The countryside around the resort area of Hartebeestpoort is sprinkled with cottages to let. On Thursday afternoon, when McQuade rode back to collect his repaired Landrover, he saw the handwritten advertisement in the garage window: Secluded holiday cottage, three bedrooms, linen, cooking utensils, all mod cons including telephone. Apply within.
He asked, was shown where it was on his road map and went there on the motorcycle while his bill was prepared. It was a small, unimaginative house, the furniture was cheap, the inside walls a variety of colours, but it was clean. There were a number of small-holdings in the area but it was secluded, on a hillside with a pleasant view of the valley and the distant dam. McQuade rode back, paid a week’s rent and collected the Landrover.
The cottage solved a big problem: he would be going out each day dressed as a policeman and that was best not done from a public place like a motel. But the cottage was hardly the place for his reunion with Sarah after all the work she had done. He went to the public telephone and dialled the hotel in Sun City and made a reservation for Saturday night. Then he telephoned Sarah.
‘Oh, hi!’ She sounded relieved but tense. ‘The job will be finished tomorrow. How do you want delivery?’
He was delighted. ‘Wonderful! Is anything wrong?’
‘No – no, I’ve been worried, that’s all.’
‘Well, I’ve booked us into Sun City for Saturday night. I’m told it’s lovely. It’ll only take you two or three hours to drive there. Meet me there at about six o’clock.’ He gave her the room number.
‘You needn’t take me to an expensive place like that.’
‘Yes, I must. Because I love you. And you’ve saved me an awful lot of money!’
He bought some beer, wine and groceries. Then he drove to the cottage. He sat down at the kitchen table, and spread out his street maps and notes.
In the past three days he had checked out almost every address of the people on his list who lived in the environs of Johannesburg and Pretoria. By tomorrow afternoon he should have finished.
Sun City (also known as Sin City), is a gambling casino in the independent black state of Bophuthatswana, a hundred and fifty miles from Johannesburg. The country used to be part of South Africa, a tribal area where the Bophuta Tswana people live, until the South African government granted it independence, whereon the new black president promptly granted South African entrepreneurs the right to build a holiday playground reminiscent of Las Vegas. The white South Africans, languishing in their Calvinistic environment, responded with glee. In their hordes they drive into the arid, eroded mini-state to the oasis of Sun City, hole up in the magnificent hotel complex, spend their money on the gaming tables, luxuriate around the artificial lakes and waterfalls and go to the naughty girlie shows, having a rip-roaring slice of un-South African life.
Sarah arrived at six o’clock. She was freshly groomed, but her face was strained. She had seen no evidence of it, but she was certain that she was being followed. Matt would not risk letting McQuade slip through her fingers again and probably already had boys in position at Sun City. She had had to tell him where she was going when she picked up the uniforms, and she had finally made up her mind what she was going to do about this business.
She drove through the big car park, looking for McQuade’s Landrover. She saw it, and managed to park close to it, grabbed her holdall and the big cardboard box, then boarded the monorail train from the parking area. She was swept along towards the sky-scraper complex set amongst rolling lawns and exotic gardens, the stark bush-brown hills of Bophuthatswana beyond. The train came to a halt at the glittering hotel entrance.
She hurried to the reception desk where she was told that Mr McQuade had already arrived. She followed her porter, her long high-heeled legs clicking across the marble, her black hair shiny in a ponytail. She entered the birdcage elevator and rose up, up into the glittering beehive, like an angel.
McQuade threw open the door, a grin all over his face. His heart seemed to turn over as he clutched her in his arms. He began to hustle her into the room and she laughed, ‘What about these damn uniforms I’ve slaved over?’
‘And thank you very much!’ He grabbed her bag from the corridor and slung the box on the bed and took her in his arms again.
‘Try them on,’ she insisted. She turned to the box and lifted the lid. She pulled out the first garment.
He was amazed. It looked the real thing. He fingered it. The stitching, shaping, was perfect. ‘God, you’re clever!’ He examined the buttons. ‘But these are real buttons!’
‘No. Feel them.’
They did not feel like metal. ‘Plastic?’
‘Any art student could do it. Just pressed the real button you gave me into plaster of Paris to make a mould. Squirt liquid plastic into the mould. And you’ve got a decent imitation button. Then spray it with gold paint. Same with the cap badges. Made a plug, copying the photo, then made a mould.’ She delved into the box and produced a cap.
McQuade was more amazed. ‘God, you’re clever!’
‘Try it on.’ She held the tunic out for him, and he slipped his arms into it, and turned to the mirror. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘And this.’ She pulled out a leather belt, Sam Browne and pistol holster. ‘There’s a shop in Hillbrow that turns out leather gear.’ She delved again. ‘And this.’ She held up a set of shiny handcuffs. ‘Got them at the security shop in Jo’burg.’
He was overwhelmed. ‘You’ve done marvels … And saved me so much effort!’
He took her in his arms again, kissed her hard and joyfully, and his hand went to her breast. She stifled a sob in her throat, then she unplucked the buttons on her blouse as she kissed him, and then unhitched her skirt.
He lay beside her, his knee across hers, spent, happy. Her eyes were closed, her black hair across the pillow, her body pliant and replete. ‘When are you going to start?’
He said against her satin shoulder, ‘Monday.’
She breathed deep. ‘And have you got a proper plan? With contingency plans – what to do if something goes wrong? How to get away? Where to run?’
‘I’ve checked out all the addresses around Johannesburg and Pretoria. Monday is just the start. After I’ve found him I make my plan.’
‘And where are you staying?’
‘I’ve rented a good safe place.’ He added gently, ‘Please don’t ask me where.’
‘But is that damn computer print-out safe?’
‘Yes.’ It and all his notes were locked in the metal toolbox built into the back of the Landrover, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
She closed her eyes, then put her fingers to her eyelids. She whispered, ‘Oh God, I can’t bear this …’ His arm tightened on her, but she sat up, swung her legs off the bed and sat there, her hands to her head. ‘I simply can’t bear this …’
He got up on his elbow. ‘Sarah?’
She stood up and turned across the room, her hand to her forehead.
‘I care for you, Jim! Isn’t that obvious?’
He felt his eyes burn, and he wanted to laugh. ‘I love you.’
She cried, ‘Oh God, I’m not asking for a declaration of love!’ She thumped her palm to her head and stood there, gloriously naked, eyes closed. She whispered, ‘Oh, how can anybody fall in love in so short a time …?’ Then she pleaded, ‘Oh, Jim, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!’ She stared at him with anguish; then came and sat down beside him. ‘Jim, I don’t know what all this is really about, but I know that you’re playing with fire.’ She waved her hand. ‘God, three murders have been committed, and the same swines have been chasing you. You’re next, and now you’re about to start impersonating a policeman to find a highly dangerous man and kidnap him.’ She shook her head and pleaded, ‘Jim, you need expert help. Look, Matt knows a hell of a lot of people. Johannesburg is a very security-conscious town, and there’re security agencies everywhere. Matt would know some reliable people to help you …’
McQuade took her hand. ‘Maybe at some stage. But all I’m doing now is reconnaissance.’
She glared at him. And made up her mind. It was all or nothing. ‘Then take me with you.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘No.’
‘For God’s sake, Jim, I’m scared!’ she cried. ‘For you! You come and go in my life like the Scarlet Pimpernel and I can’t contact you, even to tell you that your bloody uniforms are ready! So what happens now? After a nice dirty weekend you disappear into the wide blue yonder and I go back to the apartment and wait for you to telephone! For God’s sake, I’m in love with you and I’m worried about you! All I ask is that I be with you on this hare-brained manhunt of yours!’ Her glaring eyes were moist.
He squeezed her hand. ‘No, darling.’
She jumped up. ‘Okay, I’m off!’ She strode towards the bathroom. She stopped in the doorway, her strong body half-shadowed in the lamplight. ‘I’m sorry. I simply can’t bear it, Jim. I’m an all-or-nothing lady, and I was dumb to get involved in the first place.’ She turned into the bathroom, and banged the door behind her.
McQuade heard the shower gush. He got up and opened the door. Steam was billowing. He said to the curtain: ‘Where are you going?’
She did not answer. He could see her through the translucent curtain, her head tilted back.
‘I said where the hell are you going?’
She began to soap herself vigorously. ‘I don’t know – and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. This crazy affair is over. Because there’s no future in it.’
‘Why is there no future in it?’
She slammed off the shower and tore back the curtain. She grabbed a towel, and swept past him into the bedroom, swept the towel over herself, and grabbed her panties.
‘There’s every future in this affair, Sarah.’
‘Starting when this manhunt is over? And how long is that?’ She grabbed her skirt and started pulling it on.
McQuade tried to take her in his arms. ‘Please wait for me.’
She stooped and pulled on her shoes. ‘Wait for you to telephone? While I eat my heart out? No way.’ She swept her brush once through her hair then slung it in her handbag. Her holdall stood at the door, unopened. She snatched it up. She turned to him.
‘I’m sorry. For the drama. For getting angry.’ She breathed. ‘I would love to stay tonight, but I just couldn’t bear knowing you’re disappearing in the morning, without trace.’ (‘Without trace?’ – she hated herself for saying that). ‘I just couldn’t bear … any more subterfuge—’
‘There’s no subterfuge!’
She wanted to cry out, It’s my subterfuge, my deceit I can’t bear. She said, ‘Whatever the word is, I want to wash my hands of it. Clean break.’ She took a trembly breath. ‘So goodbye, darling Jim, good luck.’ She turned for the door.
McQuade said desperately, ‘Sarah?’
She stopped, and looked back at him. He took a deep breath and said: ‘Let’s get married. On Monday.’
She stared at him.
Suddenly he wanted to laugh with happiness. ‘It’s as clear as day what we’ve got to do! Yet we’re about to go our separate ways! If we do we may never find each other again. Which is ridiculous. So – let’s get married!’ He went to her.
‘On Monday? …’ she said. ‘And then? Where do I go, while you’re off at the wars?’
‘To this cottage I’ve rented. There’re worse places for a honeymoon.’ He took her in his arms. ‘Then when the Bonanza comes in, you go and live aboard until I come back. Or you can go back to Boston and when this is over I’ll come and fetch you and we’ll live happily ever after!’
She looked up at him, and suddenly tears brimmed; then she buried her face against his chest. Oh God! Oh God! How was she ever going to admit all the lies she had told him, all the deceit? How would he ever trust her after that? He repeated: ‘Live happily ever after, Sarah! And with all the money in the world! We’re going to have a wonderful life!’
She took a deep anguished breath. God, how would he ever believe that she hadn’t lied to him and seduced him for the money? She turned out of his arms. ‘Please.’
He was astonished. ‘What’s all this, Sarah? Did you or did you not a few minutes ago tell me you loved me?’
She leaned her forehead against the door. She simply didn’t know what to say, but had to say something, to gain time, to think. With all her heart she just wanted to make a clean breast and beg him to believe her. She heard herself say:
‘The problem is I don’t know whether I love you or not! I only think I do!’ She stumbled on, ‘Nor do I know that you really love me!’ (That was partly true.) ‘We’ve only known each other five fraught weeks! How do I know this isn’t just some … wild infatuation?’
‘It’s not.’ McQuade put his arms around her.
She opened her eyes.
‘Please, Jim, I need to be alone for an hour.’ She turned out of his arms, then looked at him with anguish. ‘I need an hour, to compose myself. Please go downstairs and have a drink?’
McQuade wanted to laugh. She slumped her forehead against his shoulder.
‘All right,’ he whispered. He kissed her neck, then tilted her chin and kissed her moist eyes. ‘Everything is going to be all right …’