Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  The young Nama was blown backwards and rolled down the hill. Blake reached for the Mauser at his belt as de Waal spun around to face him. De Waal lifted a Colt revolver but Blake fired first, two shots from his automatic, and knocked him down.

  As de Waal fell Blake could see that du Preez had brought Dawie’s Lee–Metford up to his shoulder and was taking careful aim, waiting for his moment. Blake pulled the trigger again, but du Preez was fifty yards up the dune. It was long range for a pistol, but not a rifle.

  Blake fell onto his back, and while he felt no pain immediately he put his fingers on his belly and they came away red.

  Du Preez half jogged, half slid down the loose sand of the dune and came to Blake. He looked down at him. ‘If you think I’m going to put you out of your misery, you’re wrong, Blake.’

  Blake stared up at him, meeting the other man’s eyes. Du Preez knew his real name; this was not just a crooked deal. He had been betrayed.

  ‘You don’t deserve a quick end for what you’ve done. You can bleed, burn or freeze to death, depending on whether the bullet, the sun or the cold night take you first.’

  Du Preez spat on him, then turned and walked away. Blake said a prayer for Claire and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 51

  The desert east of Lüderitz, Namibia, the present day

  Nick looked up past Joanne and saw Scott running towards them. He hoped that Scott would be able to tackle her and get the gun off her before she could shoot him as well.

  There was a whizzing sound, like Nick had heard on Shark Island, and then a puff of red spray erupted from Scott’s chest and he pitched forward into the sand.

  Joanne stood and looked at the two men at her feet.

  ‘It didn’t have to be like this,’ Joanne said.

  ‘It was you,’ Nick said. He had his hand on his belly and when he looked down he could see blood oozing from between his fingers.

  ‘You stopped me going for my gun,’ Joanne said. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You . . . you said something to me earlier, about my time on The Australian. I never told you the name of the newspaper I worked for. Susan, though, had researched me. I wasn’t sure – maybe you googled me and found some of my old bylines . . .’ He coughed and the pain came, at last, unwelcome, ‘so I checked Facebook in the car.’

  ‘Bloody Facebook,’ she said.

  Nick managed a small nod. He felt himself getting weaker as his shirt became increasingly wet. ‘I looked at your profile, at your friends, and found your sister. Trudy Walters.’

  Joanne sighed. ‘Yes. There are millions of Walterses in the world, Nick.’

  ‘Yes, but your great-grandfather, or whatever he was, Llewellyn Walters, was the man who set up my relative and Claire Martin to be killed. It was you, not Scott, who was obsessed with finding Kruger’s gold, and I’m guessing that fixation was handed down to you through the generations.’

  Joanne looked away from him, just for an instant, and waved to someone in the distance before giving them a thumbs-up.

  ‘The same sniper who fired at us on Shark Island?’ Nick said.

  ‘Yes. One of my ex-husband’s old Koevoet buddies, but he works for me these days. Money’s stronger than any ideology. He could have killed you there, Nick, and the woman. You were meant to be scared off, just like everyone else who came into contact with the manuscript.’

  ‘What . . .’ his vision was starting to grey, ‘what about Susan? She must have worked for you, as well as Scott. Was she in on your plan all along?’

  Joanne frowned. ‘I can’t let you live, Nick, but I’m not so cruel as to let you die without knowing about Susan. I sent Susan to Australia with a cover story about writing an article, to search the archives and find a descendent of Cyril Blake, to see if she could turn up some new evidence about what happened to Kruger’s gold. When she found out about your manuscript I told her to get a copy immediately, to steal one if you wouldn’t hand it over straight away. She told me to wait, that she had convinced you to share it with her, but I didn’t want to wait for some German kid to translate it, or for you or anyone else to get to the gold before me. Susan objected, telling me she was a PI, not criminal, and wouldn’t be a part of any thieving.’

  ‘She . . . she went to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joanne said, ‘she came to Cape Town and threatened to call in the police and expose me. As well as objecting to my methods I think she genuinely fell for you, Nick. Shame. However, I think she needed time to break the news to you that she’d been less than honest with you. After she stormed out of my office, I followed her in my car, called her and convinced her to pull over. She stopped and we talked, but she didn’t see reason. Stupid.’

  Nick felt the bile rise in his throat and he didn’t know if it was his wound or his revulsion for this manicured woman who stood over him, talking as if she was recounting a bothersome business meeting. ‘You shot her.’

  Joanne stared at him, but said nothing.

  He could see it in those cold eyes. ‘You made it look like a carjacking and you sent me that SMS, pretending to be Susan breaking up with me.’

  Joanne smiled.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Nick croaked.

  ‘No, Nick, fuck you. You lose, and now I know where the gold is.’

  ‘The . . . the museum and visitors’ centre on Shark Island. That was your idea, not Scott’s, so you could look for the gold while the foundations were dug.’

  ‘My very ex-husband was as appalling a lover as he was a businessman. Even though we divorced it was in my interest for his ludicrous Windhoek golf estate to proceed; I still have shares in his company. The development approval was looking shaky but as soon as I learned about the gold buried at Shark Island I planted the idea of the cultural centre in his head. It all came together nicely – the Namibian Government loved the idea, and now that Scott’s dead I can take over the company and proceed with both the estate and digging up the causeway.’

  ‘You’ve got what you want, Joanne.’ He coughed and winced.

  ‘Yes, I have. I’d offer to let you live, but this is too messy. You had plenty of chances to run away like the failure you are. Ironically, Susan gave you a set of balls you never had. Now, if I hurry I’ll catch Anja before she gets to the police. In my car I shouldn’t have any trouble hitting two hundred per hour on the road to Lüderitz. I’ll easily catch that tourist wagon, but it’s time for us to say goodbye. Sorry, Nick.’

  Joanne lifted the pistol and took aim at Nick. He stared at her, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of closing his eyes. Before he died he said a prayer for Anja, and for Susan.

  Chapter 52

  The desert east of Lüderitz, Namibia, the present day

  ‘Stop the car!’ Anja had seen the Hilux pick-up on the side of the road, with no one in sight.

  The bonnet was not up, indicating engine trouble, and a quick inspection when Anja got out showed that none of the tyres were punctured. Ray and Anne, the English tourists who were driving her, had suffered a blowout before picking her up. The hired vehicle’s jack and wheel spanner were sitting on the backseat next to her, where they had been tossed, awaiting proper stowage.

  On the far side of the Hilux Anja had seen a single set of footprints leading away into the desert.

  Anja had been in two minds. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for the vehicle being there, but she couldn’t think of one. She looked out into the desert and a glint of light, a reflection on glass, caught her eye.

  ‘Go to the police in Lüderitz!’ she said to Ray as she reached into his vehicle and grabbed the wheel spanner. ‘Get them to send someone back here, immediately. Tell them it’s murder. Send an ambulance as well, just in case.’

  ‘What about my spanner?’

  ‘I’ll give it back to you when you bring the damn police!’

  Ray drove off, prob
ably grateful to be rid of her, Anja thought. She walked into the desert and saw now why the bakkie was parked where it was. Ahead of her was a dune that ran perpendicular to the road. It was high and would have an unobstructed view over the point where Joanne had stopped, less than half a kilometre away.

  An easy shot for a trained sniper.

  Anja remembered her time hunting with her father. She stooped low as she moved, which she did as quickly and as quietly as she could. The sand muffled her footprints.

  She saw the man’s boots first, just below the crest of the dune. He had nestled his body into the sand and was peering intently through the rifle’s telescopic sights. She caught sight of his right hand and recognised the liver spots and scar she had seen on the man who had assaulted her.

  Anja saw the slight jerk of the man’s shoulder and heard the muffled report of the bullet leaving the barrel. As her father had told her, there was no such thing as a truly silenced rifle.

  Anja started to run. She prayed she would not be too late.

  The man was still peering through his scope. As Anja got closer she could see over the ridge of the dune. Joanne was standing, a hand outstretched. Both Scott and Nick were lying on the ground. Anja felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Did this mean she was seconds too late? Rage overtook her and she ran at the prone man.

  He must have heard the squeak of her shoes on the sand because he started to roll, but not before Anja swung the spanner and brought it down hard on the side of his head.

  The sniper fell back, either out cold or dead from the blow. Anja didn’t have time to check his pulse. She lay down behind the rifle and sighted through the scope. As the figures below came into focus she could see that Nick was moving a little, lifting one hand as if gesturing while speaking, though his other hand was over his belly.

  Joanne raised her pistol and took aim at Nick.

  Time suddenly seemed to slow down. Without thinking anything at all, Anja stilled her breathing, worked the bolt on the rifle to chamber a round, took aim, and fired.

  Joanne fell to the ground. Anja studied her through the scope. Her heart was racing and her brain was not quite able to process the fact that she had just shot someone, and possibly killed her. She watched Joanne for a few seconds, but the woman did not move. Nick crawled across to Joanne, obviously in pain, and took the pistol from her hands.

  Anja set down the rifle and went to the man she had hit. She checked his pulse and found he was still alive, but unconscious. Casting about for something she could use to secure him with, she saw that he was wearing a bracelet made of braided parachute cord. She pulled it over his hand and quickly unravelled it before using it to tie his wrists behind his back. Then she checked his pockets and found the keys to the Hilux. Anja picked up the rifle, ran down the dune to the bakkie, got in and sped down the road to Nick.

  She would need something to treat him with, she realised. Jumping out, she searched the back of the Hilux and found a first aid kit which she ran with to Nick.

  ‘You . . .’ he said as she dropped to her knees next to him, almost out of breath.

  ‘Yes.’ She took out a wound dressing and unwrapped it. ‘Place the pad against the bullet hole and hold it there, as hard as you can.’

  ‘The sniper?’

  ‘He’s out cold, tied up.’

  Anja couldn’t help but notice the look of admiration on Nick’s face. ‘Where . . . where did you learn to shoot like that, to do first aid, to beat up and tie up a gunman?’

  She smiled. ‘Africa.’

  *

  As Anja had hoped, they met a police car and ambulance with lights flashing on their way back to Lüderitz.

  Paramedics carried Nick out of the Hilux, where Anja had helped him lie across the back seat, and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. After giving the police a brief rundown of the crime scene that awaited them further along the road to Aus, Anja got in the back of the vehicle with Nick.

  While a paramedic checked him and ran an IV line into his arm, Nick managed to hang on to consciousness. ‘Anja . . .’

  ‘Yes, Nick?’ She took his hand and squeezed it, as hard as she dared. Anja looked into Nick’s eyes and had the sudden realisation that she did not want to let go of him.

  ‘Read the ending for me, please,’ he said, ‘but don’t let go of my hand.’

  Epilogue

  Aus prisoner of war camp, the former colony of German South West Africa, now a British protectorate, 1915

  On this cold night in the desert I have come to the end of our tale.

  Colonel von Deimling heard from the Boer, du Preez, that he had left Blake wounded, to die in pain like a dog in the desert. The colonel was a man driven by efficiency and wanted proof that Blake, the man also known as Edward Prestwich, was dead. He ordered a patrol under his aide, Leutnant Kurtz, to go into the desert to where the ambush had taken place and ascertain that Blake had indeed perished.

  As the Landespolizei doctor, I was ordered to accompany the patrol and ensure that Blake did not return alive. Von Deimling was furious that Claire had escaped and Kurtz and I were told that unless we confirmed Blake was dead he would have both our heads.

  I confess I was surprised to find Blake still alive. How he survived nearly twenty-four hours in the desert, under the burning sun and through the freezing night, blood oozing from the hellishly painful wound in his belly, I have no idea.

  Perhaps it was his innate strength. Perhaps it was love.

  The members of our little patrol that set out from von Deimling’s forward headquarters at Klipdam Farm that day were hard men, many of whom had lost comrades to the Nama. I am sure they felt little if any sympathy towards Blake, who had run guns and horses to the rebels and killed his fair share of German boys. However, it is thankfully a rare breed of soldier who has the stomach to shoot an unarmed wounded man in the head.

  Although I was ‘only’ the doctor, and a mere police reservist, I outranked Kurtz, so I was able to announce to the patrol that I would check on Blake and do what needed to be done. The other Schutztruppen talked among themselves and lit pipes and cigarettes and looked away from the deed that was about to be done, but they were close enough to hear my conversation with Blake.

  He was delirious from pain and fever but the first word he said to me was ‘Claire’.

  For the benefit of my military comrades, listening in, I told him Claire was dead, that she had drowned.

  I told him I had come to kill him. I confess, dear reader, that for a moment I thought of doing just that. I loved Claire, just as Blake did, and my career, possibly my life, were in jeopardy from my superiors if they found out I had assisted the Nama and facilitated my wife’s escape to the coast. Kurtz, too, would have suffered if it had come to light that he had helped us.

  However, I had developed a grudging respect for Blake and I was, in truth, envious of the love he and Claire shared. At the same time, I was falling in love with someone else and I could not go to her in the knowledge that I had executed a man she had once cared for deeply. There had been enough killing in my beloved corner of Africa.

  My anger at everything that had happened was real, but my aim was not true. I fired a bullet into the sand next to Blake’s head. I surreptitiously reached into my medical bag and took out a dressing, which I put into Blake’s hand and had him press against the bullet hole. Young Kurtz came over and he clearly saw that Blake was still alive, yet he simply told his men to ‘mount up’, and he and I both told Colonel von Deimling what our commander wanted to hear.

  That night I stole out of camp, with the ambulance cart drawn by two horses and two spare mounts tethered behind us. I would not have been surprised to find Blake dead for real, but he had managed to hang on through the rest of the day. Though Blake had lost a good deal of blood the bullet had, miraculously, missed his vital organs and exited out his side. I cleaned his wound as best I
could and laid upon it a poultice made from the kraalbos plant. The bushman healers I had met used this to good effect in the treatment of skin conditions and wounds that were putrefying.

  The horses that Blake and his dead comrade had brought with them were grazing on desert grass nearby, as was Blake’s faithful mount, Bluey. I could not take the animals with me and it seemed cruel to leave them tethered to each other. I unsaddled Bluey and untied the rest of the animals. One-by-one, they galloped off. Bluey seemed at first unwilling to leave Blake and trotted along behind the wagon for the first hour or so. The other horses had formed a loose herd and moved parallel to us. Eventually Bluey left us to join the others and they drifted away. I am sure that at least some of them survived and bred as, occasionally, over the years since, I have seen wild horses and foals at a distance in the desert.

  I partially dressed Blake in German uniform and the two of us journeyed once again across South West Africa, westwards, towards Lüderitz. I scrounged food and water for us and the horses at Aus and told my story, several times over, that I was taking the wounded son of a prominent German politician to Lüderitz for treatment and a ticket home to the Fatherland.

  The decay had begun to set into Blake’s wound and he cried and yelled through two nights, most often calling the name of the woman he loved. It wasn’t Liesl, it was Claire.

  In time the bushmen’s herb worked its magic; Blake’s fever broke and the stitches I had placed in his wound looked clean. When Blake was lucid I told him that I had lied about Claire’s death, and spread the word through Keetmanshoop that she had drowned at sea. Blake cried and, I think, would have hugged me if he’d had the strength.

  On our journey I quizzed him, as I had Claire, about his recollection of events in South Africa and in our colony, about Walters and his love for my wife. He told me everything, just as Claire had explained her relationship with the American, Belvedere, and her motivation for stealing the gold. Claire had also told me where the gold was buried, on Shark Island, though at that time it was clear that I could not very well start digging up the causeway leading to the concentration camp. I told Claire that if I ever did find the gold I would keep it for her. Well, some of it.