The Devil's breath

5

The Bushman boy’s name was!Koga, pronounced by drawing the tongue away from the roof of the mouth-at least that’s how it sounded to Max. Cloga was the best he could manage; he thought it sounded as though he was clucking at the hens, back at the school’s farm. There is no history of writing for the Bushmen so Kallie wrote !Koga-showing Max that the! was the European way of expressing one of the many click noises used in the Bushman language. “He speaks some English,” Kallie told him. “His family helped a geologist for a couple of years.”

Max shook hands with the boy, who glanced away shyly. “He told my father there were rock paintings in the caves,” Kallie continued. “I don’t know where, but I reckon about three hundred k’s from here. No one I know has ever been there. The paintings, so he says, show your arrival. He wants to help find your father.”

!Koga remained silent, his eyes watching the horizon. Max was uncertain. This could be a wild-goose chase. The middle of nowhere was a dangerous place to be chasing flights of fancy.

“Look,” he said quietly, hoping not to offend the boy, “pictures of me on cave walls sound a bit dodgy. Maybe my dad told him I would come, maybe!Koga or his family drew them-y’know, part of their storytelling folklore or something.”

Kallie pulled a face. “I wish that were true, but the!Kung Bushmen don’t have a history of rock painting. The last ones discovered were a thousand years old.” She nodded to the boy, who turned back towards the cool shade of the trees by the water hole. “Don’t ask me how they know some of the spooky things they know-but I trust whatever it is they’re in touch with. Call it ancient wisdom; call it spirits of their ancestors-whatever it is, a lot of Bushmen have got it. He’ll take you as far as he can, back to his own people, wherever they are. Anyway, they’re the ones who last saw your dad.”

Max only wanted to save his dad; cave paintings and prophecies felt as though they were going to get in the way. But could he afford to risk not going along with the very boy who had delivered his father’s notes?

As he crawled under the mosquito net that night, his father’s face was the last thing he saw as he tumbled into fitful sleep. At first he was troubled by images of being chased, of being cornered in dark passageways, of being held under water, suffocating-all reflections of the day that his unconscious mind interpreted in its own way. But gradually he slipped past the monsters and settled into a deep and restful slumber.

When he awoke, the first shards of light were breaking up the sky. Stretching away the sleep, he realized he was feeling great. And he was starving. He could smell coffee and fresh bread. It was predawn cold so he pulled on a lightweight jersey and made his way to the kitchen table.

The old woman nodded at him, unsmiling, and said something he did not understand, so he nodded back, and within minutes a hot tray was taken from the old wood-burning stove’s oven; corn cakes and sausage were slid onto a warm plate and then the sizzling sound of three eggs being fried filled the kitchen. In less than a minute the plate was put in front of him. Not exactly the kind of health-conscious breakfast he was used to, but out here, he guessed, you ate what you could.

By the time he had wiped the plate clean, the sun was dazzling the windows. Kallie came in and poured coffee into one of the tin mugs. “You ready to go?”

He nodded, uncertain what she had in mind. “I’d fly you on further, but I can’t. I’m going up to see my dad, he needs supplies. He’s extending his safari, that’s northwest from here.” She picked up her coffee and went back outside. He realized she meant him to follow her.

An ex-military, long-wheelbase Land Rover stood ready in front of the farmhouse. Its bodywork still sported a faded camouflage pattern. Two shovels were strapped to the bulkhead, a canvas cover was stretched across the skeleton frame of the vehicle; a dozen jerrycans were secured in the back, with another two in special holders on each side of the headlights, and a whip aerial’s three-meter length quivered in the barely noticeable breeze.

“Most kids out here can drive round the farms by the time they’re ten or eleven, what about you?”

Max nodded. His dad had taught him when they were on one of their holidays, but that was in a small, battered old car. This brute of a 4?4 might be beyond his skills. “Sure,” he said, “but I’ve never driven in the desert before.”

“It’s mostly scrubland. If you hit soft sand you drive slowly; if you get stuck you deflate the tires. That’s the low-ratio gearstick for when it gets really tough.” She leaned across the Land Rover, pointing out the equipment. “There’s a foot pump, shovels and these sand channels.” She patted two metal runners, a couple of meters long and half a meter wide, strapped on the side of the Land Rover. “My guess is you’re heading for grassland and then maybe the mountains. This thing’ll take you anywhere, just don’t tip it beyond thirty degrees or you’ll roll it. There’s water in those jerrycans and diesel in these.” Max took all this in, determined to put a brave face on the daunting task. Twenty meters away,!Koga waited, squatting on his haunches, watching.

“I’ve packed a few days’ dried food, but you won’t starve.” She looked towards!Koga. “Not with him.” Kallie gave him that look again. Gazing right into his eyes. This time the blood didn’t rush to his face. He felt confident. No point kidding himself or anyone else, he decided, not out here.

“I lied when I said I was nearly seventeen. I’m not. I’m fifteen,” he said.

“I know. I checked your passport when you were asleep.

Sorry about that, but I wanted to make sure you were who you said you were. You’re crazy, you know that, don’t you?” she said.

He nodded.

“But if it was me … I’d be doing the same thing.” She smiled. And for Max that was warmer than the sun already climbing in the sky.

“Time to go,” he said.

Max wrestled the steering wheel. Over the past few hours he had tested the engine’s power, had made a mess of the four-wheel-drive settings, got it sorted, pushed himself and the machine and was bombing along a semblance of a track, red dust chasing him.!Koga sat next to him, a firm grip on the dashboard, smiling at the thrill of it. Kallie had told him that!Koga spoke some English, but so far the boy had not said a word. Maybe he was as caught up in the moment as Max. Heat, speed and a humming engine were intoxicating.

Max eased off the accelerator: this was still what they called a road out here, but a surface of loose stones on a hardcore base was giving way to off-road conditions. Low scrub began to obscure the way ahead. As keen as he was to strike out and find his dad, he had to make sure he got there safely, and that meant he had to use his brain as well as his muscle.

Before he left the farm, Kallie had spread out an old, creased and sweat-stained map, showing him landmarks along the way to Skeleton Rock-of which there were precious few. Buffalo Boulder, Snake River-a twisting dried-up riverbed; Dancing Grass Valley-where a permanent breeze from the mountains swayed feather-topped savannah grass; Lightning Tree-the remains of a giant bao-bab, blackened but still standing after a mighty storm had rolled across its arid valley.

Grid references and map bearings would be his lifeline and he could plot a course using the fixed compass clamped to the dashboard.

“You see rain anywhere-on the horizon, in the mountains-you take extra care,” she warned him. “We get flash floods that’ll tear you and that Land Rover to bits. One minute it’s a dry, safe place, and the next there’s a wall of water roaring out of nowhere.”

As if Max didn’t have enough to worry about, now a rainstorm could kill him.

Fear can destroy a man, his dad told him once, but knowledge dispels fear. Equip yourself with as much information as you can, lessen the odds against you and then you have a chance. Don’t give in to fear. It’s all in the mind.

Words, echoing.

OK. He had done all that his dad had taught him. This wasn’t a jaunt across Europe or America, where he could tap a number into his cell phone and get help; there was no phone signal out here. Kallie had given him her radio frequency, explaining that most of the farmers used radios to help each other across these vast distances, so if he got himself into trouble at least there was a chance of summoning help. Though how long it would take to reach him was anybody’s guess.

The sun was at its zenith, beating down fiercely. Mirages appeared on the horizon: illusions of upside-down mountains, trees that weren’t there and broken ghost images of animals. Nothing moved. The furnace-hot air whipped across the top of the canvas cabin, trapping them. Time to stop.

Max eased down a couple of gears and bumped through the scrub and into the dry, waist-high grass. He eased the Land Rover under shade-giving branches, pushing aside low-growing acacia trees. Within moments of switching off the engine and getting out to stretch, a shadow swooped low overhead. For a second he thought it was a bird of prey, but as the darkened shape slipped across them the sound of an aircraft engine broke the silence. It must be Kallie, he thought, on her way north. But instinct warned him not to raise his hand and wave. The plane banked away. It was a different type of aircraft from Kallie’s, and in a tight turn it circled to fly over the area again.

Whoever it was, they were looking for him. The old Land Rover’s camouflage blended easily into the tangled acacias and high grass. Max and!Koga moved deeper into the shade and squatted together as another growling roar passed over their heads.

He cursed himself. It was probably his own stupidity that had brought his pursuers on to him so quickly. He had been showing off, driving the Land Rover to impress nobody but himself and maybe!Koga. The dust trail could have been seen for a hundred kilometers from up there.

The plane turned again, clockwise this time-from the east-watching for shadows that shouldn’t be there. Max did not move and the rush of noise went by again. He was certain there was nowhere for the plane to land, so perhaps they were spotting for men on the ground. Yes, that made sense.

Once the plane was far away towards the horizon Max grabbed a pair of binoculars from the cab, clambered onto the top of the Land Rover and balanced on the steel roof supports. He could see across most of the landscape. The plane had not swung back again. Was it looking for a landing place? He traversed the horizon. Nothing. A couple of kilometers away, a small herd of giraffe were feeding, their thick tongues rolling out to eat thorny branches from the higher trees.

A small kick of dust alerted him. Was that a rhino pushing through the bushes and grass? Sweat stung his eyes. He squinted through the glare and heat haze. Then one of the giraffes swung its neck and started galloping with its awkward gait. The others followed. It was no rhino that had spooked them. A pickup truck, with half a dozen men in the back, rolled and jolted slowly across the difficult ground. And the men were armed.

Max ducked involuntarily. Then, realizing that the plane could not have spotted him, otherwise the pickup truck would be heading straight for them, he peered again through the tinted lenses. The truck was several kilometers away and was moving obliquely away from them. Max slithered down and checked the map. His dust trail must have told the pilot his direction of travel. The armed men would be in a position to cut him off if he stayed on his intended route.

He had to find another way. As he scoured the map,!Koga was on the ground, scuffing the dirt with a stick, then putting down stones and twigs. He crumbled dried leaves, keeping his fingers together so that the bits fell in one place. “Max,”!Koga said quietly, speaking for the first time. Hearing his name spoken gave Max a sudden sense of companionship. He crouched next to the Bushman boy, who was pointing to the model he had created. “Here,” he said, touching the gravel he had sprinkled, and raised a finger. That was to be the first place they must reach.!Koga then indicated the other places in turn-the crumpled leaves, the upright stones, the twisting scratch in the dust. And each time he pointed, he raised another finger. Four fingers, each objective in that order.

Max understood immediately, creased the map back into another fold and searched for the places that!Koga had made on the ground. The foothills of the mountains were boulder-strewn, then the mountains themselves swept down to a grassy plateau. The contours on the map took his eye down to the twisting river. Max smiled and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. They were in this together and!Koga was the best person to have with him. Max felt great. How could he ever get lost out here with his newfound friend? His confidence surged; another three hours to nightfall and they would easily make camp in the foothills.

And then he made the second mistake of the day. He underestimated his opponents, and it nearly killed them both.

Max drove through the tall grass, his eyes fixed on the distant rise of mountains. He would rejoin the track, drive for two or three kilometers and then find an entry point to the foothills for what looked to be an arduous drive across bumpy terrain. Concentrating hard so as not to have any mishaps before he reached the road, he failed to see the dust drifting in the sky over his shoulder. He was within meters of bursting through the low trees and shrubs, up a small rise in the ground, before joining the track. He pulled the gear lever down, floored the accelerator and the Land Rover surged up and onto the road. Max swung the wheel, shifted a gear and nearly died of fright as a black pickup truck grated alongside, colliding with the Land Rover. Metal screeched and he heard shouts from the men in the truck as they tried to regain their balance.

The pickup had been traveling at some speed and failed to see Max’s camouflaged vehicle as it lurched out of the undergrowth. Just as well. There were three men in the back, all armed, and if they had seen the Land Rover, Max and!Koga’s blood would now be soaking into the dust.

For a second the two vehicles grated metal against metal, jostling side by side. Max glanced desperately across at the gunmen. The driver was wrestling with the steering wheel, just as Max was doing. The men in the back were thrown down. One of them had been standing against the roll bar, clutching a radio handset in his fist, and that wire was broken as the man fell and rolled. The image fed information to Max’s brain. They had lost radio contact!

The vehicles clashed again, and Max felt the Land Rover sliding, being pushed dangerously close to tipping over the rim of the road and back into the tall grass. The steel sand ramps strapped to the side saved them from serious injury. The gunmen’s 4?4 had ripped the ramps away; now they slid under its wheels and for a few vital seconds took control out of the driver’s hands. The pickup was riding a two-meter skateboard. Max heaved the steering wheel over and the bull-bars on the Land Rover’s nose clipped the rear of the pickup, spinning it around. However, the driver did an amazing job of turning into each successive spinning skid, giving the men in the back a chance to clamber to their feet.

There was a gap between the pickup and the edge of the road, and Max headed straight for it. The pickup truck was parallel again; snarling faces in the billowing dust; shouts above the noise of the tortured engines. One of the men steadied himself with one hand and leveled an AK-47 straight at them. Sweat stung Max’s eyes, the windshield glare blinded him momentarily, the Land Rover’s engine was screaming and he could not get another ounce of power from it. The gunman couldn’t miss. They were dead. Why hadn’t he fired? The man screamed. Blood smothered his chest as he fell into the other men. Confused, Max turned to see!Koga holding his meter-long hunting bow, now free of its lightweight shaft. It was a killing shot, taking the gunman in the heart.

The Land Rover got past the pickup, whose driver was trying to respond to one of his men screaming and shouts of panic from the others.!Koga’s face was expressionless. Kallie had told him enough about the Bushmen for him to know that they did not relish killing; that there was no anger in a kill. Life was taken only when it meant survival. The Bushmen did not kill for sport. No matter how harsh their life in the desert, no matter how many times!Koga had killed to eat, Max felt sure he had never harmed another human being before.

Max nodded at him, hoping that simple gesture would convey everything he felt; knowing it could not.

Max had to get them out of here. The pickup had fallen back, giving him a few vital extra seconds before the expected gunfire found them. The men in this pickup were the second search party; the spotter plane had been working two teams on the ground. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Berating himself served no purpose.!Koga pointed ahead. “Animal path.”

Where? Max could see no sign of anything. Then a slender line that broke the edges of the scrub caught his eye. It was no different from back home, when the Dartmoor ponies moved across the land. Over the years the animals’ nomadic journeys squashed any growing thing underfoot and created a scar through the heather.

Max gripped the steering wheel and yanked hard. The Land Rover took the ground well. They rocked and rolled, their shoulders banging against the door frames, but the old vehicle clambered up the stone-laden slope like a mountain goat. Max looked back. The men in the pickup had sorted themselves out and the 4?4’s defiant wheelspin told Max that they were coming for him again. Max had a good lead, at least four hundred meters, but he was losing sight of the game-path that guided him.!Koga gestured, his hand curving, showing Max the twisting route.

The boulders were small, about the size of three footballs in a carrying net, but their edges were jagged. They could hear them scraping underneath. Then it felt as if someone was throwing stones at them, a clattering dull thud against the sides, like hailstones on a roof. But microseconds after the imagined pebbles stung the Land Rover, the flat crack of the AK-47s chased the bullets. Canvas ripped, jerrycans spilled their precious cargo and the throat-catching stench of diesel filled the cab. The burlap water bag hanging on the outside of the door exploded as one of the bullets narrowly missed Max.

The gunmen had stopped. The Land Rover had a higher ground clearance, so the pickup could not follow. Those men knew this was not the place to be stranded-without a radio and with one man dead, they were already at a disadvantage. To risk damaging their vehicle beyond repair was a risk too far. All Max had to do now was get across the ridge, so temptingly close, which would put them out of sight and range. And then keep going.

The men were aiming badly, failing to consider the rising ground in front of them, so their shots fell short. With a surge of acceleration Max pushed the Land Rover over the top and out of harm’s way.

Except that in that last, crucial moment, they suddenly jolted to a dead stop.!Koga was off-balance-he was looking back, watching the men. His head whipped forward and cracked against the dashboard and he groaned, slumping forward. Max floored the accelerator, but all he could hear was the screaming engine. They were wedged, straddling a broad, flat boulder, and the wheels could find no purchase.

Max checked!Koga. He was unconscious. Max had to get the Land Rover free. He piled out of the cab, scrambled onto the canvas roof and started to rock the vehicle backwards-pushing his weight down, trying to give the back wheels some grip. The gunmen were still a long way down the hill, but their firing had stopped-because the 4?4 driver was clambering upwards towards Max, a pistol in one hand and a hunting knife in the other. This was personal. The man stumbled, cursing his clumsiness and the pain as his shoulder slammed into a boulder. But rage powered him on, his eyes fixed on Max. His prey.

Max was defenseless, the man less than ten meters away now, and Max could hear him grunting with exertion and see the sheen of sweat on his face. The man’s gun hand hung limply at his side-he had caught it a punishing blow on the rock-but the knife he wielded would be enough to do the job. The man slashed at Max’s feet and the tough canvas slit as if it were tissue paper.

The driver’s injured arm stopped him from coming aboard, but there was no way Max could keep his own balance on such a flimsy roof. He needed a weapon. The radio aerial! It was in a podlike bracket on the rear bulkhead. The man slashed again and spittle shot from his lips as he snarled in frustration, but Max jumped over the cab, found his footing on the spare wheel that was locked on the bonnet and jinked to the left as his feet hit the ground.

The driver was on the far side of the Land Rover, near the right-hand headlight. He would have to come all the way back to reach Max, who had reached the aerial and had both hands pressing down on its base. He twisted it free from its locked position and held what was now a three-meter-long metal whip. The man lunged, but he was a couple of meters away. Max slashed at him and the stinging metal cut across the top of his neck and shoulder. He cried out, but then snarled and spat even more, like a tormented scrapyard dog. If he ducked beneath Max’s swinging arc he would gut him like a fish.

Max was well balanced-a slight bend in his knees, his feet edging up onto his toes, waiting for the rush of his opponent. His fists were clenched around the aerial’s base as a warrior would hold a double-edged sword. The driver waited, Max watched his eyes; the man stabbed forward, but that was a feint-he intended to swing his arm back and plunge the razor-sharp blade into Max’s stomach. Max yelled, giving himself a surge of energy, ridding himself of the last vestige of fear, and whipped the aerial across his body-left and right and back again. Welts of blood suddenly appeared on the driver’s arms, chest and face. An almost surgical cut suddenly ran from above his left ear, down across his face and onto his neck. He was blinded. Max stepped back, nausea welling inside. He had caused the man serious injury, it felt terrible, and his feeling of guilt almost made him lower his guard. A voice shouted from his own mind-He was going to kill you! Max recovered and tightened his grip, but there would be no further attack-the man was defeated. He fell, picked himself up and went down the hill at a stumbling run, blinded by blood.

Max’s efforts on the back of the Land Rover had rocked it free, and it had slid off the flat-topped rock. He threw the aerial into the back. They needed help and the radio was their only means of contacting anyone. Kallie. He would radio Kallie. She would send the police, or the army, anyone. Max felt the icy fear of being completely out of his depth.

But as the physical exertion of coaxing the Land Rover diagonally down the reverse slope of the ridge focused Max’s panic, his doubts swept away like the dust behind him. He would radio for help, but he was not going to stop. He would find his father. The bouncing Land Rover jolted!Koga. Max was steering with one hand and holding the Bushman’s shoulder with the other, keeping the boy’s head from banging against the dashboard. By the time they reached the flat road!Koga’s eyes had opened.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We won!” Max shouted. He laughed, though the steering wheel had a life of its own and demanded less celebration and more concentration as they lumbered across the uneven ground.!Koga smiled and said something Max took to be the Bushman equivalent of “Let’s get out of here while the going’s good.”

They were on the cooler, moister side of the hills, which offered more vegetation, the reason why animals trekked here. The boulders gave way to gentler ground with the hills to one side; they were now in a valley, heading towards the guardian mountains. As the ground leveled, Max let the tension ease out of his hands-he had been gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. With a backwards glance and the thought that it would take their attackers at least an hour, probably longer, before they contacted the other group, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Fear had dried his mouth and he was parched, but he made a deal with himself to stop and drink only when they were in the lee of the mountains, which had already lost the sun and which would offer them safety and shelter. A good vantage point, a safe haven for the night, was all he wanted now. And that drink.

As they drove towards the mountains, now purple in the evening light, he gazed in wonder at the amphitheater which lay before him. Perhaps this was a small corner of the Garden of Eden. He could not know its beauty concealed a treacherous place of death, where bones of the dead already lay.

A satellite link between Shaka Chang and his man in England beamed their voices across the thousands of kilometers between them. Things were not going as planned. There was no friendliness when they spoke, only irritation that the simple task of eliminating a boy was taking so long. Chang was on the first level of his desert fortress. It was a proper fort, huge and square, with battlements, like the French Foreign Legion had had in the Sahara, only this one had been built by a deluded German count in the nineteenth century. He had imagined himself to be a king and he built the castle as a fortress. It was impenetrable, riddled with underground chambers, escape routes, cellars, dungeons and a gravity-fed water system from a deep well. Unbeknown to the count, the castle lay on a fault line that a future owner-Shaka Chang-would develop into a mini-hydroelectric power supply. One day, the count told his wife and children he was going for a walk to admire the flowers along the riverside boulevard, and his wife realized that he had finally gone mad. There were no flowers, no boulevard and, by that night, no count. They found his blood-smeared, silver-topped cane next morning. She and the children went back to Bavaria, to the cold, the snow and everything she had missed, including the count’s wealth, which she inherited. The fortress lay empty until the First World War, when the German army took control. A bitter war of extermination was levied against the indigenous people and the fortress’s reputation for housing mad and then cruel people was embedded.

And ten years ago Shaka Chang moved in.

He made it a modern outpost with every conceivable luxury. Now he stood in a vast room. Deep, cool shadows created an almost permanent chill, so there was no need for air-conditioning. The view from the panoramic window encompassed desert, mountain and an area of wetland, almost swamplike, which seeped away from the reed beds at the riverbank. When animals came to drink, there was no greater observation place in southern Africa. It also gave him a view of the crocodile sandbanks, where he liked to watch them bask and glide like assassins into the still waters to feed on unwary victims. Not all the prey were four-legged animals. A salutary lesson for all to see-anyone displeasing Shaka Chang made a serious mistake.

The driver who had led the chase earlier had been summoned. With one of his men dead, and himself still bleeding from Max’s whipping, humiliation competed with the physical pain that had been inflicted on him. The driver was thirsty but dared not ask for water.

Guards stood at the entrance as he awaited his master. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, his slashed T-shirt, encrusted with blood, stuck to his dust-caked body and by now the cuts were itching furiously. Chang, by contrast, was dressed in a cotton shirt, handmade of the highest-quality materials in Jermyn Street, London. He reached for a bottle of water, the condensation on the blue glass clinging like frost. His tailor always cut the shirts loose enough so as not to stretch across Chang’s muscular frame, but nothing could deny that bulk and power. Black slacks and calfskin slip-on shoes completed the effect of a modern businessman-immaculate taste and informal appearance which stamped his authority.

To one side, in one of the darker corners, another man hovered, barely visible, which was the way he liked it. He was quite opposite in physique and style to Chang. Small and skinny to the point of being gaunt, with a gray pallor to his skin, Mr. Lucius Slye never went outside unless he had a big black umbrella to shield him from the sun and glare. Secretly, he was known as Mr. Rat to everyone who knew him, though they would never say it out loud-he was too dangerous. His pinched face, his pointed, sniffy, twitching nose and threads of hair pulled back across his balding head gave him a definitely ratlike appearance. A buttoned-collar black shirt, black suit, black shoes and socks heightened his anemic look. But he was essential to Chang. At every minute of every day he knew the status of Mr. Chang’s widespread business interests. A PDA never left his hands. And now as Chang spoke to his man in England, his gaze never left the wretched face of the driver. It was hard to tell whose eyes were more frightening-Chang’s deep brown pools of mystery or Slye’s soulless gray portals.

Chang spoke calmly as he gazed out across the vastness that was a small corner of his empire. “This line will only be secure for a few moments more,” Chang said as he trickled water into a glass, “so what do we know?”

The voice from England was as clear as if the man was in the room himself, the speakerphone creating a slight echo within the confines of the fortress’s stone walls. “He’s a smart boy, and he’s tough. The training at school has given him a certain resilience. And he can look after himself. But …” The man hesitated, he was buying time. After all Max was on Shaka Chang’s territory now; he would know how resilient Max had been. The man went on, “… what we still do not know is whether he was given clues to where his father has hidden the information he discovered, or whether he is simply trying to find his father. Either way, obviously, that evidence must never reach the authorities.”

“And definitely no indication in England as to what might have been discovered. You have checked?” The veiled threat in Chang’s voice was unavoidable. If the man in England had missed something as vital as Max leaving the explosive information with anyone in authority and was on nothing more than an escapade to rescue his father, then Shaka Chang’s latest multibillion-dollar deal might already be compromised. And Chang’s man in England would have precious few hours left to live.

“He does not have the complete information. I would have found out,” the disembodied voice confidently assured Chang. “He needs to be stopped before he finds out more. I shall continue to do what I can from here.”

Chang nodded. “Wait,” he instructed the man on the phone.

Then he turned and faced the driver. The man flinched.

“Where are they?”

The driver tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. His voice croaked. “East of Camel Rock, they crossed into the valley. They could hide in those mountains for days, sir. We did all we could, Mr. Chang. The pickup, it just couldn’t follow them over that ground. But they won’t get far, their Land Rover is finished. I can promise you, sir, they won’t be going anywhere. And we tried to …” Chang raised a finger. Enough. He did not want to hear any more excuses.

He spoke again for the benefit of the speakerphone. “I do not think we need worry about this boy. He has gone into the Valley of Bones. If the lions or snakes don’t finish him, then the elements will. I think the matter is closed. Nonetheless, keep searching for his father’s evidence. If we can locate it, well and good; better if we could destroy it rather than run the risk of it destroying our plans.” Chang touched a button, disconnecting the link. He turned and gazed at the driver, who bowed his head, desperate not to meet Shaka Chang’s eyes.

“So. You let the boy escape?” Chang said quietly.

Max had clawed the Land Rover up a gentle incline, eased it onto a scrap of a track and stopped under an overhanging rock. Trees and bushes shielded them from the valley below, so Max decided that this was as safe as they could get.

But his sense of success quickly soured. Bullets had punctured the jerrycans of diesel, and if he was lucky he could drain off half a can at most. The provisions box had somehow broken free during the chase and could be anywhere, many kilometers behind them. Worse still was the loss of water; those jerrycans had been on the front of the Land Rover and the initial collision with the 4?4 had pierced them. All they had now was a couple of water bottles between them.!Koga pointed to the way they had come. A persistent dribble of black oil followed to where the Land Rover was now hidden. Those boulders had ripped out something vital. No water, no food, and now no vehicle.

“We need help,” Max said as he locked and secured the radio’s aerial in its base. He flipped on the power switch. There was no gentle hum of life from the radio, the warm-up lights didn’t come on, there was no hiss or crackle through the headset. Then he spotted the neat hole drilled into the front of the radio set. A flared mushroom of torn metal told him that a bullet had punched the life out of their only means of communication. The frightening reality of a bullet’s damage struck home. If either of them had been hit …

“No water, no food, no transport, no radio. I think we might be in a spot of bother,” he said.

The shadow of night and a below-freezing temperature settled quickly. They needed warmth and nourishment. “We’ll light a fire and eat whatever is left,” he told!Koga. “You think we’re safe enough here, for tonight at least?”

!Koga nodded. “Those men would not follow us. There are lions and hyena out there. Tonight is all right. Tomorrow … tomorrow will be hard.” If!Koga thought it was going to be hard, Max realized he was in for a tough time.!Koga gathered kindling while Max found a few tins of food that had not been shaken free during the chase. OK, so tomorrow would be tough-but that was tomorrow’s problem. He shivered, but he told himself it was because of the night air, not his fear.

Max built the fire: kindling, small twigs, then heavier wood. It was so dry it flared the moment he put the flame to it from a cheap plastic lighter. His dad had taught him the benefit of carrying a small emergency pack when heading out into the wilds: waterproof matches, a fishing line, hooks, a beta light-bits and pieces that could mean the difference between life and death. But Max had left Dartmoor High in a hurry and had not expected events to turn so quickly. The fluid-filled plastic lighter was a substitute bought at Windhoek Airport, along with a toothbrush and a tube of sunblock. He would need to protect himself in the severe heat, and if the English cricket team smeared sunblock across their faces when they played, then he felt no qualms about the warpaint effect. But brushing his teeth might have to wait.

They surrounded the fire with rocks. They would need the warmth these generated during the night, but Max was careful to use only heavy, solid stones. Softer rocks such as shale could explode when exposed to heat.

The evening meal was not a great success. They picked at the food, despite their hunger. Maybe the tins were old or perhaps it was the lack of salt but, whatever the reason, it tasted and smelled like dog food. Max decided they needed to cheer themselves up. A hot drink would combat the cold night air and ease the stress of the past few hours-it would also help wash down whatever it was they had just eaten. Using some of the precious water, he made instant coffee, squeezing in half a tube of condensed milk that had miraculously separated itself from the missing box of provisions. He let!Koga drink first and watched his smile of satisfaction as he sipped the hot, sweet liquid.!Koga passed the mug back.

“Tomorrow we hunt. We must eat real food,” he said.

Max nodded. His survival depended on!Koga now. He hated feeling helpless but knew he had to stand back and let the Bushman boy lead them to safety. He watched as!Koga carefully laid out his handful of arrows.

From a small wooden tube!Koga spilled out cocoons he must have collected some time before Max had met him. After carefully selecting two larvae and returning the others for safekeeping, he picked the grubs from their cocoons, rolled them between his fingers until they cracked, then smeared the liquid just below the arrow’s metal point. Each arrowhead had a small, torpedo-shaped joint made of bone that connected to a reed collar which held the tip to the shaft. When the Bushmen shot an animal, the impact allowed the joint to separate arrowhead from shaft, leaving the poisoned point in the animal and the reusable shaft on the ground. Then they tracked the animal until the poison weakened it sufficiently for them to kill it.

Max held one of the arrows close to his face. He felt a fascination with the small metal point. It made him want to run his finger across the tip, testing its sharpness.!Koga snatched his wrist and, with what Max took to be a gentle admonition, took the shaft back. The boy clucked helplessly at Max’s ignorance.

Don’t touch!Koga’s arrowheads, whatever you do. Kallie’s warning came back to Max. The poison is lethal, it’ll kill you.

The Bushmen, experts at using venom on the arrows, chose certain plants to extract their poison, as well as scorpion and snake venom, but they preferred the larvae of the chrysomelid beetle, something that looked like a ladybird and whose larvae could be found buried beneath dead trees. There is no known antidote to this poison. Nosy, adventurous schoolboys from England would be dead in minutes if they so much as scratched a finger on an arrowhead.

Tomorrow, they would hunt and begin their most serious test of survival. They would enter a hostile world on foot, with no weapons other than the knife Max carried and!Koga’s lightweight spear, bow and arrows. Max gazed into the fire, the flames shapeshifting, mesmerizing him as they snared his thoughts and gave life to the shadows-a macabre dance of imagined creatures.

Tomorrow seemed frighteningly close.