“Give me the paper,” he said coldly, no longer smiling.!Koga twisted in the sand, but the grip was firm and the second cop had moved quickly to hold the wriggling boy down, a knee in his back.!Koga grunted in pain, his fist still clutching the map, but the man was too strong and unfurled the boy’s fingers with ease.
The cook seized the map and stepped back. “All right, put him in the cell until we sort this out.”
!Koga twisted like a snake under the man’s weight. His hand found the fork and he stabbed it down into the man’s bare foot. With a scream of pain the second cop released his grip, but they lunged for him in an instant.!Koga was too quick. He ran through the gate and made his escape. The men gave up after a few meters, there was no way they would catch the boy judging by the speed he was running, and even if they got their 4?4 pickup truck and gave chase, he’d merge into the landscape. It didn’t matter, they had the map and the watch, and their boss, Mike Kapuo in Walvis Bay, would be very pleased.
The men weren’t so happy, though. One limped, his foot hurting like hell, and they were both hungry-the Bushman boy had stolen their steak.
Max ignored the impossible distance and hurled himself at Zhernastyn-he had to try. Somewhere in the background, an animal snarl reached his ears. Then Zhernastyn caught his white coat on the handles of Tom Gordon’s wheelchair. It snagged him and spun the wheelchair, which tripped him up. As he recovered and reached for the alarm, Max pounded into him. The man was terrified. Max felt so focused, so determined to stop him, that everything else was forgotten. It was like tunnel vision. And the snarling sound he’d heard came from his own lips, which were drawn back across his teeth. Zhernastyn fainted.
Max was on his knees in front of his father.
“Dad, it’s me. It’s Max. I found you.”
He could feel the tears sting his eyes and he wiped them away roughly. Tom Gordon gazed down at his son for what seemed an age in time, and then he smiled.
“Max?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes, Dad, I’m going to get us out of here. And help’s on its way.” However, the last bit didn’t sound too convincing, even to his own ears.
“Max?” said Tom Gordon as he tried to comprehend that his son was somehow with him. “What are you doing here?”
“I got your message, and I found the signs you left for me.”
“Max … I don’t understand.”
Max touched his dad’s arm, frightened at how weak he seemed. His dad had always been so strong and full of energy, and now he was so helpless. Max smiled encouragingly. “We need to find a place to hide for a while, that’s all,” he said as he grabbed the wheelchair’s handles. But Tom Gordon reached back and weakly took hold of his son’s wrist.
“Not yet.”
“What? Dad, we have to get out of here!”
His father shook his head. “Not yet,” he repeated.
Max looked where his father’s trembling hand pointed. The door had closed when Max had launched his attack. Could he drag this doctor to the security point, use his palm-print to open the door, and then get his father out in time?
“You need him,” his father said, and shook his head, as if trying to remember something.
“Dad, what is it? What have they done to you?”
“Memory,” his dad said falteringly. “I took … I took … a potion … herbs and stuff … Bushmen gave it to me … had to …”
He fell silent. Max waited, uncertain what to do or say, but he knew that time was not on their side. “Dad, I don’t know what to do, other than get you out of here.”
His father nodded and struggled to string together the words he needed. “Had to blot out my memory … much as I could … fooled them…. Listen, son … listen … they wanted the … evidence. Everything. I’ve hidden it … it’s here … my Land Rover.”
“Your Land Rover’s here?”
Max’s dad was beginning to lose consciousness. Whatever they’d done to him made the effort of recognition and speech too difficult.
“Dad! Where? Where is it?”
Tom Gordon was sweating, the exertion of staying awake draining away his energy.
“Big hangar somewhere … near … near a fan … may be a generator …”
Max knew that had to be on the next level. He remembered the water pipes tunneling upwards from the hydroelectric tank room. That might make sense. This place had to be below ground, so the next floor up was probably at ground level. That would give access to the outside. If he could get up to that room, hide his dad and find the evidence, they might still have a bargaining tool if they were caught. It might at least buy them some time.
“Where’s the evidence, Dad? Where is it?”
“Land Rover …”
“OK, I know that. But where? In a panel? Spare wheel? Where?”
His father’s head dropped, his lips barely moving. Max put his ear closer. “Water proof … water … proof …”
Max held his father’s face in his hands. “Dad, I know the water’s being poisoned, I found the hydrology map. But where is the proof?”
But his father was unconscious.
So now what? Where to keep his dad safe until he could come back for him? Right here. Right where he’d always been, because then if anyone came looking, they’d see he was still in his bed.
He wheeled his father back into the room and with a lot of effort manhandled him onto the hospital bed. Stepping back into the corridor, he saw what was obviously the doctor’s office. There was a coffeemaker and a small fridge, which yielded a couple of pots of yogurt, a tub of something in rice and a carton of milk. Max wolfed the lot in an indecently short time and followed it with a belly-churning belch. Now he had to get out of there.
“Doctor Zhernastyn has left the controlled area,” the woman’s voice said.
The lift slid down, the doors eased open and Max trundled his cargo inside. The panel showed there were six floors. Those from the basement through to the fourth floor were clearly marked, but there was a button above those that said PRIVATE: CODED ACCESS ONLY. That would be where Shaka Chang hung out. Max pressed the second button. The lift moved with stomach-dropping speed. Once again the doors glided open. “Ground floor. Vehicle Maintenance. If you’re driving today, be careful, Doctor Zhernastyn. Goodbye.”
Max eased the wheelchair forward into a hangar-sized cave which had been blasted out of the solid rock and turned into a modern work area. He could hear music playing somewhere, and the clang of a wrench as it fell to the floor. Massive doors had been slid back across the hangar’s opening, revealing the glare of the desert that filtered in far enough to create a soft sheen of light across the highly polished floor.
A twin-engined jet sat, parked at the center of the hangar. Dust bags covered the air intakes. The gleaming black metal sported a thin line of trim that ran like an arrow along the fuselage and up to the tail fin, where it formed the start of Shaka Chang’s corporate logo-assegais and a shield. The upturned wingtips gave the plane a cutting-edge look, and Max reckoned the wings must have spanned twenty-odd meters. But there was still plenty of room for all the other vehicles.
The wheelchair’s tires squeaked as Max turned to the right, hugging the rear wall and ducking low behind a couple of Humvees, painted black and bearing Shaka Chang’s coat of arms. A dune buggy and a sleek helicopter, also black, sat further forward. This looked like Shaka Chang’s personal playroom, and his toys were expensive. Somewhere near the front of the hangar, a couple of mechanics wiped their hands and moved away from the open cowling of a small aircraft. It looked as though they were going for a coffee break. One of the men switched off a
