Anne and Craig hunched down in their seats, their artificial elation at their escape rapidly giving way to fatigue and shock.
'Where are we heading?' Craig asked.
'Botswana border.' That was the landlocked state to the south and west which had become an established staging post for political fugitives from its neighbours.
'On our way I hope you will have a chance to see what is really happening to my people. No one else will bear witness. General Fungabera has sealed off the whole of south-western Matabeleland. No journalists are allowed in, no clergymen, no Red Cross-' He slowed for an area where ant bears had dug their holes in the track, burrowing for the nests Of termites, and then he accelerated again.
'The pass I have from General Fungabera will take us a little further, but not as far as the border. We will have to use side roads and back roads until we can find a crossing place. Very soon General Fungabera will learn of my defection, and we will be hunted by the whole of the Third Brigade. We must make as much distance as we can before that happens.' They reached the main fork in the track and Timon stopped, but kept the motor running. He took a large, scale map from his leather map-case and studied it attentively.
'We are just south of the railway line. This is the road to Empandeni Mission Station. If we can get through there before the alarm goes out for us, then we can try for the border between Madaba and Matsurni. The Botswana police run a regular patrol along the fence.'
'Let's get on with it.' Craig was impatient and becoming fear fill the comfort of the weapon across his lap beginning to fade. Timon folded the map and drove on.
'Can I ask you some more questions?' Sally-Anne spoke after a few minutes.
'I will try to answer,'Timon agreed.
'The murder of the Goodwins, and the other white families in Matabeleland were those atrocities ordered by Tungata Zebiwe? Is he responsible for those gruesome murders?'
'No, no, Miss Jay. Zebiwe has been trying desperately to control those killers. I believe that he was on his way to Tuti Mission for just such a reason to meet with the radical Matabele elements and try to reason with them.'
'But the writing in blood, 'Tungata Zebiwe Lives'?' Now Timon Nbebi was silent, his face contorted as though he fought some inner battle, and they waited for him to speak. At last he. sighed explosively, and his voice had changed.
'Miss Jay, please troy to understand my position, before you judge me for -what I am about to tell you. General Fungabera is a persuasive man. I was carried along by his promises of glory and reward. Then suddenly I had gone too far and I was not able to turn back. I think the English expression is 'riding the tiger'. I was forced to move on from one bad deed to another even worse.' He paused, and then, in a rush, 'Miss Jay, I personally recruited the killers of the Goodwin family from the rehabilitation centre. I told them where to go, what to do and what to write on the wall. I supplied their weapons, and arranged for them to be driven to the area in transport of the Third Brigade.' There was silence again, broken only by the throb of the Land-Rover engine, and Timon Nbebi had to break it, speaking as though words were an opiate for his guilt.
'They were Matabele, veterans, war-hard men, men who would do anything for the return of their personal liberty, the chance to carry weapons again. They did not hesitate.'
'And Fungabera ordered it? 'Craig asked.
'Of course. It was his excuse to begin the purge of the Matabele.
Now perhaps you understand why I am fleeing with you. I could not continue along this path.'
'The other murders the killing of Senator Savage and his family?' Sally-Anne asked.
'General Fungabera. did not have to order those,' Timon shook his head. 'Those were copycat murders. The bush is still full of wild men from the war. They hide their weapons and come into the towns, some even have regular jobs, but at the weekend or on a public holiday, they return to the bush, dig up their rifles and go on the rampage. They are not political dissidents, they are armed bandits and the white families are the juiciest, softest targets, rich and helpless, deprived of their weapons by Mugabe's government so they cannot defend themselves.'
'And it all plays right into Peter Fungabera's hands.
Any bandit is labelled a political dissident, any grisly robbery an excuse to continue the purge, held up to the world as proof of the savagery and intractability of the Matabele tribe,' Craig continued for him.
'That is correct, Mr. Mellow.'
'And he has already murdered Tungata Zebiwe-' Craig felt old and tired with regret and guilt for his old comrade you can be sure of thad'
'No, Mr. Mellow.' Timon shook his head.
'I do not believe that Zebiwe is dead. I believe General Fungabera wants him alive. He has some plans for him.' Wiat plans?' Craig demanded.
'I do not know for certain, but I believe Peter Fungabera is dealing with the Russians.'
'The Russians? 'Craig showed his disbelief.
'He has had secret meetings with a stranger, a foreigner, a man who I believe is an important member of Russian intelligence.'
'Are you sure, Timon?'
'I have seen the man with my own eyes.' Craig thought about that for a few seconds, and then reverted to his original question.
'Okay, leave the Russians for the moment where is Tungata Zebiwe? Where is Fungabera holding him?'
'Again, I do not know, I'm sorry, Mr. Mellow.'
'If he is alive, then may the Lord have mercy on his soul,' Craig whispered.
He could imagine what Tungata must be suffering. He was silent for a few minutes and then he changed the line of questioning.
'General Fungabera has seized my property for himself, not for the state? I am correct in believing that?'
'The general wanted that land very badly. He spoke of it often.'
'How? I mean, even qjjsi-legally, how will he work it?'
'It is very simple,'.Timon explained. 'You are an admit red enemy of the state. Your property is forfeited. It will be confiscated to the state. The Land Bank will repudiate the suretyship for your loan under the release clause which you signed. The custodian of enemy property will put up your shares of Rholands Company for sale by private tender.
General Fungabera's tender will be accepted his brotherin-law is custodian of enemy property. The tender price will be greatly advantageous to the general.'
'Add
41 bet,' said Craig bitterly.
'But why should he go to such lengths?' Sally-Anne demanded. 'He must be a millionaire many times over.
Surely he has enough already?'
'Miss Jay. For some men there is no such thing as enough.'
'He cannot hope to get away with it, surely?' 'Who is there to prevent him doing so, Miss Jay?' And when she did not reply, Timon went on, 'Africa is going back to where it was before the white man intruded. There is only one criterion for a ruler here and that is strength.
We Africans do not trust anything else. Fungabera is strong, as Tungata Zebiwe was once strong. 'Timon glanced at his wrist-watch. 'But we must eat. I think we will have a long day ahead of us.' He pulled off the track, and drove the Land-Rover into a patch of second-growth scrub. He climbed onto the bormetand arranged branches to cover the vehicle, hiding it from detection from the air, and then opened the case of emergency rations from the locker under the passenger seat. There was water in the tank under the floorboards Craig filled a metal canteen with sand and soaked the sand with gasoline from the reserve tank. It made a smokeless burner on which to brew tea. They ate the unappetizing cold rations with little conversation.
Once Timon turned up the volume on the radio to listen to a transmission, then shook his head.
'Nothing to do with us.' He came back to squat beside Craig.
'How far to the border, do you reckon?' Craig asked with a mouth full of cold, sticky bully beef.
'Forty miles, or a little more.' The radio crackled to life again, and Timon jumped u PI and stooped over it attentively.
'There is a unit of the Third Brigade just a few miles ahead of us,' he reported. 'They are at the mission station Jim at Empandeni. There has been action against dissidents, but they had dealt with them and they are moving out.
Perhaps this way. We must be careful.'
'I will check that we are hidden from the road.' Craig stood up. 'Sally-Anne, douse the fire! Captain, cover me!' He picked up the AK 47 and ran back to the track.
Critically he examined the patch of scrub that concealed the Land-Rover and then brushed over his own tracks and those of the vehicle with a leafy twig, and carefully straightened the grass that the Land-Rover had flattened where it left the road. It wasn't perfect, but it would bear a cursory examination from a speeding vehicle, he thought, and then there was a faint vibration on the windless air.
He listened. The sound of truck motors, strengthening.
Craig ran back to the
