Sudan: A Novel (46 page)

“What do you want?” he roared, and thought that if it was not important, he would have the African servant’s hands chopped off.

The servant’s voice called through the thick door. “The black who was with the mercenary today is downstairs. He says Ahkmad’s throat has been cut and the prisoners are gone!”

“What!”

Faoud bolted out of bed and knocked one of the little boys—the one with the mark of a butterfly on his right hand—onto the floor. He opened the door and shouted orders as he dressed.

“Get them up—everybody! I want everybody up!” Servants came running and then dashed away to obey his commands. “Load the men into trucks.”

He put his shoes on and started to waddle down the stairs. “Split them into two groups,” he shouted at his personal guards who stood at the foot of the stairs. “One is to search Kosti and the other will go with me.”

“Go with you where?” the guard asked.

“To the camp of a camel herder named Sulleyman al Hadallah!”

T
he full moon cast a silver sheen over the desert and left pools of darkness in the shadows beneath trees and behind rocks and bushes. Five figures were hidden in one of those shadows. Behind a decaying sycamore log next to a hedge of bushes, Idris, Ron, Masapha, Koto and Leo waited for Omar. The big man stood at the end of the row of bushes and peered out at the moonlit landscape.

About 200 yards beyond them lay the camp of Sulleyman al Hadallah—his horses, his camels, his tents, his men and his slaves.

Omar turned and strode past Idris and Ron, together in the darkness close to the bushes, and Masapha and Koto, side by side on the ground. He marched straight to Leo, pulled an eight-inch blade from its sheath and knelt on one knee beside the bound and gagged mercenary, who sat in the sand and glared at his captors.

“Your life depends on that little girl being in that camp,” Omar said quietly, with an intensity that shouted. “If she is, I will set you free. But if I ever see you again, anywhere, under any circumstances, I will slit your throat. Do I make myself clear?”

Leo’s eyes were wide with fear. Even in the cool night air, sweat glistened on his face and painted dark circles on his shirt under his arms. “But if she is not in this camp,” Omar stopped and lifted the blade of the knife to within inches of Leo’s nose, “I will castrate you, like their masters castrate the little boys you sell. That is where I will start. Before I am finished, you will beg me for death.”

He leaned closer. “Now, tell me. Do you still say that the little girl, Akin Apot, the daughter of Idris, is in this camp?” Leo wagged his head up and down furiously.

Omar stood and turned to Masapha.

“Tell him,” he nodded toward Idris, “that I’m going in after his daughter now. I will bring her back if I can.”

Masapha rendered his words into Dinka, and Omar watched for a moment as hope lit Idris’s face. Then he turned and stared into the distance once more. Ron stepped up beside him.

“Did I miss something here?” he asked. “All we’ve got is your rifle, knife and garrote, and there’s no telling what kind of firepower that chieftain has.” Ron gestured toward the camp and had to stifle a groan when the movement reverberated in the open wounds on his back. He swayed slightly. The jolting, hour-and-a-half drive across the desert in the dark had been a nightmare. There were times he was afraid he would pass out from the pain.

Koto had ridden in the jeep with Ron and never took his eyes off the American the whole 90 minutes. The boy patted Ron’s arm when the blond man looked woozy, and spoke what obviously was reassurance. It was in Lokuta, but Ron almost thought he could understand the words.

Though in truth, he was actually glad he couldn’t understand, couldn’t speak Lokuta. He was glad he couldn’t tell Koto the horrible secret he knew about the fate of the brothers the boy had come north to rescue. Koto was such an unquenchable Rambo, he would go after them anyway, all by himself. And get himself killed.

Ron tried to stand straight and tall beside Omar as he continued. “You saved my life, our lives. I was set to go on the chopping block—literally—in just a few hours. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you, and I’ll help you do this any way I can.”

He tried to grin, but couldn’t quite pull it off. The effort became a grimace instead.

“I’m not sure how you intend to stand up against this guy’s cannons with a popgun, a frog-sticker and a piece of piano wire, but I’ll stand with you. I’m not worth much right now, but I’ll stand with you.”

Omar looked at the American, who could barely stand at all, with new respect.

“No one stands with me,” he said. “I go alone."

“You will try to sneak from the camp this child?” Masapha asked, not at all convinced the hulking man was cut out for stealth. And the full moon would make hiding a little tricky.

“No,” Omar said. “I will bargain for her. If the chieftain is in a negotiating mood, we have a chance.”

He turned the handle of the large knife toward Masapha.

“If I do not return, kill this man,” he said, and cocked his head toward the sweating Leo. “But remember the pain you suffered because of him and make him pay for it before he dies.”

Masapha took the knife.

“He will have pain in his body worse than ever the whip gave to me.” The menace in his voice promised a brutality Ron couldn’t believe came from his friend. “I would have much honor to kill him.”

Omar turned back to Ron. “If I don’t make it back, take the jeep and the father and head south. That’s your best shot. When Faoud discovers you’re gone, he’ll look under every rock in Sudan until he finds you.”

Omar handed Ron the rifle and flashed a brief smile. “Now, we will see if I still know how to cut a deal.”

Then he turned, walked around the end of the row of bushes and was gone.

The quiet of the desert night was so absolute the silence roared in their ears, and the men hidden in the darkness could hear every movement Omar made.

The big man’s footsteps crunched heavily in the sand that led to the encampment.

The big man’s footsteps crunched heavily in the gravel that led to the cemetery.

Huge purple, pink and white azalea bushes, aflame with spring color, lined the nearby fence, and a breeze stirred the multicolored carpet of fallen blossoms, changed and shifted the hues like a kaleidoscope.

It was a peaceful place, and right now, Dan wanted peace. Sherry’s father had picked up the family at the airport, and they’d visited for a while in the living room of the old farmhouse by the river where Sherry had grown up. Then David headed out to shoot baskets in the hoop attached to the front of the garage, Jonathan plopped down in front of a video game, and three generations of redheaded females chattered their way into the kitchen to whip up some gooey dessert for dinner that would add yet another inch to Dan’s ever-expanding waistline.

Dan had come here, to the cemetery, to visit the grave of his father. He wanted to talk to his dad. And maybe to God.

Idris wanted to talk to God. When Ron turned back to the group after Omar disappeared into the night, the tribal with a shredded back dropped to his knees in the sand, raised his face to the sky and began to plead with God for the life of his daughter.

Ron didn’t know what he was saying, but he understood the tone and the posture. He’d seen it before. Aunt Edna. Uncle Thomas. Dan. His father. As a boy, he’d seen all of them on their knees at one time or another, their eyes turned heavenward, their voices imploring.

He’d been there, too. Oh, not as often, but he’d been there. He’d begged for God’s help.

On the slat seat of a rowboat, while he waited for his dog to come back up out of the murky water.

On the cold bench of an emergency room, while he waited for a doctor to tell him about his father.

On the filthy floor of a jail cell, while he waited for a slave trader to chop off his head.

There was a desperation in the tribal’s voice that Ron knew well.

Idris’s prayer was murmured, little more than a whisper of the wind. The tears that streamed down his face and dripped off his chin sparkled in the moonlight. Only Masapha could understand the farmer’s words, but the others needed no more translation than Ron did.

One of Sulleyman’s guards sat by the campfire in the middle of the camp, and he spotted Omar when he appeared out of the darkness. The man grabbed his rifle, shouted, “Halt!” and fired a shot into the air. The shout and the shot brought the whole camp to its feet, including Sulleyman al Hadallah.

The final-night celebration had been long, loud and boisterous. The men were proud of the fine herds they would take back to the north. They were anxious to leave and looked forward to reunions with their families. They laughed a lot, ate and drank too much. The party had lasted late. But it had been over for half an hour now, and Sulleyman wanted the child, the little girl who had become a woman.

He had disrobed and was resting against the satin pillows, ready for his guards to bring the girl to him. He had looked forward to this for days.

Suddenly, he heard one of his guards shout, then a rifle shot. He grabbed his robe, flung it around himself and stepped to the doorway of his tent. He could just make out the form of the man who strode toward the campfire out of the darkness. Sulleyman straightened his robe, slipped his feet into sandals and marched out to meet him, to see who was stupid enough to disturb his evening.

By the time Omar arrived at the campfire, more than a dozen of Sulleyman’s men held the unannounced visitor at gunpoint. One of the men had thrown several small logs and branches onto the smoldering fire, and it began to cast a bright glow of flickering light to give them a better look at the intruder.

It wasn’t hard for Omar to determine who was in charge when Sulleyman strutted into the firelight.

He raised his hands as if in surrender and spoke calmly, “I come in peace. I am unarmed, as you can clearly see. I have come for one reason only—to do business.”

Sulleyman stepped closer and looked carefully at the tall, heavily muscled stranger. He was an Arab, and he carried himself like a guerrilla but had a relaxed, confident air about him. It was obvious the big man was not even mildly intimidated by Sulleyman’s presence or by the guns trained on him.

“What possible business could you have to conduct in my camp this late at night?” Sulleyman demanded harshly. “You must have a death wish! It is a miracle you made it this far before one of my men shot you.”

“I’m sure your men could see that I pose no threat. I am unarmed. Who comes unarmed to do battle?”

“Tell me what business you think you can do in my camp alone at night. You are alone, aren’t you?”

Omar nodded. “I am alone, as I am unarmed. You can see for yourself. I have nothing to hide. I came here from Atbara to buy slaves for my employer, Sadiq al-Mahdi.”

Sulleyman scoffed. “And he sent only one man?”

Omar smiled a confident smile that showed his shiny gold tooth. “I’ve bought for him for many years. He knows that I can do a better job than any six of his soldiers. I have his trust.” He paused for effect. “And his money.”