She shook her head, cursing her own stupidity. Her mind reeled at the speed with which her situation had changed. Because she had followed her intuition and simply reacted, she now found herself right in the middle of one of the most hostile townships in the whole of Southern Africa, while being pursued by a professional security detail. Why didn’t she step back once in a while and rationalise her situation? She was pregnant, for Christ’s sake, and yet she had done the same thing she always did – leapt in first and thought later.
While she was desperately trying to make sense of her situation, a face appeared through the smoke. A woman was staring at her. She was slender, bordering on malnourished, with thick black hair that had been woven with bird’s feathers and crude, fake-gold earrings that gave her a gypsy-like air. As the woman raised her hand Bear saw that her fingers were covered in tattoos, with the ink lacing all the way back to her wrists. She was staring at Bear with a smile that was more knowing than pleasant. ‘Malawian?’ she asked. ‘Zimbabwean?’
Bear didn’t respond, watching closely as the woman stepped around the fire and came closer, seemingly unperturbed by Bear’s recalcitrant body language. She was younger than Bear had first supposed, with a light brown complexion and unhurried eyes.
‘
Non
,’ the woman guessed, switching to French. ‘
You are from the Congo.’
‘
Oui
,’ Bear replied curtly.
Her eyes turned towards the Toyota, wondering if this newcomer could be in any way connected to her pursuers.
‘Me too. I grew up in Kinshasa.’
Bear nodded vaguely at this open attempt to claim common ground. The woman took her time looking Bear up and down. The T-shirt she had stolen was a size too small, and the rain was making it cling to her back and sides. Its low neckline revealed too much of her cleavage, and as the woman’s eyes traced along each part of her body Bear shifted uncomfortably, suddenly suspecting that there was something far more sinister to her attention than she had first supposed.
‘Got family here in Nyanga?’ the woman asked.
Bear shook her head, already moving over to the table to put extra space between them.
‘You must be alone then?
‘No. My friends are just over there buying some food,’ Bear answered automatically, directing her eyes to the shops on the edge of the square. ‘They’ll be out any second.’
The woman lazily followed her gaze.
‘I don’t think they’re there at all,’ she whispered, nostrils flaring as if savouring something sweet. ‘You’re alone. And you have a secret, don’t you?’
‘Go screw yourself,’ Bear retorted, moving to push past her, but the woman grabbed hold of her wrist.
‘You’re rich,’ she breathed. ‘Only rich bitches have nails like that.’
She cast her eyes down to Bear’s long fingers and the professional manicure with its brown nail polish.
‘They’ll like your face,’ the woman continued, obviously pleased with her find. ‘I’ll get an extra two hundred just for that.’
Bear hesitated, having seen such women before in the markets of Kinshasa. They patrolled the local hangouts, searching for any young female who looked out of place or lost. They would cajole or threaten the women, or more often girls, into the shadows of the back streets, where the gangs would rape the victims over and over again. They’d do it until bored, before leaving them to rot in one of the shacks, or, if they were attractive, doping them up and selling them into one of the local whorehouses.
‘This is what’s going to happen,’ the woman continued, her voice suddenly taking on a rasping, vicious tone. ‘You’re going to get on board the taxi behind us. And you’re going to do it quietly or I’ll tell the twenty-eights exactly what you really are. They love to cut up rich bitches like you.’
Her eyes swivelled down to between Bear’s legs as if that were the first place the knives would go. She then reached out, the tips of her fingers trailing down Bear’s stomach towards her crotch.
‘Don’t you fucking touch me,’ Bear growled.
‘Shhhh,’ the woman breathed, her eyes still lowered. ‘Don’t make it any harder on yourself.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Bear could see that a taxi had quietly drawn up on the other side of the
Tshisa
stand. The woman raised her eyes and was about to signal to the driver when Bear grabbed hold of her forearm and pulled her in so close that their bodies touched at the hip.
‘Signal to them and these manicured nails won’t be the only things sticking into you,’ she hissed.
As she spoke, she grabbed the discarded skewer off the table beside her, bringing the metal point round so that it dug into the soft flesh of the woman’s stomach.
‘Even if the taxi guys jump me, I’ll still have time to stick you with this,’ she spat as her eyes bored into the woman’s. ‘That’s the thing about puncturing the stomach lining. All the acid leaks out. Makes it real messy.’
The woman’s smile faded, replaced by a dreadful uncertainty. She had been watching Bear for the last fifteen minutes and had seen only a lone, scared woman sheltering from the rain. All that had changed in an instant. Now the same woman seemed to have grown in size, with eyes that blazed with hostility and self-assurance.
Bear inched closer, realising that she could use this situation for her own ends. There was a better chance of passing undetected if they moved together.
‘Now, you’re going to signal your guys to pick me up on the other side of the square. Right near the back.’
The woman didn’t respond for a second, eyes narrowing in confusion.
‘But . . .’
‘Do as I say.’
Bear twisted the skewer round to reinforce her point, causing the woman to double over in pain. Then, gripping her tight, Bear waited for her to signal to the taxi before they moved off together through the crowd. They walked side by side, like sisters clinging to each other for support, but the whole time Bear’s skewer never once left the madam’s side. She could see the taxi slowly shadowing them, the occupants hidden by mirrored film that had been crudely glued to the inside of the windows.
Bear tried to control her pace, resisting the temptation to hurry across the open ground. She clung to the woman, using her to steady herself as balance seemed to desert her once again and she listed to one side. The woman immediately sensed something was wrong and was about to try and flee when Bear dug the skewer a full inch into her flesh. As she cried out, Bear pulled her in closer.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she hissed.
Passing the last of the
Tshisa
stands, they saw the Land Cruiser away to their left, no more than fifty feet at most, with the same man still standing outside, finishing up the last of his cigarette.
Bear watched him exhale a plume of smoke into the air before throwing the butt into a muddy puddle at his feet. Just a little further, she told herself, then they would be into the maze of shacks. If the gypsy woman gave Bear any trouble she would stick her right there and then, but after the last warning she was dragging her feet, the fight drained out of her. After that, all Bear needed was thirty seconds’ head start on the gang.
The taxi wouldn’t be able to follow her into the narrow streets, so they would have to chase her on foot. Bear planned to run straight ahead for a couple of hundred yards, then double back to the main road. There were crowds of people there and, more importantly, the Golden Arrow buses that connected Nyanga to the city centre.
She breathed in deeply, then again, steeling herself for what was about to happen. Her legs had felt leaden and tired, but now that she was on the move again a jolt of adrenalin had begun to limber her up, like oil on a machine. The pain at her temples seemed to subside as she focused only on the next two minutes. She would have to move fast if she were to have any chance of getting clear.
As they drew level with the first of the shacks, she turned to see two jeeps that had been crudely converted into tow trucks arrive in the square. Both had blackened glass and lowered suspension. Although Bear did not know it, they had driven at full speed across the potholed roads of Khayelitsha to get there so quickly. Now they slowed, gliding smoothly round, one following the other as if part of a funeral procession, and circling wide so as to come up behind Johan’s Land Cruiser.
As they approached, the American was still outside. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, moodily surveying the crowd, and was just about to get back inside the car when the first of the tow trucks drew level. Tapping on the glass of his own vehicle, he stared at Johan.
‘You call these guys?’ he asked.
Johan’s eyes flicked to his side mirror. He had been concentrating so hard on the crowd, and wondering whether to voice his suspicions about the taller of the two women who had just passed by, that he had entirely missed what was happening behind them. Now the image of the trucks filled his side mirror.
‘Get down!’ he screamed, twisting the key in the ignition and ducking his head low.
‘What the . . .’ Darin raged, reaching for his Beretta, but before he had time to pull it from its holster, a hail of gunfire rang out across the crowded square.
THE NEWS OF
Andy’s death hit the others hard. For the longest time Katz said nothing, only curling deeper into his sleeping bag, while beside him Joel openly wept.
After delivering the news, Luca had slumped down on the floor of the deserted base, unable to muster the strength even to strip off his outer clothing. Every inch of him was plastered with wet snow and his hands were balled into fists by his sides as he tried to control the terrible shaking that racked his body.
‘I should have seen him walk past me,’ Joel said, before sniffing loudly. He was sitting up in his sleeping bag with his dripping wet hair clinging to the sides of his face. The zinc suntan cream he had smeared over his nose had now smudged across his entire face, giving him an almost ghoulish pallor, while the two strips of exposed flesh looked raw and painful.
‘Andy was right next to me,’ he continued mournfully. ‘I should have stopped him from going.’
There was a pause before Katz’s voice emerged from the folds of his sleeping bag.
‘We were all just trying to survive out there. There’s nothing more to say.’
He poked his head out of the sleeping bag. His lips were swollen and split, a trace of dried blood running down his chin. He settled his gaze on Luca and for several seconds just watched him shake.
Then, pulling himself on to his knees, Katz shuffled across the room. He reached forward, dusting the snow off Luca’s chest, and then helped unzip his outer jacket. Guiding him closer to the flame of the MSR stove, Katz carefully took some of the water they had boiled and mixed it with a sachet of hot chocolate pulled from his rucksack. He handed it across, nursing the plastic cup beneath Luca’s chin and letting the steam waft up over his frozen cheeks.
‘We wouldn’t have made it out there without you,’ Katz said suddenly. ‘None of us would.’
He then seemed uncomfortable with his own admission and nodded hesitantly before returning to his sleeping bag. Luca didn’t respond. He lay with both hands clasped around the cup as he tried to take a few more sips. Dribbles of hot chocolate escaped his numb lips, running into his neckline, before he let the cup fall from his grasp as his eyes gently closed.
Luca woke to the sound of the stove spluttering and then going out. There was darkness, with only the howl of the wind and occasional clatter of the broken-down walls flexing in the worst of the gusts. As he pulled himself up his head pounded from dehydration. He groaned loudly, raising a hand to his forehead in pain. It took several seconds for him to steady himself enough to be able to reach over to his own rucksack and find a replacement fuel bottle for the stove.
Pulling an old metal lighter from the top pocket of his Gore-Tex trousers, Luca worked the flint over and over again with his thumb. It cast flash images across the room, revealing the bunched up body of Katz just next to him, snoring loudly. On the far side, he could see Joel’s dim silhouette. He had fallen asleep while still sitting upright and now his hunched body seemed to consist entirely of angular joints and long, folded limbs.
As the stove’s flame burnt orange and then settled back to a low, roaring blue, Luca stood up. He winced, thigh muscles threatening to cramp as he scooped up the plastic cup he had been using and drained the very last dregs of hot chocolate. The liquid was viscous and cold, with ice beginning to crystallise across its surface, but he knew the sugar would do him good.
Reaching into the top of his rucksack, Luca carefully unwrapped the satellite phone that Dedov had given him. He wiped away the moisture clinging to the small yellow screen and extended the antenna, watching as the signal strength oscillated between zero and a single bar. The number for GARI’s main communication room had been neatly stencilled in white marker pen on the back. After five beeps the line connected.
‘GARI science base,’ came a voice laced with a thick Russian accent.
‘Sergei, this is Luca Matthews. We are caught in the storm. Sheltering at old Soviet base. Lat: 71.37.58. Easting: 11.16.38. Impossible to move.’
Luca could hear the line fading in and out. He waited, hoping that Sergei would be able to piece together all that he had said.
‘Copy. You at old Soviet base. Have co-ordinates. Everyone OK?’
‘Negative. One man down.’
‘Say again.’
Luca went to speak, but found the words stuck in his throat. His jaw clenched several times before he finally managed to shout, ‘McBride is dead.’ There was static before he repeated, ‘Andy’s dead,’ several more times into the handset.
Luca heard the phone bleep once more, signalling that the satellite had dropped out. That was always the frustration of satellite phones – sometimes you had a flawless connection, while at others it felt like it would be quicker to tap out Morse code. Just as Luca was about to give up on the call, Sergei’s voice flooded back on to the line.
‘. . . cannot send assistance. Stay in location . . . copy?’