The Harbinger [antikvár]

PrologueThe exiled black man stood, erect and sombre, at the river's edge and stared back at his homeland to the south. Luminescent black water snaked beneath the ancient pier, lapped and curled at the feet of rotting timbers. Here, the Limpopo River cut a ragged border between South Africa and its northern neighbour, the landlocked Botswana.For three years he had prepared for this night. There, to the south, beyond the solitary acacia of the bushland, caught in the shroud of this moonless night, lay his redemption: the richest gold fields in the world, the Achilles' heel of his accusers.On the far shore, the South African border patrol watched the man's every move through high-powered binoculars. Christopher Zuma was an unimposing sight in his ill-fitting, tattered suit, but the choice of clothes, he realized, served both purpose and memory; he had worn the same suit on the day of his expatriation. But it was a memory, Zuma told himself, too strong for this occasion, and the good fortune of rain broke through the reverie.He turned his attention instead to the woman at his side, his steady companion on these 'visits' to Gaborone. Nonchalant and sultry beneath their umbrella, she laid her head upon his shoulder. It was a calculated scene played many times over for the benefit of their audiences on both sides of the river. They were silent now. There were no more words to be spoken.