On Target

by Mark Greaney

  “I came out to survey the Zam Zam IDP camp. Unfortunately, my staff didn’t have all my documents and permissions in order, so they won’t let me out of the airport. I’m really desperate for a ride out of here.” She looked at the pilot again, and he back at her. He raised his eyebrows suggestively but did not offer her a seat on his aircraft.

  Gennady said nothing.

  “Have you been to Darfur before?”

  “Yes,” the pilot answered cockily. “Many times.”

  The woman nodded, still smiling. “It’s horrible out here. Four hundred fifty thousand murdered in the past eight years, and no end in sight. Millions more in the camps, either here or over the border in Chad.”

  “Da,” said Gennady. “War is very bad.”

  Court wanted to reach across the table and slap the insincerity off his face.

  After a few seconds Ellen said, “That plane of yours is awesome. It’s an Ilyushin, isn’t it? Looks like some we have in our inventory.” Quickly she added, “I ship a lot of cargo in my job, though I’ve never actually been in a cargo plane.”

  “It is an Ilyushin. An excellent Russian aircraft,” said Gennady, and Walsh nodded along with him, seeming to fawn all over his words.

  “Here is some pilot trivia for you,” Ellen said with an excited smile. “Did you know Amelia Earhart landed here at Al Fashir on her attempt to circle the globe?”

  Gennady cocked his head a little. “Who?”

  “Amelia Earhart. The female pilot? The famous female pilot who disappeared flying around the world in 1937.”

  Gennady just looked at her.

  “Surely you have heard—”

  “I have never heard of this woman, but I am not surprised she disappeared. Women do not make good pilots,” he said, as if this were the most basic fact of aeronautics. A dismissive wave of his hand and a loud slurp of tea followed his comment. Court caught the woman dropping her veil of admiration for the Russian man and revealing her true feelings of disgust.

  But the veil rose again almost instantly.

  “Well, I’ve heard great things about Russian aircraft. And the Ilyushin. Our UN planes do the job, but they are a bit boring. Do you think I could possibly get a closer look at your beautiful plane? Don’t worry, I won’t try to fly it. I’d probably just disappear.”

  Her smile was wide, friendly, and, Court recognized, a total sham.

  Gennady just smiled back at her a long time without answering. He gave his shoulders a shrug, but it was a shrug that indicated anything was possible.

  Some of the other Russians asked her questions in broken English. If she was married—no. Where she was from—Vancouver. How long she’d been in the Sudan—a month. Court saw no deception in any of the answers she gave. But he did notice her looking at him, perhaps picking up on his scrutiny of her, and this caused Gentry to look away again.

  They are all buying it except the darker one. He is suspicious. He knows I am full of shit.

  Ellen tried to give a big smile to the man at the end of the table, but he turned away, bored. Unlike the rest of the crew, he did not leer at her. No, other than his earlier comment to Gennady, he had not been a part of the conversation, but it was clear to her he was listening. Either he understood her perfectly or he was struggling to do so.

  But more important than the quiet man at the end of the table was the big airplane at the end of the taxiway. She just had to get a closer look at it, take a picture or two, somehow get some more intelligence on this flight into the heart of north Darfur. She wondered if even now the GOS army was taking the cargo off the plane.

  “Will you have to unload your airplane yourself, or do you have someone from the oil company to do it?”

  “The Sudanese will do it,” said Gennady, and immediately followed with, “It will be an hour more, at least. My men will go back and help them, but I can stay with you and enjoy another tea.” He smiled, she smiled, and the quiet man at the end of the table looked to his pilot. He spoke to him in Russian; Ellen did not understand a word.

  “I don’t trust her. Too many questions,” Court said it in Russian and was totally unconcerned that the woman would recognize his distrust from his tone.

  Gennady looked away from the woman and towards Gentry. His reply in Russian, as well. “I don’t need to trust her. I am not going to marry her. I’m going to fuck her. She’d look okay with a bath and some makeup.”

  Court sighed. “We leave in two hours.”

  “I don’t mean now, although that is plenty of time. I mean on my next trip to Khartoum. I am setting the table right now. When I next go to Khartoum, I will eat my meal.”

  Ellen followed the conversation around the table with her eyes. Obviously she did not understand.

  Court sighed again. He thought about dropping Sidorenko’s name. This would likely terrify Gennady into complying with his unauthorized passenger. But he did not. “Let’s just get our food and return to the plane.”

  “That is a good idea. You and the boys leave me and Miss Canada alone.” Gennady laughed heartily, as did the other men.

  Court just looked away, angry but controlling his anger.

  “Why do I get the feeling you are talking about me?” Ellen Walsh asked with a smile.

  Court stood without a word and began heading back to the aircraft. He wouldn’t wait for his food. He’d just eat the dry rations in his bag.

  SEVENTEEN

  Gentry stopped again in the restroom. He washed his face slowly to calm himself. He decided to pop some hydrocodone when he got back to his backpack; it would help him relax on the flight back to Belarus, and it couldn’t hurt anything; he wouldn’t be operational again for a few days.

  But first he had to watch out for this Canadian woman. Personally, he was all for someone taking note of what the Russians were doing here, calling a newspaper, an international organization, blowing the lid off of the sanctions violations. But just not right now. Court would need this shady arrangement to continue at least until his operation was complete. A Westerner making trouble for the Rosoboronexport flights, thereby throwing a wrench into his means of insertion into the Sudan, absolutely could not be tolerated.

  He’d just turned the spigot off and dried his hands on his coveralls when the navigator entered behind him. He nodded to the American and said, “Gennady is taking the girl to show her the plane.” Court could tell the navigator was not crazy about the idea, but the Russian just shrugged good-naturedly about it. “Vlady and I have a bet. I think he’s going to do her in the cockpit, Vlady says Gennady’s going to get his face slapped. You want in on the bet, friend?”

  Unlike the navigator, Gentry had no intention of taking the pilot’s obscene breach of operational security in stride. He stormed past the thick man and out into the concourse. He saw the woman and Gennady walking towards the stairwell to the side exit, she with her backpack on her shoulder, he with his plate of food in his hand.

  “For God’s sake,” Court said softly. He thought about grabbing Gennady by his mop of red hair, dragging him into a corner, and telling him he was going to call the Saint Petersburg mob, who had set up his mission in the first place. One call from Court, and Sid would have Gennady’s family thrown into a van in half an hour flat. Gennady would do what he was told if only Gentry dropped Sidorenko’s name.

  Then Court saw the airport security officials, standing around bored behind a high counter.

  Yes, this was the best option. He could impress upon the Sudanese that this UN do-gooder was hassling the secret flight of Russian armaments.

  It would make trouble for the woman, no question about it, but only until he and the Russians got into the air. If she and her curiosity could just be held in check until wheels up, Court could be on his way and get this wasted day behind him.

  Court’s operational security would remain in place, the woman from the UN would learn nothing that would impede this flight or his next flight in three days’ time, and the Russian aircrew would not learn anyth
ing they did not need to know about Gentry and his employers.

  “English?” Court asked the bored young airport security policeman. The African shook his head, as did the man next to him.

  “Français?” Again, a shake of both heads.

  “Okay,” said Court in English, before reluctantly switching to Arabic. “Asalaam Alaykum.”

  “Wa Alaykum as-Salaam,” came the polite but officious-sounding reply from both men.

  Court continued in Arabic. “I must speak to your superior.”

  “What is the problem?”

  “I am with Russian plane. There is small security problem.”

  The policeman nodded, spoke softly into a handheld radio. Court could not understand the rapid Sudanese Arabic. The cop looked back up at Gentry. “Wait one moment.”

  In under a minute two small-framed bearded men in black coats and ties appeared. One was probably not yet thirty, the other a decade or so older. Their suits were uniform; Gentry noticed the imprint of handguns on their hips, and he immediately suspected these men were from the National Security Service, the Sudanese secret police.

  Oops. Thought Court. Not these assholes. He’d not intended to make that much fuss over the woman.

  Both NSS men spoke English, and Court took the senior officer aside. He was small and wiry, and he wore thick glasses with frames too wide for his oval face. There was nothing menacing or threatening about him, but the fact was he and his subordinate held authority over all around. Security guards, airport officials, local police, even the Government of Sudan officers and enlisted men here knew to stay out of the way of the NSS.

  Court said, “The woman. The white woman. Who is she?”

  The man shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. “She is Canadian. We were told to not let her out of the airport grounds but not to arrest her. She is just UNAMID relief worker; all her papers are in order, except she did not have the stamp in her documents to allow her entry into Zam Zam camp.”

  “I think she wants to make trouble for us.”

  “She is not important; she is just a kawaga stuck here at the airport, waiting to go back to Khartoum.”

  “A kawaga?”

  “A white person. Sorry.”

  “She is asking questions about the aircraft and the cargo.”

  That got the NSS man’s attention. He seemed to put together the fact that the Rosoboronexport flight was not supposed to be in Darfur, and a Westerner was here, putting that very fact together herself. Court felt bad about turning the woman in to operatives of the National Security Service. They were tier-one assholes, Court knew. He’d hoped to just arouse the interest of airport security. But now, like it or not, the NSS was involved. If they acted on his information, she’d no doubt be detained for hours. Who knew, Court thought to himself, she might even get tossed out of the country if they were worried enough about her interest in the Russians.

  No more passing out blankets and bottled water for her.

  Still, he needed to get on with his mission; his mission was paramount, and he was not above using these NSS goons to help him shoo this annoying little bug out of his face.

  The NSS man looked out the dirty window towards the runway. The daylight was fading fast, and the Il-76 was out of view, several hundred meters back off to the left. “Our orders were to keep any NGO flights away while you were on the ground. No one said anything about the people who were already here.” The man seemed worried about his own skin. This didn’t bother Court; it would certainly be a great motivator for him.

  Court said, “I suggest you just take her into your office until we leave. She has not seen the cargo, she knows nothing. She has no idea we’re from Rosoboronexport.” Court wasn’t going to mention that she’d initially approached the Ilyushin and had all but begged to be allowed on board, as that might just invite more trouble for her than he needed her to face. No, a little concern on the part of this man was all that was required to defuse the situation and put the matter to bed. Gentry was beginning to feel confident that everything would work out just fine.

  The man nodded somewhat appreciatively. “Okay. Yes, okay. We will have a talk with her.”

  Ten minutes later the two NSS men escorted an extremely anxious looking but obedient Ellen Walsh into a small office off the main concourse of the terminal. Following them into the room were the Russian pilot and Court Gentry. Court had wanted to just board the aircraft with the crew and get the hell out of here, but Gennady had insisted on coming along for the woman’s interview with the NSS, and there was no way Gentry was going to let him do that by himself. Gennady was mad at the Sudanese for interrupting his seduction of the attractive woman, but he apparently thought that if he could help her in the questioning, to stand up to these third-world goons, then he’d have her swooning into his bed on his next flight into Khartoum.

  But Court could tell the Russian was furious with him. They gave each other eat shit stares while they stood on either side of Walsh. Gennady obviously put together that the American had turned Ellen in to security. The Russian probably thought, Court guessed, that this was nothing more than a cock block borne out of the American’s jealousy at the Canadian woman’s interest in the Russian.

  What a completely fucked-up day, thought Court as he stood there, exchanging threatening looks with Gennady. This better not get any worse.

  The older NSS man, the one with the goofy glasses, spent a couple of minutes looking through Walsh’s belongings. Court thought it was just for show, but when he pulled out the black notebook Gentry had seen her thumbing through earlier on the tarmac, he began to worry. He hoped there wasn’t anything in there that would invite more trouble for the woman. The man leafed through the pages and stopped on a hand-drawn sketch and description of the Ilyushin aircraft. He looked up at the girl. “Why are you asking questions about this cargo flight? What is your interest in this aircraft?”

  “I like airplanes. Is that a crime in your country?”

  The man stared at her a long time. In a nation where few women are even allowed to work outside the home, a back-talking white lady was a double anomaly, and he was clearly not sure how to handle her.

  Ellen found herself no longer afraid. She’d accomplished much in the past hour, and though she did not have picture proof that the Russians were violating sanctions, the actions of the NSS right now gave her all the proof she needed to be certain she was on the right track.

  She’d done well to get this far, and she knew it. Under cover as a UN employee she’d thoroughly charmed the pilot into taking her on board, had made it to within twenty-five yards of the rear ramp of the aircraft when the jeep of soldiers came and picked them up. The Russian insisted on going along with her; he wanted to pretend to be her knight in shining armor, although it was obvious he just wanted to use this as a way to get into her pants.

  When they arrived back at the terminal, she saw the two NSS officers who’d interrogated her days before standing with the suspicious dark-complected Russian crewmember named Viktor. Clearly he’d reported her to these guys to keep her away from the flight.

  Bastard. She knew what he was trying to hide, and he was not going to get away with it.

  Gennady broke in. “Look, she ships goods for the United Nations. The United Nations has Il-76s in their fleet. She has to know how big they are and how far they travel and how much they can carry. She has done nothing wrong by asking for a tour of my aircraft.” He reached across the table and took the sheet of paper from the open notebook, held it up to illustrate his point.

  The secret policeman regarded the Russian pilot’s comments for a moment, then said, “Perhaps you are correct.” He looked back to Walsh. “Who did you say you worked for in Khartoum?”

  Ellen sighed, rolled her eyes. Rubbed her left upper arm with her right hand. “I’ve told you a dozen times, and just like my ID says, I work for UNAMID in the Transportation and Logistics Division. I came here to interview camp workers about their needs and—”

&n
bsp; “What is the name of your director?” the secret policeman asked. He picked up a booklet that he’d brought into the interview room with him.

  “Charles Stevens.” Walsh smiled briefly. “A fellow Canadian.”

  The man looked into the book for several seconds, nodded sourly, and then put it down.

  Court had just begun to relax again when he glanced over at Gennady on the other side of the woman under interrogation. The pilot had noticed something on the page with the drawing and info about the Il-76, and he peered at it intently. Confusion grew on his face now, and to Court that could only mean trouble.

  Gennady spoke softly. “Ellen. The aircraft represented here is an MF variant.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. Too quickly and nonchalantly for Court’s taste. It seemed an artificial reaction.

  “It is?”

  “Yes. The UN does not fly the Il-76MF.” The Russian was looking up at her now, but her eyes remained to the front, towards the NSS officers.

  “They don’t?”

  “No . . . they don’t.”

  Shit, thought Court. Gennady was suspicious now. Hell, Court was suspicious now himself. Why would a UN do-gooder have a hand-drawn diagram of the Russian plane? He really hoped she could talk her way out of this predicament because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help her.

  “Who are you, and who do you work for?” Gennady asked, louder now, reaching out and turning the woman around by the shoulders to face him.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Russian pilot spun her around. He’d figured her out, and she knew she could not play dumb with him like she could with the NSS.

  It was time for a counterpunch.

  When she was a kid her father had a saying, and she had turned it into her mantra. “Go big or go home.” All her life she’d pushed herself to the limits of her abilities, did not accept second best or half measures. And now, clearly she’d found evidence of illegal weapons transfers between Russia and Sudan, exactly what she knew had been going on, and exactly what she wanted to prevent by moving to Holland and joining the International Criminal Court.