Текст книги "Raven Strike"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Chapter 24

Duka

The lookout yelled from across the street as soon as the Range Rover drove up.

“Who?” hissed Li Han.

“Girma. Sudan First,” added Amara, naming the Islamic rebel group that shared control of the city. “He’s coming to the house.”

“How does he know we’re here?” asked Li Han.

Amara didn’t answer. It was probably a foolish question, Li Han realized—the town was so small any stranger would stand out.

“Let him come.” Li Han moved his pistol in his belt, making it easier to retrieve, then pulled a sweatshirt over his head.

Amara opened the door as Girma and his small entourage approached. Besides the Muslim rebel there were two bodyguards and a blotchy-faced white man with greasy, dark hair. The white man was wearing a thick flannel shirt and a heavy suit jacket.

A Pole or a Russian, Li Han guessed. What did this mean?

Had the brothers betrayed him? They had seemed cowed since he shot the tall one, but that was the problem with Africans—they always snuck around behind your back.

“I have come to see the Brothers!” bellowed Girma, practically bouncing into the house. He was overflowing with energy—probably hopped up on khat, Li Han realized.

“We are here on other business,” said Li Han in English. Amara translated.

“Who are you?” asked Girma, switching to English himself.

“A friend.”

Girma gave him an exaggerated look of surprise, then turned and spoke to Amara in what Li Han gathered was Arabic, though it went by so quickly he couldn’t decipher the words.

“They are wondering why we are here and have not greeted them,” said Amara.

“Tell them we were afraid that we would bring them trouble.”

“Why would you bring us trouble, brother?” said Girma. “Are you running from the Americans?”

“What Americans?” asked Li Han.

“The Americans attacked a building not far from here last night,” said the white man in English. “Were they looking for you?”

“No,” lied Li Han. “I didn’t know there was an attack. Why would the Americans come here?”

“Then whose trouble are you afraid of?”

“Who are you?” asked Li Han.

“Milos Kimko. I work with friends in Russia. We are making arrangements to bring weapons and supplies to our friends here. Perhaps we could help you. You are part of a very impressive organization.”

“I’m just a friend.”

“I see. But these men are Brothers.” He gestured at the others, whose white African clothes hinted at their alliance. “Pretty far north for the Brotherhood, aren’t you?”

Li Han didn’t answer. He didn’t like the man, whose accent he had by now noticed gave him away as a Russian. Like many of his countrymen, he was clearly full of himself, a big talker who undoubtedly delivered less than half of what he promised.

This was, however, clearly an opportunity.

“I am always looking for a chance to do business,” added the Russian. “I give many good prices.”

“Do you buy as well as sell?” asked Li Han.

“Buy what?”

“You mentioned the Americans. I haven’t seen them, but I have seen a weapon they have. It was an aircraft, a robot plane. I wonder if it would be worth money to you.”

“We have Predators,” said Kimko disparagingly. “Our own versions are better.”

“This is not a Predator,” said Li Han. “This is a much more capable aircraft.”

“A Flighthawk?”

“Better even.”

“How do you know?” Kimko asked skeptically.

“I’ve seen it fly.”

“Show it to me.”

“I don’t have it,” lied Li Han. “But I could arrange to show you parts, and give you a photo. Would your government be willing to pay?”

“I don’t work for the government.”

“Whoever you work for, then,” said Li Han.

“Maybe.”

“I will deliver a photo to you this evening in town,” he said. “Where will you be?”

Kimko eyed Girma carefully as they got back into the Range Rover. Girma had started off the meeting with surplus energy. Now he was positively agitated, rocking as he sat in the backseat of the truck. He took his pistol out and began turning it over in his hand, examining it.

“This aircraft may be of great interest to me,” Kimko said. “Have you heard anything about it?”

The African didn’t answer. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small sack; he took out some dried, broken leaves and pushed them into his mouth.

More khat. Just what he needed, Kimko thought.

“Do the Americans fly UAVs here often?” he asked. “I wonder if there are other wreckages we could look at.”

Girma shook his left fist in the air and pounded the seat in front of him.

“It is that Gerard’s fault,” he said loudly. “He stole our wires.”

The back of the Rover was about the last place Kimko wanted to be. But there was no graceful way to escape. Or ungraceful, for that matter.

“I know my friends would be very, very interested in paying money for American weapons and technology,” said Kimko, desperately trying to change the subject.

“I will kill him,” said Girma. This time he slammed the seat with his right hand—and the pistol.

“Tell me what you need, my friend,” said Kimko. “What wires? Let me make a present to you. It is fitting for our friendship. Show me the wires you need, and I will get you twice what you had. Because of our friendship.”

Girma turned toward him, eyes wide.

“You are too good a friend,” said Girma.

“Nothing is too good for you,” said Kimko.

“I kill him!” yelled Girma. He pounded on the back of the driver’s seat. “Take me to the square.”

“Girma, it might be good if—”

“Take me now!” shouted Girma, raising the gun and firing a round through the roof of the truck.

Chapter 25

Washington, D.C.

A diehard baseball fan, Zen Stockard had adopted the Nationals as his favorite team partly because he loved underdogs, and partly by necessity—they were the only team in town. He had a pair of season tickets in a special handicapped box, and often used them to conduct business—though any baseball outing with Senator Stockard was generally more pleasure than business, as long as the home team won.

Tonight, with the Nationals down 5–1 to the Mets after three innings, pleasure was hard to come by.

“A little better pitching would go a long way,” said Dr. Peter Esrang, Zen’s companion for the night. Esrang was a psychiatrist—and not coincidentally, a doctor Zen had personally asked to take an interest in Mark Stoner’s case.

“Jones always has trouble in the first inning,” said Zen. “He gets a couple of guys on and the pressure mounts.”

“Psychological issue, obviously,” said Esrang.

“But after the first, he’s fine,” said Zen as Jones threw ball four to the Mets leadoff batter in the top of the fourth.

“I don’t know,” said Esrang, watching the runner take a large lead off first.

Jones threw a curve ball, which the Mets clean-up hitter promptly bounced toward second. A blink of an eye later the Nats had turned a double play.

“Now watch,” said Zen. “He’ll walk this guy on straight fastballs.”

There was a slider in the middle of the sequence, but Zen was right—the player never took his bat off shoulder.

“How would you fix this guy?” he asked Esrang. He pushed his wheelchair back and angled slightly to see his guest’s face.

“My specialty isn’t sports,” said Esrang. “But I wonder if it might be some sort of apprehension and overstimulation at first. Nervousness, in layman’s terms. His pitches seem a lot sharper than they were in the first inning.”

“Could be,” said Zen.

“A variation of performance anxiety.”

“So what do you do?”

“Have him pitch a lot of first innings,” said Esrang. He laughed. “Of course, that’s not going to work well for the team.”

“Maybe if he pitched no first innings,” said Zen.

“That would be another approach.” Esrang sipped his beer. “Break through that barrier.”

“Change the scoreboard so it looks like it’s the second inning?” asked Zen. “Or hypnotize him.”

“I don’t trust hypnotism,” said Esrang. “But if you could change his environment, even slightly, it might work.”

A perfect segue, thought Zen. “I wonder if something like that would work with Mark.”

Esrang was silent for a moment.

“Do you think it would?” asked Zen.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I was wondering if perhaps he might go out for short visits,” said Zen. “Little trips.”

“Senator, your friend is a potentially dangerous individual. Not a big league pitcher.”

“Jones is pretty dangerous himself,” laughed Zen as a ball headed toward the right field bleachers.

Zen let the subject rest for a while, ordering two beers and sticking to baseball. The doctor surely felt sandbagged, but in the end that wasn’t going to matter one bit—eventually they were going to help Stoner. Somehow.

A pop fly to the catcher ended the Mets half of the inning. The Nationals manufactured a run in the bottom half with an error, a steal, and two long fly ball outs.

Jones struck out the side in the top of the second, his only ball missing the strike zone by perhaps a quarter of an inch.

A shadow swung over the sky near the edge of the stadium as the players ran to the dugout. Esrang’s head jerked up. Zen followed his gaze.

“What’s that airplane?” asked the doctor.

“That’s security,” said Zen. “The D.C. police are using UAVs to patrol some of the airspace over the past few weeks.”

“It’s a Predator?”

“No, civilian,” said Zen. “The plane is smaller. But the idea is basically the same. They have infrared and optical cameras. They’re just testing them for crowd control right now. A few weeks, though, and they’ll be using them to give out tickets.”

“Really?”

“That’s what they claim.”

“Hmmm.”

“Personally, I think the money would be better spent on foot patrols.” Zen was on the committee that oversaw D.C. funding, and had actually voted against the allocation, even though it was mostly funded by a private grant. “High tech has its limits. You need people on the ground, in the loop. Here you’re spending the equivalent of six police officers—I’d rather have the people.”

“I can’t disagree,” said the psychiatrist.

“Plus, I’ll probably be the one getting the ticket,” laughed Zen.

A roar rose from the crowd. Zen turned in time to see a ball head over the right field fence.

“Here we go,” he told Esrang. “Brand new ballgame.”

“I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea,” said the psychiatrist. “But we have to be careful.”

“The UAVs won’t give out the tickets themselves.”

“I mean with Mark.”

“Oh, of course.”

“The drugs they used, we don’t have a good handle on the effects,” said Esrang. “We don’t know exactly if they’ve made him psychotic. He’s very focused; he’s very internal. I can’t completely predict what he’ll do.”

“He hasn’t harmed anyone since he’s been in custody. Or done anything aggressive.”

“I realize that. I know. But—”

The Nationals third baseman cracked a hard shot down the first baseline. Esrang jumped from his seat to watch as the player zipped past first, took a wide turn at second, and raced for third. He slid in under the tag.

“Not bad,” Esrang told Zen, sitting back. “But I would never have given him a green light on three balls and no strikes.”

“No.” Zen held his gaze for a moment. “Sometimes you take a chance, and it works out.”

“Hmmm,” said Esrang.

Chapter 26

Duka

Nuri gave Gerard a big wave as he walked through the large pavilion. The African was more animated today than he’d been the day before; he actually nodded back.

“I just dropped off the medicines you asked for at your clinic,” Nuri told him, setting down his rucksack and pulling over a camp chair. “They are very happy.”

Gerard frowned. “You should have given them to me first.”

“Those were just aspirins and bandages,” said Nuri. “Little things that anyone could bring.”

He pulled up his backpack and started to open it. One of the bodyguards lurched forward as if to stop him.

Gerard raised his hand and the man froze.

“This is ampicillin,” said Nuri, taking out a bottle of pills. “This is important medicine that only an important person can deliver.”

Pretending he wasn’t flattered, Gerard feigned a frown and put out his hand. He took the bottle of antibiotics and opened it, pouring a few pills into his palm.

“Each of those is worth several dollars,” said Nuri.

“Hmph.” Gerard held them up to his nose, sniffing them.

“They only work if you’re sick,” said Nuri, worried that Gerard was going to eat them. He didn’t know how they would affect him.

Gerard poured them back into the bottle.

“Six bottles,” Nuri told him. “And there are some other medicines as well. They’re labeled. Your doctor will be very impressed.”

Gerard handed the bottle back. “Let us have something to drink. Coke?”

Danny sensed trouble as soon as the white Range Rover turned the corner. Dirt and dust flew in every direction as the nose of the vehicle swung hard to the left and then back to the right. He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Nuri, who was sitting on one of the camp chairs in front of Gerard.

The Rover skidded to a stop. A man jumped out from the rear, raising his arm.

“Down!” yelled Danny. He threw himself forward, pushing Nuri to the ground as the man near the car began firing.

Gerard joined them as his bodyguards began returning fire.

“Go! Come on, let’s go!” hissed Danny, grabbing Nuri and pulling him in the direction of the building next to the pavilion where they’d gone to meet Gerard. Someone got out of the Range Rover and began firing a machine gun; the bullets chewed through the tables at the front and the canvas overhead. There was more gunfire up the street, screams and curses.

“What is it? What is it?” demanded Nuri, as if Danny had an answer.

“The building—come on,” Danny told him, pulling him to the back of the building where they had some hope of getting out of the cross fire. But a splatter of bullets from the machine gun cut them off. Danny spun back, ready to fire. But when he raised his head, the Range Rover was speeding down the street.

One of Gerard’s bodyguards continued to shoot. The man’s gun clicked empty; he dropped the magazine and reached for another, firing through that. He didn’t stop until he had no more magazines.

A half-dozen people lay on the ground. Two or three moaned; the others were already dead. Blood and splinters were everywhere. One of the picnic tables had been shot in half, its two ends reaching up like a pair of hands praying to the heavens.

Gerard sputtered in rapid French.

“Stay down,” Danny told Nuri, crouching next to him. “There were people firing from up the street.”

“They were with Gerard.”

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s asking who did this,” said Nuri, who’d drawn his pistol. “Dumb question. Has to be Sudan First.”

Nuri got to his knees, listening as Gerard continued to yell.

“He says it was Girma’s truck. That’s Sudan First.”

“Time for us to get out of here,” said Danny.

“We’re going to have to help clean this up,” said Nuri.

“What?”

“We have a car. We have to take the victims to the clinic.”

This wasn’t a particularly good time to be playing good Samaritan, thought Danny, but Nuri made sense. A half-dozen armed men had appeared from other parts of the square. They formed a perimeter around the battered pavilion. Gerard stood a few feet away, railing in French against whoever had done this. He’d taken a pistol out and was waving it around.

“Go get the car,” Nuri told Danny. “I’ll explain.”

By the time Danny retrieved the Mercedes, two of Gerard’s men were waiting with one of the wounded, a gray-haired old man whose face was covered with blood. Danny guessed that the man was already dead, but didn’t argue; he helped three other people into the front seat, and took another into the rear.

“I’ll stay,” said Nuri, running up to him. “Gerard will help us now.”

“Be careful,” said Danny.

“I’ve been in much worse situations. Speak as little as possible,” added Nuri. “Very little. They’re going to be suspicious. The cover will be that you’re a mercenary from Australia, probably a wanted criminal. They might accept that.”

“I don’t sound Australian.”

“They won’t know.”

The two bodyguards climbed on the trunk; Danny rolled the windows down so they could hold on, then backed into a U-turn to get to the clinic.

Marie Bloom was not the naive do-gooder that Melissa had taken her for at first. On the contrary, Bloom was a steely and wily woman who started questioning her as soon as Nuri and Danny had left.

“What spy agency do you work for?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

“I’m not a spy,” Melissa told her.

“Lupo didn’t just find you on the street,” she said. “You’re an American. You’re with the CIA.”

“I am an American,” Melissa said. She fidgeted in the office chair. It was a small room; if she held out her arms, she could almost touch both walls. “I was in Kruk last week. There were problems in one of the camps. I had . . . trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Bloom. Her voice was borderline derisive. She leaned against the bare table she used as a desk; it doubled as an examining table for infants.

“There were problems with one of the supervisors,” said Melissa. “He tried . . . let’s say he pushed me around.”

“And then what happened?”

“I took care of it.”

Bloom frowned, and reached for Melissa’s shoulder. She jerked back instinctively.

“I know it’s hurt. Let me see it,” said Bloom.

Melissa leaned forward reluctantly.

“Take off your shirt,” directed Bloom.

Wincing, Melissa unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it back on her shoulders, exposing the massive bruise.

“You dislocated it,” said Bloom, probing gently at the edges.

“I put it back in place.”

“Yourself?”

“I had help.”

“He pulled it from the socket?”

Melissa didn’t answer.

“I would bet there’s tearing,” said Bloom. “The rotator cuff—”

“I’ll be fine,” said Melissa. “Someone is going to meet me. We’ll go to the capital and I’ll go home.”

She pulled her shirt back into place. She didn’t think Bloom fully believed her story, but the injury was certainly authentic, and it made everything else at least somewhat plausible. In general, that was all people needed—an excuse to find something believable.

“What are you taking for it?” asked Bloom.

“Aspirin.” She shook her head. “I’m OK.”

“We have hydrocodone.”

“No. You’ll need them for real patients.”

“As if you’re not hurt? You think you’re more stoic than the next person?”

“I saw a hell of a lot worse at Kruk.”

Bloom gathered a stethoscope, a thermometer, and gloves from a basket at the left side of the desk. “How do you know Gerard?”

“I have no idea who he is.”

“Lupo?”

Melissa shook her head. “He was a convenient ride. I needed to go. It sounded like a good solution.”

“You travel with people you don’t know?” said Bloom, her voice once more harsh. “That’s very dangerous.”

“One of my supervisors said he could be trusted. He’s a criminal, I know,” added Melissa. “But he didn’t try to hurt me.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“When my friend comes, I’ll give him a hundred dollars.”

“You have it?”

“My friend will have it. I don’t.”

“I hope your friend has a gun,” said Bloom. “Several.”

Melissa rose and started to follow Bloom out of the office. As she opened the door, they heard gunfire in the distance. Bloom tensed.

“What’s going on?” asked Melissa.

“I don’t know.” She turned around and went to the cabinet behind Melissa. Reaching inside, she took out a pistol—an older Walther automatic. She put it in her belt under her lab coat. “Get ready for anything.”

Danny drove the car to the clinic’s front door, scattering a flock of birds pecking at the dirt. A thin man in a white T-shirt coming out of the building jumped back, fear in his eyes as Danny slammed on the brakes. The two men on the back leaped down and pulled open the doors, helping the wounded out of the car.

Except for the soft purr of the engine, it was eerily silent. Danny picked up a woman who had been shot in the arm and carried her inside. She was a limp rag, passed out from the loss of blood but at least breathing.

That was more than he could say for the man they’d lain across the backseat. Danny stopped the two guards as they picked him up and moved him out of the car. He put his finger on the man’s pulse and shook his head.

They carried him in anyway.

The last person in the car was a young boy, unconscious but with a good pulse and steady breathing. Six or seven large splinters of wood were stuck in his face; small trickles of blood ran down across his chin and neck to his clothes. There was a stain on his pants where he’d wet himself, and another—this one caked blood, near his knee.

Danny picked him up, cradling him in his arms as he walked him inside the clinic. The reception room had become an emergency triage unit, with the patients spread out in the center of the floor. The people who’d been inside already stood at the far end, occasionally stealing glances at the wounded, but mostly trying to look anywhere else. Danny wanted to talk to Melissa, but she was tending one of the wounded, and he worried that going to her now would blow her cover, or his.

One of the men he’d come with tapped his shoulder, indicating that they should go back. Danny followed him silently. He glanced at the little boy as he left, hoping to give him some sign of encouragement. But the boy’s eyes were still closed. Danny wondered if the kid would ever overcome the real wounds of the day.

“The Chinese man put him up to this,” Nuri told Gerard as they surveyed the ruined pavilion. “Where is he?”

“I’ll kill him,” said Gerard. His glassy stare had been replaced by one even more frightening; his eyes were almost literally bulging from his sockets. Two veins pulsed in his neck.

“I’ll pay good money for him,” said Nuri calmly. “I know people who will pay us if we give him to them alive.”

“I kill him.”

“He’s worth more to me. To us. More alive.”

“Why would you save a murderer?”

The Mercedes rounded the corner, Gerard’s men hanging out the windows. Nuri went over to help the last of the wounded get in. Gerard stopped him as he bent to an old man.

“He’s not hurt,” said Gerard gruffly.

“He’s holding his side.” The man wasn’t bleeding but seemed in obvious pain. “We have to get him in the car and take them to your clinic.”

“No, they will find their own way,” said Gerard. “You must take me to my house in the hills.”

“I have other places to go.”

“Take me,” demanded Gerard.

The bodyguards bristled.

“What about the wounded?” asked Nuri.

“If you are my friend,” said Gerard, “you will help me, not them.”

“Get in the car,” said Nuri, deciding it was the wisest thing to do.