It was a shot in the dark, but from the fractional movement that followed, the way Sadowski’s eyes darted up to the left, Holland saw that he’d gotten it right. He felt a brief flash of satisfaction, but it couldn’t last. What he had just learned-what Sadowski’s body language had given away-was not what he wanted to hear, in a manner of speaking.
After striking out with the consular office and the PAO earlier in the day, Holland had started to suspect the worst, that the man with the green rucksack had met with just one person at the embassy-Walter Reynolds, the charge d’affaires himself. Holland had been hesitant to fully consider that possibility, because if he was right, there was basically no chance he would ever get the answers he was looking for. He did not have a lot of respect for the chief of mission, whom he regarded as lazy and incompetent. But he was still the man in charge, and if he didn’t want anyone to know who had stopped by his office, there would be no prying it out of him.
In other words, Sadowski was his last chance for answers, and he was starting to look uncomfortable. If he walked out, Holland would be left with nothing. With few options left, he decided to play his trump card. It was the one thing he knew would elicit a strong reaction from the man sitting across from him, if only because it seemed to elicit that kind of reaction from everyone.
“Sergeant, did you ever meet Lily Durant?”
Sadowski looked up, his face pinching into a frown of confusion. Clearly, he was trying to figure out where this was going. “No. I saw her once, when she first arrived, but I never spoke to her. At the time, I didn’t even know who she was. I don’t think anyone did. Why do you ask?”
“You know what happened to her, though.”
“Of course.” The staff sergeant’s confusion was rapidly turning to anger. “What kind of question is that? Everyone knows what happened to her. Those fuckers raped and killed her in cold blood. Not only that, they had the nerve to record the whole damned thing, and we-”
He caught himself in time, but Holland knew exactly what he’d been about to say. “And we did nothing,” he said quietly. “Right?”
Sadowski didn’t respond, but the truth was written right there in his eyes. Holland genuinely sympathized with him. He had been trained to fight America’s enemies the world over, but Lily Durant had been killed less than 1,000 miles from where he was standing, probably by the same government that was hosting them, and he had no choice but to stand there and take it. It would be hard for any man to endure such bitter circumstances, let alone a man with Daniel Sadowski’s training and temperament. If the marine had left the building at that moment, weapon in his grip, and taken matters into his own hands, beginning with the presidential palace located a few miles to the north, Holland would not have been surprised.
“I understand how you feel, Sergeant. There are a lot of unhappy people out there. People who are less than pleased with how the president responded to this situation. Believe me, you’re not the only one. Not by a mile.”
Sadowski shook his head angrily. He seemed to have forgotten their earlier verbal sparring; his mind was now fixed on what had happened two months earlier, as well as everything that had occurred in the interim.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said in a low voice. His face seemed to mirror the frustration everyone in the building was feeling. “Why didn’t he authorize some kind of direct action? Hell, why are we still here? It was his niece, for Christ’s sake. You think he would have…”
“Would have what?” Holland asked. He was genuinely interested. Everyone seemed to agree that David Brenneman should have acted in the wake of Durant’s death, but few could agree on what should have been done. The ideas seemed to range from a strongly worded letter of protest to the complete destruction of the Sudanese capital. Holland had listened to these theories, and everything in between, but had heard few sensible suggestions. “In your opinion, what should he have done, Sergeant?”
Sadowski stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, as if trying to decide whether or not Holland was mocking him. Satisfied that he wasn’t, the marine shrugged and grimaced, then ran a hand over his short, bristly hair.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I don’t pretend to have all the answers, Mr. Holland. But you want me to be honest?”
Holland nodded. “Bluntly,” he said.
“Putting it bluntly, sir, my guys think that we should have evacuated our people, then launched a few cruise missiles up the man’s ass. It’s kind of hard to disagree with that plan of action, especially after what happened.”
Holland nodded. He didn’t have to ask for an explanation. The “guys,” he knew, were the marines under Sadowski’s command; the “man” was none other than Omar al-Bashir, the president of Sudan.
“So you agree with them,” he said. It was not a question.
Sadowski held his gaze for a minute. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight, but completely controlled. “Everyone knows that Bashir was behind what happened in West Darfur. He knew what he was starting when he sent in the Janjaweed to destroy that camp, and if he didn’t know, too fucking bad.” Sadowski nodded slowly. “We should have bombed him to hell and back. Yeah, I do agree with that. Absolutely.”
“But instead, we did nothing.”
“That’s right,” Sadowski said. The scowl on his face said more than he could have ever put into words. “Nothing at all. It’s complete bullshit.”
Holland leaned back in his chair and studied the other man plaintively. Having firmly established the young marine’s mind-set, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach the next topic. It was something he’d been considering for the past couple of weeks, and while it had started as nothing more than a stubborn idea, a glimmer of insight inspired by events unfolding across the country, he had not been able to shake it. Now, for the first time, he was about to share his suspicions with somebody else, and he had no idea how they might be received.
“What if I were to tell you,” he began slowly, “that I think we are doing something? Something no one knows about. Something no one is meant to know about.”
A hint of curiosity broke through the young man’s angry facade, and he looked at Holland with renewed interest. “Such as?”
Holland shook his head. “I can’t give you any specifics, Sergeant, for the simple truth that I don’t know. This is just an idea, and I can’t prove a thing. But take a look around.” He lifted his arms out to his sides, as though the answer could be found right there in the room. “Look at what’s happened since April. Better yet, look at what hasn’t happened. We’ve had…what? Four demonstrations outside the building over the past month?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is that the normal state of things?”
“No,” Sadowski conceded. He was starting to look interested. “The numbers are way down, as a matter of fact. Before the attack on Camp Hadith, we were getting an average of three a week, ranging from a few students with signs to a few hundred hard-liners with rocks, sticks, and plenty of American flags to burn. Lately, there’s been almost nothing.”
“Nothing for us,” Holland corrected. “But last week there were three demonstrations in protest of Bashir’s regime in Khartoum alone. Did you know that? Demonstrations in protest of his regime. Rallies were staged in Juba and Nyala as well. Of those that took place here in the city, two were staged at Nillien University, and one took place outside the al-Safa mosque in the Jarif district. They were put down by the local police, of course, and put down quickly, but each was attended by more people than the last, and another is scheduled for Tuesday, two days from now. Based on the evidence, I’d say the tide has turned in our favor, and the momentum is only building.”
Sadowski looked intrigued, but also confused. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “Are you suggesting that we had something to do with those demonstrations? That we arranged for them somehow?”