Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  Hans continued, “French, Japanese – Do the islanders really care who is in charge?”

  They stood silently while a waiter brought around another tray of cordials. Susilo took a deep breath and then continued. “It seems the Japanese are selling them a notion. The Pan Asian Empire is pure bunk. The Japanese empire has never approved of mixed races. The Germans certainly do not. Why would it be different here?”

  Hans’s gut clenched at the mention of racial mixing. His family had done business in Asia for generations. Attacks on Jewish businesses had set this phase of his life into motion. Beads of cold sweat began to slide down his neck, and he looked for a place to sit down. Susilo noted his pale face and looked across the room, fishing for a diversion. “Ah! Naomi, ma Cherie! Come and meet our new friend.”

  Everything Hans had ever thought about mixed races dissolved the moment he set eyes on Naomi.

  “Naomi works over in the offices of the French governor. But she is also part Dutch, I believe.” Naomi did not look French or Dutch. She was not pale and pink skinned like the sunburned Europeans and she wasn’t squat and with the broadened features of the natives. She was like no one he had ever seen before – a sylph that should be rising out of the waves, not walking across the room at a party. Tall, slender with the grace of an island star pine, she was of the trees, of the waters, and of the brightly illuminated night skies. He gazed at her caramel complexion. Was she African or Asian? Her hair was tightly knotted like the Melanesian women, but her eyes… her eyes spoke of soft sea breezes, changing lights and colors, reflecting everything in his world.

  Naomi laughed, “My mother is from here, but my father was from a coffee plantation on Sumatra.” This was not the time for Hans to announce that he did not like coffee. He gulped. Naomi continued “My mother was half French and my father was half Dutch, but the rest? Who knows what the rest is?”

  Hans nodded. Her short skirt swirled around her knees. My God, where did her legs end? She was nearly as tall as he, but with absolutely splendid arms and legs, like an Amazon warrior. Was she a warrior? Hard to say, but Susilo made it clear that she worked in the war offices, and that she was on the right side. The young woman was almost mythical, and he wanted to learn her myth.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  December 1942

  New Caledonia

  “No one likes the Americans but they go along because they owe everything to them.” ~ Governor Laigret

  The morning quiet was unnerving. The base should have been buzzing with excitement. After weeks of waiting for engagement, dozens of small planes had been loaded yesterday morning, flying north into Japanese held islands. Hank was called into the Captain’s office. He changed twice, discarding two sweat stained garments in favor of a neat khaki shirt that would hopefully hold for an hour. His hair was slicked back from his forehead and he prayed that it would stay in place.

  Mitchell was at his desk, intent on his paperwork. A stack of black bordered stationery and envelopes sat to his right, typed letters to the left. He read one typed letter, signed it, and placed it with an envelope. Hank stood quietly and read the upside down text.

  The Secretary of the Army deeply regrets to inform you that your husband, John Kenneth Lyell, Sergeant U.S. Army, was killed in action in the performance of his duty and in the service of his country. The department extends to you its sincerest sympathy in your great loss. On account of existing conditions the body if recovered cannot be returned at present. If further details are received you will be informed. To prevent possible aid to our enemies, please do not divulge the name of his station.

  Hank stood at full attention, lost in thought. If something happened to him, who would get the letter? Who would know that he had ever served? He had no wife, and the Amsterdam address he had listed was probably not even where his mother lived now. Esther never had told anyone where she lived. He imagined a note like this, a dead letter for a dead loved one.

  It is with deep regret that I am writing to confirm my telegram of December 6, 1942, in which it was my sad duty to inform you of the death of your son…

  Mitchell looked up, pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and tapped on the bottom. “At ease, Burns. Care for a cigarette?” Hank did not extend his hand and Mitchell lit up, taking a deep breath and exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Have a seat.”

  Mitchell studied Hank’s face.

  “You seem to have made some interesting friends in Noumea. What can you tell us about Madame Tutau?”

  Hank pressed his brows together, planning to state exactly what he had written in his report. “She says she owns the hotel where the girls live. Of course, she is doing some illegal things.”

  “What does she say about the war?”

  Hank thought for a moment. Madame Tutau had never once mentioned the war. “Apparently it’s good for business. Soldiers are her bread and butter, but …” He clasped his hand over his eyes, trying to remember something. “I don’t think she cares where they’re from. The girls seem to be from all over, too, maybe French mixed with … some dark types, and Asians, but I don’t know what kind. I guess it takes all kinds.”

  “Sort of like a fully stocked bar? This is one twisted trail. Obviously Tutau has her register, but her business records are clean. How did she get the money to buy the old hotel? Not all on her back for sure. Who does she see?”

  Hank turned away, thinking deeply. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. He turned back to his interrogator, but his glances kept shifting as he dredged up the details of his Sunday visits.

  “I never saw anybody other than a couple of houseboys who work there.”

  “Anyone ever come in for drinks, socializing?”

  “Heck, she even socialized with me – ‘Wanna buy me a drink?’ So I’m not sure who else is around other than clients.” His hand went up to his cheek and he scratched his nose. “But I kind of distracted her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well I needed something to do so that she wouldn’t ask me questions, so I had her sit for her portrait.”

  The captain began to laugh uproariously. “That’s all you could think to do in a whorehouse?”

  “I wasn’t going to put my camera down. It could get stolen. We can’t replace it here. It’s a Leica.”

  “So, Hank, how did the portrait come out?”

  “Actually, she likes it very much. It’s hanging on the wall over the bar.”

  “OK, so we’ve got to figure out what to do next.”

  Mitchell was obviously bothered by much more than just the situation. He was trying to avoid scratching a mosquito bite, moving his back across the chair until Hank wanted to just tell him scratch the darn thing.

  “Who don’t you know in this stewpot? Are there other Dutchmen? I haven’t met any. Of course, I’ve hardly seen the outside of this office.”

  Hank’s wide-eyed gaze unnerved Mitchell even more. “I want to meet the Dutch consul. This is a French colony, but the former Dutch consul apparently still lives on the island.”

  “How long have you known this?”

  Hank flinched. “A month or two maybe? When I was getting familiar with the island. The people in the office weren’t even Dutch. I’ve met a bunch of Javanese, but they don’t seem to be very interested in Holland. So where is he? He would have had access to a lot of information, and he doesn’t have a country now. ”

  Mitchell stamped his cigarette into an ashtray, scrubbed it out and lit another. “Geez Hank, the French in this fight aren’t even from France, they’re outposts of an expired empire. I can’t even keep up with the news, let alone all the gossip.”

  Sometimes it was hard for Hank to remember that Americans had blinders on when it came to colonial loyalties. They were great fighters but not particularly curious. The inbred instincts of the trader merged with his understandings of materiel needed for combat.

/>   “Who controls the nickel mines and how are they selling it?”

  Mitchell paused again. “Well, hard to say. These guys are all exporting metals. You know that. You came down here packed in with a load of steel. Natives work the nickel mines. Half of the French owners are descended from grandparents who were exiled from France, so they are all out for themselves.”

  “Somebody’s making an awful lot of money in stainless steel. Rusty guns are no use to anybody.” Hank thought about the immense spools of cable in the shipyard.

  Mitchell dragged on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray. He could hardly find room in the pile of butts and ashes that overflowed the little steel dish. He pulled out another one and started to light it, fished for his lighter and then set it aside. Hank did not carry matches. “Why don’t you go and find out?”

  A wry smile peeked out from under Hank Burns’s serious expression. All that stuff must get smelted somewhere. The question was, who got the stainless steel after that? The merchants he had met as a kid were a bunch of salesmen who would trade their own mothers to make a profit. Their money would be God knows where, their goods would vary from day to day, and their houses would all be rented, that’s for sure. On the island – off the island? Who knew? Hank decided to invite Naomi Batari to lunch.

  He dialed the French Governor’s office, hoping that she really did work there.

  “Ah, it’s good that I found you. This is Hans, or Hank as the Americans call me. We met at Henrik Susilo’s Christmas party last week.”

  She paused, as if trying to remember him. “You are the Dutchman, yes? How can I help you?”

  “Do you happen to know when the next supply ship is coming in? They are running out of coffee on the base, and I thought I might try to locate some for sale. Americans aren’t going to fight a war without their morning coffee.”

  She laughed. “Ah yes, and they would prefer our French coffee if they can get it. I can ask Governor Laigret to see what we can do.”

  “Boy, I would owe you if you could arrange that.” He began to get nervous as he remembered why he was calling her. “Naomi, it would be very nice to see you again. But I’d rather take you to lunch. So, do you think you can work up an appetite in the next couple hours?”

  “I’m pretty sure that will be possible. Let’s meet at Surya’s, the little café down by the beach.”

  Hank arrived fifteen minutes early at a hut that didn’t seem too promising. He looked around for someone to seat him at a table for two and finally just walked down the sidewall to the back and sat down. The sound of a muted trumpet reverberated into the air, a jazz tune winding its way through tinny speakers. It wasn’t ideal, but it was dark and he didn’t want to share his conversation with dozens of other people. As he studied the menu, a flash of white appeared by his side, a swinging pleated skirt with a middy top. The legs were unmistakable and he invited Naomi to sit down.

  Her smile reminded him of his sister Esther, sly and mischievous, internal jokes playing in her silence. They spoke in French. She picked at her food delicately, cutting tiny bites and savoring the morsels. Then she put a mango on a fork, sliced just the skin into quarters, peeled it back like a flower and devoured the soft orange flesh. He wished he were a mango, consuming her attention in the same way, intent and sensuous at the same time.

  He picked up his knife and fork and dove into his fruit plate, dicing the soft flesh into neat cubes. When they stood in the sunshine for their goodbyes he shook her hand. She grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed his cheek.

  That afternoon he requested a short follow-up meeting with Mitchell. “Captain, sir, I have an idea.” Mitchell looked across the desk. What was his boy up to now?

  “Can you get me six sets of sharp household knives? Different kinds? Sheffield, Solingen, a couple of Laguiole hunting knives? Maybe some Japanese ones too? A cutlery dealer would be able to make friends with people living on these isolated plantations.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I also need a shave and a haircut, everything off, even the mustache. And I would like some tinted eyeglasses, just enough brown to cover my eye color, and a new business suit. Also cards, Hans Steen, International Dry Goods…. Here, let me give you an address in Amsterdam. And the suit needs to have inside pockets to hold my Leica without showing any bulge.”

  “What are you thinking?” Mitchell was intrigued by this man’s ability to think on his feet.

  They planned the mission. Who might he be meeting? What were their fears? The French locals who lived here were descended from criminals and communards with no particular loyalties to Free France, Vichy France, Occupied France, or otherwise. They would be out for themselves. Knives would be good, solid, household tools, Solingen steel. He would sell them as housewares, but they could be used for protection. He should be able to learn a lot with this ruse.

  Mitchell listened intently, then put both elbows on his desk. He folded his hands and dropped his chin into the hammock of fingers. “You say the Indonesians may buy the Japanese idea of a Pan Asian empire? Sounds like they don’t want to fight.”

  Hans asked, “With all due respect, sir, is anyone even left in Indonesia to make that decision? We’ve got more Indonesians here than up there. The ones I met out at Susilo’s want to take back the islands, but not as colonies. Would we let that happen?”

  “Do I look like some Swami fortuneteller?” Mitchell pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “The Japs look like they’re ready to sweep the entire Pacific. We’re here to stop them and not to save a bunch of European colonies. Boys are losing their lives on a bunch of damn floating rocks.”

  Two days later, with a tropical suit and a case full of knives and kitchen accessories, Hans Steen donned his new tinted glasses and set out for the interior. The former consul was believed to be on his farm, some 60 miles north on the lengthy island.

  There was a detachment up in the area, all commanded by a U.S. Army Colonel. Hans was on his own now, with his sample case and his camera.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  New Caledonia,

  December 1942

  “…the Free French colony of New Caledonia could avoid the horrors of war if the colony would return to neutrality and Vichy control.” ~ Radio Saigon

  Silence of the jungle contrasted with the pounding in Hanks’ head and the constant juddering of the jeep. Like a high-speed film, tales of chaos and death had wound their way through barracks and bars. Thousands of young men who fell would never see home, laugh with a girl, or enjoy a cold beer again. Others would be maimed outside and in. Hank had not been in harm’s way yet.

  The Captain’s orders were, “Somebody, somewhere knows something. Right now we know squat. Find out who is watching the coast.” Coast watchers were all over the place, but their information could change by the minute, depending on how well they were paid. Hopefully, the ex-consul could help him learn more about the islanders.

  Flickers of light between branches exacerbated the migraine and he squeezed his eyes shut. A lot was riding on his instincts and his ability to remember what he saw. Nausea from the migraine was getting worse. He pulled his arms across his narrow chest and grasped his gut.

  How strange that this remote island would be the area to stage a war involving the fate of millions. The road through the jungle slashed through an undergrowth of unrecognizable vegetation. Hank began to take deep breaths. A canopy of trees reached a hundred feet high. Symmetrical branches and crooked trunks reminded him of people he had known, ones who appeared to be completely in control on the outside, while they concealed their inner mysteries. The stillness of this place contrasted sharply with the frenzied activity in Noumea.

  As the jeep bumped along, Hank rehearsed behaviors that would make him appear calm and collected. The tinted glasses in his new disguise would help cover his eyes, especially the way they tended to dart as he observed his surroun
dings. He focused his gaze as if he were looking through a lens. What would this look like if he were hurrying the other direction? Some spots were particularly dense with distinctive branch patterns. A large rock stood alone in the path, forcing the road to curve toward a stream. Constant movement of the vegetation gave him a feeling not unlike being at sea.

  December’s mid-summer sun and suffocating humidity pulsed through the atmosphere. The road took on a diffused glow as they neared the sea on the other side of the island. Near the top of the ridge smaller clearings of bushes came alive with the sounds of birds. At another time this would be a fine spot to walk and reflect. With no time for photography, he would have to take away the pictures in his memory.

  Sweat poured off the driver’s neck, and Hank worried that his new tropical suit might show the patterns of sweat from where his back was sticking to the seat. On the other hand, a few wrinkles and stains might add a well-traveled authenticity to the traveling salesman. The borrowed display case had battered corners and scratches on the hardware. It would have to do.

  The jeep pulled to an abrupt stop at a landscaped dirt road. There were no addresses, but area looked right. Apparently, the former consul lived on a coffee plantation somewhere around here and owned an interest in the nickel mines. The highway continued toward the harbor at Thio, where the mountain streams carved out a mooring place between the coral reefs. At the harbor the jeep would get lost in the maze of heavy equipment, turn around, and head back to Noumea.

  The driver spoke, “It should be this turn. There’s a plantation house about half a mile down the road. If you run into any problems, we have an army detachment just south and a little in from the road. It’s just a pile of camouflaged tents.” Hank nodded. “Hey buddy, you’re looking pale. Are you sure you’re going to be OK out here?”