Beyond the low stone wall seven elephants were drinking at the waterhole. Along the wall the tourists were clustered silently. Inside rondavel 17 the curtains were drawn, the door locked.
On the wall McQuade had taped three maps. One was a large hand-drawn sketch of Heinrich Muller’s ranch. The second was the admiralty chart of Walvis Bay harbour, showing the fishing compounds, wharves, the lagoon and the long sandspit out to Pelican Point. The third was a large-scale road map covering the area from Outjo to Walvis Bay. Sarah sat silently attentive as McQuade pointed at his hand-drawn map and said:
‘We arrive back at Muller’s gate, on the main road. Point A. With Muller as our indignant passenger, ostensibly en route to the police station. We turn towards Outjo, so that the guard at the gate sees us going in that direction—’
Tucker interrupted worriedly, ‘But these guys chased you in the desert, so they know your number plates. And the guard on the gate probably notes down number plates …’
‘Good point, Hugo,’ McQuade said encouragingly. ‘We have to change the number plates of my Landrover. Nothing simpler than swapping my Landrover’s number plates for those on the Kid’s station-wagon.’
Tucker blinked, trying unsuccessfully to find fault with this idea. The Kid said cheerfully, ‘Fine!’
‘Okay, but supposing the guard smells a rat when we show up at the gate? Or even worse, Muller smells a rat.’
The Kid groaned, ‘You’ll be in uniform, for Christ’s sake!’ He pointed at the sofa where the uniforms lay resplendent.
‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have to go into the lion’s den saying you’re a policeman!’
McQuade said, ‘It’s highly unlikely but if there’s any trouble at the gate then it’s a fight, Hugo. With this kit here.’ He indicated the stun-batons and tear-gas canisters on the table. ‘We’ll come back to this and practise it, but let’s get on with the general outline—’
‘How does it work?’ Tucker picked up a stun-baton suspiciously.
McQuade did not want to discourage him. ‘Called the Multi-Force. Guaranteed to neutralize anybody. It’s made of poly-carb, so you can also use it like an ordinary baton. But see that little hole in the end, and that little button where your thumb is? If you push that button forward, tear gas squirts into the face of your attacker. And see those two little metal prongs each side of the hole? If you push the button backwards sparks jump across.’
Tucker pushed the button backwards and blue sparks crackled between the two points. McQuade said, ‘All you do is touch your man with the baton – preferably on the chest or head – and he gets a terrible shock.’
‘You mean just like this?’ Tucker leant out and touched the Kid on the arm.
‘AAAAAR!’ the Kid screamed. He crashed sideways off his chair, and outside the elephants scrambled out of the water-hole and fled into the night. The Kid sprawled on the floor, shocked, face screwed up in agony. ‘For Christ’s sake Hugo!’ McQuade cried. Sarah dashed over to the Kid.
Tucker looked at the baton and then at his victim, in wonder. McQuade snatched the baton from him. ‘God, haven’t you got any brains?’
‘No,’ the Kid writhed, ‘no fucking brains …’
Sarah helped him up. The Kid crouched, clutching his arm, then collapsed back in his chair, shuddering. ‘Prick!’ he glowered at Tucker. ‘Have you got piles or are you a perfect asshole?’
‘I see …’ Tucker said, admiring the baton, almost looking pleased with himself, ‘wonderful thing …’
‘Prick …’ the Kid moaned, clutching himself. He elaborated: ‘Prick, prick, PRICK …!’
Finally McQuade managed to revert to his map. ‘Having driven through the gate with Muller, we turn left on the main road, so the guard thinks we’re going to Outjo. We drive for two kilometres, until we’re well out of sight, and there we meet Sarah, and you, Kid. You are parked on the opposite side of the road, in your station-wagon. With the hood up, as if you’ve got engine trouble. Here …’ he pointed at the map, ‘Point E. And concealed under a blanket in the back is a coffin.’
‘A coffin?’ Tucker gawked.
‘Sarah flags us down. As good policemen, we stop to help a lady in distress. Then we turn on Muller. And knock him out. First with chloroform, then with this …’ He held up a syringe. ‘We then load him into the coffin in the back of the station-wagon. We then jump back into our vehicles and drive off like hell. But towards the Skeleton Coast this time, not Outjo. We drive to here …’ He pointed at the map. ‘Point F. It is a farm turn-off. Four hundred yards down that, we swing into the bush. There’s a hillock there. We stop behind the hill. And we quickly spray-paint the station-wagon black, and my Landrover white. And then we race on for the coast.’
The Kid could not believe his ears. ‘Spray-paint … Rene … black?’ he echoed, still clutching his shocked arm.
For the second time Tucker half-brightened. ‘Good idea,’ he muttered. McQuade said to the Kid: ‘Can we please get this briefing over and then rehash it incorporating any sensible ideas you may have! Tomorrow’s Friday, and we’ve got to practise and think of everything. Everything except whether you like your nice new Rene painted black, Nigel! For God’s sake get it into your head that we’re talking about millions!’
There was a silence. Then Sarah said soberly:
‘I’d like to add to that.’ She turned to Tucker. ‘Jim has worked very hard on this case. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, he has thought of everything. Short of storming Muller’s schloss with fifty mercenaries, it’s the best plan. And it should succeed.’ She amended that: ‘It’s going to succeed. But what we need from you guys is self-confidence and high morale. No more of this pessimism! No more Oh Lord, and Oh dear poor me! For God’s sake remember that when you’ve pulled this trick off you’re not only going to be rich, you’ll have brought the most wanted Nazi war-criminal in the world to justice!’
There was a sober silence. Tucker was looking at his feet. Then the Kid groaned,
‘And, I can have my bottom ones done …’