theairport buildings had retreated. They were on a busy main road, but it wasn’t exactly the M1. It had no tarmac or markings – just a dusty, pitted surface that made the Land Rover rattle as it went. On either side there was flat, parched earth as far as Zak could see. The occasional bush had managed to sprout and there were a few shacks made out of rotting timber and corrugated iron. They passed the rusting shell of an old car and Zak saw three children, no more than five years old, playing inside it.
He examined the position of the sun. It was ahead to their right. Given the time of day, that meant they were heading south.
Towards the village.
Twenty-four hours ago, Zak had been in the safety of St Peter’s Crag. Now he felt anything but safe. He felt like he had been transported to another world.
Journey time from Luanda airport to Lobambo, two hours forty-five minutes. The further south they travelled, the less barren the surroundings became. The parched earth gave way to low brush. The low brush gave way to thicker vegetation. By the time Marcus announced that Lobambo was just a kilometre away, Zak was sweaty and dirty. His skin was caked in dust and he was looking forward to getting out of that rattling Land Rover.
Lobambo was poor. That much was obvious. If there was diamond wealth in the area, the ordinary people had never got their hands on it. There were no streets or pavements – only areas of worn-down earth between the wood and iron shacks that passed as dwellings. Children were playing outside the shacks; women were rolling out bread or breast-feeding infants; men were sitting in groups, chatting. All the adults had the weathered skin of people who’d led a hard life. And some of the kids did too. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the Land Rover trundle by.
They passed a building site. Foundations had been dug into the earth and pallets of breeze blocks and timber were lying around. As at the airport, there was no sign of work, though. The only people on the site were four Angolan men. They were loitering lazily, one of them rolling a cigarette, two others playing some kind of dice game. Zak noticed that they all had weapons lying beside them.
More shacks. More stares. ‘Everyone looks nervous,’ Zak said.
‘And so would you, Jay,’ replied Marcus, ‘if for ten years the arrival of a stranger meant the arrival of somebody who wants to kill you.’
The shacks continued like this for perhaps a kilometre. Occasionally they would pass a more solidstructure, built of breeze blocks or concrete. ‘Bottle shop,’ Bea explained without being asked. Or, ‘Doctor’s surgery.’
Moments later, the sea came into view. The sun, all orange and pink, was setting on the horizon and the water twinkled in its light. It looked like it was full of jewels.
‘It’s amazing,’ Zak said, and even Bea seemed lost for words as she nodded her head in agreement. But Zak’s attention wasn’t just on the beauty of nature. He was examining the waterfront intently, comparing it to the mental snapshots he had taken of the satellite imagery Michael had provided. Almost straight ahead of them, Zak saw a pier. It stretched about 100 metres out to sea and was raised ten metres above the level of the water. To its left was a harbour. There was a series of ten much shorter jetties here, but the only boats moored against them were ramshackle fishing vessels.
Zak scanned the beachfront. He counted three palm trees set twenty metres back from the harbour. They were tall and thin and offered nothing in the way of camouflage. A wooden fisherman’s hut had once stood just in front of one of those trees, but it had long since collapsed and was now just a mess of timber surrounded by bits of driftwood. There was nowhere, Zak realized, that he could conceal himselfin this tiny harbour. Nowhere he could set up a suitable OP.
The Land Rover turned right, away from the harbour and along a golden stretch of beach. It
He examined the position of the sun. It was ahead to their right. Given the time of day, that meant they were heading south.
Towards the village.
Twenty-four hours ago, Zak had been in the safety of St Peter’s Crag. Now he felt anything but safe. He felt like he had been transported to another world.
Journey time from Luanda airport to Lobambo, two hours forty-five minutes. The further south they travelled, the less barren the surroundings became. The parched earth gave way to low brush. The low brush gave way to thicker vegetation. By the time Marcus announced that Lobambo was just a kilometre away, Zak was sweaty and dirty. His skin was caked in dust and he was looking forward to getting out of that rattling Land Rover.
Lobambo was poor. That much was obvious. If there was diamond wealth in the area, the ordinary people had never got their hands on it. There were no streets or pavements – only areas of worn-down earth between the wood and iron shacks that passed as dwellings. Children were playing outside the shacks; women were rolling out bread or breast-feeding infants; men were sitting in groups, chatting. All the adults had the weathered skin of people who’d led a hard life. And some of the kids did too. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the Land Rover trundle by.
They passed a building site. Foundations had been dug into the earth and pallets of breeze blocks and timber were lying around. As at the airport, there was no sign of work, though. The only people on the site were four Angolan men. They were loitering lazily, one of them rolling a cigarette, two others playing some kind of dice game. Zak noticed that they all had weapons lying beside them.
More shacks. More stares. ‘Everyone looks nervous,’ Zak said.
‘And so would you, Jay,’ replied Marcus, ‘if for ten years the arrival of a stranger meant the arrival of somebody who wants to kill you.’
The shacks continued like this for perhaps a kilometre. Occasionally they would pass a more solidstructure, built of breeze blocks or concrete. ‘Bottle shop,’ Bea explained without being asked. Or, ‘Doctor’s surgery.’
Moments later, the sea came into view. The sun, all orange and pink, was setting on the horizon and the water twinkled in its light. It looked like it was full of jewels.
‘It’s amazing,’ Zak said, and even Bea seemed lost for words as she nodded her head in agreement. But Zak’s attention wasn’t just on the beauty of nature. He was examining the waterfront intently, comparing it to the mental snapshots he had taken of the satellite imagery Michael had provided. Almost straight ahead of them, Zak saw a pier. It stretched about 100 metres out to sea and was raised ten metres above the level of the water. To its left was a harbour. There was a series of ten much shorter jetties here, but the only boats moored against them were ramshackle fishing vessels.
Zak scanned the beachfront. He counted three palm trees set twenty metres back from the harbour. They were tall and thin and offered nothing in the way of camouflage. A wooden fisherman’s hut had once stood just in front of one of those trees, but it had long since collapsed and was now just a mess of timber surrounded by bits of driftwood. There was nowhere, Zak realized, that he could conceal himselfin this tiny harbour. Nowhere he could set up a suitable OP.
The Land Rover turned right, away from the harbour and along a golden stretch of beach. It
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