It was a destructive search.

"What's going on, Sergeant?" Craig's anger resurfaced, and this time the tall sergeant's gesture was unmistakably hostile.

Craig and Sally-Anne backed off before him into the dining-room and stood in the centre of the room beside the teak refectory table, facing the threatening rifle, Craig holding her protectively.

Two troopers slipped in through the front door, and reported to the sergeant in a gabble of Shana that Craig could not follow. The sergeant acknowledged with a nod and gave them an order. They spread out obediently along the wall, their weapons turned unmistakably onto the dishevelled couple in the centre of the room.

"VAlere are the lights?" the sergeant asked, and when Craig told him, he went to the switch and white light flooded the room.

"What is going on here, Sergeant?" Craig repeated, angry and uncertain and starting to be afraid for Sally-Anne again.

The sergeant ignored the question, and strode to the door. He called to one of the troopers on the lawn, and the man came at a run. He carried a portable radio transmitter strapped on his back, with the scorpion-tail aerial sticking up over his shoulder. The sergeant spoke softly into the handset ai' the radio and then came back into the room. 0 now in an unm They waited oving tableau. To Craig it seemed like an hour passed in silence, but it was less than five minutes before the sergeant cocked his head slightly, listening. Craig heard it, the beat of an engine, in a different tempo from that of the diesel generator. It firmed, and Craig knew that it was a Land-Rover.

It came up the driveway, headlights swept the windows, brakes squeaked and gravel crunched. The engine was cut, doors banged and then there were the footsteps of a group of men crossing the veranda.

General Peter Fungabera led his staff in through the french doors.

He wore his beret pulled down over one eye and a matching silk scarf at his throat. Except for the pistol in its webbing holster at his side, he was armed only with the leather-covered swagger, stick

Behind him Captain Nbebi was tall and round shouldered his eyes inscrutable behind the steel-rimmed spectacles. He carried a leather map-case in his hand, and a machine pistol on a sling over his shoulder.

"Peter!" Craig's relief was tempered by wariness. It was all too contrived, too controlled, too menacing. "Some of my people have been killed. My induna is out there somewhere, badly wounded."

"There have been many enemy casualties," Peter Fungabera nodded.

Enemy? "Craig was puzzled.

"Dissidents," Peter nodded again. "Matabele dissidents." "Dissidents?"

Craig stared at him. "Shadrach a dissident?

That's crazy he's a simple, uneducated cattleman, and doesn't give a darrin for politics-"

"Things are often not what they seem." Peter Fungabera pulled back the chair at the head of the long table and placed one foot on it, leaning an elbow on his knee. Timon Nbebi placed the leather map-case on the table in front of him and stood back, in a position of guard behind his shoulder, holding the machine pistol by the grip.

"Will somebody please tell me what in the hell is happening here, Peter?" Craig was exasperated and nervous.

"Somebody attacked my village they've killed some of my people. God alone knows how many why don't you get after them?"

"The shooting is over," Peter Fungabera told him. "We have cleaned out the vipers" nest of traitors that you were breeding on this colonial-style estate of yours."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Craig was now truly flustered. "You cannot be serious!"

"Serious?" Peter smiled easily. He straightened up and placed both feet back on the floor. He walked across to face them. "A puppy, "he was still smiling. "How adorable." He took Buster from Sally-Anne's arms before she realized his intentions. He strolled back to the head of the table, fondling the little animal, scratching behind its ear.

it was still half-asleep and it made little whimpering sounds, nuzzling against him, instinctively searching for its mother's teat.

"Serious?" Peter repeated the original question. "I want to impress upon you just how serious I am." He dropped the puppy onto the stone-flagged floor. It fell on its back, and lay stunned. He placed his boot upon its chest and crushed it with his full weight. The puppy screamed once only as its chest collapsed.

"That is how serious I am." He was no longer smiling.

"Your lives are as valuable to me as this animal was." Sally-Anne made a small moaning sound and turned away, burying her face. in Craig's chest. She heaved with nausea, and Craig could feel her fighting to control it.

Peter Fungabera kicked the soft yellow corpse into the fireplace and sat down.

"We have wasted enough time on the theatricals," he said, and opened the leather map-case, spreading the documents on the table t front of him.

"Mr. Mellow, you kave been acting as an agent provocateur in the pay of the notorious American CIA-"

"That's a bloody lie! Craig shouted, and Peter ignored the outburst.

"Your local control was the American agent Morgan Oxford at the United States Embassy, while your central control and paymaster was a certain Henry Pickering, who masquerades as a senior official of the World Bank in New York. He recruited both you and Miss Jay"