Tucker took in a sobering breath.

“Find this thing,” she warned, “and make sure Kharzin never gets his hands on it.”

Tucker pictured the plastic-wrapped blocks of C-4 packed aboard the Rover.

“That I promise.”

After they signed off, Tucker circled around to the front of the Rover and leaned over a topographical map spread across the hood. It depicted the southern Kalahari Desert and eastern Namibia. He ran a finger along the Groot Karas Mountains. He tapped a spot on the map where De Klerk’s cave should be located. Once there, they had to find a feature that looked like a boar’s head. But first the group had to get there.

“I’ve brought you lunch,” Christopher said behind him. “You must eat.”

He came with a platter piled with a spinach-and-beetroot salad and a club sandwich stuffed with steak, chicken, bacon, and a fried egg—the four essential food groups.

Kane—who had been lounging to one side of the Rover—climbed to his legs, sniffing, his nose high in the air. Tucker pinched off a chunk of chicken and fed it to him.

“What is troubling you?” Christopher asked.

Tucker stared at the map. “I’m trying to decide the best place to cross the border into Namibia. With our truckload of weapons and explosives, it’s best we try to sneak across at night.”

“Most correct. It is very illegal to bring such things into Namibia. Long prison sentences. And because of the smuggling operations of guerrillas and bandits, the border is patrolled heavily.”

“So you understand my problem; how about a solution?”

“Hmm.” Christopher elbowed him slightly to the side and pointed to the plate. “You eat. I’ll show you.”

He touched a town not far from the border. “Noenieput is a small agricultural collective. The South African police are lax there. Should be no problem to get through. Might have to pay . . . a tourist surcharge.”

Tucker heard the trip over the last. “In other words, a bribe.”

“Yes. But on the other side of the border, the Namibia police are not lax at all. Bribe or no bribe. All the paved roads are blockaded. We will have to go overland at night, like you said.”

Christopher ran his finger north and tapped a spot. “This is the best place to make a run for the border.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s where the guerrillas most often cross. Very dangerous men.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

Christopher looked at him. “Of course.” He pointed to the plate. “Now eat.”

For some reason, he no longer had an appetite.

32

March 20, 6:55 P.M.

Namibian Border

As Christopher drove, the landscape slowly changed from savannah to a mixture of rust-red sands, stark white salt flats, and scattered, isolated tall hillocks called kopjes. With the sun sitting on the horizon, those stony escarpments cast long shadows across the blasted plains.

Far in the distance, the crinkled dark outline of the Groot Karas Mountains cut across the sky. How were they going to reach those distant peaks? As flat as the terrain was here, a border crossing at night seemed impossible. Confirming this, small black dots buzzed slowly across the skies. They were spotter planes of the Namibian Air Force. By standing orders, they shot smugglers first and asked questions later.

Tucker tried to coax Christopher’s plan out of the man, but he remained reticent. Perhaps out of a secret fear that Tucker might leave him behind once he knew the plan.

“Noenieput,” Christopher announced, pointing ahead to a scatter of whitewashed homes and faded storefronts. “It has the only police station for a hundred miles. If they search our cargo, things will go bad for us.”

Anya slunk lower in the front seat, clutching the door grip.

Bukolov gave off a nervous groan. The doctor shared the backseat with Tucker and Kane.

“DOWN,” Tucker ordered the shepherd.

Kane dropped to the floorboards, and Tucker draped him with a blanket.

Ahead, a white police vehicle partially blocked the road, its nose pointed toward them. As they neared, the rack on top began flashing, plainly a signal.

But of what?

Christopher slowed and drew alongside it. He rolled down his window and stuck out his arm in a half wave, half salute. An arm emerged from the driver’s side of the police vehicle, returning the gesture.

As Christopher passed, he reached out and slapped palms with the officer. Tucker caught the flash of a folded bill pass hands.

The tourist surcharge.

The Rover rolled onward.

“We made it,” Anya said.

“Wait,” Christopher warned, his eyes studying the side mirror. “I have to make sure I paid him enough. Too much, he could get suspicious and come after us. Too little, he might be offended and hassle us.”

Thirty seconds passed.

“He’s not moving. I think we’re okay.”

Everyone relaxed. Kane hopped back into the seat, his tail wagging as if all this was great fun.

“Three more miles,” Christopher announced.

“Three miles to what?” Bukolov grumbled. “I wish you two would tell us what the hell is going on.”

“Three miles, then we’ll have to get off the highway and wait for nightfall,” Tucker explained. Though he was no happier than the doctor at being kept in the dark about what would happen from there.

As that marker was reached, Christopher turned, bumped the Rover over the shoulder, and dipped down a steep slope of sand and rock. As it leveled out, he coasted to a stop in the lee of a boulder that shielded them from the road. They sat quietly, listening to the Rover’s engine tick tick tick as it cooled.

Within minutes, the sun faded first into twilight, then into darkness.

“That didn’t take long,” Anya whispered.

“Such is the desert, miss. In an hour, it will be twenty degrees cooler. By morning, just above freezing. By midday, boiling hot again.”

Tucker and Christopher grabbed binoculars, walked west a hundred yards, and scaled the side of a kopje. They lay flat on their bellies atop the hill and scanned the four miles of open ground between them and the border.

A deadly no-man’s-land.

It seemed too far to sneak across, especially because of—

“There!” Christopher pointed to the strobe of airplane lights in the dark sky. “Namibian Air Force spotter. Each night the guerrillas do what we are doing, only in reverse. They use the cover of darkness to sneak into South Africa, where they have supporters here that provide supplies and ammunition.”

Tucker watched the plane drone along the border until it finally faded into the darkness. “How many are there? How often do they pass?”

“Many. About every ten minutes.”

It didn’t seem possible to cross that open ground in such a short time.

“And what happens when they catch you crossing?” Tucker asked.

“The spotter planes are equipped with door-mounted Chinese miniguns. Capable of firing six thousand rounds per minute. The Namibian Air Force averages three kills a night along the long border. When we go across, you will see the wreckage of many trucks whose drivers timed their run poorly.”

“Here’s hoping our timing is better,” Tucker said.

“Tonight, timing does not matter. We just need to find a rabbit.” Upon that cryptic note, Christopher rolled to his feet. “We must be ready and in position.”

But ready for what?

Back behind the wheel, Christopher set out with the Rover’s headlights doused. Milky moonlight bathed the dunes and kopjes. Farther out, the Groot Karas Mountains appeared as a black smudge against the night sky.

Christopher kept the Rover to a pace no faster than a brisk walk, lest the tires create a dust wake. Christopher steered the Rover into a narrow trough between a pair of dunes, keeping mostly hidden. After a mile, they emerged beside a line of scrub-covered kopjes.