‘So where, then?’
‘The beach is about ten kilometres from here. There’s a municipal camping ground that has some small chalets. We stayed there a few years ago. It’s not luxury, but it should be okay.’
Tom shrugged. He was, as he had been from the moment he touched down in Africa, out of his depth and totally reliant on her. It wasn’t a bad feeling — not nearly as bad as the frustration he felt now that it appeared they would be spinning their wheels for twelve hours until morning. ‘Lead on.’
Sannie drove, and after the main road took them up a hill, out of the centre of town, she turned right at a sign with a beach umbrella on it that said Praia do Xai Xai. There were no streetlights, and only pinpricks of illumination showed in the dark from lanterns in villagers’ homes. The Volkswagen careened up and down a roller- coaster of hills which were under cultivation with bananas, and other crops that Tom couldn’t make out. Unlike the townships he’d passed through on the way into Kruger, the villagers here seemed to have left plenty of mature trees growing amid their homes, either for shade or to help stabilise the sandy hills they lived on.
The road to the beach ended in a roundabout on top of a cliff and Sannie swung left onto a side road that deteriorated rapidly from potholed tar to dirt as they wound down towards the Indian Ocean. The wind was up and Tom could see white horses pinpricking the dark sea through the gloom. He smelled salt air through the open window and, despite the breeze, it was still warm outside. As they drove down the hill he saw holiday homes that looked like they had come out of a 1970s timeshare brochure. There were curving verandahs, angular geometric designs, and lots of whitewash. Some of the villas still looked run-down, though many, he noticed, had been spruced up with a coat of pastel paint and had well-tended gardens. One particularly nice place, re-done in an ochre coloured render, had its own security guard out front in a blue beret and military-style uniform.
Sannie momentarily seemed to have lost her bearings at the bottom of the hill. ‘Sorry, should have turned left, not right,’ she said, executing a three-point turn. In front of them was a multistorey white concrete hotel, but no lights were shining in its rooms. Tom looked back as Sannie changed directions and caught a glimpse of the hotel’s facade. It was completely gutted. The rooms were empty — all the glass panes and, presumably, all the contents, were gone. In its way, the hotel reminded Tom of Egyptian temples in the Valley of the Kings, or the ruined city of Petra, in Jordan, which he’d visited while protecting a former foreign secretary. The hotel was yet another relic of a disappeared people. He wondered if someone would reopen the hotel one day, though from what Sannie had said, the tourism boom had bypassed sleepy, rundown Xai Xai in favour of nicer beachfront real estate further north.
At the gates of Campismo do Xai Xai, an elderly African security guard greeted and led them through the camping ground, which was set back from the beach below a line of low dunes topped with trees and hedges. Tom noted a security fence amid the shrubbery, but also saw it had been trampled in places. There were neon lights in several trees around the small camping area, though about one in two seemed to be broken. There were only two parties of campers — a couple in a caravan towed by a Mazda pick-up which looked like it had seen better days, and an old Toyota Cressida parked next to a two-man tent. It hardly looked like a playground of the rich and famous.
Sannie spoke to the caretaker when they pulled over and he unlocked the door of a small blue bungalow, the walls and roof of which looked as though they were made of asbestos sheeting. He switched on the light and a single naked light bulb revealed a double bed at the front of the room and a kitchenette. They walked in and, behind a curtain at the rear, found an alcove with two single beds.
‘I was worried there for a moment.’ Sannie nodded at the double bed. ‘You were almost spending the night in the car. You get one of the singles. I hope you don’t snore.’
The hut smelled mouldy and damp, and Tom heard mosquitos buzzing around his ears. When he asked Sannie the price he thought it seemed exorbitant for what it was, but neither of them was in the mood to haggle. ‘We’ll take it,’ he said to the caretaker, and Sannie translated.
He checked his watch as they walked back out to the car to unpack their meagre supplies and belongings. ‘Let’s listen to the news again.’ It was close to nine pm and Tom pulled out the battery-operated portable shortwave radio from his bag. He always took it with him on overseas trips and they had tuned in at regular intervals to the BBC World Service. While the news of Greeves’s abduction still rated highly, it had been usurped as the lead item by a report of a scandal involving footballers’ salaries. Typical, Tom thought. The pips sounded the hour.
‘I’ll get us a drink,’ Sannie said, opening the rear hatch of the Chico.
‘Thanks, I could use one.’
‘ An African-based terrorist group has claimed responsibility for the abduction of British defence procurement minister Robert Greeves and an as yet unnamed staff member and released a video in which they threaten to behead…’
‘Coke?’
‘Shush.’ Tom beckoned her closer. The reception was bad so they both leaned in to hear the report.
‘ Mr Greeves is seen in the video, head shaved, dressed in orange overalls, kneeling in front of three men wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying automatic weapons. One of the alleged terrorists holds a long-bladed sword resting on the minister’s shoulders and says, in Arabic: “This war criminal, Robert Greeves, will be beheaded in forty-eight hours unless the British Prime Minister agrees to withdraw all of his country’s troops from Iraq and Afghanistan.” The low-resolution video clip was reportedly emailed today to an Arabic language satellite television news channel and has been airing for the last hour. The abductors say they are members of a so-far unknown group called Islamic African Dawn. Mr Greeves, who says nothing in the video, disappeared from a luxury game lodge in South Africa yesterday morning following talks with…’
Tom straightened in the car seat as the announcer recapped the story. ‘They must have sent it this afternoon, while we were out looking for them. That means they’ve stopped — holed up somewhere.’
Sannie nodded. ‘So they couldn’t have gone much further than where Alfredo’s men last saw them. The newsreader said “low-resolution video”. They could be sending it via a satellite modem, or even from a phone. If it’s a phone-camera they’ll need to be in an area with mobile reception.’
Tom nodded. ‘At least he’s still alive — and they’re giving the government forty-eight hours. No news of Bernard, though.’
Sannie leaned against the car, arms folded, her mind processing the new information. ‘They might want to use him in a separate video, to keep the media interested in the story. You know TV — they can only show the same footage so many times before people lose interest.’
‘Let’s hope so, for his sake. I’d like to see that video.’
‘Over there,’ Sannie said, pointing to the caravan.
‘What about it?’ Tom asked.
‘Come with me.’
As they approached the caravan they saw an over-weight white man sitting in the annex area. His camp chair looked like it might buckle under him. He drank from a big yellow can of Laurentina beer while his diminutive wife mixed something in a bowl at a fold-out table. Sannie walked towards them and Tom followed. As they closed on the couple, Tom saw flickering light reflected in their faces and heard people talking in Afrikaans. The couple, though, were silent.
Sannie pointed to the rear of the caravan and it dawned on Tom what he was seeing. A portable satellite dish, about the size of a large wok, stood on a white metal pole which was anchored to a spare wheel, sitting on the sandy ground. A cable led into the annex and, although Tom still couldn’t see the screen, he realised the couple were watching satellite television — hundreds of kilometres from home, on a stretch of beach in Mozambique.
‘ Ja, we love our TV,’ Sannie said. ‘Some of these people wouldn’t leave home if they thought it would mean missing their soap operas or their rugby games on the weekend.’ She greeted the couple in Afrikaans.
The man looked up from the screen, a slightly annoyed look on his meaty face. ‘ Ja? ’
‘We need to see your TV, please. Can you please change it to BBC World or one of the other news channels.’
‘My wife’s watching her soap opera,’ he said dismissively.
‘This is important. We’re police officers — I’m Inspector Susan van Rensburg.’
The fat man laughed. ‘What, you come to check my TV licence? This is Mozambique, not South Africa.’
Tom walked in front of the screen. ‘The lady said it was important.’
The man started to stand, but then saw the look on Tom’s face. ‘We need to see the news.’
