13
Mitchell Reardon presented his passport to the bored-looking Mozambican official at the immigration desk at the grandiosely named Vilanculos International Airport. Alex really was a sap, he thought. If he were him he would have dealt with a dissenter with a bullet in the head.
No, that wasn’t right. What Mitch would have done was cut Alex, then truss him up and drag him slowly through the water behind the Fair Lady, trawling for sharks. Mitch laughed to himself.
The immigration officer raised his eyebrows.
‘Nothing, bro,’ Mitch said. ‘Just an old joke I remembered.’
The terminal building was small – the check-in area not much bigger than a suburban home’s lounge room – and Mitch was able to brush his crotch discreetly against the denim-clad rear of a slim Italian woman as he sidled
