“Where are your scientists?” Red Henri demanded when he saw Nuri come out of the building. “Why are they not greeting me?”
“I thought they were sleeping, but I guess I was wrong. They may have gone to work in the field.”
“Which field?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Maybe you didn’t have scientists here,” said Red Henri. “No friends.”
“No, there are two here already, and more on their way. See, they have to dig at night because the spirits—”
More scientists? How many?
Even one would be too many.
Red Henri suddenly understood the spirits’ point. These men had not asked permission to be here. Their digging was a severe imposition, not just to the spirits, but to him.
Of course they’re not here. It’s as I said — they’re nothing. They’ve already run off. My brother came this way this afternoon and chased them down.
Rubbish. Your brother couldn’t chase a flea.
“I don’t believe there were any scientists,” Red Henri told Nuri. “There were no scientists here.”
Nuri wasn’t sure whether he should agree or not.
“Were there scientists?” demanded Red Henri.
“Of course.”
Red Henri unsnapped his holster. Nuri cursed himself for not shooting the bastard when he had the chance. Two of Red Henri’s bodyguards were directly behind him; he had no chance of getting his pistol.
“What happened to my scientists?” said Red Henri, pulling out his gun.
“They dig at night, so as not to offend certain of the spirits that watch over the bones.”
Red Henri began to laugh. Finally, he saw the truth. The men were simply cowards.
“Your scientists ran away, didn’t they?” he said to Nuri. “They saw Qwandi’s brother and they ran. And Qwandi’s brother is the mildest spirit here. So you won’t be getting any work done. That’s too bad.”
Red Henri rocked the pistol back and forth in his hand. He made up his mind that he would kill Nuri. But as he raised his pistol, the first spirit spoke.
You can’t eat him if he’s a coward. You’ll become a coward yourself.
“He’s not the coward,” said Red Henri.
Of course he is. What man has cowards for friends but is not one himself? It is impossible.
Red Henri nodded at the wisdom of this. “I’ll just shoot him and leave him, then.”
If he is bringing other friends, you should wait to shoot him, said the other spirit. They may have money and other things. He had the nice motorcycle.
Nuri tensed. He didn’t have a plan to escape. The only plan he had was to drop down, grab the pistol from his leg, and try and shoot Red Henri. It would be preemptive revenge only, so he could tell himself that he died doing something.
Red Henri pointed the gun at Nuri’s forehead. Nuri leaned to his left, ready to dive to the ground. But Red Henri raised the gun and fired, the shot sailing harmlessly into the sky.
“I do not think you are a coward,” he said.
“Well, uh, thanks.”
“You should not be friends with cowards. When a man is a friend with a coward, he becomes a coward. It is the same as eating his heart — you become a coward. Do you want that?”
“No,” said Nuri.
“When your scientists come back, you will come see me. We will have much to discuss. The spirits wish to be asked permission. Some are against you. One suggested you be eaten.”
“I’m probably not that tasty.”
Nuri started to laugh. But Red Henri didn’t even smile as he turned away.
Danny, Boston, and Abul came down from their hiding place about a half hour later, after the rebel troop had cleared out. They found Nuri sitting in front of one of the campfire stoves, sipping from a small bottle of scotch.
He hated the stuff generally, but it had a certain medicinal quality and was the only alcohol he’d been able to find during his brief stop in Ethiopia before coming to Sudan.
“There you are,” said Nuri. “You missed the party.”
“We weren’t sure what was going on,” said Danny. “We saw all the trucks and everything. We figured it would be better if we just disappeared for a while.”
“Probably. The spirits might have thought you were brave, and eaten you.”
Danny gave him a puzzled look. Nuri didn’t explain.
“Jasmine hasn’t been around for a while,” said Nuri. “Henri didn’t know Luo was killed. They’re starting to run low on ammo.”
“Is that good or bad?” asked Danny.
“Good. It means he’ll show up eventually.”
“So why did you bring Red Henri here?”
Nuri looked up from the stove. This was the problem when you worked with someone, he thought — they were always second-guessing you.
“He wanted to see the place,” Nuri said. “And he had two hundred reasons why I figured it was a good idea to let him.”
“What did he want?”
“Dinner.”
Danny didn’t realize Nuri meant that literally, and Nuri didn’t say. He just went back to sipping his scotch.
12
Nuri woke the next morning with a killer headache and an aching midsection. He didn’t mind, figuring the alternative would have been much worse.
Around noon he and Boston went with Abul in the bus to a village about sixty miles south to see what food they might be able to buy, and to add video bugs to the Voice’s network. Danny prepared the camp for the arrival of the rest of his men and the bulk of their supplies.
The original plan called for them to come in via truck convoy from Ethiopia, but that would take several days, and the misadventures with Red Henri convinced Danny that the cover story was less important than reinforcements. He called Breanna on the sat phone around noon, which was six in the morning D.C. time. She was already in the office. Within a half hour Reid called back, telling Danny the drop would be made at midnight.
The hills and trees made the camp difficult to parachute into if the wind kicked up, and not wanting to lose anyone to a broken leg right off the bat, Danny went out and scouted for an easier landing zone. He found a field about three miles to the north that even Ray Rubeo could have jumped into without a problem. The distance from the camp was an asset; if anyone happened to see the drop, it wouldn’t necessarily show them where Base Camp Alpha was.
Danny set up automated beacons there and called in to confirm the drop.
“I’m wondering if you could add a couple of dirt bikes to the supply list,” he asked Reid.
“Are you practicing for the motocross?”
“Red Henri decided he liked ours,” said Danny.
“And you gave it to him?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“A few crates of ice cream would be nice.”
“Amusing, Colonel.”
Much to Danny’s surprise, Reid managed to pack some ice cream into the supplies, arranging for a quart of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry to travel in a special thermal box packed with dry ice when the team and supplies jumped from a specially outfitted 787 that night.
From the outside, the Boeing 787 Dreamliner looked exactly like the several hundred of its brethren in service. Its markings indicated that it was operated by Royal Dubai International Airlines. The name sounded familiar, especially given the near monopolization of air traffic over the past few years by airlines from the oil-rich emirates, but the company was entirely fictional, owned and operated by the CIA.