On Target

He’d just turned the spigot off and dried his hands on his coveralls when the navigator entered behind him. He nodded to the American and said, “Gennady is taking the girl to show her the plane.” Court could tell the navigator was not crazy about the idea, but the Russian just shrugged good-naturedly about it. “Vlady and I have a bet. I think he’s going to do her in the cockpit, Vlady says Gennady’s going to get his face slapped. You want in on the bet, friend?”

Unlike the navigator, Gentry had no intention of taking the pilot’s obscene breach of operational security in stride. He stormed past the thick man and out into the concourse. He saw the woman and Gennady walking towards the stairwell to the side exit, she with her backpack on her shoulder, he with his plate of food in his hand.

“For God’s sake,” Court said softly. He thought about grabbing Gennady by his mop of red hair, dragging him into a corner, and telling him he was going to call the Saint Petersburg mob, who had set up his mission in the first place. One call from Court, and Sid would have Gennady’s family thrown into a van in half an hour flat. Gennady would do what he was told if only Gentry dropped Sidorenko’s name.

Then Court saw the airport security officials, standing around bored behind a high counter.

Yes, this was the best option. He could impress upon the Sudanese that this UN do-gooder was hassling the secret flight of Russian armaments.

It would make trouble for the woman, no question about it, but only until he and the Russians got into the air. If she and her curiosity could just be held in check until wheels up, Court could be on his way and get this wasted day behind him.

Court’s operational security would remain in place, the woman from the UN would learn nothing that would impede this flight or his next flight in three days’ time, and the Russian aircrew would not learn anything they did not need to know about Gentry and his employers.

“English?” Court asked the bored young airport security policeman. The African shook his head, as did the man next to him.

“Francais?” Again, a shake of both heads.

“Okay,” said Court in English, before reluctantly switching to Arabic. “Asalaam Alaykum.”

“Wa Alaykum as-Salaam,” came the polite but officious-sounding reply from both men.

Court continued in Arabic. “I must speak to your superior.”

“What is the problem?”

“I am with Russian plane. There is small security problem.”

The policeman nodded, spoke softly into a handheld radio. Court could not understand the rapid Sudanese Arabic. The cop looked back up at Gentry. “Wait one moment.”

In under a minute two small-framed bearded men in black coats and ties appeared. One was probably not yet thirty, the other a decade or so older. Their suits were uniform; Gentry noticed the imprint of handguns on their hips, and he immediately suspected these men were from the National Security Service, the Sudanese secret police.

Oops. Thought Court. Not these assholes. He’d not intended to make that much fuss over the woman.

Both NSS men spoke English, and Court took the senior officer aside. He was small and wiry, and he wore thick glasses with frames too wide for his oval face. There was nothing menacing or threatening about him, but the fact was he and his subordinate held authority over all around. Security guards, airport officials, local police, even the Government of Sudan officers and enlisted men here knew to stay out of the way of the NSS.

Court said, “The woman. The white woman. Who is she?”

The man shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. “She is Canadian. We were told to not let her out of the airport grounds but not to arrest her. She is just UNAMID relief worker; all her papers are in order, except she did not have the stamp in her documents to allow her entry into Zam Zam camp.”

“I think she wants to make trouble for us.”

“She is not important; she is just a kawaga stuck here at the airport, waiting to go back to Khartoum.”

“A kawaga?”

“A white person. Sorry.”

“She is asking questions about the aircraft and the cargo.”

That got the NSS man’s attention. He seemed to put together the fact that the Rosoboronexport flight was not supposed to be in Darfur, and a Westerner was here, putting that very fact together herself. Court felt bad about turning the woman in to operatives of the National Security Service. They were tier-one assholes, Court knew. He’d hoped to just arouse the interest of airport security. But now, like it or not, the NSS was involved. If they acted on his information, she’d no doubt be detained for hours. Who knew, Court thought to himself, she might even get tossed out of the country if they were worried enough about her interest in the Russians.

No more passing out blankets and bottled water for her.

Still, he needed to get on with his mission; his mission was paramount, and he was not above using these NSS goons to help him shoo this annoying little bug out of his face.

The NSS man looked out the dirty window towards the runway. The daylight was fading fast, and the Il-76 was out of view, several hundred meters back off to the left. “Our orders were to keep any NGO flights away while you were on the ground. No one said anything about the people who were already here.” The man seemed worried about his own skin. This didn’t bother Court; it would certainly be a great motivator for him.

Court said, “I suggest you just take her into your office until we leave. She has not seen the cargo, she knows nothing. She has no idea we’re from Rosoboronexport.” Court wasn’t going to mention that she’d initially approached the Ilyushin and had all but begged to be allowed on board, as that might just invite more trouble for her than he needed her to face. No, a little concern on the part of this man was all that was required to defuse the situation and put the matter to bed. Gentry was beginning to feel confident that everything would work out just fine.

The man nodded somewhat appreciatively. “Okay. Yes, okay. We will have a talk with her.”

Ten minutes later the two NSS men escorted an extremely anxious looking but obedient Ellen Walsh into a small office off the main concourse of the terminal. Following them into the room were the Russian pilot and Court Gentry. Court had wanted to just board the aircraft with the crew and get the hell out of here, but Gennady had insisted on coming along for the woman’s interview with the NSS, and there was no way Gentry was going to let him do that by himself. Gennady was mad at the Sudanese for interrupting his seduction of the attractive woman, but he apparently thought that if he could help her in the questioning, to stand up to these third-world goons, then he’d have her swooning into his bed on his next flight into Khartoum.

But Court could tell the Russian was furious with him. They gave each other eat shit stares while they stood on either side of Walsh. Gennady obviously put together that the American had turned Ellen in to security. The Russian probably thought, Court guessed, that this was nothing more than a cock block borne out of the American’s jealousy at the Canadian woman’s interest in the Russian.

What a completely fucked-up day, thought Court as he stood there, exchanging threatening looks with Gennady. This better not get any worse.

The older NSS man, the one with the goofy glasses, spent a couple of minutes looking through Walsh’s belongings. Court thought it was just for show, but when he pulled out the black notebook Gentry had seen her thumbing through earlier on the tarmac, he began to worry. He hoped there wasn’t anything in there that would invite more trouble for the woman. The man leafed through the pages and stopped on a hand-drawn sketch and description of the Ilyushin aircraft. He looked up at the girl. “Why are you asking questions about this cargo flight? What is your interest in this aircraft?”

“I like airplanes. Is that a crime in your country?”

The man stared at her a long time. In a nation where few women are even allowed to work outside the