overhead. Their best chance was to get out of the house and into the bush. To do that, they needed a diversion.
'Stay here,' he ordered. 'Get your shoes on and be ready to run. I'll be back in a minute.' He rolled under the window to the wall, and came to his feet. The bedroom door was unlocked and he darted into the passage. He wasted ten seconds on the telephone J. he knew they would have cut the wires, and that was confirmed immediately by the dead echoless void in the earpiece. He dropped it dangling on the cord and ran through to the kitchens.
Hi There was only one diversion he could think of light.
I!;.
He hit the remote-control switch of the diesel generator, and there was the faint ripple of sound from the engine room across the yard and the overhead bulbs glowed yellow and then flared into full brilliance. He tore open the fuse box above the control-board, tripped out the house-lights, and then switched on the veranda and front garden lights.
h That would leave the back of the house in darkness. They would make their break that way, he decided, and it would have to be quick. The attackers hadn't hit the house yet, but they could only be seconds away.
He ran back out of the kitchen, paused at the door of the lounge, and glanced through it to check the lighting in the front garden and veranda. The lawns were a peculiarly lush green in the artificial light, the jacaranda trees domed over them like the roof of a cathedral. The firing had ceased, but down near the labourers' village a woman was keening, that doleful sound of African mourning- It made his skin creep.
Craig knew that they would be coming up the hill already, and he was turning away to go back to Sally-Anne when he caught the flicker of movement at the edge of the light and he narrowed his eyes and tried to identify it. To know who was attacking would give him some small advantage, but he was wasting precious seconds.
The movement was a running man, coming up towards the house. A black man, naked no, he was wearing a loin-cloth. Not really running, but staggering and weaving !I! drunkenly. In the veranda lights half his body glinted as I.4 though it had been freshly oiled, and then Craig realized R that it was blood. The man was painted with his own blood, and it was falling in scattered drops from him like water from the coat of a retriever when it comes ashore with the duck in its jaws.
Then a more intense shock of horror. Craig realized that it was old Shadrach, and unthinkingly went to help him. He kicked open the french doors of the lounge, went out onto the veranda at a run, and vaulted the low half wall He caught Shadrach in his arms just as he was about to fall, and lifted him off his feet. He was surprised at how light was the old man's body. Craig carried him at a single bound onto the veranda and crouched with him below the low wall.
Shadrach had been hit in the upper arm, just above the elbow. The bone had shattered, and the limb hung by a ribbon of flesh. Shadrach held it to his breast likea nursing infant.
'They are coming,' he gasped at Craig. 'You must run.
They are killing our people, they will kill you also.' It was miraculous that the old man could speak, let alone move and run with such a wound. Crouching below the wall he ripped a strip of cotton from his loincloth with his teeth and started to bind it around his own arm above the wound. Craig pushed his hand away and tied the knot for him.
'You must run, little master,' and before Craig could prevent him, the old man rolled to his feet and disappeared into the darkness beyond-4he floodlights.
'He risked his Iifeao warn. me.' Craig looked after him for a second, and then roused himself and, doubled over, ran back into the house.
Sally-Anne was where he had left her, crouched below the window. Light fell through it in a yellow square, and he saw that she had tied back her hair and pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, and was lacing her soft, leather, training shoes.
'Good girl.' He knelt beside her. 'Let's go.'
F 11111
'Buster,' she replied. 'My puppy!'
'For God's sake!'
'We can't leave him!' She had that stubborn took that he had already come to know so well.
'I'll carry you if I have to,' he warned fiercely, and raising himself quickly he risked a last glance over the window-sill.
The lawns and gardens were still brightly lit. There were the dark shapes of men coming up from the valley, armed men in disciplined extended order. For a moment he could not believe what he was seeing, and then he sagged with relief.
'Oh, thank you, God!' he whispered. He found that reaction had set in already. He felt weak and shivery, and he took Sally' Anne in his arms and hugged her.
'It's all right now,' he told her. 'It's going to be all right.' 'What has happened?'
'The security forces have arrived,' he said. He had recognized the burgundy-coloured berets and silver cap badges of the men closing in across the lawns. 'The Third Brigade is here we will be all right now.' They went out onto the front veranda to greet their rescuers, Sally-Anne carrying the yellow puppy in her arms, and Craig with his arm about her shoulders.
'I am very glad to see you and your men, Sergeant,' Craig greeted the noncommissioned officer who led the advancing line of troopers.
'Please go inside.' The sergeant made a gesture with his rifle, imperative if, not directly threatening. He was a tall man, with long sinewy limbs, his expression was cold and neutral, and Craig felt his relief shrink. Something was wrong. The line of troopers had closed likea net around the homestead, while skirmishers came forward in pairs, covering each other, the classical tactics of the street fighter , and they went swiftly into the house, breaking through windows and side doors, sweeping the interior.
There was a crash of breaking glass at the rear of the house.
It was a destructive search.
'What's going on, Sergeant?' Craig's anger resurfaced, and this time the tall sergeant's gesture was unmistakably hostile.
Craig and Sally-Anne backed off before him into the dining-room and stood in the centre of the room beside the teak refectory table, facing the threatening rifle, Craig holding her protectively.
Two troopers slipped in through the front door, and reported to the sergeant in a gabble of Shana that Craig could not follow. The sergeant acknowledged with a nod and gave them an order. They spread out obediently along the wall, their weapons turned unmistakably onto the dishevelled couple in the centre of the room.
'VAlere are the lights?' the sergeant asked, and when Craig told him, he went to the switch and white light flooded the room.
'What is going on here, Sergeant?' Craig repeated, angry and uncertain and starting to be afraid for Sally-Anne again.
The sergeant ignored the question, and strode to the door. He called to one of the troopers on the lawn, and the man came at a run. He carried a portable radio transmitter strapped on his back, with the scorpion-tail aerial sticking up over his shoulder. The sergeant spoke softly into the handset ai' the radio and then came back into the room. 0 now in an unm They waited oving tableau. To Craig it seemed like an hour passed in silence, but it was less than five minutes before the sergeant cocked his head slightly, listening. Craig heard it, the beat of an engine, in a different tempo from that of the diesel generator. It firmed, and Craig knew that it was a Land-Rover.
It came up the driveway, headlights swept the windows, brakes squeaked and gravel crunched. The engine was cut, doors banged and then there were the footsteps of a group of men crossing the veranda.
General Peter Fungabera led his staff in through the french doors.
He wore his beret pulled down over one eye and a matching silk scarf at his throat. Except for the pistol in its webbing holster at his side, he was armed only with the leather-covered swagger, stick
Behind him Captain Nbebi was tall and round shouldered his eyes inscrutable behind the steel-rimmed spectacles. He carried a leather map-case in his hand, and a machine pistol on a sling over his shoulder.
'Peter!' Craig's relief was tempered by wariness. It was all too contrived, too controlled, too menacing. 'Some of my people have been killed. My induna is out there somewhere, badly wounded.'
'There have been many enemy casualties,' Peter Fungabera nodded.
Enemy? 'Craig was puzzled.
'Dissidents,' Peter nodded again. 'Matabele dissidents.' 'Dissidents?'
Craig stared at him. 'Shadrach a dissident?
That's crazy he's a simple, uneducated cattleman, and doesn't give a darrin for politics-'
'Things are often not what they seem.' Peter Fungabera pulled back the chair at the head of the long table and placed one foot on it, leaning an elbow on his knee. Timon Nbebi placed the leather map-case on the table in front of him and stood back, in a position of guard behind his shoulder, holding the machine pistol by the grip.
'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
