Rare Earth

by Davis Bunn

  Marc used the leader’s body as a shield against the left-hand attacker, and aimed a kick for the most vulnerable point, the throat. He let the leader drop and twisted the stave from the attacker’s fumbling hands.

  Swinging around, his entire body a whip, he aimed a blow at the now-uncertain man to his right. The attacker blocked the strike with his own stick, but barely. Marc did not care. The important thing was to have this man also become aware of the ferocity he faced. Fear would do the rest.

  Marc channeled his momentum and recoiled back around. He rapped the man to his left on the forehead, then spun a second time, aiming at a new attacker. But this man had already given up the fight. He tried to flee, but Marc leaped and tapped his rear ankle, tripping him. Marc bounded forward and rapped the man’s head.

  Only then did he become aware of the din that surrounded him. Women screaming, men shouting and struggling, the dawn obliterated by clouds of swirling ash. Marc stepped over and assisted Kamal in dispatching his third adversary, and together they hurried to shield one of Kamal’s men who was down.

  And then it was over.

  They brought their captives back to the camp roped in a long line. Marc and Charles walked at the head, Kamal at the rear. Villagers gathered about both sides of the camp’s main road and shouted, especially the women. A few made as to strike the men, some raised sticks and plucked rocks from the ash. At a signal from Marc, Kamal and his men forced the camp dwellers to keep their distance.

  The roped captives were settled in the dust before the empty godown. Guards were posted, mostly to keep the villagers from attacking. Marc watched as Kitra approached the men and examined their wounds. Marc knew the Israeli nurse expected him to order her away. But he liked her compassionate care, shown even to these brutal men. There was a rock-solid core to this woman. Marc left the prisoners under her care and the soldiers’ supervision. He took a long shower, then dropped into the bunk and shut the mosquito netting. The last image he had before the night’s burdens pushed his eyelids down was Kamal grunting his way into the bunk next to his.

  He awoke in the early afternoon, famished. Kamal was already gone. Marc rose and went in search of food. He found a grinning cook, who offered Marc all he had ready, a bowl of gruel sweetened by lumps of brown sugar and condensed milk. It was one of the finest meals Marc had ever eaten.

  Marc recharged his tin mug and returned to the compound. The captives were slumped in a circle, surrounded by women who eyed them with the patience of vultures.

  Charles found him there and indicated that the elders wished to speak with him. Marc followed the pastor through the ring of villagers. As before, the men were seated in the open space encircled by their huts. The same clay pot of rancid brew was passed around. The oldest leader, a true ancient with skin more yellow than brown, asked through Charles if Marc would care for a pipe. He declined. If the elders were aware of the oppressive heat, they gave no sign. Marc sat on his little stool and flicked his hand at the flies and waited.

  Finally the youngest of them spoke. Philip was dressed like the others, in a motley collection of western clothing and bare feet. But his eyes were bright, his voice deep and direct. Charles translated, “Philip wishes to know what you intend to do with the prisoners.”

  “Is he the leader here?”

  Charles did not translate his words for the elders. Instead, he replied, “Philip is both a chief of his tribe and a district chief. The regional chiefs are appointed by the government in Nairobi. Unlike many regional leaders, Philip is honest. What is more, he does not put the interests of his own tribe above the others represented here. Because he is the youngest, and because the region has been destroyed, his position could be a matter of great conflict. But these elders respect and honor him. As do I.”

  Marc nodded that he understood. “Please tell him that I would welcome his counsel.”

  Philip spoke, and Charles translated, “Tradition says you must give these attackers to the women who have been wronged.”

  Marc replied firmly, “That will not happen.”

  The chief showed no anger at being refused. If anything, he seemed to approve of Marc’s response. “The women expect it. As do some of the elders.”

  “I am sorry. But these among you are going to be disappointed.”

  One of the other elders muttered, but Charles found no need to translate it. Marc asked, “You say his name is Philip?”

  “He became a believer, then led his entire family to Christ. Soon after, his parents were killed in a traffic accident. His father was a chief before him. Philip’s conversion was a great scandal. But he himself called it a gift from heaven that helped him recover from the death of his parents and accept the call to take their place as chief.”

  Marc studied the young man seated across from him. There were distinct differences between the elders that went far deeper than merely the shades of their skin. Philip had the features of an ancient warrior, as though carved by a heritage that predated civilization.

  Charles went on, “Philip is of the Luo tribe. His clan has always been animist. Not all the Luos, you understand. But all of his village. Philip did not order his clan to follow his choice, or expel the witch doctor. He built a church and then invited a missionary pastor and his wife to come live in their village. When the pastor objected to the witch doctor, Philip told him that their clan had worshiped the trees and the sky for over a thousand years. The pastor had been there for a month. So it would be up to the pastor and Philip and their families to live the message of Jesus, and let the people make up their own minds.” Charles smiled. “Nine months later, the witch doctor moved away.”

  Marc met the chief’s gaze. “So Philip too has gone against tradition over vital issues.”

  When Charles had translated, he responded with a question of his own. “Philip wishes to know if the Lord Jesus ordered you to come.”

  “I would like to think,” Marc replied, “that Jesus guides my every step. But I am human enough to know that there is too much of me in everything I do.”

  This youngest of the elders studied Marc a long moment, then rose to his feet and offered Marc his hand. “Philip says that you should do with the prisoners as you see fit. He will speak with the women.”

  Chapter Six

  Half an hour later, the women dispersed. One of the chief’s wives had emerged and spoke softly with those gathered. Afterward the women simply drifted away, one by one, until only a few children and a homeless pie dog remained.

  Marc soon noticed a distinct change to the compound’s atmosphere. People were not especially friendly. This was, after all, a refugee camp in a time of severe crisis. But the central area and its personnel seemed to accept him as one of their own. The medical staff no longer took their cues from Kitra and froze him out. When he approached the empty godown where the soldiers had established their guard station, they made room for him with easy familiarity.

  Soon after, the elders sent Marc the gift of a live chicken. The soldiers laughed so loud and hard they drew stares from the medical tent. The chicken was a scrawny beast with mangy gray feathers and fierce red eyes. The cook accepted it with a cheery offer to stew it all day and all night. The soldiers assured Marc it would remain tough and tasteless as boiled boot.

  A nurse and a medical technician joined Marc for lunch. They fumbled through a discussion of the food and the camp in broken English. The nurse translated a sign over the access slot where food was served: Eat! Drink! You need 2,000 calories and 3 liters of liquid each day to do your job! Marc understood the sign’s purpose. He also felt the guilt of being seated beneath rotating fans, eating hot food, drinking clean water while around him people faced the daily terror of starvation.

  As the medical team left the dining hall, the technician called back through the screen wall and noise erupted from his mates. The nurse translated, “A UN chopper arrives.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Perhaps this evening, but more likely tomorrow. There ar
e many camps to visit. They are excited because it brings mail and perhaps a new doctor.” She gave a coquettish smile. “You will not be leaving us, I hope.”

  Marc thanked her and rose with the others. He headed for the one individual not looking his way. He would have liked to give Kitra more time to see him for what he was, not the company he represented. But he had no idea what change the inbound chopper might bring. This connection was suddenly urgent.

  Kitra blanched at his approach. “Go away.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “You are the enemy.”

  A departing nurse called over a question in French.

  Marc leaned in closer, ignoring how Kitra recoiled from him. “I’m here because of you. Your five emails and the phone messages about your missing brother. They got through.”

  Her loathing turned to fearful confusion. “What are you saying?”

  “Your brother was not kidnapped by Lodestone. People have checked. From the inside. I’m here because we think his disappearance is tied to something much larger.”

  “Words,” Kitra said. But the heat was gone from her eyes and her voice. “I have been lied to by so many. Better than you.”

  The nurse spoke again in French. Kitra glanced over, uncertain now, and waved the nurse away. Marc went on, “Think about what you have seen. I brought food. I helped get it to the people in need. I showed the elders and Charles respect. I have—”

  “Serge was taken eight days ago. Why are you so long in coming?”

  “Because we had to see if there was a link.”

  “So in truth you are not here for my brother.” Her tone was hard. “You do not worry over him at all.”

  Marc slid into the seat opposite her. “Think about it. I have been inserted into a critical situation. After an investigation that has stretched across three continents. No matter how much you love your brother, even you have to accept that more is at stake than one man’s disappearance.”

  “I am still thinking you are the enemy.” But the words held a dullness, as though she was repeating a mental litany that had lost all meaning. “A wolf trying to bleat like a lamb.”

  Marc waited.

  She stared out beyond the screen entry, then said, “We will go and sit where the others can see. And you will tell me why I should trust you, even a little.”

  The wind picked up as they rounded the dining hall, blowing straight from the north. They sat by the baobab tree that dominated the compound’s rear area. Giant roots protruded from the earth, forming an irregular circle of benches. Kitra made a process of selecting her place. Marc stood where he could be clearly seen by everyone inside the medical facility.

  “What do you intend to do with the prisoners?”

  “I am open to suggestions.”

  “You must move them into the shade. Give them food and water.”

  Marc turned and walked to the empty godown. Charles was away somewhere inside the camp. But Kamal caught the meaning of Marc’s gestures and ordered his men into action. The attackers, reduced to limp submission, were resettled inside the godown’s shade and offered canteens. Marc returned to the tree.

  Kitra greeted him with, “Why you?”

  Marc took that as an invitation, and settled himself on a root facing the woman. “Recently I helped rescue other kidnap victims.”

  “Here in Kenya?”

  “No. They were taken in Baghdad. We recovered them in Iran.”

  She somehow managed to shrink further inside herself, a dark-haired woman enclosed in a fist of grief and loss. “Is this a joke?”

  “I’m not suggesting your brother’s disappearance is the same. I’m just trying to say that I’m good at my job.”

  “I’m afraid to trust you.” Her words were softer than the wind rushing through the leaves overhead. “I’m afraid to hope.”

  Kitra’s expressive features and thick hair lent her a distinctly Mediterranean flair. Her eyes were rounded by tragedy so great she looked perpetually ready to weep, if only she could find more tears.

  Marc hesitated, then quoted, “‘What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them?’”

  Kitra looked at him. Really looked.

  He went on, “You and your brother are here living your faith through deeds. So am I. Sooner or later you are going to have to accept the fact that I’m not your foe. There is too much evidence to the contrary.”

  “But you work for Lodestone.”

  “For the past two weeks.”

  A single tear emerged and trickled down her cheek. He had not noticed how her skin bore a faint sheen of ash until the tear washed a channel clean. “And before that?”

  Marc stretched out his legs. “It’s a long story.”

  Chapter Seven

  After Baghdad, Marc’s life never went back to normal. In fact, Marc decided the best way to handle his situation was to stop trying to define what normal was.

  For eight months after returning from Iraq, Marc lived in a state of limbo. He was officially on interim leave from the Baltimore accounting group. But only because Ambassador Walton had ordered it. Marc thought he would return to State Department Intel, where he had been before his wife’s illness. Before Walton had fired him for taking unpaid leave. Before Marc had nursed his wife and then buried her. Before he’d meandered through days devoid of hope and purpose and passion. Before he’d woken up and rediscovered life again. In Baghdad.

  As far as the other members of his accounting firm were concerned, Marc remained buried deep in some faceless Washington building, handling a chore so toxic that the full-time GAO accountants refused to touch it. The story planted by Walton’s minions was so effective, Marc’s Baltimore co-workers waited expectantly for his ultimate failure.

  Marc had indeed been kept busy. Upon arriving back from Baghdad, Walton had dragged him to debriefings in the Pentagon, the OEOB, Langley, even one in the White House basement. None of the attendees had ever been named. Marc had remained sequestered in one hallway after another, then brought in and questioned and dismissed. The one time he had asked Walton who they were, the ambassador had simply replied, “Deniability, son. It’s all important in this day and age.”

  When his debriefings were completed, Marc had been sent out for refresher courses at Fort Benning’s FLETSE training grounds—covert intelligence practices, surveillance, black ops, armed and unarmed combat, latest intel technology. After that, he had spent three months in the State Department warren known as the Iraq Desk. Then had come an unexpected, and unexplained, surprise; Marc spent ten weeks with the East Africa analysts at Langley. Every week or so, Walton checked in by phone, never for more than a minute. Just letting Marc know he was not forgotten.

  Five weeks earlier, in the hour before dawn, all this had changed.

  That morning, Marc had been contemplating a possible leap from the grid, Intel-speak for going rogue. Marc was increasingly tempted by the idea of leaving the safety of official duty and working for an independent contractor. He was tired of playing a cog in someone else’s machine, waiting for the unseen hand to reach out and wind him up. He had been telling himself for weeks that it was time to take the jump. If only he could convince himself it was true.

  The cellphone’s buzz had cut short his internal debate. When Marc answered, Walton said, “I need you.”

  “When?”

  “The car is downstairs.” Walton cut the connection. Ever the conversationalist.

  Marc took his time. He stretched and showered and shaved. He made coffee and drank a cup. He left the house just as his cellphone buzzed again. He did not bother answering.

  The driver waited for Marc to slip in beside him, passed over a manila folder, and pulled from the curb. The only words he spoke were, “You have eighty minutes to memorize the file.”

  When they entered predawn Washington and turned onto Sixteenth Street, Marc wondered if they were headed for the White House. But they pulled up to th
e Hay Adams Hotel, where another dark-suited agent, a female this time, spoke into her wrist mike before telling Marc, “Suite six-nineteen.”

  The hotel was quiet. Two weary custodians pushed vacuum cleaners. The concierge glanced his way, noted the agent dogging Marc’s steps, and returned to his computer screen. This close to the center of power, the arrival of another hard-faced staffer was not interesting.

  The suite was a lovely rendition of the hotel’s earliest days, when presidents slipped away from the new White House to smoke cigars and talk power off-the-record. The elm wainscoting glowed warmly; the parquet floors creaked a comfortable welcome. The high ceiling was domed and frescoed and crowned by a crystal chandelier.

  A third agent ushered Marc into the parlor and slipped from the room.

  Only when the door shut behind the departing agent did Walton say, “This meeting is not taking place.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Have a seat.” Ambassador Walton had grown stouter in the months since Marc had last seen him. The age spots on his bald pate were larger. The skin folded over his starched collar, and the voice was reedy. Only his gaze was the same, gray and fierce and laser-sharp. “Coffee and such at your elbow.”

  “I’m good, sir.”

  “This gentleman has a problem.” Walton’s cuff link flashed as he motioned to the stranger and said, “It’s your show.”

  “I’m head of UN Internal Security, based in New York, with a second office in Geneva,” the man began. “My team has been placed in an impossible situation. The ambassador thinks you may be able to help.”

  The man’s accent was subtle, his English excellent. Marc’s first impression was German; then he decided that was wrong. Dutch, perhaps, or Danish. His fluency suggested a combination of early years in this country and a natural gift with other tongues.

  “I direct a component of the United Nations security. On paper, we have a large remit and almost unlimited authority. In reality we have become caged by protocol and a lack of funds.”