“Fakihat tazijatan! Fresh fruit! Finest in the city!” shouted a dark-skinned man wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans. He balanced his lanky body on a stool, perched beside overflowing crates of fruit and produce. Several women draped in colorful robes and hijab scarves sold tea and coffee from tiny carts. They smiled at Caine in silence. Their chatting and laughter resumed as he walked past.
He continued walking towards a suspension bridge at the end of Gamma Avenue. Two lengths of thick, yellow steel cable hung from a pair of concrete support towers. They held the long, curved bridge aloft over the dark waters of the Blue Nile. The bridge had been built in the last decade and carried traffic over the river to Tuti Island itself. It was no longer necessary to take a ferry to the small farming community on the island, but Caine knew his contact had other plans.
He stepped off the street and walked down a steep dirt embankment to the river bank below. A few small boats and rafts sat beached at the water’s edge, their bows nestled against the dark soil of the bank.
Caine paused and examined the crowd with a wary gaze. He did not know who Khairi might have sent, nor did he know if other interested parties were present. The NISS had a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Even if Khairi proved trustworthy, Caine could not rule out his handlers acting on their own. They could have sent secondary assets to monitor the meeting.
As Caine stood alone on the riverbank, several young men lounging in their boats sat up and took notice. They walked over to him, smiling, gesturing to their rickety boats. They spoke to him in broken English. “River cruise, sir? Picnic on Tuti Island, number one tourist spot, only 100 SDG!”
“La, autrukh wahdaha,” a deep voice behind him shouted. “This man is with me. I will take him to the island.”
Caine turned and saw a tall man approaching him from the river bank. He was powerfully built, and a thin film of sweat gave his skin a sheen in the morning sun. His features looked Arabic, but his skin was almost jet-black. He wore a loose fitting shirt with long, flowing sleeves, paired with white cotton trousers. A white skullcap covered his shaved head.
“Sabah alkhayr. Good morning, Mr. Caine. Khairi sent me. My name is Chriz.” He shook Caine’s hand, then guided him towards a boat parked a few yards downriver from the others. “These men are like wild dogs, fighting for scraps. One cannot blame them … With the bridge complete, each year fewer people choose to reach the island the old way.”
“The old way is fine by me,” Caine said, grabbing Chriz’s hand and stepping into the tiny wooden boat. A canopy of woven sticks formed an awning above the small craft. The shade blocked out the intense sun overhead. Caine sat on a small bench towards the stern. A light breeze blew across the water’s surface, cooling the air. It carried the smell of the river through the boat, an earthy scent of reeds, peat, and fresh-cut grass.
Chriz picked up a long, narrow pole from the deck of the boat and used it to push off from the shore. Within minutes, they were bobbing in the current of the Blue Nile River. The craft’s tiny outboard motor buzzed like a tin can full of angry bees. Soon, the steep, cliff-like edge of the flat, crescent-shaped island rose up from the water ahead.
Chriz piloted them away from the bridge and docked his boat at a small pier on the west side of the island. A tiny three-wheeled tuk tuk was waiting there, and after a brief bout of haggling in Arabic, Chriz gestured for Caine to get in.
“He will take you to Khairi. I will wait here for your return. Enjoy your meal.”
Caine nodded and got into the rear of the tiny vehicle. The tuk tuk lurched forward, then puttered down a rocky, uneven dirt road. The driver headed towards a small cluster of brick and stone buildings. Along the way, the rough, winding path took them past long stretches of green farmland. Dozens of men worked in the fields. Their long, flowing robes glowed white in the sun, standing out amidst the verdant crops and earthy-brown rows of tilled soil. Emaciated donkeys and camels ambled past them on the path pulling carts piled high with bundled vegetables, fruit, and dried fish. The taxi driver nodded and smiled at the farmers as they passed. He maneuvered around their carts and motored closer to the buildings in the distance.
The taxi slowed to a stop outside a small brick farmhouse nestled under the shade of a palm tree grove. Caine thanked the driver and stepped out of the tiny vehicle. A middle-aged woman, her skin dark and wrinkled, approached him from the house. Her hair was covered with a pink hijab scarf, and a long linen dress wrapped around her body. She shuffled towards him with short, measured steps.
She smiled and took his arm, guiding him towards the house. “Min fidlik, bihadhih altariqati. Please, this way. We are honored to receive a guest of Khairi Abboud.”
Caine’s muscles tensed. He glanced around the property looking for any sign of ambushers in the trees or fields. Nothing seemed out of place. He allowed the woman to lead him around the back of the house.
The building was low and flat, surrounded by rows of sweet-smelling herb gardens. It was constructed of tan clay bricks. Rows of colorful handmade pottery lined a series of crooked wooden shelves along the eastern wall.
The woman continued to smile and nod as she led him around the back of the house. There, he found a red and white striped cloth strung up like an awning, providing shade to a small wooden table and a pair of benches.
Sitting on one of the benches was a short, stocky man dressed in a cream linen suit. A shock of thick white hair swept back from his tan, lined forehead. His eyes were dark, warm, and sunken, perched above a powerful, hawkish nose. The man’s bushy white mustache curled up as he smiled.
“Ahlan wa shaman. Welcome, my friend! Thomas Caine, peace be upon you. Or should I say, Mr. Fulton?” The man’s voice boomed through the quiet, peaceful farmland surrounding them.
“Wa’alaykum salaam,” Caine replied, the traditional response to the greeting. “Peace be upon you as well, Khairi Abboud.”
Caine sat down in the shade, across from Khairi, and examined the man’s lined face. “You look good. Taking care of yourself, I see.”
“Bah.” The old man frowned and took a sip of coffee from a small, cracked china cup. “I am old and fat, and I do not need my vanity flattered. At least not from you.” He licked his lips as he set the cup down, then peered at Caine with dark, probing eyes.
“But you, my friend, I am pleased to say you look quite lively for a corpse. My man did some digging to verify your identity. According to reports issued by your agency, you are a shabg … a ghost. They say you went rogue in Afghanistan.”
Caine stared back at him, his emerald eyes reflecting the harsh sun outside the awning. “Don’t believe everything you read. I was set up.”
Khairi nodded. “Let me guess … Bernatto?”
“How did you know?”
The big man smiled, but his eyes looked tired and sad. “You do not work in Sudan for as long as I without learning how to spot a snake in the grass.”
The woman returned and set down plates and silverware in front of Caine. She poured coffee from a long-necked metal pot. The aroma floated up from the cup, and Caine inhaled the scent of ginger and cinnamon. He took a sip and smiled at the woman. “Ladhid. Delicious.”
She scurried back into the house. A man wearing the familiar white robes walked out carrying a wooden serving platter. Plates of steaming food covered the tray.
“Speaking of snakes,” Caine said, taking another sip of the spiced coffee. “What about the information I asked for? Puff Adder … Did you find anything?”
Khairi nodded. “Yes, of course. But this family has spent all morning preparing this meal for us. First we eat. Then we talk business. Mutafaq ealayh?”
Caine nodded. “Agreed.”
The man in the robe began setting various dishes down on the table. They began their meal by dipping wedges of warm flatbread into a bowl of ful medamas. The mash of fava beans, tomatoes and onion was garnished with herbs and a spritz of lemon.
“This family had a son,” Khairi said in between mout
hfuls of the delicious paste. “He worked for me, some years ago. Before I retired. He passed away, working undercover in Iraq. I promised him I would take care of his family. So every year I buy them a cow, a sheep, some chickens. I contribute to the costs of their farm when I can. In return, they cook meals for me from time to time.”
He smacked his lips as the farmer set down a platter of grilled kofta. He speared one of the ground lamb sausages with his fork. “Tuti Island provides most of the produce for all of Khartoum. You cannot find fresher food than this anywhere in the city.”
The kofta was served atop a thick, chunky sauce of zucchini, garlic and parsley. Caine took a bite and felt the sting of red pepper on his lips. He washed down the cumin-spiced meat with a glass of water, then looked up at the old man.
“If you retired, why did you take my call? I was worried the code might have been deactivated by now.”
Khairi shrugged, then cut off another piece of meat. “In our business, retirement is relative, no? When you called the old number, the agent who answered relayed your message to headquarters. They called me. They asked me to meet with you. Find out what you want, what you are doing in Sudan.”
“And then report back?” Caine said.
Khairi popped the meat in his mouth and nodded as he chewed. “Of course, what did you expect? Relations between the U.S. and Sudan may have normalized, but there are still procedures to follow. We provide your CIA with valuable intelligence in your never-ending war on terror. Your government is expected to alert us when an operative of theirs is in country. But don’t worry. This report of mine, it may take some time to file. I must be thorough, after all.”
Caine could not help but smile. “Thanks. You know, you don’t sound so retired to me.”
They finished the small feast with a basboosa cake. The thin, golden dessert tasted of lemons and sweet rosewater syrup. Caine took a few bites to be polite. He washed down the sugary confection with a generous helping of the warm coffee.
The woman returned and began clearing their plates.
“Thank you, my dear,” Khairi said, bowing his head. “May Allah bring fortune to you and your husband, and place his blessing upon this farm.”
The woman bowed and mumbled something in Arabic. She finished clearing the table, then retired into the house, shutting the door behind her. Caine and Khairi were alone.
The old man lit a slim, pungent cigar, and leaned back in his chair.
“A lovely meal. What do you call it in America? This meeting of breakfast and lunch? It is brunch, yes?”
Caine set his hands on the table. “Whatever it was, it was delicious. Thank you. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Khairi nodded. Caine watched like a hawk as the older man reached down into a rumpled leather bag that leaned against his bench. He removed a manila folder and tossed it across the table to Caine. “Puff Adder. Simon Takuba. The man is like you, a ghost. A ghost who has returned to life, in the south. He is still a rebel, fighting against the Presidential forces there.”
Caine flipped open the file. Inside were pictures of a tall, shadowy figure. The man was a dark blur, moving through a corpse-strewn battlefield.
“He’s still with the SPLM?” Caine asked as he examined the photographs.
Khairi shook his head. “We don’t think so. My sources tell me he had a falling out with the Vice President. He left, along with many of his soldiers, and formed a new group. They are one of many rebel factions that have joined the killing in the south. It is chaos there, as you know. They call themselves The Army of the Chosen.”
Caine flipped a page in the file and found himself staring at a close-up portrait of an East African man. He was wearing a tattered, threadbare uniform. The jet black skin of his face was streaked with dripping blood. His lips were curled in an angry snarl, revealing the single, gleaming diamond tooth. The picture was black and white, but Caine remembered the tooth's crimson glow.
The man’s eyes were opened wide and his pupils seemed to have rolled back, leaving only the whites exposed. Caine’s fingers clenched the folder in a death grip. A shudder ran down his spine as he stared at the image of the screaming, blood-streaked madman.
It was him. Puff Adder, AKA Simon Takuba.
The beast.
“So he is alive,” Caine muttered.
“Yes, although we don’t know his exact whereabouts at this time. Perhaps, with a few more days …”
“We both know I don’t have a few days,” Caine replied.
He flipped the page. The next picture was a woman wearing a white doctor's coat. She appeared to be working in a tented field hospital. Caine spotted UN markings on the cloth walls in the background.
“The doctor?” he asked.
“Yes, Dr. Nena Vasani. She is a graduate of The Afhad School of Medicine, in Omdurman. It is very prestigious, a private school for women only. She also studied abroad, a program in London. She could have left the country, opened a private practice. But instead, she manages a series of free clinics. Both here, and in South Sudan. She lives in a small apartment here in Omdurman, next to one of her clinics.”
Caine turned to the next picture. Doctor Vasani appeared to be in her late twenties. In the picture she was speaking at a convention of some kind. Like many in Sudan, her features were a combination of both East African and Arab descent. Her skin was the color of dark coffee, with a bronze, sun-kissed glow that suggested she spent a good deal of time outdoors. Her inky black hair was long and straight, and framed her face in two dark, flowing waves. Sharp cheekbones, and wide, cat-like eyes gave her face the appearance of an Egyptian statue.
“She travels into South Sudan alone? Isn’t that illegal?” Caine asked.
Khairi grunted. “Doctor Vasani was granted a permit to travel with an escort, a male nurse named Siddig. Anyone who travels south as much as she does is of course on NISS watch lists. But she has also spoken out against Sudan’s actions in Darfur. She talked to reporters about what she saw there. And she accused the government of sponsoring violent Arab militia groups.”
Caine looked up from the picture. “According to the UN, the lady has a point.”
Khairi raised his hands. “Personally, I have never approved of our policies in that region. I only mention this so you understand, the woman has many enemies. I doubt my old employers would mind very much if she disappeared. To involve yourself with her could make your situation in Sudan … complicated.”
“Yeah, what else is new?” Caine muttered. He snapped the folder closed. “May I keep this?”
“Of course. But I must ask … why are you here? What on earth does this woman have to do with Takuba?”
Caine thought for a moment. “Maybe nothing. She may be working with a friend of mine. Someone who needs my help.”
The old man squinted at him with one eye and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “I am confused. I thought you were here to kill this madman, Takuba. Or is it to help a friend?"
“It’s hard to explain. Maybe a little bit of both.”
“So you wish to be both savior and destroyer? That is a difficult path, my friend.”
Caine took another sip of coffee. “You’re a good man, Khairi. Seems like your service could use you. Why did you quit?”
The old man stared past him, his dark eyes seeming to focus on the rows of crops in the distance. “I suppose my heart was no longer in it. The things we must do, the sacrifices we must make … Perhaps it is like the path you seek to walk now. To kill in order to save. To do monstrous things, to work with monstrous men, like Takuba. You tell yourself it is for the greater good. You return home at night, to your family. You think to yourself, it is for them that you do these things. But one day you find yourself staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. You realize that those are lies. You do these things because it is the world itself that is monstrous. So you dance on the razor's edge, fighting to protect your tiny sliver of peace, while all around you is darkness. One step too far, one move in th
e wrong direction … and then the darkness has you. You become that which you fought. A monster.”
“How long do I have,” Caine asked. “How long till you file your report with the NISS?”
Khairi focused his dark eyes on Caine and smiled. “Well, this is a complicated matter. I think two days should suffice?”
“Thank you. I owe you one.”
The two men stood, and Khairi held out his hand. “I don’t know about this woman, but Takuba … you are going to kill him, yes?”
Caine’s green eyes blazed in the hot sun as he shook Khairi’s hand. He said nothing. The old man nodded.
“Then perhaps one less demon shall haunt my dreams. That will be payment enough. Allah be with you.”
Caine walked back to his taxi and got in the back. He turned and watched the farmhouse fade into the distance as they started down the rocky dirt road. Khairi stood outside, waving. Soon, he was a tiny white dot, lost among the vivid green palm trees and ancient stone buildings of the island.
A few minutes later they approached the pier. The choppy blue waves of the Nile seemed to beckon to him. They welcomed him back to the dark shadows of the city on the other side of the river.
Chapter Fifteen
The motorized lift hummed as the platform raised Rebecca and her wheelchair into the passenger seat of the SUV. Once in place, Rebecca clicked on her seatbelt and pulled her cellphone from her purse.
There were no messages. She knew it was unlikely that Caine would make contact with the asset so quickly …
The asset … She caught herself using the standard agency jargon. You’re talking about Josh Galloway.
A series of memories cascaded though her mind in rapid succession. Codas. Endings. A slow erosion of their intimacy.
The last time they had kissed. The last time they had made love. The last time they had spoken.
The argument, that fight …
“You’re still hung up on him. Aren’t you?” he had asked.
Fire and Forget Page 13
