by Peter Watt
‘I can try,’ Paul answered with a shrug. ‘From my knowledge of these people they are territorial. If he is anywhere he will be around the area I was in.’
Jack unrolled a chart on the table and the three men stared at the series of islands that marked the wide mouth of the river. Paul used the stem of his pipe to indicate a point upriver. ‘I made my first contact with him around here,’ he said. ‘His village had been razed to the ground during a raid by a rather evil bunch of people.’
‘Other natives?’ Joe asked.
‘A European,’ Paul replied and left the subject at that. He still felt pangs of guilt for not saving Iris and knew that by even going up the Fly River he was inviting old and bitter memories of failure.
‘Well, guys,’ Joe said leaning back against the bulkhead behind him, ‘if we get lucky and meet this guy you know he could be the key to us making friendly contact with the locals and getting some great footage.’
Jack rolled up the chart and glanced at Paul. He could see the pained expression in his face and knew why. It should have been me who went after O’Leary, Jack thought.
On deck Jack stretched and stared at the distant rise and fall of the jungle covered shoreline. Lukas was at the helm, looking confident. Jack smiled to himself as he knew that his son was holding a noble pose for Victoria, who sat on the cabin roof taking in the warm sun and sea breezes. She wore a shirt tied at the waist and a pair of shorts that showed off her figure. The days at sea had tanned her and brought out a spray of freckles across the upper part of her cheeks. Somehow it made her look much younger. He knew Lukas was smitten by the beautiful woman, despite her being a good ten years older, and so too was Karl. Jack had noticed some prickliness in their friendship as both boys vied for her attention.
‘Have you come to join me?’ Victoria asked when she saw Jack on deck. ‘It is a beautiful day.’
Jack returned her request with a broad smile. The sun had tanned him too and the hard physical work of sailing had toughened his body, so that he now looked like a slightly older version of his son.
‘For a short while,’ he said and sat beside her, ignoring the scowl on his son’s face. ‘I have to get some things sorted out before we head upriver. Paul thinks we might be able to make contact with a native he met here years ago.’
‘That would be wonderful if we could,’ Victoria said. ‘I would love to meet a real live man from the Stone Age.’
‘Not that romantic,’ Jack said with a twisted grin. ‘A lot of their practices aren’t that savoury, unless we’re talking cooked human meat. As for being Stone Age, you could be right in saying that their only technology is of wood and stone. But I figure the introduction of steel into their lives is going to change everything in the years ahead. The kanakas who have made contact with us in the rest of Papua and New Guinea have quickly learned the lesson of metal coins as exchange. Lately it’s got to be a bit more lucrative than the traditional sea shell currency.’
‘Do you like living in Papua?’ Victoria asked, looking Jack directly in the eyes.
He sometimes asked himself the same question. ‘I tried living in Sydney,’ he said with a frown. ‘Thought I was doing well but it’s a jungle I don’t understand. At least here I know where my enemies are and can take measures to protect myself. Yeah, I suppose I like it here.’
Victoria sighed and turned away at his answer. ‘Why do you ask?’ Jack continued.
‘Oh, no reason.’
Jack shook his head and stood to make his way back to the cabin. He passed his son who was still scowling at his father.
‘She’s a bit young for you, Dad,’ Lukas said from the corner of his mouth.
Jack stopped in his tracks. ‘How old do you think I am?’ he quizzed.
‘Really old,’ Lukas replied with the cheeky naivety of youth. ‘Even ancient.’
Jack grinned and walked away. He rarely thought about his age. Maybe his body was ageing but his mind still carried the thoughts of a twenty-year-old man as he approached his fortieth year. But his son had nothing to fear concerning his behaviour towards Miss Victoria Duvall. She was a classy lady used to the comforts of the USA. He was a man of the wild frontiers. There could be no attraction.
Victoria noticed the interaction between father and son and smiled to herself, aware of Lukas and Karl’s attempts to attract her attention. But Jack was different. Her inward smile turned to a frown when she thought about him. He was so unlike the many men she had known in her life. He was not a suave lawyer or wealthy stockbroker. Nor was he a man whose preoccupation was fame and fortune. But he had touched both in former years as she had learned from the stories told around Port Moresby by those who knew and respected him. Yet here he was now, for all to the world a beach bum drifting in the tropics, in many ways like the Papuan natives themselves: a warrior and chief. He would definitely be a colourful character in her book, she thought, a kind of Jungle Jim. Or in this case, Jungle Jack. She smiled at the name she had coined for him.
Victoria was not a woman who believed in torrid affairs and she suspected that Jungle Jack was not a man who would entertain such notions either. But a wicked thought crept into her mind as she considered what it would be like to feel those muscled arms around her, his strong, capable hands touching her in places that only a lover would. Victoria rose and walked unsteadily past Lukas to her cabin, aware that her idle thoughts had gone too far. But she had nothing to fear as Jack had never even made a pass at her – in fact, she was almost a little annoyed that he had not. All they had shared were gentle, intelligent conversations above deck at night when she often experienced a strange feeling, as if he had the power to touch her soul and see inside her. She would be glad when the expedition was over and she was on the boat back to the States. Any longer in the Australian’s company could cause her to lose her composure, maybe say something really stupid like, ‘I think I could be falling in love with you, Jack Kelly.’ All because she was growing to want him. At least she did not need him. She was a modern and independent lady with means.
He was a big man with a scarred face. The Dutch official stamping his papers noted that the man was an Australian citizen born in Ireland.
‘Mr Farrell,’ the Dutchman said as he passed back his papers. ‘You may depart now.’
O’Leary stuffed the falsified papers that gave him possession of the schooner into his pocket. The Germans had been generous and the boat would remain his after he completed his mission in Papua. Needless to say he would sell the boat and pocket the money. The sea was not a place where he felt comfortable. He gazed around the port of Merauke searching for his crew of three men who he had recruited in the bars of the town in Dutch New Guinea – a mere fifty miles or so from the Australian-administered side of the island. Sweat streamed down his face to be diverted by the deep scars either side of his now clean-shaven face – scars that were a bitter reminder of a confrontation with a brash young Australian by the name of Kelly.
O’Leary had been contacted by a Eurasian of Dutch and Indonesian blood who worked in the postal service and was paid by the Germans to hand deliver mail posted to certain residents of the west New Guinea territory under the control of Holland. O’Leary was one of the names on the list and the man had scoured the bars of the town to find the Irishman and deliver the envelope to him. O’Leary had scowled as he read the contents. The Eurasian was pleased to leave the seedy bar and the evil dis-positioned Irishman. Whatever was in the letter was of no concern to him.
It took some time to decipher the code. O’Leary had not seen it in over fifteen years, not since the war ended and his role as a spy for the Kaiser terminated. But it was obvious that his name had remained in the efficient German filing system to be reactivated by his new masters – the Nazis.
O’Leary had volunteered to work for German interests after the Easter Rising in Dublin during the war. He had been motivated not so much by patriotism for the cause of his cousins in Ireland but by the chance to earn extra money for grog and wome
n. He knew that there were Irishmen working with the Germans to destabilise the British war effort just off the English coast. Not that he had to do much for the money, just provide the occasional bit of information on military matters that he came across whilst undertaking his recruiting tasks for Sen.
Unlike the German citizens who had fallen under Australian control after New Guinea was invaded at the beginning of the war, he had been able to move freely from New Guinea to Papua. Fifteen years later he was being reactivated – but this time to kill a man. He felt confident enough to get in quickly and leave just as fast. The man to be killed would most probably be staying at the Mann plantation, just down the coast from Port Moresby. The instructions in the coded letter spelled out everything he needed to know to complete his task; it was all too easy. The three men he had recruited were like himself, ruthless and very dangerous, the flotsam of European and Indonesian society living on the fringes of the law.
The idea of killing did not concern him in the slightest. But returning to Papua did. He suspected someone may have connected him to the disappearance of the Eurasian woman Iris, sister-in-law to a man who now hated him with a vengeance. O’Leary was smart enough to realise that Sen would just as happily have him killed as blink. Only the terrible fear of being exposed as a traitor to the Australians must have forced the Chinaman to seek him out for the job in Papua. Or was it some kind of elaborate trap to lure him back to an ambush? But to find him in Merauke could only have meant that Sen had been contacted by the Germans – as far as O’Leary knew, they were the only ones who had any idea where he was. The Irishman scowled as he swallowed the last drop of fiery schnapps.
His crew were late and when they eventually arrived they were hungover and surly. O’Leary snarled at them to board and waited for the captain of his schooner to come above decks from below, where he had been inspecting the auxiliary engine.
‘Fuji, are we ready to get under way?’ O’Leary asked when the young man appeared, stripped to the waist and wiping his oil-covered hands with a rag.
The Japanese man nodded. ‘When you are ready, I am,’ he replied in perfect English.
O’Leary grunted and turned his back on his young skipper. He had confidence in the Japanese sailor’s abilities as his father Isokihi had chartered many expeditions along the Papua and New Guinea coasts with Fuji at his side. Fuji had grown up with Papuan water in his veins as well as a deep grudge against all Europeans – including O’Leary. But O’Leary had promised to pay him generously for an expedition that might include working beyond Australian law. Fuji had not hesitated in taking the charter as O’Leary had also agreed to sell him the schooner after the expedition was over for a good price.
On shore the Dutch official wiped his brow as he watched the schooner glide away from the wharf under the power of its engine. Turning to walk away, he wondered why the mad Irishman would hire three well-known cut-throats on a charter for the Torres Islands. They were definitely not sailors, but that was not his worry. The port of Merauke was not short of men one step beyond the law.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sydney was a pleasant surprise to Gerhardt. Although it was winter in the southern hemisphere, the weather seemed magnificent after the bitter chills of a European winter. The ship had steamed into a beautiful harbour fringed by little sandy beaches and yellow eroded rock inlets backed by scrub trees and houses. The great single span bridge was a bow tying the two shores of the harbour together.
Ilsa was wide eyed at the sights as the ship made its way up the harbour and even Erika was strangely quiet. They disembarked and Gerhardt let his wife be their guide – after all, she had lived here once before. She knew a pleasant hotel not far from the city centre. Soon after the suitcases were dropped on the separate beds, Erika went to the reception to place a telephone call.
‘I have an appointment,’ she said, applying lipstick when she was back in their room. Gerhardt knew he would be wasting his time to ask with whom. She had continued to remain aloof. At least she had paid their way and for that he was grateful. ‘You will look after Ilsa while I am away.’
With her parting words, Erika closed the door behind her.
‘Well, my little love,’ Gerhardt sighed as he sat on the bed next to his daughter. ‘What would you like to do?’
Ilsa knew exactly what she would like to do. She had always wanted to see a kangaroo and koala. It was just a matter of finding out how they could do this. Gerhardt was pleased to make inquiries at the reception desk where the amused clerk suggested Taronga Park Zoo. ‘Not many left around Sydney anymore,’ the man chuckled. ‘At least I haven’t seen any ’roos hopping around in Pitt Street lately.’
Gerhardt thanked the man in his heavily accented English and returned to tell Ilsa the result of his inquiry. He now felt as far from Germany as any man could be and comfortable enough to carefully plan his next move. He would make contact with the right people in government and hand over the damning evidence against the new German chancellor, Adolf Hitler. His old friend and colleague would have to answer to the Americans now. The esteemed German–Jewish scientist was presently at Princeton University in America and news of a file marking him for assassination would cause a furore. As well as the satisfaction of revenge, Gerhardt also expected a substantial reward from the Americans along with sanctuary. He no longer had any reason to keep up a pretence of going to Papua with Erika to meet her brother, nor spy on the Australian administration in the territory for his old masters. Whatever his wife chose to do with her life was her business alone – all he desired was custody of their daughter. He would approach the American consulate in Sydney with his proposal and evidence and the rest was in their hands. Erika could play her game of mysterious rendezvous as he played out his of international intrigue.
For a brief moment Gerhardt had a thought that his estranged wife may be going to see the father of her child. He did not know why he should think this but he felt a cold chill. What if she was and the man came to visit his daughter? So far Gerhardt had been able to convince the only person he truly loved that her mother had been lying to hurt them both when she said that he was not her real father.
When she opened the door to her harbourside mansion Caroline greeted Erika with genuine warmth. ‘It is good to see you again after all these years,’ she said, ushering her inside.
‘You are expecting,’ Erika commented. ‘I must congratulate you.’
‘I will have coffee sent to us in the garden,’ Caroline said abruptly, and for a moment Erika thought she saw a dark cloud in her face. Was the pregnancy not going well, she wondered, to cause such a thinly veiled look of concern? She followed Caroline to the garden where all seemed to return to normality.
‘Do you have any children?’ Caroline asked when they were seated.
‘I had Jack’s daughter,’ Erika answered honestly, as she knew that Caroline was already privy to that information. After all, that is why she had been encouraged to return to Germany.
‘And are you married?’ Caroline asked rather abruptly.
‘I married when I returned to Munich,’ Erika replied. ‘Two months before my daughter Ilsa was born. Do you have any other children?’ Erika asked quickly, to avoid any reference to Gerhardt.
Caroline shook her head.
‘I did not want any children at all,’ Erika said, gazing across the harbour. ‘Ilsa was a mistake I will always regret.’
‘Surely you cannot say that,’ Caroline exclaimed. ‘She is your daughter.’
‘No, she is Jack Kelly’s daughter, not mine.’
Caroline could not understand Erika’s attitude to motherhood. Despite her promiscuous ways as a younger woman, she had always felt that strange urge to be a mother and had deeply resented her husband for initially failing her in the matter. Only the agreement that she could look elsewhere for a father to her child kept them together, not that Quentin would ever sanction any talk of divorce or separation. It was not the done thing in their social circles. ‘I am hoping for
a son,’ she said to alter the mood of the conversation. ‘Quentin is also.’
‘I did not come here to talk of babies,’ Erika said, changing the subject altogether. ‘I need your help in a matter.’
Caroline glanced at Erika with a hint of suspicion. She had changed since they last met, she thought, and she sensed a very ruthless woman beneath the cool, dark beauty that still remained. ‘What help do you require?’ she asked guardedly.
‘I need your husband to use his contacts to grant myself and my daughter British citizenship in this country.’
Caroline relaxed. Such a request was not difficult. Quentin had many contacts in the government. ‘I can do that for an old friend,’ she replied. ‘Anything else? Citizenship for your husband?’
‘No,’ Erika said quietly. ‘He is now on his own. I do not care if I ever see him again. We have never really been husband and wife.’
Somehow Caroline was not surprised at Erika’s reaction. She was a truly selfish and self-centred woman. ‘What will you do in this country?’ she asked, more from curiosity than concern.
‘I have plans . . . but I will tell you about them later,’ she replied.
The coffee was brought to the garden and in the time it took to consume the pot the two women spoke of social matters as if the years had not existed between them. In many ways Caroline was pleased to see her again. She also had plans for her social life after she recovered from the birth of her child. Caroline was even a little amused to think that Erika was not aware of how much they shared. She wondered how she would have reacted to the knowledge that she was carrying Jack Kelly’s baby.
In many ways dealing with the Americans felt very much like working back in his old office in Germany. A small, windowless room in a basement with little else than a table and chair. Even the two men who interviewed him reminded Gerhardt of Spier and Neumann: menacing, taciturn and suspicious of all he said. One was middle aged, grey and serious, and the other in his late twenties, sharp and fluent in German. Neither introduced themselves by name and Gerhardt guessed that they were no ordinary diplomatic staff. More like members of some very secret American organisation working as counter German intelligence agents. He had been wise to not bring the negatives; once the contents of the files were handed over he would be of no use to the Americans.
