Sonja swivelled on her toilet seat, looked behind her and saw the face of the man she had been watching on television not half an hour ago, the man she had once thought she would spend the rest of her life with.

He had seen her; he stood up and walked towards her.

'Sonja? It is you. Sonn. My G.o.d.' He lowered his voice. 'What are you doing here? I can't believe they let you into the country.'

Sonja took a long sip of the beer the barman handed her. She wasn't feeling up to facing her past just yet. She was saved by the return of the woman who was going to show her to her table.

'I'm going to eat. Alone.' Sonja hopped off her stool and followed the waitress to an area cordoned off with clear plastic sheeting from the outdoor bar area. A fire blazed and Sonja took her seat at the end of a long wooden table set for about twenty. The group hadn't arrived yet. She picked up the menu, doing her best to ignore Stirling, but he had followed her.

He pulled out the chair in front of Sonja and sat down. 'Aren't you at least going to say h.e.l.lo?'

Sonja pretended to study the menu, and eventually looked over the top of it. 'The last time we saw each other you left me high and dry in the Caprivi. Good people were killed.'

Stirling looked around, as though, Sonja thought, he expected her to be under surveillance. 'You started a war in a peaceful country for nothing.'

'Well, that depends on who you talk to.'

Stirling sagged back in his chair. A waitress came and asked them if they wanted more drinks; Sonja ordered a brandy and c.o.ke and Stirling asked for the same. Funny, she thought, he'd never drunk spirits when they were teenagers, only the occasional beer. He ran a hand through his hair, still thick, she noticed. 'I was sorry to hear about Sam, really.'

Sonja gritted her teeth. He didn't have the right to even mention Sam's name and her anger was only tempered by the wave of sadness that rose up again. All she could do was nod.

'He was a good man.'

'You don't have to tell me that,' she hissed.

Stirling, wisely, did not reply, but she was still in no mood to talk to him, no matter how many memories came flooding back of their childhood and youth. They had played together as children, his family managing a lodge and her father working there as the maintenance man. All he'd wanted to be when they were small was a safari guide and all she'd wanted at one point, until she reached the age of nineteen and realised she needed to get out of Botswana and see more of the world, was to be Mrs Stirling Smith. He was now living his dream and her life had been a series of b.l.o.o.d.y nightmares in the world's great s.h.i.tholes. She had, Sonja conceded, found the excitement she had been looking for, but it had come at a cost.

'What are you doing here?' he said, trying to change the subject. 'Planning a coup?'

She almost laughed. He could still disarm her, and she didn't like that. She worked hard to stay annoyed at him. 'If you must know, I've come to visit my daughter.'

'Emma?'

'I haven't had another.'

'What's she doing here, training the Namibian Defence Force how to water-board people?'

'You're very funny, you know that, Stirling? No,' she added with a touch of parental pride, 'she's at university, studying archaeology, high distinctions every year.'

The waitress came with their drinks, and the tour group noisily speaking French started taking their seats. Sonja polished off the last of her existing beer and handed the gla.s.s to the waitress. The booze was helping her keep her emotions in check around Stirling.

'You must be proud of her.'

'I am,' Sonja said, 'proud she didn't end up like me.'

'I think that hurt me most, you know,' Stirling said, 'when we met up last time and I found out you'd had a child. It was what I wanted most for us, when we were younger for you to stay in Botswana and for us to make a family.'

'For G.o.d's sake, Stirling, man-up, you sound like a girl.'

He smiled sadly. 'You're still in touch with your emotions, I see.'

She did not need her old boyfriend psychoa.n.a.lysing her, so she decided to change the conversation again. 'I saw you on television, just now.'

'I did a couple of interviews today,' he said. 'Rhino poaching's getting out of hand in South Africa and it looks like it's spreading to Namibia, although they've had a pretty good record so far.'

Sonja remembered seeing rhinos in the delta when they were growing up, but more and more often Stirling's father, and sometimes Hans, her father, were called out by rangers to inspect the carca.s.ses of slain animals. All the rhino in the Okavango Delta had eventually been wiped out, and those few that were there today, she knew, had been imported from South Africa.

'We've had another day today of lecturing each other and sitting around tables trying to work out a solution to the problem, but we just keep moving in circles. It's hard to work out the best course of action.'

Sonja knew the best course of action, and she had planned it and executed it. Tran Van Ngo was dead and buried, one less cashed-up kingpin to finance the poachers in Mozambique who were slaughtering rhinos in the Kruger and other national parks and private reserves. Sonja wasn't under any illusion that her actions would stop the rhino trade, but they might slow it a little. It was a war, and like any other war the way to win was to take the fight to the enemy, ruthlessly, and to cut the head off the snake, as the Americans used to say in Iraq.

'What are you thinking?' he pressed her.

She realised she'd been lost in her thoughts. Sonja couldn't tell Stirling about what she'd done in Vietnam he might sell her out to Interpol, she mused, half seriously. Stirling liked picking good causes, but he lacked the guts or the b.a.l.l.s to do the dirty work.

'I was thinking that I don't ever want to think about rhinos or rhino poachers again.'

Stirling took a breath, then a sip of his drink. He grimaced, and she could tell he had only ordered the drink to try and impress her, or to find some common ground with her. 'I really am sorry about Sam. I know I didn't like him when I met him in Botswana, but he genuinely cared for wildlife and, in an odd way, his death did a lot of good. It focused attention in the US, if only for a short time, on the challenges we're facing in Africa to protect the rhino, and it resulted in a huge increase in funding for a number of anti-poaching projects.'

Sonja felt like stabbing him in the heart for the remarks he'd just made. 'There was no sense in his death, and nothing good came of it. There's no cause worth dying for, believe me.'

Stirling had always backed down on the few occasions they had argued when they were young lovers in Botswana. He hadn't fought for her when she'd left Botswana for England. As a result, his response surprised her.

'That's bulls.h.i.t, Sonja, and you know it. Are you playing the hardcore mercenary now? Are you going to tell me money is the only thing worth taking up arms for?'

She was tired of this argument; it was one she'd fought back and forth on both sides in her own mind over the past twenty years. The wars she had been embroiled in had been over things that meant nothing to her religion, oil, diamonds, more religion. 'I don't even think the money's worth it any more.'

Stirling leaned back in his seat and raised his eyebrows. 'Too much compet.i.tion these days, eh? Too many ex-GIs and SAS guys going down the private military company route? You being undercut, Sonn?'

'Don't mock me. But, for what it's worth, you're right. Besides, I've realised there are some things more important than money.'

'Hallelujah.' Stirling threw his hands up in the air. 'Sonja Kurtz joins the human race, at last.'

She felt like a cornered animal. Her instinct was to lash out, to attack, to go on the offensive. 'Get f.u.c.ked, Stirling.'

The French woman seated next to her muttered something in disgust. Sonja couldn't have cared less. Stirling reached out across the table now, for her hands, but she withdrew them. After a second she realised she had picked up the knife from the table, a reflex action. Embarra.s.sed, she replaced it, worried Stirling might think she was a nut case. You are a nut case, she reminded herself. Still, she didn't want him touching her, for a number of reasons.

'Sorry,' he said, and placed his hands palms down on the table. 'All I meant was that Sam's death did bring the rhino problem into sharper focus and sparked a huge outpouring of support, financial as well as moral, for people putting their lives on the line to save the rhino.'

'It still wasn't worth it,' she said.

'You'd die for Emma, right?'

Sonja exhaled. 'Of course.'

'There you go, some things are worth fighting for.'

It was still a stupid argument, she thought. An increase in donations from well-meaning animal lovers in America and other countries where Sam's doc.u.mentaries were shown on TV was not worth the loss of his life and the knife that had been stuck in her heart. Stirling was probably right, though: if Sam had truly known the risks a.s.sociated with filming a night anti-poaching patrol, instead of blithely ignoring them as he had, he still would have gone.

But that was not reality. In the real world, in Sonja's world, people went to war for stupid reasons and they got shot and killed and at the end of the day it made no difference at all. Yes, she would put herself in front of a bullet or a speeding car or a charging lion to save her daughter, but beyond that there was nothing on this earth 'worth' dying for.

'What are your plans while you're in Namibia?'

She tried to focus on the question instead of on Sam's smile and the smell of that cologne with the gay-sounding name he'd insisted on wearing. 'Plans? I don't have any plans, Stirling. I'm not a tourist. I'm going to see my daughter sometime in the next few days.'

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card which he slid across the table to her side. 'I'm sure she'll be happy to see you. Here, take this, call me if you're heading to the Palmwag area. It's spectacularly beautiful country and I'd love to show you some of it.'

Sonja was almost going to throw the card back at him. She decided she'd been churlish enough, but she still didn't want to play nice.

'Maybe. I'm leaving. See you round.' Sonja got up.

'Sonja?'

She didn't turn; she walked into the courtyard of Joe's and then out of the crowded bar full of happy, laughing people.

PART 2.

DEATH.

His kind had survived war and drought, and miraculously they still roamed the desert.

He had been kicked out of his small family as soon as he reached maturity, when his golden hair had bristled into a mohawk, but now he carried a full mane, a luscious deep russet with black hair lining his chest. He was a male in his prime.

He had mated, and now he was hungry. The prides were small here, just two females, sisters. If they had cubs already, they had hidden them somewhere so that he wouldn't kill any young ones he hadn't sired. It was brutal, but it was their way of keeping their blood lines pure, of surviving.

Ahead, on the wind, he heard the clanking of goat bells, smelled the little creatures.

The last thing he should do was risk his life for the tiny meal of a goat. Nonetheless his hunter's instinct carried him on, listening for the bell and the bleating.

He came to them on dusk and watched the goats and the small boys who tended them. It was dangerous, but to not eat out here was to die. He was in luck. Beyond the goats, he made out the braying bulk of a donkey.

Around his neck was an orange collar. He shook his head and felt its ever-present, slightly annoying weight. At least it gave him a neck rub.

He eyed the fence and picked the best place to jump it. He crouched, then darted to the fence and cleared it in one bound. The goats scattered in panicked terror as he cornered the donkey. He went for its throat and clamped his jaws. Blood spurted.

Before he could feast, though, he heard the roar of an engine and the night was suddenly lit up. A vehicle arrived and caught him in its headlights.

Too late, he realised, the kraal and the boys were a trap. A man in the back of the vehicle pulled the trigger. Darkness descended.

Chapter 13.

Emma scratched at the dry earth with a trowel while Alex, who had just arrived back at the dig site, stood watching her. 'Who is this guy your professor has gone to collect, anyway?' Alex asked.

Emma straightened her back, took off her hat and wiped the sweat from her brow. 'I don't know. His name is Andre Horsman or something, but all the prof would say beyond that was that he's a retired South African Air Force guy who contacted Sutton saying he knew who Harry was.'

'Interesting,' Alex conceded. 'But how did he get in touch with your professor out here in the middle of nowhere?'

Emma had asked the same question of Professor Sutton. 'Turns out he's a major shareholder in the mining company that we're all contracted to, for the archaeological survey. He pulled some strings and the mining company sent someone out to the dig site to tell Sutton he'd better talk to this guy.'

Alex nodded to the portable gazebo, under which Natangwe sat, reading a book. 'How come you're the only one working?'

Emma shrugged. 'Crazy, I guess. Sutton said that as long as I didn't disturb the crime scene, where Harry was found, I could poke around a bit more if I wanted to. Natangwe's sulking.'

'Is he still in trouble for letting out the news about Harry?'

'Yes,' Emma said. 'Sutton was furious with him. He even confiscated Natangwe's phone so he couldn't tell anyone else. Not that there's even a signal here. Natangwe called Sutton a racist, and Sutton threatened to have him expelled from university. Natangwe's always spoiling for an argument and Sutton's a stubborn old man.'

Alex plucked a stray spear of yellow gra.s.s and chewed on the end of it. Emma went back to digging. It was pointless, she thought, but as tortuous as the work was she had found she had become addicted to it. The excitement of discovering Harry did not make her want to rest on her laurels, it made her want to keep sc.r.a.ping and sifting at the dirt to see what other treasures or sorrows the African earth might reveal.

'I can't stay, Emma. I have to head west, towards the Skeleton Coast. Something has come up. When I sent your message to your mother from Okaukuejo, I received some bad news.'

Emma stood and saw the concern creasing his face. 'How bad?'

'XLR 501 has stopped moving.'

'That sounds like a car or a s.p.a.ceship or something,' she said.

Her lame attempt at lightening his mood failed. 'XLR 501 is one of our collared desert lions. He's the dominant male of a couple of small prides. When his GPS collar does not record a change of position after twenty-four hours I get an SMS. It usually means an animal is dead. There are no other males in his area, so I'm worried he's been shot by a farmer. This could be a disaster for the desert lions.'

'Oh my G.o.d, Alex, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to joke about it.'

He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. 'It's not your fault, Emma. I'm sorry, but I must go.'

She'd heard it said, on campus, that the zoology students who went into the field to research wildlife often looked like the animals they were studying. Alex was leonine, in a way, with his wavy hair, but his body was lithe and wiry, like a cheetah's. Alex got into his truck, started the engine and roared off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Emma walked over to where Natangwe was sitting. She had left her water bottle next to Alex's in the shade to stop it heating up, and took a long swig.

'We're not going to find the remains of any Ndonga here,' Natangwe said, putting his book down on his knees.

'How do you know, if we don't look?'

He shrugged. 'It just doesn't make sense that there would have been a village here, even back in the 1900s.'

'The professor thought it was worth looking,' Emma said. She thought it odd to be fighting the irascible academic's corner, but she liked a good debate and was happy that Natangwe was at least talking.

'The Owambo, of which the Ndonga are part of, aren't nomadic people. They settle where there's water and pasture. There's no evidence of a permanent river for miles around here. Sutton was relying on some half-remembered oral histories, or maybe he decided to do the dig here precisely so we wouldn't find anything.'

Emma thought Sutton was many things, but corruptible wasn't one of them. 'Seriously, you think he'd take money to turn up a nil result?'

Natangwe shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. All I know is that the sooner I can get off this dig and onto something of real significance, the better. So where did your boyfriend go in such a big hurry?'

'He's not my boyfriend. It's terrible; he just heard that one of the desert lions he's been researching has possibly been shot by a farmer. How could someone do something so thoughtless?'