Daniel drove on westwards into the night, following the track that ran parallel to the Zambezi. Now the tyre tracks of the convoy were even more deeply ploughed into the muddy earth. In the headlights they looked as fresh as if they had been laid only minutes before.
Certainly they had been made since the last downpour of rain. The pattern of the treads was clearly moulded in black cotton clay of the roadway.
Obviously one of the trucks was still towing the Mercedes.
Daniel could pick out the scuff-marks where the tow rope had touched the earth at intervals. The tow would slow them down considerably, Daniel thought with satisfaction. He must be gaining on them rapidly now. He peered ahead eagerly, half expecting to see the red glow of the Metcedes's tail-lights appear out of the darkness, and he reached out to touch the AK 47 rifle propped between the seats.
Jock noticed the gesture and warned him softly, Don't do anything stupid, Danny. You don't have any proof, man. You can't just go, blowing the ambassador's head off on suspicion.
Cool it, man. It seemed that they were further behind the convoy than Daniel had hoped. It was after midnight when they intersected the Great North Road, the metalled highway that crossed the Chirundu bridge over the Zambezi to the north, and to the south climbed the escarpment of the valley on its serpentine route to Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe.
Daniel pulled the Landcruiser into the verge at the road junction.
He jumped out with the Maglite in his hand.
In all probability the convoy would have turned south towards Harare.
They couldn't have hoped to get two huge government trucks loaded with fresh game meat and ivory through both the Zimbabwean and Zambian customs posts, not even with the dispensation of the most princely bribes.
Daniel found confirmation of his deduction almost immediately. The tires of the trucks and the Mercedes had been caked with clinging black clay.
They left clear tracks on the tarmac of the highway. The tracks gradually faded out as the last vestiges of clay were spun off the tires, but for almost a mile further the moulded bars of mud from between the treads of the tires, littered the tarmac like squares of chocolate. South, said Daniel, as he climbed back behind the drivingwheel. They're heading south, and we're catching up with them every minute. He pushed the Landcruiser hard and kicked in the Fairey overdrive. The speedometer needle touched 90 miles per hour and the heavy tires whined shrilly on the black tarmac surface of the highway.
They can't be much further ahead, Daniel muttered. As he said it he saw the glow of headlights in front of them.
He touched the stock of the AK rifle again, and Jock glanced at him nervously. For Chrissake, Danny. I don't want to be an accessory to bloody murder. They say Chikurubi prison isn't exactly five-star accommodation. The lights were closer now and Daniel switched on the Landcruiser's powerful spotlights, then exclaimed with disappointment .
He had expected to see the distinctive hull of the refrigerator truck standing up tall and polar white in the beam of the spotlight. Instead he found a vehicle that he had never seen before. It was a gigantic MAC truck, a twenty-tonner, towing an equally large eight-wheel trailer. Both the hull of the truck and the body of the trailer were covered by heavyduty green nylon tarpaulin and roped down with a hook-and-eye arrangement that securely protected the cargo. This massive road-rig was pulled off the highway and parked in a lay-by at the roadside facing back northwards towards Chirundu Bridge.
Three men were working around the trailer, adjusting the ropes that held the tarpaulin in place. The beam of the spotlight froze them, and they stared back at the approaching Landcruiser.
Two of the men were black Africans dressed in faded overalls.
The third was a dignified figure in a khaki safari suit. He was also dark-complexioned but bearded and wearing some sort of white headgear.
it was only when Daniel got closer that he realised that it was a neatly bound white turban and that the man was a Sikh. His beard was carefully curled and rolled up into the folds of the turban.
As Daniel slowed the Landcruiser and pulled in in front of the parked truck, the Sikh spoke sharply to the two Africans.
All three of them turned and hurried back to the front of the truck and climbed aboard. Hold it a second! Daniel shouted, and jumped out of the Landcruiser. I want to talk to you. The Sikh was already seated behind the wheel. Hold on! Daniel called urgently, and came level with the cab.
The Sikh was five feet above the level of his head and he leaned out of the window and peered down at Daniel. Yes, what is it?
Sorry to trouble you, Daniel told him. Have you passed two large white trucks on the road? The Sikh stared down at him without answering and Daniel added, Very big trucks, you couldn't miss them.
Travelling together in convoy. There might have been a blue Mercedes saloon with them. The Sikh pulled his head in and spoke to the two Africans in a dialect that Daniel could not understand. While he waited impatiently for a reply, Daniel noticed a company logo painted on the front door-panel of the truck.
CHETTI SINGH LIMITED IMPORT AND EXPORT P. O. BOX 52 LILONGWE MALAWI Malawi was the small sovereign state that nestled between the three much larger territories of Zambia, Tanzania and Mozambique. it was a country of mountains and rivers and takes, whose population was as prosperous and happy under its octogenarian dictator Hastings Banda as any state on the poverty- and tyranny-ridden continent of Africa. Mr.
Singh, I'm in a desperate hurry, Daniel called. Please tell me if you've seen those trucks.
The Sikh popped his head back out the window in alarm. How do you know my name? he demanded, and Daniel pointed at the logo on the door.
Ha!
You are one very observant and erudite fellow, never mind. The Sikh looked relieved. Yes, my men reminded me that two trucks passed us one hour ago. They were heading south. We did not see a Mercedes with them.
I am totally certain of that salient fact. No Mercedes.
Absolutely. He started the engine of the MAC truck. I am happy to have served you. I am also in desperate haste. I must return home to Lilongwe. Farewell, my friend, safe journey and happy landings. He waved cheerily and let the huge truck roll forward.
Something about his airy manner struck a false note in Daniel's mind.
As the heavily loaded trailer rumbled past him, Daniel caught hold of one of the steel slats and swung himself up on to the footplate below the trailer's tailgate. The headlights of the parked Landcruiser gave him enough light to peer between the steel slats of the bodywork and the edge of the tarpaulin cover.
The trailer seemed to be packed with a full load of gunny sacks.
Stencilled on one of the sacks that he could see was the legend Dried Fish. Product of. . . The country of origin was obscured. Daniel's nose confirmed the contents of the sacks.
The smell of half-rotten fish was powerful and unmistakable.
The truck was gathering speed swiftly and Daniel dropped off and let his own momentum carry him forward as he hit the ground. He ran with it for a dozen paces and then pulled up and stared after the dwindling tail-lights.
His instinct warned him that something was as fishy as the stink from under the tarpaulin of the departing trailer, but what could he do about it? He tried to think. His main concerns were still the convoy of refrigerator trucks and Ning in his Mercedes which were heading southwards, while the Sikh in his MAC truck was rumbling away in the opposite direction.