Текст книги "Whiplash"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“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.”

WHAT NURI 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.

It was an extreme mistake, one that he could easily have paid for with his life, as the unit he helped train was among the first to occupy Kuwait. But in what would prove to be a career-defining stroke of luck, Hienckel managed to hook up with a British MI6 agent two days before the allied invasion began. He supplied the man with a few tidbits of intelligence and helped keep him from being detected by the Iraqis. When the invasion started, Hienckel tried to escape to the allied side. After being captured—or surrendering, depending on one’s point of view—Hienckel played his intelligence connection to the hilt and was eventually released.

He ended the war by helping an American Marine unit interrogate prisoners. His language skills were not particularly good, but they were far better than the Marines’, and Hienckel was easily able to gloss over anything he didn’t understand. From there he became a useful facilitator for different forces in Kuwait and the wider Gulf, occasionally doing business with the CIA as well as British intelligence, until his list of enemies grew so long that he found it prudent to move on.

A brief stint in Somalia cost him the hearing in this left ear and left him with a permanent limp, but it also gave him a bankable reputation as a soldier of fortune, and a tidy sum locked in a Swiss bank account. He moved to Ethiopia and began providing services there to whatever force could afford them.

While some members of the Ethiopian government had accused him of forming a private army, his business model was much more modest. Hienckel was more like an employment counselor: He trained men interested in getting work as security guards and mercenaries—there was no meaningful difference in Ethiopia—then pocketed a portion of their salary after arranging jobs for them. Adjusted for inflation and the exchange rate, the amount he earned was barely greater than the dole wages he’d made back in Germany. In Gambella however, they made him a rich man.

Nuri’s appearance troubled him. He did not know for certain that the American worked for the CIA—it was too easy for poseurs to suggest that they did—but he had all the earmarks, especially a studied disregard for the difficulties an entrepreneur like Hienckel faced, and an almost whining determination to try and talk his price down. One could not afford to refuse to do business with the Western intelligence services. Angering them would not only cut down on referrals, but could prove extremely hazardous if word got around that you were no longer one of their friends. A known CIA connection was considered safer than a bulletproof vest.

“My friend, you are coming up in the world,” Hienckel said to Nuri and Danny when his men escorted them into his office. It had been the chapel of the convent. “You are driving Land Cruisers now.”

“Not as nice as your Ratel,” said Nuri, referring to the South African armored personnel Hienckel had parked in the yard.

“Very poor gas mileage,” said Hienckel. “And who is your friend?”

“I’d rather not say. He needs to hire some escorts for a few days, perhaps two weeks. Men who ask no questions.”

Hienckel glanced at Danny. Dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a long African shirt, he exuded an air of quiet control. His eyes held Hienckel’s without emotion. He was clearly not Ethiopian, but Hienckel couldn’t tell if he was American, like Nuri, or a European returning to his homeland.

Did he trust him?

Of course not. But so long as he paid, there was no need for trust.

“I specialize in men who ask no questions,” he said. “Let us make the arrangements.”

18

Jabal Dugu, Sudan

Two days later

THE TOYOTA LAND CRUISERS SHONE LIKE BLACK DIAMONDS in the desert sun, gleaming nuggets topped by a bar of yellow emergency lights and lined with chrome. The trucks had every conceivable option, including and most importantly a full complement of hired men, who flashed their Belgian-made MP5 submachine guns as they flew out the doors, forming a cordon for their boss as he exited the vehicle. They were dressed in identical khaki uniforms, no insignias. Their headgear consisted of a camo-style do-rag tied around their close-cropped scalps. Each had a pair of sunglasses, and a radio with an earphone and microphone discreetly tucked up his arm. And though they were standing only a few yards from each other, the men used only the radio to communicate.

“Clear,” said one of the bodyguards.

The front doors of the lead Land Cruiser popped open simultaneously. Danny Freah—known to the bodyguards as Mr. Kirk—stepped from the passenger side. His driver—Boston—came out of the other door, pistol in hand.

Way over the top, Danny thought. But the young soldiers who’d been lazing around near the front of the church had risen to their feet, staring with awe and envy.

Danny had always hated the clichés of American gangsta rap. To his mind, they glorified the worst misconceptions about black life, doing for honest African Americans what mafia stories did for Italian Americans. But the images conveyed power overseas, where they were taken as a blueprint for how outlaws should act.

And he was definitely acting the part of an outlaw—Mr. Kirk, a supposed renegade from America, or maybe Libya, or maybe parts unknown—with guns and ammunition to sell.

If the murmurs around him were any indication, his act was going over big.

“Where is Uncle Dpap?” said Danny, using an Arabic phrase he had carefully memorized. “I have a business proposition for him.”

A few of the older rebels exchanged glances. One headed toward the church door, where he was met by Commander John.

The guards at the northeastern end of town had alerted Uncle Dpap to the Land Cruisers and their occupants. The vehicles alone made it clear what the man was up to, and Uncle Dpap had told the guards to let them proceed.

“Who are you?” demanded Commander John.

“You can call me Mr. Kirk. I’m here to see your brother,” said Danny, still sticking to the script.

“My brother is not here.”

Danny had to wait for the Voice to translate.

“This is incorrect,” added the Voice, which was monitoring the bug Nuri had placed inside the headquarters two days before. “Uncle Dpap is working at his desk.”

Danny folded his arms in front of his chest. Nuri had told him that Commander John was likely to run interference. He was determined to show that he wasn’t intimidated by his bluster.

“What are you standing there for?” said Commander John. “Have you come here for business? If so, you will deal with me.”

“Where is Uncle Dpap?” Danny repeated.

“Deal with me,” said Commander John. Since being a tough guy wasn’t working, he decided to try a different tact. “Let us get something to drink.”

The computer translated, and when Danny didn’t immediately respond, suggested what he should say.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” offered MY-PID, first in English, then in Arabic.

“Where is Uncle Dpap?” insisted Danny. The computer’s response seemed too polite.

Commander John frowned, then walked into the store. He came out with a pair of Cokes and the storekeeper.

“Here,” he said, holding one out to Danny. “Would you like some other refreshment?”

Danny eyed the drink, then turned to Boston.

Boston took the drink, sipped, then handed it back to Danny.

“You don’t trust me?” said Commander John.

“No,” said Danny, in English.

The Voice gave him the word in Arabic, but Danny didn’t repeat it.

“You are English?” said Commander John.

“I am not a citizen of any country,” said Danny, first in English, then in the Arabic the computer offered.

“Sit, sit,” said Commander John, gesturing toward a table. “Come, let us talk.”

Danny shook his head.

“I speak only to Uncle Dpap,” he told Commander John, first in English, then in Arabic.

Commander John was so befuddled by the stranger that he didn’t even wonder why he was translating from English into Arabic if he spoke English. He noticed the earphone clipped into Danny’s ear, but thought it connected him to his security team. A device like the Voice belonged to the realm of fantasy as far as he was concerned.

“My brother will speak to you. But first, some refreshment. Drink.”

Commander John took a long guzzle from the bottle. Danny took a small sip. It wasn’t that he thought the rebel was trying to poison him. He just didn’t like cola.

“Your men should have something as well,” Commander John said. He gestured to the shopkeeper.

“My men are paid not to want anything,” said Danny loudly.

The members of the team—all mercenaries hired in Gambella—stiffened. A few were thirsty, but the outlaw arms dealer had already paid them the equivalent of three months’ wages, with the promise of three more at the end of the week.

Uncle Dpap had listened to the conversation from the door of the church. Deciding he’d heard enough, he signaled Tilia to accompany him and went outside. Pausing on the steps, he gazed across the street at his brother and the stranger.

Was this the answer to his prayers? Or an agent of the government?

If the latter, the man would not leave the village alive.

THREE MILES AWAY, SITTING IN ABUL’S BUS, NURI WATCHED a laptop displaying the feed from one of the video bugs they’d stuck on the roof of the Land Cruisers. He was just far enough away not to be seen, but close enough to rally to Danny’s aid if things went bad.

Maybe. Flash and McGowan were with him, and while he had no doubt they were good at what they did, three against thirty was still pretty poor odds.

Danny seemed to be carrying off the charade fairly well, however. He was a natural for the part—the less he spoke, the more nervous the others became. And the more nervous they were, the greater his advantage.

To a point. If Uncle Dpap became so nervous he felt he was in danger, he might order his men to open fire. The trick was not to make him quite that nervous. But Danny seemed to have it well in hand. Nuri watched as Uncle Dpap swept his hand to the side, gesturing that Danny should accompany him.

“I’d rather stay in the sun,” said Danny. “I have nothing to hide.”

He’s good, thought Nuri. He almost has me believing he’s a scumbag.

“WHERE IS THIS AMMUNITION? YOU HAVE IT IN YOUR trucks?” demanded Uncle Dpap.

“I’m not stupid,” said Danny, in English. He let Tilia translate; the Voice indicated she was extremely accurate. “I can supply whatever needs you have.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t trust me,” said Danny.

Uncle Dpap looked back at him with surprise when Tilia told him what he had said.

“You shouldn’t trust anyone,” explained Danny. “Just as I don’t trust you. Did you kill your last supplier?”

The question angered Uncle Dpap. “I heard that he was killed by police in Europe,” said the rebel. “But maybe you killed him.”

“Your friend was a very small operator. The business he did was minor compared to the business I do.”

“So why are you offering to sell me anything?” said Uncle Dpap. “If I am a small ant to you, I’m not worth your time.”

“You’re not an ant.” Danny softened his expression, realizing he was pushing things a bit too hard. “You are bringing freedom to your people, and watching out for them. All of these people depend on you. You are a lion, not an ant.”

Uncle Dpap knew sweet talk when he heard it, and frowned.

“My problem is my overhead, my expenses,” continued Danny. “I need to deal in volume. But here is a proposition—get some of the other rebels together and I will sell to all of you. The same price, the same fair arrangements. It will be easy for you. You will all benefit.”

“That is impossible,” said Uncle Dpap. “We do not work together.”

Danny shrugged. Then pulled open his armored vest, revealing a Beretta stuck in a holster at his belt.

Uncle Dpap’s men jumped to alert. Danny bodyguards did the same.

“Here,” said Danny, reaching for the gun slowly. “This is for you.”

He held the gun out. Uncle Dpap looked at it suspiciously.

“It’s a present,” said Danny.

Uncle Dpap grabbed it and pointed it at Danny’s forehead.

“If you want to shoot me…” Danny waited for Tilia to translate before continuing. “…you will need these.”

He reached into his pocket for the bullets.

Arm fully extended, Uncle Dpap pulled the trigger anyway. Danny didn’t flinch. Uncle Dpap took the bullets but didn’t put them in the gun.

“You are a brave man,” conceded the leader. “But not a foolish one.”

“When you need to call me, use this phone,” said Danny, pulling a small satellite phone from his breast pocket. “Use it only for that. Make one call only. Say nothing. When the call registers, I will come that night. Use it only for that purpose.”

Uncle Dpap gestured for Tilia to take the phone.

“I want to deal with everyone,” said Danny. “It is very expensive to bring weapons here. But I can supply whatever you want. I have no trouble getting anything. That gun is an American Army pistol. There are none better in the world.”

“OK,” said Uncle Dpap. “Perhaps we will have your meeting after all.”

BOSTON FELT AS IF HE’D BEEN HOLDING HIS BREATH FOR THE past half hour.

“I thought that bastard was going to slap the bullets in the gun and fire,” he told Danny as he maneuvered the Land Cruiser through the crowd of people on the street. “I really did.”

“He only pulled the trigger to see if I would flinch.”

“Did you?”

“A little,” admitted Danny.

Had Uncle Dpap put the bullets in the gun, Danny would have ordered the Voice to fire the two small guns secreted in the yellow lights on top of the Land Cruisers. The guns—basically miniturrets—had been targeted on Uncle Dpap and his closest bodyguards the whole time.

“Careful where you’re driving,” Danny told Boston as he came a little too close to a truck on the side of the road. “You put any scratches in this and Nuri’s going to have to pay to have them fixed out of his own pocket.”

Boston stopped himself from answering that the CIA was rolling in cash. The men in the back didn’t speak English, but they might recognize the letters CIA and start thinking. The last thing Boston or Danny or anyone else on the team wanted was them thinking.

Nuri, of course, would have disagreed about the funds, since he was sure to be hounded about the expenditure. But leasing the trucks had been well worth it.

The handle of the gun Danny presented so casually to Uncle Dpap had been smeared with a bio marker that allowed the MY-PID system to track the rebel leader wherever he went. The phone contained a bug that uploaded audio whenever anyone nearby spoke. Any phone call would be recorded as well, though by now the NSA was listening in to practically all of his communications anyway.

Once past the guard post at the entrance to the village, Danny began to relax. They’d launched a small Owl UAV to supplement the blimps, which watched the area farther north. The Voice told him there was no traffic within the entire area.

“Pretty girl, huh?” said Boston. “That translator.”

“She was.”

“Like to jump her bones.”

“She’s too much for you to handle.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She has to be tough to deal with those characters. And she looked it.”

“I can charm a snake into giving milk.”

Tilia reminded Danny of his ex-wife Jemma, when they’d first met. The similarity wasn’t in their features—Tilia’s skin was lighter, her nose a little smaller, her eyes prettier. What struck him was her expression: all business. She wasn’t very old—early twenties, maybe a few years more. At that age she should be smiling more, happy. But her job weighed her down.

Jemma had been in law school, en route to becoming a professor, en route to becoming a political activist, en route to becoming an assemblywoman and state senator. She was out of politics now, out of law, out of everything—burned out before forty. The last he’d heard, she was living in Vermont, living on a farm that she’d bought with money her parents left her. A mutual friend said she was raising sheep, and selling organic wool and meat.

“I think she has a crush on you,” said Boston.

“Who?”

“Tilia. She was making eyes at you. Circumstances were different,” he continued, “you could have a hell of a time with her.”

“You’re the one that wants to sleep with her,” Danny said.

“Absolutely.” Boston turned to him. “You don’t mind, right?”

“Hell no. As long as you don’t.”

“Maybe we’ll have to,” said Boston. “To keep our cover up.”

“Dream on, Boston.”

“All I’m saying is, I’m sworn to do my duty. It’ll be a sacrifice, but I’m ready.”

19

Jabal Dugu, Sudan

AS SOON AS THE ARMS DEALER WAS IN HIS TRUCK, UNCLE Dpap returned to his office. He told everyone but Tilia and Commander John to leave the building. Then he carefully dismantled the pistol and examined it.

“Do you think he cheats you?” asked Commander John.

“I want to make sure this is not some type of trick,” said Uncle Dpap.

“What kind of trick could it be?”

“A trick. Europeans are very tricky.”

“He’s not European,” said Tilia. “His accent is American.”

“I think he’s British,” said Commander John.

“He was trying to disguise where he was from,” said Tilia. “He is most likely CIA.”

“Maybe,” said Uncle Dpap, picking apart the slide group and barrel.

“Why would the CIA help us?” Commander John asked. As pretty as she was, he resented Tilia for sounding too much like a know-it-all.

Satisfied that the gun was not booby-trapped, Uncle Dpap reassembled it. He had never owned a Beretta, and knew of the weapon mostly by reputation. It was used by NATO and the Americans, a good recommendation.

Commander John reached for it. Uncle Dpap slapped his hand.

“I just want to try it,” said John. “Maybe it is defective. You shouldn’t be the one to test it.”

Uncle Dpap loaded the magazine, slapped it into the pistol butt, then handed the weapon to his brother. “Go outside. Make sure you are not near anyone.”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child,” said Commander John, though in fact he was gleeful at the prospect of trying the new weapon. “Should I call the others in?”

“Not yet.”

Uncle Dpap reached down to the lowest drawer in his desk and took out a small pencil case filled with tools. He sorted through them and retrieved a small screwdriver, then began dismantling the phone.

“You think he was CIA?” he asked Tilia.

“Very likely.”

“Why would the CIA help us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to ambush us.”

“To what purpose?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he is CIA and not a dealer, he is trying to get us to ally together. Why would that help them?”

She thought for a few moments. There were no obvious reasons. Every American who came through the area, even the relief workers, was assumed to be working for the CIA, though Tilia knew this was rarely the case.

“We had science visitors the other day,” she noted. “And now this one. The man who was our main source of ammunition dies, and now these men show up.”

“I would think this Mr. Kirk killed him,” said Uncle Dpap. “To get more business.”

“Maybe. If he is truly dead.”

Uncle Dpap did not particularly care for Luo. Except for his inability to find a new source of weapons and bullets, he would not have been disappointed in the least at his demise.

“If he is an arms dealer, why get us together?” asked Uncle Dpap. “What would be his benefit? To save a few dollars transporting the weapons?”

“He would be afraid of a price war, or of being ambushed,” said Tilia. “That was Luo’s concern as well. If he sold to all, yes, he could make more money.”

“But Luo didn’t try to gather us together.”

“Luo knew Sudan. This man—he is still feeling his way.”

“Yes. But he was confident.”

“Or if he is CIA, he might be working with the Egyptians,” said Tilia. “To counter the Iranians. That would not be bad for us.”

Uncle Dpap took the last screw from the back of the phone and edged it up carefully. The phone circuitry was printed on a single card. There was no bomb. It was possible that the phone line was tapped, but Mr. Kirk himself had said to use it only to contact him, and not to say anything. So what would the point of tapping it be?

Uncle Dpap didn’t know that much about cell phones, but unless he had been the man who designed this particular model, it was unlikely that he would have realized that the phone was actually bugged: what looked like a small magnet for the miniature speakerphone was already transmitting to the portable unit used by the other bugs in the town.

“You like this Mr. Kirk,” said Uncle Dpap, starting to put the phone back together.

Tilia blushed.

“You think I’m too old to notice things like that,” he continued, amused. He liked to tease the young woman, who was more like a son to him than the three he had. “His motives are not very important, except for this question—why would he want to deal with several groups together? That is our real question.”

Tilia recognized from his tone that he had come up with an answer.

“The answer could be that he is impatient,” continued Uncle Dpap. “As you say, he is afraid of competition, and being ambushed. But I think he has a very large amount of weapons and ammunition sitting somewhere that he must get rid of. To take the time to sell it piecemeal—you see he has us do all the work.”

“It may be.”

“And he is greedy. That, of course, goes without saying. Greed is impregnated in these men’s souls. It is a universal disease, but the men who sell weapons have it very strongly. It is one reason they do not live very long lives. Something to consider, Tilia.”

She straightened her back and lifted her shoulders, determined to remain stoic and not answer him.

“You will have to think of leaving your Uncle Dpap and the rest of your family sometime,” said Dpap, suddenly wistful. He looked over at her, admired her form. She had a regal face. In another time, she could have been queen.

“We have work to do,” she told him, her words and tone exactly echoing what he would have said had she suggested something silly.

Uncle Dpap chuckled and went back to the phone, screwing it together. When he was done, he handed it to her.

“There is another possibility we haven’t considered,” he said. “Perhaps it is the Iranians who are really behind this.”

“They back Colonel Zsar.”

“Yes. They give him much money. But Zsar has trouble bringing people to his side. If we joined with him, then he would have a good core force.”

“And Red Henri?”

Red Henri, in Uncle Dpap’s opinion, was a crazy man, not to be trusted to remain sane for more than a few minutes at a time. But his men were well-trained. They would be a valuable addition to any force.

Uncle Dpap had turned down several overtures from the Iranians. Their religion made him nervous.

But not as nervous as running out of ammunition did. The danger was not just from the government forces, but from the other rebel bands, who coveted his village and other resources.

“Red Henri would not join in an alliance with either of us,” said Uncle Dpap. “He is content to herd his goats in his own way. But Zsar we could deal with. Go to him and tell him about my meeting. Tell him I do not trust this Mr. Kirk, and do not recommend a meeting yet. But maybe he will give us all a good price. Tell him I am open to buying bullets for the best price. As I have always been.”

“If we tell Zsar that, he is sure to tell the Iranians.”

“Exactly.”