A Time of Secrets (19 page)

‘Then he’ll be back soon. He told all of us in his team not to talk to you, or to Lieutenant Ross.’ Her look was obstinate, but her voice was hushed, and there was a catch in it.

‘Dolly, that’s mad. We share a flat. He must know we talk.’

‘Not about work.’ There was an unusually defiant look on her face. ‘Not about what happens at work,’ she repeated. A pulse began beating rapidly in her throat. ‘It’s none of your business what I discuss with Lance Cole. I can’t live with someone who wants to give me the third degree. I mean that, Stella.’

She turned and walked quickly away. I wondered what it was all about. Cole had seemed to be warning her about something. More importantly, why would Cole tell Dolly and the others in his team not to talk to me or Ross about work matters? It made no sense. Was it due to his animosity towards Ross, or was Cole hiding something about Destro?

That evening Dolly went out early and I was in bed when she returned. At breakfast the next morning she was sulky. I decided to back off. There was no point trying to ask her questions about Destro or about Cole. To do so might give away what it was that Ross and I were actually investigating.

‘You win,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got problems with Lieutenant Cole, it’s your business. No questions.’

She looked across at me, biting her lip. ‘Thanks.’

*

On Sunday afternoon I walked to the Botanic Gardens to do some sketching. The gardens weren’t at their best in a cold winter, but the sloping lawns were verdant and the ornamental lake always beautiful. I loved the green oasis of the gardens, but today I was heading for the river. I crossed Alexandra Avenue and sat down under a tree by the Yarra, where I sketched for an hour or so. Then I settled myself to finish my latest letter to Eric.

They’ve begun to lift the brownout and it’s so wonderful to see the lights again. When the sun goes down now, a bright and beautiful city emerges. And, glory be, today it’s sunny! A brilliantly blue sky – azure blue – is above me, and the muddy Yarra shimmers in front of me. I just adore the saturated colours of Australia and I can’t wait to get to work on some landscapes. Here is a sketch of me: the khaki-clad artist by the river, drawing peaceful scenes in wartime.

Keep well, and safe.

Best,

Stella

*

At work I focused intently on the quest to find the traitor or the fool. I spent my time reading records of interrogation of men who hated my country and my race, trying to find connections between what they had to say. It was depressingly unrewarding on the whole, although by Wednesday morning I thought that I’d picked up one thread that might be important. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and reread what I’d just noted. A strange fluttering began in my chest as I realised that I hadn’t imagined a couple of inconsistencies in three records of interrogation Ross had given me. I needed to double-check them against some wireless intercepts. I needed to discuss it with Ross.

I stood, pulled my notes into order and went to Ross’s office. He listened to me in silence.

‘For instance, I’ve been reviewing this record of interrogation,’ I said. ‘The word, “
enggan
”, it’s an odd word to use in that context. Another prisoner, number 376, he also mentioned it, when he was talking about the failure of your mission.’

Ross was watching me closely, unsmiling, and it intimidated me.

I went on, in a hesitant voice. ‘It’s an odd word to use, yet three of the prisoners used it during interrogation. The translator seemed to think it meant “dislike”, but it’s more common to use it in the sense of “reluctant” or “unwilling”. It would fit if they’ve captured the Australian wireless operator from Destro, or the Portuguese one.’

‘Or both.’

‘It could be a descriptive word,’ I said slowly. ‘Mr Enggan may be an unwilling traitor.’

Ross’s voice was sharp, pitiless. ‘He’s still a traitor. Mike died. Other men died. Good men, all of them. Natives died. We’re at war, Stella.’

‘Sergeant.’ My voice was sharp too.

‘We’re at war, Sergeant.’

Ross turned to look out of his window for a moment. When he turned to look at me again, his eyes were more green than brown. We looked at each other, unsmiling.

‘I know we’re at war,’ I said. ‘I want to catch whoever it is.’

He glanced down at the papers in front of him. ‘I didn’t see this, and I’ve read those interrogation accounts over and over. Shows how important a fresh set of eyes can be. It helps that you know Malay, of course.’

His finger jabbed at the cover of one of the folders. ‘Look, I think it might be worthwhile interrogating this chap again. I can have him brought to Cranleigh – the Special Bureau HQ. Would you like to be there when I see him?’

The last thing I wanted was to be present at an interrogation. I said uncertainly, ‘I don’t see what I –’

‘I’d like you to be there.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll arrange it for Friday. He’s being held out of Melbourne, and it’s a business getting him into the city.’

I nodded, but I still felt uneasy about it.

‘We’ll press him hard about what you’ve found when we see him.’

I sighed and looked down at the papers I’d put on Ross’s desk. The man they related to was an enemy to my country, but perhaps a patriot to his own. I hoped that ‘pressing him hard’ didn’t mean overt violence.

‘I won’t let it get out of hand with the prisoner,’ said Ross.

‘Thank you.’ I pulled on my lip with my teeth. ‘I heard Lieutenant Cole carpeting Dolly last week. I think it might have had to do with Destro.’

‘Did you ask her about it?’

‘She won’t talk to me. Cole’s ordered all of his team not to talk to us about operational matters.’

‘Maybe she’ll talk to me.’ There was a note of excitement in his voice. ‘I think we’re getting close and Cole’s getting scared.’

I stood, saluted and had turned around to leave the room when he said softly, ‘Stella.’

I turned back to find that he had twisted his chair to face the window again, so I was presented with the back of his head. It was a nicely shaped head. His dark hair was closely cropped and although the pale column of his neck seemed very vulnerable, the breadth of his shoulders beneath told a different story. The two lieutenant’s pips on the shoulders of his jacket shone dully in the light from the window. I wondered, yet again, what he really wanted from me.

‘Did you see the easel and paper over there? They’re for you.’

He turned around and gestured towards the window. On the floor were a portable easel and a stack of paper.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and managed a smile in return. ‘It’s just what I need. I’m very grateful.’

There was a shrewd, appraising look at me. ‘I’m not trying to buy you, Stella.’

‘Sergeant. Call me “Sergeant”. We’re at work.’

‘I’m not trying to buy you, Sergeant.’

I looked at him steadily. ‘I am very grateful, really I am,’ I said. ‘But no more gifts, please.’

‘You won’t be able to get more paints or more paper unless I help. It was difficult enough for me to get what I have already. If you really want to start painting again, and keep painting, you’ll need me.’

Wondering what to reply, I walked back to the desk and looked down at the folders I’d brought in with me. I touched one of them. ‘Is it awful? Hurting people to get this sort of information?’

‘I don’t always have to hurt people, as you put it.’ His voice was dry. ‘I’m good at picking up the small cues. Their expressions, the way they hold their bodies. I’m good at seeing what isn’t said. Usually I just need them to confirm what I already know.’

He glanced down at the folders. ‘If they’ve been through a lot, if they’re ready to capitulate anyway, sometimes it’s enough just to be kind. Sometimes they’ll crack if you offer them a cigarette, give them a drink.’

My hands were shaking. I waited until they were steady before I looked up, into his eyes. I repeated what I’d said before. ‘I’m very grateful, really I am. But no more gifts.’

We just looked at each other for a moment. Eventually he nodded. I turned and walked towards the door.

‘Eric says –’

I spun around. ‘Yes?’

Perhaps my reply was too eager, because his face seemed to shut down.

‘Eric says I’m a manipulative bastard. He says I don’t even know when I’m doing it.’ Ross took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘He’s wrong. I always know when I’m doing it, only sometimes I’m not too sure
why
I’m doing it.’

I started to respond, but he cut me off with an abrupt wave of his hand.

‘I like the idea of you painting again. I think it’ll be good for you. I think you’ve been badly hurt, possibly by your late husband – no, don’t say anything, just listen. I think that you won’t begin to heal emotionally unless you start painting again. So I got you what you need. No strings attached.’

There are always strings attached
. My heart was hammering and I wanted to shout it out to him, make him understand that I couldn’t be bought. Not with presents, not with favours and certainly not with calculated kindness.

As usual, I stayed silent.

He gave me one of his careless waves. I turned and left the room.

Sixteen

A
sergeant was sitting at the table with Mary when I wandered into the kitchen at lunchtime. He looked to be in his early thirties with dark hair and pale eyes and a very tanned complexion.

Mary interrupted what appeared to be a ceaseless flow of chatter to introduce him. ‘Hello, Stella. Meet Sergeant Sam de Groot.’ She turned her face to the stranger again. ‘This is Sergeant Aldridge, Stella Aldridge.’

‘My name is Alexander,’ he said to me, in accented English, ‘but everyone in Australia calls me Sam.’

‘Sam’s parents are Dutch, but he was born in Dutch New Guinea,’ said Mary, rather officiously. I’d always thought that Mary could give Ross a run for his money in the interrogation area – she was a Mrs Campbell in waiting. ‘He joined the AIF to be a coast watcher, but when the area he was in got overrun with Japanese he was brought back here and now he’s with APLO instead.’

‘Which has been no tea party, either, as the English say,’ said Sam with a laugh.

‘I’ve invited him over to my house for Sunday lunch,’ said Mary. Her parents often had two or three Americans or other Allied troops over to a meal on the weekend. She smiled prettily. ‘My mother’s got used to cooking apple pie and putting ice cream on it, because that’s what the Yanks like. She’s a good cook. What’s a Dutch meal, Sam? I could ask her to make you something special.’

‘Nothing special, please,’ he said smiling. ‘We Dutch will eat anything. And it’s hard to cook special meals with the rationing.’

‘Oh, the Yanks always bring food with them,’ said Mary.

‘I cannot promise to be so generous.’ He grimaced apologetically.

‘I hear that they’re very short of food in Holland,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘So I hear, too. But my family are from New Guinea. I have few ties to the Netherlands. They see us as uncouth colonials with strange accents.’

Sam de Groot had a quality of quiet watchfulness about him. His eyes were a pale blue, almost silver, and very lined at the corners, as if he were used to squinting into the sun. I thought he was probably well suited to the solitary life of a coast watcher, living alone behind enemy lines, sending intelligence back to Australia about Japanese troop movements. But there was also a lost look in his eyes, one I’d noticed in men who’d seen too much action. I wondered if I could capture it in a painting, and contemplated asking Sam de Groot to sit for me.

‘He knows your Staff Sergeant Lund,’ said Mary, driving all thoughts of painting out of my mind.

‘Oh?’ I said.

‘They were on a mission together.’

‘Really?’ She shouldn’t be talking about it, and neither should I, but I looked at Sam, desperate for any information about Eric.

‘I hear that he’s already left Melbourne,’ he said. ‘They work him too hard. Was he sent back to Timor?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How long have you known him?’

‘We were together on a mission recently. He’s a good friend. A cobber, as you Aussies say.’

I smiled. So Eric was a groper
and
a cobber.

‘He is a good man, Eric Lund. He was devastated when one of the men – Mike Teague – died on that mission.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He went to see Mike’s girlfriend, to tell her how he died, because he knew she wouldn’t find out any other way.’

He nodded. ‘That’s what Eric would do.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It’s rough to send him back to Timor so soon,’ Sam went on. ‘He’s too good at all this, that’s the problem. I suppose they want him to check up on our men up there.’

‘I really have no idea where he’s gone,’ I said. ‘And no idea when he’ll be back.’ I poured myself a cup of tea, put in milk and sugar, and stirred. ‘Why are you here at APLO, Sam?’