McQuade rode through the rush-hour traffic to Nathan’s house, getting lost several times. Dinah, the black maid, let him in. He dumped his bag in the guest room, then spread out his lists and maps of Johannesburg, Pretoria, Namibia and South Africa on the dining-room table.
He located the address of each of his suspects, and marked them on the maps. It took him over an hour. Then he transposed all the marks on the street maps onto the road maps of southern Africa, to give him a bird’s-eye view. He was daunted by the task ahead. While most of his suspects in South Africa were clustered around Johannesburg and Pretoria, those in Namibia were spread across that vast territory.
It was going to be a hell of job. He folded everything up then went to the telephone and got the yellow pages directory. He looked up Detectives.
There were half a dozen listed, Executech, FM, Worldwide, Acme, BSAP, all claiming to be specialists in divorce, missing persons, security, criminal and civil investigations. Several were run by former police officers. All promised complete confidentiality. He telephoned Fidelity Detectives and made an appointment in the name of Johnson.
Fidelity Detectives had their offices in an old Victorian building in the less expensive part of town. An old grille-elevator took McQuade up to the third floor. The gloomy corridors were lit by neon strip-lights. McQuade knocked.
John Patterson was a big, earnest Englishman of about forty who had been an inspector in the Rhodesian police. The certificates lined his walls, including one that declared that he was a member in good standing of the Association of British Detectives. He sat behind a large steel desk and listened encouragingly.
‘This is a preliminary enquiry only,’ McQuade said. ‘I’m trying to find a man who came to southern Africa decades ago. I have an old photograph of him. I know the false surname he is using, and a number of addresses he may be staying at.’ He paused. ‘Now, how much would you charge to stake out these addresses, and find out whether or not he’s the right man?’
‘In principle, three hundred rand for an eight-hour day for each detective employed, which includes travelling time. Plus expenses. Night surveillance the same.’
Impossible.
‘So if I’m in a hurry and want to use detectives to stake out ten different addresses it’s at least three thousand rand a day – six thousand if I have two shifts a day.’
‘Well,’ Patterson replied, ‘for such a number of detectives we’d give you a substantial discount.’
Big deal. ‘And who are these detectives? You haven’t got ten men on your staff?’
‘No, they’re freelance. All good men. Mostly ex-police or ex-army.’
‘How do I know they’ll treat the case with confidentiality?’
Patterson tapped his chest. ‘Trust my reputation. They answer to me, but you can meet them beforehand.’
McQuade had already decided he could not afford it, but he had to test the lie of the land in case he ever needed him. ‘But would you never report to the police anything a client tells you? Or what you find out?’
Patterson’s eyes lifted to the ceiling for a moment.
‘We would not cover up a crime. Or commit a crime.’
The man had loaded the words to encourage him, while keeping his professionalism up front. McQuade continued, ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to commit a crime. But after you have identified the right man, I might want you to –’ he paused significantly – ‘bring him to me.’
Patterson put his fingertips together. ‘Bring him? You mean persuade …’ He got up and walked slowly to the door, opened it to ensure nobody was outside, then returned to his seat. He said reasonably: ‘You want to talk to the man, of course. Discuss some business with him.’
‘Yes. Absolutely nothing illegal, I assure you.’
‘May I ask what you want to discuss with him?’
‘He’s my father. I’m his illegitimate son. I simply want him to acknowledge that fact.’ He added: ‘It’s a very emotional matter with me. And it’s a matter of inheritance.’
‘Oh. So all I’m doing is reuniting a family.’ Patterson waved a hand. ‘But for some reason, which doesn’t concern me, your father denies his paternity.’
‘Exactly. He would refuse to meet me if he knew what was happening. You must not mention why you are … approaching him.’
Patterson nodded at the ceiling. ‘A trick,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll have to think of a little trick, to reunite father and son.’
‘So how much extra is that going to cost?’
Patterson brought his eyes down to his desk.
‘Impossible to say, until we see the lie of the land. The place, distances, how many men for the job.’
‘The minimum?’ McQuade demanded quietly.
‘The minimum? I’d say twenty thousand rand.’
No way. But at least McQuade knew what was possible. He stood up. ‘Thank you …’
Patterson hurried on: ‘You said you’d like to meet the men?’ He scribbled a note and handed it to him. ‘Pete Griffiths. He drinks at the Gold Reef Hotel every evening. I’ll tell him to look out for you tonight, perhaps?’
McQuade put the note in his pocket. ‘All right. I’ll be in touch, after I’ve made my decisions.’
Patterson beamed him out the door.
At dusk McQuade rode back into the city. He had visited three of the leading security companies in Johannesburg, discussed their systems with salesmen, collected their brochures describing their standard lay-outs and their array of products. He felt he knew a lot about electronic surveillance, tear-gas pistols, miniature gas canisters for ladies handbags, electric stun-guns and batons, walkie-talkie radios, handcuffs, even gas masks for the hyper-cautious to protect themselves against their own tear gas. Every salesman had gladly agreed to provide him, free of obligation, with a blueprint of their recommended security lay-out when he provided them with a sketch of the house he wanted to build.
He had done some useful work, but he was depressed. The money Nathan had put up was fast dwindling: the costs to come were high – impossibly high if he had to hire help like Patterson’s men. So, he would have to rely on Tucker – the Kid couldn’t impersonate a South African policeman because he couldn’t speak Afrikaans. And Tucker would have a heart-attack. He felt daunted – by what he was taking on, by what Johan Lombard had told him, the size and strength of the enemy – and he was worried about 435 overtaking him. And, God, was there even any loot in that submarine? Was he mad to be chasing Nazi war-criminals when he should be chasing buyers for his fishing company whilst the going was still moderately good, before 435 chased all the investors away?
He did not go to the Gold Reef Hotel to meet Patterson’s man, Pete Griffiths: he knew now it was possible to hire muscle if he could afford it. He found his way back to Nathan’s house. Dinah had already gone to her quarters. He got a beer from the refrigerator. He hesitated, then sat down at the telephone and called Johan Lombard.
‘No bother at all, dear boy,’ Johan beamed, ‘just sitting here having a thoughtful hair of the Philistine’s dog that bit me at lunch-time. What is it you want to know about 435?’
‘Is it just diplomatic manoeuvring – another cliff-hanger – or is it really going to come off? And if so, when?’
Johan said cheerfully, ‘Oh, it’ll come off this time, dear boy. I know we’ve had similar offers from the South African government before – summit meetings with Cuba and Angola in the Cape Verde Islands, in Geneva, in Lusaka, the works – and in fact South Africa actually withdrew most of its forces from Angola in 1984 and ’85, pursuant to its peace offers, but the bloody Cubans always refused to withdraw their troops at the eleventh hour because they wanted to have their cake and eat it: get rid of South African troops and then knock the living shit out of UNITA – and then fight for SWAPO. But the Cubans’ tune is changing – their military leaders realize that it’s a no-win war.’
McQuade felt feverish. ‘So Cuba’s going to give up?’ (It was ridiculous that he wanted them to stay a bit longer!)
‘Oh, Angola is Cuba’s Vietnam, dear boy. Castro himself doesn’t want to give up – he wants to be the Hero of Africa – and besides what’s he going to do with fifty thousand noisy troops coming home to no jobs in his hopeless commie economy? Dirty war is about his only export. And it’s kind of difficult for him to admit that the last twelve years in Angola have been in vain – especially after the Yanks trounced him out of Grenada so recently. But his military men in Angola realize they can’t really win against South Africa and now Russia is getting twitchy about footing the bill: over two billion dollars the war has cost them – they’re even pulling out of Afghanistan, dear fellow! And, of course, South Africa’s finding the war too expensive too – a million rand a day it’s costing us poor taxpayers – and our military men also feel Angola could be our Vietnam. So, South Africa’s tune has also changed in the last few years. In the old days our venerable government’s objectives were to prevent a SWAPO Marxist government in Namibia at any cost – and to avoid a local backlash of being accused of “selling out” the whites of Namibia – hence our former bluster and bravado. But bitter experience, and the cost, have brought about our present sweet reasonableness.’
‘But,’ McQuade protested (protest? – this was ridiculous) ‘what about UNITA? If the Cubans pull out, UNITA will win the civil war against the Angola regime and install a pro-western government – Castro and Moscow won’t risk that, surely?’
‘Ah,’ Johan said, ‘there’s the rub! Slice the tearful 435 onion any which way and you’ll find UNITA at the core. Yes, UNITA will whip the pants off the puppet Angola regime if the Cubans pull out. So, two things are bound to happen. One, Cuba will launch an all-out offensive against UNITA while they drag out these new negotiations over 435, arguing about a timetable for withdrawal. Two, in the end result they will leave behind sufficient Cuban troops to enable the Angola regime to at least fight a defensive war, and to protect Angola’s oil and diamond fields. Say five to ten thousand troops. And, in the end result, South Africa will accept that – South Africa can tolerate a few thousand Cuban troops way up there in the north around Luanda, especially as the United States – at least under Reagan – will continue to support UNITA in the south. In exchange for accepting that, South Africa will demand a quid pro quo, like Angola undertaking not to allow ANC military bases in the country. Which would be a blow to the ANC. It’s all a question of diplomatic bargaining, dear boy. And posturing. And enduring offensive, immature Marxist platitudes and insults. But both sides will be pushed by America and Russia into giving a little here, taking a little there, and 435 will happen this time.’
‘But when?’ McQuade demanded worriedly.
‘Soon, dear boy.’ (McQuade’s heart sank.) ‘The Americans are working hard to get a deal going before the next presidential election so Ronald Reagan and his Republicans can justify his “constructive engagement” policy towards South Africa to the US electorate, going softly on sanctions, et cetera. And the South Africans are keen to clinch a deal while they can still bargain from strength, also before America’s elections in case the Democrats win – Dukakis has darkly proclaimed he’ll throw South Africa and UNITA to the communist wolves. And Britain is pushing South Africa, too, so that Maggie can justify her no-sanctions policy to her electorate and to the Commonwealth – which is mostly black. And Gorbachev’s worried about his roubles, so he’s pushing too – and Gorbie thinks that Bush-baby’s going to win the US presidential election, see? Well, that all rather leaves Fidel glumly fretting over his cheque-book. No doubt he’ll stall negotiations, loudly protesting it’ll take years to remove his troops, while he waits to see if Dukakis wins the election and thus wins the war for him. All wheels within wheels, dear fellow. And, in truth, Castro could not remove all his troops in six months – it’s a logistical impossibility. Eighteen months is more like it.’
‘So you think we’ve got at least eighteen months before 435 comes in?’
‘No, dear boy,’ Johan said. ‘I think South Africa will agree to allowing Castro eighteen months or two years to make a phased withdrawal. Assuming that’s agreed, as soon as the Cubans are out of the danger area – away from the Namibian border – 435 could be implemented. Most likely early next year. But soon.’ He ended: ‘That’s my view, dear boy.’
McQuade sighed grimly. Even eighteen months wasn’t much time in which to sell a fishing company. ‘And then what’s going to happen? Once they’ve got independence, what do you think SWAPO’s going to do to the Namibian economy?’
Johan said: ‘What do you think they’ll do, old chap?’
McQuade said angrily, ‘I think they’ll fuck it up! With their stupid communist economic theories – nationalizing everything! When will these people realize that communism sounds fine on paper but is a resounding failure in practice?!’
‘I’m afraid I think you’re right, dear boy. If I had any money – which regrettably I don’t – I certainly wouldn’t be investing in Namibia now. And I think Sam Nujoma and his SWAPO thugs are going to be even more tiresome than your average Marxist fuzzy-wuzzy, because they’re so badly educated, dear fellow. Sam Nujoma, your future President-for-Life, has only two years of primary school education, you know. He was a teaboy in a Windhoek office before Moscow spotted his potential. And he’s been living in Cloud-cuckoo-land most of his political life, courtesy of the UN and World Council of Churches, directing his “war” from five-star Scandinavian hotels – with a little help from Castro. Nice work, if you can get it. So? So one has little cause for optimism. A group of white businessmen from Namibia went to visit him in his Swedish hotel some years ago, you know, to open a dialogue and find out what their future was under a SWAPO regime. And they came back very worried about the man’s economic naivety. Did you read about that?’
Indeed McQuade had. In Australia. It was one of the reasons why he had come back to sell up. ‘Remind me.’
‘They were worried sick that Nujoma appeared to have not a clue about how fragile the Namibian economy is. He’s been living on the largesse of the World Council of Churches, Moscow, and the Scandinavian governments so long that he thought that after independence he could just continue to pass around the jolly begging bowl. Oh, he told the businessmen that they would be welcome to stay, et cetera – quite a nice chap, apparently, as long as you don’t cross him – he struck a black Namibian woman in the face when he was a guest at the European parliament in Strasbourg, dear boy, and shouted “You will die!” because she complained that her son had been dragooned off into a SWAPO training camp and never heard of again! How’s that for a President-for-Life? But, anyway, the businessmen returned to Namibia very worried.’ Johan sighed. ‘These tiresome communists just don’t understand the dire consequences that will ensue – to them and the world – if the Rossing uranium mine, and Consolidated Diamond Mines and Consolidated Gold Fields, et cetera, were nationalized. Oh, it all sounds lovely on Kremlin notepaper. But in practice …? I think they think they can just print more money. Russia hasn’t shown a profit in seventy years …!’ He ended: ‘You’re in the fishing industry, aren’t you?’
McQuade sighed bitterly. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, dear boy,’ Johan said, ‘I know what I would do if I were you.
McQuade thanked him, and hung up, feeling more depressed. But, also, more grimly determined because of it. That submarine solved all these problems! And delivering a Nazi war-criminal to justice was right! He had it both ways! Of course he had to continue! You can’t have a chance like this and not go for it! …
He found pork chops in the refrigerator. He threw them into a frying pan. ‘A fine Jew you are, Nathan, can’t turn my back on you for a moment.’