Mistaken Identity

      The wheels of the Boeing bumped down on the runway and the plane screeched to a halt.

      Phew! Oliver breathed out a huge lungful of air.

      Here he was at last! In Africa!

      His quest had begun. He was ready for it but there was a gnawing-rat feeling in his stomach. In his carry-on case were his emergency spy things. He ticked them off mentally.

      A little black notebook.

      A folded map.

      A compass.

      A slim-line torch as flat as a credit card.

      For security reasons his special Swiss Army knife, a red Victorinox Explorer with extra fold-out tools – two blades, a wire stripper, scissors, magnifying glass, reamer, screwdriver, corkscrew, hook, toothpick, tweezers and two bottle openers that were also extra screwdrivers – was in his backpack in the hold of the plane.

      Pity he had no micro cameras for taking macro shots. Or mini microphones for recording maximum sound.

      He peered out the small window hoping to spot a giraffe. Maybe even an elephant.

      But no. Nothing except a strip of bare tarmac, some straggly thorn trees and a single, ancient fire engine standing next to a ramshackle cluster of buildings. It was nothing like Heathrow Terminal 5.

      The plane nosed forward. A woman on the tarmac waved paddles like orange ping-pong bats. Then a contraption of steps on wheels was trundled towards the door of the plane.

      The air hostess smiled. “Welcome to Bulawayo’s J.M. Nkomo airport.”

      Oliver nodded to himself. Geographical location: 20° 1’ 2” south of the equator and 28° 37’ 4” east of Greenwich.

      When he stepped out onto the stairway, the heat slammed into him like a solid wave of water. Huge white wads of cloud were piled up against a brilliant, blue sky. Light bounced and dazzled and skittered. He gulped in a deep breath of the hot air and pushed his sunglasses firmly in place and tried to forget the rat that was still gnawing away at his stomach.

      He was all set. In his dark shades, he was a spy on a secret mission.

      He ripped off the blue cord from around his neck with its plastic tag that stated: UNACCOMPANIED MINOR.

      Here he was! Oliver Strange! On a secret mission. All set to find his father. All set to meet an unknown aunt who flew an aeroplane.

      He was expecting someone in sensible khaki bush clothes and boots. But no one waved as he peered through the crowd of people milling about behind the barrier inside the airport building.

      A crack that sounded like an explosion of gunshot came from nowhere. Oliver spun around expecting to see a hijacker but everyone was carrying on as normal.

      Then with a whoosh, rain began to pelt down on the tin roof. It hammered so loudly that everyone had to shout to be heard.

      A voice bellowed out over a crackling loudspeaker, “Welcome to Zimbabwe! Collect your bags and proceed to passport control.”

      Oliver rescued his backpack and sleeping bag from the cement floor where it had been dumped under a leak in the roof. Then he leant up against a partition and filled out a small white form for passport control.

      Name: OLIVER STRANGE

      Country of Residence: UNITED KINGDOM

      Nationality: BRITISH

      Reason for visit: TO RESCUE MY FATHER.

      The man at the passport control desk flicked through his passport and stamped the pages a couple of times. Suddenly his hand froze in mid-air. He adjusted his glasses and looked up sharply.

      Just then another explosive crack of thunder split the air. At the same time the lights went out and the building was plunged into darkness.

      “Take off your cap and sunglasses! It’s an offense to wear sunglasses and a cap when entering a foreign country.”

      “My sunglasses?” Oliver reached for them. He had forgotten he was wearing them. No wonder it was so dark inside the building.

      “We need to question you.”

      “Question me?” But before he knew what was happening, someone grabbed hold of him and marched him down a gloomy passage. They went through a door into a room as dark as dried blood. He was pushed into a chair.

      In the dried-blood gloom he saw two men in uniform. They began speaking at the same time. But all Oliver heard was the sound of the rain pelting against the roof.

      One of them bent closer. “Do you hear me? Why are you visiting Zimbabwe?”

      It was impossible to speak in a normal voice. He had to shout. “I’m not visiting Zimbabwe. I’m going to Botswana.”

      “But this is Zimbabwe.”

      “Yes, I know. I’ve landed here. But I need to get to Botswana to find–” the rain suddenly stopped as abruptly as it had started – “MY FATHER!” his voice boomed out into the darkness.

      “Do not shout.”

      “I’m not shouting but …”

      “On this paper you say you’re here to rescue someone,” one of the men interrupted. “Children are not sent to rescue people. Are you a spy?”

      Oliver shook his head. “I’m not a spy.”

      “Spies are put in jail.”

      They stared back at him. In the dark there was no way of knowing what they were thinking, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem friendly.