Dan drove in grim silence, his eyes fixed on the road. Beside him, Smith was equally quiet. Barely a word had passed between them since they’d driven away from the mission station. The horror of what they’d discovered there was a haunting presence in the air. Smith had brought the dog over from the back seat to sit in the footwell. He stroked the hound’s head, his hand moving mechanically. Remi watched him with an intent gaze. His ears were pointing forwards and his brow was wrinkled as if he were picking up on the emotions that surrounded him.
The sun was halfway down the sky, casting slanting shadows across the road. Dan kept up the pressure on the accelerator. If he could maintain this pace, the convoy should be able to reach first Banya, then the Carlings’ mission, before night fell. Dan tried not to imagine what might be awaiting him there. He tried not to picture the scene he’d left behind, either. That just left the landscape – trees, rocks, earth, jolting past him – as a focus for his thoughts.
The first clue to what lay ahead was a series of small craters in the road. Dan looked up instinctively – as if he might still catch sight of the aircraft that had flown overhead, strafing the ground. But the sky was empty and there was no sound of a prop engine. A puzzled frown came onto his face. Why had Air Support targeted this inland road? Dan had found no sign that rebel troops had been along here. In fact, this section of the route seemed seldom used by anyone. Vines were creeping in from the verges. The last village the convoy had passed was miles back. He glanced across to Smith, eyebrows raised.
As they came round the next corner, Dan slammed on the brakes. The road was blocked with the wreck of a burnt-out truck. He checked his rear-vision mirror, seeing the vehicles behind him slowing to a halt. Turning back to the truck, he took in the scene ahead. There were two dead bodies in army uniforms lying on the ground. The men’s faces were bloated, tongues protruding. Their black skin had taken on the bluish tinge that Dan knew too well. It was hard to say how long the soldiers had been here. The humid conditions sped up the process of decay. Items that must have been blown from the truck before it caught fire were spread across the ground. Among the debris Dan noticed a helmet decorated with a strip of leopardskin. His gaze came to rest on a green beret. He turned back to Smith.
‘Simbas . . .’
Smith frowned. ‘Heading back up north to regroup?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Who knows? I don’t think anyone’s in charge down here.’
He scanned a wider area, looking further along the road, where he noticed a simple bridge made of logs felled over a stream. The only sign of life came from birds scavenging along the banks. He breathed the smell of burned oil and spent explosives, backed by the cloying stink of decomposing flesh. Remi was sniffing the air, too. Hackles stood up along his back and his neck. Smith tied the hound to the door handle with a rope.
Grabbing their guns, the two men jumped out of the jeep. Dan glanced back along the convoy. The other soldiers were already following suit. They’d been in this situation many times before – they all knew that before detouring around the truck they had to make sure there were no survivors. Even badly injured soldiers could aim a gun and squeeze a trigger. Men in better shape might have retreated into the bushes that lined the road.
The stillness of the place was accentuated by a chorus of noises – buzzing flies hovering over the corpses, the distant sound of rushing water, the usual chirping and screeching coming from the forest.
Dan’s boots crunched over the ground as he walked. Many of the objects he saw scattered on the road were in pieces; some were burned beyond recognition. The undamaged items stood out in contrast: a ration box, a rifle, a kitbag. There was a woman’s shoe lying on its side. Dan eyed it for a moment, thinking of its owner – some innocent army camp follower who had hitched her last ride on the ill-fated truck.
As he approached the destroyed vehicle, with Smith at his back, he reconstructed the events that had taken place here – the attack from above, the explosion, the fire. Some of the soldiers had been thrown clear of the wreck, but others had been incinerated.
At the rear of the truck Dan discovered a third unburned corpse – another African, clad in an army uniform. As it came into full view, he jerked to a halt, staring at the grisly sight. The head was missing. So was one of the legs. Where the abdomen had been was just a bloodstained hole.
‘Holy hell . . .’ Smith murmured.
Dan swapped a look with him. As a game ranger, Smith would know as well as he did that this was not the result of the explosion. It was the work of an animal. The hole in the body had been chewed. The absence of the head, with its hidden prize inside the skull, was further evidence. Crouching down, Dan studied the ground. A paw print was visible in an area of sandy gravel. He took in the four toes and the distinctive shape of the pad; there was no mark left by the claws.
‘Leopard.’
Smith nodded. ‘A large male.’ He pointed to a line of tracks leading towards the edge of the road. ‘Looks like a normal gait. Uninjured.’
Dan shook his head in surprise. A healthy carnivore usually preferred to kill its own prey. And man-eaters were a much rarer phenomenon than their almost mythological status suggested.
‘He’s picked up a taste for human flesh,’ Smith said. ‘And probably not just from here.’
Dan looked at the gory remains in silence. He thought of all the corpses that were strewn across the battlefields of the Congo – in villages and fields, and on the sides of roads. Many victims of this conflict, whether soldiers or civilians, didn’t get a proper burial. The survivors were traumatised and overwhelmed; often the best they could manage was to drag the bodies away from their homes. There wasn’t always a river handy, like there had been at the mission station where Dan had just been.
‘I’ve seen how it works,’ Smith said. ‘A couple of years ago I was asked to help get rid of a man-eater. It was following an outbreak of typhoid fever.’ Dan had the feeling the man was talking just to break the silence. ‘There weren’t enough healthy people to dig graves so the dead were just dragged into the bush. The local leopard started to expect a daily feed. When the epidemic was over, the free meat delivery stopped. He had a liking for human flesh by then so he began hunting for himself.’
As Smith spoke, Dan eyed the lower branches of the trees and the dark spaces between the bushes. He wondered how recently the leopard had been here. From the sun-baked remains it was impossible to guess. The animal could be far away by now – the solitary cats liked plenty of space; some had a range of 50 square miles. On the other hand, there was still a lot of food left to be consumed. The leopard might be close by, waiting to return to its meal. It would be wise to be cautious.
He looked along the road, intending to shout out a warning about this added danger – but the soldiers were already heading back towards their vehicles. Eliza was among them, armed with her banana gun. Her head turned from side to side as she walked, her eyes trained on the bushes. If she was unnerved by the situation, she showed no sign of it.
Dan looked up at the sky, checking the position of the sun. Not only had this disruption caused a delay, but the convoy would now have to proceed with extra caution. He tightened his jaw, feeling deepening concern. He didn’t want to let another night go by before they reached the Carlings’ mission. Spinning on his heels, he strode back towards the jeep. He was nearly there when a gleam of metal caught his eye – a round, flat object protruding from a clump of ferns. At first he thought it was a hubcap, but it was too big. When he looked more closely he saw it was a silver serving tray. It was large and ornate, with a crest engraved in the middle – the heirloom had obviously been pilfered from a grand home somewhere. That it should end up here, in this scene of carnage, seemed to symbolise the bizarre nature of this conflict that Dan was a part of. The Simbas wanted their fair share of the wealth of the Congo. All these men had acquired was a useless souvenir. And then they’d been killed.
Reaching the jeep, Dan jumped into his seat. The other soldiers were now climbing into their own vehicles, looking as eager to get moving as he was. With a jolt of alarm, he saw that Eliza was no longer with her partner. Dan located her a short distance away. She was standing rock-still, peering into the bushes. Lawler was already running back to get her. Henning was hard on his heels. Dan raised his gun, looking down the sights, ready to shoot at whatever – whoever – had caught her eye.
He watched as she reached down, picking something out of the foliage. When she straightened up, she had the remains of a small red suitcase in her hand. The lid was half blown off. There was nothing inside. But from the look on her face, Dan knew that the object held some special significance.
As he arrived at her side, Eliza looked up. Her eyes were wide with alarm. ‘I lent this to Anna. It was at the mission.’
It took a moment for Dan to take in the meaning of her words. Then his heart turned cold.
Eliza dropped the case. ‘We have to get there.’
They’d only taken a few steps back towards the vehicles when Dan saw Henning freeze. The next moment he was raising his rifle – aiming into the trees. There was the faint click of the safety catch being turned off. Following the direction of the gun barrel, Dan stared into the undergrowth. He could see no hint of the dark-spotted coat of a forest leopard, or the telltale gleam of bared teeth. He felt a spike of admiration for Henning; the man had eyes like a hawk.
Dan waited for the shot. Instead of firing, though, Henning raised his hand. Beckoning. The gesture was very clear: he might have been a policeman directing traffic. Some fern fronds moved and a figure emerged, crawling on hands and knees. It was an African soldier wearing battle fatigues. Using a sapling to pull himself to his feet, the man limped into the road, holding his hands in the air. His bloodied uniform hung from his body in shreds. Dan saw the small scar on his forehead: the shape of a cross.
The Simba took two more steps, then collapsed onto the ground. While Henning dropped down beside him, Bailey plunged into the bushes, pistol drawn. He crashed around, looking for anyone else who might be hidden there. Lawler moved up to stand with Eliza; he was on full alert, ready to spring into action.
Henning extracted a knife and a pistol from the rebel soldier’s pockets, tossing them behind him. Then Malone began applying his medical skills – pushing back the man’s eyelids to check his pupils, and taking his pulse.
Dan pulled a water canteen from his belt and handed it to Henning. ‘Keep him conscious,’ he instructed. ‘I want to talk to him.’
As water was splashed over his face, the Simba moved his lips. Dan squatted down beside him.
‘Umewatendea nini wamisionari?’ he demanded. What have you done to the missionaries?
There was no response. Dan got Henning to ask the same question in French. In the silence that ensued Dan shook the Simba’s shoulder, making him wince. He felt an urge to shout into the prisoner’s impassive face.
What have you done to my daughter?
The words rose up inside him, unspoken, yet roaring in his head. He had a flash image of Becker at work – and for just an instant, he wished the ruthless Intelligence Sergeant were here at his side.
Eliza knelt down beside Dan. Her arm brushed against his. The moment of contact steadied him, like a calming word. He reminded himself that this man and his companions might just be simple thieves. Or they might be completely innocent of any wrongdoing.
‘Let me try,’ Eliza offered.
She began speaking a different African tongue to Swahili. Dan recognised it as Lingala – he used to have a basic grasp of the language when he was prospecting up in Orientale Province. But that had been back before Anna was born; he’d forgotten most of it now.
Eliza spoke slowly but insistently. Still, there was no reply. ‘I will try Tshiluba,’ she said. ‘But I’m not fluent.’
When she spoke again the soldier opened his eyes. He looked at Eliza in amazement, as if she were a ghost come to life. He whispered something to her. She gave him a faint smile.
‘What’s he saying?’ Dan asked.
‘He is naming the Okapi.’
Eliza exchanged some more words with the Simba. She spoke haltingly, stopping to hunt for vocabulary; there were pauses while she struggled to understand what she was hearing. Eventually she turned to Dan.
‘He says he has not seen any missionaries. He has not been to any place where such people live.’ Her eyebrows lifted in surprise as she translated the man’s next remark. ‘When he began the journey that brought him here, he was at the House of the Leopard.’
‘Leopard Hall?’ Dan stared at her in confusion. ‘Show him the suitcase. Ask him where it came from.’
Eliza sounded patient and calm as she phrased the question but Dan could tell she felt the same urgency that he did. As she listened to the Simba’s response, Dan searched her expression for clues to what she was learning. Her face became a mask of shock and distress. When it was her turn to speak, her voice quavered with emotion.
‘He says it belonged to a white woman who was in the truck. I asked him what she looked like.’ She broke off, her words catching in her throat. ‘He said she was young. Beautiful.’
Dan looked back towards the burnt-out vehicle, recoiling from the memory of the charred remains still resting on the blackened seats. He hardly noticed when the Simba spoke again. But as Eliza relayed his words the tone of her voice brought him back.
‘She didn’t die in the fire. She was on the road. He saw her!’
Dan shook his head, struggling to absorb the new information. Then he leaned over the Simba, looking into his bloodshot eyes. ‘Where is she? Where did she go?’
Eliza touched Dan’s hand. ‘He does not know. He was looking after himself. She just disappeared.’ She turned towards the headless corpse nearby, but didn’t name the obvious fear.
‘When did all this happen?’ Dan felt torn between hope and despair.
‘It has been several nights and days,’ Eliza reported. ‘He’s not sure. At first he salvaged food and water that had been in the truck. Then he didn’t have the strength to move.’
Dan stared into the forest. Had Anna been carried away by the leopard? Or had she taken refuge in the bushes, like this Simba had done? Perhaps she, too, had managed to collect some supplies. It was hard to imagine anyone surviving an aerial assault – being blown from a truck – without being hurt. She could be lying among the trees, injured and in desperate need of rescue. But surely she would have shouted out for help? She’d have heard the sound of English voices, and the noise of the convoy arriving. Perhaps she was too weak to make herself heard. Or she might have wandered too far away. Or . . . He refused to let any other option lodge in his mind.
Stepping onto the verge, Dan cupped his hands, shouting, ‘Anna! Anna . . .’ His cries seemed to be swallowed by the forest; muffled by moss, tangled up in the vines. There was no reply.
He swung around to face Smith, who was standing guard behind him. ‘Start looking for tracks. Get Bailey to cover you.’
Soon all the soldiers were taking part in the search, but with the dense undergrowth, the task was time-consuming and fruitless. After a while, Dan returned to the road and summoned McAdam.
‘The convoy will have to keep moving on to the mission,’ Dan said. ‘But I’m staying here.’
McAdam nodded slowly. Dan knew he was thinking the situation through for himself. The Commanding Officer was too emotionally involved for his decision-making to be relied upon. Also, in this unofficial band of commandos, the men were on more equal terms.
‘Keep Henning and Bailey with you,’ the Corporal suggested, ‘and Smith, of course. I’ll take the others. That’s an even split.’
Dan was silent for a moment. When the numbers were halved, so were their chances of surviving an encounter with the enemy. But there was more hope of finding Anna if he had help. He signalled his agreement. ‘Leave us one of the radios. Try making contact when you get there.’
‘Yes, sir,’ McAdam responded. ‘We’ll listen out for something from you, too.’
‘Take the Simba with you,’ Dan added. ‘He can be admitted to the hospital at the mission – all being well.’ The two men exchanged looks, the euphemistic words hovering between them.
All being well . . .
‘And Miss Lindenbaum?’ queried McAdam.
Before Dan could reply, Eliza appeared at his side. He heard her take a breath – then she spoke in a tone that was clear and firm. ‘I’m staying too.’
Dan shook his head. More than anything, he wished she could stay here with him – if they found Anna, she would want to see a familiar face. But the image of the chewed carcass was fresh in his mind. ‘It’s too dangerous here.’
Eliza ignored him. She addressed McAdam. ‘When you get to Banya, pick up a local resident to be your guide. Everyone knows where the Carlings live. Take my car with you, so you’ve got room for them all. Get them out of Kivu. Down to Albertville. Make sure they’re safe.’
There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke about her friends. Dan saw that she was torn. She wanted to stay and help find Anna, but the Carlings were precious to her too. And she’d known them for years. He wondered if he should take the decision out of her hands and simply order her to go with McAdam.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, Eliza turned to look at him. Her eyes were dark with distress. ‘I drove Anna up from Albertville. Then I left her behind at the mission. I didn’t look after her.’ She pressed her lips together for a second, before going on. ‘Whatever has happened to her – it’s my fault. My fault.’
Dan could feel her anguish as she repeated these last words. He had the sense that – once again – she was referring not just to Anna’s fate but to a wider guilt she felt about other choices she’d made. He knew what it was like to be weighed down with regret and remorse; and to be confronted by a reality that wasn’t what you’d planned. You couldn’t go back and change the past. All that you had left was the future.
As he nodded his agreement, he felt a sense of relief. Eliza was Anna’s friend. They’d been together only a short time ago. He thought of them talking, laughing, swapping stories. It made his daughter seem more real – and more likely to be found.
Dan walked slowly along, scouring the surface of the road. This was the area where the Simba said he’d seen the white woman lying on the ground. There was no sign, yet, that anyone had been here – no footprints or other impressions in the sandy gravel. No blood. Dan had continued to call out Anna’s name, his voice turning hoarse with desperation. But there had still been no response.
His eyes settled on the shoe that he’d seen before. It had held little meaning for him then, but now that he looked at it more closely, he saw it was well made, expensive. He felt a twist in his stomach. It belonged to Anna. Part of him wanted to pick it up – to feel inside for the imprint in the soft leather left by her foot. But that would be a distraction. He kept moving steadily on, his eyes sweeping the ground. Smith was doing the same, not far away. Eliza was covering a sector as well; as a photographer, she’d said, her eyes were trained to notice fine details. Henning and Bailey were on guard duty – watching out for the return of the leopard, or the arrival of more Simbas.
As he walked further on, beyond the area that had been identified, Dan thought back over the interchange with the soldier, trying to work out if there could have been any misunderstanding. He almost regretted sending the man off with McAdam. There was no chance, now, to interview him again. Dan had given up the idea of trying to find any other source of information. If somebody had heard the explosion or seen the black smoke rising from the truck, they’d have come to investigate. And if that had occurred, the ration box and rifle wouldn’t still be there. Nor would the silver tray. Aside from the wounded Simba, it seemed almost certain there had been no witnesses to what had taken place here, even after the fact.
Near a piece of aluminium melted to a shiny puddle, Dan came to a standstill. Then he bent to peer at the ground more closely. At his feet was an oily-looking patch of brown. Ants clustered around it, their bodies fanning out like a fringe of black hairs. As he stared down at it, Dan felt a sinking dismay. It took a lot of blood, from a serious wound, to form a stain like that.
Nearby, there were marks on the road – scrapes and scuffs, some blurred footprints. There was a long smear of blood. A couple of dark red spots.
‘Over here!’ he called out to Smith and Eliza. ‘I’ve found something . . .’
As he followed the trail towards the edge of the road, he assessed what he could see. He tried to view the task with a dispassionate eye. The injured person had been unable to walk. They had pulled themselves along, trailing one leg. That meant they were hurt, but not too weak to move.
He knew it might not have been Anna who’d been here on the road, bleeding, before then struggling towards the forest. It could have been one of the three soldiers who were now corpses. There might have been another survivor who was no longer around. But as a bushman and a soldier, Dan had learned to listen to his instincts. A gut feeling could disrupt logic and lead a person astray – but more often, the impulse was one to follow.
He gazed into the forest, at the tangled mass of trees and shrubs, sewn together by creepers and vines.
‘Anna,’ he whispered. ‘Where are you?’
Reaching the grassy verge, he searched for some sign that she had pushed her way through the foliage in front of him. In the drier country where he took his hunting clients, the trees and bushes were brittle and spiky; a sharp eye might pick out a snagged fragment of cloth, or a hair, or notice a broken twig. But these rainforest plants had leaves that were smooth-edged and supple; their stems would bend, not snap. If a local tracker were here, he might detect something that was out of place. But Dan could find no clues. He plunged into the undergrowth, searching under bushes, ferns, low trees.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted into the trees once more. ‘Anna!’
He strained his ears to hear a reply – but as before, there was nothing. All he could pick up was the incessant background noise from the forest, punctuated by the thud of heavy boots as Henning and Bailey paced the road, sticking to their tasks. Remi was whining again. With a burst of irritation, Dan spun around towards the jeep. He could see the dog clearly through a gap in the bushes. He was pulling at his rope, panting, his tongue hanging out. The hound could smell the leopard, Dan knew – even if the predator was long gone, its scent would have lingered on the bodies where it had fed. But Remi didn’t appear to be afraid. He looked more like a wild animal himself, preparing to attack.
Dan’s feet seemed to move ahead of his thoughts – as he picked his path back to the road, then on towards the jeep, he was still making connections in his mind. Remi was no lapdog; his coat, streaked with bald scars, told the tale of too many injuries. And Bergman would have spent plenty of time hunting – every farmer in Africa shot game for the table and culled animals that were a threat to the livestock. A hound worth his keep would know how to track a wounded animal; his own dinner depended on making sure the game was found and brought home . . .
Smith must have read Dan’s intention. He reached the jeep first, and untied Remi’s rope. The dog bounded from the seat, immediately putting his nose to the ground, pulling against his master’s grip on the leash. His sturdy shoulders were bunched; his body was low slung. The tail, with the kink at the end, waved like a pennant.
Smith hauled Remi over to the pool of dried blood. The dog sniffed at it, but then looked up distractedly. He kept turning towards the body that had been savaged by the leopard.
‘There’s too much going on here,’ Dan said.
‘Give him time,’ Smith responded. He knelt by the dog, pointing at the blood. ‘Here. Look. Come on, Remi!’
The commands were clearly meaningless, even when Henning gave them in French. Bergman must have had his own special form of communication – words, gestures, the rituals of the hunt. Dan struggled to contain his impatience. He was acutely aware of the steady sinking of the sun in the sky.
Smith kept on drawing the hound’s attention back to the blood. Suddenly, without warning, Remi seemed to make a decision. He stood still for a few seconds, blowing air out of his nose like a horse. Then he put down his head, latching onto the trail, taking the same path Dan had already followed.
Dan went after the dog alone. He didn’t want extra people in here who might foul the trail, and he knew he could trust Remi to let him know if there was a fresh smell of leopard in the air. Pushing through dense foliage, he emerged in an area of more open ground lying between tall mahogany trees. Remi nosed his way along confidently and quickly. Dan knew that scents lingered longest in shady, protected places where the air was still; the conditions in the forest were perfect. He slung his rifle over his shoulder to free his hands as he ducked under branches and dodged tall ferns.
In a small clearing Remi came to a halt, standing at the foot of a tall African oak. Moss-clad roots reached out from its wide base, bulging from the earth like giant snakes. The dog explored the area in front of it, sniffing avidly. Dan could see nothing there apart from layers of dead leaves.
After a few moments Remi began jogging around the open space, his nose fixed to the earth. But then he returned to the foot of the oak. Dread formed a lump in Dan’s throat as he peered up into the spreading limbs above him. He expected to see a limp body hanging there – the abandoned prey of the leopard. But the branches were bare, apart from a green coating of fairy ferns. There were no claw marks in the bark. And Remi was not looking up, or sniffing the trunk; he was focused only on the ground at the base of the tree.
Straining his eyes in the gloomy light, Dan studied the area more closely. He saw a large toadstool nearby, its cap forming a mauve disc. There was a brown smear of blood on one side. Dropping down beside Remi, he grabbed a handful of damp leaves. Holding them to his nose, he breathed in. He picked up a familiar metallic smell. When he rubbed the leaves with his fingers a brown stain printed onto his skin.
Dan knelt there, motionless, gazing down at the ground. His heart thumped in his chest.
Anna had been right here. Her blood had seeped into the earth.
But now she was gone.
The five figures stood in the middle of the road. Nobody spoke. Remi sat at Smith’s feet – head up, ears pricked. He was waiting for his next command. But there was nothing more that could be done tonight – the light was fading; in the forest it was already difficult to see.
Dan knew he should make a decision about what they would do next. The safest option was to drive on to another area and return at dawn to carry out a search. But Dan didn’t want to leave. This was the last place where Anna had been. Whether she was dead or still alive somewhere, he was not prepared to abandon her. Not again. When he looked around at the faces of his companions, he knew they felt the same way. They all kept staring into the forest as if they expected Anna to appear. Dan considered the option of setting up the tents that had been stowed in each of the vehicles. Leopards normally had a nervous temperament and would stay well away from an unfamiliar structure made of canvas – however, an animal whose behaviour had been corrupted by contact with humans was an unknown quantity. It might be wiser for the group to assemble in the two vehicles that had solid cabins and try to sleep with the windows wound up – but then, with everyone squashed in together it would be unbearably hot. The best plan, Dan decided, was to gather around a roaring fire – a source of fear to most wildlife – and take turns to keep watch. Remi was their best protection; the dog would remain alert even while sleeping.
Once Dan announced his decision, everyone sprang into action. Henning dragged the dead Simbas into a pile on the far side of the truck. He poured petrol over the corpses and set them alight. The smell of rotting flesh was replaced by one that was disconcertingly similar to roasting meat, but the smoke rising in the still air carried most of it away. Henning watched on with a look of grim satisfaction. Dan knew the man didn’t like to see a body left unburied, regardless of the risk of attracting carnivores. In Henning’s book it was bad form for a soldier not to do what he could – when he had the chance – to preserve the dignity of the enemy.
Bailey, meanwhile, got to work packing a hollow log with explosives, then blowing it to pieces. He couldn’t hide his enjoyment of the task, or his sense of accomplishment at creating instant fuel. Eliza helped him drag the splintered portions of deep red hardwood across to the camp fire. Remi had been let off his leash, but Smith was keeping a close watch on him. Dan found himself following the movements of the dog as well. It was like having a child in their midst – a welcome distraction from the thoughts that haunted him.
It was after sunset when Henning picked up the sound of a radio transmission. As he ran to his jeep, Eliza dropped a stick she was using to prod the fire and went after him. Dan followed her, his eyes fixed on Henning’s face as he lifted the receiver to his ear. The man’s pale features stood out in the dusk light. He nodded briskly, then he gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign.
‘The Carling family, they are all safe.’
Eliza’s eyes filled with tears of relief.
Henning continued the communication. He relayed each piece of information as he received it. ‘The Simbas raided the hospital but they did not stay. There was a lot of damage but no one was hurt. McAdam says they will all leave for Albertville tomorrow.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Dan said. At least one nightmare was coming to an end. He tried to smile but his face felt wooden, as if it belonged to someone else. His emotions were like a tangled string. Some part of him that he despised was unable to fully grasp the good news – the fact that Anna was still missing obscured the joy he wanted to feel. He walked away by himself, afraid that this darkness inside him might be visible in his eyes.
Looking up, he saw the shaggy silhouette of a fishing owl perched on a branch that overhung the road. It was not far away; Dan could almost see the featherless legs and talons, designed to plunge into water. Soon, it would begin its night’s work, hunting fish and frogs in the nearby stream. Dan grasped this train of thought to escape his turmoil. He imagined the bird swooping silently, barely ruffling the water as it carried off its prey.
He heard a light footstep behind him. Then Eliza was standing at his side. In spite of the tainted smoke that clouded the air, he could smell just a hint of the distinctive perfume that she wore. She said nothing. She just put her hand on his shoulder.
The small gesture shattered his composure. Before he could measure his words, they poured out. ‘I’m afraid we won’t find her. It will all be finished. Before it’s even begun.’ His voice was raw with despair. ‘I’ll never see her. I’ll never hold her in my arms.’
He knew that he should be able to be strong. Eliza cared about Anna too. And she was grief-stricken – she’d just lost the man she loved; the rescue of the Carlings didn’t change that. But when Dan reached inside himself he found no weapon he could use to combat his weakness. At this minute he had nothing to offer – to Eliza or anyone else. He could see no light ahead. He focused on the touch of the woman’s hand, the faint warmth that reached through the cloth of his shirt. Only the presence of another human – circling like a planet through the same dark space that he occupied – held any comfort.
The owl called out, a low note followed by a series of short high-pitched hoots. From longstanding habit Dan waited to see if another owl would reply, or if this was a solitary bird. As he listened in the dying light he noticed that a hush had fallen over the forest. These were the last minutes before the brief tropical dusk turned to blackness. All the insects and birds that had buzzed and screeched during the day were now at rest. The night shift was yet to take over.
Into the lull came a new sound, travelling on the breathless air. At first there were just a few isolated beats, but then a rhythm developed. Dan stiffened in surprise, recognising the voice of a talking drum. He turned his head towards the source. The throbbing pulse was coming from the forest. His lips parted as the realisation came to him that somewhere – hidden among the trees – was a village. He turned to Eliza, watching the same understanding dawn across her face.
At that moment the owl called out again, its resonant cry riding over the drumbeat. Dan looked around just in time to see the bird spread its huge wings, dropping from the branch. Catching the updraft, it soared into the air like a plane.
The owl flew above the road in the direction of the bridge. There it dipped one wing, slicing the air. Wheeling round, it headed upstream, as if answering the call of the drum.