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The trio inside the Cherokee rolled on through the sunrise and early morning. By full daylight the uneven macadam beneath their tires had swung back north into flat plains and desert, clinging to the old British railway tracks near the Ethiopian and Eritrean borders as it took them first to the little village of Shobak, then under the loom of the twisted, humped Taka Mountains.

They had not been concerned with military checkpoints. Nor would they have to be as they neared their destination. The U.S. secretary of state and the foreign minister of Sudan had had a back-channel chat during the night and had arranged for a subsequent top secret conversation between their respective presidents. And when Omar al-Bashir and David Brenneman had spoken, Brenneman had advised Bashir of intelligence he’d received that vindicated him as far as having staged the assault on Camp Hadith and the murder of Lily Durant. While vague on many details, he had made it unequivocally clear that the United States, and indeed the world, had been deceived by subversive elements within Sudan who had planned to undermine the Bashir government, seeing that it was held responsible for the blatant atrocities committed against Camp Hadith’s starved, sick refugees and the U.S. president’s beloved niece. Finally, Brenneman had suggested that their mutual cooperation in bringing the conspirators to justice could lead to more than just a temporary thaw in relations between the two nations, but perhaps to a relaxing of trade embargoes and other long-term improvements in their relationship-including a U.S. reevaluation of its stance on Bashir’s international criminal status. And naturally Bashir had jumped at the deal.

Kealey hated that his government was now accommodating one bloody monster in order to stop another that it had given fangs and claws. He hated the facile blurring of moral lines and, most of all, hated feeling that he was being used as a pawn in a dirty political game.

But he had gotten involved with the Agency again for one and only one reason. For him it began and ended with the photograph that John Harper had shown him in that Pretoria bar, the snapshot of a plain, dark-haired woman in her midtwenties, an aid worker surrounded by starved-looking African children, her infectious smile somehow managing to catch hold on their gaunt, hollow-eyed faces.

He wanted the man who killed Lily Durant. He wanted him more now than ever. Call it justice; call it revenge; it didn’t matter. He could taste his desire for it at the back of his tongue, as he had tasted it every moment since he’d seen that picture…

And it was bitter. Unbearably bitter.

“That’s Jebel Atweila, about a mile east of us,” Mackenzie said. He pointed out the right side of his windshield. After passing through the main checkpoint into Kassala, he had crossed the Gash River over the bridge spanning its narrows and looped around the eastern edge of town, leaving the rutted blacktop behind for dirt and gravel tracks, then swinging completely off road toward the heaving escarpments. “The other two mountains are Taka and Totil.”

Kealey looked at his chronograph. “Almost noon,” he said. “Mirghani’s people should be there about now.”

Mackenzie steered toward Atweila and was soon bumping over the pebbly deposits spread out around the slope, glancing repeatedly at his GPS unit to check his coordinates against those that had been preset for their meet. Sticking close to the base of Atweila, he continued around it until he spotted a rock-strewn switchback in the shadow of a large, anvil-shaped spur. When he got there, he swung onto it, twisted up the mountain for about 50 yards, jounced to a halt, and cut the ignition.

Kealey glanced around at their surroundings, reached for his door handle, and got out, Mackenzie and Abby exiting with him. Seth Holland’s Glock 35 was in a sidearm holster under his Windbreaker, which also concealed the Muela combat blade he’d bought back in Yaounde and carried in a sheath at his waist.

They had hiked 30 or 40 feet up along the switchback, taking several winding turns, when a group of fighters appeared from behind a knobby granite outcrop…almost all of them in khakis, head scarves, and combat boots, standing openly in the baking sun. All had rifles on their shoulders-M14s, AK-47s, Steyr and FAMAS bullpups.

Kealey and his companions stopped, waited as a wiry man with a short, dark beard on his tanned face approached.

“ A s’amaa zarqaa, ” Mackenzie said.

The bearded man gave his response to the code phrase. “Wa quul id-diir.”

They shook hands, had a brief exchange in Arabic. Then Mackenzie turned to Kealey. “This is Tariq…Ishmael Mirghani’s second in command,” he said, making their introductions. “Tariq, Ryan Kealey. And Abby Liu.”

The fighter extended his hand to Kealey and gave Abby a polite nod in keeping with traditional Islamic custom toward women. Then he returned his gaze to Mackenzie.

“Your trip has been without difficulty?” he said, speaking English now.

“Happily so.” Mackenzie gave a nod. “We are grateful for the invention of the GPS.”

Tariq grinned. But Kealey had noticed that not all the men were quite as demonstrative in their welcomes-quite a few of them eyeing the Westerners with narrow mistrust.

“Our camp is around the mountain in a…how do you say…kerf?” Tariq touched the fingers of his hands together to form a kind of wedge.

“A notch,” Mackenzie said.

Tariq nodded. “It is a short distance from here.”

“How many of your men have come?” Kealey asked.

“Half again the number you see with me now,” Tariq said. “We hope more will arrive before the day ends. The rest go north but will not take arms with Commander Nusairi.”

Kealey considered that. Mirghani had not wanted to arouse Nusairi’s suspicions by holding back his guerrillas from the attack and so had sent them along as if to join his forces. But they would experience convenient delays that would keep them from sharing the same fate as the raiders-if things went as planned.

“Do you know where Nusairi is right now?” Kealey asked after a moment.

“He arrived in the city with some men yesterday and stayed overnight in Sikka Hadiid,” Tariq said. “That is where he met the other. There are still many buyut- ”

“The other?” Kealey interrupted.

“A Westerner like yourself,” replied Tariq.

“About the same age and height? Brown hair?” Kealey asked.

“Yes.” Tariq touched his own eyes. “He wears naddaaraat. ”

“Glasses?”

“Yes,” said Tariq.

Kealey turned to Mackenzie. “Cullen White,” he said.

“So the son-of-a-bitch bastard flew out of Khartoum after he shook me,” Mackenzie said, nodding. “The Sikka Hadiid is Kassala’s old railway quarter… I’d guess it’s three, four kilometers west of these mountains and across the Gash. I’ve been there before. Tell you about it later.” He briefly raised his eyes to Kealey’s to indicate it was something he wanted to discuss in private. “The British railway station was built right around the turn of the last century. It was abandoned a long time ago, but most of the structures are intact. When you walk around the area, you see some big colonial buildings where the Brit administrators lived, and then rows and rows of round huts built for the workers and their families… They’re spread out pretty good. Some are modernized inside, kind of like bungalow hostels, but a whole lot of them have hardly changed in a hundred years-there’s no electricity or running water. The locals have short-term rentals for travelers. Student backpackers, different types.” He gave Kealey another confidential glance. “They’re what Tariq called buyut. ”

The rebel was nodding.

Kealey stood rubbing his chin in thought.

“What about the tanks and helicopters?” Abby said, breaking her attentive silence. “Have you seen them?”

“See, no,” Tariq said. “But I know they came ashore at Zula in Eritrea and were brought across the border by truck. And I know they are to strike in two places. Some go toward the Nile between Khartoum and Ed Damer…perhaps two hundred fifty kilometers to the west of us.”