by Tony Park
He carried on along empty Schroder Street, and past the church he came to the track that led down to the horse-drawn punt, the only means of crossing the Orange River. It didn’t run at night. A man stepped from behind a tree trunk.
‘Mr Blake.’ The man touched the tip of his broad-brimmed hat.
‘Prestwich,’ Blake said. ‘I told you my name last time we met, Kaptein.’
Jakob Morengo smiled broadly. His face was darker than most of the Nama he led because, Blake had learned from Liesl, her uncle was half Herero. He wore a three-piece suit, well-fitting but dusty from riding. ‘Yes, so you did, but my niece has informed me of your real name.’
Liesl showed herself from behind the same tree. She had changed, he noticed, from her simple dress to a pair of men’s trousers, a shirt and an old khaki jacket. A hat like her uncle’s made sure that anyone who viewed her from a distance would think she was a slight man, perhaps even a bushman in western clothes. It seemed she was serious about joining the fight.
‘Why did you go and do that?’ Blake asked Liesl.
She jutted her chin out. ‘For the same reason you told me.’
‘What did I tell you?’ He wasn’t even sure he knew himself.
‘You’re sick of hiding, Blake, tired of running from the law; even if you can’t clear your name you want to come out from behind the mask you hold up.’
‘Is that so?’
Morengo smiled. ‘She has quite a way with words, don’t you think? It must be all the books you have lent her. For that, I thank you. Everyone deserves a good education, no matter the colour of their skin, their tribe or their gender.’
‘Very forward thinking,’ Blake said, ‘radical, even.’
‘My uncle speaks six languages and he’s the first kaptein to allow women to have a say in his council meetings,’ Liesl said. ‘He studied in Germany.’
‘Ironic, wouldn’t you say,’ Blake said, addressing Morengo, ‘that it’s a mark of honour in your niece’s eyes that you were given an education by the people you’re trying to kill.’
Jakob gave a small laugh. ‘I met good people in Germany, many of whom believe that the Nama and the Herero and the other peoples of our country have been treated unfairly by the colonists. I was pleased to learn more of their language and their culture and I am sure if the people I met knew the full extent of what was happening across the border, pressure would be brought to bear for peace. Until then, we must fight.’
‘Even young girls?’
Morengo looked briefly to his niece, his smile disappearing. ‘She is a woman. She has a mind of her own. And courage.’
Blake felt the implied insult hang in the air, but let it dissipate. ‘I’ve got your horses.’
‘And I will bring more cattle, soon. I have some in the Karasberge. They will be here in the Cape Colony within the week.’
‘Fair enough,’ Blake said. ‘But why have you come in person this time?’
‘I need more, Mr Blake, or may I address you by your real first name?’
‘Just Blake.’
‘Very well, Blake.’ Morengo seemed uncomfortable with the suspension of polite convention, but carried on. ‘You may call me Jakob, not Morengo. As my niece told you, I believe, the Germans are coming for my forces. I’m expecting a two-pronged attack from Keetmanshoop in the northwest and Warmbad in the south, by the end of the month.’
‘Not long.’ Blake looked at Liesl. ‘You have spies everywhere.’
‘Quite,’ Morengo said. ‘But so do the Germans. They know that our kraal, where our women, children and cattle are, is in the Karasberge, at Narudas.’
Blake nodded. He’d driven horses and taken cattle to and from various locations around the Karas Mountains, known locally as the Karasberge, but had never been to, nor been told the location of Morengo’s headquarters. ‘You’re either foolhardy or you trust me a great deal, Jakob.’
Jakob gave a broad smile. ‘I am no fool.’
‘Didn’t think so. Why are you telling me this?’
‘I need more guns and ammunition and I need to return to the kraal. I don’t have the time or the spare men to set up a meeting at some other location. I want you to bring the arms to me, in person.’
‘How many rifles?’
‘Fifty, with a hundred rounds of ammunition for each.’
Blake gave a low whistle. ‘That’s a bit different from running cattle and horses. Riskier. More expensive.’
‘I can barter, find you more cattle if you want, but that will take time we don’t have. I can pay you.’
Blake raised an eyebrow. ‘What with?’
‘Gold.’
‘Serious?’
Morengo reached into a leather satchel that hung from a strap around his torso. He took out a gold ingot and handed it over.
Blake hefted the bar, knowing instantly from its all-too-familiar weight that it was real; he had shifted enough of the bloody stuff with Claire. He held it up to the moonlight, inspecting it more closely. ‘South African. Where did you get this?’
Morengo smiled. ‘I was raiding a farm for cattle and food and I found this, in a strongbox, in a stable. The owner of the farm left in a hurry; she was probably in the process of hiding or retrieving the treasure when my men and I arrived.’
She. Blake’s heart punched the inside of his ribs. ‘How many more of these did you find?’
‘Enough for fifty rifles and five thousand rounds. Perhaps a few more of each when I need them.’
‘So this could be an ongoing business relationship, you’re saying?’ Blake went to hand the ingot back, trying to keep his hand steady at the same time.
Morengo held up a palm. ‘Keep it. This relationship can last as long as the war, until my people have their freedom. That is worth all of the gold in South Africa.’
‘Where’s the farm, where you found the gold? What did the woman look like?’
Morengo laughed, from deep within his belly. ‘Oh, Mr Blake, you should be on the stage.’
He licked his lips, his mouth parched again, as it had been when Rassie had mentioned seeing a red-headed woman in town. ‘You’re quite a character yourself, Jakob.’
Jakob became serious again. ‘How long will it take you to get the guns?’
‘A week maybe?’
Jakob stroked his chin. ‘Close to the end of the month. I hope I have that long. The German columns do not move fast; the desert wearies them and my scouts delay them. As quick as you can, please.’
‘I’ll ride out tomorrow,’ Blake said.
Liesl, who had retreated behind her uncle as the two men negotiated, stepped forward, hands on her hips. ‘Is that what it took to make you join our struggle, a bar of gold, Blake?’
‘I’m not joining anyone’s war; one was enough for me. But I believe your people have a reasonable beef with the Germans and your uncle here and the other Nama I’ve traded with have been as honest and honourable as cattle thieves can be.’
‘Rare praise indeed,’ Jakob muttered.
Liesl turned to her uncle. ‘We should ride.’
Jakob ignored his niece. ‘Come to the Karasberge, within five days, if you can, Blake. Liesl will find you and guide you to Narudas and our kraal. I hope you have the weapons by then, but she will wait for another two days after that – no longer. If you have not arrived by then I will assume you have run off with my gold and I will send men to kill you.’
‘I’ll be there, within the week.’ Blake needed to learn more about that gold and its owner. He would push himself and Bluey hard to meet the deadline. Bluey was getting on in years, but he was a tough, loyal horse.
As Morengo and Liesl melted back into the shadows along the bank of the Orange River, Blake held the ingot tight in his hands.
Chapter 31
Cape Town, South Africa, the present day
&
nbsp; Nick zipped his fleece tight to ward off the chilly wind coming off the water as he made his way down a footpath lined with tall palm trees that led to the Table Bay Hotel.
He had driven to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, Cape Town’s tourist hub, and killed twenty minutes wandering around the shopping precinct until his appointment with Susan’s ex-husband, Ian Heraud. The hotel had a prime spot on the breakwater, and as Nick approached it the swirling white tablecloth of clouds fluttered briefly enough for him to get a glimpse of majestic Table Mountain in the background above the hotel’s long blue roof.
Zack, the barman at the Vineyard, had heard Susan mention Ian’s name and his job as a food and beverage manager at the rival three-hundred-room hotel, and Nick had telephoned him. Reluctantly, Ian had agreed to meet him.
As he approached, a well-groomed man in a dark suit came out and stood, looking about. Nick saw from his nametag that this was the man he was looking for. ‘Ian? I’m Nick.’
‘Howzit?’ The two shook hands. ‘Mind if we walk? I need a smoke.’ Ian coughed as he took out a pack.
‘No problem,’ Nick said.
They retraced Nick’s steps to the breakwater as Ian lit up.
‘Nothing like a bit of fresh air,’ Ian said.
‘Thanks for seeing me.’
Ian nodded. ‘You said you met Susan in Australia?’
‘Yes, in Sydney.’
‘I didn’t know she’d been over.’
‘Yes, she came to research an Australian connection for a story she was writing, about the Nama and Herero people in Namibia suing the German government for reparations.’
‘Hardly breaking news,’ Ian said, drawing on his cigarette and exhaling. They kept up a brisk pace, because of the cold. ‘She never showed any interest in that sort of thing when we were married.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
He snorted. ‘I lost her three years ago. She left me for another guy, and the bastard had the hide to show up at her mother’s place while I was there comforting her, even though they’d broken up. Susan was still in contact with him. Rich doos. She worked for him.’
‘Had she been doing some PR work for him lately?’
Ian paused and stubbed his half-smoked cigarette out on a litter bin, then fished a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘Fucking flu, and smoking’s not helping. I don’t know. She did PR for him when she was sleeping with him behind my back. I never really knew what that meant, or what it achieved. Do you?’
‘Used to be my game, until recently,’ Nick said. ‘Not any more.’
They resumed walking along the edge of the grey sea. Gulls screeched overhead. ‘I don’t know what else she was doing. We never had kids so we didn’t talk much after the divorce. She tried to patch things up between us – not get back together, but she made an effort to be friends, after she and Scott broke up. She was a better person than me, better than him, that’s for sure.’
‘Scott?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, Scott Dillon. He was the other man. When she left the newspaper she went to work for Scott’s real-estate company.’
Nick thought a moment. ‘I’ve seen that name.’
Ian nodded. ‘No doubt. After Pam Golding and Seeff he’s probably the next biggest real-estate company in the country; you see his posters everywhere. He made his money in property development. Susan was his head of communications, and then his mistress. Dillon’s wife found out and left him – helluva huge divorce settlement, but Dillon decided he didn’t want to marry Susan, or maybe vice versa. I heard he ended up with his accountant at some point, but probably dumped her as well.’
‘Where can I find him?’ Nick asked.
‘His office is in Sea Point, but he told Melanie, Susan’s mother, that he was off to Namibia again. He’s doing business up there, apparently, and he’s a big game fisherman and hunter, likes long rods and guns. Compensation, I reckon.’ Ian laughed scathingly.
‘That must have been tough, seeing him at her mother’s home,’ Nick said.
‘I wanted to hit him. Should have. Now all I feel is empty. I wasn’t a perfect husband, but who knows why people do what they do? I miss her.’
They had circled back towards the hotel. Me too, Nick thought. He shook hands with Ian, whose shoulders started to shake.
Nick didn’t know the guy but he reached out and put an arm around him.
‘Hijacked – killed for her bloody car.’ Ian couldn’t hold in his tears. ‘I never would have wished for anything like this to happen to her, you know?’
‘Yes,’ Nick said. ‘I know.’
Ian broke away from him and blew his nose again. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Look, thanks for meeting me, Ian. I appreciate it.’
They shook hands again and Ian headed back down the stately avenue of palms. As Nick started to walk away, Ian called over his shoulder. ‘Funeral’s in a week or so. You’ve got my number, call me, I can give you the details when I have them.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, and Nick?’
‘Yes?’
‘Cape Town might look like a slice of Europe, but this is Africa. Be careful.’
Nick collected his rental car and drove to Cape Town airport. He caught a golf buggy to the terminal and his hands were jittery as he checked his emails on his phone. There was one from Anja, confirming that she would meet him in Aus, in Namibia, whenever he made it there. She reiterated her condolences over Susan’s death.
Nick had booked himself a ticket to Upington, where he would hire a car and have a look at where Cyril Blake had lived, and then drive across the border into Namibia. He checked in and went to his gate.
Be careful, Ian had said.
While he waited for the boarding call Nick looked up the website for Scott Dillon’s real-estate company. He needed to learn more about Susan’s last meeting with him, about her state of mind. The burglary at his aunt’s place, the attacks on Lili and Anja and the ransacking of his hut in Kruger by his lying neighbour all seemed to be linked, but now a murder had occurred. He was still worried about Lili and hoped Pippa would have some news for him soon. Nick needed answers.
He found a number and dialled and he was presented with a frustrating array of numeric call options. Eventually he managed to speak to a human being and asked for Scott Dillon’s personal assistant. He’d just managed to get through to the person he wanted, a Lisa Jordan, when the first boarding call for his flight was made.
‘Hi, I’m sorry, I don’t have much time, but I really need to speak to Scott Dillon or get a message to him, please. My name is Nick Eatwell. Mr Dillon doesn’t know me, but it is very important.’
‘Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr Dillon does not take calls from people he doesn’t know; perhaps I can help you if you tell me what it’s about, or I can direct you to one of our offices,’ the PA said with the practised cool of an experienced corporate gatekeeper.
Nick drew a breath. ‘It’s about Susan Vidler. I know about their history and that Scott recently visited Susan’s mother, Melanie.’
There was a pause, presumably as Lisa regained her composure. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dillon isn’t in at the moment, he’s travelling –’
‘To Namibia, I know. Fishing, etc. Listen, Lisa?’
‘Yes, Lisa is my name, sir.’
‘Can you just get a message to him, please? Susan Vidler’s boyfriend, Nick Eatwell, from Australia, needs to talk to him, urgently please. I’ll give you my mobile number and email. Maybe you can get a message to him and ask him if he wants to contact me.’
‘This is quite irregular,’ Lisa said.
Another call was made for his flight and Nick got up and presented his boarding pass, his phone wedged between shoulder and cheek as he gave Lisa his contact email and number. ‘Please,’ he said as he ended the call, ‘this really is urgent.�
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Nick boarded a bus that took him and his fellow passengers to their aircraft. On board he set his phone to flight mode. Attached to Anja’s email was her translation of the next few pages of the manuscript, which he opened once he was seated. It seemed they were working together now, officially.
Nick rested his head against the aircraft window and let his mind wander. What a journey his great-great-uncle had been on. He imagined Blake, the disillusioned ex-soldier, on the run, taking on an alias, and then becoming involved with a local girl. It was as though he had turned his back on the rest of the world and the conventions of the time. Was he a romantic adventurer, or just a common criminal? Maybe a bit of both.
The afternoon South African Airways flight, one of only two per day, left at four thirty-five and took an hour and twenty minutes. As someone who had grown up in a city and had never ridden a horse, Nick had no concept of how long it would take to ride that distance, particularly if he was droving – was that the term? – a team of horses or a herd of cattle along the way. In the terminal he’d checked the distance – nearly eight hundred kilometres by road, apparently. The money must have been good, Nick thought.
Nick turned his thoughts to Susan. It was too early for him to have said he loved her but he had been immediately drawn to her. The time they had spent together had been fun and he had really been looking forward to getting to know her better in the Kruger Park and wherever else their travels might have taken them. He had barely had time to absorb the news of her death, let alone grieve for her. Still jetlagged, he dozed off, but woke in a panic. In his dream he had seen Susan, lying dead in a hospital morgue.
The captain announced that he’d started the descent into Upington, and Nick checked his watch. He wondered if Pippa would make good her promise to check up on Lili. It was 2 am in Sydney, on Monday morning. He would have hours to wait, worrying about what had happened to his young German friend.
The landscape below had been uniformly golden brown and empty, but as the captain turned the plane Nick saw reds in the distance, the sands of the great Kalahari Desert.
