Nothing but the man’s lips moved. Court had seen vending machines with more lifelike qualities than this informant. “I am in a dangerous position, meeting you, helping the FSB with this. It is now much more dangerous than when I agreed. I want more money before I proceed.”
Court wasn’t buying it. In Gentry’s experience it was the rule not the exception that an informant would ask for more money at the last moment. They often insisted that matters had become more complicated as a means to this end. As far as Court was concerned, this man’s main use had been to drive him from Khartoum to Suakin, and since Court had not needed that particular service, he didn’t really give a shit whether Sid or the FSB paid the man or not. Still, he’d come tonight to see if the cop could be of any use at all.
It was already looking like this man was not worth the trouble.
“I don’t have any money.” It was a lie, but Court didn’t feel like blowing his stash of cash on this son of a bitch. “If you have information valuable to me, I’ll tell my superiors you were helpful.”
The stone-faced man pulled over and parked the car. It was pitch-black on all sides of the vehicle, and the headlights shone on the dust cloud created by the car’s tires. Mohammed looked into Court’s eyes. Court hoped he appeared as dark and threatening as this asshole. “That is not enough.”
“Then I guess we’re done. I’ll tell the FSB you changed your mind. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon enough.” Court made like he was going to get out, but he knew what was coming.
“Wait.”
Court settled back down in his cracked leather seat. His pistol dug into his right hip as he did so.
“There are new developments in Suakin.”
Court thought he was about to hear another spiel about danger to justify Mohammed’s desire for more money. He sighed, but the informant’s next comment got his attention.
“I thought Abboud would only arrive with his regular security detail. Twenty-five men or so. Normally when he comes, that is all. Yes, there are always more up at Port Sudan—they stay with his helicopter—but when he comes to Suakin, usually it is just the twenty-five guards.”
“So . . . what’s different this time?”
“The NSS arrived this afternoon.”
“The secret police are here?”
“Correct.”
“How many?” Court looked down to his hands. He picked at his fingernails.
“I saw five men.” Then the man in the shadows said, almost as an afterthought, “But there is a lot of military in town, also. You need to watch out for them.”
“What’s a lot?”
“A company, at least. Infantry.”
This made Gentry look up at the driver again. “Any idea why?”
“They say a group of rebels has been tracked to a farm outside of town.”
In an instant, Court knew the CIA operation had been compromised.
“Rebels?”
“Yes. SLA. It is strange. They have never operated this far to the east.”
“Any idea how many SLA?”
He waved an arm, his first gesticulation. “Not many. Just a dozen men or so.”
A dozen. Zack had initially promised one hundred, then cut that to thirty-five. Now Court’s most solid intel on the subject was that the real number was twelve. He didn’t blame Zack; surely if Sierra One knew his proxy fighters were such an impotent force, he wouldn’t have gone this far with the op. No, Court had seen this kind of deteriorating math before. He blamed the local CIA office, Sudan Station, for overpromising and underdelivering. There probably never were going to be a hundred SLA in Suakin; thirty-five was their best guess, and now it was clear that Sudan Station’s best guess sucked.
A dozen SLA, already compromised to the local authorities, weren’t going to fool anyone. If the attempt to kidnap the president went forward now, the army would roll up the pathetic little force of rebels in a matter of minutes.
Court could still assassinate the president for Greg Sidorenko, but kidnapping him for the CIA was out of the question without the rebel attack. It was obvious to Gentry now that Zack and his mission would be aborted.
“So I want more money to help you tomorrow.”
Court needed to talk to Zack before he even knew if there would
“I have two thousand euros.”
“I want ten.”
Court paused. It wasn’t his money, he couldn’t care less what this man was paid, but he’d been bargaining for one thing or another in the Third World for most of the past fifteen years, and he knew what he was doing.
He nodded. “Three now, three after.” Six grand was probably three times what this creepy bastard made in a year. Assuming the Russians had already agreed to pay him that much or more, this clown was making a serious chunk of change.
Mohammed looked at Gentry a long time. Finally he pulled the car back into the street and began driving. “Agreed.”
He and Court discussed arrangements for several minutes as the Mercedes inched around the town. Court tried to reconnoiter while they talked by looking out the grimy windows, but he could not make heads or tails of the confusing streets and dirt alleyways.
Finally Mohammed pulled over again. Court was surprised to find himself right where he’d been picked up a half hour before. The policeman said, “Tomorrow morning I will be at the agreed upon location at the agreed upon time. I will take you to a house in Khartoum where you can wait until it is safe to go to the airport.”
Gentry reached into his front pocket and pulled out a band-covered roll of euros. It was Sid’s money, of course; the CIA hadn’t given him any cash.
Court made it back to his overnight hide at eleven o’clock. He checked to make sure nothing in his packs had been disturbed, and he opened a tepid bottle of water and drank it down. Then he picked up the Hughes Thuraya and made a call.
Zack answered on the third ring. “Just getting some beauty sleep, Six; this better be good.” Hightower spoke sleepily.
“You need to abort Nocturne Sapphire. The rebels are compromised.”
When Hightower spoke again, he was wide awake. “Says who?”
“Says the FSB informant. He’s a local cop. A crew of NSS and a company of GOS infantry is in town because a dozen SLA were tracked here.”
“A dozen?”
“Roger that.”
“
“His intel seems solid.”
There was a long break. “Fucking Sudan Station.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Local CIA either exaggerated the shit out of the SLA’s ability to get men into the theater, or—”
“Or the SLA lied, fudged the numbers to get a pay-check from Uncle Sam. And then they go and get their bush-league asses compromised!”
“Fuckers.”
“Roger that.” Sierra One’s chuckle came out of Court’s phone. “Never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Sidorenko and his local contact.”
“Yeah, right? This could have been messy.”
“Let me call this in to Denny.”
“Tell him you need to abort.”
