His last definite placin of 9 Tessay had been the glimpse of her
footprint on the trail at the far bend of the oxbow.
That was several hours ago, and if she and Mek had given him the slip
they could be anywhere by now. Mek might have won himself a start of a
full day or more - it might take Boris that long to work the spoor
through.
Feeling waves of anger overwhelm him, he had to close his eyes and fight
it off in order to keep his sense of reason from being swamped. He had
to think clearly now, not go rushing at the problem like a wounded
buffalo. He knew that this was one of his weaknesses: he had to keep
tight control of himself.
When he opened his eyes again, his anger had become cold and functional.
He knew precisely what he had to do and the order in which he must do
it. The very first task was t& sweep and check the back trail. He had to
establish the point at which Mek had left the main detachment of shufta.
He slipped down off the ledge and through the scrub to the open trail.
Still anti-tracking, but moving swiftly, he made his way upstream, back
towards the patch of Thorn scrub where the party of shufta had lain up
in the heat of the day. The first thing he noticed was that the pair of
kites had gone. But he did not take this as proof that the bush was
deserted! and began to circle it carefully. First he worked the incoming
trail on the far side of the patch of bush. Although several hours old
now, it was still clear enough to read.
Suddenly he stopped in the centre of the trail and felt the hair rise on
his forearms and down the back of his neck as he stared at the sign in
the dust of the path. He realized that he had walked into Mek's trap.
There lay the distinctive imprint of a Bata tennis shoe.
Mek and the woman had gone into the patch of scrub and had not come out
again. They were still in there, and Boris was seized by the strong
premonition that Mek was watching him even at that moment, over the open
sights of his AK. While he was out in the open like this, stooped over
the spoor, Boris was completely vulnerable.
Hurling himself sideways off the path, he landed like a cat in the wire
grass beside it, with the rifle at the ready. It took many minutes for
his heartbeats to return to normal, and then he rose again into a
stealthy crouch and began circling the patch of scrub very cautiously.
His nerves were as taut as guitar strings, and his pale eyes darted from
side to side. His finger lay upon the trigger of the 30/06 and he kept
the muzzle weaving slowly, like the head of a cobra ready to strike in
any direction.
He moved down towards the bank of the river, where A the noise of the
rapids would mask any sound he might make. But when he had almost
reached the shelter of the house -sized boulder that he had noticed from
the mountain crest he froze again. He had heard a sound that carried
over the sound of Nile waters - a sound so incongnious in this place and
at this time that for a moment he doubted his own hearing. It was the
sound of a woman's laughter, sweet and clear as the tinkle of a crystal
chandelier swinging in the breeze.
The sound came from below him, from the river bank beyond the tumbled
boulder. He crept towards the boulder, determined to use it for cover
