Brand looked over his shoulder, through the bakery. He could just make out Allchurch, leaning against the Jeep and talking on his phone. 'You remember how sometimes we'd be in the bush, in Angola, and everything would go quiet; the birds would stop singing and even the d.a.m.n flies would quit buzzing?'

Joao nodded.

'I got it now.'

The Portuguese ran a hand over his moustache. 'OK, four hundred for the Glock and the Uzi, and I'll toss in the ammo and some spare mags for free.'

Brand pulled out his wallet and counted the cash. It almost tapped him out, but Allchurch seemed to have plenty of money. The two men shook hands and Joao wrapped a meaty arm around Hudson. 'Stay safe, brother.' He put the Uzi in an oversized shopping bag.

Brand tucked the Glock into the waistband of his cargo pants and covered it with his shirt. He went out through the bakery and got into the Jeep.

Allchurch closed his door. 'What's in the bag?'

'Not bread.'

They drove through Outjo and the C38 opened up ahead of them, long and straight. Four kilometres out of town Brand caught the glint of sunlight on a windscreen, off to his left down a gravelled farm road. As he flashed past the turnoff he saw a black BMW X5. He reached around to the small of his back and pulled out the Glock. Steering with his knees, he racked the pistol then placed it on the seat between his thighs.

'What the h.e.l.l is that for? Is that what you were buying in the bakery?'

Brand focused on the rear view mirror. Allchurch looked over his shoulder. 'Are we being followed? Is that what this is all about?'

Brand floored the accelerator, pushing the speedometer up to one hundred and fifty. He glanced at Allchurch, whose face was looking pale. 'He's catching up to us,' Brand said. 'Open the bag.'

's.h.i.t. Who could it be?' Allchurch pulled out the submachine gun. His eyes widened.

Brand grimaced. 'Could just be some local thug who tailed us out of the airport car park, maybe waiting for a good place to take us down.'

'This is Namibia, not Johannesburg. These are the people from your past, aren't they?' Allchurch asked.

Brand felt bad that the lawyer might become a target on account of his own past, but Allchurch was the one who'd dragged him to Namibia. 'You knew this could get messy after your air force friend told you about what was going on with Gareth's flight, and after you heard my story. You want out? I'll turn around and outrun these guys and take you back to Joao, the baker. He'll look after you until you can get a lift to Windhoek and fly back to Cape Town.'

Allchurch looked over his shoulder again, then back at Hudson. 'No. I've come here to find out what happened to Gareth. If whoever's following us sees you as a threat then they know something. I'm in if you are.'

'All right, then load a mag in the Uzi and c.o.c.k it.' The BMW was looming close in the mirror. 'OK. We can't outrun him, but we can out-drive him. Hold on.'

'What?'

Allchurch let out an involuntary scream as Hudson swerved off the tarred road onto the gravel verge. As the Jeep bled off speed the BMW shot past them. Hudson swung the wheel hard to the left and headed away from the highway and into the gra.s.sy veld studded with bushy blackthorn acacias. The two of them bucked in their seats as the Jeep bounced over the uneven terrain. The vehicle was all-wheel drive, but it wasn't designed for serious off-roading, and hummocks and rocks sc.r.a.ped noisily on the undercarriage as Brand weaved between the stunted th.o.r.n.y trees.

Hudson looked around and saw that the BMW had stopped and made a U-turn. The driver hurtled back to where they had left the road and pulled off onto the verge.

'This is far enough. If we go further we might do some serious damage to this thing. Lie low and let me do the talking.' Brand stopped the car in the shade of a tree and got out, the Glock in his hand. He took up position on the far side of the Jeep from where the BMW had stopped, about a hundred metres away.

Allchurch ignored him and got out. He crouched beside Brand, cradling the Uzi. 'Are you sure this is a good idea?'

Brand watched the other vehicle intently as he spoke. 'This is a long shot for a pistol, but we've got some cover and they're in the open.'

The two front doors of the BMW opened simultaneously and two white men got out. The car was pointed towards Brand and the men were obscured from view behind the opened doors. 'Stay right where you are and raise your hands where I can see them,' Brand yelled.

'You want to see our hands?' the driver yelled.

'You heard me, smart man.' Brand had his pistol trained on the driver's side door.

'No problem.'

Both men raised their arms at the same time, lightning fast. 'Get down,' Brand said to Allchurch as he squeezed off two quick shots then pushed the other man to the ground with a hand on his shoulder. A dozen bullets raked the Jeep, punching a line of holes in its silver bodywork.

'What the h.e.l.l was that?'

Brand moved to the rear of the SUV and popped off another two shots. He was answered with two fierce bursts of fire. 'They've both got AK-47s.'

'I thought you said we'd be out of their range,' Allchurch said.

'Of a pistol, yes, but not Russian a.s.sault rifles.'

'What do you want?' Brand yelled at the top of his voice.

He was answered with two more bursts.

Brand scooped up a handful of dirt, held it up and let it trickle through his palm.

'What are you doing?' Allchurch said.

Brand nodded. 'Checking the wind. It's in our favour.' He motioned with his left hand for Allchurch to lean back, then raised his right and shot a hole in the lower left-hand-side rear panel of the Jeep. Petrol jetted from the ruptured fuel tank in a fast, steady stream. Brand reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the Zippo lighter he always carried with him, even since he'd given up smoking. He ripped up a handful of dry gra.s.s, flicked the Zippo and held the flame to the kindling. 'When this goes off, run for it. Head away from the road for a hundred metres or so then cut north, parallel to the road. I'll be close behind you.'

Brand risked a look around the edge of the Jeep and saw one of the men moving while his buddy covered him. The stationary gunman fired a burst which st.i.tched the Jeep.

'Ready?' Brand said.

Allchurch paused, looked into Brand's eyes, then nodded. They both rose to a sprinter's crouch and when Hudson tossed the burning gra.s.s into the pool of gasoline they both took off. As fast as they were, Brand felt the heat from the whoosh scorch the skin on his back through his safari shirt. 'Run, Matthew!'

Satisfied his client was not holding back, Brand peeled off to his right, sooner than Matthew, and cut a wide circle through the scrubby thorn trees back towards the road. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw heat haze rippling up through the air from the burning Jeep and fire sweeping through the gra.s.s and undergrowth at a rapid pace, towards the road.

The gunmen were shouting to each other and had both now left their car. Brand saw one of them, through the rising curtain of smoke, sprinting back towards the parked BMW. It was exactly what Brand had been hoping for; the gra.s.s fire might not have been an inferno, but if it reached the car it would destroy it, leaving the hit men without wheels.

Brand reached a cl.u.s.ter of head-height trees at the edge of the cleared gra.s.sy verge on the side of the highway. When the man who had gone to save the BMW broke from the bushveld Brand was ready for him, kneeling in an ambush position with his Glock extended, his left hand cupping his right. As soon as the man got to the driver's door and stopped moving Brand fired. The Jeep, now engulfed by fire, exploded behind him, covering the noise of gunfire. His first shot punched a hole in the man's chest, the second went through his throat. Brand was on his feet, running, before the gunman had hit the ground.

His heart was pounding and his breath was coming in great lungfuls, expelling through his nose like a blowing racehorse when he crouched beside the man. Brand shoved him, but there was no movement. 'd.a.m.n.' He'd hoped to question him.

Brand climbed into the BMW, relieved to find the electronic key still in place. He punched the ignition b.u.t.ton, put the vehicle in gear, and stood on the accelerator. Dirt and rocks fanned out behind him as he tore up the gra.s.s verge alongside the main road. As he steered he looked left, hoping for a sign of Matthew. When he had gone two hundred metres he pulled over, left the engine running and got out.

'Matthew! Where are you?' There was no answer. Brand pressed the b.u.t.ton on the side of the Glock and let the magazine slide out into his left hand. He still had rounds left. He started to walk into the bush again, the pistol up and leading the way. 'Matthew!'

Adrenaline coursed through him and the heat of the day and the smell of the bush took him back to Angola, where this mess had all begun. There was a purity to combat, man against man, that had been missing from his time in the CIA and his life as an investigator.

'Hudson, run! Get away from . . .'

Allchurch's warning cry was snuffed out with a dull thud and a scream. 's.h.i.t,' Brand whispered to himself.

'I'm going to kill him, Brand,' a voice called out from the bush ahead of him.

Brand looked behind him. The BMW was waiting, its engine purring. Fire crackled and roared in the wind, the flames and smoke licking across the road. This guy was going to kill Allchurch in any case he wouldn't be the kind to leave witnesses.

A gunshot rang out and Brand heard Allchurch scream. 'My b.l.o.o.d.y hand!'

'I just shot off his little finger, Brand. I'm going to kill him slowly while you run away and save your own worthless skin. Don't worry, I'll come find you later.'

'I've got your car, you poes. I'm going to get the police. They'll find you.'

The other man laughed. 'This is Namibia, it's an easy country to get lost in. Say goodbye to your friend. I'm going to shoot his c.o.c.k off next.'

The noise of an engine made Brand turn around. A battered Isuzu bakkie, a pickup with 'OJ' Outjo licence plates, emerged from the roiling smoke. The vehicle stopped, the driver's side door opened and a man got out.

Brand smiled and started walking into the scrub. 'I'm coming for Allchurch, whoever you are. I'm holding my pistol up.'

'Come in slowly and your friend gets to leave, almost in one piece.' The man laughed at his own joke.

a.s.shole, Brand thought. He pushed a th.o.r.n.y branch aside and was confronted by the barrel of an AK-47. The man holding the weapon was about fifty, hard-faced, the nose red from drinking but the eyes clear. He'd spoken with an Afrikaans accent. 'Who do you work for?'

The man chuckled again. 'Drop the gun. Get down on your knees.'

Brand tossed the Glock into the gra.s.s between them. 'We can make a deal.' He lowered himself down slowly. 'I know where the Dakota is.'

'I'm not here to make deals.' The man raised the b.u.t.t of the AK to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. 'I'm here to kill you, Hudson Brand.'

'Then why haven't you pulled the trigger? You think I came all this way to look for a plane that's been missing in the desert for thirty years? I'm not that stupid. I've known where it is for a long time.'

The man licked his thin lips with serpent-like speed. 'Then why haven't you found it sooner?'

'You know what's in it?'

'I don't care what the f.u.c.k's in it, I'm going to kill you now.' The man curled his finger through the trigger and started to squeeze.

Matthew Allchurch screamed for mercy as the single shot split the burning afternoon air.

Chapter 15.

Joao the baker emerged from the thornbushes, a .375 hunting rifle with telescopic sights gripped in his meaty hands.

'Good shot,' Brand said.

'You know me, I never miss. How is your friend?'

Brand had taken off his bush shirt and wrapped it tightly around Matthew Allchurch's hand. 'He's probably in shock. b.a.s.t.a.r.d shot off his little finger, but he'll live.'

'Don't talk about me like I'm not conscious,' Allchurch said. He tried to stand, using his good hand to lever himself up, but when he made it to his feet he started to sway.

'Take it easy, Matt,' Brand said, hooking an arm around him. 'You've lost blood.'

Joao nudged the body of the gunman with the toe of his desert boot. The heavy-calibre bullet from the hunting rifle had taken off the top of his head. Matthew Allchurch glanced briefly at the dead man and started to heave. 'Easy,' Brand said. 'Joao, check that one for ID.'

The Portuguese knelt and rifled through the dead man's pockets. 'Nothing. No wallet, no driver's licence, not even a receipt for petrol. Also, nothing on the one you capped by the BMW.'

'Professionals. Let's get to the car can we go in your bakkie? Matthew here needs a doctor.'

'I know one, back in Outjo. We can go to my place; he'll make a house call. You want to tell the cops what happened here?'

Brand imagined the investigation, the delays, perhaps some time in a police lockup. 'What do you think?'

Joao stroked his long grey moustache. 'I'm doing OK with the bakery, but I've got some history. I don't want to get dragged into this.' Joao led the way back to the road, with Hudson shouldering Matthew. When they reached Joao's truck they lifted Matthew into the back and used a rolled tarpaulin as a cushion for him to lie against. Brand then went to the a.s.sa.s.sins' BMW and torched it, the same way he had destroyed the Jeep. He didn't want the local police to find any evidence of him in the car. They drove back to Outjo, leaving the twin pyres of the burning vehicles and the smoking remains of the gra.s.s fire which, fortunately, had not jumped the main road.

Sand blew across the road in front of Sonja but through the gritty curtain she began to make out the distant blue line of the Atlantic Ocean.

The backside of Swakopmund revealed itself first, an industrial estate, filling stations and vehicle workshops. Somewhere out here in the desert, she knew, were ma.s.s graves of Herero and Nama people who had died in the Swakopmund concentration camp during the independence war against the Germans. Emma was trying to uncover more grisly evidence of that time. Sonja knew that the desert winds often exposed bones and the ragged remains of clothing.

As Sonja drove closer to the coast, pa.s.sing first through a new extension of housing along the Swakop River that hadn't existed when she was last there, the trappings of the modern world gave way to the Germanic orderliness of the seaside resort town. Swakopmund was a perfectly preserved little piece of Bavaria perched incongruously on a desolate coast of Africa. In a colonial anomaly the British had taken possession of Walvis Bay thirty kilometres to the south, the best deep-water port on the Atlantic coast and a chunk of land around it, leaving the German administration to develop Swakopmund, a poor second choice, as its prime sea port. Swakopmund almost became redundant, however, when the British took over South West Africa during the First World War, but reinvented itself as a seaside holiday resort after the second.

The town centre and the waterfront had retained its original German colonial feel, unchanged since the brief period when Kaiser Wilhelm owned this little piece of Africa. Its street layout and earliest buildings had been designed in Germany and all of the materials shipped across the ocean and the town a.s.sembled, almost in kit form. Sonja's aunt, Ursula Schmidt, had a place on the beach where Sonja and her family used to visit once a year.

Sonja remembered swimming in the Atlantic, still cold even in summer, while her mother lay on the sand under an umbrella reading a book. Her father would drive north along the coast on day-long fishing trips and arrive home as red as a boiled lobster, reeking of beer and schnapps, but proudly holding aloft a dead fish, dripping blood.

Sonja took a slow drive around town, and found it little changed from her childhood memories. The stately old hotels with their steep-pitched roofs, the Lutheran church, and the railway station now also a hotel were preserved and freshly painted, and the odd German street name had even survived. Some of the merchandise in the storefronts had moved with the times; there were African curio shops that would never have been seen when she was a child, and boutiques full of designer safari gear, but there were still the familiar cafes and pubs.

Sonja pulled up outside a bottle store, went in and selected a sixpack of Windhoek Lager dumpies. She put the green bottles on the counter and greeted the woman at the cash register in German. She replied in the same language. German-style beer, and still the language of a colonial power vanquished more than a century earlier. Her country was bizarre, yet beautiful.

She walked down the street, carrying the beers in a plastic bag and pausing now and then to look in the tourist shops. In a small arcade she came across a bookshop. She browsed for a while and picked up a copy of a book about the war against the Herero and the Nama. When she was a child her teachers had taught her that the Germans had brought civilisation, education and health care to South West Africa, not concentration camps, forced labour and summary executions. She placed the book back on the shelf, then picked it up again and paid for it.

Sonja walked out into the sunshine. The wind was brisk and chilly, but the sky was endless African blue. It could change in minutes, she knew; and every evening a cold, wet blanket of fog rolled in off the Atlantic and sometimes hung around for days. If she was welcomed in Namibia, which she was sure she would not be, would she come back? It was a question to ponder over a few chilled beers, but first she would see if Tante Ursula was still in her house on the beach.

'You should rest,' said the doctor, a Herero man with a shaved head and a beer belly that almost rivalled Joao's.

Matthew Allchurch looked from the doctor, who was now washing his hands in the sink of the kitchen in Joao's house, not the most hygienic of surgeries, to Hudson Brand. 'We need to keep moving.'

Brand knew the physician was right, but Allchurch also had a point; lingering in one place would not help them find the missing aircraft and would also make them easier targets once replacements were sent to do the job the first two men had failed at.

As they bid farewell to the doctor, Matthew, whose hand was now m.u.f.fled in a bandage, had Hudson count out a couple of thousand rand from his wallet, which Hudson folded into the doctor's palm.