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A printer began chattering. News from home. The others drifted over. Director Mbaqane moved closer to Laura. "I'm not sure I understand the role of this American journalist you mentioned. "
"He was with the Tuaregs."
The director tried not to look confused. "Yes, we do have some so-called Tuaregs here, or rather, Kel Tamashek.... I take it that he wants to assure himself that they are being treated in a fair and equal ma
"It's more of a cultural interest," Laura said. "He did mention something about wanting to talk to them."
"Cultural? They're coming along very nicely.... Perhaps
I could send out a deputation of tribal elders-put his mind to rest. We gladly shelter any ethnic group in need-Bambara,
Marka, Songhai... . We have quite a large contingent of
Sarakole, who are not even Nigeran nationals."
He seemed to expect an answer. Laura sipped her orange pop and nodded. Barnaard drifted back-he had quickly as- sessed the message as meaningless. "Oh, no. Not another journo, not now."
The director shut him up with a glance. "As you can see,
Mrs. Webster, we're rather pressed at the moment ... but if you require a tour, I'm sure that Mr. Barnaard would be more than happy to, ah, explain our policies to the international press."
"You're very thoughtful," Laura said. "Unfortunately I have to do an interview myself."
"Well, I can understand that-it must be quite a scoop.
Hostages, freed from the notorious prisons of Bamako." He fiddled with his pipe avuncularly. "It'll certainly be the talk of Azania. One of our own, returned to us from bondage.
Quite a boost for our morale-especially in the midst of this crisis." The director was talking over and through her for the benefit of his own people. It was working, too-he was cheering them up. She felt better about him.
He went on. "I know that you and Dr. Selous must be- are-very close. The sacred bond between those who have struggled together for freedom! But you needn't worry, Mrs.
Webster. Our prayers are with Katje Selous! I am sure she will pull through!"
"I hope so. Take good care of her. She was brave."
"A national heroine! Of course we will. And if there's anything we can do for you ... "
"I thought, maybe a shower."
Mbaqane laughed. "Good heavens. Of course, my dear.
And clothing.... Sara is about your size...."
"I'll keep this, uh, djellaba." She had puzzled him. "I'm going on camera with it, it's a better image."
"Oh, I see-... yes."
Gresham was doing a stand-up at the edge of camp. Laura circled him, careful to stay out of camera range.
She was shocked by the beauty of his face.. He had shaved and put on full video makeup: eyeliner, lip rouge, powder.
His voice had changed: it was mellifluous, each word pro- nounced with an anchorman's precision.
.. the image of a desolate wasteland. But the Sahel was once the home of black Africa's strongest, most prosperous states. The Songhai empire, the empires of Mali and Ghana, the holy city of Timbuktu with its scholars and libraries. To the Moslem world the Sahel was a byword for dazzling wealth, with. gold, ivory, crops of all kinds. Huge caravans crossed the Sahara, fleets of treasure canoes traveled the
Niger River ... "
She walked past him. The rest of his caravan had arrived, and the Tuaregs had set up camp. Not the rags and lean-tos they'd skulked under while raiding, but six large, sturdy- looking shelters. They were prefabricated domes, covered in desert camo-fabric. Inside they were braced with mesh-linked metallic ribs.
From the backs of their skeletal desert cars, the hooded nomads were unrolling long linked tracks that looked like tank treads. In harsh afternoon sunlight the treads gleamed with black silicon. They were long racks of solar-power cells.
They hooked the buggies' wheel hubs to long jumper cables from the power grid. They moved with fluid ease; it was as if they were watering camels. They chatted quietly in
Tamashek.
While one group was recharging their buggies, the others rolled out mats in the shade of one of the domes. They began brewing. tea with an electric heat coil. Laura joined them.
They seemed mildly embarrassed by her presence, but ac- cepted it as an interesting anomaly. One of them pulled a tube of protein from an ancient leather parcel and cracked it_ open over his knee. He offered her a wet handful, bowing. She scraped it from his long fingertips and ate it and thanked him.
Gresham arrived with his cameraman. He was wiping his powdered face with an oiled rag, fastidiously. "How'd it go in camp?"
"I wasn't sure they'd let me back out."
"They don't work that way," Gresham said. "It's the desert that locks people in there...." He sat beside her.
"Did you tell them about the Bomb?"
She shook her head. "I wanted to, but I just couldn't.
They're so jumpy already, and there's commandos with guns... . But Katje will tell them, if she comes around. It's all so confused-I'm confused. I was afraid they'd panic and lock me away. And you, too."
The thought amused him. "What, come out and tangle with us? I don't think so." He patted the camera. "I had a talk with that para captain, when he came out to give us the once-over... . I know how he's thinking. Classic Afrikaaner tactics: he's got his covered wagons- in a circle, every man to the ramparts, ready to repel the Zulus. Of course he's a Zulu himself, but he's read the rule books... . Got a camp full of childlike savage refugees to keep calm and pacified... . He's got us figured for friendlies, though. So far."
"Vie
"Christ." Gresham thought about it. "A little Vie
"They didn't say. I guess it depends on what Vie
"Well, Niger's no help, eighty-year-old Soviet tanks and an army that riots and burns down Niamey' every other year... . If there's a lot of Vie
Vie
"They wouldn't ever do that. They're too afraid of the Bomb."
"I du
Grenada six months ago, and that was a tough nut to crack. "
"They did that? Invaded Grenada?"
"Wiped 'em out in their hacker ratholes.... Stupid tactics though, frontal assault, clumsy.... They lost over twelve hundred men." He raised his brows at her shock. "You've been to Grenada, Laura-I thought you knew. FACT should have told you-it was such a triumph for their goddamn policy. "
"They never told me. Anything."
"The cult of secrecy," he said. "They live by it." He paused, glancing toward the camp. "Oh, good. They've sent us but some of their tame Tamashek."
Gresham withdrew within the dome, motioning Laura with him. Half a dozen camp inmates arrived outside, trudging reluctantly.
They were old men. They wore T-shirts and paper baseball hats and Chinese rubber sandals and ragged polyester pants.
The Inadin Tuaregs greeted them with languid, ritual po- liteness. Gresham translated for her. Sir is well? Yes, very well, and yourself? Myself and mine are very well, thank you. And sir's people, they are also well? Yes, very well.
Thanks be to God, then. Yes, thanks be to God, sir.
One of the Inadin lifted the kettle high and began pouring tea with a long, ceremonial trickle. Everyone had tea. They then began boiling it again, pouring some coarse sugar over a kettle already half full of leaves. They spoke for some time about the tea, sitting politely, brushing without irritation at circling flies. The day's most virulent heat faded.
Gresham translated for her-strange bits of solemn plati- tude. They stayed in the back of the tent, out of the circle.