by DiAnn Mills
Her eyes flared. “I will not. Who are you to make demands on me?”
“Who are you to make demands on me? I have a duty to my country.”
She pointed a finger into his chest. “You are too young to join this war. You are brilliant, much too smart to die in this godforsaken country. How many times must I say how much more valuable you’d be serving your country as an educated man? Listen to Paul. He can guide you to a good school.”
Nyok stiffened. “Paul, the jackal? I see how he’s guided you.”
“You have no right to make accusations. Paul is here to help your people and you. Please reconsider your decision to join the army. I’m afraid you’re making a terrible mistake.”
“You don’t understand. You weren’t there.” Once he flung those words at her, Nyok stomped off. He knew exactly what he intended to do, whether she liked it or not.
* * *
Early the next morning, Larson learned about the Khartoum trip while she, Ben, and Paul watched the dawn usher in a new day. She couldn’t believe their idiocy, the self-imposed danger.
“What good will you do Rachel dead?” she said to them. Both men had refused breakfast, and she knew something was weighing on their minds to cause them to turn down food.
“I suggest you ask Bishop Malou to fast and pray for us,” Paul said.
“There’s a time for prayer, and a time for action.” Ben forced a laugh. “Have a little faith in the SPLA. We’re the fighting force of Sudan.”
“The SPLA?” Larson turned to keep from spewing her thoughts on the subject. “Why not let the slave traders handle finding Rachel? After all, you’re filling their pockets.”
Paul stood from his chair. “Larson, I appreciate your concern, but what choice do we have? If Rachel is in Khartoum, she’s in trouble.”
Larson stood and eyed him squarely. “You and Ben will kill each other before you get there. How can you get along traveling together when you’re at each other’s throats now?” She stopped before she said any more and sank into a chair beside them.
“We have a job to do,” Ben said. “I have no intention of killing Farid until Rachel is found.”
“Wonderful news.” She gave him a smug look. “You two deserve each other.”
Larson had no idea how she would endure the days until the men returned. And the problem with Nyok hadn’t been solved either. The boy refused to speak to her. He’d stayed with the soldiers the previous night and hadn’t returned. She refused to mention the matter to Ben, simply because it involved more explanation.
A short while later Ben ordered his men to stay in Warkou until he returned or sent them marching orders. The time promised much-needed rest for his weary soldiers. In addition, Bishop Malou decided to stay and conduct a daily prayer vigil. He knew Rachel and how the villagers loved her.
So what if Ben and Paul are killed? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d lost someone dear to her. What were two more?
* * *
Paul and Ben headed east to the White Nile in a truck driven by one of Ben’s soldiers. As always, mosquitoes swarmed around them. Paul swatted at the buzz near his ear. He hated those disease-carrying demons. The three were crowded, hot, and just short of miserable. Paul said nothing. No point in arguing with the colonel.
The truck knocked them against the doors and each other as it bounced along and wound through the thick green forests until it couldn’t go another foot. Twisted limbs sought to curl around the tires and hinder them from turning. All three men tugged at the branches and brush lying in the narrow path, too overgrown to call a road.
“We have to keep off the regular routes,” Ben said as he tossed aside the heavy brush they had cut to get the truck through. “Spies are everywhere.”
“Do you have passage at the river?” Paul wiped the sweat stinging his eyes.
“Yes. We’ll get into the city. Then it’s up to you.”
They drove until dusk and at night slept on the truck bed beneath mosquito netting. Each one took a turn at keeping guard, but Ben didn’t sleep during Paul’s watch—no surprise there.
“What do you think I’m going to do, Colonel?” Paul said.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t trust you.”
“Guess I wouldn’t either.” He hesitated. “What would it take to earn the trust?”
Ben chuckled. “Not a thing—unless the GOS would take you as trade for my sister.”
“I’ve already agreed to that.”
“We’ll talk about it when I have Rachel.” Ben turned over to face up at the stars. “Don’t be calling me Colonel until we’re finished with this.”
“What, then?”
“Mohammad sounds good.”
Paul agreed. “Larson doesn’t know my link to the royal family.”
The scream of a cat echoed across the night. “If you make it out of here alive, you’re going to tell her. Her opinion of you will hit rock bottom. Your coming back makes no sense. Why did you do it anyway?”
“I’ve told you before, other than Rachel, it was Nyok. Larson wanted me to convince him he needs an education, not the army.”
“Won’t happen.” Ben spit the words. “He’s too old to play around the clinic with her, and I need every man in this country to carry a rifle. He’s not a child, and he’s not afraid of anything.”
Paul considered mentioning the United Nations’ viewpoint on the matter but assumed his words would fall on deaf ears.
During the rest of his watch, Paul tried to get Larson out of his head. He hadn’t been honest with her about his past. When she learned the truth, she’d be furious. How could he ever expect her to listen to him talk about the Lord when he’d kept his past from her?
Behind the truck seat were the civilian clothes they planned to wear into the city. With a sigh, Paul hoped they found out what they needed to know fast. He didn’t want to spend any more time with Ben Alier than necessary.
Midmorning the following day, floodwaters forced them to abandon the truck and the driver to take a small boat toward the river. There, a fishing boat followed the White Nile until reaching the point where the water converged with the Blue Nile. The mighty winding river ran south to north, the ancient waterway that men had fought to control since the beginning of history. On the east bank sat Khartoum, the largest city in Sudan. Bahri lay to the north, and Omdurman lay to the west of the White Nile. The three cities composed the tri-capital of Sudan. Paul’s old home. The site of those who wanted him dead.
Lord, I don’t know if I should ask to find Rachel in Khartoum. My logic tells me we don’t want to find her there, but You know what is best. Guard her and keep her safe.
CHAPTER 22
Khartoum, the second largest city in northern Africa, had once been Paul’s home. Now the high-rise buildings of the business area looked menacing, reminding him of shrines to a society caught up in a false god. Wealthy citizens flourished because they obeyed the fundamental laws of Islam and were loyal to the government. Paul had despised the poor, ignoring their needs for his own gratification. When he considered his past, he realized he’d flitted from one materialistic whim to another. And he had encouraged the persecution of Christians and followers of tribal religions.
How could I have been happy here?
Dressed in worn white shirts and light-colored pants, Ben and Paul walked on the outskirts of Khartoum until Ben phoned a friend who picked them up in a rusty, fifteen-year-old Ford. Ben climbed into the front, and Paul sat behind him. Ben called the driver Vo—a thin, wiry fellow who had little to say as they drove into the city.
Paul had let his beard grow out since he first conceived the idea to look for Rachel in Khartoum. He hated the thing. Anyone who might think he recognized Paul would remember his dislike for a beard. At least he hoped so. Both men wore kaffiyehs and carried their cell phones and 9mm Helwan pistols inside their bulky pants. Everything around them complemented the cloudless blue sky—tall green palms, shades of brown buildings, and black-skinned peop
le and Arabs clothed from ancient dress to today’s latest fashions.
Domed mosques caught Paul’s attention and provoked a sinking feeling in his chest. Five times a day, loudspeakers sounded the call to prayer. The ritual, the cleansing, the promises of a false god who could reward or condemn a man, dominated every breath. It sickened Paul to think of the millions of Muslims caught up in the lies. They would never bow to Mecca again if they could experience Jesus Christ. Someday he’d find Abraham’s family and tell them about the man who showed him the Light.
“Where to?” Vo said.
“Do you know a man by the name of Babrak Kayra?”
Ben turned his gaze to Paul. “How do you know him?”
“He was a friend to me years ago before I fled Khartoum,” Paul said. “We have common contacts.”
Vo focused his attention on Ben as though waiting for permission to act. “I know how to locate him.”
Ben motioned him on, then drummed his fingers on his knee. “Do not get this man killed.”
“I have no intention of doing so. He helps the Christians here in the city and those in the displacement camps.” Paul paused. “I also know he assists the SPLA.”
“I have already contacted Babrak, and he knows nothing,” Ben said.
“My business with him is just the beginning.”
Vo moved through the narrow, wet, unpaved streets of what was once considered the upper-class quarters. Now the area resembled the middle-class sections of other Arab countries. Billboards of the president rose like warning signs. The whole city seemed to be in a holding pattern, as though waiting for something to happen.
“I read online that Khartoum’s tourist attractions are unrivaled by any other Sudanese city,” Paul said. “Made me laugh.”
“Yeah, look at those mosques,” Ben said. “Why don’t we stop and you can take my picture outside one? We’ll send it to Larson with a note wishing she were here.”
Vo wove in and out of the streets until he reached a familiar concrete house. His windshield wipers screeched across the glass, making a sound worse than those on Bishop Malou’s truck. Vo stepped on the brakes and glanced at the backseat.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Paul said.
“I’m going with you.” Ben tapped Vo on the shoulder. “Take a drive in case my comrade decides to turn us in.”
Paul ignored him and exited the car. The rain splattered against his body like tiny needles, reminding Paul of what the GOS would begin to do if he were caught. Forbidding those thoughts to deter him, Paul turned his attention to the home of his old friend. How long had it been since he’d seen Babrak Kayra? Countless emails from him and others with southern sympathies filtered through his mind. This reunion with the craggy old man would be good if not for the circumstances.
He heard Ben slam the car door behind him, and Paul chuckled. Foreign turf obviously ruffled the colonel’s feathers. Without stopping, he walked to the iron gate and waited for someone to ask about their business.
A familiar face emerged, a man nearly as old as Babrak. He didn’t appear to recognize Paul.
“I’d like to talk to Babrak,” Paul said.
“Who are you?”
“A friend. Tell him the lion roars at dusk.”
The man peered into Paul’s face and glanced at Ben. Releasing a pent-up breath, he turned and ambled beyond the gate. A few moments later, Babrak rushed toward them. Tears streamed down his face, matching the rain. He couldn’t pull the gate open fast enough.
“My dear friend, my brother.” He drew Paul inside and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “I’ve been blessed,” he said in a hushed voice. “Should the Lord call me home today, I will rejoice I have seen and touched you again.”
Paul forced down the lump in his throat, but a tear still slipped over his cheek.
Babrak stepped back and reached out to grasp Ben’s hand. He’d aged, but he was far from frail. “You are welcome here, Colonel. Let’s go inside where it is dry. We can eat, drink, and talk.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ben took Babrak’s hand and covered it with his other.
“We can’t stay long,” Paul said. “Although I’d like nothing better than to spend the day with you, a critical matter needs our attention.”
They entered the home where his old friend lived alone. The modest furnishings appeared the same as they had years before. Babrak produced towels, then led them to a sitting area. Once they were comfortable, the man who had met them at the gate brought cool water and slices of bread.
“Shall we pray?” Babrak asked. In the next breath, his raspy voice began. “Lord God, we ask Your blessings on us this day. Thank You for bringing Paul to me. Watch over him and bless him in his every endeavor. Thank You for men like Colonel Alier who bravely lead soldiers to free us from tyranny. Draw him closer to You. Be with us now as we seek Your will. Amen.”
Paul smiled into the old man’s face. Although layered wrinkles and a slightly humped back marked his physical body, his spiritual body was alive and basking in the love of the Lord. “Tell me what’s going on with you, Babrak.”
“My oldest son fled to England with his family. His brother and sister live here in Khartoum, and we are working with other Christians. And my youngest . . .”
“I know what happened to your son. I’m very sorry,” Paul said.
Babrak pressed his lips together. He turned to Ben. “Do you remember Thomas?” When Ben nodded, he continued. “He became very sick. The doctors refused to treat him because he was a Christian.” Babrak took a deep breath. “He died—almost three months ago. The Bible says to expect persecution, but I never imagined it would be so hard.”
“He was a good man.” Ben’s respectful tone told Paul there might be hope for the man after all. Then he remembered Ben often brought bad news to families of deceased soldiers.
“Thank you. He had no family, which is both grievous and a blessing. A wife and children might have suffered too.” Babrak lifted the glass to his lips.
“And the others working here in the city?” Paul said.
He rested the glass on the table. “We do what we can. Thanks to you, dear brother, we are able to do so much more. The tracts are distributed, but no one knows where they are coming from. The church is growing.”
Uneasiness crept through Paul. He didn’t deserve any praise. “The Lord is blessing your work. I just do what I can.”
“This man,” Babrak said as he turned to Ben, “he is a saint. When the Lord sets the great banquet table, Paul Farid will have a seat of honor.”
I’m sure Colonel Alier is enjoying this conversation.
Ben coughed. “We all contribute something in a small way.” He glanced at Paul, his impatience evident in the lines across his forehead.
Paul leaned closer to Babrak. “We have a serious problem with a missing young woman . . .”
“I see.” The old man settled back in a worn overstuffed chair and folded his hands over his lap. The lines deepened in his face. “What does she look like?”
Ben cleared his throat. “She’s Dinka, sixteen years old, very beautiful, and she has an inch-long scar on her left shoulder.” He took a breath. “Her name is Rachel.”
“I’ll find out if she’s being held in any of the prisons here or in nearby displacement camps. I heard there was a search for such a young woman.” He stared directly at Ben. “And I’ll find out if there are any fitting her description held in other parts of the city.”
Paul appreciated Babrak’s discretion.
“Thank you,” Ben said. “How long do you think this will take?” His huge weathered frame slumped. The signs of fatigue and sun weighed down on him.
Babrak shrugged. “Three days perhaps. I would be honored if you two stayed with me.”
“We can’t,” Paul said. “It’s too dangerous. Can you give me the names of three places where we would be safe?”
The old man blinked back the wetness pooling in his eyes. Without a word, he wrote down the na
mes and addresses. “These you know by name, but probably not by sight. All would welcome you in their homes.”
Paul stood, and Ben followed. They shook hands. “Thank you for everything,” Paul said. “We’ll contact you in three days.”
Outside, they waited in the rain by the iron gate until Vo appeared. Once in the car, Paul asked to be taken to an address.
“Drive around the city for a while. Take your time—just in case. Keep us out of downtown and away from the presidential palace.” Paul studied the names and addresses from Babrak, then handed the paper to Vo. He scanned the information and handed it to Ben. “Memorize it,” Paul said.
“Where are we going?” Ben asked. “That address isn’t one he gave us.”
“To a safe place for the next three days.”
“You don’t trust Babrak?” He spit the words.
“I trust him completely. I don’t want him killed.”
Ben clenched his jaw and thrust the paper with the addresses at Paul.
“Burn it.”
In an instant the car smelled of sulfur.
“You think of everything, don’t you?” Ben blew out the match and stomped the remains to dust on the floorboard.
“No, I don’t claim to.” Did the black ashes represent Ben’s feelings for him? Paul found it humorous, but he dared not laugh and instead peered out the window. A half-dozen black-skinned youths kicked at a ball in the street. Paul remembered playing soccer with Tim and Matt. “I’m not the enemy, Ben.”
“That’s your opinion.”
More than an hour later, Vo pulled into an area befitting the car. The homes were slapped together like concrete bricks fortifying a garbage dump. They smelled the same too.
“There.” Paul pointed to a house on the left. “No need to wait.” He turned his attention to Ben. “Can you call Vo if we need him?”
The colonel nodded. He shook Vo’s hand. “Thanks. Ten o’clock Thursday.”