“Badly. Stay near civilization and know where the police stations are.”

“That could be a problem. We’re a little off the beaten path right now.”

“Why am I not surprised? Okay, give me a second.” The line went silent for two minutes, then Rube returned. “Best guess puts the rebels about a week away from being ready for a major attack, but that doesn’t rule out skirmishes. Most of the cities within fifty miles of Antananarivo should be okay. The bigger, the better. Head south if possible. The rebels are clustered in the north. The downside is-”“Rivera and his goons will be thinking the same thing and looking in those places,” Sam finished.

“Right. Wish I could be of more help.”

“Rube, you’re the best. Don’t ever doubt it. We’ll call when we’re safe.”

THEIR NEXT CALL went to Selma, who listened, asked a few questions, and said, “I’m on it,” then hung up.

Now Remi studied the map as Sam drove.

“We’ve got two options,” she said after a few minutes. “One, take one of the dozens of roads-and I use that term very loosely-that head generally south, or close to within a couple miles of Antananarivo. There’s a two-lane blacktop that circles the city to the east and then links up with Route 7 heading south.”“How do the unnamed roads look?”

“As you’d expect: dirt and gravel, at best.” “Multiple choices make for a harder trail to follow,” Sam observed.

“And if we’re aiming for Route 7, it’ll add five or six hours onto our travel time. Which takes us well past nightfall.”

“My vote is blacktop,” Sam said.

“Seconded.”

“Different subject . . . The fact that Rivera flagged our passports here, of all places, means something.”

Remi was nodding. “It’s not hard to guess what that is. They knew there was something here to find. But is it the outrigger we found or something more?”

“We’ll know that when we know what got them interested in Madagascar in the first place. My guess: They’ve been here before and didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“Which begs the question: Where else have they been?”

THE AFTERNOON WORE ON. Past Moramanga, moving ever westward and upward, they passed mile after mile of rice paddies and drove through village after village, each one bearing a quaint name that Remi described as “part Malagasy, part French, with a dash of Italian”: Andranokobaka, Ambodigavo, Ambatonifody. . . .

Ten miles east of Anosibe Ifody the terrain began to change yet again, giving way to tropical forest interspersed with rugged brown hills that reminded Sam and Remi of Tuscany. Jagged escarpments, glowing brownish gold in the sun, rose above the treetops to the north and south. Shortly after three o’clock they stopped at a Jovenna gas station on the outskirts of Manjakandriana. Remi went inside for snacks and water while Sam pumped the gas.

Down the block, a white Volkswagen Passat police vehicle came around the corner and headed toward the gas station. Moving at a sedate twenty miles per hour, the Passat slowed as it drew even with the Range Rover. After a few more seconds the Passat sped up and continued down the block, where it pulled to the side of the road and parked. Through the rear window Sam saw the driver pluck something off the dashboard and bring it to his mouth.Remi came out with four bottles of water and a few bags of pretzels. Sam got back in the driver’s seat.

“You’re wearing your frowny face,” Remi observed. “It may be exhaustion or paranoia, or a combination of the two, but I think that police car is interested in us.”“Where?”

“Down the block, under the awning with the old Coca-Cola sign.”

Remi checked the side mirror. “I see him.”

“He slowed beside us, then parked and got on the radio.”

Sam started the engine. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“What exactly are we doing?” Remi asked.

“Giving him a chance.”

Remi caught on: “If it’s official business, he’ll stop us here. If not . . . ‘note-and-notify.’”

“Right.” Sam put the Rover in gear. “Time to play navigator again, Remi. We’re backtracking.”

“To where?”

“Hopefully, nowhere. If he doesn’t follow us, we’ll turn around again.”

“And if he follows us?”

“Then we’re on the run. We’ll be needing one of those unnamed roads you mentioned.”

“WE’RE ON THE RUN,” Remi announced a few minutes later. Facing backward, she’d been staring through the rear window since they’d left Manjakandriana. “He’s a mile back.”“We’ve got some dips and turns coming up. Let me know each time you lose sight of him.”

“Why?”

“If we sprint while he’s watching us he’ll know we’re running; this way we may be able to get some distance before he realizes it.”

“Tricky, Fargo.”

“Only if it works.”

“What if he tries to stop us?”

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES Sam followed Remi’s cues, flooring the gas pedal for a ten count when Remi said, “Go!,” before slowing back down to the speed limit. Slowly but steadily, they put an extra half mile between them and the Passat.“Are any of those roads not gravel or dirt?” Sam asked.

Remi studied the map. “Hard to tell, but this one coming up looks a tad thicker than the others. So far on this map, that’s usually meant blacktop of some kind. Why do you ask?”“No dust trail.”

“From a quick turn,” Remi said. “That could work both ways.”

Sam frowned. “Good point. Tell me when the turn’s coming up.”

For the next few minutes Remi matched passing roads and signs against the map’s markings. “Should be the next turn to the south.” She measured the distance with her fingernail. “A quarter mile, give or take. Should be just over this hill.”“How’s our friend?”

“Hard to be sure, but it looks like he’s picked up speed.”

They crested the hill and started down. Ahead, Sam saw the turnoff Remi had indicated. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and the Range Rover surged forward. Her eyes wide, Remi braced herself against the dashboard. A hundred yards from the turn, Sam switched his foot to the brake, pressing as hard as he dared without skidding, and brought the Rover down to sixty-five kilometers per hour, or forty miles per hour.

“Hang on,” Sam said, then slewed the wheel right. Despite the Rover’s high center of gravity, the tires clung to the road, but Sam could see he’d overshot the turn. He eased the wheel left, then tapped the brakes and jerked the wheel right again. The Rover’s tail whipped around. The driver’s-side rear tire slipped off the shoulder. They felt the Rover tipping sideways. Sam resisted the impulse to correct right and instead steered into the skid, dropping the driver’s-side front tire off the shoulder. Now even with each other, the two shoulder-side tires bit down together. Sam gunned it, jerked the wheel to the right, and the Rover vaulted back onto the road.“Sharp right!” Remi called, pointing at a gap in the foliage off the shoulder.

Sam reacted instantly, braking hard. The Rover shuddered to a stop. Sam switched into reverse, backed up ten feet, switched back to drive and turned into the gap. Shadows engulfed them. Foliage scraped the car’s sides. He eased forward a few feet until the bumper tapped a wooden cattle gate.Remi climbed over the center console into the backseat and poked her head up so she could see out the side window.

Sam asked, “Are we off the road?”

“Barely. He should be along anytime now.” Thirty seconds later: “There he goes.” She turned around in the seat, slumped back, and exhaled. “Can we sit here for a-”

From down the main road came the shrieking of brakes, then silence.

Sam and Remi froze.

In the distance an engine revved and tires squealed.

Sam groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Buckle up, Remi.”

THE ROAD, while in fact blacktop, was narrow and winding, with no centerline and with ragged shoulders. With the Range Rover at top speed, they gained a half mile before they heard the Passat skid into the turn behind them. As they rounded the next corner a sign flashed past.Remi caught it: “Narrow bridge ahead.”