The sun has not yet risen over Rwanda when Jacob and Veronica arrive at the helipad just outside peacekeeping headquarters. Strick shakes their hands goodbye while the bored-looking Indian UN soldier inspects their orders.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Strick says, "but I don't ever want to see either of you again. Go home and don't come back."

He turns and walks away before they can respond. The Indian officer hands them back their paperwork. Veronica was surprised to receive actual military orders, on an A4 sheet with her name and new pa.s.sport numbers printed beneath official UN and MONUC logos, along an official UN boarding pa.s.s, a brand-new pa.s.sport good for one year, a first-cla.s.s British Airways ticket from Kampala to JFK via Heathrow, and five new twenty-dollar bills in an envelope labelled "per diem."

"Wait," the Indian soldier says, and directs them to a gaggle of troops, all of them Indian too, sitting crosslegged in the shade of the nearest big white helicopter. Jacob and Veronica join them. Strick drives away in his Jeep. Two soldiers in a blue beret appear with a plastic bag full of still-warm chapatis chapatis and a samovar full of sweet Indian and a samovar full of sweet Indian chai chai. They eat and drink gratefully. The soldiers look at them sidelong but do not otherwise interact with them. Veronica supposes she and Jacob must look somewhat grotesque; her head is still bandaged, and they are both moving stiffly and covered by scabbed-over cuts and sc.r.a.pes.

Eventually an officer stands and begins to bark loud orders in Hindi. The Indian peacekeepers climb in and begin to strap themselves into the fold-down seats around its cargo area. After a few confused moments Veronica and Jacob join them. The seats are surprisingly comfortable. The cargo s.p.a.ce is full of all manner of boxes, crates, and bags, enough for a small truck, all tied down with netting. There are about forty pa.s.sengers. Only a few seats are left folded up and unoccupied.

"I wish we could have said goodbye," Veronica says. They tried, but Tom, Judy and Susan were still under sedation.

Jacob nods.

"Are you going back to Canada?"

"No."

"I'm not going back either."

He looks at her, surprised. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

Jacob doesn't say anything.

"Are you still going to try to find out who did it? After what Prester said?"

He says, simply, "Yes."

The pilots are the last to board. Doors are closed, interior lights come on, the engine shudders into life, and the big chopper's two rotors begin to spin. A peacekeeper gives Veronica and Jacob earplugs. Even with them it is soon too loud to think. The rotor above them becomes a translucent blur.

The world wobbles for a moment, and then the ground falls away. Veronica's stomach lurches, but after the first few dizzying moments, the flight is surprisingly stable. The sides of the helicopter are open and she can see Goma to the north, divided by the jet-black lava field that snakes in an unbroken line up to smoldering Mount Nyiragongo. On the other side lies placid Lake Kivu. Veronica thinks of what Prester said about the tons of lethal gases trapped in that lake, how it too is a killer. She is glad to be leaving. She reaches out and takes Jacob's hand, and he squeezes hers comfortingly.

They fly north, between two of the spectacularly jagged Virunga peaks, and over a sea of rolling hills. At one point they pa.s.s right over a particularly deep and dense patch of green, and Veronica sucks in breath sharply. Beyond the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest a red lacework of roads begins. The helicopter continues east above the roads and emerald hills of Southern Uganda, and then across the huge blue expanse of Lake Victoria, so vast that water is all they can see in every direction for some time. It takes them about an hour to reach Entebbe.

Kampala's airport is an enormous field of tarmac dotted by buildings, airplanes, and vehicles. They land on the military side of the airfield, and the helicopter powers down. The soldiers allow Veronica and Jacob to disembark first. Strick told them that a Jeep would take them to customs and then Kampala, but n.o.body seems to be waiting for them.

"Military efficiency," Jacob mutters. "Hurry up and wait."

They sit in the shadow of the huge helicopter and watch their fellow-pa.s.sengers file across the tarmac to one of the long, low buildings on the periphery. Peacekeepers walk and drive up to and around the helicopter, load and unload cargo. They hear the white-noise scream of a jet taking off on the other side of a huge hangar. Veronica feels like an ant who has found her way into the innards of some vast and incomprehensible machine.

At length she says to Jacob, "Listen. I don't think you should get any more involved in this." She knows he doesn't want to hear it, but feels like she has to try. "Prester was right. It's too dangerous. You're not, you're not trained for this. Think about it. I mean, rationally. You're an engineer. All this crazy stuff, spies, Al-Qaeda, smugglers, war criminals, genocidal killers - I mean, no offense, but honestly, Jacob, what do you think you can really do except get yourself in more trouble?"

He smiles darkly. "More than you might expect."

It sounds like empty bravado. Veronica shakes her head and looks away.

"More than anyone expects, now that Derek's gone."

She blinks and turns back. "What do you mean?"

Jacob says, "I mean there's a reason Derek asked me to come to Uganda. Just like there was a reason he invited you to Bwindi. I'm not here just because he wanted my smiling face around. I'm here because he knew what I can do."

"What can you do?" Veronica asks, curious despite herself.

A Humvee pulls up beside them, driven by an Asian man, maybe Filipino, in a military uniform.

"Tell you what," Jacob says. "Come by my place sometime and I'll show you."

Part 2

Uganda

Chapter 14

Veronica wakes to clammy heat. The power has gone out, the balky generator in the bas.e.m.e.nt has once again failed to automatically kick in, and the ancient air conditioner set in the window beside her mahogany bed is silent. Kampala is a kilometre above sea level, but it's right on the equator, and the mid-morning heat and humidity are oppressive. Her sheets are damp with sweat.

She feels enervated, all she wants to do is lie where she is, but she makes herself stand up and walk to her bathroom. The floorboards creak beneath her feet. It has been five days since her return to Kampala, but her legs are still wobbly, and when she looks in the mirror her body is still covered by purple and yellow bruises. At least the cuts and sc.r.a.pes on her face have diminished from scabs to blemishes.

She brushes her teeth with bottled water and cools down with a quick shower. When she emerges she feels much better, almost good enough to go into work, but Veronica decides against it. Maybe tomorrow, for half a day. Maybe not until her face is fully healed. Bernard told her she could have as much time off as she wanted.

Bernard also told her that journalists have been calling for her, and a British tabloid has actually offered money for her story. The notion repulses Veronica. It would feel like blood money, and people who pay for a story will tell lies to make it better. The offer wasn't even for very much. She supposes the gory details are already available on YouTube for free, and besides, most Westerners don't much care about anything that happened in Africa.

Downstairs the maid is mopping the kitchen's tiled floor. Veronica can never remember her name. The maid smiles but keeps a respectful distance as Veronica starts the generator, makes coffee, takes some bread from the bridge, and goes out to the verandah. Their askari askari gate-guard waves at her, and she waves back. At least the servants are treating her normally again. Her housemates have reacted to her return with awkward and increasing discomfort, as if Veronica might have contracted some hideous and hyper-contagious disease in the Congo, become a carrier of Ebola virus. Twice she has walked into the living room and caught Belinda, Diane and Linda speaking in whispers. gate-guard waves at her, and she waves back. At least the servants are treating her normally again. Her housemates have reacted to her return with awkward and increasing discomfort, as if Veronica might have contracted some hideous and hyper-contagious disease in the Congo, become a carrier of Ebola virus. Twice she has walked into the living room and caught Belinda, Diane and Linda speaking in whispers.

Veronica sees a huge marabou stork standing by the hedges in the corner of the property, feeding on something. Kampala is infested by hundreds of these storks, carrion eaters with eight-foot wingspans and sharp beaks the size of meat cleavers, standing on spindly legs to nearly half Veronica's height. Their scab-encrusted heads and the huge gullets of pink flesh that dangled from their throats make them look obscenely diseased, like pigeons grown to gargantuan proportions by a mad scientist who didn't care about cancerous side effects. But they keep Kampala relatively free of refuse. Like those birds that clean crocodiles' teeth. Veronica has a sudden image of a dozen marabou storks feeding on Derek's headless corpse, and turns away.

After breakfast she lights a cigarette and considers the day ahead. The heat makes her weak and listless. Maybe she will just sit in the house and watch satellite TV all day, again. She feels like she should go somewhere, do something; but the idea of arranging for a driver seems hideously complex and oppressive, and their house is too far from any destination to walk, at least in her current condition. Maybe she could walk to Makerere University, but there's really nothing there to do, and everyone will stare at her.

Veronica returns to the living room, switches the television on, and turns up the volume to drown out the generator. She channel-surfs between CNN and BBC World for some time, paying little attention until she flips to CNN and sees the graphic behind the news anchor has changed to a picture of Osama bin Laden inside the outline of the African continent. The caption says: AL-QAEDA IN AFRICA.

"Last week's Congo hostagetaking may have been only the opening skirmish in a new front on the war on terror," the pretty Asian woman says. "Several jihadist web sites have reported that Osama bin Laden's Al-Qaeda network has claimed responsibility for the attacks. Meanwhile, American special forces, aided by Zimbabwean soldiers, are in hot pursuit of the terrorist leaders who escaped last week's dramatic rescue of five Western hostages. Three other hostages were murdered before the rescue. CNN today has an exclusive interview with General Gideon Gorokwe, the Zimbabwean general who commands the allied force. Nigel d.i.c.kinson has the story."

The picture cuts to two men in comfortable chairs. One is a grizzled, ponytailed white man in khaki, the other, presumably General Gorokwe, is built like a heavyweight boxer and dressed in an expensive suit. He looks relaxed and comfortable. The decor behind them is blandly expensive, like a room in a luxury hotel.

"This is General Gideon Gorokwe," the white man says to the camera. His accent is British. "A general in the Zimbabwe army whose soldiers have been based in the Congo for years. Last week, after Al-Qaeda kidnapped eight Western hostages and took them into the Congo, General Gorokwe volunteered to help American forces track them down, and his soldiers were instrumental in their rescue. He did this even though General Gorokwe, like all senior Zimbabwe government and military figures, is under American sanctions that specifically prevent him from travelling to or trading with America or Europe. General, let me just begin with some background. Our viewers may be wondering, why exactly are your soldiers in the Congo in the first place, a thousand miles away from home?"

"Of course, Nigel, and thank you for this opportunity," Gorokwe says with a smile. His voice is warm and powerful, his mild accent almost aristocratic. "As your know, the Congo has been wracked by civil strife for many years. We came here as peacekeepers."

"You volunteered your soldiers to help America fight Al-Qaeda even though you personally are specifically targeted by American and European sanctions. That's a surprising decision. Could you explain your reasons?"

"I would hope the reasons are obvious." Gorokwe seems slightly surprised. "It's true my country has been the victim of American and European sanctions, but the fight against terror is everyone's fight around the world, far more important than whatever differences we may have. I see it as my moral duty to help America in this war. And I personally hope also to show Americans that Zimbabwe is not your enemy and these sanctions are the result of a misunderstanding. I studied in America, at the University of Michigan. I admire America. I am a friend to America. And I truly believe Zimbabwe and America can be great friends as well."

"What does your President Mugabe think about all this? He has repeatedly condemned America in his speeches."

Gorokwe's face clouds slightly. "I have not yet consulted with him. He's presently away at a summit in China, and my command here is quite independent. But I'm sure he would agree that we cannot allow the scourge of Islamic terror to spread into Africa."

"Thank you, General. For CNN, this is Nigel d.i.c.kinson."

Veronica wants the interview to continue, she'd like to hear more from the man who was so instrumental in her rescue, but CNN switches back to the anchor desk and a new story about military deaths in Iraq. Restless, Veronica turns off the television and wanders back out to the verandah.

Veronica wonders if staying in Kampala was such a good idea after all. She feels like her Congo ordeal should have been followed by ceremonies, press conferences, ticker-tape parades. Maybe it would have been, if she had flown back to America. She could have been a guest on morning shows and Larry King, big-name newspapers would have hounded her for interviews, she might have had to hire a press agent. America loves its victim-survivors. And she's still wounded. Her cuts have scabbed over but there's plenty still wrong with her. Surely what she needs most right now is rest and recuperation, a long vacation in a secure, comfortable place.

No: what she really needs is a time machine. A giant REWIND b.u.t.ton for her own life. She would go back a long way, if she had one. Eight years. It would be so good to be twenty-four again, to live as if life was an adventure and the world her playground, to live fearlessly, as if she had forever in which to undo whatever mistakes she might make. When she was twenty-four Veronica believed it was better to regret something you had done than something you hadn't. Now she knows better.

She was a better person when she was twenty-four. Hard to admit but true. Not just tougher, but also kinder, more forgiving. Then for seven years Veronica spent money without knowing or caring where it came from, had her bed made and most of her meals prepared by servants, lived in a world where inconveniences are outsourced. It made her lazier, weaker, more selfish, less understanding, shade by incremental shade. She didn't even notice it happening until she was suddenly expelled from that world. Now when she looks at herself she hardly sees the girl she used to be at all. Though maybe she's come back a little in the last two weeks. Maybe that's the only good thing to have come out of the Congo.

When she was twenty-four the world seemed so full of opportunity, a cornucopia of possibilities. Now Veronica feels like she only has one or two chances left to get her life right. If Africa doesn't work out, she doesn't know what she'll do. She supposes that's why Derek made such an impression on her, even though she hardly knew him. It wasn't just that he was dashing and handsome, there was something about him that hinted at an opportunity to get things right at last, some fairytale notion of falling in love, for real this time, and living happily ever after.

Her cell phone rings. She looks at it, doesn't recognize the number, answers.

"Veronica? How are you?"

"Oh, hi," she says, surprised, recognizing Jacob's faintly nasal voice. "Fine. You?"

"Pretty good. You busy?"

"Not really."

"Want to come over? I've got something you might be interested in."

She hesitates, not sure if she wants to see Jacob and be reminded of Derek. "I'm kind of stranded today. No driver."

"No problem. I'll send mine."

After a pause she says, "OK. Sure." She can't hide in her house forever.

Jacob's driver is a quiet, bespectacled middle-aged man with a pot belly named Henry. His vehicle is a sightly dented but clean Toyota. Veronica wishes she had a driver of her own. During her marriage she travelled everywhere in luxury automobiles. Danton had a Jaguar and a chauffeur, a Ferrari, a Lamborghini. He loved driving hyperpowered sports cars, and so did she, it was one of the few things they had in common.

Their route takes them through downtown Kampala's densely packed warren of shops, hotels, banks and government buildings, all perched on the most central of the city's seven hills. The Sheraton Hotel looms atop this hill. On the other side of downtown they pa.s.s the concrete-walled complex of the US Emba.s.sy: the workplace, if Prester was right, of the person ultimately responsible for what happened to them in the Congo, a traitor conspiring with terrorists for his or her own gain.

Then along the Jinja highway and through the vast shantytown that surrounds Kampala, thousands of tiny, misshapen wooden huts leaning drunkenly on one another, their tin roofs patched with garbage bags and weighed down by rocks. Children play soccer on narrow, uneven dirt roads, women sell food from cloths laid out on the muddy ground, men sit or lean in the shade, doing nothing, as if waiting for a messiah to come. When Veronica first came here it seemed an abyss of misery, but witnessing the Congo's real wretchedness has opened her eyes to its merits. Most shantytown inhabitants do not live in interminable suffering. Some do - refugees, AIDS orphans - but most are just poor. Very poor, desperately poor, and with little hope of ever being wealthier, but it's still much better than life in the Congo.

The New City complex stands on a hill above the shantytown like a mirage in a desert. Henry continues past this gleaming, modern shopping mall into a leafy and exclusive suburb. Jacob lives in an apartment complex that wouldn't look out of place in the West, except for its guardpost and barbed-wire fences tastefully hidden by bushes and trees. His askaris askaris look at her curiously. They've probably never seen such a dire-looking look at her curiously. They've probably never seen such a dire-looking mzungu mzungu woman before. It isn't until she's at the door to Jacob's apartment that she begins to wonder why he invited her. woman before. It isn't until she's at the door to Jacob's apartment that she begins to wonder why he invited her.

Chapter 15

Jacob says, "These are all of Derek's phone calls."

He looks from the computer screen to Veronica. Her expression is hard to read; the half-healed cuts on her once-perfect face make her look like an extra in a zombie movie. Jacob supposes he still resembles an acne-scarred teenager himself. At least his goatee conceals the worst of the damage.

He wishes he'd cleaned up his apartment a little before she came over. It's a nice enough place, two bedrooms all to himself, but it isn't really ready for guests. His bedroom is strewn with scattered clothes and books, and the rest of the place is devoid of furniture except for his computer desk and a couple of chairs. The white walls are bare, the kitchen cabinets are empty, and most of his possessions are still piled in suitcases and toiletry bags. He doesn't even have bookcases yet: dozens of science-fiction novels and technical texts sit in stacks on the carpeted floor of his computer room.

Jacob looks back to his computer, and to the Google Map of Uganda on its screen, a map half-covered by little orange and red balloons that serve as place markers. Red outnumbers orange by a wide margin. Most are cl.u.s.tered in Kampala, but there are a fair number out west, near the Congo border, and a few orange balloons scattered in other places as well.

"Red is Derek," he explains, "orange is the other partic.i.p.ant, if they're on Mango."

"Where did this come from?" She sounds more perplexed than impressed.

"Oh." Jacob realizes he has been remiss in providing context. "Derek had a Mango cell phone. Mango is a division of Telecom Uganda. I work for Telecom Uganda and have admin access to their databases. And the reason they hired me is there isn't much I don't know about mobile communications systems. This is what I've got so far. Would have been more, but I spent my first three days back basically fully zoned out."

Veronica nods with understanding.

Jacob switches briefly to a black window full of orderly rows and columns of text. "The records of every call Derek ever made or received, including," he points at columns on the screen, "the other number involved in that call, Derek's location, and if the other partic.i.p.ant was also had a Mango phone, their location as well. I converted this data to XML and plugged it into a Google Map. Et voila. Et voila."

"Location? You can actually track cell phones? I thought that was just in movies."

"No, you can, for real. What happens is, we record which base stations handled the call, and the signal strength they got from your phone. Base stations are the cells, the fixed antennas your phone talks to. We know their exact location. So if three or more were in range, we can triangulate a phone to a single patch of real estate."

"How close can you get?"

"Well, it varies." Jacob decides not to get into too much detail. "Depends on how many base stations and how far apart. Error margin is probably somewhere from forty metres in downtown Kampala to half a kilometre in rural areas. It's not quite like the movies, you can't actually track individuals, because the closer you can get, the more densely populated the real estate, they got lost in the crowd. But you can get a pretty good idea of their general vicinity."

"And you have names too? You know who he called?"

"No. Unfortunately. Mostly. If they're actual Mango subscribers, yes, but almost every phone in Uganda is prepaid, not subscription. But I bet if we look hard enough at this list we'll find some interesting stuff."

"This is why Derek brought you to Africa," she says slowly.

"Exactly. To track the call records of whoever he was interested in."

"You really think you can find out who set him up from this?"

"There's a lot more I can do than just this. But it's a good place to start. Retrace his steps, work out who he's been talking to." Jacob switches back to the Google Map. "Red is where Derek was during the call, orange indicates the other person's location, if it was a Mango-to-Mango call. I can't track people on other networks."

"So that red marker up at the Congo border means Derek was out there?"

He nods. "Yeah. Good example. Let's take a closer look at that."