Carefully, reverently, pensively, David folded the map. With its one last clue. And then he kissed Amy’s sweet, bare, sleeping shoulder, hoping she wasn’t dreaming of Miguel.

At length Hans turned, one hand on the wheel. He nodded at David.

‘Empty, right?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, Namibia is empty. You know why?’

‘No.’

‘My people did this. Emptied the damn country.’ He frowned. ‘The Germans. You ever heard of the Herero Holocaust?’

He apologized: no, he hadn’t.

Amy stirred on his left. Rubbing sleep from her eyes. And listening to Hans.

‘Incredible story.’ Hans glanced at Sammy. Who was silent. The big German driver turned and fixed his eyes on the potholed road, and gulped some more water from a little bottle, as he elaborated:

‘In 1904 the Herero people rebelled, and massacred dozens of German settlers. My great great great uncle nearly died.’ Hans suddenly pointed out of the window.

‘Ostrich!’

Amy and David craned to see: three or four large ungainly birds were running down the road in front of them. With their flustered big black and white behinds, they looked like alarmed Victorian spinsters fleeing a minor sex offender. The sight was comical. But Hans was not laughing.

‘Where was I? Yeah. The Germans saw this revolt as a serious threat to the potential of their diamond-rich colony, so they despatched a Prussian imperialist, Lothar von Trotha, to deal with the uprising.’ Hans drank some more water. ‘The Kaiser told von Trotha to “emulate the Huns” in his savagery. Von Trotha promised he would use “cruelty and terrorism”. Nice bunch of guys, the German imperial classes.’

Hans steered a left and a right. ‘And that’s exactly what happened. Cruelty and terrorism. And genocide. After several battles, where the Herero were slain in large numbers, lovely von Trotha decided to finish the job once and for all and destroy the entire Herero people. In 1907 he issued his notorious extermination order, or vernichtungsbefehl. He decided to kill them in toto. Every last one. An entire nation.’

‘Jesus,’ said Amy.

‘Yah,’ said Hans. ‘So the Herero were driven west, into the Kalahari desert, to die. Guards were stationed at water-holes so the people couldn’t drink; wells were deliberately poisoned. You have to remember this was desert, searing desert, the Omahake. They had no food and water, an entire nation of people with no food and water. They didn’t last long. Some women and children tried to return, but they were instantly shot.’

He jerked the wheel to avoid a small gaggle of little birds.

‘And there are eye witness accounts of this holocaust. Unbearably harrowing. Hundreds of people just lying in the desert, dying of thirst. Children going mad amongst the corpses of their parents; apparently the buzzing of the flies was deafening, paralyzed people were eaten alive by leopards and jackals.’

Amy asked, quietly: ‘How many died?’

Hans shrugged. ‘No one’s entirely sure. Reliable historians estimate that maybe sixty thousand Herero were killed. That’s seventy to eighty percent of the entire Herero people.’ He laughed, very sourly. ‘Oh yes, the numbers, we do love our numbers, don’t we? Makes it all easier to bear for white men. A nice sensible percentage. Seventy-five point six two percent!’ He waved an angry hand, gesturing at the desert. ‘The slaughter affects Namibia’s demography to this day. Helps explain the emptiness.’

David was silenced – by everything – this horrible story, the stirring desolation of the landscape, the extraordinary heat – and the mighty sun. Namibia just seemed to dwarf…everything.

‘Uis. We’re nearly in Uis.’

The town of Uis, which had appeared to be significant on the map, turned out to be barely a village. A couple of caged liquor stores stood next to three petrol stations. A grey concrete building, apparently a restaurant, advertised Snoek, Meat Pies and Greek Salad. Several iron shacks, a few big houses with big fences, and some huts and bungalows comprised the sunburned residential district.

There were lots of men sitting on their haunches around the petrol stations, staring into the burning emptiness, staring at the Land Rovers. Unpaved roads straggled off into half-hearted woodland. The shadows cast by men and buildings were stark, etched into the dust. Black black black then blazing white.

Hans stopped the car at one of the gas stations; the other Land Rover did the same. David and Amy got out to walk about for a moment, to stretch aching legs, but the heat of the scorching sun was punishing – driving them back towards shelter. Hans looked at the pair of them sceptically as he paid the petrol attendant.

‘You guys got hats?’

They both said no.

‘Guys! In Namibia there are three rules. Always wear a hat. Take every opportunity to refuel. And never drink whisky with a Baster.’ He laughed. ‘OK. We’re getting near – if your coordinates are right. Maybe another coupla hours.’

The car headed deeper into the thickening bush. David had never experienced this kind of terrain: it made the Pyrenees look like St James’s Park. He was glad they were losing themselves in the wilderness: it made them that much harder to follow. If they were being followed. Were they being followed?

‘These are the Damara wetlands,’ said Hans. ‘Underground rivers, coming to the surface. This water is what everyone relies on. We’ve gotta go straight through.’

It felt contradictory. From scorching desert they were shifting, abruptly, into an emerald paradise of sudden rivers. Waterbirds squawked, toads and frogs croaked. And the car was rocking right down the middle of it all, wheel-arch deep in muddy water. It was like they were tunnelling into Eden.

Reeds cracked against the undercarriage, ducks fled the splashing wheels; more than once it seemed they were going to get stuck in the sucking black mud and would have to be towed free. But, just when the car was about to give up, Hans did some manly manoeuvre with the wheel and the gearstick and they lurched from the sucking swamps – charging back up onto dry land.

David wound the window open. They were on much firmer territory now; lush yet dry. Big orange cliffs stood on either side, they were rumbling down a dusty canyon.

A gazelle, or an antelope, stared quizzically at them from a rock.

‘Klipspringer,’ said Hans. ‘Beautiful things. Always remind me of Russian girl gymnasts…’ He checked the GPS coordinates given him by Amy. ‘We’re nearly there. I hope your woman has given you the right numbers. But I can’t see anything. I’d hate it if you guys have come all this way for nothing -’

‘There,’ said Amy.

34

David followed her gaze, and her pointing arm. Down a shallow side canyon he saw a group of tents – a largish camp of parked vans, pink tents and people. One of the men stood out, he had bright red hair. He was injecting a black girl in the crook of her arm; she was covered in grease and her breasts were quite bare.

‘That must be Nairn.’

The Land Rovers pulled up, David and Amy climbed out and approached the red-haired man – only then did he turn to look at them. He was still drawing blood from the black girl.

‘OK. I’ve nearly finished this bunch.’ Angus Nairn’s voice was loud, exuberant. He smiled at the visitors, then turned to a colleague and carried on issuing commands. ‘Alphonse! Alfie. Stop faffing about or I’ll be forced to get von Trotha on yer arse. Ask Donna to get the tables laid. And I want some kudu steak too. Excellent. Splendid. OK. You must be David and Amy? Eloise told me all about you. Give me a sec, we’re just finishing up. Alright, laydeez -’

David and Amy stood there feeling spare, and stunned, as the business of the camp continued. David contemplated Nairn as he chattered. Where was Eloise?