wordlessly at one another for what feels like a long time.
Then Jacob half-laughs. "Jesus. You've got to give them credit for thinking big, don't you? And we thought this was about a few smugglers and terrorists. They're gunning for their own fucking country. The president of Zimbabwe dies in a mysterious plane crash, shot down by missiles. Russian missiles, smuggled in from Zanzibar, made to look like they're going to Al-Qaeda in case they get intercepted en route. Nice touch. Good attention to detail. And then the USA, aided by nudges from Agent Strick and Dr. Murray on the ground, plus rich Mr. DeWitt and his paid lobbyists, naturally throws its support in the inevitable succession battle behind noble General Gorokwe, who they think so very highly of ever since he rescued American hostages from those nasty Al-Qaeda terrorists. Nobody's going to care that those terrorists never existed, not after the fact, Saddam's weapons of mass destruction never existed either. It's elegant. It's fucking brilliant."
"It makes sense," Veronica says softly. "It makes everything make sense."
"And Derek was about to find out. So they abducted us, killed him, and made it all look like the work of the terrorists whose nonexistence Derek was about to discover." Derek laughs bitterly. "And we thought Strick and Murray were corrupt. Oh no. It's much worse that that. They're fucking idealists. I bet this was never Gorokwe's idea. I bet they chose him. Danton's the money, he's involved so they don't have to sell arms to Iran or whatever. First they found their figurehead, then they rigged events to make sure the American government lined up behind him. And now that he's a staunch ally of course the USA will support Gorokwe once Mugabe's gone and he seizes power. This isn't even a coup. This is regime change."
A long silence falls over the room.
There is a knock on the door. Both of them flinch.
"Who is it?" Veronica asks hoarsely.
Lydia's voice answers. "It is us, Rukungu and I."
Veronica sighs with relief, gets up, and pulls open the loose, rusting bolt that holds the door shut. Lydia and Rukungu enter the room and she closes the door behind them.
"The machines gave us a million shillings," Lydia says, as if she still can't quite believe their mechanical largesse.
Rukungu reaches into the black Adidas bag he carries and deposits a thick wad of Ugandan money on the bed beside Jacob. Veronica does a quick mental calculation. About five hundred US dollars. That leaves them with about a thousand in cash.
"You will give us a card?" Lydia asks nervously.
"One of them," Jacob agrees. "Mine. There's ten thousand dollars in that account, about twenty million shillings. You can take out maybe half a million a day. But they'll be tracking it. Make sure you never use it in the same bank twice in the same month, and if the machine eats the card, you turn around and walk away fast."
Rukungu nods seriously. "I understand."
"Nobody followed you? You're sure?"
"No one followed us. You are safe here. We took great care."
"And you're really going to drive us?" Jacob sounds like he can't quite believe this to be true.
"We have agreed. But we are refugees. We have no papers. The police will stop us."
"That's fine," Jacob pats the brick of money beside him. "This is Africa. Who needs ID when you've got money? You better go get your things ready. We leave in fifteen minutes."
Rukungu takes Lydia's arm and leads her out of the room. Veronica breathes a little easier when they are gone. It was too crowded with four people crammed into this little space.
"This theory of ours," Jacob says to her. "It's testable."
She blinks. "Testable how?"
"We still have one phone we can use." Jacob digs into his pocket and produces a candy-bar-sized Nokia. "Derek's secret phone. The one he used here. The one he called Zimbabwe with. It's safe to use, nobody else knows its number, they can't track it to us. Or even if they can we'll be gone before they get here."
"Who do you want to call?"
"Zimbabwe."
Jacob puts the Nokia on speakerphone and dials a number from its memory. Three sets of doubled rings echo through the little room. Then a familiar voice replies. "Yes?"
"Is this the man with no name?" Jacob asks.
"He and I might be connected in some way. Jacob Rockel, I presume?"
"Yes."
"And is Veronica Kelly there?"
"Yes."
"Fascinating. Forgive me, I don't normally try to ask awkward questions, but this time I just can't help my curiosity. Are you