‘Look,’ I began. ‘You’re not supposed to be away from the wagon. Didn’t I tell you? We may have to get out quick. What happened to the guy we put here to mind you?’
‘Oh,’ she waved vaguely. ‘He’s over there, somewhere.’
I forced myself to chill out, and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I still have pain in the head. Quite bad.’ She spoke with a strong German accent, and her voice had a harsh edge that grated on the ear.
‘Did Mart give you aspirin or something?’
‘I take the tablets, yes.’
‘Good.’ I couldn’t help thinking of the ground-up dog-shit. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘How about a name, for a start.’
‘Braun, Ingeborg.’
‘And what do you do for a living?’
‘Already I have this conversation, with your friend.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Wildlife,’ she said wearily, shifting her bad ankle. ‘Animals are my business.’
‘Safaris?’
‘Not exactly. We give advice to game-parks, yes?’
‘On what?’
‘Numbers, culling. Naturschütz — conservation.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘My company is SWAG.’ She pronounced the letters ess, vay, ah, gay. ‘That means South West Africa Game.’
‘And where’s it based?’
‘Windhoek.’
Again, a very Germanic pronunciation: Wint-herk.
‘We are affiliated with Conscor,’ she added, as if that would make everything clear.
‘Conscor?’
‘The Conservation Corporation. They run the best game lodges: Makalali, Phindi, Londolozi.’
‘So where were you going when the plane crashed?’
‘Ach!’ She drew the back of one hand across her forehead. ‘So many questions!’
I waited, not wanting to give any leads.
Then she said, ‘It is difficult to remember. When did we fall under?’
‘Three days ago now.’ I added a day deliberately.
‘I am unconscious so long?’
I nodded.
‘And my companions?’
‘Killed in the crash, I’m afraid.’
‘So. Their bodies?’
‘We had to leave them. The area was very remote.’
Her pale blue eyes stared at me. I thought, she’s trying to remember. Or maybe she’s calculating, working things out. There was something about her that made the second alternative seem more likely.
‘You have reported the accident?’
‘Of course. We told Kamangan army headquarters in Mulongwe, and also our own people in the UK.’
‘Kamanga!’ Her whole body gave a twitch, as though she’d had an electric shock. ‘I am in Kamanga?’
When I nodded, there was something peculiar about her reaction. For a second she looked almost elated, but then her face clouded. Later, I kept thinking back on that moment, and what it meant. But it was gone in an instant, and she exclaimed, ‘Scheisse! What happened to the plane? Normally it is reliable.’
‘The trouble sounded like dirt in the fuel. The engines were misfiring.’
‘And where did it happen?’
I shrugged. ‘Hard to know. Our maps are so bad, they don’t bear any relation to what’s on the ground. All I can tell you is that the site is a day’s driving north of here.’
‘You cannot find it again?’
‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Besides, there wouldn’t be any point. The aircraft was a write-off. It caught fire when it went in.’
‘My companions were burned?’
‘No, they were thrown clear. They were killed by the impact.’
She stared at me, absorbing the information, then asked, ‘You found their papers, their wallets?’
‘Only one. A man called Pretorius.’
‘So. And I?’
‘You were caught in the straps, in the back seats. You owe your life to the fact the fire didn’t start immediately. Fuel was leaking from the wing-tanks, but we just had time to get you out.’
‘We?’
‘Myself and Whinger. He was the one who found you. He got quite badly burnt by the fireball.’
‘This man is who?’
‘Whinger Watson.’
‘Vincha? Is that an English name?’
‘It’s his nickname. His real name’s Fred, but he’s been Whinger ever since anyone can remember.’
‘So.’ Again she stared at me, and I thought, you devious bitch. Don’t bother to tell me you had a conversation with him earlier today, will you? Don’t own up to the fact that you were trying to search his kit.
‘Our luggage?’
‘Also burnt.’
‘All? No bags thrown out?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ As an afterthought, I asked, ‘Where were the cases?’
‘Some inside, some in the nose compartment. The aircraft went arse over tit. The nose was crumpled first, then the whole thing burned.’ I was thinking, I don’t suppose she’s going to thank us — and sure enough, she didn’t.
‘So where am I now?’
‘Like I said, about a day’s driving south, out in the bush. We brought you with us. It was the only thing to do.’
‘And you are here, why?’
‘We’re training a unit of the Kamangan government forces.’
‘These blex!’ She spat the word out with a mixture of arrogance and scorn that was all too familiar: I’d heard any number of Southern African whites talk about natives with that tone.
‘Some of them are all right,’ I said defensively.
‘Training for what? For the war, I suppose. My God, I would rather train dogs. At least they do not eat each other.’
‘Well, it’s our job.’
‘All these shootings this morning, these explosions.’
‘That was an exercise, a practice battle.’
‘It is finished?’
‘For the time being, yes.’
‘Then you can take me back, perhaps.’
‘Back? Where to?’
‘To Gorongosa.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The Gorongosa national park. Where we came from. It is in Mozambique.’
‘Mozambique! Jesus! You flew from there?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘But it’s bloody miles away. The border’s far enough. How far’s Gorongosa inside Mozambique?’
‘The park headquarters? Perhaps two hundred, three hundred kilometres.’
‘How long did it take?’
She waved both hands in a gesture that said, ‘How do I know?’ Then, ‘Maybe two hours, three hours.’
‘What time did you take off?’
‘In the morning… what time was the accident?’
‘Lunchtime.’
‘So, we take off at nine, nine-thirty, maybe. Not sure.’
‘Heading for where?’
‘Yes,’ she said, as if still calculating. ‘Now I remember. It was after breakfast. Nine exactly.’
‘And where were you going?’
‘Endlich, to Windhoek, but first to Gaborone, in Botswana. You have a map? I show you.’
‘Okay. Just a minute.’
I walked back through the grove of trees and found Whinger in precisely the same position, still shaking.
‘Had her yet?’ he asked casually.
‘Twice,’ I told him. ‘Listen. She doesn’t realise I talked to you before I saw her. She never mentioned coming over here. She’s lying all the time. Where’s our map of the area, the one without Gutu marked on it?’
‘On the pinkie.’ He pointed at a millboard slung round the windscreen pillar. ‘Why?’
‘I need to check her story. There’s something about her that doesn’t hang together. She says the plane came from Mozambique, and I don’t reckon it can have. She’s fucking curious about where we are, and I don’t want her to know. I want her kept well in the dark about what we’re doing.’