Chapter Twenty-Two
The little Skyhawk took off easily in the cold air. Tom reached a cruising altitude of 3000 feet and settled into a bearing due west and watched the arid and inhospitable land below go by. It took just over two hours to reach the Skeleton Coast — so aptly named because the combination of violent seas and the regular setting in of a thick fog, that it caused ships and whales to constantly become beached along its shores — where the Atlantic met the Namib Desert.
He watched as the massive sand dunes below rolled into the ocean, where they were met by the violent whitewash of the incoming waves. He banked nearly ninety degrees to his left and followed the coast south until he reached Swakopmund.
Tom landed and they caught a taxi to Dietrich’s address. It was an old German colonial-style house. A dozen or more unopened newspapers lined the porch. Sam banged on the door. There was no response. They backed away from the front door to see if there was any way to see inside. A neighbor noticed them snooping round the side of the house.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” She scolded. “You think it’s any easy place to rob while he’s away?”
“No ma’am,” Sam and Tom replied in unison.
Tom looked at the woman. She was probably in her mid to late eighties and still commanded an air of German authority as she spoke. “You think he hasn’t taken precautions while he’s away? Well, he has. The rest of the street look after his house.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, turning his palms upwards in defense. “We’re trying to find Leo Dietrich. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“You came here looking for Leo, did you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Then you’d better get comfortable because you’ll be waiting a long time.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“Because he’s gone to Ozondjahe for the hunting season.”
“If we fly there now, how would we find him?” Sam asked.
She paused for a moment, as though she was picturing the place in her mind. “There’s a Public House at Tsumeb where he normally stays and drinks at night. Mention his name around and someone will be able to point him out to you when he comes in from the day’s hunt.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Tom said.
“You’re welcome.” As an afterthought, she asked, “What are you looking to hunt, anyway?”
“A pyramid in the Namib Desert everyone keeps telling us doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was another four hours before the Skyhawk landed on the narrow outcrop of blacktop that lined the road to the south of Tsumeb, before taxiing to a stop out the front of a small road house. The town was situated to the southeast of the Etosha Game Park and to the west of the Kalahari Desert. It was known as the gateway to the north of Namibia. Once a thriving mining town providing some of the rarest precious and semiprecious gemstones in the world. The town now thrived on tourism — wealthy travelers searching for big game to hunt.
They stepped out of the aircraft and into the roadhouse. A man in his late fifties with a rotund belly and a ruddy face that gave Sam the impression he’d spent an equal portion of his time serving himself hard liquor as he did his customers, glanced at Sam and Tom.
Sam greeted the man and said, “We’ll need forty gallons of diesel for the Cessna — any chance you’ve got a line long enough to reach her?”
The man turned his gaze to outside, where the Cessna was parked thirty feet away from the single diesel bowser. He nodded and spoke as though it were entirely normal to have light aircraft asking for fuel. “I’ll send a boy there to fill her up, right away.”
Sam watched as a tall boy in his early teens came over with a small ladder and fuel hose. Tom opened the fuel cap and he started to fill the tank from the inlet at the top of the wing. When the young man finished putting 40 gallons into the tank, Sam thanked and paid him before walking back into the road house.
He and Tom ordered lunch and sat down at the edge of the road house — steak and chips with no choice of salad or vegetables. The steak came from wild springbok and had that distinct taste of game meat about it, but it was good. The beer was some sort of local brew that was drinkable, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to have it again.
The owner came over shortly and asked, “What brings you out this way?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Sam answered. “Perhaps you might know where I could find him. He comes out here for the hunting season to offer private tours for people searching for trophy game.”
The man shrugged. “We’re right next to a game park. I see a lot of people passing through offering hunters from all over the world their wildest dreams. Who are you looking for?”
“Leo Dietrich.”
The publican laughed. “I’m sorry to say it, but you won’t find him for the rest of the season.”
“Why’s that?” Sam asked. “I thought he comes out here for the entire season?”
“He does. Or normally does, anyway. But this year’s different. He hasn’t been taking anyone game hunting this year.”
“Why?”
“Dietrich left here yesterday.” The man poured himself another beer straight from the tap. “Do you want another one?”
Sam and Tom both declined.
The publican went on. “He said he was working for some rich man as a guide into the Kalahari Desert. He didn’t say what they were looking for though. It wasn’t game. That much I can tell you, because little exists in the Kalahari Desert.”
“Do you know who his client was?” Sam asked, hopeful.
“Not a clue. I didn’t ask and it wasn’t like him to tell me things like that.” The publican shook his head. “I’ll tell you one thing though… his client was a strange man. Not very talkative. Not interested in a drink. And he had the most strikingly intense eyes I’ve ever seen. They were a deep red, possibly even purple — and his skin was white like an albino. Sorry I couldn’t be more help to you.”
Sam said, “Don’t worry about it. Say, do you have time for one more question?”
The publican downed the rest of his glass of beer. “Sure.”
“It might sound crazy, but in all your time out here, have you ever heard anyone mention a pyramid — like the ones built by the Egyptians — being found in the Namib or Kalahari Desert?”
“I’ve never heard of a pyramid around here. You’d need to head much further north to find any sign of Egyptian engineering…” the guy laughed. “It’s funny you asked though.”
“Why?”
“We primarily cater to tourists who want to see the Skeleton Coast or hunt big game and stuff like that, you know…”
“And?”
“Just last week, we had a French man here. Another strange man. He had no interest in the hunting or visiting the game park, or even seeing the Skeleton Coast — instead he’d made the journey entirely to do some local cave diving. Do you want to know what he told me he found?”
“What?”
“Drawings of a pyramid. He took a photo of them, actually. He said maybe I should put them on the website and start offering tours. Maybe get some unlucky tourist’s fancy.”
“Do you still have the photos?”
The man walked out the back of the bar for a few minutes and returned with a couple printed photographs. He handed them to Sam and Tom to look at. The quality was poor and the lighting was terrible. But then again, he said they were taken by a diver in a cave.