Hot Ice (19 page)

Leaving at daybreak, Chris boards a Vickers Viscount prop jet, which crosses the rocky peaks of the Auasberg mountains and hundreds of square miles of featureless, flat gravel plains on its descent to the desolate Skeleton Coast and Swakopmund, where she disembarks at eight a.m.

Chris hires a 4x4 at the car hire counter and sets off through thick sea mist to the delightful old German town, where she books into the Swakopmund Hotel. She feels damp with perspiration as she follows the hotel porter to a front room overlooking the beach. It’s light and cool with Venetian blinds, a high ceiling, air conditioning, a fridge and television. After a shower and a change of clothes, she feels ready for a new start.

Driving south towards Walvis Bay is a forbidding experience. Chris tries to shut out the desolation,
but goose-pimples tingle down her arms. To the east, sand dunes rise and fall as the wind pummels the sand. To the west, boulders and jagged black rocks are constantly pounded by massive waves, sending spray soaring far into the air. The salt spray drifts in the mist and soils the windscreen. Switching the windscreen spray on time and time again, she wonders if the water will last to the next garage. Occasionally she sees a dead seal deposited by the tide with a handful of jackals scrapping over it. How can they live? They are so thin they look two-dimensional.

Walvis Bay is little more than a support town for its huge, bustling harbour, where ships of all nationalities crowd the berths. At a glance she sees Japanese, South African and Russian fish factories, a US naval vessel and several local cargo boats. Adjoining the harbour are rows of factories, workshops and ships’ chandlers. A cluster of small stone bungalows, built on sand, houses the local population. The mist drifts around the buildings carrying the stench of salt spray, fish entrails, rotting seaweed, ozone and engine oil. Worst of all is the noise. The roar of the surf, the crash of the waves on the rocks, ships’ sirens, the clatter of pallets being loaded, cries of hungry seabirds and shouts of the dockers merge into an unbearable roar.

Beyond the buildings there is only sand, hundreds of miles of sand, with tall dunes continually changing shape in the wind.

Chris sighs as she thinks of her poor father spending years dredging for diamonds in this maelstrom of surf, sharks and deadly currents. It seems to Chris that this is the worst place in the world.

Having inspected the town and the docks, Chris is hyperventilating with tension as she parks her car outside the police station. She decides to walk around to calm herself. She’s passing a nearby churchyard, but there is no sign of anything green, not a tree or a blade of grass. The tombstones stand half-hidden by sand.

‘My poor father,’ she whispers again. Tears are stinging her eyes, but this is crazy. Is there some psychic, emotional thread that binds her to a man she’s never even seen? What sort of a father would ignore his own daughter for her entire childhood? It doesn’t say much for his character. Once again Chris wonders if Kelly is mixed up in the diamond laundering scam. When she finds him, it might be better not to tell him who she is, at least until she’s found out more about him. But he knows her name, doesn’t he. She sees a broken tombstone lying in the sand.
In loving memory of Sarah Vaughan
, she reads. That name will do nicely.

Entering the cool, shuttered police station she notes that sand has taken the place of dust. She leans against the sandy counter and waits. After a while a sergeant saunters over. He’s nearing 
retirement age, and his white skin is piebald with red and white patches where sun and sand have done their worst. His stern blue eyes classify her as a probable lawbreaker.

‘What’s your problem?’ he asks.

‘I’m looking for Ulf Skoog. I believe he lives around here. Do you know him?’

‘Sure. Everyone knows him. He owns a boat maintenance business in the harbour. You’ll find it down beside the dry dock.’

His face shows no expression. ‘What’s your interest in Skoog?’

Chris changes her story to fit the facts. ‘I’m writing a survey on Walvis Bay for a shipping magazine based in Cape Town. I want to include an article about Skoog.’

‘That should please the locals.’

‘And I’m looking for Dan Kelly, too,’ she says, her mouth drying.

‘I haven’t seen Kelly for years. I heard he went to Angola at the end of the civil war…registered a claim on a former Unita-controlled diamond field… He put in months of work and heavy spending, but he and his team were shot up by a squad of rogue troops. The team lost their equipment and some of them were wounded. Ask Ulf. He should know. He’s looking after Kelly’s boat. Good luck with your survey, Miss. Are you going to put my picture in?’

‘Why not!’

Dread dulls her mind. Surely nothing’s happened to her father. Suddenly she’s scared of what she might find out. She dawdles past the ships at their berths and the gigantic cranes loading crates of fish and lobsters and unloading fresh produce. The mist is clearing away, she notices. She watches a tug, siren blaring, surge out of the harbour towards a factory ship waiting to be brought in. Seals are bobbing around the ships, seagulls hover and there’s a strong smell of ship’s oil and ozone. Pulling herself together, Chris moves on.

Beside the dry dock is a large corrugated shed.
Ulf Skoog, Maintenance
, is painted across the front. Peering inside, she sees men are crawling over the boats like ants. The hangar smells of varnish, sweat and diesel oil. Someone is welding at the far end and sparks are flying. It’s a wonder they don’t all go deaf here, Chris thinks. No one looks up…they seem to be working against the clock. Looking around she sees a glass-enclosed office built over a locked room which probably contains stores. Could that be Ulf up there? She mounts the steps.

‘I’m looking for Ulf Skoog,’ she calls. ‘The police sergeant sent me here.’

The Dane, who looks exactly like an ancient Viking, with his blond beard and long, tatty hair, laughs down at her. ‘I’d like to find him myself. He’ll turn up one of these days if he’s still alive.’

Sensing that Ulf is a ladies’ man, she smiles
coquettishly as she reaches the top. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘Well, let’s see, he’s tough, wild and loyal. The best man to have at your back in a fight. The ladies never get enough of him. So what’s
your
interest in me, young lady?’

Chris repeats the story she told the sergeant. She rather likes it, but Ulf frowns.

‘That’s strange,’ he says. ‘Dickson didn’t tell me about it. You know Dickson, of course. He’s your local stringer and advertising rep.’

‘It’s still on the drawing board,’ she ad libs, wishing she’d done her homework. ‘I’m here to find out how much scope there will be.’

‘You mean how much advertising you can pull in.’

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’d like to do a story on Dan Kelly while I’m here.’

‘For a shipping magazine?’ Ulf looks incredulous.

‘I freelance for a mining magazine in my spare time.’ She is falling deeper into the mire of her own making.

‘Ah, yes. Well, Kelly’s disappeared. He does that from time to time. He’s always going for the big claim, but he never seems to strike lucky. Occasionally he sells out a claim to one of the big mining houses. When he’s broke he comes back here and starts dredging until he’s earned enough capital to finance a few more months’ prospecting.
He’s not getting any younger. He can’t keep this up forever.’

‘But surely you know where he is. You look after his boat.’

Ulf frowns. ‘He might have gone back to the States.’

Chris tries not to show her dismay. ‘When did you last hear from him?’

‘Four years ago. He owes me a packet for rent and maintenance. I’ll give him three more years, then I’m selling the dredger to cover my costs.’

She’s reached a dead end. She says: ‘I’m also intending to write a follow-up story about the shipwrecked dredger,
Rainbow’s End
, which foundered in a storm in 1979.’

Ulf glances suspiciously at her. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘But you were on the boat, Mr Skoog. You were lucky to reach land safely. I guess you’re a good swimmer.’

He scowls at her, looking at a loss for words. Chris decides to prod further.

‘There was a huge cache of diamonds on the boat. Have any local scuba divers been treasure hunting?’

‘They wouldn’t be that daft,’ the Dane mutters.

‘How about Visser… Do you think he died when the dredger was wrecked?’

‘Of course.’ All the friendliness has gone from Ulf’s face. He’s watching her with dead eyes. He
could be truly dangerous, that’s obvious. Perhaps it’s time to leave, but he’s her last lead, so how can she quit now?

‘Well then. Let’s concentrate on you, Mr Skoog. I thought a double-page spread story with a photograph of you standing in front of your business would do nicely. This is a well-equipped business. It must have cost a packet to get established. Did you inherit your wealth?’

Skoog nods, but keeps his mouth shut, as if he can’t trust himself to speak. Eventually he says: ‘I’m busy. Come back tomorrow. Ten suit you? Now if you’ll excuse me.’

She’s hardly out of the office before Ulf picks up the telephone and prods the keys. No doubt he’s calling Dickson to check her story. Chris leaves in a hurry.

Chris needs to speak to a few old-timers in the town and what better place than the dockside bar. The moment she steps across the threshold it becomes clear that she’s broken an unwritten code. The conversation lulls, heads turn and the mood is hostile.

Tough! They’ll survive, but will she? She’s gagging on the stench of cheap brandy, German beer, strong tobacco and hand-rolled grass. The barman glares at her.

‘This is not a good place for women, Miss. It can get rough in here.’

She ignores this advice. ‘I’m looking for Dan Kelly. Have you seen him around here lately?’

The pub is dead quiet now since everyone is listening, so she appeals to the clientele. ‘Kelly was dredging for diamonds here for years. Some of you must have heard of him.’

The barman looks furtive. ‘What’s your business with Kelly, Miss?’

She changes her story slightly. ‘I’m writing a series of articles on famous wrecks…like the
Rainbow’s End
.’

‘Can’t be famous. I’ve never heard of it,’ the barman says quietly and the men murmur their agreement. They are all sure that they have never heard of this particular dredger.

‘And Dan Kelly?’

‘I haven’t seen Kelly for years. I heard he went back to the States.’ The speaker is an old man, his face deeply lined by the harsh climate, his accent recognisably German.

Chris has trouble concealing her disappointment.

A dark-skinned man smelling strongly of fish interrupts them: ‘Can’t be true, since his boat’s still in dry dock. Ask at the boatyard. Ulf’s looking after it.’

‘That’s not his boat, mate.’ The barman interrupts quickly. ‘He sold it some time back.’

He’s lying, Chris decides. Ulf should know who owns the dredger. Why are they all so anxious to put her off?

‘How about Visser…do you think he really died?’

‘Listen Miss,’ the fisherman mutters, drawing her aside. ‘Just leave while you still can. This is a rough crowd.’

Judging by the grumbles, this is sound advice. She leaves, but pauses outside. Everyone’s arguing, but since she can’t understand Afrikaans there’s no point in hanging around. There’s a reason why no one wants to resurrect details of the wrecked dredger and it surely has to do with the diamonds, but she can’t begin to understand why they are deliberately hampering her search for Kelly. Perhaps that means that he’s still alive. The thought cheers Chris as she walks back to the car park by the church.

Chris starts the engine and drives north towards Swakopmund. The mist has cleared and it’s as hot as an oven. She longs to get back, order an ice-cold fruit juice and jump into the hotel pool. Meantime she has a half-hour drive ahead of her, so she forces her mind back to business.

Not only Skoog, but all the men in the bar were clearly anxious to keep that story under wraps. They probably wrecked the dredger and shared the treasure. Whatever! It’s not her problem…unless it has something to do with the diamond laundering gang. It’s Skoog she’s after.

Suppose Skoog were the gang’s local agent. Suppose he bought and dispatched blood
diamonds…what exactly would he need to do this? Masses of cash, for starters, plus some means of disposing of the diamonds the moment he purchases them. She’d love to hack into his bank account, but right now she doesn’t have the equipment. Perhaps Skoog was flying the diamonds out of Namibia. Of course. Why didn’t she think about this before? She rams her foot on the brake. Next job must be to find out if Walvis Bay has a local private airfield. How about an armed carrier service? Would there be such a business in Swakopmund? Brakes squealing, she skids to a halt and turns the car back to Walvis Bay. Her
longed-for
swim is drifting further into the future.

Chris speeds back to Walvis Bay post office and finds the address of the town’s only armed courier, Fidelity Guards. Much to her surprise the boss’s PA is friendly and helpful. Some women behave like hamsters let out of a cage if they see another woman who isn’t either old or plain, but Muriel, who runs the office, is a woman who likes chatting.

‘I write for a shipping magazine based in Cape Town. We’re planning a survey on Ulf Skoog and his business,’ Chris explains. ‘His twentieth anniversary is coming up soon…’ In next to no time Muriel is chatting on about Skoog.

Ulf is their biggest customer. ‘And when I say big I mean
big
,’ Muriel explains, pausing for a fit of coughing. Smoking and the harsh climate has wreaked havoc on her complexion, but she has fine brown eyes and a great smile.

‘We collect the cash for wages from the bank and
deliver it to him every Friday. He has so many fingers in so many pies you just can’t keep up with the money that guy’s making.’

‘He must have a massive wage bill.’

Muriel’s lips purse showing fine lines over her upper lip. ‘I guess so, but we just deliver the cash boxes from the bank.’

‘Listen,’ Muriel calls as Chris is leaving. ‘If you’re looking for business I’m sure the local safe supplier would support the survey. They’ve just concluded a massive sale to Ulf. I heard the manager boasting about it in the Ladies’ Bar.’

Ladies’ Bar! This place is archaic. Chris drives out to the airport where Skoog keeps his Cessna, according to Muriel. After chatting up the pilot, she learns that Skoog pilots his own aircraft and frequently goes off on trips into Central Africa.

‘Why don’t you pop in to the Cessna suppliers,’ the pilot suggested helpfully. ‘I’m sure they’d be keen to advertise in your survey. Ulf’s their best customer.’

The pilot is anxious to please. He suggests handguns, rifles, motor boats, 4x4s…it seems that Ulf is a big spender. Chris begins to wish that there was such a survey. Her commissions would be impressive.

By the time Chris turns back to Swakopmund, her suspicions are beginning to look more like reality. It takes massive cash resources to set up a network of agents strategically placed to buy all the
spare diamonds available, but they’ve had
twenty-five
years to do just this. Chris strongly suspects that Skoog is one of the agents. His relationship with Visser goes back at least to ’79, according to the media, but he probably knew him long before, since it was mainly his evidence that led the Coroner to declare that Visser had died at sea. According to the newspaper records, Skoog launched his business three years after the wreck. Perhaps he got a handsome payout.

But it’s all guesses. She has no facts. Chris drives back in a mood of black despair. Where has she got? Bloody nowhere. So what if Skoog buys diamonds. Anyone can do that,
but how are they laundered
? That is the genius of the scam and her job is to find out.

All these unknowns are unsettling Chris. She parks and walks into the hotel foyer, throws her keys onto the reception counter and hurries out to the pool where she orders a glass of iced wine with soda water and sits moodily gazing towards the sea. The sun has set, but the sky is brilliant with changing colours, from rose to cerise to purple with slashes of palest turquoise and oyster-grey lying low along the horizon. A flock of flamingoes passes like a pink haze. Cormorants follow in arrow formation, almost merging into the gathering mists. She sees a school of porpoise leaping high as they, too, move south. Sometimes, Chris ponders, you get these unsettling evenings in Africa when a soft,
balmy breeze feels like a caress, when perfume from tropical flowers acts like an aphrodisiac, and the distant sound of a guitar and a man’s voice singing a love song throws you right off balance. If only Jim were here.

Forget it, Chris tells herself. Her longing is unwelcome and absurd. She drains her glass and walks back to reception. ‘Any messages?’

There are three pushed into her pigeon hole. One reads:
We’re practically neighbours. Room 215 on the 2
^nd
floor. How about dinner? Seven suit you? Jim.

Joy and annoyance fight for precedence. Joy wins, but it’s spoiled by a sense of unease. Why is Jim keeping tabs on her. Is he part of the scam and is she getting too close for comfort? Chris calls up to Jim’s room, but he is out, so she scribbles a message saying:
Make it nine p.m. Meantime I’ll be in the pool.

The second message is from the porter: Phone DI Petrus Joubert. He says it’s urgent. Chris walks outside and calls him on her mobile.

‘Are you all right?’ Petrus asks.

‘Of course. I’m fine. This is a nice hotel. I like Swakopmund.’

‘Be careful, Chris. I called you because we received a message from London, from the chairman of Trans-Africa Diamonds. Somehow he’s heard about the Soweto incident and he claims that Freeman has organised a contract on your life, from
prison. I’ve put out feelers, but no luck so far. The chairman insists on a 24-hour guard for you and he wants you back in London fast. On the next plane, he says.’

‘How did he find out about the contract?’

‘He’s well in with the leaders of the African Union.’

Chris is too stunned to ask anything else.

‘I’ve put in a request for a guard for you, but I have no authority in Namibia. I’m back in Jo’burg…just arrived. Take care, Chris. Better still, leave Namibia. Freeman’s influence is restricted to his political pals and they’re all local and mainly broke.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate your help, Petrus. I’ll take care and leave as soon as I can. Go well.’

She replaces the receiver.

How has David found out? He’ll probably tell Rowan and then she’ll really have problems. She might be recalled, or possibly even sacked. Damn! Big Brother is becoming a pain.

The third message is in a hand-delivered, sealed envelope. It’s from Ulf Skoog who writes:
I’ve located Dan Kelly. Come to my office tonight…I’ll wait for you.

Chris hesitates, tapping her fingers on the counter. Her safari jacket is sticking to her back with sweat and her hair is plastered to her forehead. Perhaps she has time for a shower. She glances at her watch and sees that it’s already half past seven. It will take an hour to get back to the
docks. Just how long will he wait? She decides to go as she is. She scribbles a message for Jim.

Something’s come up. I have to drive back to Walvis Bay. I hope to be back around eleven. Don’t wait to eat. I’ll see you later.

Chris feels uneasy as she hurries to the car park. What if he’s lying? Perhaps she’s wrong to ignore the contract, but whatever cash Freeman could provide would hardly impress a man like Skoog. Nevertheless she pauses and turns back to reception. Maybe one person in this world should know where she is. She scribbles a postscript on her note to Jim.
Ulf Skoog has news for me. He has a maintenance workshop in Walvis Bay docks. I’m going there now.

For the third time that day she’s driving back to Walvis Bay. It’s almost dark. There’s no twilight here, she notices. The sun sinks and minutes later it’s night. The road is full of bright green eyes as scavenging jackals are caught in her headlights… how can there be so many and how can they survive in this desolate place?

It’s still so hot. Now that the sun has set the earth is belching up the heat of the day. The surf thunders frighteningly close and she can see patches of phosphorescence sparkling in the swell. There’s a strong stench of rotting seaweed mingled with ozone and the nearer she gets to Walvis Bay, the stronger it gets.

By the time she reaches the docks a thick sea mist has rolled in and she can’t see more than four metres ahead. The guard tells her to be careful and waves her through. Large black shapes turn into piles of railway lines, crates and cranes as she drives past slowly, trying to follow the road. At last she sees a blurred purple ball ahead, which turns out to be a security light above the entrance to Skoog’s maintenance shed.

Skoog comes out to meet her. ‘I’d just about given you up,’ he says. ‘Too many thugs roam the docks at night. I was beginning to worry. What kept you?’

‘I only received your note when I got back to the hotel.’

‘Did you have a good day?’

‘Not bad.’

‘You’ll have to drive into the yard or they’ll break into your car. Follow me. He shines his torch to show her the way around the corner of the shed to an unlocked gate set in a high wall topped with razor wire. She feels uneasy as Skoog padlocks the gate behind her. A quick getaway is now out of the question.

Skoog has smartened himself up. He’s wearing clean white cotton trousers, a navy silk sweater and white trainers. She hopes she won’t have trouble with him. He offers her a drink. She says she’d like a lemonade, hoping he won’t drink much. She’s feeling increasingly uneasy.

‘I’ve had a few messages of congratulations this afternoon,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘I’ve been hearing about my twentieth anniversary and your proposed feature. Funny that Dickson knows nothing about it.’

‘I haven’t told him yet. There’s no point until I can work out what kind of advertising support we can expect.’

‘And…?’

‘Oh, not bad. Safes, aircraft, armed courier, rifles… Looks good to me. You spend a lot of money Mr Skoog.’

‘Ulf…please.’

‘OK, Ulf.’

‘The pilot was very taken by you. He said you did a thorough job in delving into advertising possibilities.’

That’s one way of putting it. She smirks into her glass.

‘Look here!’ She puts down her glass and grabs her bag. ‘I’ve had a rough day. Can we go and find Kelly, please.’

‘Sure.’

There’s something odd about his eyes. He won’t look at her. Perhaps he’s trying to hide his fury. Or is it a gleam of pure triumph?

‘So where is Kelly?’ She asks, as he leads her to the back of the shed.

‘Kelly’s got a holiday shack a short way up the coast. He’s there now. I didn’t know that when I
spoke to you, but I asked around. Sometimes he needs a break from the
bushveld
. It’s tough out there.’

She fights down a shaft of terror that threatens to engulf her as the door opens on to stone steps leading directly to the sea. Thoughts of escape are quickly squashed as she tries to negotiate the slippery wharf in the thick night fog. She would have to go through the warehouse to reach the docks. Her car is locked and Ulf knows the terrain whereas she does not.

‘Kelly might not be there.’

‘I told him I was bringing along a woman who wanted to meet him.’

‘And he said?’

‘He said OK. Bring her along.’

It sounds as if Kelly is one of the gang. Her stomach flips.

A powerful-looking Ovambo stands astride the wharf. He appears to be waiting for them. His skin gleams in the security light and the whites of his eyes are brilliant. He is watching Chris furtively and something about his expression reminds her of the guards in the township’s kangaroo court.