2

As Captain Matthew Duffy brought the Ford trimotor to land on the airfield at Basra, he thanked the heavens that the summer heat was losing its intensity with the advent of autumn. When the doors to his three-engined, metal-skinned American cargo aircraft were opened he would not be assailed by the oven-like heat he’d endured for what seemed like months.

Beside him in the cockpit sat his copilot, a New Zealander in his twenties, Tyrone McKee. Whenever Matthew looked at the much younger man he was reminded of how many years had passed in his own life. He had reached half a century but had retained his youthful looks. He still had a thick crop of hair greying at the edges and he remained physically fit. He was not handsome but had a strong, masculine face. Matthew had run away when he was underage to fight against the Boers in Africa as an infantryman with the New South Wales regiment. He had flown as an army pilot in the Great War in the skies over Palestine. After the war and the loss of the woman he loved, Matthew had remained in the Middle East to form a flying company carrying cargo and passengers for the ever-expanding British oil industry.

‘Cut the engines,’ Matthew said to his copilot, and the rugged aeroplane trundled to a stop outside a huge hangar. ‘Time for a cuppa.’

The two men left the cockpit to climb out through the side door and were met by Matthew’s chief engineer, Cyril Blacksmith. Cyril was in his forties and balding, but had the tough look of a street fighter. The Canadian was the only original member left of the airline company Matthew had founded in 1919. Over the years, the others had drifted away to jobs where the heat and flies were less of a problem. The Great Depression had hit the company hard, forcing Matthew to sell off all his aircraft except the Ford.

‘Good flight, Skipper?’ Cyril asked as he quickly surveyed the outer skin of the aeroplane for any sign of damage. Later, he would go over the engines to ensure they were in top condition.

‘Yeah,’ Matthew replied. ‘Young Ty did most of the flying this time. We delivered the parts to the oil people on time.’

The three men walked towards the hangar and Matthew noticed another trimotor aircraft parked on the airstrip. It was a German Junkers and Matthew felt a pang of envy for the newer, stronger German version of his own aircraft. ‘Whose plane?’ he asked Cyril.

‘You got a visitor,’ Cyril growled. ‘She’s someone we used to know.’

Matthew’s eyebrows raised in surprise. The pilot of the Junkers was a woman, and the only woman Matthew knew with flying credentials was the one he had trained many years before. Diane Hatfield had answered his advertisement in an English newspaper to join his company in Iraq. He had been struck by her determination and her youthful beauty when he interviewed her, and she had convinced him to teach her to fly. Diane had proved a born flyer and it had not been long before she earned her commercial pilot’s licence. Almost immediately she had left to fly in America on a lucrative contract.

‘Diane?’ he asked, although he knew it had to be her and wondered why she should suddenly appear after all the years since she had left the service of his company.

Cyril grunted an affirmative as the three men reached the hangar where Matthew had his office. They had hardly entered the cavernous structure when a woman wearing riding jodhpurs and a clean white silk shirt appeared with an uncertain smile on her face. Immediately, Matthew was struck afresh by the woman’s beauty, despite the years that had passed since he’d last seen her.

‘Hello, Matthew.’ Matthew accepted Diane’s extended hand and felt its smooth warmth. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘It has been a long time. Are you still flying for the Yanks you left us for?’

Diane flinched. ‘I am sorry for leaving you stranded,’ she replied with seemingly genuine remorse. ‘I know my departure must have lost you work.’

Matthew was still angry but could see she was attempting to reconcile. It made him suspicious. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘You’re a long way from your luxurious stopovers in Hollywood.’

‘Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me,’ Diane flared.

‘Your name occasionally crops up in the papers in connection to your boss, who I gather is a well-known criminal of Sicilian heritage,’ Matthew retorted. ‘I’m surprised to see you turn up in this godforsaken part of the world.’

‘I quit my job flying for the Sicilian,’ Diane said.

‘Just like old times,’ Cyril said, bringing two big mugs of hot tea over to them.

‘Thanks, Cyril,’ Matthew said and ushered Diane into his office. He placed the mug on his untidy desk, mostly cluttered with angry demands from creditors.

Diane glanced around the office. ‘Nothing much has changed,’ she commented, taking a sip from the mug. ‘And Cyril even remembers how I like my tea – strong and sweet.’

Matthew stared at the young woman; he could see a weariness etched in her face. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly and saw a fleeting expression of pain.

‘I have flown here from Germany to make you a business proposal,’ Diane said, deflecting Matthew’s question. ‘I have a contract with the German government to fly out a team of their scientists – archaeologists. It seems their boss, Himmler, has a fascination for ancient artefacts. I told them I had the contacts in this part of the world to pull off the deal.’

‘You meant me,’ Matthew said with a slight frown.

‘I know it’s presumptuous but I was desperate for a job and the Germans gave me that beautiful aeroplane to fly. You would have done the same if you’d been in my shoes.’

‘What do you need from me?’ Matthew asked, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. He wasn’t agreeing but this deal might help his own company get out of financial trouble.

‘I need the use of your facilities,’ Diane said. ‘I need the services of Cyril and your pilot, McKee, whom Cyril told me is an excellent flyer.’

‘What do I get in return?’ Matthew countered.

‘The Germans are generous in their budget,’ Diane glanced down at the scattered bills. ‘I could clear all your debts and promise ten per cent on top for all services your company provides.’

‘If I don’t agree?’ Matthew asked.

‘I have nowhere else to go. I’m begging you,’ Diane replied quietly, a tear welling in the corner of her eye.

‘Fifteen per cent on top and we have a deal,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘Fifteen per cent it is,’ Diane agreed, taking his hand.

‘You can start our mutual enterprise by letting me take your kite up for a spin,’ Matthew said, standing up. ‘I’ve been wanting to upgrade the old Ford to one of those German machines.’

‘I don’t suppose you still have that lovely little house in Basra – the one with the pretty garden?’

‘Couldn’t afford anything else,’ Matthew answered. ‘You’re welcome to stay there.’

‘Thank you, Matthew,’ Diane said, stepping forward and kissing him on the cheek. ‘You are one of the last, true gentlemen.’

‘Cyril,’ he called loudly down the hangar. ‘Get Miss Hatfield’s gear from her kite and throw it in the car.’

Cyril glared down the hangar at the young English-woman and his boss standing side by side in front of the office. ‘Goddamned women,’ he muttered as he went off to obey.

*

The lighting in the grand dining room of the Berlin Hotel was subdued. The tables were filled with Germany’s aristocracy, as well as a smattering of high-ranking SS officers and their partners. A string quartet played in the background while the diners enjoyed the very expensive meals placed in front of them.

James Barrington Snr sat at one table with his grandchildren. They were accompanied by George Macintosh and his son and daughter. ‘I hope that your talk with Herr Schacht proved fruitful,’ George said across the table as he raised a spoon of truffle soup to his lips.

‘I should thank you for the introduction,’ James Barrington Snr replied before sipping the tasty soup. ‘You appear to have good relations with our hosts.’

George did not reply. During the Great War he had invested in German industries making chemicals for their weapons. Such a revelation could have brought him a charge of treason, but he had managed to stay one step ahead of suspicion. At least now he could be more open. Herr Hitler had much support from influential people, ranging from the English royals to the brash industrial moguls of the United States who admired the former Austrian army corporal for mobilising a nation out of the crippling world economic depression.

‘Did you get the opportunity to view one of the televisions broadcasting the Games?’ George said, changing the subject. ‘A great achievement.’

‘The Brits are working on a better system,’ James Snr countered. ‘I think it is an industry with potential. It could be worth investing in.’

‘I agree,’ George said, noticing then that the four young people remained silent at the table. ‘Has the cat got your tongues?’ he asked, looking at his son, Donald.

‘Something horrible happened today,’ Sarah blurted and received a withering look from her brother.

‘What?’ George asked, using the tip of his linen napkin to wipe soup from the corner of his mouth.

‘Nothing, Father,’ Donald answered, attempting to kick his sister’s foot under the table.

‘I doubt that it was nothing. I can see that your sister is upset.’

‘We were having coffee in a splendid café not far from here,’ Sarah said, undeterred by her brother’s attempt to silence her. ‘Some horrible men wearing brown uniforms spilled beer all over Olivia, and they might have assaulted us, except a wonderful young man from Australia stepped in and gave one of the bullies a thrashing and then they were too frightened to touch us.’

‘Did he give his name?’ asked James Barrington Snr.

‘No,’ Sarah answered. ‘But he spoke German, and I heard him tell the ruffian that he was a boxer. The police came and took him away for no reason.’

‘I think we should find him and thank him,’ James Barrington Jnr said. ‘Make sure he hasn’t been arrested for helping us.’

‘You said that the hooligans pestering you today wore a brown uniform?’ George questioned. ‘At least they did not have black uniforms or it may have been a lot more serious. The brownshirts have lost most of their influence since the death of their leader, Ernst Rohm. Had they worn black then it might have been the SS, and they are a damned dangerous bunch. I will make inquiries with a few friends to track down your gallant white knight.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ Sarah said with the brightest of smiles.

They finished their meals and the young people withdrew to a comfortable lounge, away from the boring business talk of their elders.

‘I think my little sister has a crush on the man who helped us,’ Donald said teasingly as they sat down on the plush, velvet lounges. ‘Why would you say that?’ Sarah said with a scowl. ‘I hardly noticed him.’

‘Is that why you told me our hero had gentle eyes?’ Olivia added with a mischievous smile. ‘You are only a child and should not notice such things.’

Sarah turned on Olivia. ‘I told you that in confidence. Besides, you said you thought the young man was rather dashing in a brutish way.’

‘Oh, ladies,’ Donald said. ‘How could you find anything handsome about that chap? He’s probably descended from convicts, and most likely a member of one of those Sydney criminal gangs.’

‘Well, he saved us from a sticky situation,’ James Jnr said. ‘He has my vote of thanks. Do you think that your father will be able to track him down?’

‘I am sure it will not be hard to find a six-foot-something Aussie boxer who speaks German and is attractive to our respective sisters,’ Donald chuckled. ‘When my father finds him I bet he gives him a suitable reward.’

*

George Macintosh was a man of his word. After discreet questions of his influential German hosts, he found himself in a German police station speaking with the officer in charge – a burly man with a sweeping moustache.

‘Ah, yes,’ the policeman said, thumbing through a record book of arrests. ‘I remember the man. The SA attempted to lay a charge of assault against him but a Luftwaffe officer interceded to have the charge withdrawn.’

George was intrigued. Whoever had been the saviour of his children was an interesting person if he wielded power through the German armed forces. ‘Who was the air force officer?’ George asked.

The burly policeman scratched his bald head as he flipped to another page. ‘Flight Lieutenant Fritz Lang,’ he replied. The name did not register with George.

‘Who was the Australian man you had in custody?’ he asked.

‘A Mr David Macintosh. Residential address: Lae in New Guinea.’

For a shocked moment George thought he might have to sit down. There could only be one David Macintosh fitting those particulars. Over the years he had almost forgotten about his nephew, whom he’d last heard was living on a copra plantation belonging to his German grandmother, Karolina Schumann.

‘That man is a dangerous Jew,’ George said quietly and the policeman looked at him questioningly.

‘He said that he was an Australian who had come to visit the games in Berlin,’ the German said with a frown.

‘I know this man,’ George replied angrily. ‘He is not only a Jew but also a communist agitator. I think it was a mistake that you let him go and I will be informing my friends in the government of your decision.’

George could see the big policeman suddenly turn pale and start to sweat. ‘We will pick him up immediately,’ he replied in a shaky voice. ‘But it will not be easy as he seems to have friends in the Luftwaffe and his release was signed for by an Australian lawyer, a Mr Sean Duffy.’

At the mention of the man who had once been his wife Louise’s lover, it was George’s turn to pale. David was the only real obstacle to his complete control of the Macintosh empire, but getting him out of the way would not be easy while Sean Duffy was protecting him. When he turned twenty-one years of age David would inherit a sizeable chunk of the family fortune. How old was he now? George thought in desperation. Nineteen, twenty? No, he would be closer to twenty. And the perfect opportunity to do his nephew serious harm was at his fingertips. David was in a country where both Jews and communists were hunted down and sent to concentration camps.

‘Do not be concerned about Mr Duffy,’ George finally said when he had collected his thoughts. ‘You have a duty to arrest the Jew, David Macintosh.’

‘It will be done, Sir George,’ the policeman said. ‘We know where he is staying in Berlin.’

George returned to the limousine that had been provided for him by his German hosts. He was smiling grimly to himself as the vehicle pulled into the traffic. Already he was formulating a lie for his children about their mysterious saviour. Lying came easily to Sir George Macintosh.

*

‘The good news is that I found your white knight,’ George said to his daughter and son in their suite of rooms at the hotel. ‘But the bad news is that he has already departed the country and did not leave a forwarding address.’

George noted the disappointed look on Sarah’s face but the expression of relief on his son’s.

‘What is his name?’ Sarah asked. ‘It may be possible to locate him when we return to Sydney.’

‘I am afraid it has been ascertained by the German police that he gave a false name when they arrested him. No one knows who he is.’

‘That is a shame,’ Sarah sighed. ‘I so wanted to express my personal thanks to him.’

George inwardly squirmed at the thought of such an event occurring. David was, after all, Sarah’s first cousin whom she had never been told existed. Never mind, George told himself, David Macintosh would soon cease to exist anyway. There was a special place he had heard about – Dachau. It was said to be a place of re-education, but many never returned from the concentration camp set up by the Führer in the first years of his dictatorship to house those he considered enemies of fascism. Germans were reluctant to talk about the establishment but George had no doubt that David would find himself behind the barbed-wire fences of the camp within days, never to be heard of again.

*

David strapped down his suitcase and glanced around the hotel room, making sure he had not forgotten any of his personal items. The door opened and Sean Duffy appeared.

‘Ready to leave, old chap?’ Sean asked and David replied that he was.

‘You can wander downstairs and ensure that our taxi is ready,’ Sean said. ‘My legs are a bit wobbly this morning.’

‘Not surprised, Uncle Sean,’ David grinned. ‘You certainly put away a bit of grog last night.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Sean sighed. ‘I bumped into a couple of old German soldiers who spoke English – of a kind; turned out they had fought at Fromelles, just like I did. Strange how old enemies can seem like friends after all these years.’

Satisfied that everything was packed, David walked down the stairs of the modest hotel. The hoteliers had proved warm and friendly but David was looking forward to moving on to London where Sean had legal business on behalf of a client.

David bid good morning to the middle-aged hotelier’s wife standing behind the reception counter and stepped out onto the street to see if the taxi was waiting to take them to the railway station.

He glanced up and down the busy road and his eyes immediately fell on a dark car directly in front of the glass doors of the hotel. Suddenly he was aware that two men in long black leather overcoats and dark hats were behind him as a hand gripped his elbow.

‘Mr David Macintosh,’ a voice growled in German. ‘Based on Article One of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of the People and State of 28 February 1933, you are taken into protective custody in the interest of public security and order. Reason: suspicion of activities inimical to the state.’

The way the man droned the statement made David think he had said the words many times before. The young Australian experienced a cold chill of fear. He knew he was in the hands of the dreaded SS. A truck pulled up then and brown-shirted men spilled out onto the street.

‘I am an Australian citizen,’ he exclaimed. ‘You do not have the right to arrest me.’

David had hardly finished his protest when he felt himself propelled towards the dark sedan’s open back door where another black-coated man sat. The brown-shirted SA men had formed a semicircle around him to back up their SS comrades. Escaping would be impossible.

David was jammed in between two SS men and the car sped away.

*

Sean waited for some minutes, annoyed that David had not returned. With a sigh he hobbled down the stairs, cursing his hangover. When he reached the small reception area he saw the hotelier’s wife and immediately recognised the frightened expression on her face.

‘What is it, Mrs Gottfried?’ Sean asked in his limited German.

For a moment she could not answer; finally, with tears in her eyes, she said, ‘The SS have arrested Mr Macintosh and taken him away.’

Sean stood staring out of the glass doors onto the street in a state of confusion. Why in hell had the SS arrested David? As a criminal lawyer he knew the Third Reich had little regard for democratic laws and he felt a terrible fear for David’s life. Hadn’t Karolina objected to her beloved grandson visiting Germany, and hadn’t Sean given his word that David would be safe in his care? Confused and frightened, Sean tottered uncertainly on his tin legs, a legacy from a war that had destroyed a generation of his friends. Even now war clouds were gathering again, just as Winston Churchill had warned, and Sean was very afraid that the coming storm would claim the young man he loved as his own son.