Beyond the Horizon (7 page)

‘My master wishes to know who you are,' he said, surprising Matthew with his fluency in English. ‘I am a slave who once lived in Jerusalem as a free man, praise Allah, but I fell on bad times and was sold by my creditors to this tribe.'

‘I am Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corps, and I was shot down east of here a few days ago. I need to return to my squadron.'

The man looked at him with a sad expression. ‘Your fate is in the hands of Allah,' he said. ‘The people who have captured you have no allegiance to either the Ottomans or your people. They are bandits and your life will only be spared if you are worth something as a ransom. They know that the Turkish will pay to have you handed over. If they find it difficult to get you to the Ottomans and your own people do not wish to barter for you, they will amuse themselves with your slow death. They are cruel beyond imagining.'

The last statement chilled Matthew to the core. He did not know if the Allies would consider a ransom deal with the Arab bandits. ‘You can tell your master that I am worth a lot of money to my people,' Matthew said, hoping to at least buy himself some time.

The interpreter nodded and turned to his master; it was clear that the interpreter was the only one who understood English. Afterwards two of the men tied Matthew's hands behind his back. He did not struggle; escape was an impossible option for now. They frogmarched him to a date palm and forced him down with his back to the trunk. At least for now he was alive, had quenched his thirst and had the shade of the date palm. One of the Arab men squatted a few feet away; he was armed with a deadly-looking curved dagger and an ancient musket.

The interpreter was right: Matthew's life was now in the hands of Allah.

*

Joanne had finished the consultation on the possible future borders of new nations to be formed after the war. She had reported back to the State Department in the USA via Jonathan Myles that it appeared the Franco–British alliance intended to go ahead and divide the former Ottoman Empire among themselves, leaving out the USA. Joanne had made it plain to Jonathan that she had no romantic interest in him and he had refrained from pursuing her. Now she was free to make contact with her British Secret Service contacts in Cairo.

‘You want to do what, dear lady?' Major Christopher Wilkins spluttered when she walked into his office, marked with the gold sign
Army Intelligence
. It was an elegant, spacious room, with slowly whirring fans and open balustrades overlooking the Nile.

He was standing with his hands behind his back, looking at her with raised eyebrows. He was wearing the khaki dress uniform of a Royal Engineer. Across his right breast he sported the campaign ribands of many colonial wars.

‘I want your permission to return to Palestine to continue with my work as an intelligence officer,' Joanne replied calmly. She had reported to Major Wilkins in the past and he had become a friend. She hoped she would be able to count on his support again this time.

‘Miss Barrington,' he said, clearing his throat. ‘You must know that I have never truly approved of using a woman as delicate as you for our intelligence-gathering missions.'

‘Oh, poppycock,' Joanne said. ‘You know I can take care of myself. Didn't I prove that when I was swanning around in the Sinai for your department?'

Major Wilkins looked at her carefully. ‘Your request to be reassigned to our operations department would have nothing to do with a downed colonial flyer, would it?'

Joanne was only slightly taken aback. Major Wilkins had always been an astute operator, despite looking like a character from the
Boy's Own Annual
. Clearly Jonathan Myles had been talking out of turn. ‘Nothing whatsoever,' she replied smoothly. ‘I just feel that I can do more good by being back on active service.'

‘And what about your children?' Major Wilkins asked.

Joanne winced. She missed James and Olivia more than she had thought possible, but they were safe and being well cared for; she had something very important to do for them before she went home again. ‘With all due respect, Major Wilkins, that is not a question you would ask my male counterparts. My children are in their grandfather's very capable hands; had I not been absolutely certain about that, I would never have agreed to leave them in the first place.'

Wilkins sighed, then began to pace the marble floors of his luxurious office, deep in thought. Finally he paused and turned to her. ‘What do you need?' he asked and Joanne broke into a winning smile, rising from the settee to go to him.

‘Christopher, you are such a darling,' she said, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘I will need supplies for at least a month in the field. I intend to use my role as an archaeologist as a cover. Ostensibly, I will be attempting to locate and protect significant historical sites. Needless to say, I will be in contact with the Bedouin, who are always a good source of intelligence regarding the Turks. I will require the services of a trustworthy guide . . . someone who works indirectly for you. Mr Saul Rosenblum will do very nicely, and I believe he can also act as my bodyguard.'

The British officer returned to his desk and removed a folder from the top drawer. ‘I will issue orders to our quartermaster, along with instructions for your briefing tomorrow. Just remember, you work for me.'

‘Of course,' Joanne replied, eyeing the papers he was filling in, which approved her mission to collect intelligence for the British Army. ‘And if I happen to bump into General Allenby I will relate how helpful you have been.'

Major Wilkins snorted. ‘Don't think I don't see through your conniving, Miss Barrington.'

Joanne smiled at him sweetly. ‘Christopher darling, you are one of the most wonderful men I know.'

‘Next to your colonial flyer,' Wilkins said with a grin. ‘I pray that you find him hale and hearty. Now, leave my office.'

Joanne left the office with a spring in her step. Major Wilkins knew very well what she was up to, but, like most men, she could twist him around her little finger. Not Matthew, though; he was one man who wasn't swayed by her charms. That was one of the reasons why she was in love with him.

6

V
illers-Bretonneux had been taken by the Australians after bloody fighting.

Sergeant Tom Duffy was pleased at the news but it didn't change anything for him and his men. It seemed that the war would go on forever. Under cover of darkness he and five other men of his patrol had the mission of reconnoitring beyond their trenches for enemy activity. They were looking specifically for enemy listening posts, and already they had spotted the dim outline of earthworks and could hear the thump of stakes being driven into the ground.

Corporal Dan Frogan crawled to Tom's side. ‘The stone quarry seems to be a bit off to our left,' he whispered. ‘Pretty bloody obvious the Hun are digging in.'

Just as the corporal made his observations two enemy machine-guns opened fire, sending fiery tracers over their heads. Tom's fingers dug into the earth as he pressed his face deep into the wet grass. The machine-guns ceased firing and Tom guessed that they were simply sending a message to keep away, rather than actually identifying his patrol's location. The message worked.

Tom glanced at the luminous dial of his fob watch. It was near 2 am, time to return to their lines to report what they had seen out in no-man's-land. He quietly sent word to his men that they were returning to their lines.

Back in the trench they were met by the battalion intelligence officer, a captain keen to hear what they had located in the night. Tom briefed the IO.

‘Good show, Sergeant Duffy,' he said. ‘Give the lads a good hot cup of tea and stand them down for the night.'

Tom knew that his men were exhausted; they badly needed a good night's sleep, but that was hard to find in the trenches. Hopefully the German artillery 4.2's would leave them alone and not send over the deadly shells that exploded shrapnel and poisonous gas among the men huddled in the trenches.

Tom had hardly furnished himself with a mug of hot tea when the company sergeant major found him. ‘Tom, you lucky bastard,' he said in the dark. ‘You and your platoon are being relieved for some leave. Effective as from 0600 today.'

‘Thanks, sir,' Tom responded, hardly daring to believe the news. At last a break from the front line, away from the terror that they all lived with every moment out here. ‘Where are we having the leave?' he asked, taking a sip from his tea and the CSM mentioned the name of the rest area. Suddenly, all Tom's weariness evaporated. He was getting leave in the village near Juliet. Tom's spirits soared. The one true reason for living would be in his arms before the sun set tomorrow.

*

Where the warm winds of spring prevailed in Europe, the cooler autumn breezes blew down Market Street in Sydney. George Macintosh had received a note to meet with Inspector Jack Firth in front of the Dymock's bookstore.

‘I am a busy man,' George growled when Jack Firth arrived five minutes late.

‘So am I,' the policeman snapped back. ‘I have a murder to investigate, not to mention the matter of a certain file getting into the wrong hands. How about we go for a stroll.'

They began walking down the street. Horse-drawn wagons and automobiles clattered by; a sudden wind whipped up a newspaper that had been used to wrap fish and chips, slapping it against George's leg. He shook it off irritably.

‘The inspector general has the file on that bloody Schumann woman,' Jack said. ‘It raises questions I think we both don't want asked or, worse, answered.'

‘It was you who deviated from your regulations,' George answered. ‘The matter does not concern me.'

Firth stopped in his tracks. ‘It has everything to do with you and your attempt to control all your bloody family's companies. Remember, I was working on your orders.'

‘I paid you well,' George replied coldly. ‘It is up to you to settle any matters that might prove embarrassing – to either of us.'

‘Yes, well, not so easily done,' Jack said, staring at a ragged boy peddling newspapers on a corner. ‘You know very well that if we don't stop this right now, it could lead to a treason charge for you. We still hang traitors, you know.'

‘What do you want from me?' George asked, acknowledging that if the police detective were to be found out for his illegal activities, they might be traced back to him. They were both in a jam.

‘I'll need more money – a lot more money.' Jack frowned. ‘Getting rid of troublesome questions requires friends in the right places.'

‘Talking of which,' George said, ‘I have a troublesome problem of my own to get rid of.'

Firth drew out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, blowing smoke into the air. ‘You're a successful businessman. I'm sure you can find your own means of dealing with it.'

‘Not so easy,' George said, lowering his voice. ‘My dead brother's wife went and had a child, and my damned father stupidly named that child as a partner in the family companies when he turns twenty-one.'

Firth glanced sharply at George. ‘What are you saying?' he asked suspiciously.

‘A house in the best suburb and a contract to work for the Macintosh companies on a generous salary for the rest of your life,' George said.

‘Seems to me you'd be expecting something pretty big for all that,' Jack replied, puffing on his cigarette. ‘If I remember rightly, your brother's son would be around two or three years old by now. Sounds to me like you're talking murder.'

George watched the police detective very closely for any signs of a betrayal. ‘With your contacts on the streets you must know someone who could do the job very discreetly.'

Jack did not answer straightaway but stared at the newspaper boy selling the next list of war dead and wounded. ‘Like the man I set you up with last year who coincidently sails to America just when your sister gets killed.'

‘I really don't think you want to know about that,' George said.

Jack took a long puff on his cigarette and dropped the butt on the footpath, grounding it with the heel of his boot. ‘I might be a bent copper, Mr Macintosh,' he said, ‘but murdering kids is something that even I will not do.'

‘I‘m not asking you to commit the act itself,' George said. ‘Children have accidents all the time. If you can organise that for me, I promise to do my best to make that file disappear forever.'

The detective stared hard at George. ‘You make the file go away, and keep your promise to set me up in a fancy house with a cushy job, and I'll consider your offer. But all I'll do is find the right person; then it's up to you. And don't forget that bloody Sean Duffy will be watching you – that kid meets a sudden end and he's going to be immediately suspicious.'

‘I have thought of that,' George answered. ‘It's time Duffy had an accident of his own.'

‘Not so easy when you consider that Griffiths watches his back day and night,' Firth countered. He seemed to think for a moment. ‘Isn't the kid way up in Queensland in the sticks? It'll be hard to get to him out there; they're a close mob in the bush, and a stranger will stick out like the proverbial.'

‘Giselle could be lured to Sydney with her son,' George said quietly. ‘I am sure my wife would be very happy to have her best friend come down for a visit.'

‘Right, you do your bit, Macintosh, and I'll do mine. My missus will appreciate a new house. It might get her off my back for all the hours I work. Just remember, we'll both swing if anything goes wrong.'

George felt a flood of relief. He had ways to ensure that the file concerning Karolina Schumann was lost permanently. Certain politicians could make it go away; they had a lot to hide from the newspapers themselves. Consorting with underage prostitutes was never good for a politician's career. George had gone to great lengths to entrap key figures in the government, inviting them to special parties at his private venues. It was easy to procure the underage boys and girls from the slums of Sydney, where destitute mothers and drunken fathers accepted the money without asking questions about the fate of their children. George's hidden photographer was able to collect plenty of evidence as to the twisted pleasures of certain politicians and government officials.

The detective walked away, leaving George to contemplate how he could convince Louise to invite Giselle to Sydney for a visit. Louise knew there was no love lost between him and Giselle; in fact they hated each other. If he were to suggest a visit for no particular reason, Louise would be immediately suspicious. Maybe George's own son's birthday could be used as an excuse. Donald was about the same age as David, and George knew that Louise and Giselle would jump at the change for the two boys to spend some time together. Naturally George would pay all expenses for Giselle and her son to travel south; maybe they could stay for a holiday.

Smiling, George made his way back to his office in the city.

The village was straight out of the pages of a book about medieval Europe, Tom thought as he jumped from the back of the truck that had brought his platoon from the railway station a few miles away. Spring flowers added dashes of brilliant colour to the little gardens and window boxes, while the sun shone in the sky and water sparkled from the old water fountain in the village centre. Tom's heart beat unsteadily when he saw the fountain; this was where he had first met Juliet carrying a basket of fresh eggs for sale to the villagers and cafés.

The men of his platoon tumbled from the truck with kitbags and rifles over their shoulders, milling about like excited schoolchildren on an outing. Their slouch hats immediately identified them as Australians and Tom could see the expressions of pleasure on the faces of local shopkeepers. The Aussies were paid better than their Tommy comrades, and Tom could also see the uniforms of their Canadian cousins already in town on leave. There was a special bond between the colonial troops. Still, Tom breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the stern-faced, red-capped British military police eyeing the newcomers to the village. The troops might be friendly, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be brawls. The men were wound up tight as springs; add alcohol to that and there was sure to be a fight or two at some time during their leave.

In his bad French, Tom asked an old man sitting on the edge of the fountain where he could find Mademoiselle Joubert. The old man removed his pipe and looked disapprovingly at the handsome Australian soldier. He pointed it down the street and replied, ‘At the schoolhouse where she is the teacher.'

Tom thanked him, slung his kitbag over his shoulder and set out for the schoolhouse, which he found at the end of the street. He paused outside and listened to the sweet note of children reciting their times tables, smiling when he heard Juliet correct them.

Very carefully, Tom edged open the main door to look inside. Juliet was standing in front of about fifteen children ranging in age from six to ten. For a moment he stood drinking her in, the love swelling in his chest. Suddenly a little girl at the back of the class began giggling, causing Juliet to glance at the door. The expression of pure delight on her face lit up Tom's world beyond anything he had ever experienced before. Juliet said something to the children and they began tumbling past Tom, eyeing him with some curiosity.

‘Oh, Tom, I have missed you with all my heart and soul,' Juliet said, rushing into his outstretched arms. Her short dark hair had grown some since he'd seen her last, but her dimpled, cherubic face was still the same. The tears flowed on Tom's chest as she tried to laugh and cry at the same time.

‘Hello, old girl,' Tom said softly, embracing her as if she might suddenly disappear like in all the forlorn dreams he'd had lying in the bottom of a freezing wet trench, snatching what little sleep he could. ‘I have missed you more than you could know,' he replied.

Juliet finally broke the embrace to gaze up into his face. ‘How long will you be able to stay?' she asked, wiping away the tears. ‘Forever?'

‘Two days' leave only,' Tom replied glumly.

Juliet's face fell, but then she rallied. ‘My parents are visiting the next village while you are here. You will have to take your billet at our farm. I can cook you a real meal, and we can sit together in the garden and admire the flowers.'

‘Is there anything else we can do?' Tom asked with a gentle laugh. ‘As much as I love your French flowers.'

‘Oh, I am the village schoolteacher and that would cause a scandal, but billeting a brave ally of France is acceptable. I will be finished my classes in an hour and I will give the children an early break, which I know they will not object to. We will walk to the farm together on such a beautiful day.'

‘I could wait here and just watch you,' Tom suggested, but Juliet shook her head.

‘That might cause people to talk,' she said. ‘Better you be with your friends until then.'

Reluctantly, Tom took her advice and after another crushing embrace and long kiss left her to gather together the children.

Tom walked away as if his feet were not actually touching the ground.

Corporal Smithers watched Duffy with open curiosity. What was the black bastard up to?

Smithers had been granted wound leave before his return to the battalion and had already spent a day in the village. The men had greeted him cordially enough and two of his closer comrades had invited him to share a drink at a café.

Smithers went to the old stone building on the main street where the café was situated. He entered the cramped, smoke-filled room and spotted his mates. The three men were fortunate to find a table vacated by some Canadian soldiers, and bottles of wine – which the Aussie called plonk – were served.

‘Bloody rather have a beer,' said the first soldier, Mick.

‘Stop your whining,' Smithers said. ‘This stuff will get you pissed faster than beer.'

The second soldier, called Bluey because of his red hair, nodded his agreement and swilled back the wine, which he had to admit was a step up from any wine he'd drunk in the past.