There is a short cut from Johannesburg to Windhoek, over a thousand miles shorter, but it travels across the Kalahari Desert, on sandy tracks, through vast, flat scrubland, across dry stream beds, through vast sand-lands and places with names like Moshaneng and Morwamusa and Phuduhudu and Lone Tree and Okwa, just trading stores and maybe a petrol pump shimmering under the mercilessly blue sky. However, you may bog down for ever in the sand, and it takes much longer than the long hard drive down south through Kimberley, and then west through Upington and Grunau, which only takes two days of very hard driving.
They left the cottage at sunset, returned the keys, and headed south. At two a.m. McQuade pulled off the road. Sarah was slumped against her window, and he laid his head on her lap and fell asleep instantly. The following night they slept at the little hotel at Grunau, the bleak railway-siding on the eastern edge of the Namibian desert, and set off again at dawn. By mid-morning the Ostwind was blowing.
It comes rushing hot and dry over the vast desert towards the faraway Atlantic, sucking up the heat as it goes. Before its coming the earth is still, and feeling a little mad, and the sweat dries salty on you; then suddenly the waiting is over and out of the east it comes like a blast furnace, rushing and swirling and beating so scrub bends and dust goes flying in great furls and curls, stinging and blinding. Now the whole world is dirty flying yellow and the sun is darkened and the dust comes gushing in through door frames and window joints; so that after the wind is gone the roads are banked and streaked in sand and the world is snowy with dust.
The Ostwind was blowing full blast as they drove through Windhoek that afternoon, heading north for Outjo, into the vast flat scrub cattle-country, the grit swirling across the road and beating the Landrover. In the late afternoon the wind began to die down; they came to Otjiwarongo, and the hot earth was still and quiet. They turned onto the road for Etosha in a hazy sunset. At eight o’clock they pulled into the little town of Outjo.
It is a pleasant town, with single-storied Victorian shops, with gravel roads between neat, unimaginative homes. There are Herero women in their Victorian dresses and horned head-scarves, a police station, a circuit magistrate’s court, a post office, and the Grand Hotel, two stars.
It was in questionable taste, but the proprietor had gone to great lengths to make it modern and out-of-keeping with the vast surrounding bushland. The doors were plate glass, emblazoned with credit-card insignia, the smart reception furniture was yellow vinyl, but there was no receptionist. After calling ‘Hullo?’ McQuade went to the corner and found himself putting his head into the cocktail bar attached to the Jade Grill Room, which was well supported by the sweaty, short-trousered clients. He called to the barman, ‘Can I have a double room please?’
The barman shouted with a German accent: ‘Double rum coming up – aha-ha-hal’ Everybody laughed with him. He came to the reception desk jovially. McQuade signed in as Mr and Mrs Akkerman. He hesitated, then decided to chance it – the man was friendly and must know everybody.
‘We’re going to Etosha tomorrow. Is Mr Strauss’s place on the way?’
‘Schloss Namib, sir? No, Schloss Namib is about fifty kilometres down on the Khorixas road.’ He pointed. ‘To the west. Etosha is north.’
McQuade was elated. It had worked.
‘“Schloss”? That means castle, doesn’t it? Is it really a castle?’
‘Oh yes, beautiful place. Though I haven’t seen it myself.’
‘But is it easy to find? Can I see it from the road?’ He paused. ‘He once invited us to drop in.’
‘No. It’s way back in the hills, about five kilometres off the road.’
‘But is there a signpost or a gate, or something?’
‘Just an ordinary farm gate. Maybe there’s something written on it. Hang on, I’ll ask in the bar.’
The barman bustled out. Sarah glared at McQuade, who whispered, ‘It’s worth it. Getting a bar-full of advice without asking for it.’
‘No more questions!’ She turned to glare at some photographs on the wall.
The barman came back into the foyer. He had his finger up. ‘Nothing on the gate. What you must do.is shout.’
‘Shout?’
‘Jawohl. Behind some rocks is a guardhouse. Shout and the guard will telephone the schloss and then open the gate.’
‘Well, maybe we’ll try,’ McQuade said. ‘Of course, he may be away.’ He almost felt Sarah seethe.
‘No,’ the barman said, ‘I saw his wife in town this morning, and his pilot, so he must be here.’
Pilot? ‘Well, thank you, we’ll get along to our room and freshen up for dinner.’
‘Hope to see you in the bar first, sir, aha-ha-ha.’
They walked across the back garden to their room. Sarah closed the door behind them, and leant against it.
‘Do you realize something?’ She jerked her thumb at the reception area. ‘In your anxiety to get that information, you have divulged to me the name of the man we’re all looking for. Mr Strauss. Of Schloss Namib.’
McQuade was piqued at her choice of words. ‘I realized that, but now we’re here, you have to know, and I took a calculated risk with that guy. I got good information cheaply.’
‘You did, and I mean it when I say I’m pleased to be taken into your confidence at last. But take my advice, Jim. You went at that like a bull at a gate. You’ve drawn attention to yourself as a stranger in town looking for the big Mr Strauss. Now, don’t go back to the bar. In a town like this you’ll soon be talking to everybody and you’ll be remembered. And it’ll soon get back to Mr Muller!’
‘They must be used to tourists going to Etosha.’
‘You’ve learned a lot,’ she said emphatically. ‘Where he is, that he’s here, that he’s got a castle with a guard on the gate. That he’s got an aeroplane.’ She held up a warning hand. ‘Good. And maybe you got away with it. But don’t go’n screw it up by asking more questions in a crowded bar tonight.’
McQuade was grateful for her advice, but piqued at her tone. ‘If there’s a guard on the gate there’re likely to be more. A castle is likely to have a big imposing gate somewhere, with more guards, right?’
‘Right. And you need to know his habits, his movements. Does he come into town? To go to the bank, do some shopping, just to have a beer? It would probably be a hell of a lot easier to snatch him on his way to town than to crack his castle. Before you do anything you’ve got to be absolutely sure he’s the right man. See him close up, compare him with the old photographs. So far all we’ve seen is your video. I agree the evidence is stacking up, but the worst possible thing you could do is jump the gun and snatch the wrong man. Not only would that be a terrible injustice, it could land you in tremendous trouble, and your whole submarine would be blown. But,’ she held up a warning hand, ‘no more questions tonight.’
They dined in the Jade Grill Room. A busload of German tourists trooped into dinner en masse and sat at two long tables, quaffing steins of beer and talking loudly. The bar was crowded with sunburnt men and everybody seemed to be jolly, all talking at once in German. Then suddenly everybody at the bar went quiet and appeared to listen.
McQuade could hear a radio, a woman’s voice reading a news item. He strained to listen, but could not catch it. He looked at Sarah questioningly, but she couldn’t hear properly either. Then suddenly the bar erupted in noise.
Suddenly everybody seemed to be talking at once, angrily, incredulously. Expletives. McQuade’s German wasn’t good enough. ‘What’re they saying?’ he demanded of Sarah.
She frowned. ‘Something to do with Resolution 435 …’
McQuade’s heart was sinking. ‘But what?’
Sarah shook her head. The friendly barman came bustling out from behind the noisy counter. He made his way through the tables to the German tourists to tell them the news. McQuade grabbed his arm as he passed. ‘What’s happened?’
The jovial barman did not look so jovial.
‘Independence!’ he blustered. ‘435!’
‘But what’s happened?’ McQuade demanded.
‘They have reached agreement!’ the barman cried indignantly. ‘South Africa and Cuba and Angola are going to sign an agreement tomorrow! For immediate ceasefire! There is to be a Joint Military Commission to supervise the peace – everything!’
McQuade stared. ‘But,’ he protested incredulously, ‘Cuba hasn’t actually agreed to withdraw her troops from Angola, has she?!’
‘Ja!’ the barman cried, ‘Ja! Ja! Exactly! The only question is how long it will take them to withdraw! But they have agreed to do it! And South Africa says it will start withdrawing its troops immediately! South Africa says that on November the first there will be 435! The United Nations are arriving here immediately!’
‘November the first? But that’s impossible …’
‘Nothing is impossible for South Africa! They think they can do what they like with our country! They will sell us down the river to SWAPO when they like! So South Africa will withdraw and so SWAPO will come pouring across the river into Namibia next week! And all thanks to South Africa! And America! Because they want peace with Cuba they throw us to SWAPO …!’
McQuade stared. ‘Good God …’
‘Ja, we need God to help us now with Sam Nujoma as dictator!’ The barman turned and bustled on to the tourists’ table.
McQuade slowly put his knife and fork together midst the uproar. He felt the cold hand of bankruptcy on his stomach again. Sarah put her hand on his sympathetically. Suddenly a big German at the bar was bellowing across the restaurant at Sarah:
‘It’s all America’s fault! America thinks all the gods live in Washington DC!’
Sarah turned to McQuade. ‘Me …?’
‘Yes, you!’ the German shouted. ‘America has forced South Africa to sell us down the river to the Cubans and SWAPO! Your Chester Crocker thinks he is Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier! Your Mr Crocker thinks that what is good for General Motors is good for Namibia!’
McQuade murmured angrily, ‘Let’s get out of here, we’re becoming conspicuous.’
‘Agreed.’ Sarah began to stand up.
The German shouted: ‘Do you stupid Americans really believe the Cubans will go home when the South African troops leave? Do you really believe the Cubans won’t come back when Sam Nujoma is dictator of Namibia? Do you really believe there will be democracy in Namibia?’
Sarah turned for the door. The barman was hurrying across the restaurant. He grabbed the angry German’s arm. ‘Wolfgang …’
Wolfgang shook him off and bellowed at Sarah’s back, ‘You Americans are so naive you don’t realise that One Man One Vote in Africa means One Man One Vote Once! And you – ’ he shouted at McQuade, ‘you bastards will be next when you’ve got Sam Nujoma’s Cuban pals on your South African borders!’ He yelled again at Sarah, the veins standing out on his neck: ‘One Man One Vote ONCE! End of story …!’
‘And it’ll also be the end of James McQuade if there’s no loot in that submarine,’ he said angrily. ‘Because not only will there be a dictatorship but SWAPO will nationalize the fishing industry. Or sell all our licences to Moscow.’
They were sitting in their room, with the bottle of wine salvaged from their unfinished dinner. Sarah tried to be encouraging. ‘But will SWAPO really be so bad? So stupid?’
‘Oh God …’ McQuade sighed. He gave up. ‘Yes.’
‘But,’ Sarah said, ‘will they necessarily win the elections?’
McQuade waved an angry finger in the direction of the bar: ‘That bad-mannered Kraut in there is right, Sarah, in Africa democracy means that the biggest tribe wins the election. In Africa might is right. Might means the biggest tribe with the most spears. And the biggest tribe here is the Ovambos. Sam Nujoma and his SWAPO boys are Ovambos, so SWAPO will win.’
She controlled her pique at his tone. ‘Then why do you want to see democracy come to South Africa itself?’
McQuade took a deep breath; then explained slowly.
‘Sarah, I don’t want democracy in South Africa if it means that the biggest tribe, namely the Zulus, dominate us all with yet another one-party African state. Because that’s not democracy. What I do want, however, is a true democracy, with a specialized constitution – not a simple unitary system like Westminster’s – a true democracy where every minority tribe has its proper, lawful, democratic representation and say in parliament – something like Switzerland, where all minority groups are respected, and legally protected. So there’s no oppression. No dictatorship by one big black chief of the biggest black tribe with the most spears or AK 47s.’ He sighed angrily. ‘But, alas, that is not the African way of doing things.’
‘But you think South Africa can achieve that kind of true, just democracy. So why can’t it happen here in Namibia too?’
He sighed. ‘Sarah, South Africa can achieve that because our Hairyback South African government understands Africa – which Britain did not when it pulled out of Africa in such starry-eyed haste, and which the rest of the world still doesn’t. And South Africa has the physical strength and is at last showing signs of having the political savvy to do it. South Africa has the wherewithal to finish off the job which Great Mother Britain abandoned with cowardly haste decades ago …’ He glared at her, then said: ‘That’s why true democracy is possible in South Africa. But overnight in Namibia?’ He snorted. ‘Forget it.’
She suppressed her own snort. He went on: ‘Forget it, in Namibia, Sarah. Because in jolly Namibia, South Africa – who’s its own worst enemy because of its ridiculous Apartheid – South Africa has painted itself into the stupid corner of being forced by economic considerations to abandon its “colony” of Namibia, just like Britain was forced by economic considerations to abandon her African colonies. In other words, it’s cheaper to give up gracefully than to fight the Cuban bandits … If South Africa had not had Apartheid, 435 probably wouldn’t have happened: Namibia would have legally become part of South Africa years ago, as quietly and naturally as Hawaii became part of America, or Wales became part of England. But, there was Apartheid: so, there was 435. And so we will have the United Nations and their troops supervising the 435 elections in Namibia, not the South Africans – in other words the South Africans have destroyed their credibility as an election police force. So, the milk-and-water UN troops will police the elections – and they won’t have a fucking clue about African politics and its big-tribe tactics and its bully-boy intimidation – they’ll fondly imagine it will all be nice and wholesome like it is in Stockholm.’ He sighed. ‘So when the South African troops withdraw down across the border the SWAPO troops who’ve been sheltering behind the big battalions of Cuba will gleefully come down, filling the vacuum, and they’ll come swaggering across the border with their Kalashnikov rifles and landmines and start blowing up old ladies in supermarkets and shooting up defenceless people taking their cattle to the water-hole, just to impress upon them that they better vote SWAPO or else. Because that is the African way. And South Africa with its Africa-know-how won’t be able to stop them because the United Nations will be so-called policing the show.’ He ended grimly, ‘Yes, SWAPO will win the election, Sarah.’
She was silent a moment, then persisted optimistically: ‘But will they be so stupid as to take over all the industries?’
McQuade snorted. ‘Yes, Sarah. They’re communists. And they’re mostly uneducated.’ He looked at her, then leant forward: ‘Please grasp that. They’re people from the bush who are going to be handed a sophisticated but fragile economy. To own. With their heads stuffed with propaganda from Moscow. They’re under-educated, Sarah. They’re not like your sophisticated blacks in America. Please grasp that, Sarah …’