That evening, two off-road vehicles entered the outskirts of Butare at dusk.
The slums on the city's edge sprawled like a festering sore, with tin-roofed shacks and mud-brick houses haphazardly packed together, the air thick with the smell of rotting garbage and burning charcoal.
In the distance, government army armored vehicles patrolled the Main Street, their spotlights sweeping the streets and casting glaring patches of light on the dusty roads.
Song Heping slowed down, blending the vehicles in with the various donkey carts and small cars of the city-bound peddlers, making his cars appear less conspicuous.
He pulled out a satellite phone and dialed the encrypted line of Lady M.
"We've arrived," he said in a low voice. "Is the BBC arrangement sorted?"
