The sky was cloudless blue, the sun shafting through the thorn trees, casting long shadows, and the world was young and old and beautiful, as only Africa can be.
They were up and packed before dawn on Saturday. When the gate opened at sunrise they left Etosha. Sarah was with the Kid in Rene, the coffin in the back, covered, while McQuade and Tucker drove ahead in the Landrover, the step-ladder in the back. They were all in civilian clothes. It was half-past seven when they reached the turn-off to the Skeleton Coast, just outside Outjo. Sarah and the Kid pulled up. McQuade turned towards the coast. He drove for about a mile, then he pulled onto the verge. He got out and opened the bonnet. They settled down to wait.
Tucker breathed, ‘Oh Lord …’
McQuade turned to him. ‘You’re word-perfect, Hugo. We’ve practised every combination. Now let’s have some positive thinking.’
‘And if they open fire?’
‘They won’t open fire on the police. Anyway, your insurance premiums are paid up, aren’t they?’
Shortly before nine o’clqck they saw a car come over the horizon, dust billowing up behind it. They got out of the Landrover and busied themselves at the open bonnet.
‘It’s a Mercedes,’ Tucker whispered.
It roared past them on its way to Outjo. McQuade glimpsed Heidi in the front, an elderly lady in the back. A man was driving. ‘That’s them.’ He slammed the bonnet closed.
They scrambled back into the Landrover, and started stripping off and pulling on the police uniforms. Sarah’s voice came over the walkie-talkie radio, ‘Paging Mr Swanepoel, please come to the telephone.’
McQuade snatched up the radio. ‘Take the number, I’ll phone back.’
He looked at Tucker. ‘You look fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
McQuade had played the role of policeman many times now, but his mouth was dry and his hands felt shaky on the wheel. Tucker’s face looked waxen. As the Landrover turned in at the gate to the Muller ranch, McQuade whispered, ‘You’re a cop!’
He gave a sharp toot on the horn, then got out to show his uniform. ‘Guard?’ he shouted.
A black man emerged from behind the rocks. He was carrying an FN rifle. He seemed surprised at seeing a policeman. He came hurrying. ‘Goeie môre, Baas.’
McQuade said in Afrikaans, ‘We’ve come to see Mr Strauss, please.’
He had expected that the police uniform would be enough, but evidently the guard’s orders were explicit. He gave a quick salute, said, ‘Wait a little, please,’ and ran back to the guardhouse.
McQuade took a deep breath. Was there a television eye hidden amongst the rocks? He tried to look impatient. A minute passed, before the guard came running back, holding a clipboard. McQuade got back into the Landrover, took the clipboard and scribbled in the time and his vehicle’s number.
The guard unlocked the chain and swung the gate open. He touched his cap in a salute.
They drove through, and started up the track towards the hills. ‘Lord …’ Tucker groaned.
‘You’re a cop!’ McQuade hissed.
They wound up into the jumble of hills. Now they were out of sight of the gate. McQuade braked to a halt. They both scrambled out. They flung open the Landrover’s back door, and heaved out the extension ladder. They ran through the bush to the telephone pole. They pulled the ladder’s extension out. McQuade’s breath was quivering, Tucker was fumbling. They heaved the ladder up against the pole. ‘Go!’
Tucker clambered frantically up it. He pulled wire-cutters from his pocket, and cut the telephone line tremblingly.
He scrambled back to the ground. McQuade snatched the ladder away and collapsed it. He ran with it further into the bush, and flung it down in the scrub. They ran back to the Landrover and scrambled in shakily.
‘Well done.’ McQuade rammed the gear lever.
They ground on. Around and up and over the hills. Then the plain beyond came into view.
‘Oh Lord,’ Tucker whispered.
‘You’re doing fine, for Chrissake!’
They ground down, onto the plain, in shaky silence. They drove along the high fence towards the main guardhouse. McQuade took a deep, tense breath.
‘Okay, Hugo. Just think of those millions …’
The big double gates of the guardhouse were open: they were expected. Two black guards stood on either side, holding rifles. McQuade pulled up. The white officer emerged.
He was about forty, with greying hair and blue eyes. McQuade’s hands felt trembly on the wheel. The officer came to the driver’s door. ‘Good morning,’ he said in Afrikaans.
‘Good morning. We’ve come to see Herr Strauss, please.’
The man looked at them. ‘I don’t know you, Sergeant. Or you,’ he said to Tucker. ‘I know all the police in Outjo.’
‘No, we’re from the Otjiwarongo station.’
The officer frowned. ‘And what’s this all about?’
McQuade said with an impatience he did not feel, ‘I’d rather discuss it with Mr Strauss, if you don’t mind.’
The officer said, ‘I’ll come with you.’
Oh Jesus. ‘Certainly.’ The man opened the rear passenger door and got in.
The white schloss loomed ahead like a colossus. It looked bigger than the Namatoni fort in Etosha. A guard was staring down at them from the battlements.
‘Fantastic place.’
The officer did not respond.
The big wooden doors of the schloss were closed. A smaller doorway was cut in them. There was a large, gravelled parking area in front. McQuade swung the Landrover into a semicircle, so that it was parked in the right direction for a getaway. He stopped.
The officer led the way. The door was opened by a black guard, from inside. The officer stood back and indicated it with his hand.
McQuade walked through, into a flagstoned archway. His legs felt shaky. There was another guardroom on the left, an armoury on the right. A young man in a dark suit appeared in the courtyard beyond. Unlike the officer, he was smiling professionally. ‘Good morning. Follow me, please.’ He turned and led the way.
They followed him, McQuade’s footsteps sounding loud in his ears, Tucker behind him, the officer behind both. McQuade’s eyes darted everywhere, feverishly trying to take everything in: the towering palms, the lawns, the tinkling fountains. There were three cars parked. The young man led the way down the courtyard, to a door at the southern end. He knocked, then opened it.
He walked in, announcing something in German.
It was a book-lined study, dominated by a large desk. A swastika flag hung on one wall. A bronze, lifesize bust of Adolf Hitler stood in one corner, a big world-globe in the other. There were a number of framed photographs. Behind the desk sat Heinrich Muller.
He was looking very annoyed. McQuade walked in. And for the first time he looked his man in the eye. And what he saw made his blood run cold. This was no Rudolf Hess with a pathetic old face: this was a strong, grim man, a hard old man in good health, a proud little man accustomed to command, who knew with certainty he was superior to others. McQuade could identify him with the photograph taken forty-odd years ago. The thin, lipless slash of the mouth. The jaw. The piercing eyes. He did not greet McQuade; just looked at him imperiously.
McQuade cleared his throat. He said in Afrikaans:
‘Good morning, sir. Sergeant van Niekerk, Otjiwarongo station. And this is Sergeant Myburgh.’
Muller snapped, ‘Don’t you speak German?’
‘No, I don’t, sir, not sufficiently.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was brought up in the Cape, sir.’
Muller looked at him witheringly. ‘Then speak to me in English! And isn’t it a common courtesy to telephone for an appointment before calling on members of the public? The Outjo police know my number!’
Suddenly McQuade stopped feeling nervous. He had done his best and he had come this far, further than anyone else, and if he was not good enough then so be it – he was going to talk his way out of here and hand the case over to Mossad. Fuck the submarine – this was the bastard who had sent millions of people into gas chambers! He said quietly, ‘We didn’t want to involve the Outjo police, sir. We thought it best to speak to you off the record.’
The man stared at him. ‘What’re you talking about?’
McQuade said: ‘We believe this is an embarrassing case of mistaken identity, sir. Or malicious prosecution.’ He glanced significantly at the white officer and the young man. ‘Can we discuss this with you in private?’
The German looked amazed. ‘Mistaken identity?’
McQuade repeated grimly, ‘Can we have a word with you in private, sir? In your own interests.’
Muller was dumbfounded. For an instant he was about to refuse. Then he snapped at his men in German, ‘Leave us!’
The two men withdrew. They closed the door. Muller glared. ‘Well?’
McQuade took a breath. He put on a relieved expression.
‘I’m sorry, but this is embarrassing. A complaint has been laid against you in Otjiwarongo, sir.’ He paused, apologetically. ‘A complaint of Statutory Rape. Alternatively Indecent Assault. Sexual contact with a girl under the age of sixteen years.’
Heinrich Muller stared at him. Absolutely dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to protest but McQuade went on resolutely, ‘Now, sir, we believe this is a case of mistaken identity. Or downright malicious complaint. So we’ve brought the girl up from Otjiwarongo, to save you the trouble of going all the way there. Her name is Maria Klaasens. A Coloured of fifteen who works as a cleaning girl at the Brumme Hotel.’
Incredulous fury had built up on the man’s face. ‘Statutory rape …?’
McQuade said, ‘We don’t believe it, sir. For one thing, there is the matter of your age. However, there remains the possibility of Indecent Assault, sir, assuming the girl is exaggerating the degree of … intimacy, sir.’ He held up a palm. ‘We don’t believe that either. The girl already has two previous convictions for theft. However her parents are kicking up a fuss, so we have to investigate it.’ Muller was aghast. McQuade went on, ‘But if you wouldn’t mind just coming with us we can straighten this out, sir. Otherwise we’ve got to bring the girl and her parents out here, which would be even more embarrassing.’
Heinrich Muller cried, ‘I’ve never heard of such malicious nonsense!’ He groped for words. ‘Do I look like a man who would do such a thing?!’
McQuade held up both palms. ‘No sir, and that’s why we wanted your staff out of the room.’
Heinrich Muller suddenly stood up furiously, with astonishing agility. ‘I am absolutely … outraged … And if I refuse to have anything to do with this … scurrilous accusation?’
‘Sir, we’re trying to avoid embarrassment—’
‘I demand to have my lawyer present!’
McQuade said, ‘Of course, sir. But we don’t believe that will be necessary. Once you face the girl, she’ll back down or say it was somebody else.’
‘I’ve never heard of the girl! I haven’t been to Otjiwarongo for three months, and then I was with my wife!’ He snatched up his telephone. ‘I’m calling my lawyer!’ He furiously stabbed the buttons. McQuade slipped his mini-canister of Mace out of his pocket. Muller slammed the telephone down. ‘Klaus!’ he roared.
The door opened immediately. ‘Telephone my lawyer to get to the Outjo police station immediately!’ He turned to the other man, ‘Heinz – get the car!’ He strode for the corner and snatched up his hat. McQuade said hastily,
‘We’ll drive you there and back, sir, no trouble.’
‘I don’t want to be driven by police like a suspect!’ Muller rammed his hat on his head. He glared at McQuade furiously, his eyes gleaming. ‘Statutory rape …’ he hissed venomously. He turned and strode from the room.
Klaus had picked up the desk telephone. But he was staring at McQuade, his face a mask of dawning comprehension. McQuade stared back at him, his mind racing, clutching the canister of Mace. Then Klaus raised his hand and pointed.
‘You!’ he rasped. ‘You’re not police!’
There was an instant’s shocked silence; then Tucker dashed to lock the door. Klaus slammed down the telephone, his hand scrambling for his holster and McQuade bounded at him, and squirted his canister in the man’s face. Klaus gasped and reeled backwards, eyes screwed up, clutching his face, and McQuade hit him. He swung his fist with all his might at the man’s guts and Klaus staggered and crashed against the wall. McQuade’s hand came down on his neck in a karate chop and he crashed to the floor. McQuade wrenched him away from the gas and slapped his hand over the man’s mouth. ‘Elastoplast!’ Tucker came scrambling, pulling a roll out of his pocket. McOuade fumbled for the handcuffs, then heaved Klaus over and wrenched his wrists behind his back. He looked wildly around, then wrenched Klaus’s wrists around the foot of the desk and snapped on the handcuffs. Tucker ripped a pre-cut length of elastoplast off the roll and McQuade snatched it and wrapped it tight around Klaus’s mouth and the back of his head. ‘Rope!’ Tucker pulled a length of nylon cord out of his pocket. McQuade lashed it feverishly round Klaus’s ankles, then lashed them to the other leg of the desk.
‘Stand ready at the door!’
Tucker dashed to it. McQuade scrambled to his feet. He shakily composed himself. ‘Let’s go,’ he breathed.
He strode out into the courtyard, praying Muller had not noticed the closed door. Tucker closed the door behind them, the catch down, then hurried after him, white-faced.
Heinrich Muller was nowhere to be seen. A black Mercedes now stood in the archway, with Heinz behind the wheel. McQuade and Tucker walked towards it. Then Muller appeared, slamming a Gothic-arched door behind him. McQuade prayed, Please God he doesn’t go back to his study … Muller glared at him, then made for the Mercedes.
McQuade prayed, Thank you God. He turned into the archway. Muller got into the Mercedes. McQuade hurried through the door and scrambled into the front passenger seat of the Landrover. Tucker got feverishly behind the wheel. McQuade whispered, ‘Go! For God’s sake don’t let him get ahead of you.’