Solo by William Boyd

jaw had gone as well. He searched Bond roughly, taking his passport, his APL identification and his remaining wad of dollars. He also pocketed Bond’s cigarette lighter and his Rolex.
    ‘I’ll want them back, one day,’ Bond said. ‘So look after them.’
    Kobus slapped his face.
    ‘Don’t be a cheeky bugger,’ he said.
    ‘Kenya? Uganda?’
    ‘Rhodesia,’ Kobus said, with a knowing smile. He nodded over to Blessing. ‘Your girlfriend tells me that you’re in the SAS.’
    ‘No, she didn’t,’ Bond said calmly. ‘Look, I’m a journalist. I met her in a bar in Sinsikrou. She’s smart, beautiful and speaks fluent Lowele and I needed a translator. I was meant to be interviewing General Basanjo today. I thought she’d be useful and we might have a bit of fun on the way, you know? Then you went and spoiled everything.’
    Kobus slapped his face again, harder. Bond tasted salty blood in his mouth.
    ‘I don’t like your attitude, man. I’ll get you back to Port Dunbar where I can do some serious work on you and find out exactly who you are. One thing’s for sure – you’re no journalist.’ He stood up and left. Bond spat out some bloody saliva and looked over at Blessing. She was lying on the ground, curled up, turned away from him.
    The day crawled by in the steaming heat beneath the tarpaulin. They were temporarily unbound and given some water and a plate of cold beans. Bond could hear the irregular detonations of artillery all day and at one stage two MiGs streaked over the clearing at very low level setting up a squawking and a squealing amongst the riverine birds that took a good five minutes to die down, such was the sky-shuddering guttural roar of the jets.
    As dusk approached the men began to pack up the camp – the tarp and the netting were taken down and rolled up and any bits of litter were collected and buried. Bond and Blessing were untied and given another drink of water. Kobus swaggered up to them, smoking, and Bond felt a sudden craving for tobacco.
    ‘We’re walking out of here, OK?’ Kobus said. ‘If one of you tries to run I’ll shoot you down and then I’ll shoot the other. I don’t care. Just don’t be clever. Clever means death for you two.’
    When it was dark they marched into the forest in single file, Kobus leading, followed by Blessing, Bond at the back of the small column with one soldier in the rear behind him. Bond felt grimy and sweat-limned, itches springing up all over his body. He fantasised briefly about a cold shower then ordered his brain to stop and concentrate. The path they were on was well trodden, Bond could see in the moonlight, and the forest around them was full of animal and insect noises that rather conveniently disguised the sound of their passage, the clink of buckles on machine gun, the dull thump of shifting harness, the tramp of boots on the pathway. Bond could see his Zanzarim bag lashed with a webbing belt on to the rucksack of the soldier in front of him. The fact that it hadn’t been abandoned or thrown away he found somehow reassuring, as if it betokened a future for him, however short-lived.
    They walked for about an hour, Bond guessed, before Kobus halted them. He signalled them to crouch down where they were and wait. Bond turned to the soldier behind him.
    ‘What are we waiting for?’
    ‘Shut you mouth,’ he said simply.
    Bond peered ahead – there was a lightening in the general gloom that would signal a gap in the trees and by craning his neck Bond could see the moonlight striking on what seemed like a strip of asphalt. Then Kobus waved them forward to the very edge of the treeline and Bond was able to get his bearings.
    They had reached a road – a typical two-lane, potholed stretch of tarmac with wide laterite verges on each side. This section ran straight with no curves and the light of the moon afforded a good view a couple of hundred yards in each direction. Kobus obviously planned to cross it and pick up their forest path on