Whiplash

13

The jeeps that Danny had seen did not belong to one of the rebel factions. They were actually carrying Bani Aberhadji south to a small village about forty-five miles southeast of the base camp.

The Iranian Guard official was visiting the village, located in the shadow of the hills, as part of his inspection tour. The village was under the control of a Sudan rebel and former regular army officer known as Colonel Zsar. Zsar was a comparatively modest man — he’d been a captain when he deserted the army, and a promotion of only two ranks showed considerable restraint. He couldn’t be called humble — a humble man would not have survived here — but he was a devout Shiite Muslim, a minority, if not quite a rarity, in this part of Africa.

Colonel Zsar’s force of fighters totaled over five hundred, and when his loose allies farther east were counted, over a thousand. Just as importantly, he was well-armed, with several pickup trucks and even a pair of armored cars supplementing a small-arms arsenal rich in automatic rifles, grenade launchers, and heavy machine guns. Colonel Zsar had a half-dozen light artillery pieces and several heavy mortars. Rumors of these weapons were widespread and one reason the Sudanese army had never attempted even a token appearance in his area of control.

There were several reasons for Colonel Zsar’s success. Though not a charismatic leader, he was able to influence followers with a calm and reassuring personal style. Though confident in battle, he did not overreach, choosing battles carefully and, like most of the successful rebels, he avoided major confrontations with regular army soldiers on anything less than overwhelmingly favorable terms.

He also had a strong defensive base to work from, protected by the hills and close to the border. Not only was he far enough from the main centers of government control to make it difficult for them to launch a large attack, he was isolated from most of the other rebels as well.

Like other successful rebels, Colonel Zsar had a steady source of income to pay for his army. But his was unique — the village he controlled was a modest manufacturing center, turning out small wooden and clay bowls, miscellaneous pottery, and wooden shovels. Zsar charged the owners a small tax in exchange for keeping order. Lately he had taken over one of the pottery factories himself, and added two others, both related to agriculture. One skinned cows and occasionally other animals, selling the meat and tanning the hides for use elsewhere. The other processed milk — collecting it and pasteurizing it. By Western standards, the operations were small and primitive. But here they were major sources of employment and veritable economic powerhouses.

It was the economic base that had brought Colonel Zsar to Bani Aberhadji’s notice some two years before. And when his emissary in Sudan, Arash Tarid, reported that Zsar was a fellow Shiite, Aberhadji knew he had found the perfect situation.

Tarid was at the wheel of the lead Jeep, driving Bani Aberhadji to the village below Colonel Zsar’s fortress headquarters. Colonel Zsar’s foray into entrepreneurship had been made possible by Aberhadji’s generosity, and he was coming specifically to visit his milk factory.

The colonel had not been notified of the visit. Undoubtedly he would see the Jeeps, realize they belonged to Tarid, and rush to meet them. Aberhadji did wish to see him — the personal touch was important, after all — but first he wanted to see the plant.

“There are no guards?” said the Iranian as they came near the village. It was well-off for Africa, but the ragtag collection of shacklike houses, old huts, and battered trailers and prefabs would have been considered a poor slum in Iran.

“No, they’ve seen us and recognized the Jeeps,” said Tarid. “If they didn’t, they would have fired at us by now.”

“You’re sure of this.”

“Yes.”

Tarid was not himself comfortable with the level of security, but it was typical among the rebels, even extensive. The lookouts might not even have been awake. But even the most alert would know that two Western-style vehicles did not pose an immediate threat, and intercepting them was far more likely to cause problems than merely watching.

“We have to go through the cow yard,” Tarid added. He’d been born and raised in Tehran and had little tolerance for the beasts. “Your boots will be dirty.”

“A minor inconvenience.”

“Yes, Imam.”

Tarid sped up as they neared the village. Here the security was much better, and the lookouts far less likely to be sleeping. Hidden in the rocks above were two watchmen armed with the latest rocket-propelled grenades available from China. Tarid had not only supplied the rockets, but had figured out where they should be placed to provide maximum coverage. They were the first line of defense for the village, meant to give the machine guns nearby ample targets to fire at. Aware of how easy a target he was, he had no desire to linger.

Tarid was roughly the same age as Aberhadji, but anyone looking at the two men would think him a full generation older. Like Aberhadji, he had fought as a teenager in the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s. But he had been in many more battles, fighting from the very beginning of the conflict to its inconclusive yet bitter end. So many of his friends had died by his side that he often asked Allah, blessed be His name, why he had been spared. Even now he was not sure whether he had been chosen or simply overlooked.

Past the initial lookout points, Tarid hit the brakes and turned into the yard in front of the milk factory, driving past the small sheds toward the barn and processing building at the rear. The two biggest problems for industry anywhere in Africa were power and clean water. Water for the factory, and the rest of the village, came from an underground aquifer at the base of the hills. It was plentiful year-round, and unlike the streams, disease-free.

The village’s electricity was not as dependable. It came from two sources: the regional grid, which had power lines running through the area, and a series of diesel engines, scavenged from train locomotives, adapted and used as generators. These were located at the southeastern end of town, near the highway in a fenced lot protected around the clock by Colonel Zsar’s best troops. But those sources were not enough for the milk factory; it used two large generators of its own to supplement power. A three-month backup supply of diesel oil from Kenya, paid for by Bani Aberhadji, was stored in a lot behind the farm yard.

A guard peered out from the barn door as the Jeeps drove into the yard.

“Why is he hiding?” said Aberhadji. His voice was soft but his tone reproachful.

“It would be unusual to have a guard watching over the plant,” said Tarid. “He is trying to be discreet.”

“If that is his goal, he has achieved the opposite. Better to show himself. This makes it look as if he has something to hide.”

Tarid avoided arguing with Aberhadji, saying instead that they would have to go through a door at the rear of the building.

“No one challenges us?” Aberhadji asked as they got out of the vehicle.

“The men above and the man here recognize the Jeeps,” Tarid repeated. “There are not many vehicles like them in this part of Sudan. They know who I am. To challenge their benefactor would be a great insult.”

“They should challenge us,” insisted Aberhadji. “For form’s sake if nothing else.”

Tarid led him around the back of the building. It was difficult for foreigners, especially those who knew the country’s history of war, to understand the mores here. Tarid had practically had to install locks on the doors himself. The burglar alarm and closed-circuit video were real novelties.

He put his key in the door, though he knew from experience there was only a fifty percent chance the door was actually locked. Inside, he led Aberhadji down a long corridor toward what looked like a storage area. He paused in front of the restroom, then entered. The light flicked on automatically, powered by a sensor.

At the far end of the bathroom, he opened a closet, revealing an inner door. Tarid pushed it open and stepped inside a narrow hallway that sloped gently downward for about twenty feet. A guard stood at the end of the hall, an AK-47 in his hands.

Tarid nodded at the man, whom he recognized from previous visits. The man stepped back, allowing the two Iranians to pass through a thick metal door anchored in the stone of the hill above.

“Careful of the steps,” said Tarid. “The way is not well lit.”

The stairs, cut from the rock, ended at a steel mesh walkway, which extended through a natural cave for a good ten yards. Another guard stood on the metal deck near the end of the walk. He, too, was armed with an AK-47, and he too made way for the Iranians.

Beyond the guard was a Sheetrock wall framed with steel studs. The wall was little more than a year old, but already the dampness had eaten into the plaster and lines of mold were starting to appear, black streaks and freckles that popped through the whitewashed surface.

A doorway opened into the room at the right. To gain entrance, Tarid had to ring a bell at the side. A buzzer sounded, and the lock flew back. He pulled the door open, holding it so Aberhadji could enter.

Six men were working at the far side of the room. They were clad in white lab coats. One wore a lead apron and thick rubber gloves. He was using a large set of prongs to remove a small jar from what looked like an oversized metal oven.

The oven was part of a centrifuge assembly. Aberhadji had arrived at an opportune time — the plant had just received a piece of yellowcake uranium and begun processing it. Ordinarily the facility would be empty at this time of day.

“We should not get much closer,” said Tarid, holding Aberhadji back. “The material is highly toxic. If there is an accident, breathing it would be dangerous.”

In its present state, the refined uranium was not nearly as dangerous as Tarid believed. Nor was it quite pure enough for its ultimate purpose. That would be completed at the next stage of its processing, in a factory in lower Kenya also funded and controlled by Aberhadji. But Aberhadji had no need to go any farther. He had seen all that he wanted to see.

“They work as soon as a shipment comes,” said Tarid. “The work is done in a few days now. Then they relax, until the next one.”

Aberhadji nodded. He was extremely pleased.

“Let us say hello to Colonel Zsar,” he told Tarid. “Then we must go. I have much to do.”