“Another branch was their Secret Service group. Because of their badge they were called the ‘Iron Claw’, although their correct title was a long German name with the acronym KGSD. The Iron Claw were an elite group of a few hundred. All of its members were veterans, of the rank of corporal or higher.”
“So the Iron Claw were something like the GESTAPO and worked closely with them. They provided secret police, spies and Special Action Teams. The Special Action Teams carried out espionage, sabotage, assassination, kidnapping, torture and interrogation. Real murderous thugs.”
“They recruited all sorts of strange and repulsive personalities. Many were sadistic bullies and brutes. Quite a number were convicted murderers. Allegedly many were sexual deviates, you know, homosexuals and so on.”
“Nice types,” Peter said.
“Yes,” Inspector Sharpe went on, “Their Special Action Unit consisted of a HQ and nine Special Action Teams, each of nine members. Each S.A.T. was commanded by an officer and included specialists such as signallers, Intelligence and Interrogation specialists, demolition experts, snipers and so on. They were all skilled in the use of weapons and trained at things like parachuting.”
Graham spoke up, “And you think that is what we have here Sir, a Special Action Team of the Iron Claw?”
The Inspector nodded soberly. “It’s a distinct possibility.”
“But what are they doing here?” Stephen asked.
“Looking for something that Krapinski hid,” Roger replied
“Correct. But what?” Inspector Sharpe replied. “Come on, let’s go back and see what these gentlemen in black have to say.”
CHAPTER 15
THE DIARY
Inspector Sharpe led the way back along the track. Back at the vehicle Det. Sgt. Crowe was busy searching the 4WD. Detective West stood guarding the three men. They were handcuffed and sat along the side of the track.
“Find anything?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“Yes Sir,” Det. West replied. He bent down and lifted up the collar of the old man. Pinned underneath was another ‘Iron Claw’ badge. The old man looked up and glared at them.
“That fellow over there has one as well, and both of them had KSS badges in their shirt pockets,” Det. Sgt. Crowe said, holding up two of the badges. “This man had nothing on him.” He pointed to Bruno.
“Any identification on them?”
“Not on him Sir, but on the other two, yes.”
Sgt Crowe pointed. “The bloke with the glasses is Otto Dorkoffsky,” he said. “He has a Queensland Driver’s Licence. The old man is Nitro Klotovitch and he has a Paraguayan Passport.”
“Paraguay. That fits,” Inspector Sharpe nodded, taking the plastic bag holding the documents which the old man had tried to hide. He began to spread them on the bonnet of the 4WD. There were some credit cards, a notebook and several strips of light blue cardboard with numbers on them.
He held up a credit card. “Boris Krapinski,” he said grimly. “I think we have our murderers alright.”
That earned more hostile glares from the prisoners. Inspector Sharpe put down the cards and picked up one of the strips of blue cardboard. “What are these I wonder?” he asked.
“Grid references?” Graham suggested.
“They might be clues telling these men where to dig Sir,” Peter added.
“You could be right.”
“Ahah! Good! Ah, yes!” Inspector Sharpe picked up a small book.
Roger squirmed with curiosity. “What is it Sir?”
“The Diary of Boris Krapinski. I think we have certain proof that these men are the murderers.” Inspector Sharpe walked over to the old man and held up the pocket diary for him to see. “This was in the plastic bag you tried to hide. Where did you get it?”
The old man gave him a stony glare and looked away. Inspector Shape went to ‘Glasses’ and repeated the question. Roger saw ‘Glasses’ return a blank stare. Inspector Sharpe moved on to the third man and tried again. The man shook his head and said nothing.
“What is your name?” Inspector Sharpe rapped. The man looked at him calmly but did not reply.
“His name is Bruno Sir,” Roger said.
Bruno’s eyes swivelled to focus on Roger and seemed to bore into him. Suddenly Bruno began to shout in a foreign language and tried to get to his feet. Roger couldn’t understand a word of the torrent of abuse the man screamed at him but its meaning was clear. He felt sick inside and had to resist an urge to flee; actually stepped backwards several paces before he realised it. By a conscious effort he made himself stand his ground.
Det. West grabbed Bruno and pushed him down but he kept shouting. He was so enraged that spittle flecked his lips. As Bruno paused to gasp for breath the old man spoke sharply to him in their own language. Bruno slumped down and hung his head.
Inspector Sharpe snarled at the prisoners, “Keep silent all of you. Speak when you are spoken to; and don’t make things worse for yourselves by making threats.” He went over to the man with glasses. “Now Mr. Dorkoffsky, you tell me what is going on.”
Dorkoffsky looked up and said something in the foreign language. Inspector Sharpe flared with anger and stood over him with hands on hips. “Don’t give me the ‘no spik da English’ crap Dorkoffsky. You’ve got a Queensland Driver’s Licence and you’ve lived in Yungaburra for years.”
Dorkoffsky said something, a swear word by the way he said it. Then, in excellent English he said. “I know my rights. I wish to speak to a solicitor. I have nothing further to say.”
Inspector Sharpe tried again but none of the men would speak. He swore angrily and slapped a mosquito on his face.
“Right, let’s have those badges off these fellows. Put them in plastic bags with their names in with them,” Inspector Sharpe ordered.
“Can’t Sir,” replied Sgt Crowe. “Our gear was in our car and there’s none in the Four Wheel Drive. I looked.”
“I’ve got some Sir,” said Roger. “In my webbing. I’ll just run and get them.”
“Good boy Roger. Do that.”
Roger ran quickly out and across the road to where their gear was hidden. He was so keen to help he didn’t notice how much he was puffing when he got back. He held the plastic sandwich bags open. Inspector Sharpe took the badges as Sgt Crowe handed them to him. He examined each closely, before popping it in the plastic sandwich bag. Roger stared at the badges, fascinated. Graham wrote KLOTOVITCH on a page of his Field Message Notebook and tore it out. This went into the bag with the badge.
One badge was Rhomboid shaped metal with pin fasteners on the back. It was black enamel with silver edging and what looked like silver leaves on it.
“I wonder what it means?” Stephen asked.
“I’ve got a sheet in my briefcase in our car with the KSS badges on it,” Inspector Sharpe said. “We’ll soon know.” He took the two packets from Graham. “OK, Crowe, you and West load these three into the Four Wheel Drive. West, you drive it. Crowe and I will drive these vehicles. And when we get back, keep this quiet. I don’t want the media people getting hold of it yet. Don’t answer any questions; and tell the Senior I want it kept under wraps for the moment.”
As the two detectives moved to start putting the prisoners in the Four Wheel Drive Graham spoke up. “What about us Sir?”
“Sorry boys. I want you to come with me. This time I need a more detailed statement.”
“So that’s the end of our hike?” Graham said sadly.
“It was finished on Day One,” Stephen snapped irritably.
“How far have you got?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“Only about thirty kilometres,” Stephen sneered. “We should have covered sixty or seventy. We would have to do that in just over two days now.”
Graham spoke up. “We can still do it. It’s only midday now. We’ve got about five hours of daylight left today. We can do twenty kilometres in that time.”
The idea of walking that distance before sunset dismayed Roger but he held
his tongue rathe than attract derision. To his relief Stephen spoke up. “Ah! Don’t be stupid Graham,” he replied.
“Just a minute,” Inspector Sharpe interrupted. “It’s not up to you. I’ll decide. You will need to inform your captain and your parents, and I need full statements.” He looked from one glum face to the other then spoke again, “You really do want to go on with your hike don’t you?”
“Yes Sir, please Sir,” Graham replied. He looked at the others. Peter nodded. “What about you Roger? Do you feel up to it?”
Roger really just wanted to say no and go home but found himself saying “Yeah. I can do it.”
“What about you Steve? Do you still want to drop out?” Graham asked.
Inspector Sharpe interrupted again. “Where are you heading? Where is your next clue?”
“The Curtain Fig Tree. It’s near Yungaburra,” Graham replied. “It’s about twenty five kilometres from here.”
As Roger heard this he groaned inwardly. ‘Twenty five kilometres!’ he thought ruefully. ‘Bloody hell!’ He wished he had the courage to speak up against it but feared Graham’s contempt.
“Can you make that?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“We can try. If you’ll let us,” Graham answered.
“I meant, can you make it by dark?”
“Probably not sir.”
“Well, I will be in Yungaburra later. I’ve got to go to Atherton first. Then I’m going to search Mr Dorkoffsky’s house which, as you heard, is in Yungaburra. If you could make it to there by about 5pm that would be fine.”
“We can try,” Graham replied eagerly. Again Roger groaned inwardly but said nothing.
“Show me the route you intend to follow,” Inspector Sharpe ordered. Graham pulled out his map and did so. It was just along the main roads.
“Right. Don’t leave that route. If you aren’t there by 5pm wait beside the road and we will pick you up. We can drop you at the same place early tomorrow morning if that doesn’t break the rules for your hike.”
“That will be fine Sir,” Graham beamed. He turned to the others. “You coming with us Steve?”
Stephen pulled a face. “Yeah. I’ll come as far as Yungaburra anyway. But I reckon when I phone my oldies about this they’ll just come and get me.”
Roger suddenly felt his spirits fall. “So will mine,” he said.
“That’s the plan then,” Inspector Sharpe said. “Oh, and remember what I said about not saying anything to anyone. It might be a good idea not to speak to people at all. And, just in case, don’t accept a lift from any strangers.”
Roger felt a sudden chill. “Do you really think there might be more of these ‘Iron Claw’ types Sir?”
“Could be. Just be careful. Now, give us a hand to get this car out of the bog.”
Five minutes later the boys were on their own, the sound of the vehicles receding in the distance.
Graham glanced at his watch. “OK, let’s grab a quick lunch and get going,” he said.
“Come on Roger,” Peter called.
“Be with you in a minute. I’ll just have a leak,” Roger replied. He walked back up the side track a few paces.
As he stood there he looked around at the scene of the action. It reminded him of that awful day in Year 8 when the leader of the Swamp Rats gang had been shot. At the memory he shuddered and shook his head. He found he was trembling and a wave of goose bumps ran up his back. It made him glance behind him, suddenly very conscious he was alone.
His eye caught something at the base of a tree. Curious, he finished his business and walked over to it. It was a black jacket, almost invisible on the rotting deadfall. It had been dropped or thrown there.
Roger’s heart leapt. ‘It must belong to one of those men!’ he thought as he bent down and picked it up. Out of curiosity he looked under the collars.
Yes!
An Iron Claw badge under one lapel and under the other a black lozenge with a silver border and a silver stud on it, like a miniature 2nd Lieutenant’s ‘pip’.
Roger felt the pockets then unbuttoned them. In the left one was a KSS Badge and a Passport - Paraguayan. Roger flicked it open and there was a photo and the name MILAN JABLONSKI. In the other pocket was a note book; a small book with pages of letters and numbers in groups of four. Stuck between the pages were two folded sheets of paper.
He unfolded these and stared at them. One was obviously a coded message because it had headings in boxes and the text was typed rows of the jumbled letters. He’d seen the same sort of thing at an army cadet signals exercise.
The other page was also a Signal Form but the message on it was typed in words. He tried to read it but gave up. German? He wasn’t sure.
Bubbling with excitement he hurried after the others, out onto the main road and along it. He met Graham coming back.
Graham looked anxious. “I wondered what you were doing,” he commented.
“I found this. Look. It’s that other man’s jacket. And it’s got a code book and a secret message,” Roger said. He thrust the Message Forms at Graham.
“Secret Message!...” Graham began. Then, as he studied the form his expression changed. “You’re right. It is. Gosh! I wonder what it says.”
“It’s in German I think,” Roger said. He dimly remembered lessons in Year 8.
“Yes it is,” Graham agreed. “Ooh! I wish I’d paid more attention in class.”
“We’d better give it to the Inspector.”
“We will. Tonight. Come on.”
When they joined the others Roger told his story again and they all looked at the badges, passport and signals.
Graham urged them on. “Come on! Eat and let’s get going. It’s twelve forty five already.”
Roger pushed the signal into his map case then had a big drink and sat down. All of a sudden he felt quite drained and really regretted having said he would walk. Ruefully contemplating the pain to come he packed the black jacket in his pack and dug out a tin of peaches.
CHAPTER 16
THE MARCH CONTINUES
Twenty minutes later Roger was groaning audibly as he hoisted on his pack. The cadets made their way out onto the road and continued their trek. Roger felt the strain right from the start. His muscles ached. He was chafed and tired; and he was worried the others could smell his wet uniform.
Graham, as usual, set off at a cracking pace. Roger had to force himself to stride it out to keep up. Soon he was sweating freely and hating every step. He was also starting to develop a real loathing for the rainforest. The road was damp underfoot and that made walking harder as mud stuck to his boots. The jungle met overhead and induced that claustrophobic feeling of walking in a never-ending tunnel of gloom. The rainforest on the right had never been cleared and had almost no undergrowth. It appeared to be just a mass of trees with black trunks which gave the impression of all being the same height and thickness. Even the rotting deadfall was black.
“There’s a car coming,” Stephen called.
“Will we hide?” Roger gasped in alarm.
“Don’t be silly Roger. You’ve got those crooks on the brain,” Stephen retorted.
“Besides, it could be the police looking for us,” Peter added.
The boys all moved over to the right hand side of the road. A car came into view behind them, an old station wagon. It drove slowly because the road was badly potholed. As it drew level Roger turned to look. There was an elderly couple in it and the old lady gave a cheerful smile.
“Good on you boys!” she called.
Stephen waved. The car drove on out of sight, leaving Roger feeling slightly foolish. The boys marched on.
Soon Roger settled into the rhythm of marching. As his muscles warmed up the soreness went away. Only the chafing at hips and shoulders still intruded noticeably. After about twenty minutes Roger heard Graham call out. He looked up. Bright sunlight showed a few hundred paces ahead.
“That’s the last of rainforest,” Peter said.
“Thank God. I
’m sick of the stuff,” Stephen said feelingly.
Roger was puffing too much to say anything but could only agree. The damp from his perspiration had inflamed his stinging tree bite and he couldn’t resist scratching at it.
They came out onto a bitumen road with open pasture on the left and rainforest on the right. Roger’s spirits lifted and he stared out over the rolling hills, his eyes almost aching with relief at being able to focus at more than fifty paces.
After a few minutes they passed a grassy car park. A family with a van were there. A sign said:
CATHEDRAL FIG
“Is that the Curtain Fig?” Peter asked.
“No. Don’t think so. Wrong name,” Graham replied.
“We’d better check. We’ll look silly if we walk all the way to Yungaburra if the next clue is here,” Peter cautioned.
“Good idea,” Roger said, coming to a standstill.
“No Roger, you keep going. I’ll go and check and catch you up,” Graham replied.
Roger groaned but began walking again. Without Graham leading they slowed down to a nice steady plod. Roger kept looking behind and saw Graham reappear in the distance and set off after them.
A small tourist bus rattled past, forcing them into the long grass beside the road. Graham gradually overhauled them. He caught up as they came to a road junction and farm.
“Nothing there,” he reported. “This is the farm we rang up at,” he added.
The friends stood in a perspiring group while they discussed this. Peter pointed along the dirt road which led off east across the open country. “This is the road we came along on Senior Ex last year,” he said.
Behind Mt. Baldy Page 15
