Thomas Prescott Superpack (74 page)

Over my shoulder J.J. muttered, “Secrets don’t make friends.”

I ignored him.

A moment later, Lacy yawned and said, “I’ve got to pee.”

“Where’s she going?” asked J.J.

“To pee,” I said, my eyebrows raised. “She has to go
pee
.”

“Oh.”

I watched Lacy walk towards the bathroom. She pushed through the doors and disappeared. Easy as pie. I noticed movement out of my right eye and turned. Tupac was headed in the direction of the women’s bathroom.

Rutt-Ro.

I thought Tupac was going to go in the bathroom, but he didn’t. He stood with his back to the wall just outside the door. This wasn’t good. Where he stood, Lacy might not see him before she went for the paper. And if he saw her pick up the piece of paper he might take it out on both Lacy and the little boy. I stared at the door, waiting for it to open. I could see small pockets of others were watching things unfold. Two seconds passed, three seconds, five, ten, twenty. The door opened.

Tupac grabbed Lacy and threw her up against the wall. I stood. But before the door swung closed, it opened again, and Lacy strolled out. The woman the pirate had pinned against the wall wasn’t even Lacy. Lacy saw the two of them and reeled backwards onto the stage. Tupac threw the other woman on the ground and headed towards Lacy. Lacy flipped over on her stomach. Tupac flipped her over onto her back and started yelling at her. I watched his hands waiting for him to pull out his knife.

He leaned over her and stuck his face in hers. I saw his tongue come out and run down her cheek. Lacy said nothing. Didn’t open her mouth. It wasn’t like her not to fight back. Not to scream.

Tupac stood and began laughing. He looked at his two comrades near the door. They too were laughing. He walked to them and one of them handed him something. Money maybe. They’d probably bet whether or not he could lick her face without getting kicked in the balls. Whatever the bet was, Tupac had come out victorious.

I turned back to Lacy. She’d composed herself and was walking back. She didn’t take her eyes off the three pirates. Daring them to try her again.

I willed her to settle down.

She sat down next to me. She didn’t speak. Not for ten seconds, not for twenty. Her mouth was clenched tight. Then she turned to me and smiled. Within her teeth was the folded note.

She coughed into her hands and seconds later slipped me the tiny piece of paper. I made my way to the bathroom and sat down on the pot. I unfolded the note and read the message, then tossed it in the toilet, and flushed.

In large brick lettering, written in red crayon were five words.

T
here is a way out.

WASHINGTON D.C.

8:33
a.m.

A little boy in a red jersey kicked the ball. It went three feet. Another little boy with a red jersey kicked the ball. It went four feet. Two little boys in green jerseys reached the ball at the same time. They both kicked it. It went ten feet. The ball was now twenty feet from the goalie. A little boy with red hair three shades lighter than his jersey and a face plastered in orange freckles—both inherited from his mother—sprinted towards the ball. His brown eyes—he got these from his father—were wide. This could be his first goal. He ran hard, planted his left foot, and took a massive swing with his right. His foot missed the ball and the little boy fell flat on his back.

Most five-year-olds would have lain on the ground, tears streaming from their eyes. Not Ben Garret. He popped up, turned towards the sideline, located his father among the many parents wearing painful expressions—and smiled.

Paul Garret laughed. It would take quite a bit more than that to make his son cry. Ben had fallen off the jungle gym when he was four and never made a peep. Betsy had taken him to the hospital three days later due to the swelling and X-rays revealed the bone was broken in two different places. Paul wished he’d been half as tough when he was little. Hell, he wished he were half as tough now. Sometimes when he was standing in front of that podium taking rapid-fire questions, he thought about when his little boy broke his arm.

Paul watched as his son threw him another smile, then sprinted off in pursuit of the ball. He looked away from the game—the scrum of little boys had moved down near the opposite goal—and down at the iPhone in his hand. He had a new message. He took a deep breath.
What now?

He’d been in and out of meetings for the last 24 hours. He’d tried to beg off the soccer game, but he knew how important they were to Ben. Paul was yet to miss a game. And if he missed his son’s first career goal, he would never forgive himself. Plus, there wasn’t much he could do at this point. So far, they’d kept a lid on the hostage situation in South Africa.

The message was from Josh Ritter, the White House Chief of Staff. It read, “This just ran on SABC3, which runs most of South Africa Broadcasting Corporation’s English content. It’s only a matter of time before the story breaks in the U.S. Be advised. GBHN.”

GBHN.

Get Back Here Now.

He clicked on the attachment. A video window popped up. It showed the clip was three minutes and nine seconds. The play button faded away leaving an attractive African woman with a microphone. She was standing outside, a two-lane road behind her. Groups of twos, threes, and sometimes larger walked into the screen, then disappeared. A line of cars moved slowly but
steadily in the background. The woman spoke in accented English. She said, “You might ask why this lightly traveled road is overflowing with people on a bright Sunday afternoon. You might be wondering why all these people are flocking to a small village known mostly for its sick and its sadness.”

She held up a newspaper. “This full-page ad ran in last week’s
Isolezwe
, KwaZulu-Natal’s largest Zulu newspaper.” The text was in Zulu, but there were four letters that circumvented the language barrier,
AIDS
.

The anchor said, “The ad reads in Zulu that the Red Cross will be distributing lifetime supplies of AIDS medication in the village of Ptutsi this coming week.”

There was a map beneath the text. Then the Red Cross symbol.

The woman said, “The Red Cross denies placing the ad, but as you can see—” the anchor turned and looked over her shoulder at the people walking in droves, “this is not affecting the thousands of people who have already picked up everything to go to the small village of Ptutsi. We are stationed three miles east of Ladysmith, the last town before forty miles of dirt road and heavy brush. It will take these people more than a day to reach the small village, but what awaits them might not be death, but life.”

The video paused—Garret had an incoming call; Sally-CNBC. He clicked Ignore. Another call, Ted-CNN. He pushed Ignore again. He ignored five more calls. Bill-ABC, Joan-CBS, Monica-MSNBC, Craig-FOX, Monique-NPR.

He checked his e-mail. 27. Then it moved to 41.

Shit had officially hit the fan.

Paul walked over and tapped Sam Tillen on the shoulder. He wasn’t crazy about Sam, but Sam’s son Trevor was Ben’s best friend. Sam looked at Paul and said, “Hey, quite the fall Ben took a couple minutes ago.”

“Yeah, it was. Hey, listen, you think you can drop Ben off after the game?”

“No problem. Something happen?”

Paul raised his eyebrows.

“Terrorists?” Sam was always looking for the inside scoop. He was also the only person Paul knew, well outside of the President, who had his own personal bomb shelter.

“Nothing like that.”

Sam eyed him quizzically, then asked, “It okay if I take them for some pizza after the game.”

“Of course.”

Paul turned to leave.

Sam yelled, “Will I need my gas mask?”

Paul ignored him and ran to his car. Seven minutes later, while Paul was on speakerphone with Josh Ritter, Ben scored his first goal.

LADYSMITH

4:33
p.m.

Houses started to pop up, sparsely at first, then every thirty feet or so. They were small, the size of a typical shed, with thatched roofing. Each bungalow had a minute porch, two small windows, a perfectly centered door, and a prominent chimney. They looked sturdy, but it wouldn’t necessitate a wrecking ball to knock one over. Every once in a while they would see a woman, usually with a bandanna on—white, blue, black—either sweeping the small porch or rocking in a chair, needle and thread in hand.

Timon looked at Gina, raised his eyebrows, and yelled, “Ladysmith.”

They hadn’t spoken much on the four-hour drive. Mostly, because Timon drove fast and the hot wind churned through the open Jeep like a poor man’s cello concerto. And because Gina had fluttered in and out of sleep the entire trip. She was a bit jet-lagged after all. When she
was
awake she gaped at the beautiful landscapes. Wide valleys. Lush tropical green forest. Rolling hills. She once thought she’d seen the long neck of a giraffe, but she could not say this with certainty.

Timon let up on the gas and in an octave just below a scream, Gina asked, “Can we stop?”

“You need pee?”

She laughed. “Yes, I need to pee.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. I know place.”

They drove for another five minutes. Many people were moving in the small village. Gina noticed a large group, twenty or thirty people walking on the side of the chalky street. Many of the women carried large wicker baskets balanced on their heads. Gina noticed the baskets appeared full, heavy. They were walking towards the heart of town. Presumably to do some shopping. Or trade their wares.

They drove past a football field stretch of small stores. An outside market. Fresh produce. Different goods. Gina noticed a handful of white folks mingling with the store owners. Women held up large colored hats. Small African children zoomed in and out of their legs like tiny fruit flies.

Timon pulled off the road and parked in front of a small restaurant. They walked through the open door. There were ten small tables, each with a different colored tablecloth. Half the tables
were occupied. A beautiful African woman met them near the door and spoke to Timon. She smiled at Gina, then led them to a table.

Gina whispered to Timon, “Pee.”

He smiled and said something to the African woman. She took Gina’s hand and led her around to a small room. Boxes filled half the room, but the other half was filled by a sparkling white toilet. After Gina finished, she washed her hands in a pristine sink. There was no mirror and she was glad; she didn’t want to know what she looked like after thirty hours of traveling. But she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t concerned about her appearance.

She returned to the table, a bottle of water awaiting her.

Timon said, “I have ordered for us both. We cannot, what do you whities call it? Dilly-dally?”

Gina laughed. It was a combination of
whities
,
dilly-dally
, and the enchanting smile that had accompanied the remark.

“Yes, we must not dilly-dally.”

He asked, “You are a doctor?” Gina was having an easier time understanding his English, but the question still came out, “
You aw docta
?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“The man call you Dr. Gina.”

“He did?”

Timon nodded. “He also say, you very pretty.”

Gina’s cheeks flushed. At him calling her
very pretty
or Paul having called her
very pretty
, she wasn’t certain.

Timon asked, “Is this man, your husband?”

“Just a friend.”

“No husband?”

She wiggled her fingers in front of him to show she didn’t have a ring. “How about you?”

“Yes. I have woman I am to marry,” Timon said, his face lighting up. He pulled out his wallet. “I have picture.”

He passed her a neatly clipped picture of a striking woman. She made the hostess look drab and plain. Gina handed the picture back to him. “She’s beautiful.”

He smiled once more.

“When are you getting married?”

“In sixteen days. I am very excited.”

Their food arrived. Timon explained the various dishes.
Biltong
, dried, salted ostrich.
Bobotie
, South Africa’s version of Shepherd's pie. And
boerewors,
handmade farm sausages.

Gina picked up a piece of biltong, which resembled something of jerky and tore off a piece.
It was salty and delicious. Timon did the same, then asked, “Where were you doctor?”

“I went to school in the states, practiced medicine for a couple years, got bored, then I joined the World Health Organization. I spent three years in Romania doctoring rural villages, then I spent the last three years in Bolivia fighting an unending battle with Tuberculosis.”