Whiplash (13 page)

Jabal Dugu, Sudan

N
URI PUT HIS HAND INTO HIS POCKET, SLIPPING HIS FINGERS
around one of the video bugs as he followed Commander John’s men into the building. It would be risky to bug the headquarters—but well worth it.

“Come,” said Commander John, looking at Hera as he spoke. “My brother is always at his desk. He will be very pleased to meet distinguished visitors.”

The pews, altar, and other religious items had been removed from the church years before. A few chairs and small tables formed different islands in the interior, but for the most part the space was filled with bundles of clothes and bags of rice and other supplies, which shaped half walls and low partitions. Three overhead fans pushed warm, stagnant air around the room. Sticky no-pest fly strips, the type outlawed in the U.S. for environmental and safety reasons years before, hung from the rafters, occasionally snapping in the fans’ breeze. A scent of sweat mixed with something sharp like cinnamon and dust.

Four of Uncle Dpap’s aides were sitting on chairs on the right side of the building. They looked up when Nuri entered, but went back to talking among themselves when they saw Commander John.

The floor of the chancel was raised about a foot higher than the nave, and it was here that Uncle Dpap had his desk. Six young soldiers sat on the floor nearby, their rifles either in their laps or next to them.

Uncle Dpap was speaking on a satellite phone. His smooth, almost polished forehead extended into a bald scalp; his face looked babylike despite his age, which was fifty-five. No flaw or blemish marked his deep black skin. He frowned as the conversation continued, yet looked serene, a father confident of his place in the world, and of his progeny’s place as well.

Nuri spotted a perfect place for the bug, on the side of a filing cabinet near a cluster of rolled-up, dusty maps. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and began chewing furiously.

“We will wait,” said Commander John. He looked at Nuri. “You have a piece for me?”

“Sure,” said Nuri. He reached into his pocket for the package. It was going to taste like cardboard, but it was useless to explain that.

Commander John took the entire package, slipped a piece out, then pocketed the rest. Nuri raised his hand to ask for the gum back, but Commander John ignored him.

“Tilia, translate for me,” he told a young woman at a desk behind Uncle Dpap. “We have an important visitor and must impress them.”

Tilia got up slowly and walked over.

“She will help with my English,” Commander John told Hera. He understood her Arabic well enough despite her accent, but having a translator brought prestige, and the whole point of the visit was to impress her. Besides, Tilia could translate from the village language, which was less arduous to speak.

“Look at this map,” Commander John told Hera, taking her elbow and steering her to the far wall. “This is the area where our people live. Our ancestors toiled in this area for many years.”

Tilia translated dutifully. Her English was close to flawless; she had lived in England as a child and returned there for college. She had joined Uncle Dpap, to whom she was distantly related, after her parents were killed by Sudan government troops.

“There were lions in the foothills once. My people chased them away. Ferocious lions,” Commander John told Hera, emphasizing the word “ferocious” as if there might be some doubt. “There are stories—true or not, I do not know—of people facing them with just their bare hands.”

“She won’t believe that,” said Tilia, who didn’t believe it herself.

“I said, I am not sure it is true. Tell her.”

Tilia knew Commander John was trying to impress the woman, and also knew that he would fail. He was constantly on the make—any female new to the village, African, European, got his attention, until he bedded her or she left the village. Tilia herself had only been spared his advances because Commander John suspected his brother was sleeping with her, an impression Tilia encouraged, though she was not.

Nuri, meanwhile, walked casually across the room and, after a quick, surreptitious glance, ducked down to tie his shoe…and plant the bug.

At times like this, just after placing a bug, there was often a moment of doubt, a dread certainty that he had been seen. That fear seized him as he rose, and for a second he found himself dizzy. Blood rushed from his head. His muscles tensed, ready to fight.

Nuri forced himself to breathe slowly. One breath, two…there were no explosions, no accusations, no one grabbing him by the neck and dragging him away.

See
, he told himself.
Nothing to worry about. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Nuri turned and walked toward the center of the room. As his apprehension receded, a low-grade euphoria swept into its place, encouraging him that he could do practically anything. If his dread had been misplaced, so was this optimism, and he tried to tamp it down, folding his arms and feigning interest in the map Commander John was using for his pseudohistory lesson.

Uncle Dpap was still on the phone. He was pleading with a man in South Africa to send him ammunition—his troops had only a few hundred rounds, hardly enough to defend themselves, let alone launch an assault. The South African claimed he did not have any ammunition for sale, and refused Uncle Dpap’s efforts to persuade him to find some.

The tidbit of conversation was invaluable to Nuri. For one thing, it practically eliminated the possibility that Luo had
been killed by a competitor: anyone that motivated would have already made his pitch to replace him.

Confident that the bug was picking up the conversation, Nuri turned his attention to Tilia, who was frowning deeply as she translated. She’d be a perfect target to be turned as a spy, he realized: well-placed, intelligent, with a small taste for expensive things, if her rings and watch were any indication.

He smiled at her. She didn’t notice.

When Uncle Dpap finally got off the phone, he called Commander John over for an explanation. The African’s face lit up and his chest swelled. He put his hand around Hera and introduced her.

Nuri decided it was time to deflate some of the rebel commander’s interest, if not his lust. “This is my wife,” he said, putting his arm around Hera’s shoulder from the other side. “We work together.”

Commander John frowned. He had no qualms about cuckolding a man, especially a westerner who had strange ideas about bones. But clearly he would get no further with Hera while Nuri was around.

On the other hand, it explained her strange attitude toward him. Clearly, he thought, she would return his smiles if her husband was out of the way.

Uncle Dpap, though annoyed at the interruption and preoccupied by his supply problems, managed to feign some interest in the scientists. The discovery of large monsters on nearby land would not surprise him, he said; many tales told of fierce creatures who held sway before the land was tamed.

Then he let the conversation lag. He had many things to do.

“Well, thank you, Your Excellency, for taking the time to meet us,” said Nuri. “You must come and visit sometime.”

“Your camp is in Red Henri’s territory,” said Uncle Dpap. “I think we’ll leave it to him.”

“I see.”

“These things are not something for you to be involved in,
or concerned about,” said Commander John. “If there is a conflict, you should come to me.”

“Yes,” said Nuri. “But we wouldn’t want to be involved. Good-bye.”

A
BUL HAD WAITED ON THE BUS, SURE IT WOULD BE STRIPPED
clean if he left it. Nearly a dozen boy soldiers leaned against it, sheltering themselves from the sun while they chattered in high-pitched voices.

Nuri and Hera came down the steps, practically running. Hera went straight to the bus, but Nuri went back into the store—he wanted to preserve the cover story that they had come to town for supplies.

If the storekeeper was puzzled by his earlier disappearance from the bathroom, he didn’t mention it. Nuri bought some canned food, overpaying just enough to make the shopkeeper look forward to his return.

“Let’s go,” Nuri hissed under his voice as he hustled up the steps into the bus. “Go.”

Abul started the engine and leaned out the window to scoot the soldiers away. They didn’t respond until he put the bus in gear. Even then they seemed barely to notice, edging off the bus as it slowly moved forward.

“Go back the way we came,” Nuri told him.

“I know.”

Abul turned around at the side of a wide lot beyond the center of town, giving his passengers a good view of one of the shantytowns where the bulk of Uncle Dpap’s followers stayed. The street was so narrow he had to maneuver back and forth several times before finally managing to get in the proper direction.

“They’re looking for ammunition,” Nuri told Hera. “That’s interesting.”

“He told you that?”

“No, I overheard him.”

“Why did you tell him I was your wife?”

“That was just to get Commander John to stop leering. I wanted us to be able to get the hell out of there.”

“You’re an ass.” Hera put her head back against the seat. “If we had taken our rifles, no one would have messed with us.”

“We’re undercover. Scientists don’t carry rifles.”

“They’ve never seen scientists before. Everyone goes around with guns.”

“It would have put them much more on their guard.” Nuri blistered. “Listen, I’ve been out here a lot longer than you have.”

“I’ve been in Sudan before, Nuri.”

“Not here.”

“Darfur was worse than this.”

At the front of the bus, Abul did his best to pretend he wasn’t hearing their argument. He stopped at the checkpoint and gave the soldier the second half of the ten dollar bill. Then he headed back toward Base Camp Alpha, happy to be out of the rebel village. Becoming a millionaire, he decided, was a dangerous business.

Gambella, Ethiopia

“H
OW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT EVOLVING INTO THE LOWEST
form of life on earth?” Nuri asked Danny when he returned to camp.

Danny didn’t know quite what to say. “If it’ll help the mission,” he answered finally.

“Good. We’ll leave for Ethiopia with Abul before first light. The rest of the team can watch the store while we’re
gone.”

T
O
N
URI, CERTAIN CITIES VIBRATED A CERTAIN WAY, AS IF THE
sounds and movement of the people within them set off a resonance in the earth beneath the streets. Some vibrated with danger, others excitement, still more with fear.

Gambella, in Ethiopia, combined all three.

Nuri had first come to Gambella barely a year earlier, but its rhythm touched something at his core, and he felt at home there, with or without the Voice’s turn by turn directions to guide him through the back alleys of the old city’s bazaar. The Voice’s directions helped immensely, however. The jumble of streets and pathways, mostly empty a year before, were packed now, populated by a menagerie of shops and merchants, legitimate and otherwise.

There were far more of the latter than the former. Ethiopia had become a nexus for eastern Africa, a relatively stable oasis in a cauldron of trouble. Gambella, in turn, profited greatly from its neighbors’ woes. Poor for years, the country’s ethos held that any business was good business; Gambella’s particular interpretation of that philosophy meant it was possible to buy almost anything here, including people.

“Left. The stall is in the middle of the block,” said the Voice.

Nuri walked briskly, brushing past a man trying to sell watches. They were counterfeit Rolexes, of high enough quality that they would have passed muster even in Switzerland.

Shady dealers aside, the city reminded Danny of Istanbul in Turkey. It had the same otherworldly feel, and the same wide range of languages spoken in its streets. People hustled here, literally and figuratively, trying to get ahead.

“Just follow my lead,” whispered Nuri, slowing his pace as he came near the shop he’d been seeking. “And don’t show your gun unless absolutely necessary.”

Danny glanced around. He wasn’t just looking for a potential enemy, but trying to gauge how the others on the street saw them. A black man in Western clothes trailing a man
of indeterminate race—Nuri would be taken for Egyptian here—they would be seen as businessmen rather than tourists. Strangers with purpose.

It occurred to Danny that the spy was adept at seeming to be whatever anyone wanted him to be. His baggy pants were similar to what the Ethiopians standing in the doorways of the shops wore. His beard, two weeks old, made him look Muslim. Nuri’s skin wasn’t as dark as his, but Danny had no doubt that of the two of them, he was the one more likely to be regarded with suspicion.

“Toroque!” exclaimed Nuri, spotting the owner of the stall he’d come to find. He used English, which was the language of commerce here, and second nature to most of the people on the street. “You’re here. Very good.”

Toroque squinted, as if trying to remember the face. He pretended to recognize it and smiled. In truth, Toroque’s memory for faces was as poor as any man’s on the planet. As the local saying went, he might have forgotten his own had he not seen it in a mirror every day.

“And what can I do for you today?” he asked.

“Much, I hope. My friend and I are looking for a vehicle. A special vehicle.”

Toroque frowned, as was his habit when a profitable deal presented itself. “Special vehicle?” He shook his head. “No. Here there are no special vehicles. I know of a motorcycle perhaps.”

“Oh.” Nuri had played this game once before with Toroque. “Well, too bad then.”

“But maybe if you explain to me what you need,” added Toroque quickly, “then maybe I can be of aid if I hear of something.”

“I need something very special to drive, for an important person. Something big. Very unique.”

“No, no.” Torque shook his head. “No. No.”

Nuri nodded and put out his hand to shake. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe in the future…if you…”

He ended his sentence there, his voice trailing off as he
turned to Danny.

“What sort of thing—my English is not very good,” said Toroque, who had been awarded a medal for his English studies in elementary school. “What are you looking for? An SUV?”

“An SUV might do,” said Nuri.

“Ah, too bad. I know a Land Rover.”

“Too plain,” said Nuri dismissively. He would settle for it if he had to.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Toroque now began to worry. He had already begun counting the profit from this deal, and it was escaping him.

“The SUV is a Mercedes, maybe?” suggested Nuri. “Or for that matter, do you know of a Mercedes sedan? That would be excellent.”

Toroque frowned. There were very few Mercedes in this part of Africa. Not only were they highly impractical, but the recent boom in Russia and China had encouraged the northern Africans who specialized in stealing the cars from Western Europe to ship their wares there. Few made it this far east, and the prices were necessarily exorbitant.

“I know of a sedan,” said Toroque. “I can take you to see it. But it is a Toyota.”

Nuri raised his hand in assent.

“Perhaps some tea first,” suggested Toroque. “And a smoke.”

“We have many things to do today,” said Danny.

Toroque frowned. It was common here to sit with a salesman for a while. It was considered good manners, and generally improved the price. Nuri glared at Danny, but there was nothing to do about it: Toroque turned quickly and walked into his shop, practically sprinting past the two small tables of dusty knickknacks to the back room. He walked past his cluttered desk, plucking the keys to his pickup truck from the corner as he passed. He slapped the frame of the back door—it always stuck—then turned the knob and opened it. Outside, he had to shoo away some of his neighbor’s chickens from the truck bed before they could proceed.

Danny realized he’d made a mistake and remained silent as they drove down the narrow byroads of the central market area. Kids played in the dust, kicking stones around in their approximation of soccer. They were dressed in little more than rags, and all were shoeless.

The neighborhood changed quickly. On one block, small buildings leaned against each other, as if they were made of wax and had melted under the unrelenting sun. On the next, tall walls tipped with razor wire and pieces of sharpened glass rose along the pavement, protecting the homeowners from the noise and possibility of kidnapping.

And then the area changed again, the walls and houses giving way to tall chain-link fences and steel-sided warehouse buildings.

“We are almost there,” said Toroque. He already knew the Toyota was not going to be acceptable—the fender was bashed and it barely ran—but he hoped an alternative would occur to him. Perhaps they would settle for one of the pickups he had.

“This vehicle, you know, is for sale,” he said. “For a very good price, I could give it to you.”

“It is very nice,” said Nuri. “But not really what we’re looking for.”

“A little paint—I have a brother-in-law who could paint this very nice.”

“Let’s see the Toyota.”

They did, and it was just as Toroque had expected—too old, too undependable, and too small besides. But inspiration struck as they walked through the gravel parking lot toward the Land Rover, which was an even older vehicle. He might not have a suitable vehicle, but a friend of his did: two in fact.

“Land Cruisers,” he offered when Nuri frowned at the beat-up SUV. “Jet black. Purchased by a movie company and left here.”

“Left?” asked Nuri.

“That is the story. Perhaps they did not pay the right bill. In any event, you can have them very cheap.”

“Let’s see them,” said Danny.

Nuri suspected that the cars were stolen, though the story that Toroque told was in fact true—a movie company had shipped them into Ethiopia about a year before, planning to use them during the filming of a movie. But the movie’s funding had fallen through at the last minute. Not only had the movie never been made, but the SUVs’ ownership was caught up in a legal battle as the film company’s creditors tried to get back some small fraction of the money they were owed.

“I hope it is settled soon,” said the owner of the warehouse where they were stored. “I am owed a fortune in back rent for storage.”

Despite the fact that they had been hidden under tarps for several months, the glossy black surface of the SUVs shone. Danny nodded to Nuri, who had already decided the vehicles were precisely what they wanted. Negotiating a price was difficult, since the owner of the warehouse was sure the film company would come to reclaim the SUVs at any moment.

“Then what do I do?” he asked. “Tell them they are getting a wash?”

“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?”

“T
HEY DON’T SEE THEMSELVES AS EVIL
,” N
URI TOLD
D
ANNY
as they continued outfitting themselves. “They’re shopkeep
ers 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.”

W
HAT
N
URI
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.