by Dale Brown
“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.”
“Getting close may mean selling guns,” said Danny.
“I can play the arms dealer,” said Nuri.
“Uncle Dpap has already met you.”
“They probably think that story was bull.” Nuri had made such switches before, but he realized that going from a milquetoast professor to an arms dealer presented a believability problem.
He could have Hera do it. She came off like a she-devil.
“I can handle it,” said Danny.
“Well, put on your glasses and look threatening,” said Nuri, rounding the hill. “We’re just about at the meat market.”
* * *
What Nuri called a meat market was actually an old convent about three miles out of town. It was now under the control of Herman Hienckel, a German expatriate. Hienckel did not own the property, which was still on the rolls of the church that once sponsored the sisters who’d lived there. But he was clearly in control of it, as he had been for the decade.
Hienckel was not a man to have moral qualms. At seventeen he had joined the East German army; by nineteen he was a sergeant, one of the youngest if not the youngest. After washing out of special operations training for a “lack of discipline”—he’d gotten into a fight with a fellow soldier — he left the army. He was lost in civilian life, living on the dole, everything complicated by the reunification of the two halves of his country. Out of desperation he took a job as a military trainer in Iraq before the first American Gulf war.
It was an extreme mistake, one that he could easily have paid for with his life, as the unit he helped train was among the first to occupy Kuwait. But in what would prove to be a career-defining stroke of luck, Hienckel managed to hook up with a British MI6 agent two days before the allied invasion began. He supplied the man with a few tidbits of intelligence and helped keep him from being detected by the Iraqis. When the invasion started, Hienckel tried to escape to the allied side. After being captured — or surrendering, depending on one’s point of view — Hienckel played his intelligence connection to the hilt and was eventually released.
He ended the war by helping an American Marine unit interrogate prisoners. His language skills were not particularly good, but they were far better than the Marines’, and Hienckel was easily able to gloss over anything he didn’t understand. From there he became a useful facilitator for different forces in Kuwait and the wider Gulf, occasionally doing business with the CIA as well as British intelligence, until his list of enemies grew so long that he found it prudent to move on.
A brief stint in Somalia cost him the hearing in this left ear and left him with a permanent limp, but it also gave him a bankable reputation as a soldier of fortune, and a tidy sum locked in a Swiss bank account. He moved to Ethiopia and began providing services there to whatever force could afford them.
While some members of the Ethiopian government had accused him of forming a private army, his business model was much more modest. Hienckel was more like an employment counselor: He trained men interested in getting work as security guards and mercenaries — there was no meaningful difference in Ethiopia — then pocketed a portion of their salary after arranging jobs for them. Adjusted for inflation and the exchange rate, the amount he earned was barely greater than the dole wages he’d made back in Germany. In Gambella however, they made him a rich man.
Nuri’s appearance troubled him. He did not know for certain that the American worked for the CIA — it was too easy for poseurs to suggest that they did — but he had all the earmarks, especially a studied disregard for the difficulties an entrepreneur like Hienckel faced, and an almost whining determination to try and talk his price down. One could not afford to refuse to do business with the Western intelligence services. Angering them would not only cut down on referrals, but could prove extremely hazardous if word got around that you were no longer one of their friends. A known CIA connection was considered safer than a bulletproof vest.
“My friend, you are coming up in the world,”
Hienckel said to Nuri and Danny when his men escorted them into his office. It had been the chapel of the convent. “You are driving Land Cruisers now.”
“Not as nice as your Ratel,” said Nuri, referring to the South African armored personnel Hienckel had parked in the yard.
“Very poor gas mileage,” said Hienckel. “And who is your friend?”
“I’d rather not say. He needs to hire some escorts for a few days, perhaps two weeks. Men who ask no questions.”
Hienckel glanced at Danny. Dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a long African shirt, he exuded an air of quiet control. His eyes held Hienckel’s without emotion. He was clearly not Ethiopian, but Hienckel couldn’t tell if he was American, like Nuri, or a European returning to his homeland.
Did he trust him?
Of course not. But so long as he paid, there was no need for trust.
“I specialize in men who ask no questions,” he said. “Let us make the arrangements.”
18
Jabal Dugu, Sudan
Two days later
The Toyota Land Cruisers shone like black diamonds in the desert sun, gleaming nuggets topped by a bar of yellow emergency lights and lined with chrome. The trucks had every conceivable option, including and most importantly a full complement of hired men, who flashed their Belgian-made MP5 submachine guns as they flew out the doors, forming a cordon for their boss as he exited the vehicle. They were dressed in identical khaki uniforms, no insignias. Their headgear consisted of a camo-style do-rag tied around their close-cropped scalps. Each had a pair of sunglasses, and a radio with an earphone and microphone discreetly tucked up his arm. And though they were standing only a few yards from each other, the men used only the radio to communicate.
“Clear,” said one of the bodyguards.
The front doors of the lead Land Cruiser popped open simultaneously. Danny Freah — known to the bodyguards as Mr. Kirk — stepped from the passenger side. His driver — Boston — came out of the other door, pistol in hand.
Way over the top, Danny thought. But the young soldiers who’d been lazing around near the front of the church had risen to their feet, staring with awe and envy.
Danny had always hated the clichés of American gangsta rap. To his mind, they glorified the worst misconceptions about black life, doing for honest African Americans what mafia stories did for Italian Americans. But the images conveyed power overseas, where they were taken as a blueprint for how outlaws should act.
And he was definitely acting the part of an outlaw — Mr. Kirk, a supposed renegade from America, or maybe Libya, or maybe parts unknown — with guns and ammunition to sell.
If the murmurs around him were any indication, his act was going over big.
“Where is Uncle Dpap?” said Danny, using an Arabic phrase he had carefully memorized. “I have a business proposition for him.”
A few of the older rebels exchanged glances. One headed toward the church door, where he was met by Commander John.
The guards at the northeastern end of town had alerted Uncle Dpap to the Land Cruisers and their occupants. The vehicles alone made it clear what the man was up to, and Uncle Dpap had told the guards to let them proceed.
“Who are you?” demanded Commander John.
“You can call me Mr. Kirk. I’m here to see your brother,” said Danny, still sticking to the script.
“My brother is not here.”
Danny had to wait for the Voice to translate.
“This is incorrect,” added the Voice, which was monitoring the bug Nuri had placed inside the headquarters two days before. “Uncle Dpap is working at his desk.”
Danny folded his arms in front of his chest. Nuri had told him that Commander John was likely to run interference. He was determined to show that he wasn’t intimidated by his bluster.
“What are you standing there for?” said Commander John. “Have you come here for business? If so, you will deal with me.”
“Where is Uncle Dpap?” Danny repeated.
“Deal with me,” said Commander John. Since being a tough guy wasn’t working, he decided to try a different tact. “Let us get something to drink.”
The computer translated, and when Danny didn’t immediately respond, suggested what he should say.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” offered MY-PID, first in English, then in Arabic.
“Where is Uncle Dpap?” insisted Danny. The computer’s response seemed too polite.
Commander John frowned, then walked into the store. He came out with a pair of Cokes and the storekeeper.
“Here,” he said, holding one out to Danny. “Would you like some other refreshment?”
Danny eyed the drink, then turned to Boston.
Boston took the drink, sipped, then handed it back to Danny.
“You don’t trust me?” said Commander John.
“No,” said Danny, in English.
The Voice gave him the word in Arabic, but Danny didn’t repeat it.
“You are English?” said Commander John.
“I am not a citizen of any country,” said Danny, first in English, then in the Arabic the computer offered.
“Sit, sit,” said Commander John, gesturing toward a table. “Come, let us talk.”
Danny shook his head.
“I speak only to Uncle Dpap,” he told Commander John, first in English, then in Arabic.
Commander John was so befuddled by the stranger that he didn’t even wonder why he was translating from English into Arabic if he spoke English. He noticed the earphone clipped into Danny’s ear, but thought it connected him to his security team. A device like the Voice belonged to the realm of fantasy as far as he was concerned.
“My brother will speak to you. But first, some refreshment. Drink.”
Commander John took a long guzzle from the bottle. Danny took a small sip. It wasn’t that he thought the rebel was trying to poison him. He just didn’t like cola.
“Your men should have something as well,” Commander John said. He gestured to the shopkeeper.
“My men are paid not to want anything,” said Danny loudly.
The members of the team — all mercenaries hired in Gambella — stiffened. A few were thirsty, but the outlaw arms dealer had already paid them the equivalent of three months’ wages, with the promise of three more at the end of the week.
Uncle Dpap had listened to the conversation from the door of the church. Deciding he’d heard enough, he signaled Tilia to accompany him and went outside. Pausing on the steps, he gazed across the street at his brother and the stranger.
Was this the answer to his prayers? Or an agent of the government?
If the latter, the man would not leave the village alive.
* * *
Three miles away, sitting in Abul’s bus, Nuri watched a laptop displaying the feed from one of the video bugs they’d stuck on the roof of the Land Cruisers. He was just far enough away not to be seen, but close enough to rally to Danny’s aid if things went bad.
Maybe. Flash and McGowan were with him, and while he had no doubt they were good at what they did, three against thirty was still pretty poor odds.
Danny seemed to be carrying off the charade fairly well, however. He was a natural for the part — the less he spoke, the more nervous the others became. And the more nervous they were, the greater his advantage.
To a point. If Uncle Dpap became so nervous he felt he was in danger, he might order his men to open fire. The trick was not to make him quite that nervous. But Danny seemed to have it well in hand. Nuri watched as Uncle Dpap swept his hand to the side, gesturing that Danny should accompany him.
“I’d rather stay in the sun,” said Danny. “I have nothing to hide.”
He’s good, thought Nuri. He almost has me believing he’s a scumbag.
* * *
“Where is this ammunition? You have it in your trucks?” demanded Uncle Dpap.
“I’m not stupid,” said Danny, in English. He let Tilia translate; the Voi
ce indicated she was extremely accurate. “I can supply whatever needs you have.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t trust me,” said Danny.
Uncle Dpap looked back at him with surprise when Tilia told him what he had said.
“You shouldn’t trust anyone,” explained Danny. “Just as I don’t trust you. Did you kill your last supplier?”
The question angered Uncle Dpap. “I heard that he was killed by police in Europe,” said the rebel. “But maybe you killed him.”
“Your friend was a very small operator. The business he did was minor compared to the business I do.”
“So why are you offering to sell me anything?” said Uncle Dpap. “If I am a small ant to you, I’m not worth your time.”
“You’re not an ant.” Danny softened his expression, realizing he was pushing things a bit too hard. “You are bringing freedom to your people, and watching out for them. All of these people depend on you. You are a lion, not an ant.”
Uncle Dpap knew sweet talk when he heard it, and frowned.
“My problem is my overhead, my expenses,” continued Danny. “I need to deal in volume. But here is a proposition — get some of the other rebels together and I will sell to all of you. The same price, the same fair arrangements. It will be easy for you. You will all benefit.”
“That is impossible,” said Uncle Dpap. “We do not work together.”
Danny shrugged. Then pulled open his armored vest, revealing a Beretta stuck in a holster at his belt.
Uncle Dpap’s men jumped to alert. Danny bodyguards did the same.
“Here,” said Danny, reaching for the gun slowly. “This is for you.”
He held the gun out. Uncle Dpap looked at it suspiciously.
“It’s a present,” said Danny.
Uncle Dpap grabbed it and pointed it at Danny’s forehead.
“If you want to shoot me…” Danny waited for Tilia to translate before continuing. “…you will need these.”
He reached into his pocket for the bullets.
Arm fully extended, Uncle Dpap pulled the trigger anyway. Danny didn’t flinch. Uncle Dpap took the bullets but didn’t put them in the gun.
