‘You haven’t said where I might find him, ’Duncan pushed, only to receive a sideways look from the intelligence officer.
‘And I have no idea why this man Klaas is of interest to you, ’ Scott said.
‘It’s a family matter, ’ Duncan replied. ‘Something I would rather not discuss.’
‘Would it make any difference if the man were dead or alive?’ the major asked.
‘It would, ’ Duncan told him. ‘Dead men can’t answer questions.’
Scott nodded. ‘True. Though I cannot promise to keep him that way if we catch him. It would be better for us if Klaas simply disappeared. That way he won’t become a political issue with the Dutch or German governments. We are having enough trouble with them already, bleating about how we are treating their nationals. These Uitlanders are a real pain in the arse. Klaas would claim neutrality if we tried to keep him in prison. Do you get my drift, old chap?’
Duncan understood exactly what the British major was alluding to. ‘All I ask is a few minutes with him.’
‘I see no reason why that wouldn’t be possible. First we have to catch the blighter. The man has been seen twice in the last forty-eight hours. Here, in Pretoria, though that doesn’t mean he hasn’t left by now.’
It was all Duncan needed to know. He would be seeing Cam that evening and even if his brother couldn’t help, Henry sometimes came up with surprising snippets of information. It was worth a try.
TWENTY-FOUR
Duncan was rightly nervous about visiting the shantytown outside the capital, a place of dispossessed Africans – too poor or unwilling to return home – mixed with the dregs of European and native intercourse. He left his horse at a trading store near the outskirts and promised the uninterested owner a penny or two for keeping an eye on it whilst he went on foot to try to make contact with a man Henry had told him was well informed when it came to matters concerning people coming and going in Pretoria’s shadowy world of criminal activity.
Dressed in cast-off civilian clothing and an old army greatcoat – something which made him far too hot – Duncan looked like any other down-and-out Uitlander. However, he carried his Webley service revolver in one of its deep pockets. Although asking questions could prove dangerous, Duncan selected a Zulu and spoke to him in his own language, saying that he needed to find a Portuguese person known simply as Ramos. The unemployed mine labourer considered his request then nodded, offering to show him a grog shop the man frequented. Duncan dropped a couple of coins into an outstretched hand to seal the bargain, then followed the Zulu’s broad back to a flimsy structure made of corrugated iron and old hessian bags.
Pushing through the tiny doorway, Duncan found himself in a smoky, unlit room where men sat on crude benches or leaned against the wall drinking warm millet and sorghum beer or witblits – white lightning – from bottles and a variety of other containers. The clientele were mainly black or coloured but there were some white faces, bearded or otherwise, as well as African prostitutes who would provide sex for the price of a drink. It was a world largely frequented by those who had lost hope.
‘That is the man you seek, ’the Zulu said quietly in a resonant voice, indicating with a nod rather than pointing.
All eyes seemed to be on him, Duncan felt, as he made his way to one of the few tables where a swarthy individual with a shaved head watched his approach with indifference. He wore a gold earring and, unlike most others in the place, appeared to be reasonably well dressed. Duncan put the man at about thirty years of age. The scars on his face told him he had not had an easy life.
‘Ramos?’ Duncan asked, standing over the man who sat with an African woman, a half-finished bottle on the table in front of him.
‘Who wants to know?’ The man had tensed, noticing that Duncan’s hand was still in his coat pocket.
‘I am a friend of the Zulu you know as Henry – from Morningside, in Natal.’
‘And what does this friend of Henry from Morningside want of me?’
‘Just some information, ’Duncan replied. He had not been offered the empty chair vacated by the prostitute. ‘About a Dutchman by the name of Klaas who comes and goes from Pretoria.’
‘I am very thirsty, my friend, ’ Ramos said, producing a large knife which he had been holding under the table. ‘I trust that hand in your pocket has the money to buy me a drink?’
Duncan removed it, placing an ‘old head’ half-sovereign on the table in front of Ramos. The man’s face showed contempt. Duncan took the hint and doubled the amount.
‘This one you speak of is here now, ’ Ramos said, pocketing the money. ‘But it would be dangerous taking you to where he is.’
‘You could tell me how to find the place, ’ Duncan suggested.
‘Do you know what he looks like?’ Ramos asked, and Duncan frowned. ‘I thought not, ’he continued. ‘So you must pay me more if I am to take you to him.’
‘It seems I have little choice. How much more?’
‘The same again, my friend, ’Ramos answered.
Duncan counted out another half-sovereign, in smaller coins this time. ‘I will pay you the balance on delivery, ’ he said.
Ramos nodded and swept up the money. ‘Come back at four o’clock tomorrow morning and I will take you to him. Meet me at the big tree out on the road.’
‘Why not now?’ Duncan sounded suspicious.
‘Because I have other matters to conclude, ’ Ramos replied. ‘That is why.’
Duncan sighed in frustration at the delay but realised that the man sitting at the table was probably his only hope of finding Klaas before the military police tracked him down. ‘I will be there, ’ Duncan said.
‘Make sure you bring the rest of my money, ’ Ramos laughed, swigging from his bottle.
As Duncan was about to leave the she been a familiar voice behind him said quietly, ‘Do not trust the man. Ramos has no loyalty to anything.’ He turned to acknowledge the warning but the Zulu was already melting away into the smoky atmosphere of sweat, stale beer and unwashed bodies.
He walked back into the welcome daylight and after taking a couple of wrong turns to make sure nobody was following, retrieved his horse and paid the storekeeper as promised. It was probably more than the man had made all day. Swinging himself into the saddle, Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the shantytown and wondered what the future held for its inhabitants.
Finding the big tree for his rendezvous with Ramos was easy. Whether he liked it or not, he had to trust the Portuguese.
Duncan waited. The pre-dawn shantytown emitted none of the noises of Africa, only the discordant squabbling of two women – probably drunk, he thought – dogs barking and a bawling child.
Ramos made no apology for being late and didn’t waste words on a greeting. ‘The man you seek is staying at a boarding house in town, ’he said. ‘Follow me.’
Duncan rode behind his informant to the outskirts of Pretoria, where he followed him to a large and rambling house in one of the less wealthy areas of the Transvaal capital.
‘Your man is staying here, ’ Ramos said quietly. ‘Room three. Klaas is tall, in his mid forties, with no beard and a bit more hair than me.’ He rubbed his bald head, seeming to find it funny. ‘And an English accent. Now, my money if you please.’
‘First, take me to his room, ’ Duncan said firmly.
Ramos withdrew his outstretched hand. ‘This was not in our arrangement.’
Duncan slipped the revolver from his pocket.
‘As you wish, ’Ramos said, shrugging and sliding from his horse.
Duncan dismounted and after hitching his reins to the broken-down fence followed the man through an overgrown garden onto the verandah. Treading carefully, they came to a window which was open at the top.
‘Room three, ’ Ramos hissed, easing the bottom wide enough for a person to enter.
Duncan stepped forwards and listened. There was no sound from inside. Cautiously he peered into the unlit room. He could see nothing. Suddenly th
e razor-sharp edge of a knife blade touched his neck. He froze. It had come from behind.
‘I see him, ’a voice said softly from inside the room. ‘Give Ramos the gun, unless you want your throat cut. It’s such a messy way of dying.’
Duncan let him take the Webley.
‘Won’t you come in, ’the unseen man invited. The East End London accent told Duncan it had to be Klaas. He clambered through the window as a match flared and in seconds the room was illuminated by a paraffin lamp. Ramos climbed through after him and shut the window.
Klaas was fully dressed and held a silver-plated Smith & Wesson revolver. ‘Who are you and why do you seek me?’ he asked, the gun pointed unwaveringly at Duncan’s chest.
‘Mister Klaas, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘That is hardly surprising since you were foolish enough to seek me in such a clumsy manner. Now. Must I repeat my question?’
‘My name is Duncan Granger-Acheson. I am a captain at British staff headquarters.’
‘Granger-Acheson.’ Klaas nodded in understanding. ‘And what brings you here at such an anti-social hour?’
‘I believe you know the whereabouts of something which was taken from my brother some months ago. Tell me where it is and I have no further quarrel with you.’
‘Your family is well known to me. You are related to Torben Petersen, are you not?’
‘Correct, ’ Duncan replied. ‘So you also know why I have been seeking you.’
‘At this very minute, I am more interested in who gave you my name.’ Klaas smiled questioningly.
‘Tell me where my niece is and I will be gone, ’ Duncan replied with a dry mouth.
‘I wish that were possible, ’Klaas said sadly. ‘You know as well as I do that I am wanted by your people. Having found me, I really don’t think you can be allowed to leave.’
Duncan felt the first pangs of fear turning to cold terror. He was not likely to leave the room alive and wished he had paid more heed to the Zulu who had warned him about Ramos. Stupidly, he had not told anyone of his mission. It was unlikely that his body would ever be found should Klaas choose to kill him. Worst of all was the thought of never seeing his infant son. ‘I will give my word as an officer and a gentleman not to betray you to the authorities, ’ Duncan said, attempting to remain calm and in control of his emotions. Instinct told him that he had to keep the man talking and play for time if there were to be even the slightest chance of survival.
‘I am sorry, Captain, ’Klaas said. ‘This is not the time for idle chatter.’
Duncan noticed the Dutchman nod and instantly Ramos’s hand clamped around his mouth and nose, forcing his head back. With all the strength and speed Duncan could muster, he reached up and grabbed the man’s wrist, turning and lashing out as he felt cold steel come in contact with his neck. A well-aimed kick found the glass-covered lamp, smashing it against the wall. The sudden darkness lasted less than a second as yellow flames surged up the paraffin-soaked curtains.
His unexpected resistance took both attackers by surprise. No gunshot followed. Duncan had guessed correctly that the Dutchman would want to kill him as silently as possible. Attention was something the man could do without. Duncan spun on his heel but failed to avoid a savage blow from Klaas, who slammed his revolver against the back of his head, knocking him to the floor.
‘Enough, ’ he heard Klaas say, as if from a great distance. ‘The fire and your handiwork will take care of him. Leave quickly, by the window.’
Duncan lay in a semiconscious state and wondered what they were talking about. He opened his eyes to find flames spreading rapidly through the room, creeping across the carpet, licking hungrily at the dry wooden walls. A numbness in his throat told him that the fire was not his only problem. His hand sought the cause and came away covered in blood as it welled from a deep slash in his neck. He fought to stay awake, groggily gaining his feet and staggering towards the door. It was locked, but the key was still there. Duncan managed to turn it and fell out into the passage beyond.
Already the acrid fumes and crackling flames had alerted others and the cry ‘Fire! Fire!’ brought half-dressed residents spilling out of their rooms in panic. Someone caught Duncan under the arms, dragging him outside into the fresh air as the tinder-dry building became a billowing furnace of fire and dense black smoke.
‘You all right, mate?’ Duncan heard what he thought was an Australian accent. ‘Strewth, this fella’s had his bleedin’ throat cut.’
So that was it, Duncan thought as he passed into oblivion.
‘You were damned lucky, little brother, ’Cameron said, standing by the hospital bed.
Duncan looked distinctly mournful. The person who had pulled him from the boarding house was an out-of-work grain bag sewer. After checking to make sure the wound was only superficial, he had used the tools of his trade to quickly and carefully stitch it up. Fortunately for Duncan, the man used a curved sewing needle and not the broad-tipped sailmaker’s variety normally needed for heavy hessian bags. According to the army doctor who later examined the wounded captain and dressed the nasty gash to his head, the work was excellent. Duncan would be on his feet in a day or two. He had been more than just lucky.
‘You can tell Henry that his information about Ramos was quite right. He led me straight to Klaas but only because that Dutch bastard wanted to know where I got his name from. Fortunately, he’s none the wiser. He probably thinks I’m dead by now so at least Alice is in no greater danger.’
‘It may not be that simple, ’ Cameron warned. ‘When you’re on your feet there’s bound to be an enquiry. The powers that be will want to know why an officer from staff HQ was pulled from a burning building with his throat cut.’
‘I’ll think of something. Our immediate problem is still Klaas. I almost had him, Cam, ’Duncan rasped, struggling to sit up. ‘Now he and Ramos are probably halfway to Portuguese East.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Cameron asked.
‘Stands to reason, ’Duncan said. ‘They took both the horses and Klaas knows he’s wanted by military intelligence. That fire at the boarding house will have drawn a lot of attention. If I were him, I would get out of the country until things quieten down.’
‘You could well be right, ’Cameron agreed. ‘The border is patrolled by Steinacker’s Horse but it’s a bloody big area. My latest orders are to go in and give old “Stinky” a hand.’
Duncan had heard of the self-styled Baron – Colonel Ludwig Steinacker – who had become a legend in the eastern Transvaal. ‘So he may not have given us the slip after all. May you have better luck than me.’ Settling back against the pillows, he sighed. ‘Be careful, Cam. That man is much more dangerous than Torben and Father realise – especially if Ramos is travelling with him.’
‘Then you’d better tell me all you know.’ Cameron sat on the bed and listened until a not-to-be-meddled-with matron came and chased the tough-looking major from his brother’s side.
Still mulling over what he had learned, Cameron rejoined his new troop outside Pretoria and was met by Sergeant-Major Mulligan.
‘All stores and men accounted for, sir, ’ he reported smartly.
‘Thank you, Sarn’t-Major.’ Cameron glanced around the cluster of white canvas tents and noticed Henry, currycombing his horse on the picket line. ‘Please inform the officers that there will be a briefing in my tent at 1700 hours.’
‘Sah!’ the senior noncommissioned officer acknowledged with a salute. They were not in the field so he considered such a gesture appropriate.
Cameron watched his NCO stride away to inform those necessary that group orders were scheduled for later that afternoon. He often wondered why Mulligan chose to stay as a sergeant major under his command when the man could so easily have secured a more senior posting with their previous unit. The Irishman was not one to talk much – let alone explain his feelings – but the simple act of refusing promotion in favour of staying with Cameron said more than words could about loyalty and respec
t. It was a gesture which had touched Cameron very much – one which had helped him come to terms with past mistakes.
Henry glanced up, coming stiffly to attention as military protocol dictated.
‘I see you, my friend, ’ Cameron said in Zulu – the language they used with each other in private conversations. ‘I have just returned from visiting Duncan in hospital. The man you recommended to him as a source of information tried to cut his throat.’
The Zulu turned a shade of grey. ‘What happened? Is he badly hurt?’
‘His injuries are not serious.’ Cameron went on to tell him what he had learned from Duncan, then said, ‘Now, I need to know more about this man who tried to kill my brother. Come with me.’
Henry followed Cameron to his tent where he spread a map on the folding table. ‘Have you any idea where we might find Ramos?’ he asked.
After a brief examination, Henry’s finger followed the railway line to where it stopped at Pietersburg, well to the north of Pretoria. ‘He has a woman here, ’ Henry said. ‘I have heard that he often visits her.’
Cameron studied the map, considering the options open to Klaas. It made sense that he and Ramos would not take a direct route to the border. There were too many troops and checkpoints to the east of Pretoria whereas further north, above the Olifant’s River, British influence all but ceased to exist.
‘Who is this man Klaas?’ Henry asked, realising that his friend was holding something back.
‘The man we really want, ’ Cameron replied. ‘You and I have to find him.’
Henry scowled. ‘Why did you not tell me this?’ he asked. ‘Do you not trust me?’
Cameron was taken aback by the rebuke and, after pausing for a few seconds, decided to tell his friend the full story.
Henry listened in silence. Until that afternoon he had known nothing of Alice’s abduction. He was both hurt and angry. Even Duncan had hidden the real reason for seeking Ramos as a contact.
Footprints of Lion Page 38
