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the river. It will take us eight minutes to reach the extraction point, and I don’t have to tell you, eight minutes is a fuck of a long time if you’re getting your arse shot off in a firefight. So think about that before you call, hey? Right, now we must get out of here before we hit the dam like a bug on a windscreen.’
    No sooner had Morrison spoken than the helicopter lurched upwards and hurtled up the cliff-face, past the bare rock towards the luscious carpet of greenery at its summit. Then they were escaping the grasp of the gorge, and for a second Carver caught a glimpse up ahead of the mighty Cahora Bassa dam, whose five-hundred-and-sixty-feet-high concrete walls held back the Zambezi, confining the river within a man-made lake more than a hundred and eighty miles long. Then the pilot swung left over a range of hills, skimming the trees as closely as he had the water, before dropping again and bringing the chopper in to land at the centre of a minuscule clearing with the precision of an experienced big-city driver squeezing into a tiny parking space.
    ‘Out you get!’ shouted Morrison as the helicopter’s skids kissed the ground.
    Carver jumped down, holding the Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun he had specified, and a kitbag was thrown after him.
    Morrison gave him a thumbs-up and then the helicopter rose and sped away over the trees.
    ‘Mr Carver!’
    Carver turned at the sound of the voice and saw a tall African man in faded blue trousers and a loose, short-sleeved white shirt gesturing at him to follow.
    ‘My name is Justus Iluko, but everyone just calls me Justus,’ said the man when Carver had caught up. ‘Come with me, please. I work for Captain Morrison. I fought with him in the war of liberation,’ he added, by way of explanation.
    ‘On the same side?’ Carver asked.
    Justus laughed. ‘Oh yes! All the soldiers were black in our company. Just the officers and NCOs were white. Some of them … pah!’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘But Captain Morrison, he was square with us. He never made any man do anything he would not do himself. We trusted him and we followed him, you know?’
    Carver nodded.
    ‘Mr Klerk, too,’ said Justus. ‘He was a mighty warrior. When he fought, no one could defeat him!’
    Carver followed Justus through the trees to a dirt track on which an ancient VW van was parked. He climbed up into the passenger seat. Justus got in the driver’s side and set off.
    ‘I knew Miss Zalika too, when she was just a little baby girl. When the war ended, before he started his own businesses, Mr Klerk got me a job as a game warden on the Stratten Reserve. I was only there for three years, but I remember Miss Zalika being born. We were all given the day off and plenty of beer to drink!’ Justus laughed at the memory. ‘Sometimes Mrs Stratten took her children for picnics and one of us drove them out on to the reserve and watched over them in case any lions or other dangerous animals came, but they never did. Those were good days. No more war, everyone with so much hope for the future …’
    His voice trailed away, and for a while the only noise came from the VW as it lurched and rattled along the potholed track. Justus looked around, then nodded as he spotted a familiar landmark. ‘Just thirty minutes and we will be in Chitongo.’
    ‘Has Morrison briefed you on the plan of action for tonight?’ Carver asked.
    ‘Of course. The captain is a very thorough man. He always told us about the importance of proper preparations. He does not like to leave anything to chance.’
    Five minutes’ worth of intensive questioning proved that Justus was right. Morrison might have his problems, to put it mildly, but he still retained the organizational skills that had made him a company commander whose men trusted him to lead them into action and out the other side. Meanwhile, Justus was evidently the kind of reliable, level-headed fighting man who made any officer’s life a lot simpler.