The Malinois didn’t need the bucket. It leapt straight into the tree and chased the smaller dog up a thick branch into the tree’s umbrella. The little dog barked as it climbed. Suddenly a third dog—a female as small and scarred as the first, but heavy from nursing—emerged from behind the field station, carrying a whole chicken, minus a wing. The female crossed the open space, dragging the dead bird between her forelegs, and disappeared into the bush. A moment later her mate leapt from the acacia tree onto the field station roof. The Malinois tried to follow, but it was too heavy and crashed to the ground instead. The big dog was about to climb the tree again when Bernard whistled. The dog froze. “Pfui!” Bernard said, and pointed. “Platz.” The Malinois slunk obediently to the outpost’s front door and lay down.

Klay looked up at the dog on the roof. The skinny male lay with its back legs spread on either side of the roof peak, looking down at Klay, chewing its wing.

“What do you think?” Klay asked. “You think it’s lost tourists—or something else?”

Bernard sighed. “We paid one hundred thousand dollars for that animal,” he said, looking at the shepherd. “Our donors insisted we have military dogs. I flew to Berlin to buy him. I had to learn German to speak to him. He has a better education than most of my family, and he still falls for that old dog-and-chicken routine.” Bernard nodded at two vehicles speeding in their direction. “It doesn’t bloody matter what I think, Tom.”

Klay squinted. Two black SUVs were racing toward them from the south, kicking up clouds of dust. “I’m going to say it again. If Botha is running this operation, you do not want a political ride-along anywhere near it.”

“I know it and you know it. He knows to stay in the truck,” Bernard said.

“So, why’s he coming?”

“Someone might have told him you want his photograph for your famous magazine.”

Klay groaned. “I should have brought a camera then.”

“That would have been nice.”