“Water in the jeep,” Howell said, and Smith limped over to it, reaching greedily for one of the bottles before jerking his hand back and retreating a step.
“What the hell is that?”
Howell came alongside and picked up Caleb Bahame’s severed head, looking into the half-closed eyes while Smith used his sleeve to clean the blood off a liter container.
“Just a little souvenir.”
“I think it could make keeping a low profile a little hard,” Smith said, pouring the water over his face and into his open mouth.
Howell frowned. “I suppose you’re right. But you have to admit it would have made a handsome ashtray.”
57
The sun had escaped the horizon and was now pounding down on the chaotic morning traffic outside of Entebbe. Mehrak Omidi swerved to prevent someone in a seventies-era pickup from passing him on the shoulder but then mentally reprimanded himself. Now wasn’t the time to let his frustration get the better of him.
A quick glance through the broken back window confirmed that the situation was still under control. Van Keuren and De Vries were bound and gagged in the truck’s canvas-covered bed, and Dahab was at the back flap watching for anyone following. Much of the power and grace the Sudanese had demonstrated in Bahame’s camp was gone, though. He was struggling to keep his balance in the swaying truck, and his immaculate robe was damp with sweat.
It was to be expected. Soon his usefulness as a host for the parasite would be over and he would have to die — a fate known to him since the beginning. He would be delivered into the hands of God a martyr.
“I see them!” Dahab shouted suddenly.
“What are you talking about?” Omidi responded, looking into one of the side-view mirrors at the traffic behind them.
The African’s English was limited and he jabbed a finger at the now closed canvas flap. “I see the white men!”
Omidi kept his eyes on the mirror but put a hand on the pistol next to him. There had been no outward signs of confusion. Had he simply not noticed their onset? Was the Sudanese becoming delusional?
Then he saw it: an open army jeep ten cars back swerving dangerously into oncoming traffic in an attempt to pass. Omidi wiped the dust from the mirror and concentrated on the image of the two men. It was impossible to make out individual features, but he felt a dull jolt of adrenaline when he cataloged their general builds, clothing, and hair color. It couldn’t be, but it was. Jon Smith and Peter Howell.
They tried to pass again, this time on the left, and were forced to veer back into the line of traffic by a gap in the shoulder that fell away into a ditch.
Omidi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the panic building inside him. He couldn’t fail now. Not when he was this close.
Ahead, he could see a plane rising into the air and arcing out over Lake Victoria. Entebbe was no more than twenty kilometers away, but his ultimate destination — a private airstrip where a jet was waiting for him — was well beyond that. Eventually, the men chasing him would leapfrog the cars in front of them — a maneuver he wouldn’t be able to match in the lumbering truck.
Omidi took his hand off the pistol and picked up a phone, dialing Charles Sembutu’s personal number. It was picked up almost immediately.
“Mr. President. I’m on the Entebbe road nearing Kisubi. Smith and Howell are behind me. I—”
“How is this my problem, Mehrak?”
Omidi tried to keep his voice calm and respectful. “I need you to intervene. They are driving dangerously in an open jeep. Have your police pull them over. Fifteen minutes is all I need.”
“I arrested and questioned Smith and Howell for you. But that wasn’t enough. I delivered them into your hands in the north country. But still this wasn’t enough. The fact that you failed to deal with them is—”
“And I delivered Bahame and his people, which allowed you to put an end to an insurgency that would have destroyed you.”
“Then we have both honorably lived up to our agreements. I wish you good fortune.”
The phone went dead, and Omidi slammed it down on the seat. Coward.
A quick check of his mirror confirmed that the ailing jeep still hadn’t managed to pass and now there was steam rolling from under the hood. They were still moving, though, and the military truck would be easy to track.
“Dahab!”
The African lurched through the back of the truck and came to the window.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Omidi said, enunciating carefully so the African would understand. “Do it now.”
Dahab grabbed De Vries and rolled him onto his stomach, ignoring his muffled screams as he carved a deep gash in his back. Van Keuren tried to kick out as the African put a similar cut in his own thumb and then ground it into the aging physician’s wound.
It didn’t take De Vries long to comprehend what had happened — that there was nothing left to fight against. His body convulsed gently as he began to sob through his gag.
Satisfied, Omidi turned his full attention back to the road. “Dahab, you’re getting out at the Entebbe airport. Do you understand?”
“I understand. What are my instructions?”
58
“Stop here,” Smith said, standing so that he could see over the steam coming from the jeep’s radiator. The truck Omidi was driving had turned off for the airport, but then they’d lost sight of him while they were stuck crawling along the congested road.
“Is he up there?” Howell said as he let the vehicle coast to a halt close enough to see the terminal and parking area but not so close as to draw the attention of security. Two beat-up white men driving around in an old army jeep coated in dried blood was bound to generate unwanted attention.
“No,” Smith said, falling back into his seat.
“Then what’s the plan, boss?”
He thought about it for a few moments, but no brilliant ideas presented themselves. Just desperate ones.
“We go into the airport,” he said, using water from their last bottle to try to clean the dirt, soot, and blood from his face and hands.
“You think Omidi’s going to try to get Sarie on a commercial flight?”
Smith passed the bottle. “No, but they may handle private planes here. And even if they don’t, you should be able to find someone who’s familiar with the private airstrips in the area.”
“And what will you be doing while I’m playing detective?”
“Making a phone call.”
Howell frowned at the cryptic answer. “Might I suggest the cavalry?”
They strolled into the airport wearing matching T-shirts silk-screened with the Ugandan flag — the only thing the souvenir vender outside stocked in their size. Smith immediately split off toward a bank of pay phones, smiling casually and smoothing his wet hair as he passed a mildly curious, but extremely well-armed guard. When he reached the phones, he immediately picked one up and pressed it to his ear. No dial tone. Same with the second one he tried. And the third.
“They don’t work.”
The woman was wearing a neatly pressed airport uniform and spoke with a light African accent. “I’m sorry. We had a fire recently and they haven’t been fixed. Apparently, it’s not a priority because so many people carry their own phones now.”
He managed a polite smile. “I really need to contact my family. Are there any phones that do work?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do you have a phone I could use? I’d be happy to pay you.”