by Mark Mannock
“I have a Mr. Al Fadil online for you.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. I’d put in a call to the hospital in Wadi Halfa earlier.
The warrant officer led me back past rows of chairs and equipment to a computer station. As I sat down, Jumaa’s image appeared on the screen.
“How are you, my friend?” I asked, barely containing my relief at the sight of his smiling face.
“Very well, Nicholas. As this call comes from a military installation, I’m assuming you all made it over the border?”
“Yes, we’re all fine. How’s your recovery going?”
“All good, but we may have a problem.”
“Go on.”
“Late last night, I had a visitor at the hospital. It was a Sudanese Armed Forces officer named Akhdhr. He informed me he had boarded your boat, and that there was one man missing from your group. He explained the situation and asked if I was that man.”
I hoped Jumaa had covered himself.
“I told him I was.”
“Did he question you further, asking for details?
“Well, there is the strange thing. He didn’t ask for more information. He didn’t check my identification, he didn’t even inquire about the nature of my illness. His only concern seemed to be that I’d been with your group.”
Considering Jumaa’s ‘illness’ was a bullet wound, that was a relief.
My friend continued. “From there it just becomes more odd. Not only was he not very inquisitive, but at one point, he ordered his two soldiers to leave the room.”
I couldn’t see where this was going.
Jumaa face drew tight in concentration. “The officer then requested I give you a message, if you were still alive.”
“A message?”
“He said to tell you he overheard a conversation between the two ‘civilians’ on the boat. I hope that means something to you, Nicholas.”
“Yes, Jumaa, it does.”
“He also asked me to tell you they’d been talking about one key person in their plans. They said that it doesn’t matter if they miss getting the US president in Sudan because their agent would get him in Washington.”
My head was a maze of possibilities, all bad.
“The thing is,” continued Jumaa, “I believe the Sudanese officer had been under some duress from the Shararaa, but wanted to help us. He told me he didn’t hear the agent’s name, but there was one bit of useful information.”
“Yes.”
“Apparently, the person they were referring to, perhaps an assassin of some sort, was referred to as ‘she’.”
I sat back in my chair. I considered Salah Bahri’s wife, who we could not contact. There seemed little chance that was a coincidence. As I reflected further, I realized there was no other plausible explanation. The terrorists had not given up.
The Shararaa were sending Sua’d Bahri to assassinate President Jefferson Blake in Washington, and we had no idea how they were planning to do it.
Chapter 24
Six Weeks Later
Kaitlin Reed’s blond hair fell across her face as her blue eyes shot laser beams through my heart.
“It’s been a while, Nicholas,” she said.
“Much too long, Kaitlin,” I responded.
“I heard that you’ve been busy.”
There it was. Kaitlin made her point. She was aware I’d been involved with a woman when I was in Europe a few months back. I assumed the general told her—after all, he was her stepfather. Kaitlin probably gleaned that the situation didn’t end well. The woman, Elena, was dead. I’d nearly ended up the same way. I didn’t want to talk about it and hoped Kaitlin would find the grace to let it go.
Although the conversation faltered, we were not sitting in silence. Some low-key blues played through the club’s sound system as we sipped our wine. For a moment, the tiny table between us seemed like an unfathomable gap.
I looked around the room. We were in a small jazz and blues club down an out-of-the way alley in Georgetown, Washington. Wooden chairs and undersized tables crowded together, black-and-white pictures of jazz greats adorned the industrial brick walls, the atmosphere spelling upmarket bohemian. As we chatted, waiting for the headline act to take the stage, I allowed myself a small grin, pleased that I’d chosen a venue with a built-in distraction as our meeting place.
“It’s all right, Nicholas, cut out the ‘naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar’ look. We are both grown-ups.”
There was another pause.
“My stepfather told me what happened—I’m just glad you’re okay.”
This beautiful woman empowered more grace than I deserved.
“I suppose we should talk business,” she continued. “The general is out of town and asked me to bring you up to date on the Sudanese situation.”
I sat up in my chair, attentive, not to mention relieved that the conversation had turned.
“In the weeks since you returned to the States, there has been no word from the Shararaa. Once the Sudanese government put down the coup and settled back into business, the terrorist group went silent,” she said.
“That has to be a positive thing,” I responded, “although I don’t believe for a second that the Shararaa have given up.”
“No, the general doesn’t suspect so either. Neither does the United States government. Have you connected with President Blake since you and Jack pulled him out of Sudan?”
“I figure he’s been busy setting up shop and calming the people, both within and outside Washington. Jack and I met with him once at Joint Base Andrews. The presidential minders are trying to keep what happened in Sudan very low key, in fact, under-the-radar low key. When we got together for our ‘off the record’ meeting, the president was very kind with his words of gratitude, considering he helped us just as much as we helped him.”
Kaitlin nodded. “Jefferson Blake is a principled man, but he is alone in a swamp of alligators. He hasn’t got the political backing of a career politician.”
“But he seems to have public support.”
“That’s why his party tolerates him, although I’m not convinced they understand the depth of his conviction when it comes to morality.”
I hadn’t heard Kaitlin talk so explicitly about political life in the country’s capital before.
“Did the general give you an update on the families that came out with us? I’m in regular communication with Jumaa now that he’s here in Washington. However, neither he nor I are aware of the authorities contacting Salah Bahri’s wife, Sua’d.
“That’s one reason I’m here,” said Kaitlin. “None of the official channels of investigation turned up anything. Someone in the government had a quiet word with the general who asked me to speak with you. They hope that with Jumaa’s help, you may find out some information though ‘informal’ channels.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “Jumaa has tried everything. Sua’d Bahri has simply disappeared off the map. There’s no sign she’s even alive.”
“Do you think she’s alive?” asked Kaitlin.
I considered her question. “Yes, I do, in fact, I’m sure of it. I believe the Shararaa have sent her to ground. My gut tells me they’ll make another attempt on President Blake’s life, and it will somehow involve Sua’d Bahri.”
Before Kaitlin could respond, a voice came over the sound system. “Please welcome to the stage, Lucia Dubois.” Thirty seconds into the opening song, the entire room sat entranced by the enchanting young jazz singer sitting at the piano. That left the two of us marooned on our respective islands of thought, with jazz accompaniment. The music was soothing, my thoughts were not.
Forty-five minutes later, the singer and her band took a bow, basking in the warm applause. The audience allowed them to leave the stage, knowing they would be back for a second set.
I was keen to resume my conversation with Kaitlin. There was way too much troubling me about the whole Sudanese thing. I’d hoped that the authorities would have pu
t it all to bed by now. Apparently not. I’d hung around Washington for what I assumed would be a brief time until things settled.
The waitress brought a second bottle of wine to our table. Probably not a brilliant idea on several levels, so I poured us each a glass.
“So, if the Shararaa are lying dormant, what does it mean? Do the authorities figure we caused them a vast setback when we killed Atha Riek, or are the terrorists working on another plan?” I asked.
“That’s the question everyone is asking, but no one seems to be able to answer. Nicholas, you said your gut feeling was that they were up to something. Why?” Kaitlin was straight back into business.
“Jumaa made it clear to Jack and me that the Shararaa had tentacles that reached everywhere, both outside and inside the Sudanese government. That became obvious by their influence on the SAF personnel on the ferry. We drove a big dent into their paramilitary operations but would have had only a minor effect on their political ambitions.”
“Well then, I’ve got some information for you that could shine some light on that. Did Jumaa ever tell you that Atha Riek had a brother?”
I leaned forward in my chair. “No.”
“He probably didn’t know, very few people do. The general’s network did some digging. While there is no official proof that a sibling exists, there were rumors. Riek’s father was also a radical Muslim. My stepfather’s people located some hospital records that showed that Atha Riek was born six minutes after midnight, October twenty-forth, thirty-one years ago. The strange thing is that the hospital surgical records show another birth recorded to the same doctor seven minutes after that. In itself, that’s not unusual. What is odd, however, is that there was no second birth certificate registered that matches the location and time of the two births. The only birth registered was Atha Riek. The second child never officially existed.”
I paused for a moment. “It could be a bureaucratic mistake—I’m sure the system in Sudan was not infallible back then. Ours wasn’t—there are many stories of mix-ups at birth.”
“On its own, maybe so,” said Katlin. “It all became more concerning when we realized that not only did Riek’s mother die during childbirth, but the attending doctor and nurse both died in separate accidents a short time later.”
The colonel’s ability to research deep into the past and dig up facts others overlooked had helped him climb the ladder to the top of the military intelligence tree. What he found out here had frightening implications. I let my mind process what I’d just learned.
“Suppose Riek’s radical-leaning father had sent the other son away. Is it possible he planned for one sibling to be the violent face of the Shararaa and the other to work quietly behind the scenes, possibly even making his way into government service?”
“It sounds a bit far-fetched,” replied Kaitlin. “But, on the other hand, the father was killed ten years later, attempting to blow up a bus full of Christian school children.” Across the table, Kaitlin sank back into her chair, tilting her head to one side. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Is it really possible for someone to plan and commit such wickedness?”
I put my elbows on the table, pressed my mouth into my hands and gazed into nowhere. Kaitlin and the noisy club faded away. I was back in the mountains of Batn-El-Hajar, smelling the warm, dry air and feeling the sand and stone under my feet. The cold, empty gaze of Atha Riek’s lifeless eyes penetrated me. I had stared through the hole in his soul, where any empathy or decency should exist, as he prepared to slaughter those women and children.
“Yes, Kaitlin, such evil does exist… I’ve seen it up close.” I’d returned to the room. “If what you are telling me is true, we are in deep shit. No one, and I mean no one, will be able to guarantee President Blake’s safety. These people are smart and well resourced. They’ve got through the Secret Service before, they’ll do it again.”
I stood up, kissed Kaitlin on the cheek, left some money for the bill and turned to leave.
“Where are you going, Nicholas?”
“I’m going to find Greatrex and Jumaa. We’ve worked outside the system before, we can do it again. It’s the only way to stop this.”
“Not this time, buddy!” announced Kaitlin. “I’m coming too.”
I could tell from her piercing blue eyes and crinkled brow that there was no stopping her. The general’s stubborn influence radiated off her face. I reached down, took her hand and led her to the door, suddenly feeling very sober.
Chapter 25
“My stepfather is flying in tonight,” said Kaitlin as she hung up the phone.
We sat in the lounge room of the grand house on the general’s expansive estate in Maryland. I glanced at Greatrex, sprawled across a very expensive-looking sofa. To my right, Jumaa perched upright and attentive on a leather Chesterfield chair. He had only arrived a short time ago. We had just updated him on the discussion that Kaitlin and I had the night before at the jazz club. I’d phoned Greatrex back in LA the moment I returned to my hotel in Washington. Lucid but grumbling, he’d caught the red-eye overnight.
“I understand the concern,” said the big fella, “but I’m a little uncertain how the three of us can protect Jefferson Blake any more than the entire combined forces of the Secret Service, the FBI and the CIA, to name just a few.”
“You are probably right,” I replied. “The only thing is, I reckon we left the job half-done. The president is still in danger.”
“It is my duty to help if I can,” said Jumaa. “Jefferson Blake is an ally to my country—if there’s anything I’m able to do to prevent any countrymen of mine harming him, I will do it.” As our Sudanese friend spoke, his eyes wandered around the luxurious space and out the enormous windows to the green paddocks beyond. “I’m enjoying my new life here,” he added, “although as I look out this window, I seem a long way from my homeland.”
“But not in your heart,” I said.
“No, not in my heart, especially since Salima, Ibrahim, and I are together again here in the US.”
Jumaa got up and paced in front of the fireplace. His bullet wound had healed well. He was one tough individual.
Kaitlin shoved Greatrex’s legs off the couch and sat next to him. “There is some more news from my stepfather’s contacts. It would appear there has been some intelligence chatter regarding a possible attempt on the president’s life. The problem is that we are getting mixed messages.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, there is some intel regarding a potential assassination of Jefferson Blake, but there is also talk of an attack on the Sudanese president.”
“Is there any word on the Shararaa being behind either attempt?” inquired Greatrex.
“There is the confusion,” replied Kaitlin. “They have linked the Shararaa to both plots.”
Jumaa walked across the room and sat back in his chair. “I fear there may be some logic in the mixed messages,” he declared.
Kaitlin looked perplexed.
“You’re aware I only started my new role as the special presidential advisor on Sudan a week ago?” he said.
We all nodded.
“The reason they rushed my appointment through was that there is an event being planned.”
“What sort of event?” I asked.
“To help calm the unrest in Sudan, and celebrate the Sudanese–US relationship, President Blake has decided to host a state dinner for the Sudanese president. The White House has not yet announced it.”
“For the Shararaa, that means two birds with one stone,” said Greatrex.
“I understand, what you’re saying makes sense,” added Kaitlin, “but in what universe can a terrorist group infiltrate the White House?”
“They couldn’t,” I replied. “But in terms of an official state dinner, there is always a chance they may have some clandestine aid from within the Sudanese government.”
“Think this through for a minute,” said Greatrex. “If we believe that Salah’s wife, Sua’d, is part
of this plot, then the Shararaa have a problem. We know what she looks like. No identifiable face will make it through White House security, help or no help.”
“And they know that we know that,” I replied.
Silence pervaded the room.
“Jumaa,” I said, “do you think you can arrange a meeting for us with President Blake?”
“I’m certain he would be glad to see you,” replied the new presidential advisor.
“So be it. We need to persuade the president not to go ahead with the dinner before they announce it.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized that would never happen.
Chapter 26
I would defy any visitor walking into the Oval Office not to feel in awe. The sense of gravitas and occasion is immense. As Greatrex, Jumaa, and I walked through the door, the brightness of the room struck us; the morning light flooding through the windows behind the president’s desk presented a majestic silhouette.
“The president will join you shortly,” said the voice of the dark-suited Secret Service agent who had shown us in.
We all gazed around the room, like kids at a theme park. I looked again at the desk. “Is that…?”
“Yes, the Resolute desk,” replied the agent. “It was brought back here by President Blake. He felt it was an important part of American history.”
“Brought it back?” I asked.
“Yes, not every president has the same sense of tradition. The president’s predecessor had the desk stored elsewhere in the White House.”
I was wondering if our knowledgeable Secret Service agent had allowed a little disapproval of the former incumbent to show.
“Nicholas, Jack, Jumaa, great to see you.” The voice of Jefferson Blake boomed across the room as he entered the office from the garden door. Another agent accompanied him.
“Mr. President, it’s once again an honor,” I said.
The president waved a hand toward the agent who had been our history teacher. “I see you’ve met Abe Peterson. Abe is the head of my Secret Service detail. He has been my chief protector since I became vice president, and many more years before that—we served together.”
