CHAPTER ELEVEN
A train rumbled into the Johannesburg Park Station. Many of the trains were docked for the evening, although there was still limited service to the other cities throughout the country. Nkosi sat in the driver’s seat of a black Range Rover—struggling to keep her eyes open. Roue Printzlau, her partner-in-crime, was no better. His head was bobbing forward and back like a drinking bird in water or a small child who had fallen asleep in church. He was a first generation South African. His parents had emigrated from Odense, Denmark when he was a toddler.
The train station parking lot was barren. It was a quarter to three in the morning and there was still no signs nor messages from their inside man. While the news radio had confirmed the explosion at the Englebrecht, they still
