The flat glow of Walvis Bay came up on the horizon.
There is a railway bridge on the very outskirts of town, and then a big lamplit traffic circle. There are often Coloureds at the circle, thumbing lifts to Swakopmund, but not thumbing lifts into Walvis Bay, which is a few minutes walk away. However there was one tonight, at the start of the circle, standing under a lamplight with a hat on. McQuade slowed down to enter the traffic circle, got a look at the shadowed face and was sure he was a disguised Mossad lookout-man. He swept past him. He had intended swinging right around the circle and tearing down 18th Road straight to the fishing wharves but he turned the other way, towards the centre of town and the lagoon beyond. He looked in his rear mirror, but the man was out of view.
He drove fast into the town centre, Tucker behind him, then swung towards the lagoon, roared off down the street for three blocks, then swung right. He drove through the deserted shopping district. He feverishly watched his mirror, but there was only the Landrover. He roared down to 6th Street, then swung back towards the fishing wharves. There was not a moving vehicle except the Landrover. He came to 18th Road. He pulled up at the stop-sign. The bleak road was deserted, the desert around the industrial area completely still in his headlights. He swung left, towards the wharves, and stepped on the accelerator.
Tucker roared behind him. They crossed the railway tracks, then there was the start of Oceana Road and the concrete walls of the fish-factory compounds. McQuade swung right into it. This was really it. If he had fooled that lookout-man at the circle he had a good start on the Mossad bastards waiting at the lagoon. Oceana Road was deserted. He sped down it, the fishing compounds flashing past, then swung onto the sand track leading down to the Cato wharf, a hundred yards away. Potgieter appeared in his headlights, frantically unlocking the gate’s chain. He swung the gate open and McQuade roared through it, the Landrover behind him. Potgieter swung the gates closed again. McQuade roared across the sandy compound, then swung the station-wagon alongside the Bonanza. He scrambled out, ran to the back and unlocked the doors.
Julie Goldstein was on the bridge, Nathan was on the foredeck with Elsie. Potgieter was running flat out from the gate. He had spread a cargo-net on the jetty, ready for the coffin. The derrick was already swung out over the jetty, its hook hanging. Potgieter leapt onto the deck and ran for the winch. McQuade and Tucker each grabbed a handle on the coffin. ‘Heave!’ The coffin slid halfway out. They heaved again, and lugged it to the net and lowered it. There was a rattle as Potgieter slackened off the derrick’s cable. McQuade grabbed the hook and Tucker pulled the net over the coffin, and rammed it over the hook. ‘Take it away.’
The coffin rose off the quay. It swung through the air towards the middle of the ship. The midships hatch was open. Elsie had disappeared down into the hold to receive the coffin. Potgieter swung it over the hatch and lowered it. McQuade rasped: ‘Single up to the bow-spring.’ He scrambled into the back of the Landrover, unlocked the toolbox and snatched out the shotgun, cartridges, notes, cassettes, printout, his bag, Sarah’s and the defence gear. He leapt onto the Bonanza, ran for the bridge. Tucker was on the quay, throwing the stern line off the bollard. Potgieter threw off the bowline, then leapt onto the fo’c’sle to slip the bow-spring. McQuade clattered up onto the bridge. ‘Out of the way!’ he rasped at Julie Wonderful. He dropped everything and seized the wheel and turned it hard to starboard.
At that moment he saw the police car. He yelled to Potgieter, ‘Engine slow ahead!’ and rammed the throttle.
It looked like a real police vehicle, but he wasn’t going to be fooled again. It slammed to a halt outside the gate and a man in civilian clothes scrambled out. He ran to the gate and shook it. ‘Stop! Police! Stop!’ The ship was surging forward, the spring-line taking the strain, the stern swinging out. The policeman started clambering up the gate. ‘Stop! Police!’ Tucker came clattering up onto the bridge. ‘Take the wheel!’ Tucker grabbed it. The stern was swinging away from the quay. McQuade dashed to the bridgewing and looked frantically astern as the policeman dropped to the ground from the gate and started racing across the compound. The stern was four yards off the quay now, the bows hard against it. ‘Slip her!’ McQuade roared down to Potgieter. ‘Full astern and hard to port!’ he roared at Tucker.
Potgieter let go and the rope whistled out, and the Bonanza churned backwards, her stern pointing for the open harbour. The policeman was running flat out across the compound. The bows were now a yard off the quay. The man raced at the widening gap, and leapt. He crashed onto the dark deck.
Potgieter went racing for the fo’c’sle and disappeared inside. McQuade roared furiously, ‘Get off my bloody ship!’
The man had picked himself up. He had a gun out. He dashed for cover behind a winch. He shouted hoarsely in English, ‘You’re under arrest!’
McQuade shouted down: ‘You bastards’re a bit late, Matt! And you’re on your way to sea, so come out with your hands up and have a drink!’
There was a moment’s silence. The bows were ten yards off the quay now. McQuade snapped: ‘Take her away!’ Tucker shoved the throttle lever to forward and swung the wheel. Then the voice came up:
‘James McQuade, return this ship to the quay! This is Inspector Dupreez of the South African Police!’
For a moment McQuade was speechless. That was Inspector Dupreez’s voice. ‘Oh Lord,’ Tucker groaned. God this was trouble … The ship was churning towards the harbour mouth. Dupreez shouted from the dark fo’c’sle:
‘I’m arresting you for the kidnap of Heinrich Strauss! And for the murder of Skellum and his mother!’
McQuade was thunderstruck, and his stomach contracted. Murder!
‘The man I’ve arrested murdered Skellum and his name is not Strauss it’s Heinrich Muller!’ he shouted. ‘And you’re not police, you’re Mossad!’
There was a moment’s silence. McQuade could just make him out, crouched behind the forward machinery. He snatched up the salt-loaded shotgun. The Bonanza was churning towards the end of the breakwater, the engines going doem-doem-doem. Dupreez shouted:
‘Why do you say I’m Mossad?’
‘Because Heinrich Muller is a Nazi war-criminal! And I’ve caught him, and you want him!’
There was an astonished pause.
‘And what you want to do with him, man?’
‘Persuade him to confess to his crimes, then hand him over to the Israeli Government so they can hang him!’
There was another silence. Longer this time. Elsie came puffing wide-eyed up onto the bridge from the hold, via the engine room. Then Dupreez shouted, ‘McQuade, this is your last chance, hey. Surrender in the name of the Law or I open fire!’
At that moment McQuade saw Potgieter at the fo’c’sle doorway behind Dupreez, and his heart leapt. He shouted, to keep Dupreez’s attention:
‘How do I know you’re police?’
‘Switch on the decklights and you’ll see my face, McQuade!’ Dupreez shouted and at that moment Potgieter hit him.
In one bound Potgieter was through the fo’c’sle door and he hit Dupreez on the back of the head with his fist and the man sprawled. McQuade bellowed, ‘Use his handcuffs!’ And at the same moment he saw the dinghy come roaring out of the night at them. He roared, ‘Lock him up in the fo’c’sle cabin, Pottie! Take the wheel, Elsie!’