by Dale Brown
“Try not to fall off,” said Nuri, popping it into gear.
* * *
Danny felt his heart starting to pound as the first set of headlights swung into view. He suddenly felt unsure of himself.
In the old days, he’d sometimes felt apprehensive just before a mission began — butterflies, some people called it, something akin to the performance anxiety actors sometimes felt before going on stage. But the feeling always disappeared when things got going.
It didn’t tonight. Danny’s heart continued to pound as the trucks drove up to the road. He kept his mouth shut, afraid that a stutter, a break, or something similar would give away his nervousness.
Weapons dealers weren’t nervous. Whatever else they were, they didn’t suffer from performance anxiety. They were calm and cool and completely in control.
So was he.
Except he wasn’t.
The vehicles carrying Uncle Dpap and Colonel Zsar drove into the space in front of Danny’s trucks. The other vehicles fanned out behind them, the two groups intermixed.
Colonel Zsar, anxious to show that he was the real leader here, got out of his vehicle first. He practically leapt forward, walking so quickly that his bodyguards had to run to catch up.
“Who are you?” he asked Danny in Arabic.
“My name is not important,” said Danny. He had practiced the line in Arabic and could say it in his sleep, but it didn’t sound smooth. He cleared his throat, trying to hide his sudden attack of nerves. “Call me Kirk. You’re Colonel Zsar, I believe.”
Tarid, who’d been riding with Zsar, got out of the truck slowly. He took his time joining the others, studying the arms dealer as he walked. Kirk was flashy — too flashy, Tarid thought, the sort of reckless man who makes a fortune in six months and loses his life in the seventh. His guards were well-equipped, but that wasn’t much of a trick. More impressive was the fact that he had a white man as his lieutenant — they didn’t come cheap here.
Uncle Dpap and Tilia got out of the Jeep together. Their soldiers, meanwhile, had fanned out from the trucks, forming a semicircle behind the rebels.
“What happened to Red Henri?” asked Danny. Once more, even though he’d practiced the phrase incessantly, it sounded stiff and misaccented in his ears.
“He is not of interest to us,” said Uncle Dpap. “An alliance with him would not benefit anyone. Deal with him if you wish. I would suggest you be careful if you do.”
“We’ll use English,” Danny told them. “There’s no need for any of these to understand. There are too many spies.”
Uncle Dpap glanced at Colonel Zsar, who shrugged. His English was a little better than Dpap’s, but he wouldn’t be able to carry out a complicated conversation, let alone negotiate.
“Is that no good?” asked Danny, in English.
“Your Arabic is fine,” said Colonel Zsar in Arabic.
“I thought you both spoke English,” said Danny. “Or is that your translator?” He pointed to Tarid.
“That is my lieutenant,” the colonel said quickly. It was a fiction they’d worked out earlier.
“An Iranian for a lieutenant,” said Danny in English. “Interesting.”
Tarid swung his head toward Danny as he heard the word Iranian.
“We will speak in Arabic,” said Uncle Dpap. “You speak as you wish. Use English. Why are you meeting us?”
“My aim is to sell many weapons,” Danny said. “I’m not particular to whom. Or who pays. Everyone has AK-47s for sale. I can get better guns. If you can pay. MP-5s like my men have. M-16s.”
“What about Galils?” asked Tarid. The Galil was an Israeli assault rifle.
“I doubt I could sell those at a price that would make you interested,” said Danny. “Assuming I could get them without losing my life.”
“Are the Zionists your suppliers?”
“Don’t worry about where I get my weapons,” said Danny. “They come from many sources.”
Danny threw out an offer — a hundred AK-47s at one hundred dollars apiece. It was an extremely good deal, about a fifth of the price the Jasmine network had sold them for.
“Why so cheap?” asked Uncle Dpap.
“To get your business,” said Danny. “To get you to trust me. I can see you don’t. Not if you think I work with the Zionists.”
He took a step closer, working out how he would get the biomarker onto Tarid. He’d shake hands to seal the deal — or to show that there were no hard feelings if a deal wasn’t made. He’d clasp Tarid’s left hand as he shook with his right.
Done.
Then he’d be able to relax.
Uncle Dpap wasn’t interested in guns. He wanted ammunition.
Danny explained that he dealt in lots of ten thousand rounds, fifteen cents American for each round.
The price was nowhere near as good as what he had offered on the guns.
Colonel Zsar dismissed it. “You sell us the guns for nothing, and then try to make it back on the ammunition. You sell carpets, too?”
The others laughed.
“I may be able to do a little better,” said Danny.
“Vehicle approaching on highway at a high rate of speed,” warned the Voice. “Two vehicles — three, four. Six.”
It was an ambush. A pit opened in Danny’s stomach and the blood rushed from his head.
“Think it over,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’ll contact you about it tomorrow.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said Tarid.
“I’m not in a hurry,” said Danny.
“We’re not done yet,” said Colonel Zsar.
“I think we are.”
“No.” Zsar raised his hand, and all of his soldiers shouldered their weapons. “We will settle a deal tonight, or never.”
24
Blemmyes Village, Sudan
Colonel Zsar typically posted a single guard on the road at the edge of town. The man tended to fall asleep around midnight, but Nuri wasn’t counting on that. He drove with his light off — he could see farther with his night visor anyway. When he was about three miles from the village, he throttled back to lessen the bike’s noise.
Just over a half mile away he turned off the road, traveling due south across a fallow field until he came to an old path that wound up the nearby hill. Once used by shepherds for a pasture, the hill was now overgrown by trees eight to nine feet tall. He found a relatively clear spot just on the other side of the crest. There, he and Hera inflated the surveillance blimp, then slowly eased it skyward between the tree branches. Launching it was a calculated risk, but Nuri reasoned that no one would know precisely what it was if it came down for some reason.
With the blimp on station and its video cameras working, Nuri went back down to the field, driving across to a lane used by farm vehicles. A wall of rocks rose on each side of the lane as he drove toward the village, but they were more of an opportunity than a barrier — he planned to hide the bike behind them as he and Hera toured the village buildings.
The milk factory was his next stop. He drove until they were roughly parallel to it, then shut off the engine and coasted.
“All off,” he said as the bike’s momentum finally faded.
Hera said nothing. She’d resolved to say as little as possible the entire night. Clearly, the Whiplash assignment wasn’t going to be big enough for both she and Nuri to work together; she’d work out some sort of transfer as soon as this operation was over.
“We’ll go up this way,” Nuri told her. “There’s a night watchman who patrols at the front of the barn. We’ll go around the back.”
He put his hand on the wall and jumped over, trotting toward a cluster of small houses scattered like fallen grapes between the lane and the road. The sides of the houses were lined with steel panels cut from a dismantled building, pieces of painted Styrofoam, and cut-up shipping crates.
Nuri slid down next to the house closest to the road. According to the Voice, which was monitoring the view from the blimp
, there was no one in the front yard of the barn building.
He got up and started moving along the road. His first impulse was to go slowly, to seem natural in case anyone in the houses decided to look out. But his adrenaline got the better of him, and within a few steps he began to trot, and then run.
His speed surprised Hera, who had trouble keeping up. “You’re quick for a runt,” she panted, plopping down next to him at the side of the building.
“Who you calling a runt? You’re a couple of inches shorter than I am.”
She was too out of breath to answer.
Nuri tried pushing the window open but it wouldn’t budge. “I need the tools,” he whispered. “The glass cutter.”
Hera turned around so he could open the rucksack on her back.
He took out the glass cutter and a small suction cup with a handle. After attaching the cup to the window, he got ready to cut a fist-sized hole around it.
“Aren’t you going to check for an alarm before you cut?” she asked.
“They barely have electricity, for crap sake. There’s not going to be an alarm. I’ve been in more buildings here than you have pocketbooks, and I’ve never seen an alarm.”
“How many have guards?”
She was right, and Nuri knew it. He was in too much of a hurry, getting sloppy.
Even though there never were alarm systems in this part of Africa.
Except here: The detector found current near the sill; there was a simple contact system protecting the window.
He cursed under his breath.
“You’re welcome,” said Hera.
“It was a good call,” he admitted.
He’d have no trouble jumping and bypassing the wire, which was part of a simple contact system. But the fact that there was an alarm told him they weren’t just breaking into a barn.
Which was good, and bad — there were bound to be other alarms.
“I’d look for a motion detector in the room somewhere,” suggested Hera.
“Ya think?”
Hera strained not to answer back.
“There it is,” said Nuri, spotting the detector in the corner of the room.
It was about forty feet away, high in the corner, and angled slightly to the side. It might miss the window and much of the nearby wall, but there would be no getting past it to the door. While there were several ways to defeat such a sensor, the position would make it time consuming to do so.
“Let’s look for a better way in,” he told Hera.
25
Murim Wap, Sudan
Danny’s butterflies morphed into beasts, roiling his stomach. Everyone around him tensed.
“Just so you know, Colonel, the man behind me has his rifle pointed at you,” he said. “If I go down, you go down.”
The Voice had been preparing Arabic translations of his English for him to use. He did so now, repeating the words so there would be no mistake.
“If you fire,” said Colonel Zsar, “you’ll never get out of here alive.”
“There are enough explosives in the trucks to take care of all of us,” answered Danny. “So let’s all of us calm down. What deal is it you want?”
Tarid was angry with Colonel Zsar, who was being reckless. He suspected that he was trying to impress Uncle Dpap, who had said almost nothing the entire night.
Or maybe the girl, whom he kept stealing glances at.
“Give us a price for five hundred guns, and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition,” said Colonel Zsar. “And we will discuss it.”
“Fine.”
Danny told them they could have everything for sixty thousand, American.
“Half when you place the order. Another quarter paid the day before the exchange. And the rest at the exchange. It will be cash, placed where we say.”
“We prefer to deal in euros,” said Tarid.
“Euros are fine.”
“Vehicles are within three miles,” warned the Voice. “They will be within audible distance in thirty seconds.”
Danny put his hand to his ear. The others thought he was talking to one of his men.
“ID?” he asked.
“The guerrilla faction aligned with Red Henri.”
“I thought you told me Red Henri wasn’t invited to the party,” Danny said to the others.
“He’s not,” said Colonel Zsar.
“My lookout says he’s about three miles away.”
“What?” said Uncle Dpap.
“Impossible,” said Colonel Zsar.
“Listen,” said Tarid.
They could hear the trucks in the distance.
“Get behind the vehicles!” yelled Uncle Dpap. “Prepare your weapons!”
“It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Kirk,” said Colonel Zsar. “We will contact you later.”
“What’s happening, boss?” asked Boston over the radio.
Danny ignored him. “I have no argument with Red Henri,” he told the rebels. “I’ll wait and see what he wants.”
“Not having an argument with you won’t keep him from shooting you,” said Tilia. “You had better leave, or take cover.”
“Get behind the trucks with the others,” Danny told his men over the radio. “Drivers, be ready to leave. Flash, you’re with me.”
Danny ran toward the vehicle where Tarid was crouched. But the rebel soldiers had swarmed around the Iranian and Colonel Zsar and he couldn’t get close without making it obvious he was trying to squeeze next to him.
As Danny ducked down, Red Henri’s ambulance siren began to wail, morphing through its different variations. The trucks carrying his troops spread out across the plain. A half-dozen flares shot into the air, shading the night red, as if it were an extension of Red Henri himself. The trucks veered around, turning in small circles about four hundred yards from Uncle Dpap’s and Colonel Zsar’s positions. Though they were well within range, no one on either side fired.
Red Henri, sitting in the back of his Hummer, took the microphone from his PA system.
“What happens when supposed allies are meeting behind my back?” he said. “So now I have three enemies — the government, Colonel Zsar, and Uncle Dpap. This is very disappointing. Especially from you, Uncle Dpap. Colonel Zsar believes he is holy, so we know not to fully trust him. We know this. But you, Uncle, are looked up to. I look up to you. And here — a stab in the back.”
The Voice translated everything for Danny, with only a slight delay.
“Estimate Red Henri’s force,” Danny asked the computer.
“Ninety-eight soldiers in twenty-three vehicles. Six heavy machine guns. Two RPG-7 launchers. Sixty-eight AK-47 rifles of varying types. Six M-16s. One M-14. Additional weapons possible but not observed.”
Colonel Zsar had fourteen men with him, plus Tarid; Uncle Dpap had twenty. They had nothing heavier than rifles.
Every muscle in Danny’s body began to contract, tightening themselves around his nerves and squeezing hard.
He could get away by ordering the Catbirds to dive-bomb Red Henri’s force. He’d plunge through the bodyguards, swat Tarid, and run off in the confusion. But his legs were stiff and heavy, and he felt as if he couldn’t move.
Red Henri was genuinely upset, hurt by what he interpreted as a stab in the back.
“Uncle Dpap, are you so ashamed that you can’t even speak?” he shouted.
“This man claims to have weapons for sale at a very good price,” said Uncle Dpap. “We decided to check it out.”
“Without me?”
“We didn’t want to waste your time if he proved phony,” said Uncle Dpap soothingly. “You are a very busy man.”
“We are on the same side,” shouted Colonel Zsar. “We should be fighting the government, not each other.”
“I am not fighting you,” answered Red Henri. “Why are you planning to fight me?”
Danny pushed out of his crouch. “I was hoping to meet with you personally,” he shouted. His throat was so dry his voice cracked. “I did not want
to insult you by having you share your time with the others.”
Though he modeled himself after American rap stars, among others, Red Henri’s command of English was not very good, and he didn’t immediately respond.
“Translate,” Danny told the Voice. He repeated the Arabic it fed him. “You represent a large order,” Danny added, first in English, then in Arabic. “And you will need special weapons, and personal care. You’re a VIP.”
Red Henri’s ego was mollified, even though he didn’t believe him.
“That’s as it should be,” said the rebel. “But now that I am here, what sort of deal can you arrange?”
“We should talk close together,” said Danny. “I can’t keep shouting.”
“Come here, then.”
Danny had backed himself into a corner. His whole reason for coming was to tag Tarid. But there were too many people between him and the Iranian, and going over to talk to Red Henri meant moving even farther away. Yet if he didn’t go, the others would think he was a coward and never deal with him again. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except that he needed to tag Tarid.
“Why don’t we meet halfway, with Colonel Zsar and Uncle Dpap, and their advisors,” suggested Danny. “There should be no secrets between you three. You are all allies.”
“You will come to me first and talk,” said Red Henri. “You will show the respect these others have not.”
“All right.”
Danny took a breath and started toward the rebel. The monsters in his stomach and chest had shrunk back to butterflies. Any second, he told himself, and they, too, would disappear.
“Aircraft approaching,” warned the Voice.
“What aircraft?” said Danny.
“Six helicopters. Two Aerospatiziale Gazelles, equipped with rockets. Four Mil Mi-8MTV Hip-H troop carriers. Aircraft have been supplied by the Egyptian army to Sudan for use in this theater.”
“ETA?”
“Two minutes at present speed.”
“Why are you standing there?” demanded Red Henri. “What are you doing?”
Danny put his hand to his ear, making a show of it.
“The Sudanese army is sending helicopters to attack us,” he said loudly. He turned around. “They’re two minutes away!”