Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Suddenly, as though they’d reached a place he’d been traveling to all along, Julian eased his chair closer, impeding her view of Edmonson and Clark. “Tell me, Anne - what has Sophie got to do with this?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Take your time, Anne. Think about it. Think back. Try to remember.”

  “There’s nothing. Honestly.”

  “What about recent events?”

  “No…” She stopped.

  “What? What is it, Anne?”

  The evening walk, the missing money.

  “You’ve thought of something.”

  “Grace said….” Who to betray?

  “Go on.”

  “Grace said it was Sophie stealing the money.”

  “What do you think about that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have no opinion? About Sophie? About the thefts? Come on, Anne. We need answers.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Then answer this.” Julian was in charge, the Government men attentive but still mute. “Answer this, Anne...”

  Edmonson was again tapping his impatient tattoo; non intervention was not easy.

  Julian glanced over his shoulder at Edmonson, waited until the tapping ceased, cleared his throat, and repeated: “Answer this, Anne. Why do your friends think you are the thief?”

  “What!!!”

  “Are you the thief, Anne?”

  “No!”

  “Is there a thief?”

  “We’ve all had money stolen.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone!”

  “Who, Anne? Names!”

  “Me, Sophie, Joan, Grace, everyone….”

  “Since when? When did it start?”

  “Since…” Stop! Please stop! “I don’t know.”

  “Would it be since you moved? Since the new staff arrived?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Before?”

  “No - yes – I don’t know.”

  Julian pushed his seat back, revealed the startled faces of the two men behind the desk, and smiled as though the exchange had merely been a pleasant chat. “Thank you, Anne. You’ve been most helpful.”

  She was shaking again.

  Mr Clark gently asked: “Would you care for refreshments before we continue, Miss Preston?”

  “Please.”

  He left the room. Edmonson and Julian closed their eyes, as though to sleep. Obviously they’d had plenty of practice. Obviously interrogation was their forte. Julian too! She felt ill. They’d never know it, especially Julian. Determined not to give him the satisfaction she, too, closed her eyes and feigned the calm she did not feel.

  Clark returned carrying a tray of glasses and a flagon of iced lemonade; he poured for each of them.

  Edmonson, resuming control, waited until her glass was drained before asking: “Ready to continue?”

  “I think so.” Why wasn’t it over?

  “We are able to tell you this,” Edmonson confirmed. “We do not believe either you or your friend, Sophie, are thieves. We do, however, believe - in fact we know - that there has been a deliberately planned, surreptitious, and patently successful scheme to de-stabilise the morale of this laboratory in such a way as to significantly disrupt its functioning. Does this seem too dramatic for your taste?”

  She was not too surprised. She had used the word sabotage herself. The surprise was the plot’s diabolical simplicity. In this laboratory’s work - its nature more intellectual than physical, its assessments often more subtle than definitive - it had been an effective way to inhibit output.

  Sly and underhand, not immediately obvious, insidiously destructive, difficult to determine, almost impossible to prove, it had undermined trust and confidence, sown seeds of self doubt and adversely affected mental health.

  It also had the additional negative effect of delaying investigation. The longer the delay in investigation, the more wide-spread and deeply entrenched the damage, the more difficult to put in place remedial measures. The longer the delay in detection, and the consequential tardiness in remediation, the more chance of catastrophic damage to the war effort.

  Sabotage at its most sinister. Sabotage that had actually been effective. Right here. In this very room where she’d been in charge!

  The aim of the saboteurs had been virtually accomplished. At terrible cost to the war effort. At cruel personal cost. She and her friends had come into this beautiful new building and the beautiful new laboratory with such high hopes. Everything had been bright and clean and fresh. So different from the old laboratory and the stench and the…

  “Miss Preston?” Edmonson leaned forward. “Your thoughts?”

  “The fire bomb - in the old laboratory. Was that….?”

  “The original plan? We believe so.”

  “You see, Anne.” Julian again took over. “We think it went this way - the attempt to completely destroy the old laboratory, which was the initial intention, failed. Bad luck for them. Good for us. Good for us because it did two things. First - it alerted the authorities to the aims of the enemy. Namely, to temporarily suspend the work being done in it. Second - it brought about improved standards of security. All personnel, especially cleaners, carriers and the like, are scrupulously selected and constantly monitored. Thus, their agents were effectively thwarted. They were unable to carry out another attempt at physical destruction, for the time being at least.”

  “Therefore,” continued Edmonson, “they formulated the plan to destabilise, in fact to destroy, staff morale. Which had hitherto been so excellent. Thus the end result would be the same. No productivity.”

  “The difference being negligible,” Julian elaborated. “No work possible because there was no laboratory was to become no work possible because there was no competent staff. In fact, from their point of view, this later scheme would seem to have more potential for long-term devastation. Locating in another building was comparatively easy, as you and your friends so forcefully demonstrated.”

  “The - er - the strike,” interposed Clark. “Do you see?”

  “Another group of skilled technicians, trained to be immune to the same tactics, would take years to put in place. Yours is a highly specialised profession, Anne. You were easy targets. The strike action had already divided you. Then came the introduction of new personnel. Despite the prime location and the excellent facilities, your formerly cohesive group provided the enemy with a unique opportunity. Divide and conquer as it were. Do you understand now?”

  Divide and conquer! They’d opened that door themselves, when they’d argued about protesting their conditions. She thought again about the bickering, the distrust, the careless mistakes, the nervous tension, the lost concentration and, with fresh insight, recalled Sophie’s fainting spell in Myers. “Was Sophie followed too?”

  “A fact.” Edmonson answered her doubt. “Probably, initially, to provoke fear. Confusion. And to do what it has undoubtedly done to many of you. Cause a quite alarming degree of anxiety. Leading, in some instances, to significant mental ill health.”

  Alarmed, she looked to Julian.

  “Your parents have reported their concern for your health, Miss Preston.”

  Of course they had. Nothing was private any more.

  “They are trying to help, Anne,” Julian reassured.

  “Was it only us they followed?”

  “We can’t be sure. We have not yet spoken with everyone. We believe so.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Again they shuffled through the papers, consulted in undisguised whispers, left her waiting, made up their minds, and eventually told her: “We’ve decided to tell you what we actually do know, Miss Preston.”

  At last. Whatever the test had been, she must have passed it.

  “Speculation leads us to the inevitable conclusion. You - or possibly both you and your friend Sophie - know the identity of the - er - the resident saboteur. There’s undoubtedly what is known as fifth column activit
y of some kind in this country, yes. There also has to be an enemy agent who is active in this laboratory.”

  She looked to Julian.

  “That’s right, Anne. In here. Someone you know and trust.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “It can have been done no other way.”

  It was inconceivable.

  “These people are worried about you, Anne.”

  “But I don’t know anything! How could I?”

  “Not consciously,” Edmonson reassured. “Not at all. Nevertheless, Mr Reeves has this conviction. In some way, you know something. Therefore you have it in your power to lead us to our target. He, or she, fears you have observed, or heard, something extremely significant. You see he…”

  “I haven’t!”

  “He thinks you have.” Though he ignored the interruption, the tattooing fingers betrayed his growing impatience. “He is apprehensive. He fears you will recognise the significance of something you have not necessarily forgotten, but may have accepted at face value. Something….”

  “Do you understand now, Anne?”

  “I don’t know anything. Honestly!”

  “To be fair with you - that’s exactly what Sophie says.”

  “Perhaps you have an alternative explanation for these sinister events?”

  What else could it be? There was no other explanation.

  “So let us proceed.” The silver watch was consulted. “I should like to have this out of the way today.”

  More questions, in exhausting detail, until she was in danger of fainting. Just after five, Edmonson reluctantly called a halt. “We will talk again, Miss Preston. Meanwhile, if you think of anything, contact us immediately.”

  Julian escorted her to the lift. The laboratory was empty, as was the office; there was no sign of anyone.

  “Go straight home, Anne,” he warned. “This has not yet been resolved.”

  “Can I ask about the man in the photo? The one Aaron knew?”

  “He’s just a bit player in this affair. He’s no longer our concern. He’s behind bars.”

  “Thank God.” She swayed, weak with relief.

  “Take it easy.” He steadied her. “He was only a tool.”

  “You mean….?”

  “I mean go straight home. Talk to no one. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Alone in the lift, she leaned against the wall of the descending cage. It was claustrophobic. It was safe. She fought for breath.

  The lift lurched to a stop. The doors slowly began to part. Don’t open!

  Terrified of being alone, she jabbed at the buttons, tried to reverse the lift, to close the doors, to take it back up again to Julian.

  The doors purred wide.

  A shadow slid into the patch of sunlight between the lift and the street exit. Someone was there!

  She froze against the lift wall, unable to move, unable to step out.

  The doors began to close. Thank God! She pressed the button - Up. To Julian.

  A hand gripped the doors, forcefully holding them open.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Anne …” Sibilant, familiar. Safe! “It’s all right, Anne.”

  Aaron eased her limp body into the foyer. “It’s only me, Anne.”

  She burst into tears.

  He held her, softly soothing her until she quietened.

  “I’m sorry.” Ashamed, she freed herself. “I feel silly. It’s all so scary. I thought it was someone else.”

  “Julian asked me to wait for you. I will walk you to your tram.”

  At least she could rely on Aaron. He was gentle and trustworthy. He also asked no questions. Perhaps because he did not need to?

  He led her to the tram, waited until she was aboard, and waved farewell as the tram moved off.

  He’d wanted to accompany her the entire distance, but she’d explained her father had been contacted and would be at the other end. She watched his small figure recede, watched him become lost in the crowd. Maybe she should have let him come with her?

  She was on her own. The fear reasserted itself; it was impossible to shake the sense of danger. Damn Julian. Strap-hanging, swaying to the movement of the tram and jostled by exiting passengers, she was too tired for logical thought. Fear dominated.

  Gradually the tram emptied. Gratefully, she located a seat. But now that she could see everyone, it was worse. Who to trust? Had she been followed from the laboratory? Had the man really been imprisoned? Julian said there was a group. Who could they be? Was one of them here, on the tram? The young man leering at her from the opposite seat? The old man pretending to read? The middle-aged woman with the shapely legs of a teenage model and the face of a pinched old hag? Passengers on trams. In other circumstances, intriguing mysteries. Innocent mysteries. Not tonight. How could she get through this night? Another night?

  Her immediate neighbour exited, the hag with the beautiful legs eased into the empty space. “It’s been crowded, hasn’t it.”

  Don’t talk to anyone! Julian had said don’t talk to anyone.

  She pulled her coat collar high, closed her eyes, feigned sleep.

  The woman moved away to initiate a conversation with the leering young man. Maybe they were both following her?

  Stop it!

  It was impossible. She had to stay alert, to see what was happening. She left the carriage, traversed the tram to the opposite end, sat in an unoccupied section.

  The torture finally ended when, in the distance, she saw her father waiting. She rang the bell, waited for the tram to halt, and alighted.

  From her father, who’d been patiently reading his evening Herald at the corner stop, there were thankfully no questions. Nor were there any from her mother. There was, however, comforting concern and care, a light meal, music on the wireless, and bed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  September 16th:

  Mr Churchill, suntanned from a recent visit to the troops in Italy, gave a V sign to the cheering Canadians and chortled. “Victory is everywhere.”

  She slept the sleep of physical exhaustion and mental stress. Restlessly. By three a.m. she was fully awake. Resigned to the inevitable, she propped up on the pillows. In any case, she’d need to be better prepared for today than she’d been for yesterday. Julian could not be relied on for help. Julian could not be relied on?

  Julian?

  Prepare. Be ready.

  It was easier, in the silence of both house and neighbourhood, to think objectively. It was easier in the pre-dawn solitude, and away from the traumas of the laboratory, to think clearly. Certain facts, no matter who interpreted them, were beyond dispute.

  The old laboratory - the first act of sabotage, two years ago, had been the bombing. Sabotage a fact. Therefore saboteur, or saboteurs, a fact.

  The new laboratory – performance, already well below acceptable standards, was slowing to a dangerous degree. A fact. Why? Because of another undeniable fact - morale had completely broken down. Therefore sabotage, though improbable, could not be ruled out. There was only Julian’s word for the fact that the improbable was possible. Not true. Authority, verifying suspicion of fifth column activity, had been sent to investigate.

  So could something as intangible as staff morale be the victim of sabotage? It had to be.

  Add the additional fact that the man in the photo had made attempts on her life and probably Sophie’s. No chance of coincidence here. This could be no night-time prowler selecting women at random. Two people, from the same laboratory? Two people, from a laboratory already under threat? Chance didn’t stretch that far.

  Old laboratory, violent sabotage. New laboratory, subtle sabotage plus violence. Linked. The first connected to the second. Put it all together. No room for doubt. Sabotage. Deliberately planned. Successful!

  Who could be responsible? A single person? Two? A group? A group. Communists? No, not this time. Not the communists this time. The communists were now allies. What about Aaron? Was he really so trustworthy? Trust no-one
. She’d wondered about Julian. So why not Aaron? Should she trust Aaron? Instinct told her...Wait! Instinct was not logical. Trust no one. 3 a.m. was a time for sceptism. The darkest hour. She should listen to logic.

  Despite his identification of the attacker, Aaron could very well be part of it. Except it didn’t fit with the violence at the old laboratory. Where had Aaron come from? Had he been here longer than they thought? His apparent gentleness? His concern for her well-being? His embarrassing clinging? Right from the start he’d attached himself to her. Where had Aaron come from? Was he what he seemed to be? Or something else altogether?

  Were the two different kinds of sabotage really related? Was it a group? A group including someone they knew, one of the original staff. It could be...

  Stop it! Why should she stop it? She wasn’t at the movies now. Yesterday had happened. Yesterday was real. She must think this through. Compulsively, reluctantly, she reviewed the original staff members - Helen, Sophie, Grace, Joan, Lillian. Outside her window the moon was riding low in the cloudless sky, the stars bright specks of glitter, the rosebush gently scraping. Rebecca Longmire, Jeffrey Macklin....

  Still propped up on the pillows she again slept, and dreamed of white uniforms and gleaming rooms, of falling....

  She jerked awake – Helen Sophie Grace Joan Lillian Miss Longmire Macklin - herself? No more them than herself. Impossible. All were true-blue trustworthy Australians, born Australians; born, bred, educated, employed, productive - Australians. No way.

  What about the newcomers? Margaret – easygoing and co-operative; too ordinary. Alice - overbearing and abrasive; impossible. She didn’t have the subtlety. Myrtle, self effacing hand-maiden to Alice; hardly. And yet? Maybe she was clever. Maybe…? The newer employees; too new, she didn’t even know their names.

  Aaron. Full circle, back to Aaron the refugee. Why did Julian trust Aaron? Why did the inquisitors trust Aaron? Because he was to be trusted. Of them all, he would have been the most meticulously researched. The men who knew of saboteurs and fifth columnists would never have allowed Aaron into the country, certainly not into the laboratory, without thorough investigation into his past. But wait! They had let the newly arrested attacker into the country. He had passed their tests!