Five days.
Malcolm just prayed the gate hadn’t already disintegrated so badly that it never opened again.
* * *
CHAPTER NINTEEN
They emerged onto a rain-lashed beach. When Kit didn’t vanish like a shimmer of heat over Kalahari sands, Malcolm started breathing again. The pallor in Kit’s cheeks told its own story. Now all we have to do is try to find margo — and beat ninety-percent odds if we don’t do it in a week.
With the entire southern tip of Africa to search, Malcolm wasn’t terribly sanguine about their chances.
He finished his ATLS readings and log update a hair sooner than Kit. The retired time scout was out of practice. They hid their equipment deep in camouflaged bags beneath vestments, censers and other priestly paraphernalia. Among their personal “effects” were hand bound copies of not only the Bible in Latin but also of the Jesuit Spiritual Exercises written by Ignatius Loyola, the Basque founder of the Society of Jesus. Connie Logan had outdone herself on this one.
Malcolm closed his bag and turned his attention to their surroundings. In the short minutes they’d stood on the storm-lashed shore of Delagoa Bay, their long, heavy habits were already soaked. Wind whipped sodden wool around their ankles. They had decided to approach the Portuguese first, to find out if Margo had, in fact, made it back this far or if they would have to mount an expedition into the heart of the interior to search for her.
”This storm will work in our favor!” Kit shouted above the crash of thunder. “I’ve been worrying about how to explain our sudden appearance. Claiming we’ve been shipwrecked is more credible in the middle of a storm!”