by Tony Park
Scott topped up her wineglass and poured himself another. ‘You say you live in Munich?’
‘Yes. It’s summer, now, of course, but give me the weather here any day.’
‘I think I’d find the desert pretty tough,’ Scott said. ‘As a Capetonian I’m used to a pretty mild climate.’
She thought he was exaggerating his concerns about life in the desert. Anja could see that Scott was in very good physical shape. He looked more like a rugged outdoorsy type or fitness freak than a businessman, but Anja tried not to put much stock in stereotypes.
Scott took a long look at the remains of his Eisbein, then pushed the plate further away from him. ‘I’m afraid I have to concede defeat.’
‘I’m not far behind.’ Anja finished the last of her gemsbok and Scott poured the remains of the bottle of wine into their glasses.
‘It’s been lovely meeting you, Anja,’ he said, ‘but I really think I should get an early night. I have to break my trip to Namibia and fly back to Cape Town tomorrow morning early for some urgent business meetings that have just come up, but I’m coming back as soon as I’m done.’
‘I need an early night as well,’ she said.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.
‘A guesthouse not far from here, in Klein Windhoek.’
‘Can I walk you home or organise a car for you?’
Anja felt her heart beat faster and her breath seemed to catch in her chest. This had all happened so fast. ‘I . . . I have a car waiting.’
He held up his hands. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be forward, or anything other than proper. It’s been lovely chatting, Anja.’
‘Yes, lovely, thanks.’ She got up and walked out and Scott waved to her and went to one of the bars.
A doorman asked if he could organise a car for her and she said yes. He waved to a driver who pulled up within seconds. As Anja got in the car she mentally kicked herself. She had just met a handsome man with an interest in Namibia and its history and she didn’t even give him her phone number or ask for his. She didn’t even think to get his last name!
No wonder she was single.
Anja gave a start as someone knocked on the window of the car. She turned and saw it was Scott. She wound down the window and he reached inside the car and handed her a Joe’s Beerhouse coaster.
‘I’ve written my phone number on here, just in case.’
Anja took it, and smiled. ‘Thank you.’
The driver looked at her and she nodded. As the car pulled away, Anja wondered if she would see this handsome stranger again, or if she had just made the mistake of her life.
Chapter 17
Sydney Airport, Australia, the present day
‘What are you doing here?’ Susan said, eyes and smile wide when Nick tapped her on the shoulder from behind as she queued at the Business Class check-in counter for the Qantas flight to Johannesburg.
‘I’ve decided to come to South Africa,’ he said.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘For once in my life, yes.’ He realised it had been too long since he had done anything spontaneous. Following Susan to Africa was gold standard flying by the seat of his pants. He smiled to himself.
She gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘You know, that note of yours that you left next to me on the bed this morning was nice, promising you’d see me again some time soon, but it still felt a bit like you were sneaking out on me while I was sleeping.’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ he said.
‘Well, that you have.’
They checked in and after passing through security and immigration went up the escalators to the Qantas Club. Susan scouted ahead for two free lounge chairs and Nick went to the bar and returned with two glasses of champagne.
He joined her and they raised their glasses. ‘To living in the moment,’ she said.
‘Bloody madness, more like it,’ he said as they clinked glasses.
Susan sipped her sparkling wine. ‘Nick, where are you planning on going in South Africa?’
He held up his free hand. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t expect to be tied to your apron strings while I’m in Africa. The truth is, I don’t really know and, you know what? I don’t care, either. I’ve got an idea that I’ll go and have a look at some of the places where Cyril Blake served. From what you said, that’s mostly around the Kruger National Park, right?’
She nodded and sipped her champagne. ‘Yes. It’s a great place to visit in its own right if you want to go on safari. You can hire a car and drive yourself around if you like.’
‘Sounds a bit daunting,’ he said.
‘Relax, Nick.’ She reached out and touched his hand. ‘Your average South African family goes to the Kruger Park and drives the family sedan or people mover around the bush on safari.’
‘I’ll be brave. You’re going on to Cape Town, right?’
Susan sighed. ‘Yes. I have to go see my client, but to tell you the truth I’m planning on ending our business relationship.’
‘Sick of writing press releases?’
‘Something like that,’ she said, looking out the lounge window over the aircraft coming and going. She looked back at him. ‘And after Kruger?’
Nick shrugged. ‘By that time I’m hoping Lili will have translated more of the papers my aunt found. With a bit of luck they’ll tell the full story of how Blake ended up travelling to South West Africa and how and why he fell in with the Nama rebels. I think it’s going to be a fantastic story.’
She nodded. ‘It is.’
‘What’s on your mind, Susan? You were excited at first.’
She finished her drink. ‘I didn’t expect things to work out the way they have, Nick.’
He looked into her eyes. ‘You and me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you regret it?’ he asked. He had just wanted to get away, somewhere, anywhere, but Susan was a big part of his impetuous decision to travel to Africa on a whim. He didn’t want to feel like a complete fool, but was worried he would if she told him that what they’d done meant nothing and that she didn’t want to see him in South Africa.
Instead she reached for him again and took his hand. ‘Nick, no, I don’t regret what happened. It’s just, well, things are complicated for me in South Africa.’
A sudden realisation dawned. ‘Oh. Do you have a partner, Susan?’
‘No, no, nothing like that, but the PR work I do in Cape Town, it has a way of tying me down. I’d love to be able to hit the road with you, but the client wants me around when I’m in South Africa. I might not be able to walk away immediately, but I’ll touch base with you as soon as I can.’
‘Gee, it does sound complicated,’ he said, though he was mildly relieved.
‘It is. As I said, I’m going to ditch the client and finish up, as soon as I get to Cape Town, so maybe your crazy timing is good. Maybe . . .’
‘You could join me, somewhere on the road?’
She smiled. ‘Maybe, yes.’ Her mood appeared to brighten.
‘Would you like another drink?’
She seemed to mull the idea over. ‘Possibly. I need to go to the bathroom first.’
‘OK.’ Nick picked up a copy of The Australian someone had left behind and flicked through the news section.
His phone buzzed.
Nick took it out of his pocket and saw that Susan had just sent him a message, which struck him as odd. He opened it.
Shower room at end of the corridor, on the left. Knock three times.
He grinned, finished his drink, took his bag and went to join her.
Chapter 18
Windhoek, Namibia, the present day
Anja was worried. The light in her room in the guesthouse was on.
She was environmentally conscious so never left a tap running nor a light burning for any longer
than required. Could she have forgotten? Never.
Perhaps there was a maid in there, or one had visited while she was at Joe’s, to turn down the sheets.
No, she told herself. The guesthouse was not classy enough for a turn-down service and chocolates on the pillows. Instead of heading to her room she went to reception, but found the small office closed. She pushed a button on an intercom marked ‘night service’.
‘Hello, night manager,’ a voice said.
‘Hello,’ Anja said, ‘it is Miss Berghoff from room eight. I think someone might be in my room, an intruder.’
‘A what?’
‘A thief maybe. The light is on.’
‘Ah, you must have left the light turned on,’ the manager said. ‘Happens all the time.’
‘No, it does not happen all the time, not with me at least. Please come.’
There was a pause. ‘All right. Give me five minutes. I am coming.’
Anja waited, and felt nervous. She patted her pockets and unzipped her small daypack as she waited. With her she had all her cash, credit cards, her iPad and passport, and a portable hard drive with a backup of everything that was on her laptop. She never felt unsafe in Namibia, but she took the same precautions with her valuables as she would have done if travelling in Europe.
She checked her watch, and after seven minutes of tapping her foot the night manager showed up, his white shirt half out of his black trousers. He carried a wooden baton with him.
‘All right, let’s go.’
Anja fell into step behind the man, who was reassuringly bulky, with thick forearms. They went up the steps to her room, which was located on the upper floor of one of two blocks of rooms. The man stopped near the top and held up a hand.
‘What is it?’ Anja whispered.
‘The door is open.’
Anja swallowed and felt her heart rate increase. ‘I would never have left a door unlocked.’
The man took a phone out of his pants pocket and scrolled through his contacts. ‘Here is the number for the police. Get ready to call it. Wait here.’
With his little club held at the ready the manager crept slowly up the rest of the staircase. When he was at the door he called out. ‘Come out, whoever is in there!’
There was no reply. Anja held her breath, her finger poised over the green ‘call’ button.
The manager used the tip of the baton to open the door a little wider. It creaked on unoiled hinges. Anja went up the steps until she was just behind the man. When he turned to look back he gave a start at how close she was.
‘You scared me.’
‘I scared you?’ she said. ‘I’m terrified.’
The man stepped into the room and shoved open the bathroom door, just inside on the right, and put his head and club in there.
‘No one,’ he said.
Anja followed him in. As relieved as she was that there was no intruder, the room was a mess. Her bag had been opened and her clothes tossed on the bed. Some had fallen to the floor.
‘He’s moved the mattress,’ the man said, pointing with the baton, ‘to see if you hid anything underneath. Did you?’
‘No.’ Anja walked around the room. As she feared, her laptop was gone from its pocket inside her main carry-on bag. ‘Damn. My computer.’
‘Give me the phone, please.’
She handed it back to the porter, who called the police. He got halfway through explaining what had happened when the call ended.
‘What’s wrong?’ Anja asked, taking a break from sorting through her clothes.
‘Damn MTC – the network’s gone down.’ He tried again. ‘No signal.’
She checked hers. ‘Same. No signal.’
‘I need to go back to the office and call them on the landline. Do you want to come with me?’
Anja looked at the mess the thief had left; the growing feeling of having been violated assaulted her senses. ‘No, thanks. I’m going to sort my things and pack them.’ She had spent enough time in Africa to know that the police would not be accompanied by a crime scene investigation team, so she had no qualms about going through her possessions. ‘Please don’t take offence, but I am not going to stay here tonight. I will come to your office as soon as I am packed. I am going to stay at one of the bigger hotels.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The man turned on his heel and walked back downstairs.
So much for caring for his customers, Anja thought. She would not be giving the place, or its security, a favourable review on TripAdvisor.
Anja put her hands on her hips and surveyed the mess again. She felt a lump rise in her throat, but then told herself to be strong. She needed to do a full inventory of what was left and work out if anything other than her computer had been stolen.
As she folded each item of clothing she imagined a strange man’s fingers on her things, her underwear. Anja retrieved her wheelie backpack from the floor and when she laid it on the bed she felt the tears well up. The thief had slashed the linings of each compartment. What on earth had he thought she was hiding in there?
She wiped her eyes. Claire Martin had gone through a war and been imprisoned in a stinking concentration camp and she had been able to go on. Anja drew a deep breath and tried to put the situation into perspective. Claire, she thought to herself again. Anja sorted through her belongings and looked around the room – all of the printouts of Claire Martin’s letters were missing. Anja swore.
Why had they stolen those? It made no sense. She had lost a laptop computer, which hurt, but at least she had her hard drive in her daypack. She also had travel insurance, which presumably would pay for a new laptop.
Most importantly, she told herself, she had not been harmed. Burglaries happened every hour of the day in every country in the world; Anja had simply been unlucky, and her situation could have been much worse.
Anja sat down on the bed, picked up the phone on the bedside table and dialled reception. ‘It’s me, Anja Berghoff, do you have any news for me?’
‘The police say they will be here in about twenty minutes. They have asked if you will wait. I have called the Hilton and they have a room. I spoke to the German lady who owns this place, and she says she will pay for your accommodation at the other hotel. I am to organise you a car when you are finished with the cops.’
Anja was taken aback, and touched, at the unknown woman’s kindness and understanding. ‘Thank you, I’ll stay put until the police get here.’
*
Anja looked up from her iPad when she heard the door to her room squeak.
She jumped up and lunged for the door but it flew open, hitting her in the arm. Before she could scream a man barrelled into her, spun her around, twisted her left arm painfully behind her back and clamped his other hand over her mouth. The hand was white, the skin mottled with age, and there was a scar near where the thumb and forefinger met. From the glimpse she had got of him he was dressed in black and wearing a ski mask. She heard the footsteps of another entering the room. She yelled into the man’s palm and he twisted her arm harder.
Her kicking and clawing were having no effect, other than increasing the pain in her arm. Just as she tried to rake down on the man’s shins the second man came into view again and grabbed her ankles. Together they lifted her onto the bed.
God, no, she thought.
‘Don’t say a word.’ The man who had first grabbed her kept one hand on her mouth. In his other hand was a squat black pistol whose barrel he pressed firmly between her eyes with enough pressure to cause her instant pain. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. ‘Hold out your hands or I will kill you now.’
She did not want to submit in any way, but she was terrified they would kill her.
‘Roll her over,’ the man with the gun said to his accomplice. ‘If you scream, you die.’
Removing his hand from her mouth, they turned her and
the second man wrenched her hands behind her back. She heard duct tape being peeled from a roll and torn before her hands were bound. The pistol was in the back of her head now, at the top of her spinal column.
‘Please, what do you want?’
‘Search her bag,’ the first man said. ‘Quickly.’
‘Purse with cash, two credit cards; phone, iPad, hard drive,’ said the other.
‘Good, take it all.’ The gunman pressed the barrel harder into her head and Anja cried out in pain. ‘Tell me the PINs for your credit cards.’
She hated the thought of him taking all her money and, worse, her only backup hard drive. But the important thing was to stay alive, and to not anger these men. Cards could be cancelled and she would not be liable for money stolen. She told them the four-digit number.
‘Same for both cards?’
‘Yes.’
He pressed even harder. ‘The truth?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s the same number for both cards. Please don’t hurt me. My hard drive . . . please, can you leave it and the printouts you took. They are of no value.’
The man gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t get to ask for anything. Now stop whining or you’ll get something else from us.’
‘No, please.’
‘Shush,’ the gunman said, ‘not so loud. We know the cops are coming. This will be quick, and as painless as you want to make it. What are the passwords for your computer and email?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t question me, bitch. Pull her jeans down,’ he said to the accomplice.
Anja felt the other man’s hands on her bottom, then reaching under her, fumbling for the buckle of her belt and the top button of her jeans. Fear almost paralysed her.
‘I’ll tell you!’
‘Of course you’ll tell us. You’re not stupid, are you?’
Anja heard a muffled vibration and the man who had been working on her jeans moved his hands.
‘Cops are heading down Nelson Mandela Avenue,’ the second man said.
The gunman grabbed a handful of her hair. ‘Do you want to be brave? Do you think we’ll run now that the police are on their way? I have plenty of time to kill you. Ask yourself, is there anything on your computer that is worth you dying for?’