It's possible. I don't know."
"Derek invited you to Bwindi for a reason," Jacob says.
She twitches with surprise. "What reason?"
"There's someone else in this camp that he's been in touch with. Derek even came here, a month ago. Did you see him then?"
Susan looks astonished. "No."
"Did he talk to you about that at all?"
"No. I thought, he met me in Kampala, he invited me, I knew he knew I worked here, but he never asked me anything."
"Me neither," Veronica says. "I guess he never got the chance."
"Have you seen any American visitors here lately?" Jacob asks. "Have you heard anything about General Gorokwe? Do Zanzibar Sams or Igloos mean anything to you?"
Susan shakes her head three times, increasingly perplexed.
"All right. Shit. Well, never mind." Jacob looks at his hiptop. "We're not far from that tracker. Let's take a look before it gets dark."
Susan looks nervous. "Maybe we should wait. I should ask some other people."
Jacob shakes his head. "It's less than a thousand feet away. In fact," he says, turning back towards the center of the camp, following the directions on the hiptop's screen, "it's right back in the middle there."
He leads them at a quick walk back towards the brick buildings, almost bowling over two children surprised by his sudden direction shift. Veronica follows closely. Susan trails behind. Jacob rounds the corner of one of the brick buildings and comes to a sudden halt so fast Veronica nearly bumps into him.
The black pickup from last night is there, parked in another row of vehicles, most of them white four-wheel-drives. Its cargo bed is empty. Jacob rushes over to it, drops to his knees, reaches beneath it, and detaches the GPS tracking device that has clung magnetically to the underside of the pickup.
"Where did this come from?" Jacob demands, indicating the black vehicle, as Susan arrives.
"Oh, the pickup," Susan says, as if everything suddenly makes sense. "Let's go back to my desk. I'll find someone who knows."
* * *
"The bureaucrats in New York don't believe what I'm doing is particularly valuable, so I don't qualify for a wall," Susan says, leading them back to her desk inside the shade structure. "They think perpetuating what you see here is more important than building a way out. Mail, bus services, mobile phones, the Internet, connections to the rest of the world, we can't have those, can we? Because then they might use them, and stop needing UNHCR, and we certainly can't have that. You soon find that the first priority of almost every aid organization in Africa is to perpetuate their own necessity, actually helping people is decidedly secondary. And the Ugandan government doesn't want these dirty Congolese refugees anywhere near the rest of the country either. So I got pushed out here. Not that I mind having a view, but in the rainy season, when the wind blows, we all have to huddle in the middle or we get soaked. I'm sorry. You don't care. Do you want some food? A cup of tea? We've even got a few solar showers."
"I just want to know where that pickup came from," Jacob says.
"Yes, of course. Lewis!" she calls out.
The same guard who escorted them to Susan walks over. He looks about nineteen. "Yes, Miss Sloan?"
"That black pickup. Did it arrive last night?"
"No, Miss Sloan. This morning. I was at the gate myself."
"What was in it?" Jacob asks eagerly.
Lewis looks at him, surprised. "Nothing. It's a new vehicle for the camp motor pool. We did not requisition any supplies."
"You're sure? There weren't any big metal boxes in the back?"
"I am quite certain."
"Shit," Veronica says. "Too late. They're gone."
She and Jacob exchange dejected looks.
"I suppose you're spending the night," Susan says. "I'll rustle you up a tent and a couple bedrolls. Oh, and a flashlight. Remind me to show you where the latrines are. And you must be hungry. The canteen will be serving for another hour or so. Pocho, I'm afraid."
"Pocho," Jacob says dourly. "Can't wait."
* * *
The tent is perched on the thin strip of no-man's-land between the administrative buildings and the refugee camp proper. It is small and bedraggled, and the sleeping bags are motheaten, but Veronica supposes she can't complain, not when she is literally surrounded by tens of thousands of refugees sleeping in even more uncomfortable shelters. She doesn't feel hungry or tired yet, she's too keyed up from the day, but she knows she will after half an hour of inaction.
"Are you going to be okay in there?" Jacob