“You mean Israel is through.”
“Israel, the United States, all of us.”
Now it was Nava’s turn to think. “Maybe there’s another way to motivate her.”
Mordechai didn’t want to hear it. He cared for Helena. The fact that they were trying to figure out how to manipulate her bothered him. It bothered him even more because none of this should have ever happened. She had failed him and in doing so, he had in turn failed Nava. It was just one enormous cluster fuck.
“We need to slam a red-hot jolt of adrenaline right into her chest,” Nava continued. “Something that’ll keep her attention no matter what Damien says or does.”
A million things ran through Mordechai’s mind, and none of them were good. No matter what depraved routes his brain was travelling, it was guaranteed Nava’s were worse. Much worse.
“What are you thinking?” he asked. “Carrot or stick? Do you want to grab someone from her family?”
She shook her head. “If we did that, we’d lose her forever. I have a better idea.”
As Nava crushed out her cigarette and lit another, she explained what she was thinking.
Mordechai sat there, stunned — not knowing if he could follow through. It was one of the worst things he had ever been asked to do.
CHAPTER 11
Ash and his team had mapped out a series of guesthouses and ranger stations between Bunia and the Matumaini Clinic. Like a chain of islands in a vast and unstable ocean, they could provide anything from food and rest to communications equipment and sanctuary.
Because of their encounter with the FRPI rebels, they had decided to backtrack and take a new route. There was no telling what would have been waiting up ahead on the road they had been on. There had to have been more vehicles somewhere. It would have been impossible to move all of the rebels they had encountered in one pickup truck — even as heavily as they filled them with men and supplies in Congo.
Backtracking had cost them hours. By the time they reached the first ranger station, the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and it was almost time for lunch.
Jambo was the first one out of the vehicles, pumping the rangers’ hands, smiling and wishing them well in Swahili. He spun a long tale about how the team had managed to get one of the trucks stuck on the way out of Bunia that morning and had spent hours before finally getting it free. They needed to rest and take showers. They had brought their own food and water, but would gladly pay the rangers for their hospitality, as well as for any beer the men might have. Happy to augment their income, the rangers gladly agreed and threw in lunch for free.
Harvath didn’t like the idea of drinking in the middle of the day, but after what they had been through, they needed to take some of the edge off. And much like the phony “we’re not carrying any guns” stickers in the Land Cruisers’ windows, drinking beer in the middle of the day sent a message that they were not a threat and had nothing to hide. Harvath had ditched the CARE International door magnets hours ago. There was no telling if the word had gone out among the broader FRPI or not. The less his team advertised, the better.
There was one shower at the ranger station and the Brits politely offered it to Dr. Decker first. She hadn’t said a word since they had escaped. She had leaned against the window the entire way, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.
While they took turns using the shower, they kept an informal patrol, watching for anything unusual. Taking a break to rest and recharge didn’t mean letting their guard down.
Because the rangers would have been upset to see them carrying weapons, the Brits kept their Glocks concealed beneath their shirts. Harvath was unarmed. He left the rear doors of LC1 unlocked and made sure nothing was sitting on the rear bench. If anything happened and he needed a weapon, he would either take one off one of the rangers, or make a run for the shotgun under the backseat.
He watched as the rangers prepared lunch. When Jambo explained how much they were charging for their beers, Harvath understood why they were throwing in lunch.
When a small plastic bag with “fresh” meat came out, Harvath asked Jambo what kind of meat it was. “Bush meat,” he replied.
Harvath immediately shook his head. “No way.”
“Why?”
Bush meat was the vehicle by which some of the worst diseases in Congo travelled. It was his op and he wasn’t going to risk anyone getting sick. “Please tell the rangers thank you, but we’re vegetarians.”
Jambo looked at Harvath for a moment, trying to figure out how he was going to convincingly communicate this, but ultimately gave up and relayed the message to the rangers. Why anyone would waste good bush meat was beyond them, but they didn’t care. It meant more food for them and the money was the same. The rangers’ deal only got better.
By the time it was Harvath’s turn to grab a shower, the hot water had run out. He washed quickly, using the soap he had brought, being careful not to let any of the water get in his mouth or nose. The last thing he wanted was to get sick.
The thought of it brought him back to the rebel camp and all of the men who had been masked up. Decker said she thought it was yellow fever. If she was right, he didn’t have anything to worry about. It wasn’t communicable, unless an infected mosquito bit you, and he had already had the vaccine. But what if it wasn’t yellow fever? What if it was something more serious? He tried to shake the thought from his mind.
Everything in Congo seemed to be covered in a layer of clay-colored, red dust. Turning off the shower, he toweled off with the only “clean” towel that was left — a small, lime-green hand towel with characters from a popular American children’s movie. Finding slices of western culture in the middle of a place like Congo always reminded him that the world was a lot smaller and interconnected than most people realized.
As dry as he was going to get, Harvath dressed in fresh clothes and joined the rest of the team for “lunch.”
While Jambo had no problem eating the bush meat, the rest of the team picked at stewed cassava leaves and boiled vegetables.
When the meal was finished, the Brute Squad rested on the front porch, keeping one eye out for trouble while Ash and Mick gathered intel from the rangers about the area they were heading into.
Jambo offered to clear the table and as he took the stack of plates to the sink, Decker approached Harvath. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” she asked.
Harvath nodded and, picking up his beer, followed her outside.
They followed a rubble-strewn walkway to a clutter of lean-tos behind the station.
Once she was satisfied that they were fully out of earshot of the men on the porch, Decker laid into him, “Don’t you ever pretend to be a doctor again. Do you understand me? I’m the doctor, and I am in charge here.”
Had Decker been a man, Harvath would have been torn between laughing and knocking him out. But since Decker was a woman, and he lived by the code that no man should ever strike a woman — even an astoundingly arrogant one — he chose the former.
She glared at him. “You’re laughing? How dare you?”
It was time to put her in her place. “Dr. Decker, I am going to make this very clear, so that there’s no misunderstanding. This is not a medical assignment. You are here to assist me. That means you do what I say, when I say it. If I tell you not to do something, then you don’t do it. Do we understand each other?”
Decker’s glare had turned into a glower. “Your arrogance is astounding. Do you know that?”
“My arrogance?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Your arrogance. It wasn’t you who opened Matumaini Clinic. It wasn’t you who poured sweat and blood into making it happen. And it wasn’t you who lost very good friends there to God knows what. So, yes, your arrogance is astounding.”