Текст книги "The Kill Switch"
Автор книги: James Rollins
Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
27
March 18, 8:00 A.M.
Istanbul, Turkey
Tucker followed the embassy aide into the conference room. The space looked ordinary enough: white walls, burgundy carpet, maple table. Someone had set out glasses and pitchers of ice. He also smelled coffee, one of life’s necessities at this early hour after such a long night.
Bukolov and Anya joined him as he settled into one of the leather chairs. They all squeaked heavily into place for this private meeting.
Anya’s left arm was in a cast from midforearm to her knuckles. She had broken two bones in her wrist as a result of the plane crash. Her eyes were still glassy from pain relievers.
For this meeting, it would just be the three of them, seated around a speakerphone.
“Your call is being routed,” said the aide, a young man in a crisp suit. He promptly left, sealing the door behind him.
Despite the unassuming decor, Tucker knew this room in the U.S. consulate was soundproofed and electronically secure. No one else would be listening in.
Tucker stared across the table at the other two.
Anya looked haunted.
Bukolov defeated.
They’d flown straight from the Caspian Sea to Turkey, arriving well after midnight. They’d been given rooms here, but it looked like none of them had slept well. Tucker had left Kane behind to give the shepherd some extra downtime.
The conference phone on the table trilled, and a voice came over the speaker. “Your party is on the line. Go ahead.”
After a series of beeps, followed by a burst of static, Ruth Harper’s voice came on the line.
“Tucker, are you there?”
“Yes.” Again he felt the comfort of her familiar soft twang. “I have Doctor Bukolov and Anya here also.”
“Very good.”
In Harper’s usual brusque manner, she got right down to business. “Let’s start with the most pressing concern of the moment. Stanimir Utkin. How much information do you believe this mole shared with his superiors? With this General Artur Kharzin?”
Tucker had already given Harper a condensed version of the last twenty-four hours, including the betrayal and ultimate redemption by Utkin.
Bukolov answered angrily. “How much information? How about all of it? He had access to all my research material. I never suspected him in the slightest.” He glanced over to Anya, his voice dropping further into defeat. “I never suspected anyone.”
Tucker stared between them.
Anya looked down at the table. “I told Abram last night. About my involvement with Russian SVR. About my assignment. I thought he should hear it from me first.”
“Anya Averin,” Bukolov muttered. “I didn’t even know your real name.”
Harper spoke into the awkward silence that followed. “I made some discreet inquiries. As far as I can tell, Anya’s story checks out. She was falsifying intelligence to her superiors.”
Anya glanced to the doctor. “In order to protect you, Abram, to protect your research, so it wouldn’t be abused.” She reached her right hand to him. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
Bukolov turned slightly away from her. “Does she need to be here? She’s of no use to me now. I have all of De Klerk’s diary. I can handle the rest on my own.”
“Not your decision to make, Doctor,” Tucker replied.
“Not my decision? How can you say that? She betrayed me!”
Anya said, “Abram, please. I gave them nothing of your work. I protected—”
“I am done with you! Mr. Wayne, I refuse to allow her to accompany us.”
Harper cleared her throat. “Let’s put a pin in this, Doctor, and get back to Stanimir Utkin. For now, we must assume he gave Kharzin everything. Including the information from Paulos de Klerk’s diary. Is that correct, Doctor Bukolov?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then let’s move on to the threat posed by that information, about the danger of LUCA falling into the hands of Kharzin?”
Bukolov took on a defensive tone. “You must understand, that if handled properly, LUCA could be an unprecedented boon to humanity. We could turn deserts into—”
“Yes, I understand that,” Harper said, cutting him off. “But it’s the phrase handled properly that worries me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but even if we’re able to find a viable specimen of LUCA, we still have no way of controlling it—not you, not Kharzin’s people. Is that right?”
Bukolov hesitated, frowned. “Yes,” he said slowly. “No one has developed a kill switch. But I am convinced the mechanism for controlling LUCA does exist. So is Kharzin convinced. The general would only have to introduce a few ounces of LUCA in a handful of strategic locations, and without a kill switch in our possession, the organism would spread like wildfire, destroying all native plant life. There would be no stopping it. But the larger threat is weaponization.”
“Explain, Doctor,” said Harper.
“Take smallpox, for example. It’s one of the most feared biological weapons known to man, but that threat alone is not enough. To be sure of infecting the maximum number of victims, smallpox must be weaponized—it must be deliverable over a wide area in a short period of time, so it overwhelms the population and the medical infrastructure. Kharzin will see LUCA in the same light. He’s a military man. It is how they think. Weaponized LUCA, delivered strategically, could reach critical mass in hours. Yes, yes, LUCA in its raw form is dangerous, but not necessarily catastrophic. There would be a chance we might be able to stop it. If he weaponizes it . . . it’s an endgame move.”
“End?” Harper asked. “As in end of the world?”
“Without a kill switch, a way of controlling what’s unleashed, yes. We’re talking about the fundamental destruction of the earth’s ecosystem.”
Harper paused, digesting the information. Tucker pictured her removing her thick set of librarian glasses and rubbing her eyes. Finally she spoke again. “How confident are you about this kill switch, Doctor?”
“I’m sure I can develop it. Even De Klerk hinted at the possibility in his diary. I just need a sample.”
“From some lost cave in South Africa?” Harper added.
“Yes.”
“And you think you can find this cave?”
“I believe so. Before I burned the page that explained its location, I set it to memory. But De Klerk plainly feared this organism, even bestowing it with the ominous title Die Apokalips Saad. He was so frightened that he encrypted his words, couching the route to the cave in obscure terms.”
“Can you recite it now? Give us an example?”
“Here is how it starts.” Bukolov formed a steeple of his fingers as he concentrated. “ ‘From Grietje’s Well at Melkboschkuil . . . bear twenty-five degrees for a distance of 289,182 krags . . . there you find what is hidden beneath the Boar’s Head Waterval.’ ”
Harper didn’t speak immediately. Tucker could almost feel the frustration coming through the speakerphone. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a damned thing,” Bukolov said. “I tried for a solid week after finding this page. None of the locations are on any map. Not Grietje’s Well. Not Melkboschkuil. Not that Boar’s Head Waterfall. And as far as I could ascertain, there is no unit of measurement called a krag.”
Bukolov tossed his arms in the air. “It’s one of the reasons I called out to you all. Surely you’ve got cryptographers and map experts who could decipher it. Get us on the right path to that cave.”
“I will see what I can do,” Harper said. “Give me a couple of hours—let me do some research—and we’ll reconvene here.”
The line went dead.
As they all headed out, Anya reached an arm toward Bukolov, clearly wanting to talk, to smooth matters between them. When he ignored her, Tucker read the pain in her face, the crush of her posture. She stood in the hall for a long breath, watching the man stalk off.
When she turned away, he caught a glimpse of a single tear roll across a perfect cheekbone.
It seemed betrayal wore many faces.
10:22 A.M.
Tucker used the break to walk Kane amid the courtyards of the embassy. He had been ordered not to venture beyond its gates. The multilevel compound—with its industrial white walls and rows of cell-like windows—looked more like a maximum-security prison than a consulate.
Still, the small gardens inside were handsome, blooming with purplish-pink crocuses and tangled with roses. But best of all, the warm Turkish sun helped melt the residual Russian ice from his bones and thoughts.
Even Kane had more of a dance to his step as he sniffed every corner and bush.
But soon Tucker was back inside, back at the conference table.
“I may have a couple pieces of the puzzle worked out,” Harper announced as she came back on the line. “But I fear until we have boots on the ground in South Africa, the location of the cave will remain a mystery. From these obscure references, I believe De Klerk was trying to hide some meaning or significance that would only make sense to another Boer of his time.”
Bukolov leaned closer. “Understandable. The Boer were notorious xenophobes, suspicious of other people and races, and especially paranoid about the British. But you said you had a couple of the clues solved. What did you learn?”
“It took consulting with a handful of Smithsonian historians, but we may have figured out De Klerk’s reference to krag as a unit of measurement.”
“What is it?” Anya asked.
“During the fighting back then, a common weapon used widely by Boer troops was a Norwegian rifle called an M1894 Krag-Jørgensen. Over time, it became simply known as a krag. The rifle was thirty-nine inches long. If we assume that was De Klerk’s unit of measurement, the distance he described is around 178 miles.”
Bukolov sat straighter, some of his normal spunk returning. “So we now know the distance from Grietje’s Well to the Boar’s Head Waterfall!”
“And not much else,” Harper added, quickly popping that balloon. “I suspect the Boar’s Head Waterfall—where this cave is hidden—is not so much a name as what the place looks like, some local landmark that you have to see to recognize.”
“So obviously something that looks like the head of a boar,” Tucker said.
“And that’s why we’ll need boots on the ground. We need someone scouring that location, likely on foot or horseback.”
“To view the place from the same vantage as De Klerk did in the past,” Anya said.
“Exactly.” Harper shifted the topic. “But to even get there, we need to know where to start, where to set out from. Without that information, we’re nowhere.”
Bukolov nodded. “We must figure out what De Klerk meant by Grietje’s Well at Melkboschkuil.”
“Which brings me to the second piece of the puzzle we’ve solved. The historians determined that there once was a farm called Melkboschkuil, owned by the Cloete family, located in the Northern Cape province of South Africa. It’s historically significant because the farmstead eventually prospered and grew into the present-day city of Springbok.”
“Then that’s where we must go!” Bukolov slapped a palm on the table. “To Springbok . . . to find this Grietje’s Well. Then it’s a simple matter to measure out 178 miles at a compass bearing of twenty-five degrees, like De Klerk wrote, and look for this Boar’s Head near a waterfall. That’s where we’ll find the cave!”
Is that all we have to do? Tucker thought sourly.
Harper also lacked the good doctor’s confidence. “The only problem is I could find no reference to a place called Grietje’s Well. It’s likely a place known only to the locals of De Klerk’s time. All we’ve been able to determine is that Grietje is Dutch for ‘Wilma.’ ”
“So then we’re looking for Wilma’s Well,” Tucker said.
“That’s about it,” Harper conceded. “Like I said. We need boots on the ground.”
“And I intend to be a pair of those boots,” Bukolov said. “My knowledge of De Klerk may prove the difference between success and failure out there.”
Anya stirred, too, clearly wanting to go. Like the doctor, she was also well versed in De Klerk’s work—and if anything, more stable.
“Understood,” Harper said. “But all this presents one other problem.”
Tucker didn’t like the note of warning in the her tone; even her southern lilt grew heavier.
“If you draw a line from Springbok along De Klerk’s bearing, it puts you squarely into the Groot Karas Mountains—in the country of Namibia.”
Tucker took a deep breath and let it out audibly.
“What?” Anya asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Namibia is in the middle of a bloody war,” Tucker explained. “Between government forces and guerrillas.”
“And those guerrillas,” Harper added, “hold those mountains. They’re particularly fond of kidnapping foreigners and holding them for ransom.”
Bukolov puffed loudly, clearly frustrated. “There has to be a way. We cannot abandon the search now.”
“We’re not, but if you go, I wanted you to understand what you could be facing out there. I’ll arrange some local assets to assist you in Africa, but it’ll be far from safe.”
Bukolov shook his head. “I must go! We must try! Before Kharzin finds some other means to discover that cave. Utkin only saw that map page briefly before I burned it, but I don’t know how much he retained or shared. And maybe I inadvertently mentioned something to him. I simply don’t know.”
Anya spoke with more certainty. “What I do know is that General Kharzin won’t stop. Most everyone at the SVR detests him. He’s a Cold War–era warrior, a real dinosaur. He believes Russia’s brightest days died with Stalin. If Utkin has been feeding him intelligence all along, then he understands LUCA’s potential as a weapon. Properly introduced into an ecosystem—like a rice paddy in Japan—a single speck of LUCA would systematically destroy that ecosystem. And not just that rice paddy, but all of them.”
“That must not happen,” Bukolov pressed.
“I agree,” Harper said. “I’ll begin making arrangements.”
11:10 A.M.
After settling some minor issues, Harper asked to speak to Tucker alone.
“Have we made a devil’s deal here, Tucker? Part of me thinks we should just firebomb this cave if we find it.”
“It may come down to that. But you’ve also made one hell of an assumption.”
“Which is what?”
“That Kane and I are going to Africa.”
“What? After everything we just discussed, you’d consider bailing out?”
Tucker chuckled. “No, but a girl likes to be asked to the dance.”
Harper laughed in return. “Consider yourself asked. So what’s your assessment of Anya and Bukolov. He plainly doesn’t want her along.”
“I say that’s his problem. Anya’s earned her place on this mission.”
“I agree. She seems to know almost as much about LUCA as he does. And considering the stakes, it wouldn’t hurt to have a different perspective on things. But the good doctor will not like it.”
Tucker sighed. “The sooner Bukolov learns that his tantrums will get him nowhere, the better it will be for everyone once he reaches the United States.”
“How soon can you get me a list of supplies you’ll need?”
“A couple hours. I want to be under way tonight. In Springbok by noon.”
“Understood.”
“And I need to ask a couple of favors.”
“Name them.”
“First, find the family of the Beriev pilot.” Elena. “Make sure they know where to find her body and reimburse them for the Beriev.”
“And second?”
“Make sure Utkin’s body is returned to his family. They’re in a village called Kolyshkino on the Volga River.”
“Why? The man betrayed you—almost got you all killed.”
“But in the end, he saved us. And I respect that last act.”
Naive or not, Tucker wanted to believe that maybe Anya was right. That Utkin had been forced against his will to betray them. But he would never know for sure. And maybe it was better that way.
“Sounds as though you liked him.” Harper’s voice went unusually soft, as if sensing the depth of his regret.
“I suppose I did. It’s hard to explain.”
Thankfully she let it go at that.
“Okay, I’ll handle everything. But what about sending additional muscle your way, something beyond a few local assets?”
“I think small is better.”
Besides, Tucker had all the help he needed and trusted in the form of his four-legged partner.
“You may be right,” Harper agreed. “South Africa’s security agencies run a tight ship. You show up big and loud, and they’ll be all over you.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Now, I have to ask something difficult of you,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“If you get to that cave and things go sour, you make damned sure LUCA doesn’t see the light of day. No matter the cost. Or casualties. Is that understood?”
Tucker inhaled deeply. “I’ll get it done.”
3:34 P.M.
A soft knock on his door woke him out of a slight drowse. Kane lifted his head from Tucker’s chest as the two lay sprawled on the bed, napping in the day’s heat.
Tucker, still in his clothes, rolled to his feet and placed his face in his hands.
Who the hell . . .
Kane hopped down, sidled to the door, and sniffed along the bottom. His tail began to wag. Someone he knew.
“Tucker, are you awake?” a voice called through the door.
Anya.
He groaned, stepped over, and unlocked the door. He wiped his eyes blearily. “What’s wrong?”
Something better be wrong.
Anya stood in the doorway, wearing a peach-colored sundress. She smoothed it over her hips self-consciously with her good hand. “One of the consulate wives gave it to me. I’m sorry, you were sleeping, weren’t you?”
She began to step away.
“No. It’s all right. Come in.”
“I should probably be sleeping, too. But every time I lie down . . .” She walked over to the side chair across from the bed and sat down. “I’m frightened, Tucker.”
“Of going to South Africa?”
“Of course, that. But mostly about what happens after all this. Once we’re in America.”
“Anya, the government will give you a new identity, a new place to live. And with your background, you’ll have no trouble finding work. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be alone. Everything I know will be gone. Even Bukolov. You heard him. He’ll barely talk to me now.”
“Maybe he’ll calm down and eventually understand.”
She picked slightly at her cast, her voice growing pained. “He won’t. I know him.”
Tucker knew she was right. Bukolov was single-minded and emotionally inflexible. Now that he had De Klerk’s diary in hand, Anya was no longer indispensable to his work. And in addition she had proven herself untrustworthy. For Bukolov, both of these sins were unpardonable.
Anya was right. Once in America, she would be alone. Rudderless. She would need friends.
With a sigh, he reached across and squeezed her hand.
“You’ll know at least one person in the States,” he reassured her.
Kane thumped his tail.
“Make that two,” he added.
28
March 19, 12:02 P.M.
Cape Town, South Africa
As Tucker set foot off the plane’s stairway and onto the hot tarmac of Cape Town’s International Airport, a shout rose ahead. They had landed at a private terminal, shuttled here by corporate jet—a Gulfstream V—arranged by Harper.
“Mr. Wayne, sir! Over here!”
He turned to see a tall, thin black man in his midtwenties trotting toward him. He wore charcoal slacks and a starched white shirt. He gave Tucker a broad smile and stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Tucker Wayne, I presume.”
He took the man’s hand. “And you are?”
“Christopher Nkomo.”
Kane came trotting down behind him, sliding next to Tucker, sniffing at the stranger, sizing him up.
“My goodness,” the man said, “who is this fine animal?”
“That would be Kane.”
“He’s magnificent!”
No argument there.
Bukolov and Anya came next, shielding their eyes, as they joined him. Introductions were made all around.
“What tribe are you?” Anya asked, then blurted out, “Oh, is that impolite to ask? I’m sorry.”
“Not at all, missus. I am of the Ndebele tribe.”
“And your language?”
“We speak Xhosa.” He waved and guided them across the tarmac toward a nest of parked Cessnas and other smaller aircraft. “But I went to university here, studying business administration and English.”
“It shows,” said Tucker.
“Very kind of you.” He finally stopped before a single-engine plane, a Cessna Grand Caravan. It was already being serviced for flight. “With your patience, we will get all your baggage loaded quickly.”
Christopher was a man of his word. It was accomplished in a matter of minutes.
“Your pilot will be with you shortly,” he said, clambering up the short ladder and through the Cessna’s side door. A moment later, he hopped back out, his head now adorned with a blue pilot’s cap. “Welcome aboard. My name is Christopher Nkomo, and I will be your pilot today.”
Tucker matched his grin. “You’ll be flying us?”
“Myself and my older brother, Matthew.”
A thin arm stuck out from the side window next to the copilot’s seat.
“No worries,” Christopher said. “I am a very good pilot and I know this land and its history like the palm of my hand. I hear you all are Boer historians, and that I am to assist you however I can.”
From the tone of the man’s voice, he knew they weren’t historians. Harper clearly must have debriefed Christopher about the goal of their mission here.
“I am especially familiar with Springbok. My cousin has a home there. So if we are all ready, let us get aboard.”
Bukolov and Anya needed no coaxing to climb out of the sun and into the dark, air-conditioned interior. Bukolov took the seat farthest from Anya. The doctor was not happy to have her along, but back in Istanbul, Tucker had left him no choice.
Tucker hung back with Christopher. “The supplies I asked for?”
“Come see.”
Christopher lifted a hatch to reveal a storage space neatly packed with supplies. He pulled out a clipboard and handed it to Tucker. It listed the contents: potable water, dehydrated meals, first-aid kits, maps and compasses, knives, hatchets, a small but well-stocked toolbox.
“As for weapons and ammunition,” the man said, “I was not able to provide all the exact models you requested. I took the liberty of using my own judgment.”
He pulled that list out of a back pocket and passed it over.
Tucker scanned it and nodded. “Nicely done. Hopefully we won’t need any of it.”
“God willing,” Christopher replied.
1:38 P.M.
Tucker stared at the passing landscape as the Cessna droned toward their destination. Buckled opposite Tucker, Kane matched his pose, his nose pressed to the window.
The scenery north of Cape Town was hypnotically beautiful: a dry moonscape of reddish-brown earth and savannah, broken up by saw-toothed hills. Tiny settlements dotted the countryside, surrounded by brighter patches of green scrub.
At last, Christopher swung the Cessna into a gentle bank that took them over Springbok. The town of nine thousand lay nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling granite peaks, called the Klein Koperberge, or Small Copper Mountains.
The plane leveled out of its banking turn and descended toward Springbok’s airstrip. As they landed, the tires kissed the dirt tarmac without the slightest bounce. They rolled to the end of the runway and turned right toward the terminal, administrative offices, and maintenance hangars.
Christopher drew the Cessna to a smooth stop alongside a powder-blue Toyota SUV. A man bearing a striking resemblance to Christopher and his brother waved from the driver’s seat.
Tucker called toward the cockpit, “Another brother, Christopher?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wayne. That is Paul, my youngest brother. He flew up here last night to arrange things and make inquiries.”
When the engines had come to a complete stop, Christopher walked back, opened the side door, and helped them out.
A palpable blast of heat struck Tucker in the face.
Anya gasped at it.
Bukolov grumbled his displeasure. “What is this fresh hell you have brought us to, Tucker?”
Christopher laughed. “Do not worry. You will get used to the heat.” He stepped away, embraced his brother Paul, and motioned them into the SUV. “My brother has arranged accommodations at a guesthouse not far from here.”
“Why?” Bukolov said. “How long will we be staying here?”
“At least the night. Matthew will remain here and guard your supplies. If you’ll climb aboard, please.”
Soon they were heading north on a highway marked R355. Barren foothills flanked both sides, their eroded reddish-orange flanks revealing black granite domes.
“This place looks like Mars,” Bukolov said. “I’ve seen no water at all in this godforsaken land. How are we supposed to find a well out here?”
“Patience, Doc,” Tucker said.
They finally reached the outskirts of Springbok. It could have passed for a small town in Arizona, with narrow, winding streets bordered by modest ranch homes.
Paul turned into a crescent-shaped driveway lined by thick green hedges. A hand-painted placard atop a post read KLEINPLASIE GUESTHOUSE. The SUV stopped beneath a timbered awning. A set of stone steps led up to French doors bracketed by a pair of potted palms.
After speaking to a bellman in white shorts and a crisp polo shirt, Christopher led his charges, including Kane, into the lobby.
“Oh, this is glorious,” Anya said, referring more to the air-conditioning than the accommodations—though they were handsome, too.
The lobby consisted of leather armchairs, animal-hide rugs, sisal runners, and framed drawings of famous African explorers. Above them, huge rattan-bladed ceiling fans hung from exposed beams and churned the already-cool air.
Christopher checked them in, then led them to a private meeting space down the hall. They gathered around a mahogany table. Sunlight streamed through the tilt of plantation shutters. Sparkling pitchers of water, floating with sliced lemons, awaited them.
Paul eventually stepped inside and crossed to the head of the table. “Mr. Wayne,” he said. “Christopher informed me of your interest in a local feature. Grietje’s Well. I’ve been making discreet inquiries, but no such place seems to exist, I’m afraid.”
“It must,” Bukolov snapped, still out of sorts from the travel and heat.
“Mmm,” Paul said, too gracious to argue. “However, the relationship between Springbok and water is a long and bloody one. Water was quite treasured here and fought over, as you can well imagine with the heat. So natural sources were often hidden. In fact, the town’s original Afrikaans name is Springbokfontein.”
“What does that mean?” Anya asked.
“Springbok is a local antelope. If you keep a sharp eye, you will see them hopping about. And fontein means fountain. But a fountain here simply refers to a natural spring or a watering hole.”
“Or perhaps a well,” Tucker added.
“Exactly so. But man-made wells are relatively modern features here in Springbok. Before the middle of the twentieth century, locals relied upon fonteins. Natural springs. That is why my brother and I believe what you are actually seeking is not a well but a spring.”
“But how does this fact help us?” Tucker asked.
“Perhaps much, or perhaps not at all,” Christopher replied. “But there is a man who might know that answer. Reverend Manfred Cloete.”
The name struck Tucker as familiar—then he remembered a detail from the briefing back in Istanbul.
“Cloete,” Tucker said. “That’s the name of the family that once owned Melkboschkuil farm. The one Springbok was founded upon.”
Christopher nodded. “That’s correct. Manfred is indeed a descendant from that distinguished lineage, making the man not only Springbok’s reverend, but the keeper of its unwritten history as well.”
Paul checked his watch. “And he’s waiting for us now.”
2:15 P.M.
Crossing through the historic center of Springbok, Christopher turned into a paved parking lot surrounded by a low stucco wall and shaded by lush green acacia trees. Nestled within those same walls stood a sturdy stone church, with a single square steeple and a large rosette window in front. It resembled a miniature Norman castle.
“Springbok’s Klipkerk,” Christopher declared. “The Dutch Reformed Church. Now a museum.”
He waved his three passengers out.
Tucker and Kane clambered from the backseat. Anya slid out the front passenger door. They had left Bukolov back at the guesthouse. The travel and the sudden heat had proved too much for the Russian’s reserves. As a precaution, Paul had been left behind to watch over the doctor.
Anya waited for Tucker to join her before following Christopher toward the church. She smiled at him, slightly cradling her casted arm. She must still be in some pain, but she hadn’t made a single complaint. Perhaps she feared her injury might be used as an excuse to leave her behind. Either that, or she was a real trouper.
Christopher led them along a path that took them to the rear of the church and across a broad, well-manicured lawn.
To one side, a barrel-chested man with wild white hair and a bushy beard knelt beside a bed of blooming desert flowers. He wore Bermuda shorts and nothing else. His torso was deeply tanned and covered in curly white hair.
“Manfred!” Christopher called.
The fellow looked over his shoulder, saw Christopher, and smiled. He stood up and wiped his soiled palms on a towel dangling from the waistband of his shorts. As he joined them, Christopher made the introductions.
“Ah, a pair of fellow historians,” Manfred Cloete said, shaking their hands. His light blue eyes twinkled. “Welcome to Springbokfontein.”
His accent was pure South African, a blend that sounded both British and Australian with a bit of something mysterious thrown in.
“I appreciate you seeing us, Reverend,” Tucker replied.
“Manfred, please. My goodness, is that your hound?”
Kane came bounding past, doing a fast circuit of the yard.
“He is indeed. Name’s Kane.”
“Might tell him to be careful. Got some snakes about. Can’t seem to get rid of them.”
Tucker whistled, and Kane sprinted over and sat down.
“Follow me, all of you,” Manfred said. “I’ve got some lemonade over in the shade.”
He led them to a nearby picnic table, and everyone sat down.
As Manfred tinkled ice and lemonade into Anya’s glass, he asked, “So, Ms. Averin—”
“Anya, please.”
“Of course, always happy to accommodate a lady’s request. Especially one with a wounded wing.” He nodded to her cast. “What is this interest in the Boer Wars?”
She glanced to Tucker, letting him take the lead.
He cleared his throat. “It’s my interest actually. A personal one. I recently discovered one of my ancestors fought during the Second Boer War. He was a doctor. I know very little else about him except that he served most of his time during the fighting at a fort somewhere around here.”
“If he was a doctor, that would most likely put him at the Klipkoppie fort. That’s where the local medical unit was stationed. It was under the command of General Manie Roosa. Tough old bird and a bit crazy, if you ask me. The British hated fighting him. You’ll find the ruins of the fort just outside of town.”
