On target

TWENTY-EIGHT

Court sat in his tiny hotel room in Al Fashir. Outside the open window above his tattered and soiled mattress on the floor, the morning bustle of the city rattled and whistled and bleated and shouted, as men and animals and vehicles passed by.

He was filthy and wanted a shower, but there was no shower here. Just a hole cut into a closet floor down the hall for a toilet. He'd spent the evening scratching bloody flea bites and had not gotten much sleep but, he asked himself, what did he expect for nothing?

It had taken a day and a half and most of the rest of his Sudanese pounds to get a car and a driver to transport him back to the capital of North Darfur. Court bought a satellite phone with the rest of his cash, using his watch and the two AKs to make up the difference. The man who'd driven him from Dirra had a cousin who owned a filthy boardinghouse in Al Fashir for Darfuris there to work construction on whatever project the NGOs were paying them to build, and the driver and the cousin had spoken and offered Court a room free of charge. The two men even took Court shopping for some local items and paid for them out of their own pockets. Many Sudanese, Court had noticed in his day on the road and in the town, possessed an intense kindness and willingness to give of themselves and their meager property for a complete stranger.

Court had little to offer in return but his gratitude, a few Arabic words of thanks, and an understanding of the body language of the culture. He held his hand to his heart and nodded deeply so many times in the past day he almost felt as if he could pass for a Darfuri, if not for the pigmentation of his skin.

Court had worked in dozens of different places in his career, either as a CIA singleton operator, as a CIA Paramilitary Operations officer, or as a private sector assassin, and many of those places, for want of a better term, sucked. But from time to time he found himself somewhere remote, both geographically and culturally, and completely taken in by the scenery or the people or the way of life in ways that stayed with him after he'd done his job and left the place behind.

He felt this way about Darfur. He wasn't supposed to be here. There was much to hate. It was hot as hell and thick with bugs and controlled by a despot and murdering bands of marauders, but Court felt something about this place, the people, the stubbornness and discipline needed to face a miserable day armed with nothing but one's own devices. He could not help but respect the people for scratching out what existences they had, and he appreciated their kindness to him.

He would love to repay the kindness by removing the man from power who was systematically killing them.

He reached across the mattress, picked up his phone, and called a number in Saint Petersburg.

Gregor Ivanovic Sidorenko had not slept. His man had disappeared into the depths of Darfur, the opposite side of the country from where he needed to be, and he had not heard from him in almost seventy-two hours. Furthermore, the international news channels were broadcasting reports from Darfur, reports of an attack on an aid convoy not ninety minutes' driving time from where Gentry was last seen. Details were sketchy, but things did not look good.

Sid sat at his breakfast table in the cold, bit into a hard-boiled egg, and stared at his phone. He'd hardly taken his beady eyes from it in three days.

But for once it rang, and it startled him.

The Russian mobster tipped a mimosa in a fluted crystal glass while lurching forward to grab the receiver, fresh-squeezed Florida orange juice, Cuvee du Centenaire Grand Marnier, and Krug Grande Cuvee Champagne drenching his thick, gold-lined fleece robe. He ignored the expensive mess and answered the phone.

"Slushayu vas." I am listening.

"It's Gray. You receiving me okay?"

"Mr. Gray, where are you?"

"I'm back in Al Fashir. I'm safe at the moment, but I can't stay here for long."

"What happened?"

"Nothing to worry about. I got sidetracked."

"Side…? Mr. Gray, that is not acceptable! You have jeopardized everything! The FSB is very upset."

"It couldn't be helped."

"My people spoke to the pilot. You left the airport to save a woman. A woman!"

"Your pilot shouldn't have left me behind."

"A woman!"

"It's more complicated-"

"This is a very serious damage to our timetable."

"It's no problem."

"How can you say that it is no problem? We do not have another flight to Khartoum scheduled until after Abboud's trip to the Red Sea! How are you going-"

"Can you get a plane back here to Al Fashir?"

"Yes, I have arranged a flight. It will depart today from Belarus. But we can only get you out of the country with that flight. It will not be landing again in the Sudan."

"It doesn't have to land."

"I don't understand."

"Get a pen and paper. I'm going to need the aircraft to bring in some gear I'll require if I'm going to continue on with the operation. Get the FSB to help you put it together. Just relax. This little hiccup along the way will be forgotten."

"If they don't land, how will you-"

"They will need a flight path out of the country that takes them over the Red Sea. They can arrange that. Now, write all this down."

There was a scramble on the other end of the line. "Wait… okay. I am ready."

Court dictated a list to the Russian mob boss, who scribbled like a frantic secretary. When he was finished, Sidorenko blew out a long breath. "You can do this?"

"Sure."

"The pilot… he can do it?"

"You will talk to him when we are in the air. Encourage him to follow my instructions to the letter."

"Da, of course." Gregor Sidorenko was no longer angry. There was a high-pitched tone of excitement in his voice. "This will be… dangerous for you."

"You are worried about my well-being?"

"Of course. I… I just want to do what I can to help."

"Anything else?"

"I had a man who was going to take you by car from Khartoum to Suakin. If you proceed as you suggest, you will have to cross territory all alone and on foot. You don't look like a Sudanese tribesman."

"There is a tribe of lighter-skinned Arabs in the area. The Rashaidas. I won't be able to pull it off up close, but with a head wrap and local clothing, someone seeing me driving by in a car or walking across a field is going to peg me for a Rashaida before he pegs me for a white boy."

"You are willing to bet your life on that?"

The assassin answered nonchalantly, "This is what I do."

Sidorenko replied breathlessly, "You are amazing."

There was a long pause on the line. Sid thought the American was going to respond to his comment, but instead he said, "The plan remains in effect. After I'm on the ground, no contact until the job is done."

"Da. But the man who was going to take you to Suakin. He is a police officer there in the city of Suakin. He is an occasional informant for the FSB. He may be able to provide you with intelligence that will be helpful. I can arrange a meeting."

Court thought it over. As far as Sid's op was concerned, he didn't really need a police informant. But for Zack's job? Nocturne Sapphire could absolutely stand for one more source of intel about the layout of forces in the area.

"Agreed."

Sid said, "Mr. Gray, please remember. I have women here for you. Many beautiful women. Leave the ones you find in the desert in the desert; when you come back, you will never go wanting for women again!"

Court sighed. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Court leaned his head back against the plywood wall of his room. He knew he needed to call Zack; he'd put it off as long as possible. He knew he'd get a tongue-lashing of the highest order. He was right.

After three rings, Zack answered the phone with a marked absence of the customary pleasantries. "What the fuck, dude?"

"I got delayed."

"You got delayed? Really? Delayed? Good. I'm glad that's all it was, because for a minute there, I was worried that maybe my watch was running two motherfucking days fast!"

"I got caught up with the NSS. And the Janjaweed."

"The NSS and the Janjas? You left the airport."

"Yeah."

"This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with some Canadian skank working for the ICC, would it?"

"She spread the word, huh?"

"She didn't spread the word; mushroom clouds over NGO convoys spread the word! You must have charmed the socks off of her; she is saying she doesn't even remember what you look like, but the Darfuris are saying some lily-white fuckwad blew up two of their trucks and killed a shitload of Janjaweed. What the hell were you doing?"

"She needed my help."

"Yeah? Outstanding. But you know what? I need your help, too. I need you to do your goddamned job! Chasin' tail across the desert when you are supposed to be over here getting ready for the most important SAD/ SOG operation in the past decade is not going to get the shoot on sight rescinded, Six."

"I wasn't chasing tail. They were going to kill her."

"Cry me a fucking river! As a matter of fact, cry me the fucking Nile River, because me and the boys almost had to fucking swim the Nile to get over there to pull your ass out of Darfur."

Court knew the possibility that the CIA would send Whiskey Sierra into Darfur to save Sierra Six had never been on the table. It was a ludicrous assertion. Still, he also knew when it was best to just let Sierra One have his little rant unopposed. Like a forest fire that burns the mountain so thoroughly that no tinder remains to fuel it, Zack's tirade would extinguish itself in a minute if Court didn't fight back.

"Look," said Court, already tired of talking to Zack. "Everything is okay. Sid is sending a plane here to Al Fashir tonight. I'll be in Suakin by tomorrow evening. I'll be back on target in time for the op Sunday morning at six thirty. Everything goes ahead as planned."

"You'd better see that it does, dude. You better get back on target posthaste. There is a hell of a lot riding on this."

"Yeah, understood. Six out."