Recoil

8

Sam pulled out a sat phone and pushed it towards me. ‘Go on, give yourself a treat . . .’

The offer was too good to miss, but not because I wanted to whisper sweet nothings to her; I wanted to warn her about the threat from the north, and get her to move to the mine right away.

Sam picked up his gear. ‘I’ll see you outside on the strip.’

I scrolled the phone’s menu to find how to block the outgoing number. I didn’t want Silky seeing twelve digits and wondering why I was suddenly on a sat phone instead of my cell. If she thought I was in-country, it might push her even further away.

These things had come a long way since the eighties, when Standish had had to set up a dish to make contact. This one was small enough to fit into my pocket. The sat phone’s number had been written down its side with a permanent marker so the team always knew which phone was which.

I didn’t have that problem with Tim’s number – I’d memorized it. I tapped in the first few digits. ‘Who is this?’ He sounded English, middle-class and very abrupt. ‘Tim? It’s Nick, Silky’s friend. Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s not here until this evening. Étienne told me you want her to call, and she will. Please don’t use this phone for social calls. It’s emergency use only.’

‘Tim, you’ve got to—’

Too late. The phone was dead.

Shit. Maybe her mobile had a signal. I tried it, but got nothing. I connected with my mobile’s voicemail. The automated response told me I’d received no calls.

Fuck it. I called Tim’s number again.

Straight to voicemail. I told him about the LRA, and advised him to move to the mine. Then I hung up. There was nothing more I could do. I wiped both numbers off the history, picked up my party gear and headed out of the tent.