?Yes. Just tell me where.?
?I will, my dear, but I want you to know, I cannot wait forever.?
?I understand.?
?I don'?t think so. You have seventy-two hours, Monica. And it is a long way.?
?Where must I take it??
?Are you very sure about this??
?Yes.?
Another pause: long, drawn out.
?Meet me in the Re-publican Hotel, Monica. In the foyer. In seventy-two hours.?
?The Re-publican Hotel??
?In Lusaka, Monica. Lusaka in Zambia.?
They could hear the indrawn breath.
?Have you got that??
?Yes.?
?don'?t be late, Monica. And don'?t be stupid. He is not a young man, you know. Old men die easily.?
The line went dead.
The director nodded. ?That?s not all.? He knew.
?Yes, sir.?
She tapped again. The sound of dialing. It rang.
?Yes??
?Could I talk to Tiny??
?Who?s speaking??
?Monica.?
?Hold on.?
Muffled, as though someone were holding a hand over the receiver.
?One of Tiny?s girlfriends looking for him.?
Then a new voice.
?Who?s this??
?Monica.?
?Tiny doesn'?t work here anymore. Nearly two years now.?
?Where is he now??
?Try Mother City Motorrad. In the city.?
?Thank you.?
?Tiny?? asked the director.
?Sir, we?re working on that one. There?s nothing on the priority list, sir. The number she phoned belongs to one Orlando Arendse. Also unknown. But we?re following it up.?
?There?s more.?
Mentz nodded. She set the program running again.
?Motorrad.?
?Could I speak to Tiny, please??
?Tiny??
?Yes.?
?I think you have the wrong number.?
?Tiny Mpayipheli??
?Oh. Thobela. He?s gone home already.?
?I need to get hold of him urgently.?
?Hold on.?
Papers rustled, soft cursing.
?Here?s a number. Just try it. 555-7970.?
?Thank you so much.?
The line was already dead.
New call.
