“I know of a sedan,” said Toroque. “I can take you to see it. But it is a Toyota.”
Nuri raised his hand in assent.
“Perhaps some tea first,” suggested Toroque. “And a smoke.”
“We have many things to do today,” said Danny.
Toroque frowned. It was common here to sit with a salesman for a while. It was considered good manners, and generally improved the price. Nuri glared at Danny, but there was nothing to do about it: Toroque turned quickly and walked into his shop, practically sprinting past the two small tables of dusty knickknacks to the back room. He walked past his cluttered desk, plucking the keys to his pickup truck from the corner as he passed. He slapped the frame of the back door — it always stuck — then turned the knob and opened it. Outside, he had to shoo away some of his neighbor’s chickens from the truck bed before they could proceed.
Danny realized he’d made a mistake and remained silent as they drove down the narrow byroads of the central market area. Kids played in the dust, kicking stones around in their approximation of soccer. They were dressed in little more than rags, and all were shoeless.
The neighborhood changed quickly. On one block, small buildings leaned against each other, as if they were made of wax and had melted under the unrelenting sun. On the next, tall walls tipped with razor wire and pieces of sharpened glass rose along the pavement, protecting the homeowners from the noise and possibility of kidnapping.
And then the area changed again, the walls and houses giving way to tall chain-link fences and steel-sided warehouse buildings.
“We are almost there,” said Toroque. He already knew the Toyota was not going to be acceptable — the fender was bashed and it barely ran — but he hoped an alternative would occur to him. Perhaps they would settle for one of the pickups he had.
“This vehicle, you know, is for sale,” he said. “For a very good price, I could give it to you.”
“It is very nice,” said Nuri. “But not really what we’re looking for.”
“A little paint — I have a brother-in-law who could paint this very nice.”
“Let’s see the Toyota.”
They did, and it was just as Toroque had expected — too old, too undependable, and too small besides. But inspiration struck as they walked through the gravel parking lot toward the Land Rover, which was an even older vehicle. He might not have a suitable vehicle, but a friend of his did: two in fact.
“Land Cruisers,” he offered when Nuri frowned at the beat-up SUV. “Jet black. Purchased by a movie company and left here.”
“Left?” asked Nuri.
“That is the story. Perhaps they did not pay the right bill. In any event, you can have them very cheap.”
“Let’s see them,” said Danny.
Nuri suspected that the cars were stolen, though the story that Toroque told was in fact true — a movie company had shipped them into Ethiopia about a year before, planning to use them during the filming of a movie. But the movie’s funding had fallen through at the last minute. Not only had the movie never been made, but the SUVs’ ownership was caught up in a legal battle as the film company’s creditors tried to get back some small fraction of the money they were owed.
“I hope it is settled soon,” said the owner of the warehouse where they were stored. “I am owed a fortune in back rent for storage.”
Despite the fact that they had been hidden under tarps for several months, the glossy black surface of the SUVs shone. Danny nodded to Nuri, who had already decided the vehicles were precisely what they wanted. Negotiating a price was difficult, since the owner of the warehouse was sure the film company would come to reclaim the SUVs at any moment.
“Then what do I do?” he asked. “Tell them they are getting a wash?”
“If that works,” said Nuri.
“Perhaps we should have some tea,” suggested Toroque.
They worked out a lease agreement, with Nuri having to post what amounted to a bond in case they failed to return the vehicles. The amount was high enough that Danny suspected the warehouse owner hoped they would not be returned.
Deal done, tea finished, Nuri and Danny drove the vehicles to the other side of the city, where Nuri had more shopping to do.
“Will we get that deposit back?” asked Danny as he followed in the second vehicle. They used the Voice’s communications channel to talk to each other.
“Sure,” said Nuri. “As long as we bring the trucks back. They’ll argue us down a little, there’ll be some fee no one mentioned. But in the end they’re more or less honest.”
“Honest? He just leased two trucks he didn’t own.”
“That’s if the story is true.”
“If it’s not, they’re stolen.”
“They’re honest enough,” insisted Nuri.
“And they trust us?”
“Sure.”
Toroque suspected that Nuri was CIA, and if he wasn’t CIA, then surely he was an arms dealer. Either way, he could be expected to hold true to his word.
Their next stop was a veritable arms supermarket, situated at an abandoned railroad station on the north side of the city. No wares were displayed there. The dealers, about a half a dozen middle-aged men, sat at small folding tables, waiting for customers and playing dice. While a demonstration could always be arranged, no merchandise was displayed, and browsers were very much frowned on. The dealers assumed the people who came in knew what they wanted and were prepared to buy. No one would try and steal a customer from another. If a dealer a customer had worked with before was out, the others would tell him he had to return the next day. New customers were assigned according to a rotation worked out among the men themselves. If the first man in the rotation did not have what the buyer was looking for, he would be referred to the next in line, and so on until satisfied.
The last time he had been here, Nuri bought a few rifles from a man who gave his name as Amin. Amin — his true name was Mohammad al-Amin Junqai — sat in the furthest corner of the building, next to a coal stove that had probably never been used since being shipped from Italy in the late 1930s.
“I need a dozen MP5s,” said Nuri when Amin looked up. He wanted top of the line submachine guns. “Ammunition for them. Not too much ammunition.”
“Will you pay in euros?” asked Amin. “Or American dollars?”
“They don’t see themselves as evil,” Nuri told Danny as they continued outfitting themselves. “They’re shopkeepers and salesmen, fulfilling a need.”
“They’re selling guns and stolen merchandise.”
“It may have been stolen, but not by them,” said Nuri. “All they know is that they got them for a good price. Wal-Mart doesn’t ask you how you’re going to use a rifle when you buy it.”
“That’s different,” said Danny. “It’s for hunting.”
“If you’re having moral qualms—”
“I’m not having moral qualms,” said Danny. “I’m just trying to understand how they think. Why don’t these people sell over the border?”
“You mean, why don’t they sell to the rebels? They would, if the rebels would come here and pay these prices. We’re paying at least triple what they would. On the bullets? Ten times as much. And they have trouble coming over the border. The IDs are checked, their vehicles searched. Going into Sudan’s easy,” added Nuri. “The Ethiopians wouldn’t care if you brought a missile over, as long as it’s leaving the country. But for the rebels, just getting into Ethiopia can be a serious problem.”
“So we bring them the guns.”
“No. We stop short of that. We just get in close and see what happens. If Jasmine is still around, they get back in the picture. If not, we find out who’s bankrolling these guys. That leads us to the aluminum tubes.”