assignment

"What do we do if we don't get the story?" he asks.

We're on a shaded verandah just over the border in Mozambique. Red hibiscus flowers bloom in boxes. Next to us, four men idle the afternoon away over bottles of the local Manica beer. They're not playing cards and they have expensive Blackberries. I have my suspicions.

"Wait."

So we order: sandes de ovo (egg sandwiches), tonic water. Coffee, the continental kind served in tiny white expresso cups. Another tonic water. And another. It is hot, so hot I think I could sleep. Inside, three waitresses chat. A group of stiletto-ed women arrive for lunch, then disappear.

The men do not seem to want to move. On the steep incline beyond the cafe, I count the cars, large ones: Toyota Hilux. Toyota-something else. A money changer flaps a wad of notes.

I notice the sign on the wall: Jardin. Beer garden. Could deals be happening there? Are we in the wrong place -- too obvious, too foreign? He goes to look.

On my own now, I watch one of the men out of the corner of my eye. His face is vaguely familiar. As he stretches out his hand, I ssee the stone behind it. "You want?" his friend whispers.