teaches mathematics to several hundred children, in the failing red light, with no aids but chalk and a single blackboard. He sees and smells a long, low, filthy building labelled LATRINE, its wrecked door hanging open like a broken jaw. Old women lug yellow jerrycans full of water, and others queue to fill theirs from rusted taps that protrude from the ground. Pots boil over open-pit fires next to wood-and-canvas shelters.
The brick buildings with tin roofs in the middle of the camp seem like an island of peace and civilization. Here the soft background chatter of the refugees is drowned out by the hum of multiple generators. Veronica parks the Toyota at the end of the row of cars in front of another guard hut, populated by a half-dozen Ugandan soldiers. Jacob wonders if these soldiers, and those by the gate, are intended more to protect the refugees, or to keep them in the camp and under control. He wonders how effective they would be against Athanase's veteran interahamwe force.
"Susan Strachan, please, can you direct us to her?" Jacob says to the soldier who comes to investigate.
The soldier nods and leads Veronica and Jacob between two of the permanent buildings to a large shade structure made of metal struts and a green plastic ceiling. Several dozen desks are arranged underneath it, adorned by lights and laptop computers connected to a central generator via an interwoven tangle of power cords clumped on the dirt floor like old spaghetti. It is like some kind of surreal parody of an open-concept office plan. Susan sits at a desk crowded with papers near the edge of the tent. When she sees Veronica and Jacob her mouth literally drops open with astonishment.
"Surprise!" Veronica says, trying for enthusiasm.
"Bloody hell," Susan manages. "What are you two doing here?"
"It's a long story," Jacob says. He wishes they had gone to Susan earlier, before she left Kampala. He'd intended to, but then events overtook them, he'd forgotten all about her and the Semiliki refugee camp until he saw where the tracker was going. "You have a moment?"
Susan shakes her head, still amazed. "I suppose I must, for you two."
Veronica says, seriously, "In private."
Susan opens her mouth and then closes it again. "I see. Yes." She stands up. "In that case, let's take a walk."
* * *
Susan leads them out into the camp, onto a road leading away from the gate. The long fingers of clouds above are reddening with sunset. Refugees cluster and watch as if Veronica, Jacob and Susan are A-list celebrities. It occurs to Veronica that just a month ago she would have been far too intimidated by this camp and its densely packed tragedies to go out and walk among the refugees like this.
A cloud of children surround and follow them, crying out for largesse: "One pen!" "Donnes-moi d'argent!" "Un bic, monsieur, madam, un bic!" "Give me money!" "What is your name?" "Quel est son pays?" Despite the children's entreaties, Susan and Jacob act like they are on a stroll through an empty field. Veronica tries to do the same, but it isn't easy.
"How are you?" Jacob asks.
"I'm well enough, I suppose," Susan says. "It's good to be back here. It's the right place for me. I don't think I'll leave anytime soon. Why are you here?"
"We were abducted because somebody wanted Derek dead. We're trying to find out who."
Susan comes to a halt and turns to stare at Jacob. "That's mad."
"No, it's not," Veronica says. "We've found out a lot of things."
"But what are you doing here?"
"Somebody brought something to this camp last night," Jacob says.
"What?"
"We don't know. But there's a tracker on it, we can find it, we don't need you for that. We need to know, have you seen anything? Anything that might imply there's some kind of smuggling going on between this camp and the Congo?"
Susan considers. "I couldn't tell you. It's not like this place is tightly policed. Look around, it can't be. There are tribal gangs in the camp. Some mornings we find bodies. Not from natural causes. But nobody ever saw anything. Nobody ever dares bear witness. People disappear all the time. Some run away to find a job. Some never existed in the first place. False identities to get extra rations. Some go back to the Congo, yes. That's where most of these people are from, you know. They ran away from the civil war, and now there's nothing left to go back to. But a smuggling ring?