’ Taking chances—often big ones—was part of Jack’s make-up. If it wasn’t risky, it wasn’t fun. If it wasn’t fun, he lost interest. Jack was used to being in trouble.
Jana put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. ‘It’s okay. By the way, I think your instincts are right, this time.’
‘And what makes you so sure?’ Jack asked.
‘Instinct’, she replied, and they both burst out laughing. ‘Okay, we both agree instinct is important,’ Jana continued, ‘but we do need more. So what have you found out so far?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ asked Jack. ‘If I remember correctly, last time I took you into my confidence, I almost got my balls cut off.’
‘Oh yeah? I’d have thought a few little bruises to that tiny little ego of yours was preferable to a couple of years in the clink. Get over it, Jack!’
‘Shit, here we go again ...’ said Jack, shaking his head.
‘You don’t have to, but I think you will’, said Jana, changing tack.
‘Am I that predictable?’
Jana shrugged. ‘No. I think you will because of what I’m about to propose.’
‘You certainly don’t waste time do you?’ countered Jack.
‘I suggest we share information’, said Jana. ‘If I come up with something worthwhile, you get more material for your article.’
‘And you; what’s in it for you?’ asked Jack.
‘I move a little closer to ... let’s call it my “subject”, so we both get what we want’, said Jana.
‘What exactly are you investigating? The fiery death of a young volunteer? Come on ...’ said Jack.
‘That’s a matter for the coroner.’
‘My point exactly. What then?’ asked Jack.
‘My brief is wider than that’, said Jana.
‘What are these Special Projects you’re in charge of, anyway?’
‘I investigate ... sensitive matters ... usually involving politicians, judges, high-profile individuals, even police officers.’
‘Or possible war criminals?’
‘Yes’, Jana conceded.
‘What, like Special Branch or Internal Affairs?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sounds a bit cloak and dagger to me’, said Jack, raising an eyebrow.
‘Of course there would have to be certain conditions about how you use the information I give you—understand?’
‘Bossy as usual’, mumbled Jack.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. I think you forgot something rather important.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Trust. It won’t work without trust ...’
‘You’re right,’ she agreed, ‘and trust has to be earned.’
‘Quite.’
‘About earning trust ...’ said Jana, reaching for her briefcase and taking out a silver ring, which she passed to Jack. ‘We found this near the fireplace in the cottage. I’m surprised you missed it. You’d been through everything else before the police arrived, right? What do you make of it?’
Jack took the ring and walked towards the window. Just as he reached it, the window exploded, splinters of glass whistling through the air like jagged missiles, one of them imbedding itself in Jack’s cheek, barely missing his eye. A house brick landed on the floor in front of him.
‘What on earth was that?’ cried Jana, jumping up and running towards Jack. Glancing out of the broken window, she caught a glimpse of a boy pedalling away on a pushbike. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m okay’, said Jack, pulling the splinter out of his cheek and trying to stem the flow of blood with a handkerchief.
‘Let me have a look.’
‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’
‘Jesus, Jack. You could have lost an eye. Still treading on the wrong toes?’
He shook his head. ‘Just street kids, leave it alone. I had a problem here the other night ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone vandalised my car. You know, scratches, smashed brake lights, slashed tyres, stuff like that. I asked around ...’
‘And?’
‘Nothing; forget it.’
‘Let me get this straight: someone throws a brick through your window in the middle of the day, barely missing your head, and you just want to forget it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘As you wish’, said Jana, shaking her head.
Jack bent down, picked up the ring, and held it up to the light as if nothing had happened. ‘Well, well,’ he said after studying it for a while, ‘how extraordinary. This is a Totenkopf ring, the honour ring of the SS. Usually awarded personally by Himmler for special services for Reich and Fuehrer. It was extremely rare and highly prized.’ Jack proffered the ring to Jana. ‘It’s made of silver. Look, you can see the skull and crossbones and there are some runic symbols engraved on the band. It was manufactured by a firm in Munich—Otto Gars.’
‘I’m impressed’, said Jana. ‘You’ve certainly done your homework on the SS.’
‘Sure have. My first assignment as a rookie journalist was tracking down an SS thug living in Queensland. You never forget your first assignment, especially one that went spectacularly wrong’, replied Jack, laughing. ‘Have you checked the inside of the band? The inscriptions?’
‘Of course.’
‘The band should be engraved with the letters “S.lb”, which stands for Seinen Lieben, the date of presentation, a facsimile of Himmler’s signature, and most importantly—’
‘The recipient’s name’, interrupted Jana.
‘Well?’
‘See for yourself.’
‘Bummer! The name’s been chiselled out.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘That would have been too easy, I suppose. In any case, this ring shouldn’t be here.’