The man he’d thrown against the car rebounded and tried to swing a roundhouse at Flash’s side, thinking he could catch him unawares. But Flash knew he was close and partly deflected the blow with his left arm. That left the Iranian open for a counterpunch, which Flash quickly scored to his face. The man staggered upright, shocked at the force of the blow. Foreigners were supposed to be weak; this man hit harder than anyone he’d ever fought.
Two more punches and he fell back, staggered and dizzy. He spun off to the ground and began throwing up the booze he’d drank earlier. Flash put his boot heel in the man’s side, knocking him to the ground in a swirl of vomit.
The attacker he’d punched in the stomach got up, took a step toward him, then realized he didn’t have a chance. He turned and ran up the block.
Before the fight began, the driver and his front seat passenger had been jeering and egging the younger men on. With their comrades faring poorly, they decided the time had come for them to get in on the action.
The driver pulled the latch on the trunk release, then jumped from the vehicle and ran to the back, grabbing a tire iron and tossing it to the other man. Then he pulled a crowbar out, and together they advanced on Flash.
Flash was deciding which one of the men to hit first, and how, when a gunshot broke the silence. He ducked, but the shot had not been aimed at him—it broke the back window of the car, blasting the glass.
“Get the hell out of here before you are next!” growled a woman in gutter Farsi. She stood in the middle of the street, the wind whipping at her long skirt. Her face was covered by her scarf. She had a pistol in her hand; a man dressed entirely in black stood behind her with a rifle.
Hera and Danny had arrived.
“Now!” Hera yelled, pointing the gun.
The two men looked at each other, then at her.
“My car,” said the driver.
Danny raised the rifle, pointing it at his chest.
“You’re next,” he said in Farsi, parroting the words the Voice gave him.
The two men ran for the car.
NURI WAS JUST REACHING A THIN PLASTIC CARD INTO THE latch slot of Tarid’s door when the gunshot sounded a block behind the hotel. He froze, unsure if the sound was loud enough to wake Tarid.
It was. He heard him stir and backed away from the room quietly.
TARID BOLTED UP IN BED, ROLLING ON THE FLOOR. HIS FIRST thought was that he was back in Sudan and under attack. Then he realized the sound had come from outside.
He ran to the door, pushed the latch closed and made sure the knob was locked.
It wasn’t going to hold anyone. He told himself to relax—the shot had been fired outside the hotel, surely not at him.
But if not at him, who could have been targeted? Shootings were very rare in the city, and this hadn’t been a celebratory outburst.
He thought of the hotel owner—and his daughter. He started putting on his pants and shoes, to make sure they were all right.
NURI WAITED DOWN THE HALL, HOPING TARID WOULD COME out. Two other guests came out and began asking what was going on.
“A gunshot,” said Nuri.
“Where, where?”
The elevator door opened and the hotel owner came out. He looked up and saw Nuri. He was surprised to find him on the third floor.
“There’s been a shooting,” said Nuri quickly.
“It’s under control,” said the man, who’d come to get Tarid in hopes that Tarid could help him figure out what was going on. “Go back to bed.”
“What’s going on?”
“Go, it’s under control.”
Nuri decided to retreat. By the time Tarid opened the door, he was back upstairs.
“Nuri, what’s going on?” Danny asked over the Voice’s communications channel.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Flash almost got mugged. Where the hell are you?”
“In the hotel. Trying to tag Tarid.”
“You got him?”
“No, there’s too many people. We’ll have to try in the morning,” said Nuri reluctantly. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in an hour.”
45
Eastern Sudan
“AT LEAST FORTY MEN THERE, CHIEF.” SUGAR HANDED BACK the long distance night vision binoculars. “Two platoons, spread out in the positions. Then whatever they have behind them at the barracks.”
Boston refocused the glasses. Not only were there plenty of soldiers, but the Ethiopian army had brought up two armored cars to cover the road and surrounding area. A troop truck blocked the road near the gate. Nearby, a group of forty or fifty Sudanese were squatting on the ground near the border fence, denied permission to go over the line.
“The border is often closed at night,” said Abul. “Maybe in the morning.”
“There’ll be more troops there in the morning,” said Boston, raising the glasses to view the barracks area beyond the checkpoint.
There were two dozen troop trucks parked near the dormitory-style buildings used as quarters for the border guards. The trucks had arrived late that afternoon, sent as soon as word reached army headquarters that there had been a massive raid on rebel units nearby. Such raids always increased the number of refugees trying to cross the border. As it had periodically in the past, the government decided not just to shut the border, but to be serious about it. The soldiers had been authorized to shoot to kill rather than allow the refugees to cross.
Boston wasn’t worried about getting shot, but he had yet to hear from Washington about the arrangements for diplomatic passage. He couldn’t see anyone near the checkpoint who looked as if they might be from the embassy, sent to help them across. Being interred in an Ethiopian prison camp—or kept among the refugees—was hardly how he wanted to spend the next few days. Or years.
“There is another passage one hundred kilometers south,” said Abul. “We can be there shortly after daybreak.”
“That one will have troops, too,” said Boston.
“Why don’t we just go south until we find a spot, and cut through the fence,” said Sugar. “Pick a spot, then drive across.”
“It’s not just the fence,” said Boston. “Satellite photo shows the ditch extends the entire way.”
The ditch was an antitank obstacle, designed to prevent exactly what Sugar was suggesting. It would probably only slow a determined tank attack an hour or two at most, but the steep sides made it impossible for the bus to scale.
Boston considered splitting up—he could go across with the body of their dead comrade, then wait for the others to pick him up after crossing legitimately. But that would be inviting even more complications, completely unnecessary if Washington could just make the arrangements.
“Let me talk to Mrs. Stockard,” he said, handing the glasses back to Sugar. “Maybe they’ve made the arrangements. Otherwise our best bet right now is just to sit and wait.”
“You hear that?” asked Sugar, turning quickly.
“What?”
“I’m hearing a motorcycle over the hill.”
She’d heard it several times earlier as well. They’d checked once, Boston dropping off as the bus went ahead, but hadn’t seen anything.
He didn’t hear anything now. He shook his head.
“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” she said.
“Hopefully,” said Boston.
46
Room 4
CIA Campus