Текст книги "Leopard Hunts in Darkness"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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"Danger!" Tungata made the urgent hand-signal, and they froze.

Craig stared at the clump of rock and grass and bush from which the hornbill had fled, trying to discover what had alarmed it.

Something moved, a tiny stirring, and it was so close that Craig clearly heard the flare of a match being struck and lit. A feather of ethereal smoke drifted from the clump of brush and prickled his nostrils with the stink of tobacco burning. Then he made out the shape of a steel battle helmet covered with camouflage net. It moved away as the man wearing it drew again on his cigarette.

Now Craig saw the whole picture. In his camouflage smock, the man was lying behind a light machine-gun on a tripod, the barrel of the weapon was bound with streamers of hessian to disguise its stark outline.

"How many?" Tungata signalled the question, and then Craig saw the second man. He was sitting with his back to the base of the low Thorn tree. The shadow of the branches over his head blended perfectly with the tiger stripes of his camouflage. He was a big man, bare-headed, with a sergeant's chevrons on his arm, and an Uzi machine-gun laid beside him.

Craig was about to signal, "Two," when the man slipped a soft pack of cigarettes out of his breast-pocket and held it out. A third man who had been lying flat on his back in the shade, sat up and accepted the pack. He tapped out a cigarette and then tossed the pack to a fourth man, who rolled onto his elbow to catch it, revealing himself for the first time.

Tour!" Craig signalled.

It was a machine-gun post, perfectly sited on the shoulder of the hill to cover the slopes below. Peter Fungabera had obviously anticipated the existence of bolt holes from the main cavern. The hills must all be staked out with nests of machine guns It was mere fortune that had brought them out above this post. "Me gunner was facing downhill, his mates were stretched out, relaxed and bored from days of unrewarded vigil.

"Move into attack position,"Tungata signalled.

"Query?" Craig flicked his thumb. "Four! Query?" Craig questioned the odds.

"Go right!" Tungata signalled, and then enforced the order with the clenched fist. "Imperative!" Craig felt his blood charging with adrenaline the heat of it spreading down his limbs, his mouth drying out. He clutched the round stone in his right hand.

They were so close that he could see the wet spit on the tip of the cigarette as the machinegunner took it from his lips. The nest was littered with their rubbish: paper wrappers and empty food cans and cigarette butts. Their weapons were laid carelessly aside. The man lying on his back had covered his eyes with his elbow and the burning cigarette stuck up likea candle from his lips. The sergeant against the tree was whittling a piece of wood with his trench-knife. The third had unbuttoned his smock and was minutely searching his own chest hair for body vermin.

Only the man behind the gun was alert.

Tungata was sliding into position beside Craig.

"Ready?" He raised his hand and glanced at Craig.

"Affirmative." Tungata's hand came down, the order to execute.

Craig went in, rolling over the edge of the nest, and he hit the man with the trench-knife. He hit him in the temple with the stone, and he knew instantly that it was too hard. He felt bone break in the man's head.

The sergeant sagged forward without a sound, and at the same instant Craig heard a soft scuffle and grunt be-hind him as Tungata took on the machine-gunner. Craig did not even glance around. He snatched up the Uzi machine, gun and cocked it.

The searcher after body vermin looked up and his jaw sagged open as Craig thrust the muzzle into his face, pressing the circle of steel against his cheek and glaring into his eyes, dominating him, compelling silence.

Tungata had picked up the sergeant's fallen trench knife and now he dropped onto the reclining trooper, driving one knee into his diaphragm, forcing all the air from his lungs in a single explosive sigh, and then pressing the point of the knife into the soft flesh below his ear. Still on his back, the man's face swelled and contorted, as he struggled to refill his lungs.

"If any man cries out," Tungata. whispered, "I will cut off his testicles and stick them in his mouth." It had all taken less than five seconds.

Tungata knelt beside the sergeant whom Craig had stoned, and felt for the pulse in his throat. After a few seconds he shook his head, and began stripping the corpse of its battle-smock. He shrugged into it. It was too sma for him, binding across the chest.

"Take the gunner's uniform," he ordered, while he took the Uzi from Craig and covered the two prisoners with it.

The machine-gunner's neck was broken. Tungata had jerked back his helmet and the strap had caught under his chin. The dead man's camouflage smock stank of rancid stale sweat and tobacco smoke, but it fitted Craig well enough. The steel helmet was too big, it came down to his eyes, but covered his long straight hair.

Tungata thrust his face close to those of the prisoners.

"Drag the bodies of these Shana dogs with you." Craig and Tungata covered them while they pulled the two naked dead men, fAt first, through the grass to the cave entrance and then rolled them down the slope into the dark interior.

The two girls were shocked and silenced.

"StripP Tungata ordered the prisoners. when they were in their army issue shorts, Tungata ordered Craig, "Tie them! Craig gestured them to lie on their stomachs, and using the nylon rope bound their wrists at the small of the back, then pulled up their legs and bound wrists to ankles. It was a hogtie that left them helpless. Then he -pulled the stockings off their feet and stuffed them into their mouths and tied the gags in place.

While he was working, Tungata was dressing the girls in the discarded battle-dress. It was many sizes too large, but they folded back the cuffs at wrists and ankles and belted the trousers in a bunch around their waists.

"Black your face, Pendula," Tungata ordered, and she smeared herself. "Hands also. Now cover your hair." He pulled a beret out of a pocket of his purloined smock, and tossed it to her.

"Come on." Tungata picked up the canvas bag of diamonds and started back up the slope. He led them back to the abandoned machinegun nest.

Tungata tipped up a field pack, emptying it out onto the ground, and then shoved the bag of diamonds into the pack and rebuckled it. He slung the pack onto his back.

Craig had been ransacking the other equipment. He passed two grenades to Tungata and stuffed two more into his own pockets. He found a Tokarev pistol for Sarah, and gave another Uzi to Sally-Anne. There was an AK 47 for himself, with five spare magazines. Tungata kept the second Uzi. Craig added a water bottle to his load. He broke open an emergency pack of chocolate and they all stuffed their mouths as they prepared to leave. It tasted so good that Craig's eyes watered.

"I'll take the point." Tungata spoke through a sticky mouthful of chocolate. "We'll try and get down into the valley, under cover of the trees." They kept just under the shoulder of the hill, going directly down the slope, taking the chance that the open slope to their right was clear.

They were just above the tree line when they heard the helicopter.

It was coming up the valley. It was still behind the shoulder of the hill, but coming on fast.

"Hit the groundP Craig ordered, and slammed Sally Anne between the shoulder-blades with the flat of his hand. They went down and pushed their faces to the earth, but the beat of the rotors changed, altering to coarse pitch and now the sound was stationary, just out of their line of sight behind the fold of rocky hillside.

"It's landing," Sally-Anne said, and the engine noise died away.

"She's down." Sally-Anne cocked her head. "She's landed. There! He has cut the motor." Into the silence they could hear, very faintly, orders being shouted.

Tupho, come up here," Tungata ordered. "You two, wait." Craig and Tungata crawled up to the shoulder of the hill and very slowly raised their heads to look over the crest.

Below them, a quarter of a mile down the valley, there was a small level clearing at the edge of the forest. The grass had been flattened and there was an open-sided canvas sun shelter at the edge of the trees on the far side of the clearing. The helicopter stood in the centre of the clearing, and the pilot was climbing down from the fuselage port. There were uniformed troopers of the Third Brigade under the trees near the tent, and in the tent they could make out three or four other men sitting at a table.

"Advanced headquarters," Craig murmured.

"This is the valley thae'we entered, the main cave is just below us."

"You are right." Craig had not recognized the ground from this direction and height.

"Looks as though they are pulling out," Tungata pointed into the trees. A platoon of camouflaged troopers was moving back down the valley in Indian file.

"They probably waited for forty-eight hours or so after dynamiting the grand gallery, now they must have given us up for dead and buried." "How many?"Tungata asked.

"I can see," Craig screwed up his eyes, "twenty at least, not counting those in the tent. There will be others staking out the hills, of course." Tungata drew back from the skyline and beckoned to Sally' Anne She crawled up beside him.

"What do you make of that machine?" He pointed at the helicopter.

"It's a Super Frelon," she replied without hesitation.

"Can you fly it?" 11 can fly anything."

"Damn it, Sally-Anne, don't be clever," Craig whispered irritably. "Have you ever flown one of those?"

"Not a Super Frelon, but I have five hundred hours on helicopters."

"How long would it take you to start up and get moving, once you are in the cockpit?" Now she hesitated. "Two or three minutes."

"Too long. "Craig shook his head.

"What if we can pull the guards away from the clearing while Pendula starts up?" Tungata asked.

"That might work," Craig agreed.

"This is it then." Tungata set it out quickly. "I will track UP to the head of the valley. You take the girls down to the edge of the clearing. Got it?" Craig nodded.

"Forty-five minutes from now," Tungata checked his wristwatch, nine, thirty exactly, I will start throwing grenades and firing with the AK. That should pull most of the Shana away from the clearing. As soon as the shooting starts, you head for the helicopter. When I hear the helicopter lift off, I'll run out on the open slope, there! He pointed up the valley. "Just below that rock sheet. The Shana will not have reached me by that time you can make the pick-up from there."

"Let's do it." Craig passed Tungata the AK 47 and the spare magazines. "I'll keep the Uzi and one grenade." He took the sub machinegun from Tungata.

"Take the diamonds also." Tungata shrugged out of the straps of the back pack and pushed it across to Craig.

"See you later." Craig slapped his shoulder, and Tungata slid away down the slope.

Craig led the two girls straight down along the spine of the hill, keeping in the scrub and broken rock. It was a relief to reach the tree-line, and discover a ravine that angled back along the edge of the clearing. They crept down it, Craig cautiously lifting his head above the bank to check their progress every few hundred feet.

"This is as close as we can get to the helicopter," he whispered and the girls sank down, resting below the lip of the bank. Craig slipped out of the heavy pack and had another look over the bank.

The helicopter stood out in the open, a hundred and fifty paces away. The pilot was squatting beside the landing-gear in the shade cast by the fuselage. The Super Frelon was a bulky, blunt, nosed machine, painted dull sage green. Craig sank down Again beside Sally-Anne.

"VA-iat range does it have?" Craig asked in a whisper.

"Not certain," Sally-Anne whispered back. "With full tanks about six hundred miles, I'd guess."

"Pray for full tanks." Craig glanced at his Rolex. "Ten minutes." From his pocket he handed them each another slab of chocolate. A Sally-Anne's sweat had streaked the blackening on her cheeks. Craig mixed dirt and water from the bottle into a muddy paste and repaired her make-up. Then she did the same to him.

"Two minutes." Craig checked the time, and glanced over the bank.

The helicopter pilot stood up and stretched, then he climbed back into the Super Frelon.

"Something is happening, "Craig murmured.

The helicopter partially obscured his view of the tent across the clearing, but he could see that there was activity over there as well.

A small group was leaving the tent. The guards were saluting and strutting about importantly, and then suddenly the rotors of the helicopter turned and the starter motor whirred noisily. Blue smoke fired from the exhaust vents and with a roar the main engine of the Super Frelon came to life.

A pair of officers left the group in front of the tent and started across the clearing, heading for the helicopter.

"We have got trouble," Craig muttered grimly, "they are pulling out." And then he started, "That's Peter Fungabera!" Peter was wearing the burgundy beret with silver leopard-head cap-badge, the bright rows of decoration ribbons on his chest, and the scarf in the opening of his battle smock Under one arm was tucked his swagger-stick. While he walked, he was in deep discussion with a tall, elderly white man whom Craig had never seen before.

The white man wore a plain khaki safari jacket. His head was bare. His hair was cropped to the scalp and his skin had a peculiarly repulsive pasty white texture. He carried a black leather attache case which was locked to his wrist with a steel chain. He cocked his head to listen to Peter Fungabera's impassioned discourse as they walked towards the waiting helicopter.

Halfway between the tent and the helicopter, the two of them came to a stop, and argued animatedly. The white man was gesticulating vehemently with his free hand. He was close enough now for Craig to notice that his eyes were so pale that they gave him the sightless stare of a marble bust. His skin was pocked with ancient scars, yet he was very much the dominating figure of the pair. His manner was brusque, almost contemptuous, as though he now regarded Peter Fungabera as superfluous, unworthy of his serious attention. Peter Fungabera, on the other hand, had the shattered look of a survivor of an air crash He appeared confused. His voice was raised so that Craig could hear its pleading tone, if not the actual words. This was hardly the man that Craig had known.

The white man made a gesture of dismissal and, turning away from Peter Fungabera, started once more towards the helicopter.

At that moment there was the crumping detonation of an exploding grenade and the two men in the clearing turned quickly to look up the valley in the direction from which the explosion had sounded. Now there was a burst of automatic AK 47 fire from the same direction and immediately the urgent shout of orders around the tent.

Troopers began doubling along the edge of the clearing, heading up the valley.

Another burst of automatic fire, and the attention of every man was focused in that direction. Hastily, Craig pulled the pack onto his back.

"Come on!" he snapped. "You know what to do! The three of them scrambled out of the ravine and moved out into the clearing.

"Don't hurry," Craig cautioned them softly. They kept in a compact group, moving quickly but purposefully over the open ground towards Fungabera and is companion.

Craig took the grena4e from his pocket and with his teeth drew the pin. Helheld the grenade in his left hand.

In his right he carried the Uzi, loaded and cocked and with rapid, fire selected. They were within five paces before Peter Fungabera, glanced around and his astonishment was almost comical as he recognized Craig, even under his mud mask.

"At this range I can cut you in half," Craig warned him, lifting the Uzi to the level of Peter's belly. "This grenade is armed. If I drop it, it will blow us all to hell." He had to shout above the sound of the helicopter's engine.

The white man spun to face him, and his pate arctic eyes were savage.

"Go for the pilot," Craig ordered the girls and they ran to the fuselage port of the helicopter.

"Now, both of you," Craig told the two men, "walk to the helicopter. Don't hurry, don't shout." Craig followed three paces behind them. Before they reached the helicopter, the pilot appeared in the open port, both his hands high above his head, and Sarah behind him with the Tokarev pistol in his back.

"Get oud" Craig ordered, and with obvious relief, the pilot jumped down to the ground.

"Tell them that General Fungabera is a hostage," Craig said. "Any attack will endanger him. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the pilot nodded.

"Now walk back to that tent. Walk slowly. Don't run.

Don't shout." The pilot set off gratefully, but as soon as he was clear, he broke into a trot.

"Get in!" Craig gestured to the port with the Uzi, but Peter Fungabera glared at him and his head sank down menacingly on his wide shoulders.

"Don't do it." Craig backed off a pace, for there was an air of desperation about Peter Fungabera, the reckless quality of a man with nothing more to lose.

"Move!" Craig ordered. "Get up that ladder! and Peter Fungabera charged at him. Almost as though he were courting death, he ran straight onto the muzzle of the Uzi.

However, Craig was poised to meet him. He brought up the weapon and crashed the barrel across the side of Peter Fungabera's head with a force that dropped him onto his knees.

As Peter went down, Craig swung the Uzi back on to the white man, anticipating any move he might make.

"Help him up the ladder, "he ordered, and although the white man was encumbered by the black attache case chained to his wrist, the menace of the Uzi was persuasive and he stooped over Peter Fungabera and lifted him to his feet. Still stunned by the blow, Peter reeled in the man's grasp. He was mumbling dazedly.

It doesn't matter now, it's all over anyway."

"Shut up, you fool," the white man hissed at him.

"Get him into the helicopter." Craig prodded the Uzi into the white man's back, and the pair started towards the ladder.

"Keep the gun on them, Sarah," Craig called and glanced over his shoulder. The helicopter pilot had almost reached the edge of the clearing. "Hurry it up," Craig snarled at them, and the white man shoved Peter Fungabera through the port and clambered up after him, with the black case dangling on its chain from his wrist.

Craig jumped up into the body of the helicopter.

"Over there! he ordered his two prisoners to the bench seat. "Strap yourselves in! "Then to Sarah, "Tell Pendula. to get going!" The helicopter lifted off and rose swiftly out of the clearing, and Craig tossed the grenade out of the open port. It dropped away and exploded in the forest far below.

Craig hoped the explosion would heighten the confusion down there.

Craig stood behind Peter Fungabera with the Uzi pressed to the nape of his. neck while with his free hand he reached over and pu&d the Tokarev pistol from the holster on Peter'shipt He thrust it into his own pocket, then he backed off and buckled on the engineer's safety straps at the doorway. As Sarah clambered down from the cockpit, he ordered her, "Cover them both!" and he leaned out of the port and peered ahead.

Almost immediately, he saw Tungata. He was already out of the trees, just below the rock slope, waving both hands over his head, brandishing the AK 47.

"Hold on! I'm going down for the pick-up," Sally Anne -voice squealed from the twoway speaker above Craig's head.

The big helicopter dropped swiftly down towards where Tungata was waiting, and Sally' Anne steadied the machine and hovered above his head.

All around Tungata the grass was blown flat by the down-draught and Tungata's stolen battle-smock rippled and whipped about his body. He threw the AK 47 aside and looked up at Craig. The helicopter sank down the last few feet, and Craig leaned out of the hatch and made an arm for him. Tungata jumped and they locked arms at the elbows and Craig swung him aboard.

"Okay!" he yelled up at the speaker. "Go for it!" And they went bounding up into the sky so swiftly that Craig's knees buckled.

At a little over a thousand feet, Sally' Anne went straight and level and turned onto a westerly heading.

Tungata turned to the figures on the bench seat and checked. He stared at Peter Fungabera ferociously, but Peter slumped, still dazed and beaten, on the bench seat.

"Where did you find them, Pupho?" Tungata asked huskily.

"They are a little present for you, Sam." Craig handed him the Uzi sub machinegun "It's loaded and cocked. Can I leave you to look after this pair of beauties?"

"It will afford me the greatest of pleasure." Tungata turned the gun on the two men sitting side by side on the bench seat.

"I'm going to see how Pendula is making out." Craig began to turn away, but something in the way the captive white man was holding himself alerted him, and he turned back quickly. The white prisoner had used the confusion to unlock the steel cuff from his wrist, and now he hurled the black attache case across the hold towards the open port.

In a reflex action, Craig threw himself to one side, likea basket-ball player intercepting a pass, and he got a hand to the flying case, deflecting it aside so that it missed the open doorway and clattered against the bulkhead. He dived for it and hugged it to his chest.

"This must be a very interesting piece of goods," he observed mildly, as he stood up. "I'd watch that one, Sam, he is as tricky as he is beautiful, he advised.

Lugging the case, Craig made his way forward and clambered up into the raised cockpit. He dropped into the co-pilot's seat next to Sally-Anne, and shrugged out of the pack that contained the diamonds. He wedged it securely beside the seat.

"So you can fly this damned thing, after all, bird lady!" She grinned at him, her teeth very white in her blackened face.

"I'm heading back towards the pan where we left the Land-Rover." "Good thinking how's the fuel?"

"One tank full, the other three quarters we have plenty in hand." Craig placed the attache case in his lap and checked the locks. They were combinations.

"How long to the border? "he asked.

"We are making 170 knots, less than two hours better than walking home, isn't it?"

"My oath!" Craig grinned back at her.

With his claspknifelie ripped out the combination locks and opened the lid of the attache case. On top there were two spare shirts and a ball of socks, a bottle of Russian vodka half full, a cheap wallet containing four passports, Finnish, Swedish, East German and Russian, airline tickets for Aeroflot.

"Well-travelled gentleman!" Craig unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle and took a swig. "Brrr!" he said. "That's the real stuff!" He passed the bottle to Sally-Anne and lifted the shirts. Under them were three green-covered folders, they were stamped with Cyrillic lettering and black hammer and sickle crests.

"Russian, by God! The man is a Bolshie!" He opened the top folder and his interest quickened.

"It's typed in English!" He read the top page, and became gradually immersed in the contents. He did not even look UP when Sally-Anne asked, What's it say?" He skimmed through the first file and then the other two. Twenty-five minutes later he looked up with a stunned bemused expression and stared unseeingly through the windshield.

"I can hardly believe it," he shook his head. "They were so damned sure of themselves. They even typed it out in clear English for Peter Fungabera's benefit. No attempt at concealing it. They didn't even bother to use code names."

"What is it?" Sally-Anne glanced sideways at him.

"It just boggles the mind." He took another mouthful of vodka. "Sam has got to read these!" He stood up and balancing against the lurch of the helicopter, he dropped down into the hold and hurried back to Tungata.

Tungata and Sarah sat opposite the two hostages.

Tungata had used the spare seat-belts to truss them securely at wrist and ankles. Peter Fungabera seemed to have recovered a little, and he and Tungata were glaring at each other, arguing with the acrimony and deadly concentration of mortal enemies.

"Cool that! Craig dropped onto the bench beside Tungata.

"Give me the Uzi." Craig took it from him. "Now read what is in here!" He placed the attach.6 case on Tungata's lap.

"Delighted to meet you, Colonel Bukharin," Craig said pleasantly. "You must be happy to be missing the Moscow winter?" He pointed the Uzi at his belly.

"I am a senior member of the diplomatic corps of the United Soviet-"

"Yes, Colonel, I have read your visiting card." Craig indicated the files. "On the other hand Colonel, am a desperate fugitive quite capable of doing you a serious injury if you don't shut up." Then he turned to Peter Fungabera. "I do hope you are looking after King's Lynn properly, remembering to wipe your feet and all that?"

"You escaped me once, Mr. Mellow," Peter Fungabera said softly. "I don't make the same mistakes twice." And despite the gun in his hands and the fact that Peter was trussed up likea sacrificial goat, Craig felt a chilly little breeze of fear down his spine and he could not go on holding the smouldering gaze of hatred with which Peter Fungabera. fixed him. He glanced sideways at Tungata.

He was skimming quickly through the green files, and as he read his expression changed from disbelief to outrage.

"Do you know what this is, Pupho?"

"It's a blueprint for bloody revolution," Craig nodded, written out in plain English, obviously for the benefit of Peter Fungabera."

"Everything they cover everything. Look at this. The lists of those to be executed they spell out the names and those who can be relied on to collaborate. They have even prepared the radio and television announcements for the day of the coup!"

"Page twenty-five," Craig suggested. "Check that." Tungata turned to it. "Me-" he read on. "Sent to a clinic in Europe, mind-bending treatment, the mindless traitor, to lead the Matabele peoples into perpetual slavery' Yes Sam, you were the pivot on which the whole operation turned. When Fungabera lost you in the cavern when he dynamited the grand gallery he admitted defeat. just look at him now." However, Tungata was no longer listening. He dumped the attache case and its contents back on Craig's lap and leaned forward until his face was a foot from Fungabera's.

He thrust forward that craggy lantern jaw and slowly his eyeballs glazed over with the reddish sheen of rage.

"You would sell this land and all its peoples into a new slavery, into an imperialism that would make the rule of Smith's regime appear benign and altruistic by comparison? You would condemn your own tribe, and mine and all the others madness-" In his rage, Tungata was becoming incoherent. "A rabid dog, crazy with the lust for power." Suddenly he roared, involuntarily giving vent to his anguish and hatred and outrage. He hurled himself at Peter Fungabera and seized the wide nylon strap that bound him.

With the other hand he unclipped the huge Shana's seat, belt and jerked him off the bench. With the strength of a wounded buffalo bull, he swung him bodily across the hold towards the square open port in the fuselage.

"Mad dog!" he roared, and before Craig could move, he had thrust Peter Fungabera backwards through the opening.

Craig tossed the Uzi to Sarah and sprang to Tungata's side. Tungata had been dragged to his knees by the weight of Peter Fungabera's body and he was clinging with one arm to the jamb of the doorway. With the other hand he still had a grip on the strap around Peter's chest.

Peter Fungabera dangled outboard. His hands were strapped helpless, his neck twisted back so that he stared up into Tungata's face above him. The fierce brown hills of Africa lay two thousand feet below him, the black stone crests bared like the teeth of a man-eating shark.

"Sam, wait!" Craig screamed above the wind, roar and the deafening beat of the engine.

fly

"Die, you treacherous murderou&-2 Tungata roared, down into Peter Fungabera's upturned face.

Craig had never seen such naked terror as that in Peter Fungabera's dark eyes. His mouth was wide open and the wind blew his spittle over his lips in silver strings, but no sound came from his throat.

"Wait, Sam," Craig screamed, "don't kill him. He is the only one who can clear you, can clear all of us. If you kill him you'll never be able to live in Zimbabwe again-" Tungata rolled his head sideways and stared at Craig.

"Our only chance to clear ourselves!" The red glaze of rage began to fade from Tungata's eyes, but the muscles stood out in his arms from the effort of holding Peter Fungabera's body against the whip and buffet of the wind.

"Help me!" he grated, and in one movement Craig snatched the safety-belt, pulling it off the inertia reel, and buckled it around his own waist. He dropped belly-down on the deck, hooked his ankles around the base of the bench and reached down and out to get a double grip on the nylon strap. Between them they lifted Peter Fungabera back into the port, and his legs were so rubbery with terror that they could not bear his weight when he tried to stand.

Tungata hurled him backwards across the cabin, and Peter hit the rear bulkhead. He slid down it and rolled onto his side, pulling up his knees into the foetal position, and under the crushing eight of defeat and capitulation he moaned quietly an covered his head with both arms.

Craig climbed unsteadily up into the cockpit, and sank into the co-pilot's seat.

"What the hell is happening?" Sally' Anne demanded.

"Nothing serious. I only just managed to stop Sam killing Peter Fungabera."

"Why did you bother?" Sally-Anne raised her voice above the clatter of the rotors overhead. "I'd love a shot at that swine myself."

"Darling, can you get a radio connection to the United States Embassy in Harare?" She thought about it. "Not from this aircraft." "Give them the registration of the Cessna, I'll lay odds it hasn't been reported missing yet."