To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (28 page)

‘I do have something up my sleeve that might help,’ George said, realising that if the Germans reneged on the deal to give his investments favoured treatment it could cost the family companies a lot of money.

‘Then I will hear from you within twenty-four hours,’ Bosch said. ‘That is all the time we have if we are to embarrass the British government in these uncertain times.’

‘You will ensure that you keep your word to have my brother meet an unfortunate accident?’ George countered.

Bosch tensed. ‘That was our deal,’ he replied. ‘Just get us the information before tomorrow. I will bid you a good afternoon, Mr Macintosh.’

With his parting words, the assistant consul continued his stroll through the park at the heart of Sydney, the bitter taste of murder in his mouth.

George knew that his father would drop into the office that afternoon. When his personal assistant told him that his father was in the building George informed him that he wished to meet with his father in his office.

Within minutes, Patrick appeared and was ushered in. His son greeted him, closing the door behind his father and gesturing to a leather chair for guests.

‘Do we have a confidential business matter to discuss?’ Patrick queried, noticing the way his son closed the door behind him.

‘No,’ George replied, removing a bottle of whisky from a side cabinet and producing two crystal tumblers. ‘I was hoping that you may have news of my brother and sister. How is Mr Gates going with his investigations?’

Patrick accepted the glass. ‘Mr Gates seems to have hit a brick wall,’ Patrick sighed, sipping the whisky. ‘He has questioned just about everyone known to Nellie and so far no luck. I have authorised him to use an account to fund his expenses in continuing with his search.’

‘Good,’ George lied. He was at a loss to know what had happened to his sister, although he hoped it had been something very bad. ‘I noticed the authorisation go through this office.’

Patrick glanced at his son and realised just how closely he monitored anything to do with the business management. Was he using that same acute sense for detail to monitor what he could glean from his military activities? The answer made Patrick uncomfortable. He still could not bring himself to consider his eldest son a traitor. ‘And as for your brother’s whereabouts,’ Patrick said, ‘I suspect that we will hear from him soon enough.’

‘I need to make urgent contact with him,’ George said, walking to a large window that looked down over the street
and across rooftops to the harbour. ‘Is there no way of learning of his position at sea?’

‘What is so urgent that you need to make contact with your brother?’ Patrick asked. ‘After all, he is simply working to expand our trade in German territory.’

‘I know that,’ George replied, forcing himself not to lose his temper. ‘But I still have a need to contact him.’

‘Why would that be?’ Patrick asked.

‘There has been a development,’ George answered, turning to face his father, the whisky untouched in his glass. ‘A deal has cropped up in Rabaul that we cannot afford to let slip out of our hands for a cargo of sisal. It is important that Alex direct the company trader to get there as soon as possible and I need to be able to reach him immediately to let him know the details.’

‘I was not lying when I said I do not know your brother’s exact whereabouts,’ Patrick answered. ‘And even if I did, I think you must understand why I could not reveal what I might know.’

‘You do not trust me?’ George scowled. ‘Do I not keep our business interests in the black? Do you suspect me of being a traitor to my country?’

Patrick waved off the questions. ‘Both you and I know that Alex works closely with me for the interest of the regiment and his country,’ he said. ‘I would prefer that you have no involvement in that part of my life and work only to keep the family businesses running. Otherwise, you may leave yourself open to accusations of treason from certain parties.’

‘You mean your friend, Colonel Hughes,’ George said with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘Do you put more stock in what he thinks than me, your son?’

‘It is not that,’ Patrick attempted to defend himself.
‘I love you as a father loves his son, but sometimes I admit to myself that I hardly know you.’

‘Probably because you spend all your time with Alexander,’ George said, taking a long swig from his whisky. ‘And yet it is I who has put my neck on the chopping block to lie for you if the police come knocking about Wilkes’ murder.’

‘It was not murder,’ Patrick replied softly. ‘What happened was a terrible accident.’

‘Do you wish to go to the police and explain what happened?’ George asked with a crooked smile. ‘Or would you rather the family name stay out of any scandal that may ruin your reputation as the commanding officer of the regiment?’

‘You know why I would prefer to remain silent on the subject,’ Patrick said, feeling the whisky sour in his stomach.

‘Then think carefully,’ George said, approaching his father and standing over him. ‘I am the only person who can keep you out of the hands of the police and possibly off the end of a hangman’s rope. I need to know where my brother is right now.’

Patrick placed his glass on the small side table by the armchair and slowly rose to his feet. ‘Then it is you who has been feeding information to the Germans,’ he said. ‘Traitors are still executed in this country.’

Both men stood facing each other.

‘I am not a traitor,’ George said. ‘The little I gave the Germans was to influence favourable trade concessions and investments. It was not an act of treachery.’

‘That is not how some would view it,’ Patrick answered in a cold tone. ‘You are fortunate that I am your father and that my operation can never be revealed to the public for scrutiny. Otherwise, I would have you arrested the moment
I stepped through that door,’ Patrick said, gesturing to the entrance to George Macintosh’s office.

‘And you are fortunate that I do not go to the police and inform them that I saw you kill Guy Wilkes,’ George said.

‘You did not see me kill Wilkes,’ Patrick said, puzzled by the statement. ‘You arrived after Wilkes was killed.’

‘No, Father,’ George said. ‘I saw the whole affair through the living room window, including your attempt to take the pistol from Wilkes and the struggle in which the gun went off.’

‘Then you are a witness to the fact that it was an accident,’ Patrick gasped. ‘You are able to help me clear up this whole horrible matter.’

‘That depends,’ George replied. ‘On whether you ever speak of your suspicions of me being a traitor.’

‘I would say that we are at what the Americans call a Mexican stand-off – neither of us may reveal what we know of each other.’

‘Very well said,’ George answered, turning to walk away. ‘But, if you are able to tell me where my brother is before tomorrow morning I am sure we will be able to clear up the Wilkes matter in a way that it never comes to public attention.’

‘How is that possible?’ Patrick scoffed.

‘You are rather naive for a man who has seen much of the world,’ George snorted. ‘We have at our means the most powerful weapon in the judicial system – money – and its ability to pay a poor policeman in one day what he would earn in ten years. I just happen to know about the leading investigator on the murder inquiry, and from what I have learned he is in dire financial circumstances. Just accept that I would never betray my country nor risk the safety of my brother,’ George continued convincingly. ‘Trust me when I
say my need to know where Alex is has nothing to do with your military affairs. I merely wish to make money for us.’

Patrick stared at his son, wanting to believe his words. Politics had never been an interest to George and he could understand why he might provide certain information to the Germans. After all, it was beyond comprehension that one brother would want to harm another – no matter how much they may dislike each other. ‘I will help you,’ he finally replied. ‘So long as you swear on your own life that the information will not harm Alex or compromise what I am doing.’

‘I swear,’ George answered, holding up his glass of whisky. ‘Alex is my brother. I could not do him any harm – despite our differences. I just need to clinch the deal with the Germans for a cargo that Alex may be able to return for us.’

Patrick left the office with his eldest son’s oath echoing in his head. But he could not shake from his mind a story his grandmother Lady Enid Macintosh had once read to him from her much-used Bible. It was the story of Cain and Abel.

Now working as Herr Schumann’s chief overseer, Gerhard Schmidt had been recruited from the docklands of Hamburg. He was a heavily built man whose strong physique had equipped him well to lay on the lashes of less than cooperative workers. He was also a man born with an innate suspicion of the world around him, a suspicion which had helped keep him alive as a young man scraping a living in the tough working area of Hamburg’s docks.

He stood in a spacious storage shed normally used to stack copra and stared at the large wooden crates taken from the English ship and now occupying the space where he
felt only Schumann property should be stored. Machinery parts, he mused picking up a steel bar to jemmy open one of the smaller crates that smelled strongly of a substance he could not identify. The wooden lid came off with a protesting squeal as the nails ripped through the pine timber.

For a moment Schmidt was puzzled. He had not seen an engine of the type in the crate and wondered if it might be some kind of pump. To satisfy his curiosity he went to a larger crate and repeated the procedure. This time he was in no doubt as to what the boxes contained. Before him lay a wooden propeller. The German overseer had seen such machines before in pictures and guessed that the strange smell had to be the remnants of aviation fuel. It was a disassembled aircraft. Schmidt did not bother to replace the lids but hurried to the main house where he knew he would find his boss.

Alex Macintosh watched wistfully from the stern of the Macintosh ship as the shoreline disappeared in the distance. He knew that Giselle would be on the beach watching his ship steam over the horizon and with each nautical mile he experienced the pangs of parting. When it was no longer possible to see the shore but merely the jungle-clad mountains behind the Schumann plantation, Alex turned with a sigh and went below to meet with Matthew and Bob in the small mess room for the crew. He found both men engaged in a card game with a pile of coins between them.

Matthew glanced up at Alex. ‘It all seems to be going well,’ he said. ‘The plane is safely stored and we have nothing to hide from the Customs people when we reach Rabaul.’

Alex took a seat at the end of the tiny table. Bob was frowning as he perused the hand that he had been dealt. ‘Overall this alternative plan has set us back a bit,’ Alex said.
‘But I think it will be worth it when we double-back to the aircraft. Hopefully by then the Germans will have become impatient and called off any security measures to intercept us. I can’t see anything going wrong.’

‘You want to sit in?’ Bob growled. Alex politely declined, knowing that his cousin had a fearsome reputation for winning with cards.

‘How long before we reach Rabaul?’ Matthew asked, rearranging his hand. They were playing gin rummy and the aviator was flying high on what he had.

‘Two, maybe three days,’ Alex replied. ‘We stay around for a couple of days buying enough cargo to fill the holds, and then we leave as the traders that we are. If the German authorities have been tipped off to the mission they will soon conclude their intelligence was faulty and call off any measure they may have set in place to trap us.’

Matthew heard his cousin’s confident words but still did not feel easy about the plan. What if the security leak in Australia kept abreast of their new plan? Although that did not seem possible when Alex had gone to great measures to bring about a blackout on information back to Sydney. No radio traffic had been allowed from the ship’s signal officer. He smiled when Bob picked up a low card from the pack. If he was going to be killed on this operation, he might die a wealthy man on his winnings from the likeable New Zealander.

Hauptmann Dieter Hirsch stood behind the communications officer of the Imperial German Navy, hunched over his radio and morse key. The young sailor adjusted his headset and leaned forward, listening intently to the keystrokes emitting from a ship within the radius of his set’s ability. In
the cramped room the air was hot and sweat trickled down both men’s faces.

‘Has there been nothing from the English ship?’ Hirsch asked. The sailor turned to his superior officer. ‘Nothing for over two weeks, Herr Hauptmann,’ he replied.

‘Would you say that was unusual?’ the German officer asked.

‘Yes sir,’ the young communications sailor answered. ‘All the English trading ships talk to each other in our waters. This one has been unusually silent.’

Hirsch frowned. His last intelligence on the whereabouts of the Macintosh trading ship was that it had left Port Moresby. According to his calculations it should have been in their waters by now and yet the patrolling gun boat had reported no sighting of their target.