milling about the terminal from getting near enough to the unmarked cargo plane to see something they shouldn’t. Still, Gennady and his flight crew were invited by the Sudanese to enjoy the comforts of the terminal while they waited for the plane to be unloaded and refueled.
After the Sudanese had wandered off, Gentry asked Gennady to keep his men on the aircraft. From a security perspective, Court saw no benefit in the Russian men wandering among civilians. But the pilot was in charge, not the stowaway, and he told his men they would be wheels up in three hours and would need to be back to the aircraft in two, but until then they could do as they pleased.
Twenty minutes later Court and the Ilyushin’s flight crew stepped out of the oppressive late afternoon heat and into a stairwell at a side entrance to the terminal’s concourse. Court almost stayed behind himself, but he wanted to keep his eyes on the Russians to make sure they behaved themselves. He did not have any gear with him at all. His gun remained back on the plane in his pack. He had no idea what security measures he might find here and did not want to run the risk of getting frisked by some local version of the TSA. Only his wallet full of euros, rubles, and Sudanese pounds bulged the lines of his olive-drab flight suit. The stairs led up one level into a nearly empty concourse, smaller than a typical American supermarket. A few locals milled about, and GOS soldiers sat on the floor or strolled around with their assault rifles hanging upside down off their backs. The flight crew, with their secret foreigner hidden in with them, found the bathrooms and used them, then found the tiny restaurant and sat down. A waiter who proclaimed himself Egyptian, as if these Russians cared, energetically greeted the men and passed around menus. None of the Russians spoke Arabic. Court, on the other hand, had spent more than enough time in the Arab-speaking world to order a meal, but he held his tongue. He was not about to differentiate himself from the rest of the flight crew by becoming their translator.
Gennady ordered for the table. He’d been here in Al Fashir many times before, which, Gentry realized, should not have come as a surprise. Flagrant disregard for international sanctions by the government of an African despot was de rigueur, as was the Russians’ eagerness to benefit from it, as was the United Nations’ shock and outrage each and every single time that they became aware of it.
While they waited for their food, Court’s eyes continued scanning the environment. They were still adjusting to the low light inside the terminal compared to that on the tarmac. He looked back over his shoulder down the hallway and cringed inwardly.
“Excuse me. Do any of you gentlemen speak English?” Ellen smiled broadly, directing her question towards the pilot as she knelt next to him at the head of the table. She could tell he was in command by his countenance and bearing; he sat erect at the table full of men in sweat-soaked jumpsuits.
There were five men in the flight crew; all wore matching green uniforms, no names or emblems or markings of any kind. None of the men were particularly military looking in their hairstyles or fitness levels, but Ellen knew better than to draw too many conclusions too quickly. These could be military pilots working for Rosoboronexport or former Russian military. Either way, it didn’t matter.
“Yes, I speak a little bit.” The redheaded pilot smiled at her, then slowly and suggestively, he looked her up and down. Ellen realized his actions were for the amusement of his colleagues; she knew she was not much of a sight to behold at this moment. Immediately she determined the man to be a pig, but she also told herself she could use this distraction of his to her advantage. Some of the other men leaned in closer to her, as well.
“Great,” she said with a wide, friendly smile designed to put the men at ease, although they surely didn’t seem on guard. “Ellen Walsh, United Nations.” It was a lie, but it was delivered without a batted eyelash. “I sure am glad to see you boys. I’ve been stuck here at Al Fashir for three days. I’m looking for transport out of here, Khartoum, Port Sudan . . . at this point I’d go just about anywhere just to get out of this terminal. I’d be happy to pay you cash for the trouble, and I’m sure my office could work it out with your employer.”
The lecherous pilot clearly didn’t understand every word. His head cocked a couple of times. She knew she was speaking a little fast; the pace of her words seemed to follow along with her elevated heart rate.
“Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Join us for dinner first, please, and we will discuss this.”
“Delighted.” Ellen sat, smiled, but she could tell this guy wasn’t going to let her fly on his plane. He was stringing her along for personal reasons.
She knew now that a flight out on this mysterious aircraft was too much to hope for, but she would string this bastard right along as well, to see if she could glean information from him or even just get a closer glimpse at the Ilyushin or its cargo.
Two could play the game he was playing. She leaned in close to him.
“What do you mean, what am I doing?” replied Gennady in Russian. “I am asking this lovely woman to have dinner with us.”
“You must not allow her on the aircraft,” Court said flatly, straining his Russian abilities to do so.
Gennady looked at him and replied, “You do not tell me who I can and cannot allow on my plane. I don’t know who you are, but I know who
Court looked away. His eyes drifted back out over the concourse. Turning away from what was beginning to look more and more like a fucking mess in the making.
The Canadian woman introduced herself as Ellen. She shook each man’s hand with a smile. Court did not make eye contact when he shook her hand limply and grunted out the name “Viktor.”
“So, where are you guys from?”
“We are Russian,” said Gennady.
“Russian. Wow. Neat.”
Court turned to study the woman’s face carefully now, like an art student studying the brushstrokes of an oil painting on a museum wall.
“What brings you gentlemen to Darfur?”
“What is your job with UN?” the Russian pilot asked warily, responding to a question with a question and not exactly “playing cool” in Court’s eyes.
The woman smiled at the Russian, asked him to repeat himself, though Court sensed she understood him well. Gentry was trained to look for clues in the limbic system, the part of the brain that controls subconscious actions. Court knew how to discern the movements and expressions and postures that were indicators of deception. This woman glanced away quickly to the right when asked what she did, and to Court this was a signal that she was going to attempt to deceive with the next words out of her mouth. That she delayed by asking him to repeat himself was only more indication that a deceptive or untrue answer was being prepared and would soon be on the way.
Finally she replied, “Oh, I’m just an administrative officer for relief supplies.” She shrugged her shoulders, “Logistics and such. Nothing very interesting.” Her right arm reached across her body and rubbed her left arm.
Bullshit, thought Court. Gennady, on the other hand, seemed eased by her air of nonchalance.
“Yes. Well, we bring oil equipment into Darfur,” the pilot said as the Egyptian waiter brought steaming cups of tea to the table.
Court wasn’t satisfied with Gennady’s answer; he’d much prefer he’d said it was none of her business. But at least he didn’t say he was schlepping in tons of belt-fed machine guns and ammo.
The woman seemed perplexed, and Gentry’s built-in trouble meter flickered higher up the dial.
“I see,” she said, but her body language indicated that she did not. A micro-expression on her face revealed
