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space, next door. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and looked up at him. ‘I’ve written the address here. Themba and his wife were renting a small house in town. Paulo’s wife and children are in Angola, in Luanda. I’ve tried the cellphone but there’s no answer, just a voicemail message in Portuguese. I’ve got some more correspondence for you to sign.’
    Cameron took the piece of paper from her. ‘I’ll get one of the Mozambicans to come see you and leave a message in Portuguese.’
    Cameron had called his head of human resources, Nandi Radebe, from underground when Themba’s death had been confirmed. The gunfire from the ambush had been heard by some passing miners who’d called security. Nandi had notified Beauty Tshabalala of herhusband’s death by telephone, but Cameron had told Nandi that he would visit the widow in person.
    Hannelie retrieved some letters from the printer. She was a matronly woman of fifty, old-school and very formal, but when she came over to him her body shuddered and tears rolled down her cheeks.
    Cameron took the papers and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘We’ll get through this, Hann. We must be strong for Chris.’
    Hannelie dried her eyes. ‘I know we’ve lost men before, but to have them murdered in this way, and young Chris kidnapped. That poor Themba – he and his wife have a little one. I saw her at the gate on his first day.’
    Cameron laid the letters on Hannelie’s desk and signed them. He checked the address of Themba’s widow and put the paper in his pocket. ‘I’m going to see her now.’
    ‘Roelf and Casper want to see you.’
    On cue, his engineering manager and senior geologist appeared at Hannelie’s door. ‘I called head office again, but no news,’ Cameron said. ‘The Aussies say we can’t organise a rescue mission to go get Chris.’
    ‘
Fokken
wimps,’ Casper spat.
    Roelf shook his head. ‘What are we going to do, boss?’
    All three were looking at him, waiting for his decision. He had dealt with death and serious injury in the past, too often, although Eureka mine’s safety record was enviable by South African standards. But Hannelie was right, this situation was different. These were his people and they had been ambushed. This was not a workplace accident; it was a declaration of war.
    ‘I say we round up some Angolans, get us a couple of R5s and go flatten these bastards,’ Casper said.
    ‘We do no such thing.’ Cameron held up a hand to silence Casper’s objection before he could voice it. ‘I’ve already told Hein to start posting the other Angolan security guards, the ones we can trust, in observation posts on level fourteen and at the points of entryabove ground that we know the
zama zamas
have used in the past. We’re going to bottle them up and deny them freedom of movement underground.’ Hein Coetzee was Cameron’s deputy mine manager and, like Cameron, Casper, Roelf and most other South African middle-aged men, he’d seen military service during the border war.
    Casper shook his head. ‘So we do nothing.’
    Cameron understood the geologist’s frustration but did not read his comment as an insult. He was saying what everyone above ground was thinking. He pointed at Casper. ‘
You
stay here and man my office. You, too, Roelf, in shifts with Casper and Hein. This is our crisis centre now and we don’t stand down until Chris is rescued and whoever killed Themba and Paulo is dead. You call me if you hear anything from the
zama zamas
or if anything else happens underground. Understood?’
    The two men nodded. Roelf said, ‘But we feel helpless, and we all know the police won’t do anything.’
    Cameron moved his gaze from the two men to Hannelie and back again. ‘The safety of Chris and the control of this mine are my responsibility, and no one else’s. Understood?’ They all nodded. ‘The buck stops with me, and I am going to get him out. In the meantime, we watch, we wait, and we listen.’
    Cameron left them