Whiplash

23

By the time Uncle Dpap used the phone Danny had given him, Nuri and Danny knew everything — that they wouldn’t deal with Red Henri, and that Colonel Zsar had suggested they use the arms dealer to try and get a better price from their other dealers and contacts. They were also confident that they weren’t planning an ambush, though that was one thing they couldn’t take for granted.

Nuri made the call back, using an electronic voice box to disguise his voice. He told Uncle Dpap that the meeting would happen at midnight, agreeing to the place Uncle Dpap had selected, an abandoned farm building outside a hamlet that lay between Uncle Dpap and Colonel Zsar’s camps.

The rebels didn’t like the fact that the meeting was being held at night. And they liked it even less when, at five minutes past the appointed time, Nuri called their sat phones, dialing them all into a three-way phone conference.

“The meeting will be held at Murim Wap,” said Nuri. He was sitting back at the base camp, watching the rebels on the laptop thanks to the Owl and the sensors he’d planted that afternoon. Danny and the trucks were already at Murim Wap. “The vehicles will be waiting. You have a half hour to get there.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” said Uncle Dpap.

“Send your scouts, just as you did here,” said Nuri.

“You don’t dictate to us where the meeting is,” protested Colonel Zsar.

But Nuri had already hung up.

The two rebel leaders brought their vehicles together to confer. Both Nuri and Danny heard the entire conversation that followed, thanks to the bugged cell phone, which Tilia had in her pocket.

“He doesn’t trust you,” said a voice they hadn’t heard before. “Of course he’s not going to meet you here. They only agreed to this place so they could watch you come.”

“Is it a trap?” asked Uncle Dpap.

“Too elaborate,” said the man. “It would have been easier to kill you here.”

“I agree,” said Tilia.

“You are sure this man is not working for the government in Sudan?” asked Uncle Dpap.

“That much I am positive of,” said the man. “My spies would know.”

The debate continued for a short while, but it was clear that, having gone to the trouble of arranging to meet themselves, the two rebel leaders were loath to miss the meeting with the arms dealer.

“The person who’s with Colonel Zsar must be the Iranian,” said Nuri. “He’s the one you have to mark when you meet. Make sure you touch him on the skin.”

“I’ll shake his hands like a politician.”

“Break the vial, daub your finger, touch him. That’s all you have to do.”

“Is the Owl online?” Danny asked.

“Are you asking me, or are you asking the Voice?”

“You.”

“You can ask the computer. It’ll tell you.”

“I’m asking you,” snapped Danny.

“Good snarl,” said Nuri, thinking that Danny was just playacting. In fact, he was really annoyed. “It’s online. Have fun.”

“I intend to.”

Though they’d scouted Murim Wap and planted video and listening devices earlier in the day, they hadn’t stayed there, fearing someone would tip off the rebels. Danny waited until the advance scouts Uncle Dpap had sent signaled that the place was clear, then they drove over, Boston driving as if he were racing in the Baja.

“Gotta stay in character,” Boston explained. “Outlaw like you isn’t going to have a wussy driver.”

Murim Wap had once been an important stop on a trade route from the interior into Ethiopia and the sea. But the village’s attractiveness faded when trucks and buses replaced carts and feet. A few families had remained in the area, one to run a gas and diesel station, the others to farm and catch on as best they could. Two years before, a cell tower had been built just off the highway, behind the gas station. A UN project had helped increase yields at the nearby farms, and there was a small store that sold goods to the dozen or so families that lived within walking distance. As a general rule, the village street was deserted after nightfall, with the gas station closing down a half hour after sunset.

Except tonight. The lights were still on in the station as Danny’s vehicles approached.

“Think he’s gonna be a problem?” Boston asked.

“I don’t know.” Danny considered stopping and getting gas, but that might only add to whatever suspicions the man might have. “Let’s just play it,” he told Boston.

They planned the meeting for a fallow field off the highway just outside of town. The area was clear of any walls or other cover. Even though they had been under constant surveillance since the early afternoon, Danny still had Boston circle around it slowly while he looked around the landscape with a set of thermal night glasses.

“We’re clear,” he said finally. “Let’s stop and launch the Catbirds.”

The Catbirds were UAVs a little bigger than the Owl. Their bodies were packed with plastic explosive, and they could be dive-bombed into targets by command. Danny launched six, enough to take out a well-positioned company of soldiers.

“Take it back by the road. Keep it running,” he told Boston. He turned on the truck’s dome light and switched the Voice into the radio circuit. “We leave the two trucks running, by the road, just the way we drew it out. Flash, you’re with me. McGowan, you’re backing up Boston.”

“Right, boss,” answered McGowan.

Danny got out of the truck and walked across the field to a spot about twenty feet off the road. He was wearing two sets of body armor — a very light vest under his shirt, similar to what Nuri had been wearing in Italy when he was shot, and the thicker, ceramic-insert model that the rebels expected. The combination meant that anything smaller than a howitzer shell would only give him a bruise, but it was heavy and awkward, and he spent quite a lot of time shifting it to get it to feel more comfortable.

Finally he gave up. He reached into his pants pocket and took out the vial with the biomarker, squirting it on his gloved left hand. The marker was mixed in a petroleum jelly base; in order for it to work, it had to touch skin.

Ready, he stood and waited. MY-PID was tracking the rebels, and the Voice declared that their caravan was two minutes away.

“Kill the headlights in the trucks,” said Danny. “Be ready.”

Behind him, Flash shifted his hands nervously on his submachine gun. In this situation, he would have preferred his SCAR-H/MK-17 or an old M-249. The latter’s size alone intimidated people.

“Truck coming,” said Danny.

“All right,” said McGowan. “Showtime.”

Nuri watched the caravan moving in. Everything was in place, he thought. Danny was on his own.

“Hera, you’re up,” Nuri said, rising. “All right, Clar, let’s get going. We only have a few hours to get everything done.”

“Uh-huh,” said Sugar, who’d been sitting in a chair across the room for the past half hour.

“What’s wrong?” Nuri asked as she got up slowly.

“Aw, nothin’.”

But her pain was obvious. She took a few short steps, breathing heavily as she went.

“Hold on, hold on. What’s wrong?” Nuri asked again.

“I just — my stomach is beat up. Something I ate I guess. It’s just gas — I’ll get better.”

“Hell no. You’re staying here.”

“Who’s got your back?”

Hera Scokas, sitting at the console, said nothing. She and Nuri had avoided each other since the other day.

“I’ll go by myself,” he said.

“Oh, you can’t do that.”

“I’ll go,” said Hera, rising. “Sugar can stay on the watch.”

“I can make it,” said Sugar. She started to protest, then realized she had to get to the latrine. She pushed herself forward, running to the bathroom pit thirty yards from the building. She barely made it in time before her intestines exploded — figuratively, though it felt as if it were literal.

Nuri, meanwhile, cursed his crappy luck. Hera was the last person he wanted with him. Her personality had already worn thin. She always had a “better” way of doing things.

He could go to the village alone. But inflating and launching the blimp was a two-person job, and there were a large number of sensors to be planted as well.

Sugar returned from the latrine. “I can make it,” she told him.

“Why don’t you stay here,” he told her. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“It was just something I ate. I’ll be fine.”

“No.”

“You’re going yourself?” said Hera.

Nuri looked at them both. He did need a backup. Would Sugar be OK by herself, though?

“You have a fever?” he asked Sugar.

She shook her head.

They had defenses, the blimps, the sensors. And she could always hide.

Not that anyone was likely to bother them tonight.

“You feel all right?” Nuri asked Sugar.

“I’m great. I’m ready.”

“No, you stay here on watch. All right, Hera. You come.”

“Right.”

She jumped up and grabbed her gear.

Nuri went down and waited for her on the motorcycle. She came down and started to get on the Whiplash bike.

“We’re not taking that one,” he said. “Get on with me.”

“Why aren’t we taking it?”

“Because we’re going to have to hide it near the village, and I don’t want to take the chance of losing it if someone stumbles across it. I don’t want the technology compromised.”

“What good is it if we don’t use it?”

“When you run the outfit, you can make the call. Right now, I say we’re using this one.” Nuri started it up. “Hop on.”

Hera cinched her rucksack tighter as she walked over to the bike. It had no sissy bar, but the seat was relatively small, and she’d have no choice but to snuggle close to Nuri and hold him tight around the chest. She tried holding her breath but it didn’t help.

“Try not to fall off,” said Nuri, popping it into gear.

Danny felt his heart starting to pound as the first set of headlights swung into view. He suddenly felt unsure of himself.

In the old days, he’d sometimes felt apprehensive just before a mission began — butterflies, some people called it, something akin to the performance anxiety actors sometimes felt before going on stage. But the feeling always disappeared when things got going.

It didn’t tonight. Danny’s heart continued to pound as the trucks drove up to the road. He kept his mouth shut, afraid that a stutter, a break, or something similar would give away his nervousness.

Weapons dealers weren’t nervous. Whatever else they were, they didn’t suffer from performance anxiety. They were calm and cool and completely in control.

So was he.

Except he wasn’t.

The vehicles carrying Uncle Dpap and Colonel Zsar drove into the space in front of Danny’s trucks. The other vehicles fanned out behind them, the two groups intermixed.

Colonel Zsar, anxious to show that he was the real leader here, got out of his vehicle first. He practically leapt forward, walking so quickly that his bodyguards had to run to catch up.

“Who are you?” he asked Danny in Arabic.

“My name is not important,” said Danny. He had practiced the line in Arabic and could say it in his sleep, but it didn’t sound smooth. He cleared his throat, trying to hide his sudden attack of nerves. “Call me Kirk. You’re Colonel Zsar, I believe.”

Tarid, who’d been riding with Zsar, got out of the truck slowly. He took his time joining the others, studying the arms dealer as he walked. Kirk was flashy — too flashy, Tarid thought, the sort of reckless man who makes a fortune in six months and loses his life in the seventh. His guards were well-equipped, but that wasn’t much of a trick. More impressive was the fact that he had a white man as his lieutenant — they didn’t come cheap here.

Uncle Dpap and Tilia got out of the Jeep together. Their soldiers, meanwhile, had fanned out from the trucks, forming a semicircle behind the rebels.

“What happened to Red Henri?” asked Danny. Once more, even though he’d practiced the phrase incessantly, it sounded stiff and misaccented in his ears.

“He is not of interest to us,” said Uncle Dpap. “An alliance with him would not benefit anyone. Deal with him if you wish. I would suggest you be careful if you do.”

“We’ll use English,” Danny told them. “There’s no need for any of these to understand. There are too many spies.”

Uncle Dpap glanced at Colonel Zsar, who shrugged. His English was a little better than Dpap’s, but he wouldn’t be able to carry out a complicated conversation, let alone negotiate.

“Is that no good?” asked Danny, in English.

“Your Arabic is fine,” said Colonel Zsar in Arabic.

“I thought you both spoke English,” said Danny. “Or is that your translator?” He pointed to Tarid.

“That is my lieutenant,” the colonel said quickly. It was a fiction they’d worked out earlier.

“An Iranian for a lieutenant,” said Danny in English. “Interesting.”

Tarid swung his head toward Danny as he heard the word Iranian.

“We will speak in Arabic,” said Uncle Dpap. “You speak as you wish. Use English. Why are you meeting us?”

“My aim is to sell many weapons,” Danny said. “I’m not particular to whom. Or who pays. Everyone has AK-47s for sale. I can get better guns. If you can pay. MP-5s like my men have. M-16s.”

“What about Galils?” asked Tarid. The Galil was an Israeli assault rifle.

“I doubt I could sell those at a price that would make you interested,” said Danny. “Assuming I could get them without losing my life.”

“Are the Zionists your suppliers?”

“Don’t worry about where I get my weapons,” said Danny. “They come from many sources.”

Danny threw out an offer — a hundred AK-47s at one hundred dollars apiece. It was an extremely good deal, about a fifth of the price the Jasmine network had sold them for.

“Why so cheap?” asked Uncle Dpap.

“To get your business,” said Danny. “To get you to trust me. I can see you don’t. Not if you think I work with the Zionists.”

He took a step closer, working out how he would get the biomarker onto Tarid. He’d shake hands to seal the deal — or to show that there were no hard feelings if a deal wasn’t made. He’d clasp Tarid’s left hand as he shook with his right.

Done.

Then he’d be able to relax.

Uncle Dpap wasn’t interested in guns. He wanted ammunition.

Danny explained that he dealt in lots of ten thousand rounds, fifteen cents American for each round.

The price was nowhere near as good as what he had offered on the guns.

Colonel Zsar dismissed it. “You sell us the guns for nothing, and then try to make it back on the ammunition. You sell carpets, too?”

The others laughed.

“I may be able to do a little better,” said Danny.

“Vehicle approaching on highway at a high rate of speed,” warned the Voice. “Two vehicles — three, four. Six.”

It was an ambush. A pit opened in Danny’s stomach and the blood rushed from his head.

“Think it over,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’ll contact you about it tomorrow.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said Tarid.

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Danny.

“We’re not done yet,” said Colonel Zsar.

“I think we are.”

“No.” Zsar raised his hand, and all of his soldiers shouldered their weapons. “We will settle a deal tonight, or never.”