by P. W. Child
Wearily, he stared at Mieke. Stiffly leaning on the lectern, he looked at her with hardly a spark of resistance left in him. In the end, he figured, it did not matter anymore whether he was caught or not. How could his reputation get worse than that of a lecturer who failed to fill up even one measly course, let alone do anything significant in the world? Malgas realized that Mieke only suggested to him a means to revive what he had already deemed dead and gone – his career as a historian, holding extensive knowledge of secrets no longer pertinent to the chase for glory these days. Even if he was discovered, his ruse exposed, he was a nobody, so it wouldn’t change much anyway.
Dr. Malgas looked at all the books, pamphlets and research he had prepared for the class of students who did not appreciate his efforts and had no respect for his years of studying. Mieke was right. He knew that now. She was the only one who knew how hard he had worked to bring the University students an enjoyable and informative course.
“They probably only take this class to get credits when they would have failed other courses,” he admitted. His voice trembled with disappointment in the dim light of the immaculate lecture hall. Only his projector and one spotlight above him illuminated the lectern, just as his career only barely kept alive by the meager admiration of few.
“We both know that,” Mieke agreed. “And once they hear of the secrets you have uncovered in your study of Nazi artifacts of post-World War II, they will be flocking to your lecture hall to hang on every word, every fact, every morsel of information you give them.”
Gradually, in the context of her desperate idea, Dr. Malgas realized that Mieke Badenhorst was meaning well and that her unorthodox methods were perhaps just the level of recklessness he needed to resuscitate his career. He had never been one to break the rules, but his reluctance was now challenged by utmost necessity.
When he had everything packed, he gave Mieke a long, stern look, “Are you aware of the possible repercussions of what you are suggesting?”
“I gave it more thought than you think, sir,” she answered, dead serious.
He gave a weary sigh, collected his case and motioned with his head, “Let’s get out of here. This is not something we should be discussing at the institution, let alone in a bloody auditorium.”
Mieke nodded, adamant to dispose of every last bit of doubt Dr. Malgas might still have been harboring. As a matter of fact, even if they were to be caught she was prepared to own up to it and take the brunt of the blame, as long as her mentor started shedding his self-doubts and found his confidence in the process.
Something moved in the far distance of the auditorium. It drew Dr. Malgas attention, but in the darkness, it was hard to discern. He flicked the lights on just before they left the lecture hall, quickly surveying the room. Uniform in their appearance the rows of seats revealed no intruders.
“What’s the matter, sir?” Mieke asked, peeking around the doorway to ascertain what he was looking at.
“Just thought I saw something,” he frowned. He had a distinct feeling that they had unwanted company.
Eventually, he abandoned his suspicion and switched off the lights. Together they walked along the main hallway toward the staff room and main entrance of the University of Port Elizabeth.
“When we are ready to make this public we will need someone we trust to report on it, Dr. Malgas. I know a few journo students who would love the opportunity…”
“No!” he cut her off. His face was contorted in focused somberness. “No amateurs, Mieke. This is far too serious to entrust to the fumbling vocabulary of rookies, let alone their ineptitude in dealing with press vultures should they get put on the spot.”
He breathed heavily in his urgent thoughts and kept his voice low as they approached the lobby. “We need someone who had experience in spinning the truth, a sharp mind, fearless in the business of journalism, someone who is credible.”
“It would help if this sharp mind were a friend or close colleague, I agree,” she remarked. “Do you know anyone?”
“I do. The best. His name is Sam Cleave.”
Ch apter 2 – After Whuppity Scoorie
The water rippled around the keel of the small boat, waves spreading outward on the silver shimmer of the surface. It was hard to tell where the water ended, and the equally gray skies began, but Sam's lens could tell the two apart just perfectly. He used a telephoto lens for his photos to capture the perfect lines of the lake, even though he had ignored Father Hennessey's good advice to sleep off the whisky before embarking on his photography journey aboard the small row boat he lent the world famous journalist.
Sam was exhausted after two days of the local festival in Lanark, but he had to stay at least another day to interview the visiting old Colonel McAdams, a veteran of two wars and local C-list celebrity. The Whuppity Scoorie festival had turned raunchy after the first day, just the way Sam Cleave liked it, even though he had become wary of his drunken public performances after the kilt incident a few years back, where he had fallen off a table while dancing and exposing way too much to the cheering crowd.
In the far distance, he saw a few other boats, all larger than his, bobbing under the afternoon sky. Sam memorized where the reverend’s jetty was, making sure that it would not take him long to get back there before dark. Clumps of trees lined the park along the lake, and he heard the occasional cry of golfers in the distance, triumphing over a difficult hole.
Peaceful and clear, the water carried a group of swans near the banks, and Sam wondered how he had spent so many years in the bustle of Edinburgh's news industry. Briefly, his thoughts dipped into the inky black of his past, where he had stored bad memories, and he recalled the sound of the gunshot that killed his fiancé. He remembered the grime of the docks and the warehouses where he had spent so many nights stalking the criminals he had been investigating, living on bad coffee and cheap cigarettes for the pursuit of justice – or fame? Even the fact that he had exposed those criminals all those years ago when he was the king of investigative journalism didn't make the loss more bearable.
Since his involvement with the Wolfenstein expedition he had evolved into a more sophisticated writer, and was able to choose his assignments. Working on and off as freelancer with billionaire inventor Dave Purdue had granted Sam an elite reputation as a fearless professional. His time of peace had come, and that meant that he was no longer forced to accept an assignment without a measure of control or agreement – not to mention the lucrative nature of Purdue’s excursions. Purdue’s generous remuneration and his bestselling book had established Sam financially, no longer leaving him desperate for gigs. Now he had relative freedom and watching the swans gliding on the mirror of the lake reiterated his mental state, his all-encompassing tranquility of late.
Sam thought about Nina. He had helped her lug some crates to her house a few weeks ago, upon which they had discovered some old, mostly insignificant, relics and a whole stack of old hand-drawn maps. He recalled their reluctance at handling the contents of the box that creeped them out, but on closer investigation found that the grisly taxidermy was nothing but the failed hobby of the box’s original owner. The tatty old skin and balding skull had nothing to do with the writings and only served to frighten off would-be thieves of his valuable maps.
Nina had handed the box to Dave Purdue for examination since he had mentioned something similar that he had unsuccessfully been searching for. Since then, Sam had not heard from either of them concerning the find. He decided to wrap up his photography session, put his equipment back into his camera bag, and started rowing back to the bank of the lake. The calming sound of the oars breaking the surface every time came to a distinct rhythm as Sam urged the small boat forward. For a moment, the dark water beneath him kicked his imagination into gear.
Wonder what is under this pretty lake? The water is rather black, so it must be deep… “Stop it,” he said out loud, and his thoughts retracted their tentacles. “Just get to the bar.”
As far as he knew, Sam had no phobias
, although there were things that came pretty close. Dogs, heights, and spiders did not exactly provoke amicable emotions in him, but while they were hardly phobias per se, he realized that he had been wary of bodies of water far more than he should have. He figured that that was how phobias began, so he ignored his silliness and abandoned any thoughts not involving whisky, his cat, Nina or the collective of all three, soon to join him at his house for the weekend.
Once he had moored the boat, he made for the warm glow of the small establishment that was already crowded. It was going to be a long night, but first he wanted to store away his gear and change clothes. While Sam reorganized his luggage, his phone rang.
“Not now,” he moaned, dropping his razor to retrieve his cell from his jacket. On the screen, he saw a name he had never expected to see again. During their last encounter both had almost died fleeing from a criminal smuggling organization that they had exposed: they had caught eight men stealing Portuguese coins and a trunk containing antique swords and daggers from a shipwreck. It had been sometime in the mid-nineties when Sam had followed a lead to an institution in Angola concerning a ring of smugglers robbing museums and university store rooms for black market antique sales.
“Malgas?” Sam asked in a tone between surprise and concern.
"Hello, Sam. How have you been?" the voice on the phone replied, but Sam was hoping the question was directed out of propriety and not serious interest. If Sam had to catch up on all the incredible things he had experienced since last seeing Billy Malgas, they would be on the phone for days.
"Fine. Fine, thanks, old mate. What a surprise this is!” he marveled.
“A good one, I hope,” Malgas replied with a nervous chuckle.
Sam was not sure, in fact. The two men had not exactly shared happy times together, but they had enjoyed each other’s company. “Of course! Where in the world are you now?”
“South Africa,” Malgas replied. “I am a lecturer at a university in Port Elizabeth…”
“Sounds great,” Sam interrupted. He wished that Malgas would get to the point. His stomach was growling, and his liver was bored.
“Yes, but,” Malgas stuttered, “I have something you might be interested in covering.”
Sam paused. Granted the man did not know that Sam was not working for The Bugle or the Post anymore, he allowed Malgas to carry on.
“Go on,” he said.
Malgas started to explain, trying to keep his anxiety hidden from the delivery of his words. He was not a man to lie, let alone to deliberately mislead someone, but he had to pull through on this one or else he would be left broke and unable to claw his way out of the unemployment pit unless he could get to the United Kingdom or Egypt.
"I think I found a long-missing ship off the Algoa coast, Sam, and I would like you to help me cover the salvage and whatever press I can get afterward," Malgas explained. His voice was quivering somewhat, but Sam construed it as excitement. He had not spoken to or seen Billy Malgas for years, but he knew him to be a solid, trustworthy man of reason. He was far from those academics who always insisted on being correct and all-knowing in their tiny fields of research. Malgas was always willing to listen to alternatives and those who tried to dispute his theories were always granted his consideration in their counter-arguments.
“That is positively riveting, Billy!” Sam exclaimed while he smelled the socks he was about to wear. He put the cell on speaker phone and went about sorting his clothes. Sam was genuinely excited about Malgas’ discovery and he was eager to be involved in something groundbreaking in history, but all he could think of now was the single malt his liver was craving.
“Oh, it is!” Malgas replied. “I just have one problem that I also hoped you could help me with.” He quickly added, “Just a referral maybe… some advice,” as not to sound needy.
“Of course, old boy. What can I help you with?” Sam asked as he pulled off his shirt.
“I feel extremely embarrassed to admit this,” Malgas said in a tone rife with shame, “but I was wondering if you knew of some organization that would be willing to sponsor the salvage? I have some funds put away, but to bring this thing to the surface and have various experts examine it, you know…would, uh, cost me more than what my soul is worth.” Billy Malgas chuckled coyly, but Sam knew that he had swallowed all his pride just to get that sentence out.
“Well, as luck would have it, I happen to know of some people who might consider your proposal,” Sam offered. Immediately he pictured Purdue’s face at the prospect of another world-historical secret coming to light with the help of the billionaire. “I’m not saying it’s a definite, but I am sure I’d be able to steer some attention to your project. Do I contact you by phone? Do you still have the same e-mail?”
Malgas sounded a tad reluctant, but Sam chalked it up to his unexpected success at procuring interest. “That sounds amazing, Sam. Please, rather call me. I don’t trust e-mail accounts that much.”
“I agree,” Sam smiled. “I will see if we can set up a meeting sometime soon to discuss the details of the excavation…or…salvage, as you say. I’ll talk to you soon, alright?”
***
“Absolutely! That would be wonderful, Sam. Thanks so much!” Billy Malgas replied excitedly. After he had hung up the phone, a sudden bolt of uncertain fear pulsed through his veins. His eyes moved over the fixtures in the ceiling above him as he sighed laboriously, “What have you gotten yourself into, Billy?”
“What are you so worried about, Dr. Malgas?” Mieke asked as she brought them both a drink. In the safety of his home office nobody was listening, but still his conscience reprimanded him. He took the mug of fresh Rooibos tea from Mieke.
“It is now official, you know? I am officially obliged to deliver a discovery that does not exist,” he lamented.
“You worry too much, sir,” she assured him. “My friends have already started their dives to plant the necessary markings on the wreck off Bluewater Bay. Even if it comes to light that the wreck is not the one we claim, you will always have the markings on it to show the world why you believed it to be a Nazi boat.”
“I would look like an inept fool,” he countered.
“No, after my friends have placed the relevant artifacts on the sunken vessel, anyone would easily be convinced that it was a ship from World War II,” she reminded him.
“Well, I hope you are right, Mieke. People like Sam Cleave and the likes of him don’t just fall for any old nonsense. My reputation is on the line on so many levels,” he warned her.
Inside, he was looking forward to seeing his old friend again, even if the circumstances were somewhat sordid. But for now, his intentions would have to remain secret.
Chapter 3 – Barter
Cheryl could not jump. No matter how miserable her life was, there was simply too much she still wanted to achieve, and there was no way she was going to throw that away. With her luck, she would end up being a vegetable or worse yet, a woman of sound mind with no use of her legs. On the other hand, surrendering to the men pursuing her would perhaps hold more bad luck. If she were fortunate, they would only kill her. She knew their type well – rapists, torturers, and opportunists who felt no remorse or responsibility for their crimes. How would they? The police and most of the local government were on their payroll.
Zain opened the window next to her. The ledge Cheryl was standing on reached no farther than the edge of the building, making it impossible for her to move away from the window without falling.
“Come now, Cheryl,” he said, peeking from under the bottom frame of the window, which he had slid upward. His voice was clear even in the gusts that impeded her hearing as he coaxed her back inside with the promise that she would not be murdered if she cooperated. “It’s cold and slippery out there,” Zain insisted. “Come inside and we’ll talk like adults, hey?”
She frowned in distrust, “Like you did with Alison? The same way you spoke with Hilary?"
Zain scoffed and shook his head.
He would never admit it, but his stomach churned in remembrance of those women. He had had no choice but to kill them. Contrary to what anyone would think, he had not enjoyed ending their lives one bit. He, too, had a boss who rated his efficiency, and if he failed he would share their fate.
“How many are with you?” she asked.
“Just one other, I swear,” he reported. He stuck his head out as far as he could to add, “But he is harmless unless I tell him to strike. I promise, Cheryl. He is not even worth considering.”
Cheryl Tobias gave it some thought. She tried to keep her mind as clear as possible, but the latest hit of blow had left her too paranoid to regulate her perceptions of danger. She took the drug to keep her awake and alert, but she neglected to cater for the subsequent anxiety that usually followed when she came down.
Eyes wild and unquiet stared down at the thug in the window. He knew she would have to act soon, but he honestly did not care if she decided to jump or not. Cheryl expelled a frustrated cry, her skinny fingers clutching the corner of the window bricks. A moment later she looked at Zain, “Move over. I’m coming in.”
He stepped aside, but not before grasping her wrist in mock-protectiveness from where he planned to control her movements.
Her heart pounded rampantly in her chest, but Cheryl had reached the point where she no longer cared if he was sincere or not. Even if Zain was going to kill her, the drugs made her indifferent and hopefully dampened her pain sensors should he decide to run her through. She watched the two men rapidly exchange looks as he helped her inside.
As she set both feet back on the floor again and slowly brought the window down to lock out the world, Cheryl's eyes welled up with tears. Both her wet eyes and the dirty glass of her window formed a thick shroud that cut her off from any help from the outside world. Now it was final. She had surrendered, and nobody would ever know that she was dead when they dumped her body in the muddy rivers outside Addo’s game reserves for the crocodiles to chomp on.
