Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  Blake sighted down the barrel of his Lee Enfield, and with the practised ease and weary resignation of a blacksmith pounding a horseshoe or a clerk scratching in a ledger he worked the rifle’s bolt and took up the slack on the trigger.

  The driver of the last wagon was the first to turn his head, perhaps on hearing the muffled yet insistent beat of hooves digging sand. It was the last gesture of the man’s life. Blake’s bullet took him from his seat and the oxen, momentarily spared the lash, slowed to a stop.

  By the time the soldier sitting next to the fallen man realised what was happening, and tried to scrabble for his rifle, Jakob Morengo was galloping abreast of him, pistol drawn, and he shot the German through the head.

  One after the other the gaggle of wagons was overtaken and the soldiers on board dispatched.

  From his grandstand position Blake saw even more evidence of the Black Napoleon’s tactical genius. While these tail-end supply wagons had been struggling through soft sand, made even harder to negotiate by the fact that the rest of the column had already churned it, Blake could now see that the ground ahead quickly changed to a hard-packed rocky surface. Because of this, the horses and wagons that had already passed through the sandy patch had picked up speed and were throwing up a dust cloud that obscured their view of those behind them. Hendrik and Johan’s fire had spurred the rest of the train onwards at a gallop. As a result, the last five wagons were now half a kilometre behind.

  Some of Morengo’s men had dismounted and were ransacking the wagons, cutting ropes and pulling off tarpaulins, unloading boxes and prising them open.

  A wagon driver, wounded and mistaken for dead, got to his feet and found his rifle lying nearby. Shielded by a team of oxen he brushed the sand from his weapon and chambered a round. He was beginning to take aim at a Nama when Blake killed him with a shot through the chest.

  Blake watched for other targets. One of Morengo’s men struck a flint and lit some desert grass. He touched the burning embers to some papers and held them, in turn, to a tarpaulin, and soon the first of the five looted wagons was burning.

  The third-last wagon had a canvas cover. A rebel climbed up into the back of it and a knife blade appeared from inside, slashing open the cover. Two other men outside started ripping away the fabric, exposing what was inside.

  People.

  Blake set down his rifle and took up his binoculars. As the canopy came off he could see four or five men lying inside, bloodstained bandages showing they were wounded Schutztruppen, lying on stretchers. A soldier with a red cross armband stood and held up his hands.

  The Nama fighter who had climbed into the wagon shot him.

  Blake felt the bile rise in his chest. War was war, and no matter how right or wrong the cause, conflict brought forth both devils and angels. He closed his eyes for a second, but when he opened them he regretted having done so. The Nama on the back of the wagon swung his rifle around, pointed it down and shot a wounded German. Methodically, the man chambered another round, took aim again and killed another man on a stretcher. He carried on until he was out of helpless targets, then clambered over some boxes to get to the front of the wagon, where both he and Blake had just glimpsed movement.

  Half-a-dozen mounted Schutztruppen, perhaps realising the column had been severed and worrying about the wagons at the rear, had wheeled around and were emerging from the dust cloud and bearing down on the rebels, most of whom were on foot and therefore easy prey.

  A Nama man was shot dead before he could pick up his rifle from where it rested against a wagon.

  Jakob Morengo, identifiable from his broad-brimmed black hat and suit, climbed onto his horse. Blake could see he was holding something, like a stick, in his hand. He rode up to one of his men who had just set fire to a wagon. The man passed Jakob a burning scrap of canvas. Blake didn’t know what the kaptein was up to and didn’t care for now, as he had targets.

  Blake fired once at a rider, missed him, worked the Lee Enfield’s bolt and sent the man falling from his saddle with his second shot. He searched for another rider, but the five remaining Schutztruppen were among the rebels and it was difficult for Blake to get a clear shot at them.

  He looked to the wagon, where the rebel had shot the medic. The same man was now firing at a German, but the trooper, firing from horseback, executed his revenge on the Nama, who fell among his victims. The rider carried on, searching for more rebels, but a figure stood up at the front of the formerly covered wagon; it was the person Blake and the executioner had both caught a glimpse of. Though she was wearing pants and a man’s top, Blake could tell immediately it was Liesl.

  Blake stood, slung his rifle, jumped on his horse and thundered down the slope of the dune he’d been lying on. He rode hard towards the wagons.

  *

  Liesl had crawled to the far end of the wagon. ‘Don’t shoot me, I’m Nama,’ she cried in Afrikaans.

  However, when she peeked around a box of medical supplies she saw that the man who had shot the medic and the prisoners, Frans, was no longer there. She looked over the side and saw Frans’ body lying in the sand but, she noticed, he had dropped his rifle on the wagon’s floor. Liesl crawled as close to the weapon as the chain tethering her would allow and, stretching her body over the boxes of supplies, she was just able to grab it by the sling. She pulled the rifle to her, turned it in her hands and placed the tip of the barrel against one of the links of the chain that had hobbled her ankles. She bent over, holding her shoulder against the butt, and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked her backwards, but the chain broke. With her next shot she severed the chain that linked her to the wagon.

  Liesl crawled to the dead medic and took a knife from a sheath on the man’s belt. Gripping the handle between her knees she sawed through the rope binding her wrists. As she worked she couldn’t help but see the lifeless eyes of the non-combatant, and the dead soldiers. As much as she hated the Schutztruppen she had been shocked by what Frans had done. His family had been captured by the Germans so she could only guess that he had slaughtered the wounded in revenge. What have we become? She felt sick.

  Gunfire raged around her and men cried in pain and anger. Finally, Liesl’s hands were freed and she clambered to the front of the wagon. As horrific as the dead bodies were, she realised there were plenty of supplies here they could use. She rolled the dead driver from his seat and snatched up the reins of the bellowing ox team in one hand and the whip in the other. She cracked it in the air and the beasts, probably eager to get away from the tumult, turned to her command and set off.

  A man in a big black hat galloped past and tossed a stick of dynamite into the bed of the wagon in front of her. He wheeled back and, brandishing a pistol, galloped across her front. ‘Uncle Jakob!’

  He lowered his pistol and waved his hand vigorously at her. ‘Get down!’

  Another German came riding out of the disappearing dust cloud in front of them; it seemed the rest of the column had all but forgotten the stranded wagons. It was the blond-haired doctor in the Landespolizei uniform, the one who had captured her and she had later seen treating the wounded men. He, too, was brandishing a pistol and he fired at Jakob.

  The oxen had almost completed their turn. The doctor came up to the rear of the wagon, reined in his horse, jumped down from his saddle then climbed up onto the back of the slow-moving cart. He looked down at the men he had treated, all of whom were dead. ‘Mein Gott.’

  Liesl dropped the whip and picked up Frans’ rifle.

  The German pointed his pistol at her. ‘You . . . you killed these men in cold blood.’

  The wagon swayed as the oxen completed their turn and picked up pace. The doctor looked down at the dead men again, his face ashen. Liesl brought the rifle up as far as her hip and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  The doctor stared at her again and pointed his pistol at her once more.

  ‘No!’ Lies
l cried. ‘I didn’t. Don’t shoot me.’

  ‘You are Morengo’s niece. I heard you calling before.’

  Liesl saw another horseman from the corner of her eye, but forced herself not to look at the man, who was galloping towards the wagon, out of sight of the doctor. As the horseman gained on them she saw it was Blake.

  The doctor glared at her; his blue eyes, which should have been beautiful, looked frozen. ‘You murderess. You are coming with me.’

  Blake rode up alongside the wagon and before the doctor could register and turn to check the noise behind him, Blake had leapt from his still-moving horse onto the wagon. He careened into the German, knocking him down and onto the corpses. The doctor shrieked. He started to get up and Blake punched him in the jaw, sending him falling backwards. Blake looked over his shoulder. There were more Schutztruppen heading their way and the rebels were fleeing.

  ‘This wagon’s too slow.’ Blake whistled to his horse.

  The German doctor lay among his dead patients, seemingly unconscious.

  ‘Don’t shoot him,’ Liesl said, ‘he’s a doctor.’

  ‘I don’t do that sort of thing.’ Blake’s horse trotted up beside them. He held out his hand to her but she hesitated. ‘Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here. I’ll take you away from all this, back to Upington.’

  Liesl had begun to reach out her hand when the wagon in front them, full of artillery ammunition, exploded.

  Chapter 40

  Aus, Namibia, the present day

  After their lunch at the Schützenhaus Nick and Anja drove to the Klein-Aus Vista Lodge’s Desert Horse Inn and Nick booked himself into a chalet as well.

  Dusk brought a chill to the air and as tempting as it was for Nick to stay under his hot shower, he hurried, wanting to catch up with Anja, who had been carrying on with the translation in her room during the afternoon. He got out, dried himself, and dressed in jeans, shirt, hiking boots and a rugby jersey. He put his fleece on over the top. He was glad he’d brought it with him, even though when he’d hastily packed in Australia he had asked himself why he was bothering bringing cold weather gear.

  He remembered. Susan had told him to.

  Thinking of her brought up a surge of grief as he went out into the cold. He swallowed hard. Instead of going straight to Anja’s chalet he detoured via the lodge bar and bought a bottle of red wine. He walked under a cold clear sky, already showing a tantalising sprinkling of stars.

  The manuscript was proving to be a treasure map that might yet lead them – and Scott Dillon – to whatever was left of Kruger’s gold. Peter Kohl’s story had already hinted at several locations where Claire had buried her stolen booty, on her three farms and somewhere in or near the port of Lüderitz.

  They knew now, sadly, that Blake and Claire Martin had died within days of each other. Was that a coincidence? Did it mean some of the gold was still missing, unspent by Claire, or would Peter Kohl end his tale by telling them that he had squandered his late wife’s fortune on wine and women? Nick was impatient to learn the truth, and was ready to work through the night to find out, but it was Anja who was doing the translation. While he had agreed to her request to let her work in private for a few hours, they both needed to eat.

  His phone rang, a call from a private number.

  ‘It’s Joanne Dillon,’ said the woman’s voice on the other end of the call when he answered.

  ‘Hello. Good to hear from you.’

  ‘I’ve found out where Scott is,’ said Joanne without preamble. ‘I spoke to a friend of his, one I’m still, shall we say, close to.’

  ‘OK. Where is he?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Lüderitz. He should be there for a few days, I’m told. He’s staying in the Lüderitz Nest Hotel. Where are you now?’

  ‘Aus,’ Nick said.

  ‘You’re not far from Lüderitz, only about a hundred and twenty kilometres. What’s your plan?’ she asked.

  ‘To be honest, I’m winging it.’

  There was a pause. ‘If you meet him, Nick, make sure it’s in public, with lots of people around, not on your own out in the desert.’

  ‘You think he’s that much of a threat?’

  ‘He’s after whatever you’ve got, and he’s getting closer to you by the sound of it. Maybe he knows more than you do?’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Nick conceded. ‘Tell me, does Scott speak German?’

  ‘No; at least he didn’t when we were married. He does have some buddies in Namibia. He’s got a past that he doesn’t talk about too much. He served in Koevoet – it means “crowbar” in Afrikaans – an elite police anti-terrorist unit during Namibia’s independence war. There were quite a few German Namibians in the unit.’

  ‘So he was a policeman?’

  ‘Koevoet was more a paramilitary unit. They were ruthless guys, Nick, and not even Scott, who was a blowhard, would talk about all the things he must have seen and done. They were killers, and membership of this unit is not something a wealthy property developer would boast of publicly – if he did many people would not want to deal with him.’

  Nick had wondered if a real-estate mogul would really get involved with the murky world of muggers and hit men, but now that he knew a little more about Scott Dillon it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  ‘Are you going to meet him?’ Joanne persisted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let me come with you,’ Joanne said. ‘I can be in Namibia tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘If he’s on the trail of a hoard of gold, I want to make sure I get what’s owing to me,’ she said. ‘Also, he’s not going to try and kill you or have you beaten up if he sees me by your side. There would be no way he could cover up his involvement if anything happened to me.’

  ‘That’s very brave of you, Joanne, but . . .’

  ‘To hell with brave. I just want my money, and if that bastard thinks he can get rich quick by finding buried treasure and then just take off to Buenos Aires or somewhere, he’s got another think coming.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can stop you,’ Nick said.

  ‘You can’t. I’ll be in Lüderitz tomorrow. There’s a restaurant called Essenzeit; I’ll see you there for dinner tomorrow night and we can talk through our options.’

  Joanne ended the call. Nick continued on to Anja’s chalet, knocked on her door and she opened it. She had a towel turban on her head and he could smell bolognese in a saucepan on the two-burner hob in the kitchenette.

  ‘We’re going to Lüderitz tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Scott Dillon’s wife just phoned me. Scott’s there.’

  Anja nodded to her iPad on her bed. ‘I’m not surprised. That’s where the people in Dr Kohl’s story are headed, too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder how much further ahead Dillon is in the manuscript?’

  ‘Joanne says he has some old army buddies here of German descent. They were in a unit called Crowbar or something together.’

  ‘Koevoet.’ Anja gave a low whistle. ‘Those guys were super-efficient.’

  ‘I heard that, as well.’

  ‘He would know plenty of guys who wouldn’t be afraid to rob and mug people, or even kill, for money.’

  Nick told Anja about Joanne’s planned trip to Namibia.

  ‘I guess if this is some kind of showdown, then having another witness won’t hurt,’ Anja said. ‘You can drain the spaghetti, please.’

  He readied the pasta and he and Anja served up.

  Anja gestured with her fork towards the iPad. ‘I will tell you what I have learned.’

  Chapter 41

  German South West Africa, 1906

  Blake came to as the last warmth of the day was being swallowed by the cold desert night. Bluey nuzzled him.

  He reached up and touched the animal’s muzzle. Blake looked around
, and the simple action of turning his head sent jolts of pain through his skull. He was alone, just him and Bluey.

  Blake stood, also painful, and dusted himself down. He carefully touched his forehead and felt a sticky wound and a round bump. One side of his face, he realised, was covered in dried blood, as was the collar and top of his shirt and jacket.

  Liesl was gone. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. After the explosion had knocked him off the wagon he had come to for a few seconds, he guessed, because he had a memory of the German doctor grabbing Liesl, throwing her across his horse and galloping away. After that Blake had passed out again.

  Blake found his hat and his Lee Enfield and got up on Bluey. In the distance was the wagon on which Liesl had been held, with its silent cargo of dead soldiers. The oxen, startled to a stampede by the explosion, had come to rest five hundred yards away, where they were nibbling on some tufts of dry desert grass.

  He nudged Bluey gently in the ribs and headed to the wagon. The oxen bellowed, but seemed to lack the energy to flee, so Blake dismounted and climbed up on the wagon. He checked the dead men, by now covered in flies, and found one whose uniform was reasonably unbloodied. He undertook the grisly business of stripping the man as quickly as he could, then put on the dead German’s clothes. He bundled his own and tied them to his horse’s saddle.

  Blake rode off, hoping someone, either the Germans or the rebels, would come for the oxen, and headed towards Keetmanshoop.

  He rode through the night and caught up with the column just before dawn, when he could see their watch-fires burning on the horizon. Blake found a place to tether the horse, unbuckled his bedroll and lay down. Within minutes he was asleep.

  After two hours he woke with the sun. It wasn’t enough sleep, but he was charged with the thought of what might be awaiting Liesl. He needed to get close enough to the column to see how and where she was being transported.