The plane leveled out of its banking turn and descended toward Springbok’s airstrip. As they landed, the tires kissed the dirt tarmac without the slightest bounce. They rolled to the end of the runway and turned right toward the terminal, administrative offices, and maintenance hangars.
Christopher drew the Cessna to a smooth stop alongside a powder-blue Toyota SUV. A man bearing a striking resemblance to Christopher and his brother waved from the driver’s seat.
Tucker called toward the cockpit, “Another brother, Christopher?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wayne. That is Paul, my youngest brother. He flew up here last night to arrange things and make inquiries.”
When the engines had come to a complete stop, Christopher walked back, opened the side door, and helped them out.
A palpable blast of heat struck Tucker in the face.
Anya gasped at it.
Bukolov grumbled his displeasure. “What is this fresh hell you have brought us to, Tucker?”
Christopher laughed. “Do not worry. You will get used to the heat.” He stepped away, embraced his brother Paul, and motioned them into the SUV. “My brother has arranged accommodations at a guesthouse not far from here.”
“Why?” Bukolov said. “How long will we be staying here?”
“At least the night. Matthew will remain here and guard your supplies. If you’ll climb aboard, please.”
Soon they were heading north on a highway marked R355. Barren foothills flanked both sides, their eroded reddish-orange flanks revealing black granite domes.
“This place looks like Mars,” Bukolov said. “I’ve seen no water at all in this godforsaken land. How are we supposed to find a well out here?”
“Patience, Doc,” Tucker said.
They finally reached the outskirts of Springbok. It could have passed for a small town in Arizona, with narrow, winding streets bordered by modest ranch homes.
Paul turned into a crescent-shaped driveway lined by thick green hedges. A hand-painted placard atop a post read KLEINPLASIE GUESTHOUSE. The SUV stopped beneath a timbered awning. A set of stone steps led up to French doors bracketed by a pair of potted palms.
After speaking to a bellman in white shorts and a crisp polo shirt, Christopher led his charges, including Kane, into the lobby.
“Oh, this is glorious,” Anya said, referring more to the air-conditioning than the accommodations—though they were handsome, too.
The lobby consisted of leather armchairs, animal-hide rugs, sisal runners, and framed drawings of famous African explorers. Above them, huge rattan-bladed ceiling fans hung from exposed beams and churned the already-cool air.
Christopher checked them in, then led them to a private meeting space down the hall. They gathered around a mahogany table. Sunlight streamed through the tilt of plantation shutters. Sparkling pitchers of water, floating with sliced lemons, awaited them.
Paul eventually stepped inside and crossed to the head of the table. “Mr. Wayne,” he said. “Christopher informed me of your interest in a local feature. Grietje’s Well. I’ve been making discreet inquiries, but no such place seems to exist, I’m afraid.”
“It must,” Bukolov snapped, still out of sorts from the travel and heat.
“Mmm,” Paul said, too gracious to argue. “However, the relationship between Springbok and water is a long and bloody one. Water was quite treasured here and fought over, as you can well imagine with the heat. So natural sources were often hidden. In fact, the town’s original Afrikaans name is Springbokfontein.”
“What does that mean?” Anya asked.
“Springbok is a local antelope. If you keep a sharp eye, you will see them hopping about. And fontein means fountain. But a fountain here simply refers to a natural spring or a watering hole.”
“Or perhaps a well,” Tucker added.
“Exactly so. But man-made wells are relatively modern features here in Springbok. Before the middle of the twentieth century, locals relied upon fonteins. Natural springs. That is why my brother and I believe what you are actually seeking is not a well but a spring.”
“But how does this fact help us?” Tucker asked.
“Perhaps much, or perhaps not at all,” Christopher replied. “But there is a man who might know that answer. Reverend Manfred Cloete.”
The name struck Tucker as familiar—then he remembered a detail from the briefing back in Istanbul.
“Cloete,” Tucker said. “That’s the name of the family that once owned Melkboschkuil farm. The one Springbok was founded upon.”
Christopher nodded. “That’s correct. Manfred is indeed a descendant from that distinguished lineage, making the man not only Springbok’s reverend, but the keeper of its unwritten history as well.”
Paul checked his watch. “And he’s waiting for us now.”
2:15 P.M.
Crossing through the historic center of Springbok, Christopher turned into a paved parking lot surrounded by a low stucco wall and shaded by lush green acacia trees. Nestled within those same walls stood a sturdy stone church, with a single square steeple and a large rosette window in front. It resembled a miniature Norman castle.
“Springbok’s Klipkerk,” Christopher declared. “The Dutch Reformed Church. Now a museum.”
He waved his three passengers out.
Tucker and Kane clambered from the backseat. Anya slid out the front passenger door. They had left Bukolov back at the guesthouse. The travel and the sudden heat had proved too much for the Russian’s reserves. As a precaution, Paul had been left behind to watch over the doctor.
Anya waited for Tucker to join her before following Christopher toward the church. She smiled at him, slightly cradling her casted arm. She must still be in some pain, but she hadn’t made a single complaint. Perhaps she feared her injury might be used as an excuse to leave her behind. Either that, or she was a real trouper.
Christopher led them along a path that took them to the rear of the church and across a broad, well-manicured lawn.
To one side, a barrel-chested man with wild white hair and a bushy beard knelt beside a bed of blooming desert flowers. He wore Bermuda shorts and nothing else. His torso was deeply tanned and covered in curly white hair.
“Manfred!” Christopher called.
The fellow looked over his shoulder, saw Christopher, and smiled. He stood up and wiped his soiled palms on a towel dangling from the waistband of his shorts. As he joined them, Christopher made the introductions.
“Ah, a pair of fellow historians,” Manfred Cloete said, shaking their hands. His light blue eyes twinkled. “Welcome to Springbokfontein.”
His accent was pure South African, a blend that sounded both British and Australian with a bit of something mysterious thrown in.
“I appreciate you seeing us, Reverend,” Tucker replied.
“Manfred, please. My goodness, is that your hound?”
Kane came bounding past, doing a fast circuit of the yard.
“He is indeed. Name’s Kane.”
“Might tell him to be careful. Got some snakes about. Can’t seem to get rid of them.”
Tucker whistled, and Kane sprinted over and sat down.
“Follow me, all of you,” Manfred said. “I’ve got some lemonade over in the shade.”
He led them to a nearby picnic table, and everyone sat down.
As Manfred tinkled ice and lemonade into Anya’s glass, he asked, “So, Ms. Averin—”
“Anya, please.”
“Of course, always happy to accommodate a lady’s request. Especially one with a wounded wing.” He nodded to her cast. “What is this interest in the Boer Wars?”
She glanced to Tucker, letting him take the lead.
He cleared his throat. “It’s my interest actually. A personal one. I recently discovered one of my ancestors fought during the Second Boer War. He was a doctor. I know very little else about him except that he served most of his time during the fighting at a fort somewhere around here.”
“If he was a doctor, that would m
ost likely put him at the Klipkoppie fort. That’s where the local medical unit was stationed. It was under the command of General Manie Roosa. Tough old bird and a bit crazy, if you ask me. The British hated fighting him. You’ll find the ruins of the fort just outside of town.”
Tucker frowned. On the flight down here, he had already studied the locations of various old forts, hoping for a clue. “Outside of town?” he asked. “But according to my research, the ruins of Klipkoppie are in the center of town.”
“Pah! That dung heap beside the shopping center? That was only a forward outpost, nothing more. The ruins of the real Klipkoppie are two miles to the northwest. Christopher knows where.”
“Then why—?”
“Easier to suck tourists into the gift shops and restaurants if it’s in the center of town. Besides, the real Klipkoppie isn’t much to look at, and it’s hard to get to. Can’t have tourists getting themselves killed.” He clapped his palms against his thighs. “Right. So tell me the name of this ancestor of yours.”
“De Klerk. Paulos de Klerk.”
Manfred leaned back, clearly recognizing the name, staring at Tucker with new eyes. “The famous botanist?”
“You know him.”
“I do. Though I can’t say more than that. I actually forgot until you reminded me just now that he was a field medic. He’s much better known for those flower drawings of his.”
“It’s actually one of his journals that drew us down here. In one of his diaries, he mentioned Grietje’s Well several times. It seemed important to him.”
“Water was back then. It was the difference between life and death. Especially during the wars. When the Brits laid siege to a Boer fort, one of the first things they did was try to cut off access to water. A man can go weeks without food, but only a few days without water. For that reason, the Boer started building forts atop natural springs. Because of the importance of such water sources, the troops came to name them after loved ones, usually women: wives, daughters, nieces.”
Anya stirred. “And Grietje is Afrikaans for ‘Wilma.’ ”
Manfred nodded. “Wilma must have been dearly loved by whoever named that spring. But like I said, the springs of most forts bore women’s names. The key is to find out which fort it might be. Because your ancestor was a doctor, I’d still start with the ruins of Klipkoppie.”
Anya stared out toward the horizon, at the dry hills. “Do you know of any wells or springs up there?”
“No, but if this spring hasn’t dried up, there’ll be evidence of erosion on the surface from where the waters seasonally rise and fall. Christopher will know what to look for.”
Christopher appeared less convinced. “It will be hard to find. And we’re still not certain Klipkoppie is the right fort. With all the old Boer strongholds around here, it could be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“Still, it gives us somewhere to start,” Tucker said.
“And in the meantime,” Manfred said, “I will look more deeply into the local history of your ancestor. Paulos de Klerk. Come by tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk again.”
2:55 P.M.
“Should we head to the Klipkoppie fort now?” Christopher asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“How hard is it to reach?”
“It’s not far to the base of the fort’s hill, but there are no roads to the top. We must hike. Very steep, but I know the way.”
Tucker checked his watch. “When does the sun set here?”
“Remember you are south of the equator. It is our late summer, the end of our rainy season. So the sun won’t go down until a bit past seven o’clock.”
“That gives us roughly four hours.” He turned to Anya. “We can drop you back at the guesthouse on the way out of town. Let you rest. I’m not sure your orthopedist would approve of you going hiking.”
“And miss this chance?” She lifted her bad arm. “It’s fine. Besides, I’ve got my boots on. Might as well use them.”
Tucker heard happy thumping on the seat next to him.
“Sounds like it’s unanimous.”
Christopher turned the SUV and headed away from the guesthouse. He wound through the streets to the edge of Springbok, then out into the sun-blasted countryside.
They had traveled a couple of kilometers when Christopher’s phone rang.
Tucker felt a clutch of fear, wondering if they should have checked on Bukolov before setting out. But there was no way the old man could make the hike in this heat.
Christopher spoke in hushed tones on the phone, then passed the handset over his shoulder. “It’s for you. It’s Manfred.”
Both surprised and curious, he took the phone. “Hello?”
“Ah, my good fellow, glad I was able to reach you.” His words were frosted with excitement and pride. “I did some digging as soon as you left. It seems General Manie Roosa, your old ancestor’s commander, had a daughter. Named Wilhelmina.”
“Another version of Wilma.”
“Quite right. And listen to this. In one of Roosa’s field reports, he states and I quote, ‘Without Wilhelmina, that British bastard MacDonald would have been successful in his siege of our fort.’ I suspect he’s referring to Sir Ian MacDonald, a British regimental commander back then. But I doubt Roosa’s young daughter had any hand in breaking that British siege.”
“He must be referring to the fort’s water supply! Named after his daughter.”
“And surely your ancestor would have known of this secret nickname for the well.”
Tucker thanked Manfred and hung up. He relayed the information to the others.
Christopher smiled. “It seems our haystack has gotten considerably smaller.”
29
March 19, 3:22 P.M.
Springbok, South Africa
Eleven miles outside of Springbok, Christopher turned onto a narrow dirt driveway that ended at a tin-roofed building. The billboard atop it read HELMAN’S GARAGE. Christopher parked in the shadow of the building, then got out and disappeared through an open bay door.
When he returned, he opened the passenger side for Anya and waved Tucker and Kane out. “Helman says we can park our vehicle here. If we are not back in three weeks, he says he will alert the police.”
“Three weeks?” Anya asked, then noted Christopher’s smile. “Very funny.”
Christopher pulled a trio of daypacks from the SUV’s trunk and passed them out. He also unzipped a rifle case and handed Tucker a heavy, double-barreled gun, along with a cartridge belt holding a dozen bullets, each one larger than his thumb.
“Nitro Express cartridges,” Christopher said. “Four-seventy caliber. Are you familiar with weapons, Mr. Wayne?”
Tucker broke the rifle’s breech, checked the action, and gave it a quick inspection. He pulled a pair of Nitros from the belt, popped them into the breech, and snapped the weapon closed.
“I’ll manage,” he said.
“Very good.” Christopher’s expression grew serious. “It is unlikely we will encounter anything, but there are lions in this area. I recommend that Kane stays close to us.”
“He will.”
“If we encounter lions, we shall try to back out of the area slowly. Lions are typically inactive during the day and mostly sleep. But if there is a charge, stay behind me. I will take the first shot. If I miss the shots with both barrels, or the lion fails to yield, I will drop to the ground to give you a clear field of fire. The lion will likely stop to maul me. When he does, take your shot. Do not hesitate. This is very important. Aim a few inches below the lion’s chin, between the shoulders, if possible. Or if from the side, just past the armpit.”
“Understood,” Tucker replied.
“And finally, if you miss your shots, do not under any circumstances run.”
“Why not?” asked Anya.
“Because then you will die exhausted, and that is no way to present yourself to God.”
With that, Christopher prepped his own rifle and donned his pack. He al
so pulled out a tall walking stick with a tassel of steel bells at the top.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Hold on,” Anya said. “Where is my gun?”
“I am sorry, missus. I did not think . . . I have very few female clients, you see. Plus your wrist. Please forgive me.”
“It’s okay, Christopher. Once one of you two drops from exhaustion, I’ll have my rifle.” Anya smiled sweetly. “Which way are we headed?”
“South to the trailhead, missus, then northeast into the hills.”
Anya turned on her heel and headed off. “Try to keep up, boys.”
She led them across a patch of scrubland to where the thin trail headed northeast. From that point, she wisely let Christopher take the lead. Almost immediately, the grade steepened, winding its way higher into the hills.
Tucker kept up the rear.
He tapped Kane’s side. “CLOSE ROAM.”
As was his habit, Kane trotted to either side, sometimes drifting ahead, sometimes dropping back, but he never strayed more than fifty feet in either direction. The shepherd’s ears looked especially erect, his eyes exceptionally bright. Here were smells he’d never before experienced. Tucker imagined it was something of a sensory kaleidoscope for Kane.
After a kilometer or so, they passed into a narrow ravine and found themselves in shadows. A riotous profusion of desert flowers in dusty shades of pink and purple bloomed from the rock faces around them, casting out a sweet perfume, not unlike honeysuckle. The deep thrum of insects greeted them as they moved through, amplified by the tight space.
Kane stood before the wall of blooms, watching petals and leaves vibrate, his head cocked with curiosity.
“Cape honeybees,” Christopher announced. “Fear not. If we do not bother them, they will not bother us.”
“There must be thousands,” Anya murmured.
“Many, many thousands, missus.”
A quarter of a mile later, they exited the ravine and found themselves on a plain of red soil and scattered scrub brush. To their left, rolling granite hills towered hundreds of feet into the air.
Abruptly, Christopher let out a barking yelp, then another one thirty seconds later, then one more. In between yelps, he shook his walking stick, tinkling the bells attached to the handle.
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