Eventually Jacob says, "What if we were?"
"You go down to Vic Falls Park. You go to jungle there."
The boy scurries away before they can interrogate him.
"I guess he wants to meet in private," Veronica says.
Jacob nods. "There was a sign for Victoria Falls Park just after the bridge."
They retrace their steps to this sign and follow a narrow concrete path away from the road, towards the falls. Veronica wonders what the boy meant by jungle. It is already apparent that Zimbabwe, like southern Zambia, is a dry country of brown grasses, wiry bushes, termite mounds and thorny trees, nothing like verdant central Africa.
A fat ranger at a guardpost informs them that admittance to the park will cost twenty of their last forty US dollars. Veronica tries to negotiate, but the ranger just stares at them stonily. Eventually she shrugs and pays; what choice do they have?
"I guess we can get money from the ATMs here if we really have to," she says as they advance through the turnstile. "Or a credit card advance."
"I think Zimbabwe's been cut off from the global banking networks. Hyperinflation and failure to make payments, or something."
Veronica winces. If this meeting with their mysterious stranger doesn't pan out they will be out of both money and options."We should have gotten money in Livingstone."
"Then they'd know we were there, and they'd figure out we were coming here. We have to stay completely off the grid. No cards, no phone calls, no international flights."
They advance into forested parkland along a path of cracked and broken concrete slabs. The roar of water grows as they advance, until suddenly the forest opens and they see the falls' entire length edge-on. They are a full half-mile across. A rainbow shimmers amid the whitewater as the mighty Zambezi plunges endlessly over a sheer cliff. In the distance, the gorge bends sharply to the right, towards the bridge. The air is thick with ambient water.
"Look," Jacob says, pointing to the right, to the lip of the gorge opposite the falls. There is a small patch of deep green vegetation where the spray is densest. Surrounded by dry grasses, it looks like an oasis in the desert.
They follow the paths along the dry side of the gorge and into a whole new ecosystem: palm trees, huge ferns, intertwining vines, leaves so dense they block out the sun. It reminds Veronica uncomfortably of the Impenetrable Forest. The concrete slabs in this bizarre patch of jungle are drenched with the perpetual spray, they have to pick their way carefully past mud and puddles.
The man waiting for them is tall and athletic, mid-twenties. His arms are ropy with muscle, his high cheekbones are carved into a statuesque face. His head is so closely cropped it is almost shaved, and his skin is very dark. His movie-star looks are marred by a sickle-shaped scar on his left cheek. He wears jeans, a red T-shirt, and a denim jacket. Something about him, his watchful readiness, reminds Veronica of both Derek and Rukungu.
"Jacob Rockel, Veronica Kelly," he greets them. His accent is African; this is not the nameless man from the phone. "Are you alone?"
After a nervous moment Veronica admits, "Yes."
"My name is Lovemore. Please, wait."
Moments later another man, short and white and tubby, emerges from the path that brought them here. He wears jeans, a T-shirt, muddy boots and a battered leather rucksack, and walks with a slight limp. A shock of brown hair and a dense pepper-and-salt beard adorn a shrewd, professorial face that has seen maybe fifty years.
"Terribly sorry for all this cloak and dagger guff," he says with a self-deprecating grin, shaking their hands casually. "Mostly childish nonsense, if you ask me. But we're living in interesting times here in Zimbabwe, have to dust off a few of the old tricks. Our esteemed government seems to feel the need to keep an eye on harmless old me."
"You're who we talked to on the phone?" Veronica asks warily.
"The very same. Lysander Tennant, at your service, in the flesh. You've met my driver and minister without portfolio." He nods towards Lovemore. Then his face hardens, and his voice, while remaining courteous, turns curt. "Now then. I don't mean to be unwelcoming, but you'll understand, I can't be found harbouring international fugitives without bloody good reason. I really shouldn't be talking to you at all. I'm here only out of that which killed the cat, and a certain morbid loyalty to our dear departed Derek. So you'd best think