Flight of the Eagle (35 page)

‘That bad?’ Michael asked bluntly, and Horace nodded.

‘That bad, old boy,’ he replied sadly.

‘Is that why you called off my mission here in Sydney?’ Michael asked softly.

Horace stared at him. ‘In a way,’ he finally answered. ‘But the proximity of one's own demise makes a man think on the importance of what he has done. Or is doing. When Godfrey telegrammed me the news concerning your son's reported missing in action I had cause to sit down and question my life.’ He paused as the proprietor sidled over to their table and asked Horace if he would like another helping. Horace politely waved him off but praised his cooking. The man appeared pleased and when he was gone Horace continued speaking softly. ‘I suppose if I was a religious man I might liken my experience with the telegram to that of Saul on the road to Damascus when he was struck down by divine revelation. I suddenly realised how inane all that we are doing is. For a lifetime I had tried to alert my colleagues in London that Germany was a real threat to Her Majesty's interests in this part of the world. But all I ever received in response was apathy. Here we were! A far-flung convict colony of no real consequence to England, except to rush to her aid with troops when the lion roars for help. And then there was your son. Colonial born, a sacrifice to the faceless grey men oblivious to everything except the grandisement of England.’

‘Your talk is almost akin to treason, Horace,’ Michael interrupted gently. ‘You talk as if you were a colonial, rather than a true Englishman.’

Horace smiled sadly at Michael's chiding remark. ‘I think I have been too long in the colonies, Michael. My loyalties are blurring … have blurred,’ he corrected. ‘I now see a people who desperately wish to impress Mother England with how grown up they are. But Mother England can be a callous bitch. She will use their misguided loyalty to fight her future wars. Her proud, tall Tommy Cornstalks will shed their blood to fertilise foreign fields where they will be quickly forgotten by the English public. That time will come. Mark my words. Maybe not in our lifetime. But the time will come. It will come as inevitably as von Fellmann claiming northern New Guinea for the Kaiser. And the first Australians to die will die fighting in the same territories the British government has given away in their blind and stupid apathy towards the interests of this land.’

‘You feel what we have been doing is a waste of time then?’ Michael asked. ‘That my work over the last ten years or so comes to nothing?’

Horace reached over the table and patted Michael's hand reassuringly. ‘Not at all, dear boy’ he sighed. ‘At the time it all made sense. And we tried to change things. But, in the end, it meant little to other people, though not you and I.’

‘I never really worked for your interests,’ the Irishman admitted bitterly. ‘I suppose I got hooked like some bloody fish on the money and the only way of life I'd grown to know. An Irishman loyal to British interests. Hah!’

‘Despite your personal feelings you risked your life on more than one occasion for us,’ Horace replied. ‘But now it is time that I went home to England's green fields and you went in search of your own life. George Godfrey has told me about Lady Macintosh's proposal to you concerning the search for your son in the Sudan. When do you leave?’

‘Three days. I'm taking a ship to the Suez. From there I will travel down to the Sudan to meet with the general staff. The Colonel has letters of introduction for me.’

‘Good old George. Not many people he doesn't know on the general staff,’ Horace mused as he stared across at the mah-jong players. ‘What will you do when you have found your son?’ he asked. ‘Return to the colonies?’

‘When I've found my son, I will finish something I set out to do a long, long time ago.’

‘Become a painter?’ Horace guessed. And Michael nodded. ‘You should always strive to use the little time you are granted in life to pursue a dream. Eventually dreams fade and we face the eternal dark sleep of death. I know.’

‘I'll tell you something, Horrie,’ Michael said with the flash of a grim smile as Horace winced at the deliberate vandalism of his name. ‘You might have been a cunning bastard with the Queen's interests at heart but I kind of got to like you.’

Horace blinked and accepted the compliment as the highest the Irishman could pay him.
True friendships had a way of transcending national boundaries and politics.
‘For that I thank you, Michael Duffy,’ Horace replied, forcing himself not to choke on any display of emotion. ‘But I feel we should part while we are saying these things to each other in a state of complete sobriety. Anymore said might embarrass us both.’

Michael grinned at the frail little Englishman sitting opposite him. ‘You're right, Horrie,’ he said mischievously. ‘I guess your invitation to this godforsaken part of town was not an accident.’

‘No,’ Horace said as they both rose from the table. ‘I believe our Oriental host will be familiar with the places where I might purchase the fruit of the poppy. I have a need to dream the sweet dreams of the living.’ He leant on his walking stick and thrust out his hand to Michael who took the fragile, veined palm in his, firmly but gently. ‘You know something, dear boy,’ Horace said quietly. ‘If you ever call me Horrie again I will take this bloody cane to you.’

Michael laughed and his good eye twinkled. ‘You are far from dead, Horace, when you can still make threats. I happen to know your cane has a sword blade concealed inside.’

Horace smiled. ‘Damned right, dear boy. I'm not dead yet.’

Horace watched Michael leave the cramped eating house and step into the steady fall of rain on the dark street where he pulled up the collar of his coat and hunched his broad shoulders against the driving rain.

Horace was about to turn to the Chinese proprietor of the eating house when he noticed a furtive movement in the shadows opposite the shop. Through the wall of rain three men suddenly materialised and surrounded Michael. They gripped his arms before he could reach for his pocket Colt.

Horace frantically pushed past the smiling proprietor but was too late. The men were bundling Michael into a waiting coach drawn by two matched roans. He watched helplessly as the driver whipped the horses into motion. As the carriage clattered down the narrow, poorly lit street Horace instinctively knew who the men were and where they were taking Michael. The fear that gripped him was for Michael's last moments; he knew torture was inevitable before they killed him. But worst of all was the fact that there was little he could do to save the Irishman. The odds were too great.

THIRTY-FIVE

T
he ship's hold reeked of oil and the three men guarding Michael were as miserably wet as himself. They had roped his hands to an overheard beam in the hold, the limited light from the kerosene lantern making the presence of the abductors even more ominous. The flickering beam cast their shadows on the rusty walls of the hold in a way that seemed to increase the Germans' physical size.

The crewmen guarding Michael were more than just simple sailors. They were crack marines of the Kaiser's army – tough men trained to sail with the navy and fight on land as soldiers. Their immediate leader was most likely an
unteroffizier
, the German equivalent of a British sergeant, Michael guessed.

Little was said in front of Michael as his captors knew of his fluency in their language, but Michael held out little hope of leaving the ship alive. Penelope's warning had proved all too accurate. Her husband was undoubtedly behind his abduction.

Michael's arms ached and his only relief was to stand on his toes like a ballet dancer. ‘You wouldn't have a smoke would you, Gunter?’ he asked in German with a grunt of pain. ‘Man could die like this without a smoke.’

The brawny German was the oldest of the three marines and Michael had learned that he had once served with the French Foreign Legion in Mexico. Since Michael had also served in Mexico as a mercenary after the American Civil War, the two men had found some common ground.

Gunter stepped forward with a lit cigarette and pushed it between Michael's lips. He was not relishing his commanding officer's orders. ‘It is regrettable, my friend,’ he said sympathetically when he stepped back, ‘that it has come to this. I have been told much of your military exploits and you are truly an impressive soldier.’

‘Thanks, Gunter. I had a feeling there was nothing personal in all this,’ Michael replied, as the cigarette bobbed in his mouth.

‘You had us fooled, Mister Duffy,’ Gunter said with a tone of admiration. ‘You are very good at your job of spying.’

‘Was,’ Michael replied and took a puff on the cigarette. ‘But I don't expect you to believe me when I tell you that I am no longer a spy for anyone.’

‘No, Mister Duffy,’ Gunter answered sadly. ‘But I wish what you said was true. There is no honour in killing a brave man.’

Suddenly the three marines stiffened and glanced behind Michael in the direction of the tiny door of the hold. Michael guessed who it was.

Baron Manfred von Fellmann stepped in front of him. It had been almost twelve years since they had set eyes on each other and they both took in the changes. The Baron had not aged noticeably, Michael reflected. He looked every part the commanding soldier, even in the expensive suit of a civilian.

‘I am sorry to have to do this to you, Mister Duffy’ he said, in the rich, educated voice of an aristocrat. ‘I owe you a debt of honour for your part in killing Captain Mort those many years ago. But I suspect that you are not in Sydney for the fond memories that I know you have of the place. You see, I also know that you are wanted for murder by the police here.’

Michael spat the cigarette on the floor and strained to stand on his toes. ‘I will admit that I know what you plan to do,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I will also tell you, on the honour of my true name, I have been ordered
not
to continue with my mission to stop you.’

They stared at each other and the Baron's unnerving blue eyes looked deep into Michael's good one. Manfred broke the silence. ‘Under any other circumstances, Mister Duffy, I would tend to believe what you say. But these are not normal circumstances as you well know and I would require corroboration of what you are saying to feel safe enough to release you unharmed. Can you do that when, as far as I am aware, my old adversary Horace Brown is in Townsville?’

They were in the dark about Horace meeting him in Sydney's Chinatown, Michael thought. Careless work on the part of the Baron's men. ‘I suppose you do not have the time to telegraph Mister Brown in Townsville to confirm that I am telling the truth?’ he asked with an edge of bitter irony.

‘Sadly no,’ Manfred answered, shaking his head. ‘Time is short and I cannot afford delays. So this brings me to an unpleasant choice. I must subject you to a rather brutal interrogation in order to ascertain who else knows about my mission.’

‘I could easily lie to you under torture,’ Michael said, trying to sound calm. ‘I know you are going to kill me anyway.’

‘I will know if you are telling the truth, Mister Duffy I assure you.’

The Baron stepped away from Michael and nodded to Gunter who moved forward to rip Michael's wet shirt from his body. Then Michael saw the silver flash of a knife in his hand.

Gunter's face was expressionless apart from a tic twitching at his eye. He did not like inflicting pain but in his time as a Legionnaire he had learned much of interrogation techniques from the Mexicans, as crude and bloody as they were. He stood and waited for the command to begin.

‘Sergeant Klaus will inflict pain on you, Mister Duffy’ Manfred said. ‘Then I will ask a question and expect a truthful answer. Believe me, I will know if you are lying.
If I
am satisfied that you are telling the truth the torture will not continue and you will be granted an honourable death befitting a man such as yourself. Do you understand?’

Michael nodded, praying that he might be able to withstand the pain. He had so little to tell them but was most afraid that he might break and volunteer the information that Horace Brown was in Sydney. He knew that revelation would be Horace's death warrant.

Manfred nodded and Gunter slid the sharp point of the knife under the skin of Michael's ribs. Slowly he thrust up and the sharp blade slid over the bone and cartilage without penetrating the lung cavity.

Michael arched in agony as the blade severed raw nerves. He gagged on his scream and blood splashed the deck as Gunter withdrew the blade and turned his back on Michael.

‘Who else in Sydney knows of our plans?’ the Baron asked quietly as he stared into Michael's face, searching for the flicker of truth he might see in the man's eye.

‘Just me. And your wife!’ he gasped.
Thank God John Wong had left.

‘Penelope?’ Manfred asked in a surprised voice. ‘Have you seen my wife on your visit here?’

Michael hoped that he could unnerve his tormenter who could well get angry and become impatient with keeping him alive. Death might come early to relieve his agony.

But Manfred only smiled when he realised what Michael was attempting to do. ‘I know you have had an affair with my wife, Mister Duffy,’ he said softly into Michael's ear so that his men could not hear him. ‘My wife is a very unusual and depraved woman. She likes to inflict pain. It makes her excited in a way that I am sure you know about. When I recount how you died she will fantasise for a long time about your death. She may even express her regret to me that she was not able to torture you herself. So do not attempt to make me angry at the mention of my wife's name.’

Manfred was about to let Gunter resume the torture when he stared disbelievingly across Michael's shoulder.

‘You and I should talk,’ Horace said, leaning on his cane staring back at him. ‘In private.’

Manfred nodded and gestured to Horace to accompany him to his cabin.

When they were gone Gunter lit a cigarette and placed it between Michael's lips. ‘I regret what is happening, my friend,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I must obey orders.’

‘I know. Nothing personal,’ Michael answered bitterly. ‘Just doing your job. I only wish you weren't so bloody good at it.’