by Tony Park
Walters didn’t return the smile. ‘There was a woman I was investigating, a half-German half-Irish Fenian, the daughter of one of our own “rebels”, named Claire Martin, who sympathised with the Boers. She had spent time in America and had also been infected with that country’s moral lassitude. Miss Martin was, we believed, spying for your government and acting as an intermediary between a German arms manufacturer, her cousin, Fritz Krupp, and the Boers.’
Von Deimling looked impassive. ‘The Imperial German Government had no involvement in your war with the simple farmers of South Africa, although it’s no secret a number of our citizens felt so aggrieved by the treatment of the Boers that they fought alongside them – without official approval, of course.’
‘Of course, and even if you knew of the lady’s involvement in intelligence matters then I’m sure you wouldn’t confide that you did.’
Von Deimling put a finger to his lips. ‘There is a woman, a farmer’s wife with red hair. I’ve seen her in the Schützenhaus, the marksmen’s club in Keetmanshoop. I believe I did hear someone say that the woman was a foreigner.’
Walters raised his eyebrows. ‘A humble farmer’s wife?’
‘Well, perhaps not so humble. If this red-headed woman is the Claire Martin you are looking for then her surname would now be Kohl as she is the wife of the town’s doctor – one of my reservist officers. They have three farms, each quite large. They have sheep and cattle and breed horses for the Kaiserreich.’
‘Three farms? Is that unusual?’
He spread his hands wide as if to encompass the nothingness around them. ‘South West Africa is a land of great opportunity for hard-working Germans, and those who are drawn to our way of life and views. Many settlers from the old country, and quite a few from South Africa, have found prosperity here. Between you and me, though, I’ve heard it said that the doctor left a mound of debts and more than one broken heart back in Germany before he came here.’
‘And in Africa he made enough money to buy three farms?’
Von Deimling shrugged. ‘Perhaps the woman, this red-head you are so interested in, came from means? If I may be blunt, what is your interest in this woman, Colonel – your war has been over four years now?’
‘She stole a good deal of money from the British Army – she was part of a gang that held up a payroll wagon that was under my supervision.’ Walters relaxed into the story. Though it was a lie he had told it enough times to almost believe it himself. ‘They got away with a hundred thousand pounds. The thieves were tracked down and ambushed by a detachment of my soldiers and whilst they killed the men involved the woman, Claire Martin, got away with the wagon. Apart from the fact that she stole a good deal of money from the crown, my career suffered as a result of the initial theft and my inability to get the funds back and bring her to justice.’
Von Deimling nodded. ‘I can see why this is a matter of interest to you. But from what I know of Dr Kohl, it seems like she has spent your missing money.’
‘That should not stop her from being investigated, I’m sure you would agree.’
‘Perhaps,’ von Deimling said, ‘but the lady is now a subject of the Kaiser, living on German territory.’
Walters stroked his moustache. ‘Just as Edward Prestwich is an Australian living, ostensibly, in the Cape Colony.’
‘Touché, Colonel Walters.’
‘Any more information you can provide about Frau Kohl, even a confirmation of her first name and maiden name, would be of great help to the Cape Mounted Police, Colonel, and very much appreciated.’
Von Deimling snapped his fingers. ‘Kurtz?’ The aide stepped forward and von Deimling asked him a question in German.
‘Claire, Herr Oberst,’ Kurtz replied.
Walters could barely contain himself.
Von Deimling at last passed him the file. ‘That is the doctor’s wife’s Christian name, Claire.’
Walters fought to still his breathing. He opened the dossier and a face he recognised immediately stared back at him.
‘One of my men found this picture in the possession of a coloured girl we captured at Narudas,’ von Deimling said. ‘She is a friend of the man, it seems, a whore most likely. Our doctor from Keetmanshoop, coincidentally the husband of the woman you are seeking, confirmed he saw this man during the battle, climbing onto one of our wagons just as another carrying ammunition exploded. The coloured woman was a prisoner, but she had managed to free herself. Prestwich was attempting to rescue her, but was blown from the wagon. Herr Doktor Kohl said he saw the white man crawling in the sand, injured but alive, as Kohl retreated with the coloured woman under his charge.’
Walters stared at the picture, willing his hands to stay still so as not to pique the German’s interest. Walters’ hunch was correct – Cyril Blake had switched identities with the late Edward Prestwich at Komatipoort – for the man staring back at him from the photograph was most certainly Claire Martin’s partner in crime.
In the interests of fairness Walters told von Deimling that Prestwich was an alias and that the man the Germans were looking for was really Cyril Blake. Von Deimling beckoned to Kurtz and relayed the news to his aide – Walters caught the use of Blake’s name.
‘Some wine, now, Colonel?’ von Deimling said.
Walters was lost in thought. The painful journey here had been worth it. Women were Blake’s weakness and he had been trying to rescue his coloured lover. Was he also trying to find Claire Martin in South West Africa?
A lesser man might have been worried that Blake was alive, that he might try to expose Walters’ deeds during the war. Perhaps the man was plotting his revenge – who knew? – but the fact was, Walters could use Blake to get to Claire Martin. If von Deimling kept an eye on the woman then Blake might fall into the Germans’ hands, but Blake was canny and careful. If Walters could get a tail on Blake, someone he trusted, then Blake would lead him to the woman, and to the gold. Walters was sure now that Claire Kohl was, in fact, Claire Martin – the story of the penniless doctor and the red-haired foreigner being able to afford to buy a large chunk of German South West Africa told him that she had indeed made her way to that colony with a sizeable portion of Kruger’s gold. The question was, how much of it was left, and how could he get his hands on it?
Von Deimling cleared his throat. ‘Colonel?’
Walters looked up, realising his opposite number had asked him something, though he could not recall what.
‘I asked if you are ready for some wine now?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘You look like you have just seen a ghost, as the English say.’
No, he thought, not a ghost, but a soon-to-be dead man and a woman he would make talk.
Chapter 43
South of Keetmanshoop, German South West Africa, 1906
They slept in each other’s arms, but Blake woke before dawn, a soldier’s habit, and washed himself and dressed. He made tea and woke Claire, who greeted him with a grin and a kiss.
‘We need to be ready if your husband shows up,’ he said, handing her the cup.
She gave a wave with her free hand. ‘I don’t care if he finds out. I still like him but it’s been over between Peter and me for a long time, Blake. We live together out of convenience these days.’
‘All the same, it’s a complication we’d do best to avoid at the moment.’
Claire nodded and sipped.
They ate breakfast and Blake went outside to brush, feed and water his horse. He saw a dust plume on the horizon and fetched his rifle. It was one man, mounted. The doctor.
Peter rode up to his house, his face still marked with a scowl. ‘Where is my wife?’
‘Claire’s inside.’
‘Claire? She is a married woman and it is impertinent of you to use her Christian name. Please address her as Frau Kohl.’
Claire came up behind him.
‘It’s all right, Peter.’
The doctor looked to her and then to Blake, as if puzzled the Australian was not holding a gun to her head. His eyes narrowed as suspicion dawned.
‘You . . . know one another?’
Claire nodded. ‘The truth of it is that we met in South Africa, Peter, during the war. Blake helped me when the British, one officer in particular, were after me.’
Peter frowned. ‘Well, it seems another British officer is after you. I was talking to a young officer friend of mine, Kurtz. He told me to warn you that the Cape Mounted Police are looking for you. Von Deimling has made a deal with a British police colonel that he would provide information about an Australian riding with the Nama in return for information about, you, Claire.’
‘Me?’
‘Unless there is another red-headed Claire with an Irish-American accent in the colony. The British officer said you robbed a British military payroll shipment and that you killed British soldiers in cold blood. Is that where our money comes from, Claire?’
Claire’s eyes met Blake’s. It was a good enough cover story.
‘This British colonel,’ Claire said, ‘did Kurtz by any chance give you his name, Peter?’
‘Walters. Louis, or something like that.’
‘Llewellyn,’ said Blake and Claire in unison.
Peter looked at both of them. ‘You know him.’
Blake nodded.
Peter addressed him: ‘And von Deimling has put three thousand Marks on your head, the same bounty being offered for the capture or killing of Morengo. You are a very wanted man, Mr Blake.’
‘The Germans know me as Blake?’
Peter nodded. ‘Yes, this Colonel Walters has told von Deimling that Prestwich is an alias, your nom de guerre, as it were.’
‘Shit,’ Blake said.
‘Why should I not inform on you, Mr Blake, and collect three thousand Marks? As you and my wife are . . . acquainted . . . it seems unlikely you will harm her.’
‘That was my idea to drop the charade, Peter,’ Claire said. ‘I was going to be honest with you, whatever news you brought back. Do you know what’s happening with the girl?’
‘Yes,’ Peter frowned. ‘She is being taken to Lüderitz along with the other prisoners, to the Shark Island concentration camp.’
Claire went to her husband and took his hands in hers. ‘Peter, this man, Walters, he’s a criminal. He wants what I have, my fortune. I didn’t rob a British payroll wagon, but nor did I inherit my money. Walters was a British intelligence officer, but what he really wanted was to get his hands on a share of Paul Kruger’s gold, the wealth of the Boer republic.’
‘You took Kruger’s gold?’ Peter looked incredulous.
Claire nodded. ‘Some of it.’
Peter closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them. ‘So you are a thief.’
‘Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, though I prefer to think of it as spoils of war. Peter, Walters set Blake up, and he murdered a man who was my contact with the Boers, an American. He was . . . a good friend, and Walters tortured and shot him to try and find out the location of the gold.’
‘And this man, this American, just gave you the location of the gold?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Peter asked.
Claire blushed.
Peter looked away from her.
‘Come now, Peter, don’t play the high and mighty aggrieved husband with me, learning about your wife’s sordid past. We both know what you’ve been up to, and in all honesty it actually feels quite good to tell the truth about this. You might try it yourself some time.’
Peter looked back at her, slightly shamefaced, then to Blake. ‘And this one, Claire?’
Blake stepped up to him. ‘I’m searching for the woman who was taken by your people. She’s who I’m after, not your wife, Doctor.’
Blake and Peter both turned to Claire, who frowned. Blake was pleased she didn’t carry on with her new-found openness and tell Peter all of what had happened. He sensed the doctor had probably guessed, but did not want to hear it spelled out for him.
‘There is nothing we can do for her,’ Peter said. ‘She and five other prisoners will be taken under escort to the Shark Island camp.’
‘Who are the other prisoners?’ Blake asked.
Peter looked sheepish. ‘Three old women and two children, a boy and a girl.’
Blake shook his head. It was like South Africa all over again; rounding up the women and the children to deprive the foe of their families and support. It sickened him. ‘I’m going to get her, Claire.’
‘You won’t change your mind, and slip back across the border?’ she said.
‘And leave you again, knowing Walters is after you? No.’
‘Then I’ll come with you,’ Claire said.
Peter’s face turned red. ‘You will not, woman!’
Claire bristled. ‘Don’t you be calling me “woman”, I’m not some slave. I’ll do what I want. I’ve seen enough innocents locked up and starved to death or sent to an early grave through dysentery or fever. I’ll not stand by and see it done again.’
Peter sat down on a wooden chair and put his head in his hands. ‘What is happening? Are you leaving me for this rebel, Claire?’
‘This,’ said Claire, ‘is war, Peter. This is what it’s about, not dressing up in your police uniform and holding court at the bar in the shooting club telling tall stories and laughing at the natives; you’ve seen it for yourself. To tell you the truth, I’m pig sick of it out here in the desert. The Nama are robbing me blind, the German military doesn’t care about helping the sick or educating the native children, and you could be killed next time you ride out with the Schutztruppe. This isn’t the place I thought it would be.’
Peter looked up, angry. ‘So, you will leave me, your lawfully wedded husband, for another man?’
Claire sighed. ‘I’ll miss you, Peter, but I think we both know we’re better as friends than we ever were as husband and wife, and it’s not like you can cast the first stone, is it? I’ve known about Andrea, and Helga, for some time.’
He lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘What do you want from me? To betray my country and my uniform?’
‘I want you to behave like a decent human being, Peter. There’s a young girl who’s off to face God knows what horrors and the Brits are after me. I’m going to the coast whether you come or not. I’ve business to attend to in any case.’
Peter stood up. ‘I need to think about this, Claire. You are right, I have not been a perfect husband, far from it, but this has come as something of a shock to me.’
She nodded, but said no more, not wanting to rub in her betrayal of him, no matter what he had done in the past.
He took a deep breath. ‘I need a bath. Excuse me.’
When he had left the room, Blake said: ‘You’ve got business to attend to?’
‘Unless he’s told someone else, which I doubt, Walters is the only person in the world other than you and Peter who knows I made off with some of Kruger’s gold. Now he knows I’m in South West Africa. You were right before, Blake, he’ll hunt me down.’
‘So what, you’re running off to Europe?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘And what about me?’
‘If you’re smart you’ll leave here now and catch a boat back to Australia. I’ll give you the price of a ticket and enough to buy yourself a little house back in Sydney town in repayment for your help. Maybe we can meet there. What do you say to that?’
‘I’m not smart, and you tried to leave me once before. I’ll not let you go again, Claire.’
*
The three of them, Blake, Claire and Peter, rode along the desert road from Keetmanshoop towards Aus. Blake was still in his German Schutztruppe uniform; their cover story was that he was an escort for th
e doctor and his wife.
The sound of metal clanging on metal and a woman’s scream told Claire they were nearing the railway line that was being built across the southern part of the colony from Lüderitz on the coast to Keetmanshoop in the interior.
They crested a dune and Claire saw the cause of the noise.
A group of women had been carrying a length of steel track and one had clearly fallen. Somehow the others had dropped the track and it had landed across the woman’s leg. She was screaming in pain while the others tried in vain to free their fellow worker. Behind them men dressed in rags were ignoring the unfolding tragedy, hammering spikes into place.
A uniformed guard carrying a sjambok, a leather whip, went to the fallen woman and beat her, as if it were her fault that she had been pinned to the ground.
Peter spurred his horse and galloped ahead of them. Claire and Blake followed. ‘Hang back,’ she said to him over her shoulder. Blake nodded and kept his distance.
Claire reached Peter as he was dismounting and unstrapping his medical bag from his saddle.
The overseer stepped away from the screaming woman and met Peter on foot. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in German.
‘I’m a doctor. What are you doing beating that woman?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
Claire stepped in and addressed the overseer ‘This man is also a Hauptmann in the Landespolizei, and you will accord him the respect he deserves.’
The overseer, a slovenly man whose uniform was missing a button thanks to his bulging stomach, glared at her, but slowly brought himself to attention and gave Peter a lazy salute. ‘The prisoner fell deliberately, sir, in an attempt to sabotage construction of the line. We are on a tight schedule.’
Peter ignored him. He dropped to his knees and opened his bag.
Claire looked at the poor wretches who stood around the woman. They were painfully thin and dressed in rags, and from their features she guessed them to be a mixed group of Herero and Nama women. She looked to the nearest woman and addressed her in German. ‘What happened here?’
