Chapter 11

Union of South Africa

Everything leaving the southeast of the United States by air had to go through Atlanta. It was said that if you died anywhere in Florida, you had to change planes in Atlanta before you could go to your celestial reward.

Georg and Clara arrived at the O.R.Tambo International Airport outside of Johannesburg at about the time that Muhammad Bin Salaam was checking into the Albany Hotel in Durban. Though they were on the same flight from Miami to Atlanta to J-burg, they did not travel together. Georg, as befitted a successful executive, was in first class. Clara was at the other end of the plane, dressed as she was in jeans, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, and a heavy green military jacket with infantry patches.

Georg Kuznetsov in his gray three-piece suit looked every bit the European businessman, traveling under the name of George Mainz from Königsberg, Germany, with business interests in Nuremburg. He walked through the customs port without a question being asked, and strolled over to the car rental counter while waiting for his suitcases. He picked up a Mitsubishi sedan and left for the six-hour drive to Durban.

Now in a long auburn wig, Clara was unidentifiable as herself and was traveling as Cora Highsmith of New York City. She was closely questioned by the customs officials, and the backpack she carried was carefully searched for drugs – twice. The South Africans didn’t like drug smugglers. Eventually, she was cleared for her connecting flight – with a two hour layover – to Port Elizabeth.

Durban

Georg checked in to the Plaza, as was appropriate to his borrowed persona. The Plaza, one of the more expensive in Durban, had a view of the harbor and was just a few blocks from the Royal Natal Yacht Club. Georg changed into his “undercover” clothes: a pair of tan slacks, a short-sleeved pullover knitted shirt and soft soled shoes. He polished his glasses on a plaid handkerchief that he pulled from his back pocket; he was satisfied with his use of plaid instead of his normal pure white glass-wiper – it was camouflage.

He strolled into the Royal Natal Y.C. in mid-afternoon. The only thing missing from his costume was that he didn’t have the Yacht Club’s crest on his shirt, instead he wore the emblem of the Bremerhaven Y.C. Approaching the desk, he flashed his Bremerhaven membership card and addressed the clerk.

“Excuse me, young man.” Georg’s German-accented English and complex German-flavored syntax was flawless. “You have reciprocal agreement with Bremerhaven, do you not?”

The white-shirted black attendant riffled through a booklet before replying. “Yes, sir. Of course. How can I help you?”

“Well, your bar is right there, I see. That is goot, yes?” Georg smiled. The attendant smiled back. “But first, a small cruise around the harbor, I would like to take. Such a ting could be arranged, yes?”

The attendant paused. “Sir, of course. One of our dockmen could take you where ever you would like. There would be a small charge, for fuel and such, of course. You understand sir.”

“Ya, naturlich. Such would be expected,” Georg smiled.

The attendant motioned Georg to the bar to wait, and disappeared to the dock area to arrange Herr Mainz’s “little cruise around the harbor.” The boat turned out to be a 25-footer with a small inboard motor, a cabin forward, several bottles of beer in a cooler, and a black driver named Elvis.

Elvis asked, “You want to go outside the harbor and over to the beach? We can get close enough to the girls on South Beach that...”

Georg: “Not interested, Elvis, my friend. Where the cargo ships come in, I want to see such place. The transport of items by sea is my business. So the docks where regular scheduled ships come, this is the part of the harbor that is of interest.”

Elvis: “Yes, sir. That would be the inner harbor. That’s where the ships come in from Cape Town. You can see the cranes over there.”

Georg: “And what is over on the outer harbor?”

Elvis: “That would be for overflow ... you understand? If another ship comes in when the wharves are full, the new ship would get docked there. We’ll take a little look, right?”

Georg: “If a ship from, say Bremerhaven should show up? Say with a boatload of German cars. It would dock there?”

Elvis: “Just so.”

Georg: “Good man, Elvis. Now, back to the club, we should go. A drink before dinner there is just time for ... Say, my good Elvis, where would one go to find a place to rent a large lorry? Or lorries?”

Elvis: “My cousin has a car and driver company and he would be more than pleased to be your guide while you are in Durban. He can direct you to anything.”

Georg: “Very good indeed.”

Port Elizabeth

A small Airbus plane coasted to a stop on the tarmac at Port Elizabeth International Airport, and the passengers deplaned through a set of stairs. Clara – now Cora – was among the last to exit, and took public transport to a rental place. There she secured a motor scooter for a week. Checking a map of Port Elizabeth – totally unnecessary, since she had a clear image in memory, but a useful subterfuge for those who may be looking – she identified her destination – which she had selected back in Atlanta: Le Plage Guesthouse, on highway 2, just on the other side of the bridge over the Swartskops River. The river ran from the Swartskops Valley Natural Reserve, some 10 km. inland, to Algoa Bay – just 100 meters downstream from the bridge; the rocky beach was about a km. to the southwest.

On the way to Le Plage, she stopped at a scuba shop and bought a wet suit, flippers and goggles. Once again Clara wondered at the $5 million that Georg had amassed, but in the end, she charged it all to Cora’s Visa card. Arriving just before suppertime at the small Guesthouse, she quickly dropped her bags in her room and went down to eat. Madame Rosteau was offering a thoroughly un-French stew of local fish and vegetables, a decidedly French baguette, and a red wine of indeterminate origin.