Tungata had used the spare seat-belts to truss them securely at wrist and ankles. Peter Fungabera seemed to have recovered a little, and he and Tungata were glaring at each other, arguing with the acrimony and deadly concentration of mortal enemies.
"Cool that! Craig dropped onto the bench beside Tungata.
"Give me the Uzi." Craig took it from him. "Now read what is in here!" He placed the attach.6 case on Tungata's lap.
"Delighted to meet you, Colonel Bukharin," Craig said pleasantly. "You must be happy to be missing the Moscow winter?" He pointed the Uzi at his belly.
"I am a senior member of the diplomatic corps of the United Soviet-"
"Yes, Colonel, I have read your visiting card." Craig indicated the files. "On the other hand Colonel, am a desperate fugitive quite capable of doing you a serious injury if you don't shut up." Then he turned to Peter Fungabera. "I do hope you are looking after King's Lynn properly, remembering to wipe your feet and all that?"
"You escaped me once, Mr. Mellow," Peter Fungabera said softly. "I don't make the same mistakes twice." And despite the gun in his hands and the fact that Peter was trussed up likea sacrificial goat, Craig felt a chilly little breeze of fear down his spine and he could not go on holding the smouldering gaze of hatred with which Peter Fungabera. fixed him. He glanced sideways at Tungata.
He was skimming quickly through the green files, and as he read his expression changed from disbelief to outrage.
"Do you know what this is, Pupho?"
"It's a blueprint for bloody revolution," Craig nodded, written out in plain English, obviously for the benefit of Peter Fungabera."
"Everything they cover everything. Look at this. The lists of those to be executed they spell out the names and those who can be relied on to collaborate. They have even prepared the radio and television announcements for the day of the coup!"
"Page twenty-five," Craig suggested. "Check that." Tungata turned to it. "Me-" he read on. "Sent to a clinic in Europe, mind-bending treatment, the mindless traitor, to lead the Matabele peoples into perpetual slavery' Yes Sam, you were the pivot on which the whole operation turned. When Fungabera lost you in the cavern when he dynamited the grand gallery he admitted defeat. just look at him now." However, Tungata was no longer listening. He dumped the attache case and its contents back on Craig's lap and leaned forward until his face was a foot from Fungabera's.
He thrust forward that craggy lantern jaw and slowly his eyeballs glazed over with the reddish sheen of rage.
"You would sell this land and all its peoples into a new slavery, into an imperialism that would make the rule of Smith's regime appear benign and altruistic by comparison? You would condemn your own tribe, and mine and all the others madness-" In his rage, Tungata was becoming incoherent. "A rabid dog, crazy with the lust for power." Suddenly he roared, involuntarily giving vent to his anguish and hatred and outrage. He hurled himself at Peter Fungabera and seized the wide nylon strap that bound him.
With the other hand he unclipped the huge Shana's seat, belt and jerked him off the bench. With the strength of a wounded buffalo bull, he swung him bodily across the hold towards the square open port in the fuselage.
"Mad dog!" he roared, and before Craig could move, he had thrust Peter Fungabera backwards through the opening.
Craig tossed the Uzi to Sarah and sprang to Tungata's side. Tungata had been dragged to his knees by the weight of Peter Fungabera's body and he was clinging with one arm to the jamb of the doorway. With the other hand he still had a grip on the strap around Peter's chest.
Peter Fungabera dangled outboard. His hands were strapped helpless, his neck twisted back so that he stared up into Tungata's face above him. The fierce brown hills of Africa lay two thousand feet below him, the black stone crests bared like the teeth of a man-eating shark.
"Sam, wait!" Craig screamed above the wind, roar and the deafening beat of the engine.
fly
"Die, you treacherous murderou&-2 Tungata roared, down into Peter Fungabera's upturned face.
Craig had never seen such naked terror as that in Peter Fungabera's dark eyes. His mouth was wide open and the wind blew his spittle over his lips in silver strings, but no sound came from his throat.
"Wait, Sam," Craig screamed, "don't kill him. He is the only one who can clear you, can clear all of us. If you kill him you'll never be able to live in Zimbabwe again-" Tungata rolled his head sideways and stared at Craig.
"Our only chance to clear ourselves!" The red glaze of rage began to fade from Tungata's eyes, but the muscles stood out in his arms from the effort of holding Peter Fungabera's body against the whip and buffet of the wind.
"Help me!" he grated, and in one movement Craig snatched the safety-belt, pulling it off the inertia reel, and buckled it around his own waist. He dropped belly-down on the deck, hooked his ankles around the base of the bench and reached down and out to get a double grip on the nylon strap. Between them they lifted Peter Fungabera back into the port, and his legs were so rubbery with terror that they could not bear his weight when he tried to stand.
Tungata hurled him backwards across the cabin, and Peter hit the rear bulkhead. He slid down it and rolled onto his side, pulling up his knees into the foetal position, and under the crushing eight of defeat and capitulation he moaned quietly an covered his head with both arms.
Craig climbed unsteadily up into the cockpit, and sank into the co-pilot's seat.
"What the hell is happening?" Sally' Anne demanded.
"Nothing serious. I only just managed to stop Sam killing Peter Fungabera."
"Why did you bother?" Sally-Anne raised her voice above the clatter of the rotors overhead. "I'd love a shot at that swine myself."
"Darling, can you get a radio connection to the United States Embassy in Harare?" She thought about it. "Not from this aircraft." "Give them the registration of the Cessna, I'll lay odds it hasn't been reported missing yet."
"I'll have to go through Johannesburg approach, they're the only station with sufficient range."
"I don't care how just get Morgan Oxford on the blower." Johannesburg approach radio responded promptly to Sally-Anne's call and accepted her call-sign with equanimity.
t "Report your position, Kilo Yankee Alpha."
"Northern Botswana--2 Sally-Anne anticipated by an hour's flying time, "en route Francistown to Maun."
"What is the number you wish to connect in Harare?" "Person,to-person with the cultural attache, Morgan Oxford, at the United States Embassy. I'm sorry, I don't know the number."
"Hold on." And in less than a minute Morgan Oxford spoke through the static.
"Oxford here. Who is this?" Sally-Anne passed the microphone to Craig and he held it to his lips and depressed the transmit button.
"MOrgan, it's Craig, Craig Mellow."
"Holy shid" Morgan's voice became strident. "Where die hell are you? All hell is breaking out. Where is Sally Anne