"These are expensive," Jacob says, looking at the two iPod-sized lozenges of black metal on the desk in his study, sitting beside a metal box as big as a toaster that bristles with electronic apparati and LCD screens. "The GPS trackers are five hundred US each. If I don't get them back inside a week I'll have to pay for them myself. And the spectrum analyzer's more like ten thousand. That's like half my annual salary here."

"If we get the evidence, those most high will cover your expenses, I promise," Prester says. "They've got plenty of black-book discretionary slush funds."

"Why don't we just go to the embassy now?" Veronica asks. "We must have enough to convince them something's going on. They'll listen to all three of us."

Prester shrugs. "I doubt it. Take it from me, put not your faith in the American intelligence services. They're not much sharper than any other batch of bureaucrats, and they're already half-convinced I'm the bad guy. But even if they do listen, then what? We don't even have a name. All we know is Derek got set up by somebody in the chain of command. If they find out we're poking around, they'll pull the plug, and poof, we got nothing but conspiracy theories and a cheese omelette on our face. We need names, dates, pictures, verifiable evidence. With any luck these little toys will help get us that tonight. Without … well, there's always plan B. Your ex."

Veronica frowns. She doesn't want to crash Danton's hotel and start demanding answers. She came to Africa to get away from her ex-husband and everything he represents. She doesn't want to see him ever again, not unless and until she has the advantage. She can't even really imagine what that would be like. Danton always has the advantage. That's what it means to be rich.

"Shouldn't be necessary," Prester says reassuringly, reading her face. He seems more cheerful today, and more rested. "Tonight should be plenty. Even if we can't plant these trackers, your amazing little number harvester should be highly helpful."

"It's not just a number harvester," Jacob objects. "It's a full-feature GSM spectrum analyzer. Practically a mobile base station. And it doesn't actually register cell-phone numbers. Just handset and SIM card IDs, and signal strength. We can only get the numbers of Mango phones."

"Mango or Celtel or MTC."

"Celtel and MTC are whole other companies. I don't have any access to their database."

"Celtel is minority owned by a CIA front," Prester says casually. "And we got an MTC engineer on our payroll too. There's a reason Derek recruited you to work at Telecom Uganda. Same reason we both got Mango phones once he started getting suspicious. It's the only cell company here we hadn't wormed our way into yet."

Jacob stares at him.

"More things under heaven and earth, son." Prester is considerably shorter than Jacob, and Veronica doubts he is more than five or ten years older, but right now the diminutive seems appropriate. "You're playing in the big leagues now. So don't get sloppy. Now what's the range on your precious spectrum analyzer?"

"Maybe a hundred metres."

"OK. Should be ample. You've only got two GPS trackers?"

"That's all I could manage."

Prester frowns. "Well, we'll make do. With luck whoever's smuggling these Zanzibar Sams won't have more than two vehicles. Strong magnets on these, right? All I have to do is put them somewhere on the chassis and they'll stay there, even on bumpy African roads?"

"Not a problem."

"They text their coordinates how often?"

"It's configurable. Right now every ten minutes."

"And if they don't have a cell signal?"

"They store their locations in local memory, timestamped, and send them all in one burst the next time they get into coverage."

"Good." Prester nods and turns to Veronica. "I need him with me, but you can sit at home."

She hesitates, then shakes her head. "No. I want to come with you."

"Sure?"

"Danton might be there."

"Not likely." Prester considers. "But not impossible. Seeing as how we have no idea what exactly these Zanzibar Sams are or why somebody seems to think they're so important."

"Are you sure you know where they're going to be?" Jacob asks.

"For the price I paid I better fucking not be led astray. But no, I'm not sure. People like this, you're never sure until the time comes." He looks at his watch. "Which is all too soon. Let's saddle up."

* * *

Prester navigates his Pajero through a huge market of rickety wooden stalls, colourful pyramids of vegetables, dangling carcasses of meat, bowls of spices, sacks of grains, and all the world's cheap clothing and plastic crap. They crawl slowly through the market's clogged streets, and then through ten minutes of grimy shantytown, as the sun hides itself behind the western hills.

"Shouldn't we wait until dark?" Jacob asks from the back seat.

Prester shakes his head. "We'll stand out more if we wait too late. Not much traffic in this area after sunset. Besides, I want to get the lay of the land."

Veronica is riding shotgun, which in this vehicle is the left-hand seat; Ugandans theoretically drive on the left, and this Pajero came from Japan. She looks around at the shantytown and winces when she sees a child with a large goiter bulging from her throat. All it would take to cure that girl's goiter is a little iodine.

Every day this ramshackle sea of desolation expands further into the green landscape around Kampala, swollen by unemployed bayaye, the Ugandan name for disaffected youths and families who stream in from poor rural villages to this city that offers them neither work nor shelter - but it doesn't seem as bad to her as it once did. Veronica understand now that most Africans, even in shantytowns, are not trapped in relentless disaster and tragedy. They build houses, raise families, hang out with their friends, visit the big city, work when they can, play music, drink, gossip, and basically live normal, recognizable lives. But what they lack, desperately, is health care and education. If Veronica could actually fund and build a school for nurses here, it would help, it would make a real difference.

They finally reach Kampala's small industrial belt of warehouses and repair yards. Here the foot traffic streams back towards the shantytown, tired men walking home after a hard day, and Prester has to nose the Pajero upstream through this human river like a salmon seeking spawning grounds, until he finally says, "Here."

There is a scrapyard the size of several football fields ahead and to their right. It looks like a muddy parking lot hit by a massive artillery shell and left to rust, littered with the rotting hulks of cars, motorcycles, and other unidentifiable machinery, surrounded by a chainlink fence topped by a single strand of barbed wire. In its center there stands a single wide, low building, basically a hollow concrete block. Clusters of rebar sprout like some kind of steel vegetation from its roof. The yard's only visible inhabitant is a bored-looking watchman sitting behind the main gate, which is locked with chains and padlocks.

Prester drives past the yard without slowing down, until they have gone over another small rise; then he stops the car in front of a motorcycle repair shop. Ditches full of plastic bags and rotting trash cut through the vacant lot of gouged mud across the street. The few Africans still on the road look at the Pajero curiously, then move on, hurrying back to the market and the shantytown houses beyond. It is apparent that this quasi-industrial zone is largely deserted come nightfall.

"Any phones around?" Prester asks.

Jacob examines the screen on the spectrum analyzer. "Just ours." Then he digs out his hiptop and taps at it briefly. "But there's a Mango phone alive inside that scrapyard."

"That so? How convenient."

"We should get closer. The analyzer isn't in range."

Prester says, "Wait until dark."

The sun falls over the horizon. It takes only a few minutes for the darkness to deepen into night. The few street lights that work shed barely enough light to see the outlines of the buildings around them. As they wait, Prester reaches inside his shirt collar, withdraws a little pouch of pale leather that hangs on the golden chain around his neck, and twirls it absently between his fingers. It has been sewn shut with silver thread.

"What's that?" Veronica asks.

Prester looks down at the pouch as if he hadn't noticed it. Then he says, calmly, "The little finger of a stillborn child."

She stares at him.

"Muti?" Jacob asks, incredulous and revolted. "You actually believe in that black-magic shit?"

"I live here. I can't afford not to."

"But - come on. You're an educated man."

"And you're a tourist. More things under heaven and earth, like I said. You'd never believe some of the things I've seen." Prester takes a deep breath and tucks the pouch back under his shirt. "Never mind. We're wasting time. Let me just go over the plan again. The objective here is to collect information, not get in trouble. I'm going to find a place to park which is both secure and has a view of the yard. You will call me if you see something I need to know about. My phone is on silent." He doublechecks this. "You two will stay in the vehicle, no matter what. You're not trained for this and I've got enough problems without babysitting. I'm going to station the analyzer by the gate, close enough to harvest their numbers when they come out, then go into the yard and put trackers on their vehicles. If something goes wrong, just get the fuck away and call for help, either the police or Strick, depending on what's happened. Is that all clear?"

Veronica nods, wide-eyed.

"Clear," Jacob rasps.

"Good. Let's do it."

He turns the Pajero around and drives back past the scrapyard. Their headlights cast long, distorted shadows from the ruined machines sprawled on the vast field of fissured mud. There is a light on inside the building in the heart of the yard, and two vehicles are parked outside, a white Land Cruiser and a black Mitsubishi pickup. Neither was there when they passed by before. The scene is eerily postapocalyptic, like a night shot from Mad Max. Veronica is beginning to wish she'd told Prester she didn't want to come. It's far too easy to imagine being killed here by terrorists.

The watchman at the scrapyard gate looks at them with disinterest as he is lit by their headlights. Prester drives back over the hill, then switches off all the Pajero's lights, U-turns, goes off-road across cratered mud, and parks in a vacant lot atop the ridge that overlooks the scrapyard, almost level with the roof of the yard's single building. The street lights are distant and they can barely see more than silhouettes.

"That analyzer ready?" Prester asks.

Jacob checks. "Yes. Scan-and-record mode."

Prester takes it and orders, "Stay."

Then he steps out of the vehicle, closes the door by leaning on it slowly so as not to make any sound. Veronica sees him get about twenty feet down the ridge, heading towards the scrapyard gate, before he disappears into darkness.

"No problem," Jacob says, trying to be reassuring. "He's not doing anything really risky. Just one lousy askari. No big deal."

A long slow silence passes. Veronica and Jacob watch the scrapyard like hawks. She blinks and squints at the black pickup. She can't tell for sure, the light is too dim, but did something just move?

"Did you see that?" she asked. "By the pickup?"

"No."

"There it is again."

"I don't see anything."

"It's there," Veronica insists. "Something moving. In the pickup, in the back."

"Maybe it's him. Putting the trackers on."

"It's too soon, I don't think he could have gotten there that fast - oh shit. Call him, call him!"

"What is it?" Jacob asks, reaching for his hiptop.

"Dogs!"

But it is too late. Before Jacob can dial, the two lethal-looking guard dogs leap out of the pickup truck and charge towards a ruined truck, howling for blood. Then Veronica sees motion near the truck carcass. Someone running from the dogs, pelting towards the scrapyard fence. It must be Prester. He's not going to make it.