“Is there a plan here?” Smith shouted over the hood, not sure if he was more angry with Howell or himself. “Or did you just pick today to commit suicide?”
“A bit of shopping,” came the Brit’s enigmatic answer.
A young man in a tattered Smurfs T-shirt gave Smith a hard shove and he pushed back, sending the man to the ground. “Back the hell off!”
The African jumped to his feet, clawing for the machine gun hanging across his chest, and Smith lunged for him. Someone to his left threw an elbow and he ducked around it, keeping his eyes locked on the compact Heckler & Koch lining up on him.
Then it all stopped. There was a brief shout from the direction of the archway and the young man backed away, careful to keep his hands well away from his weapon.
The crowd began to disperse and the guards lost interest in them, going back to surveying the people moving back and forth in the dusty road.
“Peter! My good friend,” came a heavily accented voice. What remained of the mob scurried out of the way of a tall African striding toward Howell.
“It warms my heart to see you again,” he said, pumping the Brit’s hand. “I never dreamed I would.”
“Good to see you, too, Janani. I’d like to introduce you to my friends Sarie and Jon.”
The African motioned toward them. “Come. We must get out of this horrible sun.”
Smith looked over at Sarie and shrugged, taking her arm before following the two chatting men through the arch.
“You’ve gotten fat,” Howell said.
“And you’ve gotten old, my brother. I live a good life. I have many wives and children. How many sons do you have?”
“None.”
Janani shook his head sympathetically as they turned down a narrow alley lined with storefronts dedicated to merchandise built around the theme “Things that can kill you.” There were numerous gun dealers, specialists in various types of explosives, and a shop with a canary-yellow awning advertising Africa’s best selection of handheld SAMs.
Janani led them through an unmarked door that opened into a surprisingly large and well-equipped machine shop.
“Janani makes custom guns,” Howell explained, waving a hand around him but not looking back. “The best in the world.”
“You flatter me, Peter. Do you still have the pistol I made you so many years ago?”
“I’m afraid I lost it.”
“But not before it killed many men.”
Howell nodded, his voice suddenly sounding a bit distant. “Many men.”
They passed through an open door at the back and came out onto a covered patio containing a dizzying assortment of guns lined up in racks. A lush butte started about twenty-five yards beyond, sloping gently upward, with targets spaced at measured intervals.
“Jon,” Janani said, spinning to face him. “What do you normally carry?”
“A Sig Sauer. Sometimes a Beretta.”
An unimpressed frown crossed the African’s face and he pulled a pistol from a neat foam display.
Smith accepted it but barely had his hand around it before Janani snatched it back with a disgusted scowl.
“Completely wrong,” he muttered, selecting one with a slightly thicker grip. “Tell me how this one feels.”
He had to admit that it felt good — the same confidence-inspiring solidness of the Sig Sauer without the weight.
“Do you mind?” Smith said, pointing to the range.
“Please.”
He fired a round at the fifty-meter target, putting it dead center in the human silhouette.
“It seems to agree with you,” Janani said, a craftsman’s pride audible in his voice.
“Fits good, shoots nice. But will it stop anything? The recoil feels light.”
“You’re firing a 170-grain ten-millimeter round with a thirteen-hundred-foot-per-second muzzle velocity.”
“Come on…Really?”
The African dipped his head respectfully.
“So what’s the verdict, mate?” Howell said.
“If it’s reliable, it’s the best thing I ever shot.”
“Of course it’s reliable!” Janani whined. “Certainly more so than anything the Italians are involved in.”
“All right,” Howell said. “We’ll take it and another one like it for me. Then I’ll need a couple assault rifles. Something maneuverable along the lines of a SCAR-L, but I’ll leave the final decision to you. No point in traveling light, so say a thousand rounds for the rifles and a hundred each for the handguns. Three spare clips apiece.”
“Of course. We can have them ready by morning. Can I interest you in anything else? Perhaps a portable rocket launcher? I have a prototype that I think you’d find very compelling.”
“Tempting, but we’re trying to keep a low profile. You wouldn’t happen to know anybody in the car business, would yo—”
“Excuse me!”
They all turned toward Sarie, who was waving a hand irritably. “Are we forgetting someone?”
The African was clearly confused. “I’m sorry. Are you making a joke?”
“I think she’s serious,” Smith said.
Janani shook his head miserably. “Women have become so…What is the word you use? Uppity. It’s this new feminism.”
He walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a minuscule chrome.32. “This looks very nice with a handbag.”
Even Howell managed a laugh, less at Janani’s joke than at Sarie’s deadly expression.
“I was thinking of something more like this,” she said, walking up to a row of scoped semiautomatic rifles. She grabbed one and pulled the bolt back, confirming that it was loaded before starting for a table piled with sandbags.
“That’s not a toy,” Janani said as she laid the gun down and knelt behind it.
When she didn’t acknowledge his warning, he turned back to Howell and Smith. “My first wife behaves like this. I blame Oprah. We get—”
All three of them ducked in unison as an explosion rattled the rickety thatched roof above them. There were shouts from inside the building and a number of armed men ran out, only to find Sarie joyfully clapping her hands. “You put dynamite behind them? I love that!”
The African frowned, looking at what was left of his plywood target cartwheeling through a distant cloud of dirt and shattered rock. “Only the ones at eight hundred meters.”
“Do you mind if I shoot another?”
Janani walked over and snatched away the rifle. “Out of the question, madam. This weapon is far too heavy for you and the stock is all wrong. I’ll have something more suitable when you and your friends return.”
27
“No problem. Hotel.”
Sarie chuckled quietly in the backseat as Jon Smith’s head sank into his hands. They’d found their driver a few miles from the arms market hoofing it back to Kampala. He’d seemed a little shocked to see them alive but gratefully climbed back behind the wheel after checking his rust bucket of a cab for damage.
“No,” Smith said for the fifth time. “Hospital. We want to go to the hospital first.”
Howell’s detour, while admittedly productive, left them no time to stop at the hotel before their appointment with the director of Kampala’s main medical facility.
“No problem. Hotel.”
Smith groaned and fell back into his seat.
“I think he’s missing the subtlety between the words ‘hospital’ and ‘hotel,’” Sarie offered. “What’s it actually called?”
He must have been more tired than he thought not to come up with that himself. Sixty hours of travel took a hell of a lot more out of him than it had when he was thirty.