Playing Solitaire
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 8
Dragon Peaks Resort Restaurant and Pub.
For three long seconds, nobody at the table moved.
The heavy leather soles of Karl Steinhoff’s shoes retreated across the yellowwood floorboards, fading into the ambient murmur of the restaurant beyond the pub doors. The tension he’d dragged into the room hung in the air like gun-smoke, cutting straight through the cozy warmth of the stone fireplace.
I took a slow breath, reached for my glass of Wellington VO, and took a measured sip to let the heat settle back down in my throat.
Linda was the first to break the silence. She slowly set her gin and tonic down, leaned back against the deep padding of the booth, and let out a low, appreciative whistle. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
“Well,” Linda drawled, raising her glass in a silent toast toward me. “And here I thought the Benguela fog was the most brutal thing I’d encountered. Remind me never to interrupt you when you’re enjoying a drink, Colonel. That was poetry.”
Across from her, Mandy was staring at the dark doorway where Steinhoff had disappeared. She instinctively reached up, pushing her glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose with a slightly trembling finger. Her jaw was still set in mild disbelief.
“I ... wow,” Mandy murmured, her voice barely carrying over the crackle of the hearth. “I think his silver cufflinks actually vibrated when you told him where to go, Tim.” She glanced sideways at me, her eyes widening slightly behind her lenses. “Do you think he knows ... I mean, how did he even track us here?”
“He tracked us because that’s what high-priced vultures do when there’s a carcass involved,” Megan cut in cleanly.
The relaxed posture she’d held five minutes ago had completely vanished. Her glass of white wine sat abandoned on the coaster. She was leaning forward, elbows on the dark wood, her sharp eyes scanning the rest of the pub before coming to rest on me. The copper red strands of her hair caught the firelight as she gave a tight, calculating nod.
“Mandy’s right about one thing, though,” Megan said, her tone dropping into a quiet, analytical register. “Steinhoff didn’t come here to ask for the victims’ remains. He came to gauge your reaction. He wanted to see if we knew what was in the tail section, or if we were just dumb investigators following routine procedure.”
“Well, he definitely knows we aren’t dumb,” Linda chuckled softly, though her eyes had turned just as sharp as Megan’s.
“He would not know where the artifact would be, and that we found it. He and his client is still thinking that it is in the personal baggage of whoever transported it. That is way he is concerned about the body and the baggage ... More the baggage than the body, if you ask me...” I replied.
Jean looked between the three of us, his brow furrowing as he set his beer draft down with a soft, heavy clink. He looked thoroughly bewildered, switching his gaze from Megan’s sudden intensity back to my stone-faced expression.
“Hold on a minute,” Jean said, raising a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the door Steinhoff had just stormed out of. “What bogus recovery team? What is a high-powered estate lawyer doing lurking around a SACAA crash site investigation in the middle of the Drakensberg?”
He leaned in closer to the center of the table, lowering his voice.
“Tim, it was a Beechcraft King Air that took a bad altimeter hit in mountain weather. Tragic, sure. Expensive, absolutely. But the way that lawyer just hissed at you ... you’d think we were sitting on a chest of blood diamonds. What the hell did you guys actually find up on Champagne Castle?”
Silence settled over our corner of the pub again.
Mandy caught my eye for a fraction of a second, her lips pressing into a tight line as she subtly shifted her gaze toward the floorboards—knowing that the little olive-green piece of hardware wasn’t anywhere near the hangar, but safely locked behind the heavy steel door and key combination of the safe back in my suite.
Megan didn’t blink. She just kept her eyes on Jean, waiting for me to decide how much of the loop our colleague was about to be pulled into.
I took another quiet pull of my brandy and Coke, the ice clinking softly against the glass.
“Jean,” I said quietly, leaning into the firelight. “Let’s just say the King Air wasn’t just carrying passengers and bad flight data. And Mister Steinhoff’s clients are about to realise that getting it back is going to cost them a whole lot more than a polite conversation in a resort pub.”
“What did you guys find?” Jean asked.
“Jean,” I started to explain without giving an actual explanation, “what we found was not in the baggage, but hidden in the fuselage of the wreck. Not in any baggage. What it is, we currently do not know. That it’s not part of the aircraft is clear.”
“Not part of the aircraft?”
“No.” Linda answered before I could elaborate. “But that it is important to someone, that was not on that flight, is also clear. How clear we do not know.”
“Was it an item that was maybe stolen?”
“That we also do not know,” I replied. “But, Jean, let me be clear. Do what you have to do with the powerplants, give me your analysis, and go back to Canada. What you do not know can be an advantage to you in the long run.”
“Okay, Tim. Understood,” Jean sighed. “I’ve been around many investigations to know when to hold the information, when to not listen, and when to just walk away.”
“Do you like country music, Jean?” Linda asked.
“I like anything that soothes my ear,” Jean replied and took a sip of his beer.
“Your reply to Tim reminds me an awful lot of Kenny Rodgers: ‘You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, know when to run’...”
“Written by Don Schlitz in 1976 and famously recorded by Kenny Rogers, ‘The Gambler’ is a iconic country song that achieved significant crossover success, earning Rogers a Grammy in 1980,” Jean replied.
“For an engine mechanic, you know a lot about music,” I replied.
“Ah! Tim, Tim ... Next time you take your car to the grease-monkey shop, listen what is playing in the background...”
“Sois un bon ami, sois un bon amant. Sois fidèle et doux, sois sincère et franc....” I said.
Jean’s mouth flew open. “You speak Canadian French, Tim?”
“Nope! Words from a Canadian French singer song writer that adapted Elvis Presley’s German verse in Wooden Heart to Canadian French. Lucille Star.”
“But you know what it means?”
“Yes. There is Google Translate, you know.”
“Hmm ... There is still hope for you to come live in Canada. Mon Ami...”
I just smirked. “And where do I do my float plane conversion?”
“We’ll just glue some floats on Misty...” He laughed. “No need for any conversion, but on the other hand,” he narrowed his eyes as if deep thought, “you might need a skipper licence for driving on water...”
“I think, I’m going to hit the deck,” Megan said. “Today was a long day.”
“Not one more for the road, Meggie?” Linda asked. “I’m having one more then off to bed.”
“No. I am done Lin...” Megan replied. “Good night, everyone. See you all in the morning.” With that she got up and left.
I made a mental note about the “Maggie” and the “Lin” call names. There was another brick in the wall that was teetering on the brink of falling out.
Linda did get herself another drink, but after about forty minutes we all cashed in for the night.
By the time we stepped out of the warmth of the restaurant, the night had settled comfortably over Champagne Valley. The last traces of sunset had long since surrendered to darkness, leaving only a velvet sky strewn with more stars than any city ever allowed itself to remember. The Southern Cross hung low above the silhouette of the Drakensberg, while the Milky Way arched overhead like a pale river flowing silently from horizon to horizon.
The resort had gone wonderfully quiet. Not silent. Nature is never truly silent.
A gentle breeze wandered down from the towering slopes of Champagne Castle, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of mountain grass, damp earth and weathered sandstone still slowly surrendering the day’s warmth. It brushed against my face with just enough coolness to remind me that Old Man Winter hadn’t yet packed his bags, despite the pleasant afternoons we’d been enjoying in the valley.
Somewhere across the little lake, reeds whispered softly against one another. A pair of Egyptian geese protested our presence with quiet, sleepy murmurs before settling down again. From deeper in the darkness came the repetitive chorus of crickets, their steady rhythm broken every now and then by the distant croak of frogs hidden somewhere along the shoreline.
Far above us, invisible in the darkness, I could hear the wind moving across the high ridges. It sounded different up there—stronger, colder, carrying a low, mournful sigh as it swept through gullies and over rocky escarpments before losing its strength descending into the shelter of the valley where we walked.
The lights around the Lakeside Suites cast warm golden pools onto the paved pathways, their reflections shimmering gently across the dark surface of the water. Every ripple caught the light for an instant before melting back into blackness. Beyond those circles of comfort lay only the immense outline of the mountains, standing like ancient sentinels around our little refuge.
My footsteps echoed softly on the paving stones as I made my way towards my suite. After a day spent among twisted aluminium, shattered engines and questions that refused to answer themselves, the quiet felt almost unreal.
Tomorrow the investigation would begin again. Tomorrow we’d return to the wreckage, the mysterious green box, and the growing suspicion that the King Air had carried far more than its passengers.
But tonight the mountains seemed content to keep their secrets.
And somehow, beneath that vast African sky, it felt as though they were watching us just as carefully as we were trying to understand them.
I unlocked my door and stepped inside. The night staff had already left some dim lights on, closed the curtains and turned down the bed. The housekeeping staff had even switched the electric blanket to its middle setting. A thoughtful touch on a mountain night like this.
I smiled. Fresh packets of mediocre coffee together with Rooibos tea bags, normal Lipton tea bags, and sachets of white and brown sugar were neatly stacked in the holders on the kitchenette counter.
I made a mental note to get to a shop and get some real coffee and a small French press.
The vibration of my cell phone disturbed my idea of a long hot shower. I took it out of my pocket and looked at the display. Doctor Megan Forsyth. Okay.
“Hello Doctor. What’s up?”
“Are you to intoxicated to have some tea?”
“I only had two Police Coffees...”
“What’s Police Coffees?” She asked, lowering her voice, but I could detect a silent chuckle in it.
“Brandy and Coke.”
“Two brandies is enough to certify you...”
“I am fully compos mentis, though for my own personal reasons and that of the SACAA regulations – I won’t fly tonight.”
“So, tea?”
“Are you offering?”
Pause on the line. Then: “My place or your place?”
“You can come over here. I’ll put the kettle to boil...”
“Open the door...”
“Opening it now...”
Giggle.
And the line clicked off.
“Was it the wine or did the that brick eventually fell out of the wall?” I thought. Anyway, I went over and opened the door, just as Megan came out her suite door.
“I brought a packet of Eat-sum-more biscuits...” She said before she brushed past me.
Again I caught a whiff of that subtle perfume. Top notes of aldehydes, citrus, and neroli, a heart of May rose and jasmine, and a warm base of vanilla, bourbon vetiver, and sandalwood. Chanel No 5, I eventually identified it. A legendary floral aldehyde perfume created in 1921 by Ernest Beaux for Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel.
It suited Megan; after all, the Engineer was a woman.
Megan placed the packet of biscuits on the small coffee table. “Mug of cup?” She asked and walked up to the little kitchenette. I just stared at her. Totally at ease in MY suite. Yes. It must be the wine. She had, what, two glasses, maybe three glasses over the course of the evening?
“I thought you were tired and wanted to go to bed?” I asked.
“I had a brain fart and need to run it past you. Mug or cup,” she asked?
“Mug. It’s better to dunk a cookie.” I replied.
She stopped mid-reach for the mug, looking back over her shoulder with an eyebrow arched so high it nearly vanished into her copper red hair.
“First of all, it’s a biscuit, ye uncouth savage. Second of all, if ye collapse an Eat-Sum-More into the bottom of your mug and leave me to fish out the mush, I’m revoking your tea privileges permanently.”
I chuckled. “This is my suite, and I get to do the dishes. I’ll be the one to fish out the mush in the bottom of the mug.”
She finished pouring the boiling water, added sugar—one spoon for hers, four generous heaps for mine—and stirred hers three times clockwise. Then she turned to my mug, working the spoon twenty times clockwise with deliberate, energetic precision.
I watched her, amused. “Twenty stirs, Doctor?”
“I’ve seen you drink tea and coffee, Tim,” she said without looking up, tapping the spoon neatly against the rim. “Four sugars mean nothing if half of it sits at the bottom like wet cement. There’s nothing worse than an un-dissolved syrup bomb on the last sip, and I’m not listening to you complain about bad hotel sugar.”
She discarded the tea bags, handed me the steaming mug, and took hers over to the small round table by the window.
She didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, she opened the curtain and stood staring out through the glass into the pitch-black void of the valley, her reflection pale against the dark pane.
“So,” I said, leaning back against the kitchenette counter and taking a careful sip. “What’s the brain fart?”
Megan wrapped both hands around her mug, drawing in the steam as if trying to warm up from the inside out. When she turned back to me, the sharp banter was gone, replaced by a tight, hyper-focused intensity.
“Steinhoff,” she said softly, dropping her voice. “And those bloody bastards at reception two days ago...”
“The bogus salvage crew?”
“Think about the timing, Tim,” she dropped the curtain in place and stepped closer, the floorboards barely creaking under her slight weight.
“That crew showed up at reception with high-end recovery gear, ready to hire a machine and hit the wreck site before SACAA even had boots on the ground. You sliced them to ribbons with your court order and sent them packing with their tails between their legs.”
She took a quick sip of her tea, her mind running through the variables out loud. The packet of biscuits forgotten on the coffee table.
“They didn’t just give up and go home. They called their so-called client. And when muscle and fake paperwork down at reception failed to get them onto Champagne Castle, the client sent Karl Steinhoff in a tailored suit to do the intimidation in person over dinner.”
She looked directly at me, her blue eyes dark with sudden realisation.
“Steinhoff didn’t track us down here by accident, Tim. He was already on speed-dial the second you shut the ground crew down here at reception. They know exactly what was on that plane. And if they were willing to try a smash-and-grab at reception first, what makes us think they’re going to wait until sunrise to come looking for the box?”
“They don’t know that we already discovered the artifact,” I replied, opened the packet of Eat-Sum More biscuits and offered it to her. She took a biscuit. “Besides, they are thinking that the artifact is in the luggage of the person or persons that carried it aboard the King Air.”
She took a slow, deliberate bite of the shortbread biscuit, chewing thoughtfully as her eyes searched mine.
“Maybe,” she conceded softly, her voice barely carrying over the gentle run of the fridge. “Maybe they do think it’s still buried in a mountain of luggage in a SAPS vault somewhere.”
She pointed the half-eaten biscuit at me, her blue eyes narrowing.
“But men like this ‘client’ don’t rely on single probabilities, Tim. They run contingency plans. If his ground crew failed to secure the wreck, and his lawyer couldn’t intimidate you into handing over site access, what’s option three?”
She took another sip of her tea, letting the hot liquid settle her nerves, though her gaze never left my face.
“Option three is a stress test. Steinhoff didn’t just come to talk—he came to apply pressure and see where the structure yields. To see if SACAA was panicked, confident, or hiding something.”
She let out a long, quiet breath, her analytical brain laying it out like a load calculation.
“I analyse structural failures for a living, Tim. When a system is under tension, you don’t just watch the point of impact—you watch where the force transfers from and to. Steinhoff was measuring us. And the second he realises tomorrow morning that the baggage holds nothing ... that tension is going to transfer straight to this resort, and the wreckage itself.”
I chuckled. Now that is Dr. Megan Forsyth, Ph.D. in Aeronautical Engineering! Sharp, forensic, and applying structural load mechanics straight to human ops.
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