bush or she had been taken hostage.
They felt none too comfortable in this outlying homestead with the body of the dead farmer as their only company. Darkness came quickly, and having gathered together everything of value from the house, they returned to headquarters in Umtali where they laconically reported the death of yet another farmer in the Thrasher operational area.
The commander of the police station rubbed his eyes as he completed the report, and consigned it to the growing pile at the corner of his desk. Then he took it off the pile and stared at the section on Miss Elliot.
At over sixty he had been through the Second World War and had had quite enough of death for one lifetime. He often wondered what quirk of fate had caused him finally to settle in this place, where he had thought he was retiring to a peaceful life. He had met the dead farmer a few times and had found him a pleasant, quiet fellow, not the sort to mistreat his black workers. At least it was fortunate he hadn’t a wife and children left behind to face the world alone.
Miss Elliot was a problem. An embarrassment.
As he tidied up his desk and positioned the in-tray in readiness for the next morning’s reports, he noticed a telegram that had been dropped on his desk some fifteen minutes before. It was from an American magazine editor, wanting to contact Miss Elliot urgently.
The commander started sweating. If Miss Elliot had been kidnapped it could cause him no end of problems. Reluctantly he picked up the phone and rang high command in Salisbury. There was a long silence after he had told them the story. He was ordered to keep quiet and wait for instructions. He put the phone down ruefully.
The commander locked the door of his office behind him and, as he walked down the corridor, he congratulated himself on selling off his farm years before, just when the going was beginning to get rough. At least he had some money in the bank, as well as some inherited money in England. He could always consider emigrating to South Africa if things got really bad, unlike that poor bastard out there who would soon be put to rest in the church graveyard.
Nice place, that farm. You could probably pick it up for next to nothing now, but no one would want it. Things were just too uncertain.
‘ Welcome to Camp Siberia. It’s not a pleasant place but at least the Rhodesians and their bombers can’t find it. I have little time for dealing with prisoners, so please tell me the story of your capture, and something of your background. Then I will decide on your future.’
Mnangagwa had brought her to this place, to see this man, one of the high commanders of ZANLA. His tone irritated her. Sam was not the sort of person who liked to be told what to do.
‘ Does it really matter to you? What’s the choice? Death, rape, or long-term imprisonment? It’s not my fault I was brought here. If I’d resisted I’d have been killed. I don’t know anything of use to you so there’s little point in your questioning me.’
He smiled as she spoke, a wry smile. He was an enormous man, not just physically big, but with a magnetic personality. His dark eyes were hypnotic. He had a chiselled jaw, perfectly square, and above it, sensitive lips that often smiled to reveal the neat line of his teeth. Most of the terrorists she had seen over the past two days looked scruffy in their dark jeans and green denim shirts, but this man looked as if the uniform had been tailor- made for him. Over the shirt he wore a light camouflage jacket and on his head a peaked cap.
‘ You are an American. An American journalist in Rhodesia. This is very unusual. I find it strange that your capture has not been reported on the Rhodesian radio service. It crosses my mind that you might be a spy.’ His voice was very deep, and his speech precise. No word was wasted.
‘ Tell me your name, American woman.’
‘ Samantha Elliot. I am a reporter for a leading American magazine. I’ve been
They felt none too comfortable in this outlying homestead with the body of the dead farmer as their only company. Darkness came quickly, and having gathered together everything of value from the house, they returned to headquarters in Umtali where they laconically reported the death of yet another farmer in the Thrasher operational area.
The commander of the police station rubbed his eyes as he completed the report, and consigned it to the growing pile at the corner of his desk. Then he took it off the pile and stared at the section on Miss Elliot.
At over sixty he had been through the Second World War and had had quite enough of death for one lifetime. He often wondered what quirk of fate had caused him finally to settle in this place, where he had thought he was retiring to a peaceful life. He had met the dead farmer a few times and had found him a pleasant, quiet fellow, not the sort to mistreat his black workers. At least it was fortunate he hadn’t a wife and children left behind to face the world alone.
Miss Elliot was a problem. An embarrassment.
As he tidied up his desk and positioned the in-tray in readiness for the next morning’s reports, he noticed a telegram that had been dropped on his desk some fifteen minutes before. It was from an American magazine editor, wanting to contact Miss Elliot urgently.
The commander started sweating. If Miss Elliot had been kidnapped it could cause him no end of problems. Reluctantly he picked up the phone and rang high command in Salisbury. There was a long silence after he had told them the story. He was ordered to keep quiet and wait for instructions. He put the phone down ruefully.
The commander locked the door of his office behind him and, as he walked down the corridor, he congratulated himself on selling off his farm years before, just when the going was beginning to get rough. At least he had some money in the bank, as well as some inherited money in England. He could always consider emigrating to South Africa if things got really bad, unlike that poor bastard out there who would soon be put to rest in the church graveyard.
Nice place, that farm. You could probably pick it up for next to nothing now, but no one would want it. Things were just too uncertain.
‘ Welcome to Camp Siberia. It’s not a pleasant place but at least the Rhodesians and their bombers can’t find it. I have little time for dealing with prisoners, so please tell me the story of your capture, and something of your background. Then I will decide on your future.’
Mnangagwa had brought her to this place, to see this man, one of the high commanders of ZANLA. His tone irritated her. Sam was not the sort of person who liked to be told what to do.
‘ Does it really matter to you? What’s the choice? Death, rape, or long-term imprisonment? It’s not my fault I was brought here. If I’d resisted I’d have been killed. I don’t know anything of use to you so there’s little point in your questioning me.’
He smiled as she spoke, a wry smile. He was an enormous man, not just physically big, but with a magnetic personality. His dark eyes were hypnotic. He had a chiselled jaw, perfectly square, and above it, sensitive lips that often smiled to reveal the neat line of his teeth. Most of the terrorists she had seen over the past two days looked scruffy in their dark jeans and green denim shirts, but this man looked as if the uniform had been tailor- made for him. Over the shirt he wore a light camouflage jacket and on his head a peaked cap.
‘ You are an American. An American journalist in Rhodesia. This is very unusual. I find it strange that your capture has not been reported on the Rhodesian radio service. It crosses my mind that you might be a spy.’ His voice was very deep, and his speech precise. No word was wasted.
‘ Tell me your name, American woman.’
‘ Samantha Elliot. I am a reporter for a leading American magazine. I’ve been
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