a few men with dreadlocks, but none are Prester. He's short for an African, next to invisible in a crowd like this.
"Is there enough light to take a picture?" Veronica asks.
"I don't know. The window works as a poor man's tripod, that helps. Let's see." He sets the camera to its maximum ISO level, takes a test shot, and examines the resulting image. "Hey, that's actually not bad. Good enough to recognize faces."
Jacob goes back to surveying the crowd through the telescopic lens. It feels like he is in a movie, but at the same time he feels coolly confident, ready for anything, as if he has been training his whole life for this pursuit of Al-Qaeda down dark African alleys. Maybe he has: maybe every movie, book and video game he's ever seen, read and played has honed his instincts and his strategies, maybe this is the triumphant advantage of having lived a Western pop-culture youth, that all the ten thousand made-up adventures he has seen and lived on screen and page have prepared him for this real one better than any formal training ever could.
"Can I see?" Veronica asks after a few minutes.
"Sure."
She has to lean over him and press her body against his to get a decent view, and when she does, Jacob goes still. She is amazingly warm. It feels like a long time passes before she withdraws from the camera and sits back in her seat.
"I guess we wait," Veronica says.
Time passes. Jacob wishes he had thought to bring a jacket. By day, Kampala's equatorial heat is oppressive, but the night air is cool.
"Lot of mosquitoes out here," Jacob says, slapping at his shoulder.
Veronica produces her pack of Marlboro Lights. "Don't worry. I'll smoke them out."
"Can I have one?"
She looks at him. "I didn't know you smoked."
"I may as well start. We've got bigger problems than lung cancer."
It feels like sucking air from a car's exhaust pipe, he hacks and coughs on the first couple of puffs, but Jacob keeps going, although he stops inhaling. Soon his fingers are tingling and he feels a little sick.
* * *
"Veronica," Jacob whispers. He puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes her, gently at first, then firmly. "Veronica, wake up."
She gasps and sits up, eyes wide, alarmed. "What is it?"
"It's okay. You fell asleep. He's outside."
Prester has emerged alone from the fray of the nightclub, and is buying a skewer of grilled meat from the nyama choma stand. Veronica, Jacob and Henry watch intently. When Prester goes back inside Jacob groans and slumps back into his seat.
"Jesus," Veronica mutters. "I never knew following someone could be so boring. How long have we been here now?"
Jacob checks his hiptop. "Almost five hours."
"Christ."
Henry says, unexpectedly, "The patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit."
Jacob blinks. "Says who?"
"Ecclesiastes, chapter seven, verse eight."
"Wait," Veronica says. "He's coming out again,"
This time Prester keeps walking, and disappears into the night. Jacob and Veronica are still considering their options when Prester's familiar green Mitsubishi Pajero emerges from the darkness and drives right past the Toyota. Jacob yanks the camera away, and he and Veronica crouch down in the back seat as Prester's headlights sweep over them.
"Do you think he saw us?" Veronica asks.
"No," Henry says.
She and Jacob exchange glances.
"All right," Jacob decides. "I've always wanted to say this. Follow that car!"
* * *
Prester drives back to the paved road and turns left, away from downtown. Jacob is relieved to be back among street lights. They enter a quasi-industrial zone of warehouses and car repair shops, properties fenced with barbed wire or concrete topped with broken glass, some guarded by askaris or dogs. Then, when the road forks, Prester bends left where all the other traffic goes right. The left-hand fork is paved but has no street lights.
"Turn our lights off," Jacob orders. "Keep following."
Henry hesitates a moment before obeying. Jacob is glad he had Henry drive. Henry was born in Kampala, he must know the city like the back of his hand, surely he won't allow them to drive into disaster.
"Where does this road go?" he asks.
Henry shakes his head. "I do not know."
Jacob winces and looks down at his hiptop. The map is utterly blank.
"He is slowing down," Henry says softly. He is leaning forward and squinting in order to see the road ahead of them.
"Keep back," Jacob says. "Don't let him see us."
Prester's lights begin to bounce and jostle. Seconds later they feel the smooth pavement beneath them end, the