incredible geek in front of a computer.”
He heard the steel O-rings slide across the shower bar, then the smack of Ellis’ wet feet on the bathroom tile. The door opened. Elis stood in a towel before him, her wet hair slicked back on her head.
“What do you suggest?” she said.
Eastern Cape
South Africa
Carver drove through scattered rain over twisting one-lane mountain roads. The rental car’s GPS was useless, and his phone hadn’t gotten a signal since leaving Johannesburg early that morning. He stopped for directions often. This was not only because there were so few road signs in the rural Eastern Cape. It was also because most of the people he asked for directions had never been more than 20 miles from home.
As night fell he listened to African pop music to stay awake. The highway became a series of mesmerizing canyon switchbacks that hugged steep cliffs without so much as a single guardrail. Ten hours after leaving Johannesburg International Airport, he got petrol in Stutterheim, a sleepy little town in the heart of farm country, and went on through the hilly, golden boondocks toward the backwater village of Kei Mouth on the eastern shore.
The last terrestrial radio station fizzled out as he entered the former Transkei, land of the Xhosa tribe. The Transkei region had been part of a wider homeland for the Xhosa tribe. Some of South Africa’s greatest leaders had emerged from these hills. Nelson Mandela, Thabo Mbeki, and Govan Mbeki. But the rural areas were still virtually lawless, diplomatically isolated, and legally recognized only by the country of South Africa. Unification with the Eastern Cape had brought few tangible benefits over the past couple of decades. There were a few businesses, to be sure, and a few beach homes owned by white ranchers. But it was still so poor that many of the native Xhosas were still without basic plumbing. It was the perfect place to hide.
Xhosa children bartered beaded necklaces for candy bars as he waited 20 minutes for a single-car ferry to take him across the Kei River.
Carver entered the village two hours later. There were few services in town, and the few that existed had posted signs saying CLOSED FOR WINTER in English and Afrikaans. Business windows – all of them – were dark. Finally he spotted the sign that read BED AND BREAKFAST. He turned down a spooky-looking street that led to a gray cement building. This was supposed to be the place. It had better be, Carver thought. He had come a very long way from London under completely unreasonable time constraints.
He shut off the car engine and opened the car door. A pack of dogs raced out from under the front steps. Skinny, tenacious mutts. All bones and teeth. In the face of a hard drizzle, Carver fended off these hounds of hell with the car door, bonking their bony heads with it as they bit and tugged at his left ankle. He felt the familiar warm trickle of blood dampen his sock. Barking in the distance spared him further bloodshed as the pack suddenly broke away, howling at breakneck speed down the street he had driven in on.
“We’re closed!” yelled a woman’s voice from the motel office. She spoke from behind a screen. She sounded American. Good. This was definitely the place.
He unfurled himself from the car, smoothed the wrinkles in his gray suit and approached the building with his hands in the air.
“I’ll shoot,” the voice warned.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Carver said as he measured his approach. He stood several feet from the door and could only make out a shadow in the dense screen door. “It’s Madge, right?”
More silence. Then the voice said, “I suggest you get back in the car.”
“Tell your husband Blake Carver is here to see him.”
He heard her step away from the door. She returned moments later and opened it wide for Agent Carver to enter.
He stepped inside. The house smelled of barbecue. Aside from an expensive-looking entertainment
He heard the steel O-rings slide across the shower bar, then the smack of Ellis’ wet feet on the bathroom tile. The door opened. Elis stood in a towel before him, her wet hair slicked back on her head.
“What do you suggest?” she said.
Eastern Cape
South Africa
Carver drove through scattered rain over twisting one-lane mountain roads. The rental car’s GPS was useless, and his phone hadn’t gotten a signal since leaving Johannesburg early that morning. He stopped for directions often. This was not only because there were so few road signs in the rural Eastern Cape. It was also because most of the people he asked for directions had never been more than 20 miles from home.
As night fell he listened to African pop music to stay awake. The highway became a series of mesmerizing canyon switchbacks that hugged steep cliffs without so much as a single guardrail. Ten hours after leaving Johannesburg International Airport, he got petrol in Stutterheim, a sleepy little town in the heart of farm country, and went on through the hilly, golden boondocks toward the backwater village of Kei Mouth on the eastern shore.
The last terrestrial radio station fizzled out as he entered the former Transkei, land of the Xhosa tribe. The Transkei region had been part of a wider homeland for the Xhosa tribe. Some of South Africa’s greatest leaders had emerged from these hills. Nelson Mandela, Thabo Mbeki, and Govan Mbeki. But the rural areas were still virtually lawless, diplomatically isolated, and legally recognized only by the country of South Africa. Unification with the Eastern Cape had brought few tangible benefits over the past couple of decades. There were a few businesses, to be sure, and a few beach homes owned by white ranchers. But it was still so poor that many of the native Xhosas were still without basic plumbing. It was the perfect place to hide.
Xhosa children bartered beaded necklaces for candy bars as he waited 20 minutes for a single-car ferry to take him across the Kei River.
Carver entered the village two hours later. There were few services in town, and the few that existed had posted signs saying CLOSED FOR WINTER in English and Afrikaans. Business windows – all of them – were dark. Finally he spotted the sign that read BED AND BREAKFAST. He turned down a spooky-looking street that led to a gray cement building. This was supposed to be the place. It had better be, Carver thought. He had come a very long way from London under completely unreasonable time constraints.
He shut off the car engine and opened the car door. A pack of dogs raced out from under the front steps. Skinny, tenacious mutts. All bones and teeth. In the face of a hard drizzle, Carver fended off these hounds of hell with the car door, bonking their bony heads with it as they bit and tugged at his left ankle. He felt the familiar warm trickle of blood dampen his sock. Barking in the distance spared him further bloodshed as the pack suddenly broke away, howling at breakneck speed down the street he had driven in on.
“We’re closed!” yelled a woman’s voice from the motel office. She spoke from behind a screen. She sounded American. Good. This was definitely the place.
He unfurled himself from the car, smoothed the wrinkles in his gray suit and approached the building with his hands in the air.
“I’ll shoot,” the voice warned.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Carver said as he measured his approach. He stood several feet from the door and could only make out a shadow in the dense screen door. “It’s Madge, right?”
More silence. Then the voice said, “I suggest you get back in the car.”
“Tell your husband Blake Carver is here to see him.”
He heard her step away from the door. She returned moments later and opened it wide for Agent Carver to enter.
He stepped inside. The house smelled of barbecue. Aside from an expensive-looking entertainment
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