“And second?”

“Make sure Utkin’s body is returned to his family. They’re in a village called Kolyshkino on the Volga River.”

“Why? The man betrayed you—almost got you all killed.”

“But in the end, he saved us. And I respect that last act.”

Naive or not, Tucker wanted to believe that maybe Anya was right. That Utkin had been forced against his will to betray them. But he would never know for sure. And maybe it was better that way.

“Sounds as though you liked him.” Harper’s voice went unusually soft, as if sensing the depth of his regret.

“I suppose I did. It’s hard to explain.”

Thankfully she let it go at that.

“Okay, I’ll handle everything. But what about sending additional muscle your way, something beyond a few local assets?”

“I think small is better.”

Besides, Tucker had all the help he needed and trusted in the form of his four-legged partner.

“You may be right,” Harper agreed. “South Africa’s security agencies run a tight ship. You show up big and loud, and they’ll be all over you.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Now, I have to ask something difficult of you,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“If you get to that cave and things go sour, you make damned sure LUCA doesn’t see the light of day. No matter the cost. Or casualties. Is that understood?”

Tucker inhaled deeply. “I’ll get it done.”

3:34 P.M.

A soft knock on his door woke him out of a slight drowse. Kane lifted his head from Tucker’s chest as the two lay sprawled on the bed, napping in the day’s heat.

Tucker, still in his clothes, rolled to his feet and placed his face in his hands.

Who the hell . . .

Kane hopped down, sidled to the door, and sniffed along the bottom. His tail began to wag. Someone he knew.

“Tucker, are you awake?” a voice called through the door.

Anya.

He groaned, stepped over, and unlocked the door. He wiped his eyes blearily. “What’s wrong?”

Something better be wrong.

Anya stood in the doorway, wearing a peach-colored sundress. She smoothed it over her hips self-consciously with her good hand. “One of the consulate wives gave it to me. I’m sorry, you were sleeping, weren’t you?”

She began to step away.

“No. It’s all right. Come in.”

“I should probably be sleeping, too. But every time I lie down . . .” She walked over to the side chair across from the bed and sat down. “I’m frightened, Tucker.”

“Of going to South Africa?”

“Of course, that. But mostly about what happens after all this. Once we’re in America.”

“Anya, the government will give you a new identity, a new place to live. And with your background, you’ll have no trouble finding work. You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be alone. Everything I know will be gone. Even Bukolov. You heard him. He’ll barely talk to me now.”

“Maybe he’ll calm down and eventually understand.”

She picked slightly at her cast, her voice growing pained. “He won’t. I know him.”

Tucker knew she was right. Bukolov was single-minded and emotionally inflexible. Now that he had De Klerk’s diary in hand, Anya was no longer indispensable to his work. And in addition she had proven herself untrustworthy. For Bukolov, both of these sins were unpardonable.

Anya was right. Once in America, she would be alone. Rudderless. She would need friends.

With a sigh, he reached across and squeezed her hand.

“You’ll know at least one person in the States,” he reassured her.

Kane thumped his tail.

“Make that two,” he added.

28

March 19, 12:02 P.M.

Cape Town, South Africa

As Tucker set foot off the plane’s stairway and onto the hot tarmac of Cape Town’s International Airport, a shout rose ahead. They had landed at a private terminal, shuttled here by corporate jet—a Gulfstream V—arranged by Harper.

“Mr. Wayne, sir! Over here!”

He turned to see a tall, thin black man in his midtwenties trotting toward him. He wore charcoal slacks and a starched white shirt. He gave Tucker a broad smile and stuck out his hand.

“Mr. Tucker Wayne, I presume.”

He took the man’s hand. “And you are?”

“Christopher Nkomo.”

Kane came trotting down behind him, sliding next to Tucker, sniffing at the stranger, sizing him up.

“My goodness,” the man said, “who is this fine animal?”

“That would be Kane.”

“He’s magnificent!”

No argument there.

Bukolov and Anya came next, shielding their eyes, as they joined him. Introductions were made all around.

“What tribe are you?” Anya asked, then blurted out, “Oh, is that impolite to ask? I’m sorry.”

“Not at all, missus. I am of the Ndebele tribe.”

“And your language?”

“We speak Xhosa.” He waved and guided them across the tarmac toward a nest of parked Cessnas and other smaller aircraft. “But I went to university here, studying business administration and English.”

“It shows,” said Tucker.

“Very kind of you.” He finally stopped before a single-engine plane, a Cessna Grand Caravan. It was already being serviced for flight. “With your patience, we will get all your baggage loaded quickly.”

Christopher was a man of his word. It was accomplished in a matter of minutes.

“Your pilot will be with you shortly,” he said, clambering up the short ladder and through the Cessna’s side door. A moment later, he hopped back out, his head now adorned with a blue pilot’s cap. “Welcome aboard. My name is Christopher Nkomo, and I will be your pilot today.”

Tucker matched his grin. “You’ll be flying us?”

“Myself and my older brother, Matthew.”

A thin arm stuck out from the side window next to the copilot’s seat.

“No worries,” Christopher said. “I am a very good pilot and I know this land and its history like the palm of my hand. I hear you all are Boer historians, and that I am to assist you however I can.”

From the tone of the man’s voice, he knew they weren’t historians. Harper clearly must have debriefed Christopher about the goal of their mission here.

“I am especially familiar with Springbok. My cousin has a home there. So if we are all ready, let us get aboard.”

Bukolov and Anya needed no coaxing to climb out of the sun and into the dark, air-conditioned interior. Bukolov took the seat farthest from Anya. The doctor was not happy to have her along, but back in Istanbul, Tucker had left him no choice.

Tucker hung back with Christopher. “The supplies I asked for?”

“Come see.”

Christopher lifted a hatch to reveal a storage space neatly packed with supplies. He pulled out a clipboard and handed it to Tucker. It listed the contents: potable water, dehydrated meals, first-aid kits, maps and compasses, knives, hatchets, a small but well-stocked toolbox.

“As for weapons and ammunition,” the man said, “I was not able to provide all the exact models you requested. I took the liberty of using my own judgment.”

He pulled that list out of a back pocket and passed it over.

Tucker scanned it and nodded. “Nicely done. Hopefully we won’t need any of it.”

“God willing,” Christopher replied.

1:38 P.M.

Tucker stared at the passing landscape as the Cessna droned toward their destination. Buckled opposite Tucker, Kane matched his pose, his nose pressed to the window.

The scenery north of Cape Town was hypnotically beautiful: a dry moonscape of reddish-brown earth and savannah, broken up by saw-toothed hills. Tiny settlements dotted the countryside, surrounded by brighter patches of green scrub.

At last, Christopher swung the Cessna into a gentle bank that took them over Springbok. The town of nine thousand lay nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling granite peaks, called the Klein Koperberge, or Small Copper Mountains.