On Target cg-2

by Mark Greaney

  She was not going to miss her chance.

  As Ellen walked towards the aircraft at the distant end of the ramp, it was partially obscured in the haze of a heat mirage pouring up from the cracked tarmac, the late afternoon air dimming just slightly but not yet cooling. The air above the plane’s hulking form quivered as vapors poured from the idling engines.

  After a moment, the pilot shut his engines down. The whine of the four big turbojets was replaced by the voices of the soldiers in the distance and the ceaseless sound of insects in the sandy scrub brush that ran along either side of the taxiway.

  The entourage of local army and airport workers was between her and the plane, moving purposefully across the hot taxiway, and they commanded her attention for the majority of her walk. She hesitated more than once, weighing the pros and cons of waiting for them to do their business and leave the aircraft versus pushing right on through the gaggle of black men, some uniformed, some in business suits, and some in flowing white tobes, to speak immediately to the flight crew. Neither option looked particularly promising, but she quickly arrived at the conclusion that the latter choice seemed preferable to sitting back and waiting for a plane that might well just take off again into the sky without her.

  So she decided to walk right up the lowering rear hatch and take her chances. This decision caused her to look past the men fifty yards in front of her and turn her focus fully to the aircraft another twenty meters beyond them, and only then did her certain gait slow a bit. After a few yards she slowed even more.

  And then she stopped dead in her tracks on the blistering tarmac.

  With her eyes steady on the plane, she unslung her backpack and put it at her feet, unzipped it quickly, let a couple of sweat-stained blouses fall to the pavement as she pulled out a small black three-ring binder. She knelt on her backpack as she quickly leafed through it; her knees would have blistered had she placed them directly on the ground. Three quick glances back up to the cargo plane, and a few licks of her bone-dry fingertips helped her find the page she was looking for.

  Another look down at the page. Another look up at the plane in front of her.

  Yes. She muttered an exclamation that was not completely drowned out by the locusts and crickets around her. “Oh my God.”

  It was an Ilyushin Il-76, and from the look of its sagging disposition on its ten-wheel undercarriage, it was full of cargo. The Il-76 was an extremely common Russian-built transport aircraft, in service with aid agencies and transport services and militaries throughout the hemisphere. But unless Ellen’s eyes were deceiving her, this was an Il-76MF, an upgraded version with a longer fuselage.

  Slowly she looked away from the plane as she collected her belongings off the tarmac. Slower still she turned and began walking back to the terminal.

  Her excitement grew and grew as she sauntered nonchalantly in the afternoon heat, retracing her steps of moments ago. This excitement was tempered by the knowledge that she would not be able to make a phone call inside the building, as there wasn’t a single public phone, and she’d been told the administrative line had been down for the past seventy-two hours. The airport administrators were lying, she had no doubt, but the effect was the same. She could not call her office.

  The excitement, tempered as it was, helped her think quickly as her mind raced to formulate a hasty plan. The scale of the opportunity before her could not be exaggerated, and she determined to control her emotions and focus on the opportunity at hand.

  Certainly in her professional career, and almost certainly in her entire life, Ellen Walsh, special investigator for the International Criminal Court, had never felt so determined.

  Nor so alone.

  SIXTEEN

  This white woman is going to be a problem.

  Court had changed into an extra jumpsuit to match the rest of the flight crew, climbed down the rear ramp of the aircraft with the others, was slapped hard in the face by the heat and the stink of dry earth, and immediately squinted into the low afternoon sunlight, scanning the area to get his bearings. To his left he saw an old white UN aircraft off in the sand, its tail broken off from the fuselage and evidence of a fire on board from the soot-covered windows and the partially melted and completely smoke-stained engines. To his right a row of UN helicopters sat in the haze generated by the heat pouring off the engines of his own plane, the propellers of the choppers dipping low as if melting. Behind them were several airplanes parked wingtip to wingtip. They looked like they could be small UN transport craft. A tiny, new-looking terminal was up ahead several hundred yards. To the right of it was a fence line out in the sand that ran alongside a road, with several more junked and wrecked aircraft deposited nearby.

  Bugs were everywhere: flies, mosquitoes, locusts that he could not see but could easily hear out in the thickets alongside the dusty taxiway.

  And then he noticed her in the mid distance; it was hard to miss a white female alone on a sunny airport tarmac in western Sudan. From fifty yards away he watched her take note of his plane and drop to her bag, pull out a book, and thumb through it. He watched her pause to read the page, then stand slowly with her hands on her hips. Then she began retreating, slowly but unmistakably, to the terminal, well aware, Gentry had a strong suspicion, that the aircraft behind her was not supposed to be there.

  Yep, this white woman was definitely going to be a problem.

  Court remained in the background of the conversation and listened to the pilot Gennady speak English with the Sudanese military officials at the foot of the ramp. The trucks coming to off-load the guns were behind schedule; it would be another hour before they reached the airport. Fuel for the Ilyushin was available and would be provided immediately, and an airport official would show the men the way to the washrooms and the restaurant. They had parked alone at the far end of the taxiway. This was to keep the few civilians and foreign aid workers milling about the terminal from getting near enough to the unmarked cargo plane to see something they shouldn’t. Still, Gennady and his flight crew were invited by the Sudanese to enjoy the comforts of the terminal while they waited for the plane to be unloaded and refueled.

  After the Sudanese had wandered off, Gentry asked Gennady to keep his men on the aircraft. From a security perspective, Court saw no benefit in the Russian men wandering among civilians. But the pilot was in charge, not the stowaway, and he told his men they would be wheels up in three hours and would need to be back to the aircraft in two, but until then they could do as they pleased.

  Twenty minutes later Court and the Ilyushin’s flight crew stepped out of the oppressive late afternoon heat and into a stairwell at a side entrance to the terminal’s concourse. Court almost stayed behind himself, but he wanted to keep his eyes on the Russians to make sure they behaved themselves. He did not have any gear with him at all. His gun remained back on the plane in his pack. He had no idea what security measures he might find here and did not want to run the risk of getting frisked by some local version of the TSA. Only his wallet full of euros, rubles, and Sudanese pounds bulged the lines of his olive-drab flight suit. The stairs led up one level into a nearly empty concourse, smaller than a typical American supermarket. A few locals milled about, and GOS soldiers sat on the floor or strolled around with their assault rifles hanging upside down off their backs. The flight crew, with their secret foreigner hidden in with them, found the bathrooms and used them, then found the tiny restaurant and sat down. A waiter who proclaimed himself Egyptian, as if these Russians cared, energetically greeted the men and passed around menus. None of the Russians spoke Arabic. Court, on the other hand, had spent more than enough time in the Arab-speaking world to order a meal, but he held his tongue. He was not about to differentiate himself from the rest of the flight crew by becoming their translator.

  Gennady ordered for the table. He’d been here in Al Fashir many times before, which, Gentry realized, should not have come as a surprise. Flagrant disregard for international sanctions by the government of an African despot
was de rigueur, as was the Russians’ eagerness to benefit from it, as was the United Nations’ shock and outrage each and every single time that they became aware of it.

  While they waited for their food, Court’s eyes continued scanning the environment. They were still adjusting to the low light inside the terminal compared to that on the tarmac. He looked back over his shoulder down the hallway and cringed inwardly.

  Shit. Here comes the white woman.

  This he didn’t need.

  “Excuse me. Do any of you gentlemen speak English?” Ellen smiled broadly, directing her question towards the pilot as she knelt next to him at the head of the table. She could tell he was in command by his countenance and bearing; he sat erect at the table full of men in sweat-soaked jumpsuits.

  There were five men in the flight crew; all wore matching green uniforms, no names or emblems or markings of any kind. None of the men were particularly military looking in their hairstyles or fitness levels, but Ellen knew better than to draw too many conclusions too quickly. These could be military pilots working for Rosoboronexport or former Russian military. Either way, it didn’t matter.

  “Yes, I speak a little bit.” The redheaded pilot smiled at her, then slowly and suggestively, he looked her up and down. Ellen realized his actions were for the amusement of his colleagues; she knew she was not much of a sight to behold at this moment. Immediately she determined the man to be a pig, but she also told herself she could use this distraction of his to her advantage. Some of the other men leaned in closer to her, as well.

  “Great,” she said with a wide, friendly smile designed to put the men at ease, although they surely didn’t seem on guard. “Ellen Walsh, United Nations.” It was a lie, but it was delivered without a batted eyelash. “I sure am glad to see you boys. I’ve been stuck here at Al Fashir for three days. I’m looking for transport out of here, Khartoum, Port Sudan . . . at this point I’d go just about anywhere just to get out of this terminal. I’d be happy to pay you cash for the trouble, and I’m sure my office could work it out with your employer.”

  The lecherous pilot clearly didn’t understand every word. His head cocked a couple of times. She knew she was speaking a little fast; the pace of her words seemed to follow along with her elevated heart rate.

  “Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Join us for dinner first, please, and we will discuss this.”

  “Delighted.” Ellen sat, smiled, but she could tell this guy wasn’t going to let her fly on his plane. He was stringing her along for personal reasons.

  She knew now that a flight out on this mysterious aircraft was too much to hope for, but she would string this bastard right along as well, to see if she could glean information from him or even just get a closer glimpse at the Ilyushin or its cargo.

  Two could play the game he was playing. She leaned in close to him.

  “Chto vy delaete?” came a voice from the end of the table. Ellen looked to the speaker, saw that somehow she had miscounted the Russians before. There were six men at the table, not five, and this sixth man was asking a question of the pilot. He, like the majority of these guys, wore a thick beard and scruffy hair; his was longer than the others. He seemed more athletic than the rest, and darker complected. When the pilot did not answer him, he repeated himself.

  “Chto vy delaete?”

  “What do you mean, what am I doing?” replied Gennady in Russian. “I am asking this lovely woman to have dinner with us.”

  “You must not allow her on the aircraft,” Court said flatly, straining his Russian abilities to do so.

  Gennady looked at him and replied, “You do not tell me who I can and cannot allow on my plane. I don’t know who you are, but I know who I am. I am the pilot. I am in charge.”

  Court looked away. His eyes drifted back out over the concourse. Turning away from what was beginning to look more and more like a fucking mess in the making.

  The Canadian woman introduced herself as Ellen. She shook each man’s hand with a smile. Court did not make eye contact when he shook her hand limply and grunted out the name “Viktor.”

  “So, where are you guys from?”

  “We are Russian,” said Gennady.

  “Russian. Wow. Neat.”

  Court turned to study the woman’s face carefully now, like an art student studying the brushstrokes of an oil painting on a museum wall.

  “What brings you gentlemen to Darfur?”

  Play cool, Gennady. Court said it to himself in Russian.

  “What is your job with UN?” the Russian pilot asked warily, responding to a question with a question and not exactly “playing cool” in Court’s eyes.

  The woman smiled at the Russian, asked him to repeat himself, though Court sensed she understood him well. Gentry was trained to look for clues in the limbic system, the part of the brain that controls subconscious actions. Court knew how to discern the movements and expressions and postures that were indicators of deception. This woman glanced away quickly to the right when asked what she did, and to Court this was a signal that she was going to attempt to deceive with the next words out of her mouth. That she delayed by asking him to repeat himself was only more indication that a deceptive or untrue answer was being prepared and would soon be on the way.

  Finally she replied, “Oh, I’m just an administrative officer for relief supplies.” She shrugged her shoulders, “Logistics and such. Nothing very interesting.” Her right arm reached across her body and rubbed her left arm.

  Bullshit, thought Court. Gennady, on the other hand, seemed eased by her air of nonchalance.

  “Yes. Well, we bring oil equipment into Darfur,” the pilot said as the Egyptian waiter brought steaming cups of tea to the table.

  Court wasn’t satisfied with Gennady’s answer; he’d much prefer he’d said it was none of her business. But at least he didn’t say he was schlepping in tons of belt-fed machine guns and ammo.

  The woman seemed perplexed, and Gentry’s built-in trouble meter flickered higher up the dial.

  “I see,” she said, but her body language indicated that she did not. A micro-expression on her face revealed excitement, not confusion. “I would have thought the Chinese would use their own equipment.”

  “The Chinese? Why are you speaking of the Chinese? We Russians are experts in oil. Much oil in Siberia,” Gennady said with a smile that he likely thought was sexy.

  Court’s research of the Sudan and the oil situation during the last two weeks afforded him with knowledge that, obviously, this Ellen Walsh woman would also have. The Chinese had control over all the oil exploration sites in the Darfur region. It was clear that Gennady did not know this.

  “Oh.” She feigned surprise, but Court picked up clues that she recognized that the Russian pilot was lying to her about the cargo. She let it go and began spooning dingy gray sugar into her tea even as the waiter placed it in front of her.

  Was her hand trembling?

  “Why are you in Al Fashir?” Gennady asked.

  She hesitated, again reaching a hand across her body to rub her other arm, both covering herself and comforting herself with the action. Obvious tells of anxiety and deception to a trained body language expert such as the Gray Man.

  “I came out to survey the Zam Zam IDP camp. Unfortunately, my staff didn’t have all my documents and permissions in order, so they won’t let me out of the airport. I’m really desperate for a ride out of here.” She looked at the pilot again, and he back at her. He raised his eyebrows suggestively but did not offer her a seat on his aircraft.

  Gennady said nothing.

  “Have you been to Darfur before?”

  “Yes,” the pilot answered cockily. “Many times.”

  The woman nodded, still smiling. “It’s horrible out here. Four hundred fifty thousand murdered in the past eight years, and no end in sight. Millions more in the camps, either here or over the border in Chad.”

  “Da,” said Gennady. “War is very bad.”

  Court wanted to reach
across the table and slap the insincerity off his face.

  After a few seconds Ellen said, “That plane of yours is awesome. It’s an Ilyushin, isn’t it? Looks like some we have in our inventory.” Quickly she added, “I ship a lot of cargo in my job, though I’ve never actually been in a cargo plane.”

  “It is an Ilyushin. An excellent Russian aircraft,” said Gennady, and Walsh nodded along with him, seeming to fawn all over his words.

  “Here is some pilot trivia for you,” Ellen said with an excited smile. “Did you know Amelia Earhart landed here at Al Fashir on her attempt to circle the globe?”

  Gennady cocked his head a little. “Who?”

  “Amelia Earhart. The female pilot? The famous female pilot who disappeared flying around the world in 1937.”

  Gennady just looked at her.

  “Surely you have heard—”

  “I have never heard of this woman, but I am not surprised she disappeared. Women do not make good pilots,” he said, as if this were the most basic fact of aeronautics. A dismissive wave of his hand and a loud slurp of tea followed his comment. Court caught the woman dropping her veil of admiration for the Russian man and revealing her true feelings of disgust.

  But the veil rose again almost instantly.

  “Well, I’ve heard great things about Russian aircraft. And the Ilyushin. Our UN planes do the job, but they are a bit boring. Do you think I could possibly get a closer look at your beautiful plane? Don’t worry, I won’t try to fly it. I’d probably just disappear.”