Текст книги "Leopard Hunts in Darkness"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

"Will somebody please tell me what in the hell is happening here, Peter?" Craig was exasperated and nervous.

"Somebody attacked my village they've killed some of my people. God alone knows how many why don't you get after them?"

"The shooting is over," Peter Fungabera told him. "We have cleaned out the vipers" nest of traitors that you were breeding on this colonial-style estate of yours."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Craig was now truly flustered. "You cannot be serious!"

"Serious?" Peter smiled easily. He straightened up and placed both feet back on the floor. He walked across to face them. "A puppy, "he was still smiling. "How adorable." He took Buster from Sally-Anne's arms before she realized his intentions. He strolled back to the head of the table, fondling the little animal, scratching behind its ear.

it was still half-asleep and it made little whimpering sounds, nuzzling against him, instinctively searching for its mother's teat.

"Serious?" Peter repeated the original question. "I want to impress upon you just how serious I am." He dropped the puppy onto the stone-flagged floor. It fell on its back, and lay stunned. He placed his boot upon its chest and crushed it with his full weight. The puppy screamed once only as its chest collapsed.

"That is how serious I am." He was no longer smiling.

"Your lives are as valuable to me as this animal was." Sally-Anne made a small moaning sound and turned away, burying her face. in Craig's chest. She heaved with nausea, and Craig could feel her fighting to control it.

Peter Fungabera kicked the soft yellow corpse into the fireplace and sat down.

"We have wasted enough time on the theatricals," he said, and opened the leather map-case, spreading the documents on the table t front of him.

"Mr. Mellow, you kave been acting as an agent provocateur in the pay of the notorious American CIA-"

"That's a bloody lie! Craig shouted, and Peter ignored the outburst.

"Your local control was the American agent Morgan Oxford at the United States Embassy, while your central control and paymaster was a certain Henry Pickering, who masquerades as a senior official of the World Bank in New York. He recruited both you and Miss Jay"

"That's not true!"

"Your remuneration was sixty thousand dollars per annum, and your mission was to set up a centre of subversion in Matabeleland, which was financed by CIA monies channelled to you in the form of a loan from a CIA-controlled subsidiary of the World Bank the sum allocated was five million dollars."

"Christ, Peter, that's nonsense, and you know it."

"During the rest of this interrogation, you will address me as either "Sir" or "General Fungabera", is that clear to you?" He turned away to listen as there was sudden activity outside the french doors. It sounded like the arrival of a convoy of light trucks, from which more troops were disembarking with orders being called in Shana. Through the glass doors, Craig saw a dozen troopers carrying heavy crates up onto the veranda.

Peter Fungabera glanced enquiringly at Timon Nbebi, who nodded in confirmation of the unspoken question.

"Right!" Peter Fungabera turned back to face Craig. "We can continue. You opened negotiations with known Matebele traitors, using your fluent knowledge of the language and the character of these intractable people-"

"You can't name one, because there aren't any." Peter Fungabera. nodded to Timon Nbebi. He shouted an order.

A man was led into the room between two troopers. He was barefooted, dressed only in ragged khaki shorts, and was emaciated to the point where his head appeared grotesquely huge. His pate was shaven and covered with lumps and fresh scabs, his ribs latticed with the scars of beatings probably the wicked hippo-hide whips called siamboks had been used on him.

"Do you know this white man?" Peter Fungabera demanded of him. The man stared at Craig. His eyes had an opaque dullness, as though they had been sprinkled with dust.

ill O

"I've never seen him-" Craig started, and then broke off as he recognized him. It was Comrade Dollar, the youngest and most truculent of the men from Zambezi Waters.

"Yes?" Peter Fungabera invited, smiling again. "What were you about to say, Mr. Mellow?"

"I want to see somebody from the British High Commission," Craig said, "and Miss Jay would like to make a telephone call to the United States Embassy."

"Of course," Peter Fungabera nodded. "All in good time, but first we must complete what we have already begun." He swung back to Comrade Dollar. "Do you know the white man?" Comrade Dollar nodded. "He gave us money."

"Take him away," Peter Fungabera ordered. "Care for him well, and give him something to eat. Now, Mr. Mellow, do you still deny any contact with the subversives?" He did not wait for a reply, but went on smoothly, "You built up an arsenal of weapons on this estate to be used against the elected people's government in a coup d'gtat which would place a pro-American dictator-"

"No," Craig said quietly. "I have no weapons." Peter Fungabera sighed. "Your denials are pointless and tiresome." Then to the tall Shana sergeant, "Bring the two of them." He led the way onto the wide veranda, to where his men had stacked the crates.

"Open them," he commanded, and his men knocked back the clips and lifwd the lids.

Craig recognized the weapons that were packed into them. They were American Armalite 5.56 men all 18 automatic rifles. Six to the case, and brand-new, still in their factory grease.

"These are nothing to do with me." Craig was at last able to deny it with vehemence.

"You are testing my patience." Peter Fungabera turned to Timon Nbebi. "Fetch the other white man." Hans Groenewald, Craig's overseer, was dragged from the cab of one of the parked trucks, and led to the veranda.

His hands were manacled behind his back, and he was terrified. His broad tanned face seemed to have deflated into heavy wrinkles and folds of loose skin likea diseased bloodhound, and his dark suntan had faded to the colour of creamed coffee. His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy, like those of a drunkard.

"You stored these weapons in the tractor sheds on this ranch?" Peter Fungabera asked, and Groenewald's reply was inaudible.

"Speak up, man."

"Yes I stored them, sit."

"On whose orders?" Groenewald looked piteously at Craig, and suddenly Craig's heart was sheathed in ice, and the cold spread down into his belly and his loins.

"Whose orders?" Peter Fungabera repeated patiently.

"Mr. Mellow's orders, sit."

"Take him away." As the guards led him back to the track, Groenewald's head was screwed around, his eyes still on Craig's face, his expression harrowed. Suddenly he shouted, "I'm sorry, Mr. Mellow, I've got a wife and kids-" One of the guards swung the butt of his rifle into Groenewald's stomach, just below the ribs. Groenewald gasped, and doubled over. He would have fallen but they seized his arms and swung him up into the cab. The driver of the truck started the engine and the big machine roared away down the hill.

Peter Fungabera led them back into the dining-room and resumed his seat at the head of the table. While he rearranged and studied the papers from the map, case he ignored Craig and Sally-Anne. They, were forced to stand against the opposite wall, a trooper on each side of them,

JW

and the silence stretched out. Even though Craig realized this silence was deliberate, he wanted to break it, to shout out his innocence, to protest against the web of lies and half-truths and distortions in which they were being slowly enmeshed.

Beside him Sally-Anne stood upright, gripping her own hands at waist level to prevent them trembling. Her face had a sick greenish hue, under a light sheen of sweat, and she kept turning her eyes towards the fireplace where the puppy's crushed carcass lay likea discarded toy.

At last Peter Fungabera pushed the papers aside and rocked back in his chair, tapping lightly on the table-top with his swagger, stick

"A hanging matter," he said, 4a capital offence for both you and Miss Jay–2

"it has nothing to do with her." Craig put a protective arm around her shoulders.

"Women's lower organs are less able to withstand the downward shock of the hangman's drop," Peter Fungabera remarked. "The effect can be quite bizarre or at least, so I am told." It conjured up an image that sickened Craig, saliva of nausea flooded his mouth. He swallowed it down and could not speak.

"Fortunately, it need not come to that. The choice will be yours." Peter rolled the swagger-stick lightly between his fingers. Craig found himself staring fixedly at Peter's hands.

The palms and insides of his long powerful fingers were a soft delicate pink.

J believe that you are the dupes of your imperialistic masters." Peter smiled again. "I'm going to let you go." Both their heads jerked up, and they watched his face.

"Yes, you look disbelieving, but I mean it. Personally I have grown quite fond of both of you. To have you hanged would give me no special pleasure. Both of you possess artistic talents which it would be wasteful to terminate, and from now on you will be unable to do any further harm." Still they were silent, beginning to hope, and yet fearful, sensing that it was all part of a cruel cat's game.

"I am prepared to make you an offer. If you make a clean breast of it, a full and unreserved confession, I will have YOU escorted to the border, with your travel documents and any readily portable possessions and items of value you choose. I will have you set free, to go and trouble me and my people no more." He waited, smiling, and the swagger, stick went tap tap tap on the table-top, likea dripping faucet. It distracted Craig. He found himself unable to think clearly. It had all Ell happened too swiftly. Peter Fungabera had kept him off balance, shifting and changing his attack. He had to have time to pull himself together, and to begin thinking clearly and logically again.

"A confession?" he blurted. What kind of confession?

One of your exhibitions before a people's court? A public humiliation?"

"No, I don't think we need go that far," Peter Fungabera assured him. "I will need only a written statement from you, an account of your crimes and the machinations of your masters. The confession will be properly witnessed, and then you will be escorted to the border and set at liberty. All very straightforward, simple and, if I may be allowed to say so, very civilized and humane."

"You will, of course, prepare my confession for me to sign?" Craig asked bitterly, and Peter Fungabera chuckled.

"How very perceptive of you." He selected one of the documents from the pile in front of him. "Here it is. You need only fill in the date and sign it." Even Craig was surprised at that.

J "You've had it typed already?" Nobody replied, and Captain Nbebi brought the document to him.

"Please read it, Mr. Mellow,"he invited.

There were three typewritten foolscap sheets, much of them filled with denunciations of his "imperialistic masters" and the hysterical cant of the extreme left. But in this mishmash, like plums in a stodgy pudding, were the hard facts of which Craig stood accused.

He read through it slowly, trying to force his numbed brain to function clearly, but it was all somehow dreamlike and unreal, seeming not really to affect him personally until he read the words that jerked him fully conscious again.

The words were so familiar, so well remembered, and they burned like concentrated acid into the core of his being.

J fully admit that by my actions I have proved myself to be an enemy of the state and the people of Zhnbabwe." It was the exact wording used in another document he had signed, and suddenly he was able to see the design behind it all.

"King's Lynn," he whispered, and he looked up from the typewritten confession at Peter Fungabera. "That's what it's all about. You are after King's Lynn!" There was silence, except for the tap of the swagger stick on the table-top. Peter Fungabera did not miss a beat with it, and he was still smiling.

"You had it all worke4ut from the very beginning. The surety for my loan you wrote in that clause." The numbness ahJ lethargy sloughed away, and Craig felt his anger rising again within him. He threw the confession on the floor. Captain Nbebi retrieved it, and stood with it held awkwardly in both hands. Craig found himself shaking with rage. He took a step forward towards the elegant figure seated before him, his hands reaching out involuntarily, but the tall Shana sergeant barred his way with the barrel of his rifle held across Craig's chest.

rill

"You bloody swine!" Craig hissed at Peter, and there was a little white froth of saliva on his lower lip. "I want the police, I want the protection of the law."

"Mr. Mellow," Peter Fungabera replied evenly, 'in Matabeleland, I am the law. It is my protection that you are being offered."

"I won't do it. I won't sign that piece of dung. I will go to hell first."

"That might be arranged," Peter Fungabera mused softly, and then persuasively, "I really do urge you to put aside these histrionics and bow to the inevitable. Sign the paper and we can dispense with any further nastiness." Crude words crowded to Craig's lips, and with an effort he resisted using them, not wanting to degrade himself in front of them.

"No," he said instead. "I'll never sign that thing. You'll have to kill me first."

"I give you one last chance to change your mind." "No. Never! Peter Fungabera swivelled in his chair towards the tall sergeant.

"I give you the woman," he said. "You first and then your men, one at a time until they have all had their turn. Here, in this room, on this table." Christ, you aren't human," Craig blurted, and tried to hold Sally-Anne, but the troopers seized him from behind and hurled him back against the wall. One of them pinned him there with the point of a bayonet against his throat.

The other twisted Sally-Anne's wrist up between her shoulder blades and held her in front of the sergeant. She began to struggle wildly, but the trooper lifted her until just the toes of her running shoes touched the stone-flagged floor, and her face contorted with pain.

The sergeant was expressionless, neither leering nor making any obscene gesture. He took the front of Sally Anne T-shirt in both hands, and tore it open from neck to waist. Her breasts swung out. They were very white and tender-looking, their pink tips seemed sensitive and vulnerable.

"I have one hundred and fifty men," Peter Fungabera remarked. "It will be some time before they have all finished." The sergeant hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and yanked, them down. He let them fall in a tangle around her ankles. Craig strained forward, but the point of the bayonet pierced the skin at his throat. A few drops of blood dribbled down his shirtfront. Sally-Anne tried to cover the dark triangular mound of her pudenda with her free hand. It was a pathetically ineffectual gesture.

"I know how fiercely even a so-called white liberal like you resents the thought of black flesh penetrating his worn an." Peter Fungabera's tone was almost conversational.

"It will be interesting to see just how many times you will allow it to hap pi The sergeant and the trooper lifted Sally-Anne between them and laid her on her back on the refectory table. The sergeant freed the silk-shorts that bound her ankles but left the running shoes on her feet, and the tatters of her shirt around her upper body.

Expertly they pulled her knees up against her chest and then forced them down, tucking them under her armpits.

They must have done this often before. She was helpless, doubled over, wide op and completely defenceless. Every man in the room.wls staring into her body's secret depths.

The sergeant began to unbuckle his webbing belt with his free hand.

"Craig!" Sally-Anne screamed, and Craig's body bucked involuntarily as though to the stroke of a whip.

"I'll sign it," he whispered. "Just let her go, and I'll sign it." Peter Fungabera gave an order in Shana, and immediately they released Sally-Anne. The trooper stood back and the sergeant helped her to her feet. Politely, he handed her back her shorts, and she hopped on one foot, sobbing softly and trembling, as she pulled them on.

Then she rushed to Craig and threw both her arms about him. She could not speak but she choked and gulped down her tears. Her body shook wildly and Craig held her close and made incoherent soothing noises to her.

"The sooner you sign, the sooner you can go." Craig went to the table, still holding Sally-Anne in the curve of his left arm.

Captain Nbebi handed him a pen and he initialled the two top sheets of the confession, and signed the last one in full. Both Captain Nbebi and Peter Fungabera witnessed his signature, and then Peter said, "One last formality. I want both you and Miss Jay to be examined by the regimental doctor for any signs of ill-treatment or undue coercion."

"God damn you, hasn't she had enough?"

"Humour me, please, my dear fellow." The doctor must have been waiting in one of the trucks outside. He was a small dapper Shana and his manner was brisk and businesslike.

"You may examine the woman in the bedroom, Doctor.

In particular, please satisfy yourself that she has not been forcibly penetrated," Peter Fungabera instructed him, and then as they left the dining-room, he turned to Craig. "In the meantime, you may open the safe in your office and take out your passport and whatever other documents you need for the journey." may Two troopers escorted Craig to his office at the far end of the veranda, and waited while he struck the combination of the safe. He took out his passport, the wallet containing his credit cards and World Bank badge, three folders of American Express travellers" cheques, and the bundle of manuscript for the new novel. He stuffed them into a British Airways flight bag and went back to the dining-room.

Sally-Anne and the doctor came back from the bed, room. She had changed into a blue cashmere jersey, shirt and jeans, and she had controlled her hysteria to an occasional gulping sob, though she was still shivering in little convulsive fits. She dragged her camera bag and under one arm carried the art folder of photographs and text for their book.

"Your turn," Peter Fungabera invited Craig to follow the doctor, and when he returned Sally-Anne was seated in the back seat of a Land-Rover parked in front of the veranda. Captain Nbebi was beside her, and there were two armed troopers in the back of the vehicle. The seat beside the driver was empty for Craig.

Peter Fungabera was waiting on the veranda. "Goodbye, Craig," he said, and Craig stared at him, trying to project the full venom he felt for him.

"You didn't really believe that I would allow you to rebuild your family's empire, did you?" Peter asked without rancour. "We fought too hard to destroy that world." As the Land-Rover drove down the hills in the night, Craig turned and looked back. Peter Fungabera still stood on the lighted veranda, and somehow his tall figure was transformed. He looked as though he belonged there, likea conqueror who has taken possession, like the patron of the grand estate. Craigtwatched him until the trees hid him, and only then 4id the leaven of his true hatred begin to rise within him Al he headlights of the Land-Rover swung across the signboard: King's Lynn Afrikander Stud Proprietor: Craig Mellow It seemed to mock him, then they were past it and rattling across the steel cattle-grid. They left the soil of King's Lynn and Craig's dreams behind them, and swung westwards. The lugged tyres began their monotonous hum as they hit the black top of the main road, and still nobody in the Land-Rover spoke.

Captain Nbebi opened the map-case that he was holding on his knees and took out a bottle of fiery locally made cane spirits. He passed the bottle over the front seat to Craig. Craig waved it brusquely aside, but Timon Nbebi insisted, and Craig took it with ill grace. He unscrewed the cap and swallowed a maud-dul, then exhaled the fumes noisily. It brought tears to his eyes, but immediately the fireball in his belly spread out through his blood, giving him comfort. He took another swig and passed the bottle back to Sally-Anne. She shook her head.

"Drink it," Craig ordered, and meekly she obeyed. She had stopped weeping, but the fits of shivering still persisted.

The spirits made her cough and choke, but she got them down, and they steadied her.

"Thank you." She handed the bottle back to Timon Nbebi, and the politeness from a woman who had been so recently degraded and humiliated was embarrassing to all of them.

They reached the first roadblock on the outskirts of the town of Bulawayo, and Craig checked his wrist-watch. It was seven minutes to three in the morning. There were no other vehicles waiting at the barrier, and two troopers stepped out from behind the barricade and came to each side of the Land-Rover. Timon Nbebi slid back his window and spoke quietly to one of them, offering his pass at the same time. The trooper examined it briefly in the beam of his flashlight, then handed it back. He saluted, and the barrier lifted. They drove through.

Bulawayo was silent and devoid of life, only very few of the windows were lit. A traffic-light flashed green and amber and red, and the driver stopped obediently, although the streets were completely deserted. The engine throbbed in idle and then above it, far off and faint, came the popping sound of automatic rifle, fire

Craig was watching Timon Nbebi's face in the rearview mirror, and saw him wince slightly at the sound of gunfire. Then the light changed and they drove on, taking the south road through the suburbs. On the edge of the town there were two more road-blocks and then the open road.

They ran southwards in the night, with the whine of the tyres and the buffet of the wind against the cab. The glow from the dashboard gave their faces a sickly greenish hue and once or twice the radio in the back crackled and gabbled distorted Shana. Craig recognized Peter Fungabera's voice on one of the transmissions, but he must have been calling another unit, for Timon Nbebi made no effort to reply and they drove on in silence. The monotonous hum of engine and tyres and the warmth of the cab lulled Craig, and in a reaction. from anger and fear he found himself dozing.

He awoke with a start as Timon Nbebi spoke for the first time, and the beat of the Land-Rover's engine altered.

It was dawn's first light. He could see the silhouette of the tree-tops against the paling lemon sky. The Land-Rover slowed and then swung off the main tarmac road onto a dirt track. Immediately the mushroom smell of talcum dust permeated the cab.

"VAlere are we?" Craig demanded. "Why are we leaving the road?" Timon Nbebi spoke to the driver and he pulled to the side of the track and stopped.

"You will please step out," Timon ordered, and as Craig did so, Timon was waiting for him, seeming to help him down but instead he took Craig's arm, turned it slightly, and before Craig could react to the icy touch of steel on his skin, Timon had handcuffed both his wrists. It had been so unexpected and so expertly done that for seconds Craig stood bewildered with his manacled hands thrust out in front of him, staring at them. Then he shouted, "Christ, what is this?" By then Timon Nbebi had handcuffed Sally-Anne as quickly and efficiently, and ignoring Craig's outburst, was talking quietly to his driver and the two troopers. It was o quick for Craig to follow, although he caught the to Shana words "kill" and "hide'. One of the troopers seemed to protest and Timon leaned through the open door of the Land-Rover and lifted the microphone of the radio. He gave a call sign, repeated three times, and after a short wait was patched through to Peter Fungabera. Craig recognized the general's voice despite the VHF distortion.

There was a brief exchange, and when Timon Nbebi hung the microphone, the trooper was no longer protesting.

Clearly Timon Nbebi's orders had been endorsed.

"We will go on,"Timon reverted to English, and Craig was roughly hustled back into the front seat. The change in their treatment was ominous.

The driver threaded the Land-Rover deeper and deeper into the Thorn veld, and the morning light strengthened.

Outside the cab, the dawn bird chorus was in full voice.

Craig recognized the high clear duet of a pair of collate barbers in an acacia tree beside the track. A brown hare was trapped in the beam of the headlights and lolloped ahead of them with his long pink ears flapping. Then the sky began to bum with the stupendous colours of the African dawn and the driver switched off the headlights.

L J

"Craig, darling. They are going to kill us, aren't they?" Sally-Anne asked quietly. Her voice was clear and firm now. She had conquered her hysteria and was in control of herself again. She spoke as though they were alone.

"I'm sorry." Craig could find nothing else to say. "I should have known that Peter Fungabera would never let us go."

"There is nothing you could have done. Even if you had known."

"They'll bury us in some remote place and our disappearance will be blamed on the Matabele dissidents," Craig said, and Timon Nbebi sat silent and impassive, neither admitting nor denying the accusation.

The road forked, the left-hand track barely discernible, and Timon Nbebi indicated it. The driver slowed further and changed to a lower gear. They bumped along it for another twenty minutes. By then it was fully light, the promise of sunrise flaming the tip tops of the acacia.

Timon Nbebi gave another order and the driver turned off the track and drove blindly through the waist-high grass, skirting the edge of a grey granite kopje, until they were entirely screened from even the rudimentary bush track that they had been following. Another short order, and the driver stopped and switched off the engine.

The silence closed in on them, enhancing their sense of isolation and remoteness.

"No one will ever finds here," Sally-Anne said quietly, and Craig could find rw word of comfort for her.

"You will remain4 here you are,"Timon Nbebi ordered.

"Don't you feel anything for what you are going to do?" Sally-Anne asked him, and he turned his head to her.

Behind the steel rimmed spectacles his eyes were perhaps shaded with misery and regret, but his mouth was set hard.

He did not reply to her question, and after a moment turned from her and alighted. He gave orders in Shana, and the troopers racked their weapons in the back of the r

Land-Rover while the driver climbed up onto the roof tack and brought down three folding trenching-tools.

Timon Nbebi reached through the window and took the keys out of the Land-Rover's engine, then he led his men a short distance away and with the toe of his boot marked out two oblongs on the sandy grey earth. The three Shonas shucked off their webbing and battle-jackets, and began to dig out the graves. They went down swiftly in the loose soil. Timon Nbebi stood aside watching them. He lit a cigarette and the grey smoke spiralled straight up in the still, cool dawn.

"I am going to try to get one of the rifles," Craig whispered. The weapons were in the back of the vehicle.

He would have to crawl over the backs of both seats, then reach the rifles which were standing upright in the racks.

He would have to open the clip on the rack, load the weapon, change the rate-of-fire selector and aim through the back window all with his hands manacled.

"You won't make it," Sally' Anne whispered.

"Probably not," he agreed grimly, "but can you think of anything else? When I say "Go", I want you to throw yourself flat on the floor." Craig wriggled around in the seat, his leg hampering him catching by the ankle on the lever of the four-wheel drive selector. He kicked it free and gathered himself. He took a slow breath, and glanced out of the rear window at the little group of grave-diggers.

"Listen," he told her urgently. "I love you. I have never loved anyone the way I love you." love you, too, my darling," she whispered back.

"Be brave!" he said.

"Good luck!" She was crouching down, and he almost in made his move, but at that moment Timon Nbebi turned towards the Land-Rover. He saw Craig twisted around in the seat, and Sally-Anne down below the sill. He frowned and came back to the vehicle with quick businesslike strides. At the open window he paused and spoke softly in English.

"Don't do it, Mr. Mellow. We are all of us in great danger. Our only chance is for you to remain still and not to interfere or make any unexpected move." He took the ignition keys from his pocket, and with his other hand loosened the flap of the webbing pistol-holster on his belt.

He kept on talking softly, J have effectively disarmed my men, and their attention is on their work. When I enter the Land-Rover, do not hamper me or try to attack me. I am in as great a dancer as you are. You must trust me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Craig nodded. Christ! Do I have any choice, he thought.

Timon opened the driver's door of the Land' Rover and slid in under the wheel. He glanced once at the three soldiers who were by now waist-deep in the two graves, then Timon slipped the key into the ignition and turned it.

The engine turned over loudly, and the three soldiers looked up, puzzled. The starter-motor whirred and churned, and the engine would not fire. One of the troopers shouted, and jumped out of the grave. His chest was snaked with sweat and powdered with grey dust. He started towards the stranded Land' Rover Timon Nbebi pumped the accelerator, and kept turning the engine. He had a desperate, terrified look on his face, "You'll flood her, "Craig told him. "Take your foot off!" The trooper broke into a run towards them. He was shouting angry questions, and the starter went on Whirr!

Whirr! Whirr! with Timon frozen to the wheel.

The running trooper was almost alongside, and now the others, slower and less alert, began to follow him. They were shouting also, one of them swinging his trenching tool menacingly.