Hell's Choir (NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER SERIES Book 3)
Page 12
His knowing my name startled me, but I wasn’t unduly worried.
“Expecting us?”
Slow on the uptake. I should be doing better than this.
“Yes, sir. We received notification by email of your arrival with a party of around twenty women and children. We are also preparing for a patient with a significant leg wound.”
“Who gave you this information?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sharp, I should have mentioned that. Our email came from a Mr. Devlin-Waters in Virginia, along with a deposit of a substantial donation to our hospital account. If I didn’t know better, I would say it was hush money.”
“Do you know better, Dr. Mageed?”
“It turns out the longer I live, the less I seem to know,” replied the smiling doctor. “Now let’s get our patient some treatment.”
The doctor came out to the Nissan with me and together we manhandled Jumaa inside.
“We’ll take him directly to the operating room. We can only provide very primitive facilities here, Mr. Sharp, but they are effective enough.”
I nodded as we carried Jumaa the length of the corridor.
A nurse, standing tall and straight in a spotless uniform, appeared out of the operating theater doors just as we reached them.
“This is Nurse Shahid,” said the doctor. “She will assist me. I’ve given the rest of our small staff the remainder of today and tomorrow off. We don’t need any town gossip spreading needless rumors.”
This medic was on top of everything.
“Now please, Mr. Sharp, allow us to get to work while you bring your friends inside. There is food and water in our hospital kitchen across the corridor. I will give everybody a once over when we are done with Mr. Al Fadil here.”
Dr. Mageed’s calm demeanor was impressive, as was General Devlin-Waters’ ability to probe every corner of the world. Then again, in the eyes of the US government, there was a lot at stake.
Three hours later, Jumaa had been patched up and everyone had eaten. Dr. Mageed had performed a brief health check on all the women and children. He also checked our surprise adult male rescue, Salah. They were all under nourished but should recover well with some rest and good diet. The doctor had tried to examine Jack Greatrex and me, but we insisted there was no need.
It became more interesting when it came to President Blake. Blake had been badly beaten in his time at the terrorist camp, and we couldn’t afford for any of his wounds to become infected. He was a robust man, but infection can take the best of us.
The president was in a fair amount of pain but remained stoic as the doctor treated him.
Fortunately, Dr. Mageed showed no sign of recognizing his patient.
It was around 9 p.m. when all finally sat down for the evening.
“What are your plans from here?” asked the doctor, guiding me off into a corner.
“We’d like to get across the border to Egypt either tonight or tomorrow,” I replied. “We have friends there who will take care of the rest.”
“Your injured friend with the bullet wound cannot travel, at least not for two or three days.”
“I understand that.” I paused and looked at Dr. Mageed. “Are you able to look after him here?”
“Medically, yes, of course. But I feel he may also need some level of protection. Guns don’t fire themselves, Mr. Sharp.” The doctor studied me, as if deciding how deep to dig. “I think I have a fair idea where you are going, but tell me, Nicholas, who are you running from?”
“The Shararaa,” I replied. There was no point hiding the truth.
There was a sharp intake of breath. “The Shararaa are wicked people. Atha Riek is an evil man.”
“Not anymore,” I replied. “He’s dead.”
The doctor looked surprised but took the information in his stride. “As a medical professional, I wish death to no man, but here, I will make an exception. That is good news. You do realize that Riek’s death won’t put an end to the Shararaa?”
“I do, but it will slow them down.”
The doctor’s face grew weary, and his cheeks sagged as he exhaled loudly. “If possible, it’s best you flee before the Shararaa arrive in Wadi Halfa. If they find you here, they’ll kill us all.”
“What if they find out you helped us or treated our friend?” I asked.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. If need be, my nurse and I will leave. We may apply to the United States for fast-tracked refugee status.” He looked across the room at Jefferson Blake, who was watching Greatrex blow shapes out of surgical gloves to amuse the kids.
“Do you think our application would be successful?” he asked, smiling.
“There is no doubt.”
“Now, back to planning. I’ll arrange to cover your friend’s security for a few days. I have family who will help. Regarding your escape, you won’t make it out of the country tonight. There are too many patrols. My suggestion is you take tomorrow’s ferry. Do you have papers?
“No, but I’m expecting some to arrive.”
“Ah, the email.”
“How are you able to receive email communication when the rest of the country is incommunicado?” I asked.
“We are near enough to the border to piggyback off the Egyptian servers when required. Speaking of which, there was another attachment to the email that informed us of your arrival. I didn’t open it.”
We both stood up. The doctor led me into his small office. He clicked twice on his mouse and the printer in the corner started reeling off sheets. I strode over to look.
First up, there were temporary US travel papers for every member of our party. Then came the surprising part, similar papers in the same names, except they appeared to be official Sudanese travel documents.
How the hell did the general pull that one off?
It was well after 11 p.m. I stared across the hospital waiting room we’d made our temporary home. Some children were sleeping, others were just curled up in their mothers’ arms. I couldn’t imagine how these traumatic events would affect the rest of their lives.
Greatrex was sitting on the floor next to me. He’d been great with the youngsters, joking, teasing, supporting as required. Greatrex and kids? Who would have thought? I supposed there should have been no surprise given the humanity of the man.
Most of the adults were either gazing into nowhere or whispering to each other. Jumaa’s wife and son were with him in his room. The operation to remove the bullet had gone well. Our friend was out of danger but remained weak from blood loss. I didn’t want to leave him behind, but I couldn’t see any other option. We had to get the families and Blake out of the reach of the Shararaa as soon as possible.
Jefferson Blake had been talking to the doctor out in the corridor. He walked over and perched against the wall next to me.
“I’m worried about these folks,” he said.
Most men in his position would be contemplating their return home, anticipating their ascension into the most powerful role on earth. Then again, most men wouldn’t be in his position.
“I’m with you on that one,” I replied, “but I’m confident that if we make it across the border into Egypt, the extraction will work.”
“I understand that,” he responded. “The problem lies with reuniting the families. While the men—or in Salah’s case, the woman—don’t commit a crime in any foreign country, including our own, I can protect them. If they move ahead with the plans that Atha Riek had arranged, the ball game changes.”
“Even considering the circumstances?” asked Greatrex.
“They may be blackmailed into this, but murder is still murder. Nothing will change that.”
“Well then, we need to stop these people before they sing from the Shararaa’s song sheet,” I said.
“Any ideas?” asked Greatrex.
“Maybe, but it’s so blindingly simple it might not work.”
“Speak up, Nicholas,” demanded the president.
“Sudan has bee
n ravaged by violence for years. The previous government was unforgiving in their intolerance, particularly in the south with the horrifying conflict in Darfur. Accordingly, many Sudanese have sought refuge around the world. They’re in Canada, Australia, Europe, the US, everywhere that had a big enough heart to take them.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Blake.
“It’s got me thinking,” I said. “Although I’ve not been here long, it’s been easy to see that the Sudanese—bar the occasional terrorist—possess an overwhelming sense of family, including extended family. In today’s climate of social media, there is an opportunity. If you look at it the right way, the Sudanese refugees scattered around the world are in fact an enormous underground communications network.”
“So, we need to take advantage of that network?”
“Yes. We saw how technologically adept Jumaa’s sister, Awadia, was in Khartoum. Social media is not just the privilege of the West, however much we might like to believe it so. Let’s get our families online. If they exploit every app and platform available to them to communicate the fact they are out of Sudan and free, their people, including our reluctant terrorist envoys, will get the message.
Blake considered my words, his face drawn tight in contemplation. “It gives us a chance,” he replied. “It gives the families a chance.”
“We need to get them online tonight. Atha Riek led us to believe his people were moving into place as he spoke,” added Greatrex.
“I’ll speak to the doctor regarding what computers and devices the hospital has at its disposal,” offered Blake.
“Nick and I will talk to the women and Salah,” said Greatrex.
It was time to bring our misguided warriors home. Our little online Dunkirk had begun.
Chapter 21
I woke to the morning sun streaming in through the waiting-room windows and the sound of women and children crying.
“What’s happened?” I said to Greatrex, standing a few feet away, comforting one of the Sudanese mothers.
“It’s all right,” he replied. “About half the women received responses from their loved ones, either directly or secondhand through family members. These are good tears, Nicholas, tears of relief.”
As I glanced around the room, it became easy to see those who celebrated and those who stayed silent in anguished anticipation. Greatrex looked exhausted. He had been in charge of proceedings. Blake slept on the floor near the door.
“Get some rest, Jack,” I told my friend. “The ferry doesn’t leave until four this afternoon. We’ve got plenty of time.”
He didn’t need persuading.
I left the waiting area and walked down to Jumaa’s room. Awake and sitting up, he looked much better. Salima and Ibrahim sat at his bedside. They appeared exhausted, but their smiles spoke of relief.
“Yes, I’m greatly improved, thank you, Nicholas,” he answered before I could even ask the question. “The doctor says that if I stay here for twenty-four hours, I’ll be all right to travel.”
“He said forty-eight hours,” interrupted Salima.
“Twenty-four will do it. I don’t think I should impose on the good doctor any more than needed.” He patted his wife on the hand. She frowned in frustration but didn’t argue. “Now, Nicholas, we’ve been talking,” Jumaa’s voice took a serious tone. “Although she doesn’t want to, Salima has agreed that she and Ibrahim should travel with you into Egypt.”
I glanced down at Salima. She looked less than happy.
“It has been too long, many, many months without this stubborn man by my side. I do not wish to leave him, but for the sake of Ibrahim I will go. Jumaa better follow straightaway or I’ll come back to get him,” she added.
Wise and caring woman.
I looked at Jumaa; I suspected he wasn’t as well as he’d made out. This man had given so much to reunite with his family, only to watch them leave again. He had also risked a lot, everything in fact, to help us. He was a genuine patriot and cared deeply for his country and its people.
“Jumaa, will you be all right with leaving your homeland?” I asked.
My friend looked up at me. A deep sadness flooded his watery eyes.
“I have feared the loss of my family,” he said as he turned to look at Salima and Ibrahim, his eyes widening, the warmth returning. “I won’t relive that hell again. After what I’ve done to the Shararaa, there will be a price on my head. Maybe more than just my head.” He obviously didn’t want to say more in front of his son. “I’ll continue to work for my country, but from afar. In my heart I know that one day we will all return.”
“I may be able to help with that,” said Jefferson Blake as he walked up behind me. “How would you feel about a position as the president’s special advisor on Sudan?”
Jumaa looked up, his jaw dropping in surprise. “Thank you, Mr. President. I gratefully accept.” He turned to Salima. “I think, my love, we will own a big American car.” He tried to laugh, but the pain caught him.
“Just make sure you get over that border ASAP, so you live long enough to drive it.” I added.
A cool breeze blew off the water, providing us with some relief as we stood on the ferry wharf. The large, once white ship appeared to be over one hundred and fifty feet, bow to stern. Four cranes rode high on its top deck, accompanied by a few lifeboats and plenty of open space. Beyond the vessel, the blue waters of Lake Nubia provided a calming contrast to the desert that surrounded them.
We had been fortunate that the ferry would sail the day after we arrived in Wadi Halfa. It would be seven days until the next sailing. For a population so small, the activity around the boat’s departure appeared frantic. Then again, Wadi Halfa had become the major gateway from Sudan to Egypt.
Two of the women purchased our tickets earlier in the day. They used money provided to the hospital through the general’s ‘generous’ donation. Our cover story explained the journey as a community-based single-parents group from Khartoum taking the children on a visit to Cairo. Sadly, because of so much conflict, over so many years, there were a lot of single parents in Sudan. But if things went pear-shaped, we had little evidence to support our deception. Any halfway thorough investigation would expose us. Jefferson Blake now wore the traditional jalabiya, giving him the look of a local. His dark skin helped in the disguise.
The only explanation we could muster for Greatrex and I cast us as security personnel hired by the travel company who had arranged the tour. It was thinner than a crisp.
We said our goodbyes to Jumaa and Nurse Shahid at the hospital. Having disposed of our vehicles earlier in separate locations—the Land Rover close enough should Jumaa need it—the doctor had then shuttled everyone the short distance to the ferry wharf in his four-wheel drive; hiding in plain sight.
The papers provided by the general had got us through a very relaxed customs process at the wharf. We paid departure tax for everyone. I wondered if we had paid a little over the going rate. It worried me that we had to leave our weapons behind, but we couldn’t afford the risk of having several Kalashnikovs and knives found in our possession. As it turned out, our baggage passed through unsearched.
A level of excitement spread among the children as we ushered them onboard. We had booked second-class passage on the deck—that’s what a community group would have done—but we also reserved two first-class cabins. They each had a power point and some privacy so we could maintain our social media onslaught. Two thirds of Atha Riek’s reluctant envoys had now been back in contact with their wives. Doubtless, some elements of the Shararaa would also monitor social media, even if in a haphazard manner. That our families had lied, stating they had already left Sudan, would throw any determined terrorists off our trail… We hoped.
Greatrex and I stood on the upper foredeck as the ship cast off. My relief grew as the gap of blue water between us and the wharf widened.
“Twenty-four hours until we make Aswan,” I announced.
“Hmph,” came the response.
“What’s wrong?”
“Probably just my inbuilt pessimism,” admitted the big fella.
“Go on.”
“Well, we’ve been very fortunate since we arrived in Wadi Halfa,” he said. “It just plays out a little too much like a happy ending coming too soon.”
“I agree that we are nowhere near out of the woods—or should I say, desert—yet,” I responded. “Despite the fatigue, we need to stay alert. From what Jumaa has told us, the Shararaa have tentacles that reach everywhere. I’ll rest when we are all on US soil.”
Greatrex nodded.
With that, the waters of the Nile flowed gently under our feet.
Two hours later, the sun set across the desert horizon. It sent a bold and majestic glow across the waters as we edged our way north. Greatrex and I had checked on the families’ welfare and intended to grab some food when Jefferson Blake appeared behind us.
“Sir, I think its best you spend the trip in the cabin,” I said.
“Your picture will be all over the media as we head further out of the Sudanese electronic blackout. You’re too recognizable,” added Greatrex.
“I know, point taken,” responded Blake. “The truth is, I was going stir-crazy down there. Besides, I wanted to chat with you two.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“The moment we set foot on Egyptian soil, our people will be there. At that point, everything changes. I fear they’ll build a protective wall around me—it’s the nature of the job.”
Greatrex and I both nodded.
“Before that happens, I want to say thank you to you both.”
I started to speak, but Blake put up his hand.
“Don’t even begin with the ‘it was nothing’ speech,” he continued. “You two could have turned your back on this whole situation and waited your time out in Khartoum until things resolved. But you didn’t. You risked everything to get me out, not to mention helping those poor, innocent families. I—we—owe you big-time.”