Chapter 1 THE APPROACH May 31Amsterdam I'd never had a knife pulled on me before. When it happened, I wasn't anywhere near African wilderness. It was a little more than three weeks since Amy and I had talked in the bathroom that night. I had made dozens of phone calls trying to track down people who might have a grip on the dangers we might face. The picture was not a lot clearer, although I did manage to talk to one of the guides going with us. In the end, despite the uncertainties, I could not say no. So I was on my way. I had flown from Montana to Detroit and then overnight across the Atlantic to Amsterdam where I was scheduled to wait all day before boarding another night flight to Johannesburg.

Instead of hanging around the airport for eight or ten hours, I rode the shuttle train into Amsterdam's Old City. I was curious: For years I had heard about its red-light district. I wanted to see it. What exactly I planned to do there I didn't know. At 11 a.m. the day's first prostitutes were settling into the viewing windows along the old streets. They looked like immigrants in need of moneyEastern European or Russian or black Africanand appeared less desperate or bored than simply forbearing.

I hurried past them, suddenly not as curious. I skipped the hashish bars, too, and settled in for a quiet beer and a sandwich at a sunlit outdoor cafe along a canal. After a pleasant meal, it was time for me to head back for my flight. On the way to the train station I wended my way through narrow alleys. I'd seen local Dutch people in office clothes using them and assumed they were safe. Not far from the station I arrived at the entrance to a particularly narrow alley only a block or two long. I could see cars whizzing by on its far endthe main thoroughfare that led to the station. I hesitated for a moment.

There were thin menmost of them black, I assumed African immigrantsin long, stained coats hanging out on door stoops. The main street was so close, just over there through the alley. The Dutch people walked down these alleys, and it was broad daylightearly afternoon. If I was going to paddle an unexplored river in Africa, I had to screw up my courage for dicey situations. Here was a dicey situation. Don't let yourself be scared too easily, I told myself. I held my camera bag closer against my chest and started in. Once I had committed myself, I saw word of my presence ripple among the clumps of men and their heads turn toward me.

I momentarily considered turning back, but it was too late. Or maybe this was pride. I was heading toward the African wilderness and yet was frightened by a two-hundred-yard-long alley in Amsterdam? I braced myself and walked quickly. Halfway down the alley one of the thin African men came up to me wearing a long-sleeved canvas coat. "Where are you from, man?" he asked in accented English. I kept walking briskly. "Answer me!" he demanded. "England? America?" I said nothing.

He tugged at the small pack on my back as if to slow me down. I could feel the straps straining on my shoulders. I spun toward him. "I don't understand!" I said, feigning I didn't speak English. I turned away and kept walking fast. "I said where are you from, man?" he shouted at me from behind. Now he was pulling hard on my backpack, on the straps, pulling me back toward him. My reaction was instinctive.

Angrily, I spun at him. "What are you doing, man?" I demanded, pushing him hard in the chest, away from me. I saw his left arm jerk up. His hand shot out from his sleeve. A thin, razor-.