'No one will find them now,' said Chip. 'This looks like a likely pool for crocodiles. The crocs will take them and wedge them under water until they ripen enough to eat.' It was a gruesome thought.

They dressed Hendrix and he did not co-operate, either. He was almost in a state of catatonia. Stafford noted that Hendrix had no scar on either shoulder, a scar which ought to have been there. He said nothing, and looked up when Chip said, 'One of your problems is solved; you've separated Hendrix from Gunnarsson. How long do you want to keep it that way?'

That hadn't occurred to Stafford. He said, 'We'll discuss it later. Let's get the hell out of here.'

They hoisted Hendrix to his feet and Stafford slapped his face hard twice with an open palm. Hendrix shook his head and put up his hand to rub his cheek. 'What did you do that for?' he asked, but the imbecilic vacuous look in his eyes was fading.

'To pound some sense into you,' Stafford said. 'If you don't want to die you've got to move.'

A slow comprehension came to him. 'Christ, yes!' he said.

Chip was brushing the ground with a leafy branch, scattering dust over the few bloodstains and eliminating all signs of their presence. He walked over to where he had fired the submachine-gun and picked up all the cartridge cases he could find, then he tossed them and the two Kalashnikovs into the river. 'Let's get Nair,' he said, so Stafford picked up his rifle and they went from that place.

They struck away from the river and headed north-east for the border, going up the narrow gully they had come down until they got to the comparative safety of the other side of the ridge where they rested a while and had a brief council of war. At a gesture from Chip Nair stood guard on Hendrix and he and Stafford withdrew from earshot. 'What now?' said Chip.

Up to that moment Stafford had had no opportunity for constructive thinking; all his efforts had been bent on staying alive and out of trouble and he had not considered the implications of what he had seen. Those people stripped to trek back to Keekorok troubled him. If they travelled when the sun was up they would get terribly sun-burned, and Chip had indicated that travel at night could be dangerous. He said, 'How far is it to Keekorok from here?'

'About eleven or twelve miles – in a straight line. But no one travels in a straight line in the bush. Say fifteen miles.'

That was a long way; a day's march. Stafford was not worried about Gunnarsson or Kosters. Gunnarsson was tough enough and the young Dutchman looked fit. Michele '

Roche could probably take it, too, but her parents were something else. A sedentary wine merchant who looked as though he liked to sample his own product freely and his elderly wife were going to have a hell of a tough time. He said, 'This is a funny one, Chip. These border raids: has anyone been killed previously?'

Chip shook his head. 'Just robbery. No deaths and not even a rape. They took three Nissans full of Germans about a year ago but they all came back safely.'

'Then why this time?' asked Stafford. 'That was nearly a deliberate murder. It looked almost like a bloody execution.'

'I don't know,' Chip said. 'It beats me.'

'That charming scene in the clearing when Gunnarsson wanted his shoes. Did you notice anything about Hendrix?"

'Yes, he was separated from the others.'

'And under guard. Now, why should Tanzanians want to cut Hendrix from the herd to kill him? If you could give me the answer to that I'd be very happy because I think it would give us an answer to this whole mess.'

'I don't have an answer,' Chip said frankly.

'Neither do I,' said Stafford, and brooded for a while.

'Well; you've got Hendrix now,' said Chip. 'If you want to question him now's the time to do it before he joins the others.'

'Whoever wanted Hendrix out of the way wanted it to be bloody permanent,' Stafford said ruminatively. 'And it wasn't a matter of secrecy, either. Chip, supposing you were in that tour group and you saw Hendrix marched away. A little later you hear shots, and then the Tanzanians who took Hendrix away return wearing broad grins. What would you think?'

'I'd think Hendrix had been shot, probably trying to escape.'

'So would I,' said Stafford. 'And that's probably what the rest of the group think right now, except that Hendrix's guards didn't return. But they'll have heard the shots. Does that sound reasonable?'

'It could be.'

Nair gave a peculiar warbling whistle and beckoned. They went back to the crest of the ridge and Nair pointed to the belt of trees by the Losemai. 'They're coming out.'

Minute figures were emerging on to the open plain. Chip, his binoculars to his eyes, counted them.'… four… five… six.'

'No more.'

'No more. Just the group minus Hendrix. The Tanzanians have sent them home.' He looked at the setting sun. 'Trier won't make good time, not without shoes. They'll be spending a night in the bush.'

'Dangerous?'

He shook his head. 'Not if they're careful; just scary. But Adam will look after them if they have the sense to let him. We'll wait for them up here.'

Stafford said, 'Let's have a chat.'

Hendrix stirred at Nair's side. 'Say, who are you guys?'

'Lifesavers,' said Stafford. 'Your life. Now shut up.' He looked at Nair. 'Keep him quiet. If he doesn't want to be quiet then quieten him.' He did not want Hendrix to get any wrong ideas about his rescuers. He wanted him softened up and it was best that Hendrix should think he'd jumped out of a moderately warm frying pan into a bloody hot fire.

Stafford jerked his head at Chip and they walked away again. He said, 'I don't know the motives for the attempted murder of Hendrix but, so far, only four people know he's not dead. You, me, Nair and Hendrix himself. And he would have been very dead if you hadn't let go with the Uzi when you did. It was a matter of a split second.'

'What are you getting at?'

'Supposing he doesn't join the others? Supposing he stays dead? That's going to confuse the hell out of somebody.'

'Which somebody?'

'How the devil would I know? But six Tanzanians don't deliberately try to murder the inheritor of three million pounds just for kicks. The average Tanzanian wouldn't even know Hendrix existed. Somebody, somewhere, must have given the orders. Now, that somebody will think Hendrix is dead as per orders. He might be mystified about the disappearance of two Tanzanians, but Hendrix will have disappeared, too. The survivors of the group will tell their tale and it will all add up to Hendrix's death because, if he isn't dead why doesn't he show up? But I'll have him. He's not a trump card but a joker to be played at the correct time.'

Chip stared at Stafford for a long time in silence. Eventually he said, 'You don't want much, do you?' He ticked off points on his fingers. 'One, we kidnap Hendrix; two, we have to smuggle him out of the Mara because he can't go through any of the gates; three, we have to keep him alive with food and water while all this is going on; four, we have to find a place to put him when we get him out of the Mara; five, that means guards to be supplied; six…' He stopped. 'You know; a man could run out of fingers this way.'

'In the past you've always proved to be a resourceful chap,' Stafford said engagingly.

Chip gave him a thin smile. 'All hell is going to break loose,' he said. 'This is going to make headlines in the world press. An American multi-millionaire kidnapped and killed -a first-rate front page story full of diplomatic dynamite. The Kenyan government will be forced to protest to Tanzania and the American government will probably join in. So what happens when we finally turn him loose? Then our heads are on the chopping block.'

'Not at all,' Stafford said. 'He won't say a damned thing. He can't say a thing. You're forgetting that he isn't really Hendrix.'