He took a deep breath and scrambled down into the pit. The stench was overpowering, but he forced himself not to gag. He lay down and heaved one of the plastic bags over his body. He could feel the stiff corpse shifting and sliding inside the plastic. He closed his eyes. Reaching up, he pinched his nose closed.
He prayed.
Footsteps circled around the pit. He heard low voices, muffled through the plastic.
“You sure he came this way?” one man said.
“How should I know? He can’t have gone far, he’s just a kid.”
Buri kept his eyes closed tight. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.
Finally, the footsteps moved away from the pit.
“Fuck it. We’ll send patrols down the road. He’ll turn up. Let’s get the hell out of here. This place reeks!”
The men left.
Buri waited. Finally, when he was certain he was alone, he scrambled out of the pit. He fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He retched, spilling his guts onto the dirt.
He wiped his mouth clean. Then he glanced around to be sure it was safe, and darted back into the brush. He knew the men would come back, eventually. They would dump more of the plastic bundles into the pit.
Galloway had told him to leave, to get as far away as he could. But his mother was still in the camp. He had promised his father he would look after his mother, no matter what.
He could not leave yet.
Chapter Twelve
Caine wiped a film of sweat from his brow and stared out the open passenger window of the taxi cab. The sun-blasted landscape along the endless road shimmered with a white-hot glare. The AC in the battered yellow Toyota wheezed and rattled. The temperature outside was already in the triple digits. A hot breeze blasted through the open window like a furnace, and did little to cool the interior of the tiny vehicle.
The driver was a middle-aged man with tan, leathery skin and scattered tufts of grey hair. He seemed unaffected by the blistering heat. He wore a loose white robe that billowed around his arms in the wind. From time to time, he sang along with the Arabic disco music that played over the vehicle’s tinny speakers. His head nodded to the bouncing, rhythmic beat of the tambourines and darbuka drums.
Caine checked the steel diving watch that was fastened to his wrist by a NATO strap. There were still a few hours to go until late afternoon, when the temperature would hit its peak of 105 degrees. Then it would drop a few degrees into the mid-nineties once the sun finally settled beneath the horizon.
Caine wore a pale blue linen shirt, khaki jeans, and suede desert boots. The clothing was as thin and light as he could find, but it was still damp and stained with sweat. After agreeing to help Rebecca, DuBose had arranged for him to catch a late night charter into Cuba. Once there, he booked a non-stop flight to Egypt, and after a six-hour layover in Cairo, he finally landed at Khartoum International Airport.
He had traveled light, with only a battered leather duffel bag as a carry-on. His passport was a competent forgery provided by DuBose’s contacts in Cuba. It identified him as Sam Fulton, a Canadian citizen with a visa to enter Sudan.
Aside from the aluminum tactical pen in his chest pocket, he was unarmed, with no weapons of any kind in his bag. DuBose had left the pen behind at the warehouse, and Caine picked it up before he departed. It wasn’t much as far as weapons went, but it could be useful as a force multiplier for stabbing and bludgeoning attacks. Its rigid metal body hid a few other useful features as well. For now, it was better than nothing.
The CIA maintained contacts and facilities around the world. Khartoum was the capital city of the largest Muslim country on the African continent. The agency would no doubt have a network of contacts and safe houses there. They could provide an operative abroad with weapons, equipment, and critical intel. But they would also report such assistance to their handlers in the U.S. Those reports would make their way back to Langley. This operation was off the books. Any such reports would implicate Rebecca.
He could not let that happen. So there would be no outside help. He was on his own.
The taxi drove past the Green Yard, a lush green field that served as a venue for concerts and sporting events. The driver ceased his humming and looked back at Caine. “Allah hu maeak. Luck is with you, my friend! The traffic is nothing. We should reach the city in twenty minutes.”
Caine smiled back and turned his attention to the rearview mirror. The driver was correct. Traffic was sparse, even though Africa Street was the only major paved road that led into the city. Normally, he would have requested the driver make several random stops and direction changes along the way. This Surveillance Detection Routine, as it was known in the trade, would flush out any pursuers. It would force them to make obvious maneuvers that would reveal their presence.
But Sudan had achieved peace and stability in the war-torn region by exerting subtle and effective control over its citizens and visitors. Most of the popular tourist sites required special permits to visit. Photography was off-limits in many areas of the city. Caine knew that without the proper permits, he would seem suspicious if he asked the cab driver to make any sightseeing stops along the way.
And then there was the NISS, Sudan’s powerful national intelligence organization. They had saturated Khartoum with their operatives. The city was a den of spies, and for all Caine knew, his driver might belong to their ranks. He didn’t want to attract that kind of attention. Not yet.
Instead, he sat back and let the scenery pass in silence. He glanced up to the rearview mirror at regular intervals, but he saw nothing that set off his inner radar.
They drove past the Child’s City, an amusement park whose colorful rides and attractions hung lifeless beneath the stifling sun. Then, in the distance, Khartoum rose up from the dry flat land. A mirage of heatwaves rippled around the city. The buildings on the outskirts were sparse and unremarkable; mostly apartment complexes, with a few office buildings and commercial plazas mixed in.
They entered the city proper. Silver and white high-rises, their clean, modern lines gleaming in the sun, stood across from crumbling brick tenements. Abandoned, mud-filled lots surrounded the fresh construction sites. The cab driver squinted at the expensive new buildings. A frown of distaste crossed his cracked, weathered lips, but he said nothing. They continued to drive in silence.
The apartment buildings gave way to stores and markets, parks and fountains. Caine shook his head and gave a low whistle. Even after all these years, he was still shocked by the peace and calm of the Northern capital. It was a far cry from the destruction and savagery he had witnessed in the newly independent South. It was hard to believe they had once been a single country.
They left onto Al Gamaa Avenue. “Aedhami sidi. Excuse me, sir,” the driver called back to him. “If you like, we take Nile Street to hotel, eh? There is more traffic, but the view …”
Caine nodded. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
The driver made a quick right turn just before the domed edifice of the Republic Palace. Then they darted down a long, narrow street. He made what Caine was certain was an illegal U-turn, and they headed west along the banks of one of the most famous rivers in the world … the Blue Nile.
“Some say the name Khartoum means a place of meeting,” the driver croaked. His voice was raspy from the heat and dust of the road. “It is here that the Blue Nile and the White Nile Rivers meet, at the Tuti Bridge. Not far from your hotel, in fact.”
Caine looked out over the vast expanse of water. The river was huge, and true to its name, the water seemed to glow with a sapphire blue brilliance. Gold highlights from the afternoon sun flecked the water's surface. He imagined history unfolding alongside the river's curves. Centuries born aloft in its undulating currents, stretching back to the dawn of civilization. Empires had sprung up along its banks and fallen beneath its silted depths.
As they neared the hotel, Caine shouldered his bag. “Drop me off at the corner here. I’d like to walk the rest of the way.”
“Sir, are you sure? The heat is—”
“It should be cooling off a bit soon. Besides, this is the Nile. I’d like to take my time, if you know what I mean.”
The driver gave him a knowing smile. “Of course, sir. Please remember, the intersection of the rivers is a sacred place. There are no photographs allowed.”
“I understand.” He looked once again over the sun-dappled water. The spires and domes of ancient mosques and temples dotted the river's far bank. The buildings were black shapes, silhouetted against the low sun.
“You can’t capture something like this in a picture, anyway," he said. "Not really.”
The cab driver nodded as he pulled to a stop. “No,” he agreed. “You cannot.”
Caine handed the driver a crisp fold of bills, then exited the vehicle. He watched as the cab sped off down the dusty street. Then he hefted his bag, crossed the street, and disappeared down a dark alley.
Caine wandered through the Nile shopping district for thirty minutes before reaching the hotel. He made a few stops along the way, ordering a cup of mint tea from a tiny cafe, and pretending to admire the colorful woven rugs hanging outside a nearby shop. Once he was satisfied that he had not picked up a tail, he made his way back to Nile Street and the Corinthia Hotel. The shimmering white and blue structure was easy to find. At seventy-seven meters, the towering edifice of white and blue glass was one of the tallest buildings in Khartoum.
Like the Burj Al Arab in Dubai, the curved structure of the world famous hotel was designed to resemble a billowing sail. Financed by the Libyan Government, the luxurious hotel had earned the nickname Gaddafi’s Egg. Locals often used a more lewd phrase to describe it, comparing the building’s bulbous shape to the infamous dictator’s reproductive organs.
Despite the flow of oil from the south, and heavy Chinese investment in the city’s infrastructure, the majority of Khartoum's residents lived in poverty. Caine could only imagine that to most of the city, the hotel must have seemed like an opulent monolith … a symbol of decadent luxury, forever out of reach.
He checked in using the documents provided by Rebecca and DuBose. The hotel had a reputation for efficient, courteous service, and within minutes he was ascending in a glass elevator. His room was on the fourteenth floor. He glanced left and right before exiting the elevator. The curved corridor that ran alongside a large, panoramic window was quiet and empty. He followed it to his room. Swiping the keycard over the lock, he opened the door with his leg, keeping his body to the right of the entrance.
His precautions were born of years of training and habit. Normally, he would never stay in a hotel where he had a reservation. Such things were a simple matter to track. He saw no reason to give potential enemies advance notice of his location. But in this case, he wanted to be found. And so, uneasy as the thought made him, he had accepted the fact that he would have to spend the night in the luxurious, well-known hotel.
The room was spacious, clean and cool. The tile floor gleamed with a polished sheen. Beams of late afternoon sunlight danced between the long, pristine white curtains. Caine made a quick security check of the bathroom and closets, but once again found himself alone.
Stepping past a carved wood screen that separated the king-sized bed from a small sitting area, Caine made his way to the tall window. He brushed the curtain aside and allowed himself a quick glimpse of the stunning view outside. Khartoum, in all its ancient glory, spread out before him beneath a cinnamon-brown haze of dust and sand. From this high up, the city appeared as a tapestry of stone and rock, metal and glass. It was bordered along the edges by the sapphire threads of the two Niles, joined by a pair of ivory-white bridges.
He drew the thick blackout curtains closed, cloaking the room in shadows. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a small roll of electrical tape and tore off a piece. He covered the spyhole in the door and wedged a carved wood chair under the door handle.
After a scalding hot shower, and a room service meal of beef stew and flatbread, Caine changed into a clean t-shirt and jeans. He sat on his bed, staring at a small satellite phone he held in his hand. For a moment, he hesitated. It was always painful to tear open old wounds. Sometimes they would heal again. Sometimes they left a scar.
He dialed the number.
The phone rang several times. A wave of nervous energy fluttered through his gut. It’s been years, he thought. What are the odds the number is still active?
A young man’s voice answered the phone. “Marhba?”
“I want to book a tour,” Caine said, his voice a low growl. “The ruins at Jebel Barkal.”
The line was silent for a few seconds. Caine heard a distant hum, a faint clicking. He wondered if someone was listening in, but there was no way to know for sure.
Finally, the man on the other end grunted and answered. “Jebel Barkal is far to the north. Do you have a permit to travel outside the city?”
“Sorry, I didn't know I needed one. Perhaps it would be wiser to stay nearby. What do you think of Al Kabir Masjid?”
Again, the distant hum filled the silence on the line.
“There are many beautiful mosques within the city, ten times more than one man could count. If you leave your number, my employer will call you back with his recommendations.”
Caine gave the man his cell number and hung up.
He took a deep breath, then tossed the phone on the bed. He did not recognize the voice on the other end of the line, but the man had given the correct responses to the code. The request to visit the Jebel Barkal ruins established his identity. His mention of the Al Kabir mosque signaled that he was not speaking under duress. The line “ten times more than one man can count” meant that whoever was on the other end of the call would verify Caine’s responses. If everything checked out, he would pass along the message.
The code was one he and Jack Tyler had used before, the last time they had worked in the city. The Puff Adder mission …
Hard to believe, Caine thought. Old Khairi is still in business, after all these years.
He assumed it would take the man some time to reach his boss and verify Caine’s identity. While he waited, he stripped off his shirt and began a series of exercises on the cool, hard floor. Crunches, then pushups, first with both arms, then one at a time. Then a series of reverse rows, hanging from his fingertips under the room's desk.
His breath became ragged and his body glistened with sweat. An electronic buzz sounded from the phone on the rumpled bed. He stood up and took a long sip of water from the bottle on the night table. Then he picked up the phone and looked at the screen. The number calling him was listed as “UNKNOWN.”
He tapped the screen and accepted the call.
“Hello.”
“Marhba. Hello, old friend. It’s been a long time.” The voice on the other end was scratchier, more raw than he remembered. But the rich, bass timbre of the man’s speech was familiar.
“Is that what we are?” Caine asked. “Old friends?”
“Well, perhaps not friends, but certainly not enemies. Not unless you know something I do not. I must admit, I am surprised to hear you call. I did not think you were assigned to—”
“I’m not here on an assignment, Khairi. Not officially, anyway.”
The man sucked in his breath as if unsure how to proceed. “Oh? I’m sure that will come as a relief to the man who answered the phone. Such an old code, from such dark days. When he finally reached me, he sounded a bit … excitable.”
“I need your help. Some information. Nothing your government would have a problem with. But I need to keep this quiet for now. Just you and me. Can you do that?”
The man exhaled slowly, as if puffing on a cigar.
“My answer to that depends. What is this information you seek?”
Caine paused. He knew he should ask about Galloway, but he was not sure yet how far he could trust the man on the other end of the line. Admitting a CIA asset was operating in the country without the Sudanese go
vernment’s knowledge might be a bridge too far.
“I’m looking for a woman, a doctor. Her name is Nena Vasani.”
“This woman, she is a citizen of Sudan?” Khairi asked, a guarded tone creeping into his voice.
“I swear to you, I mean her no harm. I just want to talk to her.”
“Very well. I will see what I can do.”
“There’s something else.”
“Nem ealaa almudii qadma? Yes, go on?”
“Puff Adder. I need anything you have on him. Last sightings, who he’s been working with, current whereabouts.”
The voice was quiet for a long time. “I confess, I told myself he must be dead by now. But I never knew for sure. Just salat … a prayer.”
Caine closed his eyes. For a split second, he saw the girl’s face in the darkness, the whites of her eyes pleading, begging, staring wide at him …
His eyes snapped open. He realized his breath had quickened, his heart was racing. He forced himself to calm down.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t think so. I think he’s alive.”
The man sighed. “This will take some time. Be underneath the Tuti Bridge early tomorrow morning, by the boats. My man will meet you there.”
“I said this was just between you and me.”
“He will bring you to me. Trust me, it is safer this way. For both of us. Be there at eleven.”
“I thought you said early?”
The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “I’m an old man, Thomas. To me, that is early.” Again there was a brief hiss of silence. “Besides,” he added, his voice weak and tired, “I very much doubt either of us will be getting much sleep tonight. To speak of that man is to invite nightmares … Shaitan jinn.”
“Tomorrow,” Caine said. “I’ll be there.”
He hung up the phone.
He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Khairi Abboud. The old spymaster had helped Caine on his operation in Sudan, years before. But the political situation in the region changed daily. Could he trust him now?
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