4

Digby Adams looked around the arrivals hall at Kuwisha International Airport in case Cecil Pearson had yet to come through. True, the journalist was on holiday. His successor, however, was away in Angola, covering a UN conference on culture and development. It was just possible that Cecil might be persuaded to do Dolly’s story – particularly if it was offered as an exclusive. First Digby had to introduce him to Dolly. Clearly she was still shaking off the effects of the sedative, but he hoped that her charm would work its usual magic.

Then he remembered the journalist’s boast about travelling light, hand luggage only, and guessed Pearson would probably be half way into the city by now . . .

There was no shortage of taxi drivers at the airport, and in a sea of welcoming faces, Digby chose the driver with the biggest smile.

“Aloysius,” said Aloysius Hatende.

“Digby,” said Digby, and the two shook hands.

He negotiated a fare, which, although high, had to take into account an unfortunate fact, about which it was only fair to warn Aloysius. If the journey to Heathrow had been any indicator, Dolly had a tendency to get severely car sick.

Aloysius shrugged. Car sickness he could tolerate and even sympathise with. It was the violent vomiting of passengers who had over-indulged in Tuskers that he couldn’t understand. A waste of good beer!

He pocketed the extra 100 ngwee that Digby had offered.

Dolly safely ensconced, they set off for the office of WorldFeed.

If all went to plan, Digby and Dolly would meet David Podmore, the UKAid director in Kuwisha. A photo opportunity, followed by a briefing of the foreign press corps, would be chaired by Lucy Gomball, but with Digby answering the questions.

In one of his last acts before he left for Kuwisha, Digby had prepared the ground for the event, planting the story with the subtlety of his trade. He had phoned the foreign desks of several of the leading newspapers, urging them to ignore rumours that WorldFeed had appointed Mia Farrow as a “development ambassador” to Kuwisha.

“Absolutely not true,” he said.

When pressed, he acknowledged that WorldFeed had indeed appointed an ambassador, code-named Dolly, but sought their cooperation.

“Look chaps, you know me. I have never lied to you and I don’t intend to start now,” he had told the news desks before he set off for Kuwisha. “Let me categorically rule out one name that’s come up. Kate Moss is not, I repeat not, Dolly.”

Alerted by their London offices, the foreign press corps in Kuwisha concluded that there was a strong chance that Angelina Jolie was the mysterious “Dolly” – and the prospect of seeing this celeb in the flesh was enough to ensure interest in the promised photo opportunity.

The journey into the city had been slow and tedious. Pearson was right in his advice to take carry-on baggage only. The wait at the luggage carousel could take half an hour – and in that time, traffic conditions could change. Unlike Pearson, who had managed to miss the worst of the hold-up, they were caught in the morning rush.

Although the Chinese contractors had completed their road-widening project, the highway was nevertheless clogged. Huge lorries, belching fumes, matatus with horns blaring, four-wheel drive vehicles, taxis in various stages of decrepitude, buses and cars, all competed for space.

The traffic lights had been switched off, their function taken over by policemen who manned makeshift road blocks, and whose job appeared to be to slow the flow and allow colleagues time to impose fines for offences that were largely imagined.

“Police,” said Aloysius, shaking his head, “always eating.”

His hand carried invisible food to his mouth in the symbol of corruption.

Digby looked on as the vehicles, with a bewildering range of acronyms emblazoned on their frames, crawled along, hooting their frustration. Most of the names were familiar to him and he felt proud to be joining their cause, a dedicated infantryman in Africa’s battle against debt, disease and deprivation.

“Not a bad line,” he thought to himself and took out his notebook.

“Infantryman in the battle against disease and deprivation . . .” he jotted down, with his local paper in mind. “Our man in Africa experiences life on poverty’s front line . . . foot soldier in the struggle against deprivation . . .”

As he wrote, the four-wheel drives carrying the resident representatives of the high and the mighty of the aid industry rolled into the city, like a squadron of tanks: Danida and UNDP, Dfid and UKAid, UNDP and UNIDO, NorAid and Christian Aid, Oxfam and Save the Children, all part of a parade of international concern and compassion. The organisations they represented pursued every cause that involved or afflicted mankind in general and Kuwisha in particular.

Female genital mutilation, environmental degradation, child abuse, renewable energy, gender discrimination, intermediate technology, health care for nomads, promotion of the informal sector, the welfare of pastoralists, teaching illiterates: it seemed that not a concern was neglected and not an interest group unrepresented. Even obesity had joined the ranks, and PAD (Promoting an African Diet) was in the vanguard of change to the continent’s eating habits.

Within the air-conditioned interior of their vehicles sat the men and women who did so much to help the frail economy of Kuwisha tick over. They were rich targets for the street vendors, who were making the most of this opportunity.

On a normal day the vendors would be sprinting alongside a customer’s car as it gathered speed, handing over the purchase, delving for change, and dodging oncoming traffic. Today they were moving at a leisurely pace, up and down the marooned vehicles, whose occupants had become a captive market. From car to car they went, adroitly sidestepping the potholes that had reappeared after the first rains, moving back and forth, to and fro, as alert to a flicker of curiosity or interest as an auctioneer on a slow day at market, as assiduous and as persuasive in their patter as life assurance salesmen, while they good-humouredly touted their wares.

Festooned with fake mobile phones and battery-driven fans from Taiwan, apples from South Africa, screwdrivers from China, clocks and DVDs, the variety seemed endless.

Dolly looked around benignly. The sedative that she had taken before her journey must have been wearing off, yet she seemed unfazed by the cacophony that surrounded them.

“Not long now,” said Digby and gave her a pat. It was overfamiliar, and Dolly moved away. He regretted his gesture, for it was presumptuous. Worse than that, it may have had a bearing on what happened a few minutes later.

With their progress reduced to a walking pace, Aloysius pressed the door locks on his side of the car, and motioned to Digby to do the same.

“Thieves,” he said, clearing his throat with a long rasping cough. “Bang-bang boys. Pretend that a car has hit them. When it stops, they steal. Very bad.”

He wound down his window and expelled a gob of phlegm onto the verge, before closing it again.

A succession of supplicants knocked gently but persistently on the windscreen – blind old men led by young boys, women who held out their babies, and cripples, with the more fortunate perched on tricycles, while the rest pulled themselves along on what looked like tea-trays with wheels.

Suddenly Aloysius braked, and although they were barely moving, Digby was thrown forward by the jolt. It was the dreadful sound of steel on flesh that he recalled most vividly, along with the expression of pain on the face of a young boy as he was struck by the passenger side of the taxi.