by Wilbur Smith
‘Are you all right, Daddy?’ Saffron asked.
‘Did you say “orange”, child?’ Leon growled, frowning at Kika.
She could tell that he was angry with her, but didn’t know why.
‘Yes, Grandpa,’ she said, and then looked at her mother.
Saffron was still no wiser as to why her menfolk were so upset.
‘Come here,’ she said to Kika, who ran across and buried her head in Saffron’s skirt.
Zander was oblivious to all the undercurrents in the room. He just wanted to take up the story, making it plain that he needed no help from his nanny.
‘This man said he knew all about cars and engines and could make cars go really, really fast, like rockets.’
‘What a remarkable gentleman.’
Harriet was beginning to think that this was a story the children had made up. Saffron, however, was looking at Gerhard. When the children had been talking about orange hair, the image was so clown-like that it hadn’t occurred to her to be suspicious. But now a sickening feeling of utter horror was forming like a cold, dead weight in her belly.
‘And he told us to give you a message,’ Zander continued. ‘And the message was . . .’
He looked at his sister and whispered, ‘You say it with me.’
Kika lifted her head, let go of Saffron and took a deep breath.
Both the children chorused, ‘Uncle Konnie sends his love.’
They stood there proudly as Loiyan clapped. Harriet joined in, like a good grandmother should. But Leon was staring thunderously at the children, and Saffron was hissing at Gerhard in German, ‘Sag nichts!’ – meaning, ‘Don’t say a thing.’
Now it was Zander who looked from one grown-up to another with worried eyes.
‘Did we say something wrong?’ he asked.
Saffron went to him. ‘No, darling, you did very well. It’s just that, well . . . we didn’t know that Uncle Konnie was going to pay you a visit.’
‘Memsahib, bwana Konnie had a message for me also,’ Loiyan said, now visibly nervous herself.
‘It’s all right.’ Saffron’s voice was tense. Loiyan’s wide eyes made it clear that she knew it was very much not all right. Saffron told herself that none of this was the poor girl’s fault, and did her very best to sound calm as she added, ‘Go ahead, you can tell me.’
‘Bwana Konnie said I should tell you that he was greatly enjoying his new house, living near your family.’
‘My family?’ Saffron said. ‘He didn’t mention Bwana Gerhard?’
‘No, memsahib. My message was for you.’
‘Thank you, Loiyan. You have done nothing wrong. But please, tell me, when did this happen?’
‘A few days ago,’ she replied. ‘The day the policeman came to look at the house.’
‘Quentin bloody De Lancey!’ Leon hissed.
Harriet opened her mouth, about to suggest to her husband that he shouldn’t swear in front of the children, but thought better of it.
‘What was that man doing here?’ Saffron asked.
‘Conducting some damn-fool security inspection to keep us safe from the Mau Mau. As if I need a lecture from that fat buffoon.’ Leon paused, not wanting to tell Saffron the worst of it, then said, ‘There was a man with him, said his name was Pieters, some kind of journalist.’ Leon screwed up his face in frustration, furious with himself as he added, ‘Dammit! I knew there was something fishy about him. But that blackguard De Lancey distracted me.’
‘Loiyan,’ said Gerhard, ‘please take the children to play outside. We need to talk in private.’
‘Can we have our shilling now, please?’ Zander asked. ‘Uncle Konnie left one note each for Loiyan, Kika and me.’
‘No, you may not have a single penny from Uncle Konnie,’ Gerhard replied.
‘But, Daddy—!’ Zander protested.
‘But . . .’ Gerhard interrupted him. ‘But you can each have a five-shilling note from me instead.’
‘Five shillings . . .’ Zander gasped, awed by the very idea of such a vast sum. ‘Thank you, Daddy! Thank you very, very much!’
As Loiyan led him away, Zander took his sister’s hand and said, ‘Did you hear that, Kika? Daddy said we can have five shillings instead of one.’
Saffron waited until the children were outside before she turned towards her father and bluntly asked him, ‘How the hell did that happen? How did Konrad von Meerbach, a Nazi war criminal who is supposed to be a fugitive from justice, just saunter into our estate and go right up to my children without so much as a by-your-leave? You told me my children were safe, Daddy. And you left them at the mercy of the SS. Does that sound safe to you? Does it?’
Leon had never been spoken to like that by his daughter. But his only response was a sad shake of the head and a heartfelt apology.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I’d have bloody well shot him if I’d known, same as I shot his damn father.’
‘Or maybe we should have shot Werner, when we had the chance,’ Gerhard said.
‘Who’s Werner?’ Leon asked.
‘A low-level thug who’s part of some sort of Nazi organisation that helps old SS men. He spied on us. Saffron took him prisoner, but we let him go. My guess is that his bosses tipped off my brother that we were after him, and Konrad decided to demonstrate that he could get to us as easily as we could get to him.’
‘Good God,’ Leon gasped. ‘Do you really think your brother could mount some kind of attack upon us, here at Lusima?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Gerhard considered the question. ‘I don’t think so. For a start, where would he find the manpower? There are a lot of people in the European community here whose racial prejudice verges on Nazism, but they’re mostly just drunks in country club bars. You’d need harder men than that to attack Lusima.’
Leon shrugged. ‘I know the type and I think you’re right. Even so, one can’t be too careful. I’ll have a word with Manyoro, get him to make sure that Cresta’s got eyes on it at all times.’
‘Thank you, Daddy.’ Saffron walked across to give her father a peck on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I was cross with you.’
‘Not at all, just a lioness defending her cubs, perfectly natural. And I asked for it, allowing that man in here.’
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘That’s no excuse. At times like these one can’t afford to be lax.’
‘You’re right,’ Saffron said, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders. ‘It’s time to get a grip and sort this mess out once and for all. So . . . Konrad said he was living near my family. Well, we have Courtney and Ballantyne relatives in the UK, but I hardly think that he and Chessi have settled down there. And even he wouldn’t have the brass nerve to live in Kenya, right under our noses.’
‘If he’d found himself a cushy billet here, he’d have made his presence felt long before now,’ said Leon. ‘The Barons von Meerbach aren’t exactly shy and retiring in my experience. And just look at this one, marching in here, bold as bloody brass.’
‘I agree,’ Gerhard nodded.
‘So that just leaves Cairo and Cape Town,’ Saffron continued. ‘And Egypt is a definite possibility. There were certainly plenty of people there during the war who would have been only too happy to see Rommel’s tanks conducting a victory parade through the streets.’
‘I think it’s South Africa, my darling,’ Gerhard said. ‘After all, you’ve often told me about all the Afrikaner politicians who were Nazi sympathisers. And those people were originally Dutch, first cousins to us Germans, correct? Lots of big, blue-eyed men with red or blond hair, who want to keep lesser races in their place?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then Konrad will feel right at home. Tell me, Leon, do you have a Telex machine, by any chance.’
‘In my study, you’re welcome to use it.’
‘Thank you. I think Joshua needs to know about these latest developments.’ He looked at Saffron. ‘Konrad wants us to find him. Very well, let
us grant him his wish.’
Two weeks later a small Israeli cargo vessel docked at the port of Mombasa, on Kenya’s Indian Ocean coast. Joshua slipped ashore and proceeded to a small café-restaurant a few blocks inland from the harbour. At the front, there were a dozen or so tables, in the shade of a grubby white canvas awning. Joshua sat at one of them and ordered a cup of coffee.
A few minutes later, Saffron and Gerhard joined him.
‘I was very sorry to hear about von Meerbach’s little visit,’ Joshua said.
‘He talked to our children, Joshua – our children!’ Saffron exclaimed, still unable to think of what had happened without feeling a surge of bitter emotion.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, he really helped our people in Portugal. Focusing on possible connections with Egypt or South Africa gave them something to work with. They had a lot of leads to check, a lot of people to talk to. Government officials, concierges, café owners, caterers, domestic servants . . . and some of them needed persuading before they talked. The Reich still casts a long shadow, you know?’
‘But you got something in the end?’ Gerhard asked.
‘Oh yes. We got it all.’
‘And?’
‘And I think we should order more coffee. This will take a while to tell . . .’
Konrad, Count von Meerbach had never in his life been obliged to undertake domestic tasks. There had always been servants to make his bed, launder his clothes, cook his food and keep his properties and possessions in order. But on this particular spring day in 1942, in Lisbon, he had decided to make an exception. He wanted no witnesses to the meeting that was about to take place and so he made his own coffee and put out a cup, milk and sugar for his guest, just as a lesser mortal might do.
He checked his watch. There were three minutes to go before his appointment. The man would be on time; von Meerbach was sure about that, because precision was in his nature and because no one with a shred of intelligence would be anything other than punctual for a meeting with a senior officer of the Schutzstaffel. To pass the time, von Meerbach took his cup of coffee and walked out onto the balcony of the rented apartment.
The view across the Sea of Straw, the sheltered waterway into which the River Tagus flowed before it reached the sea, was breathtaking. The warm sun on his face was a delight after the bleak chill of Berlin, and the coffee tasted even better than it smelled. Yet von Meerbach had nothing in his heart but hate, nothing on his mind but the longing for revenge.
He heard a sharp tap of a knock on the door and glanced at his watch: as expected, almost to the second. He walked back into the apartment, placed his cup on a table, and picked up the pistol that was waiting there, a Walther Polizeipistole Kriminal, otherwise known as the PPK. When meeting a dangerous man, it was only sensible to take precautions.
Von Meerbach opened the door, then stepped back, pointing the gun towards the doorway, waist high as his guest walked in.
The man who came into the apartment, closing the door behind him, was neatly dressed in a jacket and tie. But the clothes were of inferior quality to von Meerbach’s tailored suit. They were creased, in need of laundering and worn with overuse. De La Rey looked around with an air of suspicion that was not just due to the gun pointed at him. Von Meerbach had an acute, feral instinct for the strengths and weaknesses of the people he encountered. He saw before him a man simmering with resentment.
He feels betrayed and abandoned by the people he trusted, von Meerbach thought. His hurt feelings make him vulnerable. Prey on them.
And yet De La Rey still conveyed an air of the wildness and savagery of the Africa in which he had been born and raised. His eyes now looked directly at von Meerbach, who was struck by their colour, the pale, tawny topaz of a lion’s irises. Between them stood a broken nose that was the result of a boxing career that had gone all the way to a final at the Berlin Olympics of 1936. The body beneath the shabby suit had not put on an ounce of fat or lost any of its power. For all that he had fallen on hard times, this was a real man.
‘Manfred De La Rey?’ von Meerbach asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Turn around and place your hands on the door, above your head.’
De La Rey did as he was told. His movements were calm and measured. He stood still as von Meerbach frisked him. He knew that these were the formalities of a meeting such as this, just as a handshake might be in other circumstances.
Von Meerbach was unruffled. His status and his gun were not his only protections. Though he was not as fit as he had been in his youth and the years of desk work had softened his heavy, muscular frame, he still possessed an imposing, even intimidating physical presence. The two men were well matched.
‘Please, come in, take a seat,’ von Meerbach said, pointing to two dining chairs that he had arranged with a small side table between them. There were armchairs in the room. They would undoubtedly be more comfortable. But comfort was not what von Meerbach had in mind. He put the gun down. ‘Coffee?’
‘Black.’
‘Help yourself,’ said von Meerbach.
De La Rey filled his cup. Then he asked, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Nothing . . . nothing at all. Or not now, at any rate. I have asked you here, Herr De La Rey, because I believe that we share a common interest and that there may come a time, once the Reich’s inevitable victory has been won, when we may find it mutually beneficial to pursue this interest as – how can I put it? – a joint venture.’
‘You mean a business of some sort?’
‘Let us just say a matter of common interest. I will explain everything very soon. But first, tell me, how would you describe your personal circumstances at the present time?’
De La Rey gave a snort of contemptuous disgust. ‘How do you think they are? Your friends in the Abwehr have turned their backs on me. They won’t even let me back to the Reich . . .’
‘They are hardly our friends. But perhaps they feel you let them down. You were sent to South Africa to assassinate Prime Minister Smuts. You failed.’
‘It’s not my fault that bastard Smuts is still alive. Here I am, rotting away in this godforsaken place. My country, South Africa, is still ruled by the damned British and I haven’t seen my wife or my boy since I left Germany for South Africa more than a year ago.’
‘What are their names?’ von Meerbach asked, taking a Montblanc fountain pen and a slender notebook from his suit pocket.
‘Heidi and Lothar De La Rey.’
‘I will make inquiries, you have my word on it,’ von Meerbach said. ‘Do you have the last address at which they were living?’
He wrote down the details De La Rey provided, though he knew that they were out of date. Heidi De La Rey was currently to be found in the home, and bed, of her former boss, SS-Oberst Sigmund Bolt. Lothar was being raised to think of Bolt as his real father. It was only a chance conversation with Bolt, during which the latter had boasted about cuckolding an Olympic boxer, that had led von Meerbach to look at Manfred De La Rey’s official files. It had occurred to him that an angry, pugnacious husband might prove a useful weapon against Bolt in the Darwinian war for survival that raged between rival SS officers. But the more he read about De La Rey, including Heidi’s lengthy, detailed reports on everything he had told her about himself, the more von Meerbach realised that he could be used as an even more effective weapon against a far more valuable target.
‘You said we shared a common interest. What is it?’ De La Rey asked.
‘The Courtney family.’
A jolt went through Manfred De La Rey as if he had been touched by a live electric wire. He clenched his fists as he leaned towards von Meerbach.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘On the contrary, my hatred of that family is something I take very seriously indeed.’
‘Hate? You don’t know what the word means,’ De La Rey snarled. ‘Look at you, with your fat face and your fancy suit. I’ll bet you’ve never known a day’s hung
er, or poverty, or suffering in your whole life. Well, I’ve seen my father’s life destroyed and mine too. And it was that bitch Centaine Courtney who did it.’
‘You mean, the Centaine Courtney who was born New Year’s Day, 1900, whose principal residence is the Weltevreden Estate, near Cape Town, South Africa and whose fortune derives principally from the H’ani diamond mine? Her only child, Shasa Courtney, lost an eye last year while serving as a fighter pilot in the South African Air Force.’ Von Meerbach paused for a second and then added, ‘As you can see, I am very familiar with the woman in question.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s a cousin of Leon Courtney, date of birth 6 August 1887, and of his daughter, Saffron Courtney. He is the owner of the Lusima Estate in Kenya and the principal shareholder in the Courtney Trading Company, based in Cairo. She was the personal driver to a British Army general in North Africa, Greece and the Middle East. Her present movements are unknown, although I have reason to believe that she has returned to Britain.’
Von Meerbach paused to savour some coffee. De La Rey said nothing.
‘So, why do I know so much about both these people? They are of no interest to the Reich, although you may be sure that when we win this war and our Führer’s vision becomes reality, there will be no place for British imperialism and all their property will be confiscated.’
De La Rey gave a grunt as he nodded at those words. At last he had heard something that pleased him.
‘But for me that is just the start,’ von Meerbach went on. ‘I do not want the Courtney family’s money. I am hugely rich. But you were wrong to suppose that I have not suffered. When I was ten, my father was killed, shot by Leon Courtney. The murderer’s accomplice was my father’s mistress, a woman called Eva von Wellberg, though she was in fact a British spy – her real name was Eva Barry. She was seduced by Courtney and is mother to his daughter.’
Von Meerbach leaned forward, and he let De La Rey see the cold-blooded torturer and murderer who hid behind an impeccable façade as he added, ‘I will not rest until I have repaid Leon Courtney for destroying my family. I want him to understand death, intimately and slowly and as painfully as possible at my hands, and believe me, De La Rey, I am deeply familiar with the contortions of an agonising death. And when he is dying and pleading for mercy from whichever God he worships, his cries filling the air, I want Courtney to know that his darling daughter Saffron, the apple of his eye, has gone before him, and has experienced the brutal horrors of her own passing just as keenly.’