On Target

Echo was the code name for the ruined treasury building in Old Suakin, which was an island of shattered coral and stone buildings connected by a causeway to el-Geyf, or the new town of Suakin, which lay on the mainland shore. Court had ignored the causeway; instead he put his shoes and pants and his pistol in a small backpack, slipped it around his neck, and then swam across the lagoon at its narrowest point, not more than five minutes in the crossing. The lagoon channel on the other side of the island was deeper and wider. He could see it in the distance under the light of a large but antiquated-looking prison on the far shore. Several small wooden fishing boats anchored in the water near the causeway; farther on, pleasure yachts moored in the black water, their generators lighting their bows and sails, powering stereos that blasted Western-style music, and no doubt providing electricity to kitchens on board more modern than anything in the darkened city beyond the reach of their mast lights.

On the ruined island of Old Suakin itself he was enveloped by darkness, save for dull illumination from a crescent moon. The wreckage of ancient coral rag buildings, erected in the twelfth century, back when this was a main port in North Africa, had deteriorated down to piles of rubble under majestic walls, stairs to nowhere, regal colonnades and columns alongside overgrown bushes and roads of dirt and broken stone. The only human inhabitants of the island were a few caretakers in wooden huts on the far side. The only other residents were four- legged. Court was nearly surrounded by cats before he’d made it fifty feet inland. He followed a path up a hill, kept low in the dark so as not to be seen, and the cats followed him on all sides. But they were quiet and stealthy like he was; other than an occasional rumbling purr, they did not give away the movement of this odd entourage. After another fifty yards Gentry approached the old treasury warily and heard a noise in the brush too big to be feline paws. He pulled a silenced Glock 19 from his pack, only to find himself staring down his sights at a kneeling camel chewing its cud lazily and staring back at him.

Court holstered his weapon and watched the building from between two large, felled coral pillars, his ears tuned to any noises other than the music from the boats in the distance, the camel behind him, and the cats all around. After a short time a penlight flicked on and off twice from the second story of the building, and Gentry rose and approached across a narrow dirt road.

The building was little more than a two-story facade, a spiral staircase in one corner, and a couple hundred square feet of flooring on the second level. Everything else—roof, side and rear walls, the rest of the second floor —was all in a huge pile of stones and ancient wood piled where the first floor should have been. At the bottom of the staircase Court saw Sierra Two, Zack’s second-in-command. The oldest in the Whiskey Sierra clan, Brad wore a salt-and-pepper beard and was dressed in local attire: a white turban on his head, a Kalashnikov cradled in his arms.

Sierra Two nodded, no friendliness whatsoever in the greeting. “Go on up,” he said.

The stone steps seemed stable enough, but Court saw proof all around that this structure hadn’t been built to last. He walked gingerly up the staircase, found Zack Hightower at the top in the southwest corner of the second floor, the only second-story corner of the building to have a floor. Zack sat cross-legged in the shadows, dressed and armed similar to Sierra Two. He’d grown a short beard in the past eight days but otherwise looked the same as he did in Saint Petersburg.

Gentry sat down next to him, and several cats wandered around them both. Zack scooted back farther into darkness, and Court followed him, until they could see one another no longer.

“You aren’t wet,” Court mentioned.

“We took a Zodiac from the yacht, came in on the dark side of the lagoon. The Hannah is anchored fifteen klicks to the northeast,” Zack said.

“In Sudanese waters?”

“Yep. We were boarded by a patrol boat and half-ass searched. They think we’re Aussies cruising up the coast of Africa, waiting on an engine part to be DHL’d into Port Sudan. We gave them beer and smokes and made friends.”

Court picked a black cat up off his leg, sent it on its way with a gentle toss towards the stairs.

“You been in town yet?” Zack asked as he tucked his butt closer to Court on the ruined flooring of the old building so he could talk softer. Their voices carried deceptively far in the night.

“Negative. You?”

Zack nodded. Court could just see the tip of his chin rise and lower. “Major hellhole. And I know hellholes. It’s got an Old West vibe to it. The only power in town is from generators. There is one paved surface in the city. All the other streets and alleys are hard-packed earth, donkey shit, goat shit, and camel shit everywhere you step. The buildings are made out of cracking limestone and coral, like this shit here. There isn’t a structure in the city that I couldn’t topple with a brickbat and a half hour. Probably seventy-five percent of the buildings are little huts, made with driftwood and tin and rusted-out fifty-five gallon drums.

“So, no hardened cover when it goes loud,” Gentry said, completing Zack’s obvious point for him.

“Shit, if it goes loud tomorrow morning, buildings are going to fall down on top of you from the sound waves.” Zack shrugged. Court heard the motion in the dark, but he could not see him in the shadows. “Which wouldn’t be so bad for the locals. This joint could do for some urban renewal.”

“Police presence?”

“Negligible during our recon. A few Chinese AKs on dudes in civilian dress patrolling around. Three or four pickup trucks and a couple of hundred-year-old cannon in front of the police station.”

“Cannon?”

“Just for decoration.”

Court nodded.

Zack said, “Just so you know, Sudan Station is still shitting bricks about your actions over in North Darfur. Everybody says Sierra Six has gone rogue; he’s pulling his own op four hundred miles away from his target. You really fucked up. I don’t hear from you for three days, and when I finally do, you don’t offer much explanation for all the bang bang in the desert.” He looked to Gentry for a reply.

“Yeah,” Court admitted with a sigh. “It got weird.”

Zack shrugged. “The White House is up Denny Carmichael’s butt to know what is going on. I share their concern.”

“I told you what happened.”

“This woman from the ICC. The Canadian. She can ID you?”

“She doesn’t know who I am.”

“Is she going to make trouble?”

“Maybe for me, down the road. But not for this op.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Court thought it over and said, “Yeah. I’m sure. She thinks I’m the epitome of evil . . . but she does believe that our interests coincide as far as whatever it is I’m up to here.”

Zack sat there in the dark for a long time. He seemed to let it go, albeit slowly. “Tomorrow at oh six thirty Abboud will leave the house where he’s staying. It’s a ten-mike walk to the mosque. It is five mikes to the square, one mike more to get him right in front of the bank building. The SLA will hit the square from the north at oh six thirty-six exactly.”

“They got watches?”

“Sudan Station says they do.”

“Whiskey Sierra isn’t in direct contact with the rebels?”

“Negative. Sudan Station has a case officer in town; he’s running the SLA.” He shrugged. Kind of a What’cha gonna do? look about the gesture. “I need you to be on your mark in the bank when the shit hits the fan.”

“Roger that.”

“When you snatch Oryx, take him one block south and eight blocks west of the back of the bank. There is a four-door black Skoda Octavia sedan in the parking lot of a brick-making factory. Sudan Station put it there, paid one of the kiln operators to spend the night on the hood to watch over it. Here are the keys.”

Court took them. He asked, “Where are you going to be between now and go time?”

“Me, Brad, Milo, and Dan are staying on the Hannah . We’ll be in place tomorrow