One Man's Shadow

David Roberts

Description

A fast-paced mystery thriller ... guaranteed to keep you guessing ... and reading ...Following some unexpected deaths a commercial investigator is sucked into a web of intrigue. Thrust into the African wild he survives its dangers but more ominous predators are stalking and he and the woman he loves become unwitting targets ...

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Olive Tree Publishers
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780620522496
• Langue: English

Extrait

DAVID ROBERTS

OLIVE TREE PUBLISHERS
Published by Olive Tree Publishers
(A division of The Olive Tree Trust)
PO Box 96, Morningside, Sandton, 2057, South Africa

First published 2012
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

Cover design by Lisa Oosthuizen and Simon Richardson
Copyright David Roberts 2012
Author s website: www.davidrobertsauthor.com
Printed and bound by Mega Digital (Pty) Ltd

The right of David Roberts to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him. All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similiar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-0-620-52249-6
To my wife, Eileen
AUTHOR S NOTE
This novel is set in South Africa in the early 1990s, during a time of political change. The circumstances surrounding the politics of that time lend themselves to the back-drop for a mystery thriller. It is a fictional story based on the exploits of a commercial investigator. For the purpose of adding historical authenticity, the names of the political parties and their leaders are real, the imminent political elections referred to did take place and historical fact has been drawn upon in establishing the background to the novel. However, beyond this, the characters and events are fictional and any similarity to any person living or dead and any present or past event is coincidental and unintended.
OF LEOPARDS:
Secretive, silent, supple as a piece of silk, he is an animal of darkness, and even in the dark he travels alone.
The Cats of Africa , Maitland Edey .
The Indian sat somewhat self-consciously in the window-seat of a second-class carriage, staring stoically out of the water-flecked window as the train glided through the outskirts of Frankfurt. The damp, lifeless buildings that whisked by matched his mood. He was no stranger to covert operations in foreign lands, and his choice of the train rather than a flight to Berlin bore testimony to that; there were no passenger lists associated with trains. However, on all previous missions, he had acted for an organisation opposed to the South African government with lofty ideals and a noble cause, and he had never been coerced into taking action. The dangers had been real in that the apartheid regime s reach was global, and they had some surprising friends in high places. There was, however, a certain security in the camaraderie - in the knowledge that thousands were involved in the same struggle, and that among them were those who had paid with their lives and others who were in prison. Most importantly, he believed in the justice of the cause.
This assignment was different. Not only had he been compelled to carry it out, but it flew in the face of both his heart and his conscience.
Gradually, outside the window, the high-rise office buildings and blocks of flats gave way to cheerless houses, all crowded together.
The Indian s reverie was interrupted by a small, uniformed, grey-haired man with a large moustache, who addressed him in German. He turned to face the man and, upon catching his eye, saw the curiosity displayed there. The Indian s piercing, pitch-black eyes often had that effect on people.
The conductor quickly dropped his gaze and looked down to the ticket machine strapped to his waist.
The Indian nodded, extracted a ticket from his pocket and handed it to the conductor, who hurriedly clipped it, thrust it back into his hand and bustled on down the aisle of the carriage.
Casually, the Indian stroked the money-belt strapped tightly around his waist, concealed by a loose-fitting jersey. It was uncomfortable, and he would be pleased to be rid of it. He reverted to staring out of the window. The train was hurtling comfortably through the countryside. Neat rectangular plots, some grassed but most freshly ploughed, with farmsteads dotted amongst them, stretched to the horizon. Idly, he speculated that those ploughed fields would soon be planted, that seeds would germinate and crops would grow. He thought of the sunflowers that populated fields in his home country, resplendent and alive with colour as they turned their happy faces to follow the sun. Perhaps there would be an opportunity for him to make a fresh start.
Encouraged by the repetitive yet gently comforting clicking of the train s wheels as they passed smoothly over the railway tracks beneath, he dozed off.
He woke in time to intercept the vendor of a refreshment trolley as it passed his seat. He bought a sandwich and a fruit juice, paying with a crisp, new ten-mark note. He ate and drank leisurely and then took a map of Berlin out of his holdall and spread it out on the small table in front of him. He pinpointed the street he was looking for and was pleased to discover it was only a half dozen blocks away from the central station.
As the train pulled into the Berlin Hauptbahnhof , the Indian noted with some satisfaction that it was on schedule: 3 p.m. His appointment was for 4 p.m., so he still had plenty of time to find the apartment building in the street he had identified.
He donned his heavy overcoat and, carrying the compact hold-all that contained his luggage, alighted from the train. He made his way up from the arrival platform onto the crowded station concourse. He decided to walk to his destination. On leaving the heated station building, he braced himself: there was a cold breeze gusting. It was snowing lightly and flakes tickled about his face and flecked his sleek black hair and overcoat with wisps of white. He stopped to button his overcoat and pull the collar up around his ears before checking his map again. Then, having established the shortest route, he set off at a brisk pace, hands thrust deep into his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold.
He found himself in an older part of town marked by narrow, winding streets and tired-looking apartment buildings. His ears began to tingle and his nose was cold to the touch.
Despite some confusing numbering, he found the apartment building he wanted with fifteen minutes to spare. Instinctively, he tried the entrance door, but it was locked. There was an intercom mounted at chest height on the wall. Each of its dozen buttons had a different name, handwritten in ink, next to it. The Indian was relieved to find, as promised, the name J.N.Burkhardt written in bold letters opposite apartment number nine. He pressed the button, holding it down for a few seconds.
A voice crackled incoherently through a tiny speaker on the intercom.
After a moment s hesitation, the Indian spoke into the intercom: It s your friend from Africa.
The speaker crackled briefly again and then a door buzzer sounded. He took this as a signal to push against the door, which swung open. He entered and found himself in an ill-lit entrance hall. On his left a staircase with a heavy, wooden banister led up to the apartments on the floors above.
The Indian paused to look around and to brush the remnants of the snow from his hair and coat. There was an untidy pile of newspapers strewn on the floor; otherwise, the entrance area was vacant. The air was dank. The stairs being his only option, he started to climb them with his holdall slung loosely over his shoulder.
He reached the first landing and discovered the entrance doors of two apartments, numbered one and two. A quick calculation told him that number nine should be on the fifth floor. The worn stairs creaked as he climbed. When he had reached the third floor, he heard a door open on one of the landings above and a man called out in a German-accented voice: Is that our friend from Africa? Come up to the fifth floor please.
I m on my way up, he called back.
Breathing hard, he breasted the fifth floor landing and was greeted by a tall, slim man with scraggly, blonde hair that looked as if it needed a wash and a cut.
The German shook the Indian s hand. I m your man in Germany, he said quietly.
The Indian nodded. As he drew closer, he couldn t help noticing that the man had pock marked skin.
The German ushered him through the open door of the apartment. Please, after you.
The Indian found himself in a spacious passageway that also served as an entrance hall. The German closed the entrance door, helped him out of his coat and then led him through an open door at the end of the passageway into a comfortably furnished sitting room.
A stocky, powerfully built man rose from a chair and came across to greet him. The Indian guessed he was a few years younger than himself, perhaps in his late thirties. He had the misshapen facial features of an ex-boxer. The Indian dropped his holdall in anticipation of the handshake, and they shook firmly without speaking. He saw a calculating look cross the stocky man s face. Presumably, as usual, his eyes had sparked more than a passing interest from the other.
One of my colleagues, who will be involved with this project, the slim man said by way of explanation. Nobody expected any proper introductions. The less they knew about each other, the better. There was always the risk that somebody, someday, might be interrogated: you cannot tell what you do not know.
The slim man directed the Indian to a chair as the stocky man fell back into his. Something to drink?
The Indian shook his head. No thanks.
Then I suggest we get right down to business. Although the German accent was evident, there was a certain twang to his speech that suggested he had lived in the United States. He spoke English fluently. Do you have the money?
The directness of the question brought a smile to the Indian s lips; there was not going to be any beating about the bush. He liked that.
He stood up, removed his jersey, and opened a couple of shirt buttons at waist level. Expertly, he unclipp