“Yes,” said Nuri. “But we wouldn’t want to be involved. Good-bye.”
Abul had waited on the bus, sure it would be stripped clean if he left it. Nearly a dozen boy soldiers leaned against it, sheltering themselves from the sun while they chattered in high-pitched voices.
Nuri and Hera came down the steps, practically running. Hera went straight to the bus, but Nuri went back into the store — he wanted to preserve the cover story that they had come to town for supplies.
If the storekeeper was puzzled by his earlier disappearance from the bathroom, he didn’t mention it. Nuri bought some canned food, overpaying just enough to make the shopkeeper look forward to his return.
“Let’s go,” Nuri hissed under his voice as he hustled up the steps into the bus. “Go.”
Abul started the engine and leaned out the window to scoot the soldiers away. They didn’t respond until he put the bus in gear. Even then they seemed barely to notice, edging off the bus as it slowly moved forward.
“Go back the way we came,” Nuri told him.
“I know.”
Abul turned around at the side of a wide lot beyond the center of town, giving his passengers a good view of one of the shantytowns where the bulk of Uncle Dpap’s followers stayed. The street was so narrow he had to maneuver back and forth several times before finally managing to get in the proper direction.
“They’re looking for ammunition,” Nuri told Hera. “That’s interesting.”
“He told you that?”
“No, I overheard him.”
“Why did you tell him I was your wife?”
“That was just to get Commander John to stop leering. I wanted us to be able to get the hell out of there.”
“You’re an ass.” Hera put her head back against the seat. “If we had taken our rifles, no one would have messed with us.”
“We’re undercover. Scientists don’t carry rifles.”
“They’ve never seen scientists before. Everyone goes around with guns.”
“It would have put them much more on their guard.” Nuri blistered. “Listen, I’ve been out here a lot longer than you have.”
“I’ve been in Sudan before, Nuri.”
“Not here.”
“Darfur was worse than this.”
At the front of the bus, Abul did his best to pretend he wasn’t hearing their argument. He stopped at the checkpoint and gave the soldier the second half of the ten dollar bill. Then he headed back toward Base Camp Alpha, happy to be out of the rebel village. Becoming a millionaire, he decided, was a dangerous business.
17
“How do you feel about evolving into the lowest form of life on earth?” Nuri asked Danny when he returned to camp.
Danny didn’t know quite what to say. “If it’ll help the mission,” he answered finally.
“Good. We’ll leave for Ethiopia with Abul before first light. The rest of the team can watch the store while we’re gone.”
To Nuri, certain cities vibrated a certain way, as if the sounds and movement of the people within them set off a resonance in the earth beneath the streets. Some vibrated with danger, others excitement, still more with fear.
Gambella, in Ethiopia, combined all three.
Nuri had first come to Gambella barely a year earlier, but its rhythm touched something at his core, and he felt at home there, with or without the Voice’s turn by turn directions to guide him through the back alleys of the old city’s bazaar. The Voice’s directions helped immensely, however. The jumble of streets and pathways, mostly empty a year before, were packed now, populated by a menagerie of shops and merchants, legitimate and otherwise.
There were far more of the latter than the former. Ethiopia had become a nexus for eastern Africa, a relatively stable oasis in a cauldron of trouble. Gambella, in turn, profited greatly from its neighbors’ woes. Poor for years, the country’s ethos held that any business was good business; Gambella’s particular interpretation of that philosophy meant it was possible to buy almost anything here, including people.
“Left. The stall is in the middle of the block,” said the Voice.
Nuri walked briskly, brushing past a man trying to sell watches. They were counterfeit Rolexes, of high enough quality that they would have passed muster even in Switzerland.
Shady dealers aside, the city reminded Danny of Istanbul in Turkey. It had the same otherworldly feel, and the same wide range of languages spoken in its streets. People hustled here, literally and figuratively, trying to get ahead.
“Just follow my lead,” whispered Nuri, slowing his pace as he came near the shop he’d been seeking. “And don’t show your gun unless absolutely necessary.”
Danny glanced around. He wasn’t just looking for a potential enemy, but trying to gauge how the others on the street saw them. A black man in Western clothes trailing a man of indeterminate race — Nuri would be taken for Egyptian here — they would be seen as businessmen rather than tourists. Strangers with purpose.
It occurred to Danny that the spy was adept at seeming to be whatever anyone wanted him to be. His baggy pants were similar to what the Ethiopians standing in the doorways of the shops wore. His beard, two weeks old, made him look Muslim. Nuri’s skin wasn’t as dark as his, but Danny had no doubt that of the two of them, he was the one more likely to be regarded with suspicion.
“Toroque!” exclaimed Nuri, spotting the owner of the stall he’d come to find. He used English, which was the language of commerce here, and second nature to most of the people on the street. “You’re here. Very good.”
Toroque squinted, as if trying to remember the face. He pretended to recognize it and smiled. In truth, Toroque’s memory for faces was as poor as any man’s on the planet. As the local saying went, he might have forgotten his own had he not seen it in a mirror every day.
“And what can I do for you today?” he asked.
“Much, I hope. My friend and I are looking for a vehicle. A special vehicle.”
Toroque frowned, as was his habit when a profitable deal presented itself. “Special vehicle?” He shook his head. “No. Here there are no special vehicles. I know of a motorcycle perhaps.”
“Oh.” Nuri had played this game once before with Toroque. “Well, too bad then.”
“But maybe if you explain to me what you need,” added Toroque quickly, “then maybe I can be of aid if I hear of something.”
“I need something very special to drive, for an important person. Something big. Very unique.”
“No, no.” Torque shook his head. “No. No.”
Nuri nodded and put out his hand to shake. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe in the future…if you…”
He ended his sentence there, his voice trailing off as he turned to Danny.
“What sort of thing — my English is not very good,” said Toroque, who had been awarded a medal for his English studies in elementary school. “What are you looking for? An SUV?”
“An SUV might do,” said Nuri.
“Ah, too bad. I know a Land Rover.”
“Too plain,” said Nuri dismissively. He would settle for it if he had to.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Toroque now began to worry. He had already begun counting the profit from this deal, and it was escaping him.
“The SUV is a Mercedes, maybe?” suggested Nuri. “Or for that matter, do you know of a Mercedes sedan? That would be excellent.”
Toroque frowned. There were very few Mercedes in this part of Africa. Not only were they highly impractical, but the recent boom in Russia and China had encouraged the northern Africans who specialized in stealing the cars from Western Europe to ship their wares there. Few made it this far east, and the prices were necessarily exorbitant.