He smiled. "Are we lovers, Laura?"
The silence stretched, a desert silence broken by the distant whooping of the Tuaregs. She looked into his eyes.
"I talk too much," he said sadly. "A theorist."
She stood and pulled the tunic over her head, threw it to her feet. She sat beside him, naked, in the light of the screen.
He was silent. Clumsily, she pulled at his shirt, ran her hand over his chest. He opened his robe and put his weight on her.
He fumbled at her gently. For the first time, something vital, deep within her, realized that she was alive again. As if her soul had gone to sleep like a handcuffed arm, and now blood was returning. A torrent of sensation.
A moment passed with the muted crinkling of contraceptive plastic. Then he was on her, inside her. She wrapped her legs around him, her skin aflame. Flesh and muscle moving in darkness, the smell of sex. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed.
He stopped for a moment. She opened her eyes. He was looking at her, his face alight. Then he reached out with one arm and tapped the keyboard.
The machine scanned channels. Light flashed over them as it blasted one-second gouts of satellite video into the tent.
Unable to stop herself, she turned her head to look.
Cityscape / cityscape / trees / a woman I brand names /
Arabic script / image / image / image/
They were moving in time. They were moving in rhythm to the set, eyes lifted up, fixed on the screen.
Pleasure shot through her like channeled lightning. She cried out.
He gripped her hard and closed his eyes. He was going to finish soon. She did what she could to help him.
And it was over. He slid aside, touched the screen. The image froze on a weather station, ranks of silent numbers, cool computer-graphic blues of. lows and highs.
"Thank you," he said. "You were good to me."
She was shaking in reaction. She found her robe and put it on, body-mind whirling in turmoil. As reality came seeping back, she felt a sudden giddy wash of joy, of pure release.
It was over, there was nothing to fear. They were people together, a man and woman. She felt a sudden rush of affection for him. She reached out. Surprised, he patted her hand. Then he rose and moved into the television dimness.
She heard him fumbling, opening a bag. He was back in a moment. Bright gleam of tin. "Abalone."
She sat up. Her stomach rumbled loudly. They laughed, comfortable in their embarrassment, the erotic squalor of intimacy. He pried open the can and they ate. "God, it's so good," she told him.
"I never eat anything grown in topsoil. Plants are full of deadly natural insecticides. People are nuts to eat that stuff."
"My husband used to say that all the time."
He looked up, slowly. "I'm gone tomorrow," he repeated.
"Don't worry about anything."
"It's fine, I'll be all right." Meaningless words, but the concern was there-it was as if they had kissed. Night had fallen, it had grown cold. She shivered.
"I'll take you back to camp."
"I'll stay, if you want."
He stood up, helped to her feet. "No. It's warmer there."
Katje lay in a camp bed, white sheets, the floral smell of an air spray over the reek of disinfectant. There was not much machinery by modern standards, but it was a clinic and they had pulled her through.
"Where did you find such clothes?" she whispered.
Laura touched her blouse self-consciously. It was a red off-the-shoulder number, with a ruffled skirt. "One of the nurses--Sara ... I can't pronounce her last name."
Katje seemed to think it was funny. It was the first time
Laura had ever seen her smile. "Yes .... there's such a girl in every camp... . You must be popular."
"They're good people, they've treated me very well."
"You didn't tell them... about the Bomb."
"No-I thought I'd leave that too you. I didn't think they'd believe me."
Katje let the lie float over her, not taken in, but letting it pass. Noblesse oblige, or maybe the anesthetic. "I told them
... now I don't worry ... let them worry."
"Good idea, save your strength."
"I won't do this anymore I'm going home. To be happy." She closed her eyes.
The door opened. The director, Mbaqane, barged through, followed by Barnaard the political man, and the- paratroop captain.
And then the Vienna personnel. There were three of them.
Two men in safari suits and speckled glasses, and a stylish, middle-aged Russian woman in a. jacket, sleek khaki pants, and patent-leather boots.
They stopped by the bed. "So these are our heroes," the woman said brightly.
"Indeed, yes," said Mbaqane.
"My name is Tamara Frolova-this is Mr. Easton, and
Mr. Neguib from our Cairo office."
"How do you do," Laura said reflexively. She almost rose to shake hands, then stopped herself. "This is Dr. Selous....
She's very tired, I'm afraid."
"And small wonder, yes? After such narrow escapes."
"Ms. Frolova has very good news for us," Mbaqane said.
"A cease-fire is declared. The camp is out of danger! It seems the Malian regime is prepared to sue for peace!"
"Wow," Laura said. "Are they handing over the bombs?"
Unhappy silence.
"A natural question," said Frolova. "But there have been some errors. Honest mistakes." She shook her head. "There are no bombs, Mrs. Webster."
Laura jumped to her feet. "I expected that!"
"Please sit down, Mrs. Webster."
"Ms. Frolova-Tamara-let me speak to you as a person.
I don't know what your bosses ordered you to say, but it's over now. You can't walk away from it anymore."
Frolova's face froze. "I know you have suffered an ordeal,
Mrs. Webster. Laura. But one should not act irresponsibly.
You must think first. Reckless allegations of such a kind- they are a clear public danger to the international order."
"They were taking me-both of us--to an atomic test site!
For nuclear blackmail! To Azania, this time--God knows they already had you intimidated."
"The area you saw was not a test site."
"Stop being stupid! It doesn't even need Gresham's tape.
You may have fast-talked these poor medicos, but the Azanian spooks aren't going to settle for words. They'll want to fly over the desert and look for the crater."
"I'm sure that could be arranged!" Frolova said. "After the current hostilities settle."
Laura laughed. "I knew you'd say that, too. That's an arrangement you'll never make, if you can help it. But the cover-up is still finished. You forget-we've been there. The air was full of dust. They can test our clothes, and they'll find radioactivity. Maybe not much, but enough for proof." She turned to Mbaqane. "Don't let them anywhere near those clothes. Because they'll grab the evidence, after they've grabbed us."
"We are not 'grabbing' anyone," Frolova said.
Mbaqane cleared his throat. "You did say you wanted them for debriefing. Interrogation. "
"The clothes prove nothing! These women have been in the hands of a provocateur and terrorist! He has already committed a serious information crime, with the help of Mrs.
Webster. And now that I hear her, I can see that it was not unwitting help." She turned to Laura. "Mrs. Webster, I must forbid you to speak any further!, You are under arrest."
"Good heavens," Mbaqane said. "You can't mean that journalist fellow."
"This woman is his accomplice! Mr. Easton! Please draw your weapon."
Easton pulled a tangle-gun from his armpit.
Katje opened her eyes. "So much yelling ... please don't shoot me, too."
Laura laughed recklessly. "That's funny ... it's all ridicu- lous! Tamara, listen to what you're saying. Gresham saved us from the Malian death cells-so he could cover our clothes with sifted uranium. Can you expect anyone to believe that?