“To this Tina.”
“Yes.”
Milo heard the scratch-scratch of a pencil on paper. Finally, the man said, “This is an ultimatum?”
“Yes.”
“And so what is the then? If this is not done, then…?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have a rich imagination.”
Scratch-scratch. “Is that everything? I was prepared for a longer report.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. Tell him that I’m not trusted yet.”
The man went silent, and Milo waited for more scratching, but he only flushed his toilet, unlatched the door, and left the bathroom. Milo flushed his own toilet and went upstairs to the pool terrace, feeling the Adderall tweak his blood flow and brighten his eyes. The fresh sea air was inviting. He took a lounge chair away from the pool and ordered apple juice from a waiter. Now, after ten thirty, the terrace was only sparsely populated. Most of the guests were having late dinners or turning in, and so when the European couple arrived they stood out. He saw them whisper to one another and make their way to the opposite side of the pool and talk briefly to the waiter. They settled down, the tall blond woman in a slim gown, wrapped in a shawl to protect her bare shoulders from the night breeze, the shorter dark-haired man in a semiformal suit with casual shoes. The man made no pretense of not knowing who Milo was, watching him carefully as he took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one. The woman was typing intently on her BlackBerry. Finally, she sent her message and laid the phone on the tiles beside her.
He had done it, had gained some small measure of control, and this little victory pleased him. He thought of Alan, also under Xin Zhu’s thumb, taking control by starting to smoke, and this reminded him that he hadn’t had a Nicorette in over a day, but he felt no withdrawal. Control, again.
He was starting to get up, to return to the bathroom for another meeting, when Leticia leaned down to kiss his cheek. She was wearing a long summer dress and flat shoes, along with a black fabric shoulder bag. He felt envious-his own clothes were feeling stiff and unclean. “You missed a glorious shower,” she told him.
He raised his apple juice as an offering. She leaned down and took a sip as he tilted the glass, his hand twitching from the rush of amphetamines. She straightened, licked her lips, and said, “Well, we wouldn’t have had time for much more than a quickie. Come see the water with me.”
She reached a hand to him, and he took it, climbing to his feet. Together, they left the pool area, and she reached an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. “You saw them?”
“I did.”
“There’s a reason I don’t know the word ‘worry.’ ”
On the way out of the hotel, she stopped in the lobby bathroom and reemerged covered in a long abaya and hijab, all black. She gave him a wink, and they headed out. Together, they went down to the beach and then north, past couples and groups of young men sitting in their robes in the sand, toward a tall obelisk of spheres topped by a crescent moon. They remained on the beach, though, and from the folds of her clothing Leticia pulled out a touch- screen cell phone and watched the scrolling numbers on it as she walked. Her GPS led them to a section of sand above the tide line, where she said, “Dig, boy.”
It didn’t take long to uncover the plastic oar and the wide, flat piece of folded rubber that was an inflatable raft. To his relief, there was also a small, battery-powered air pump. He carried everything down to the water, and while Leticia performed lookout, he filled the boat as quietly as possible and pushed it, bobbing, into the sea. The warm water soaked his pants. Leticia took off her shoes and raised her abaya to her hips, then walked into the water and rolled, on her back, into the boat. He pushed it out until the water was at his chest before climbing in beside her and taking the oar.
When they reached the darkened fishing boat forty minutes later, he was exhausted again. It was a cabin cruiser, about thirty feet long, humbly rusted. The captain was an old Egyptian named Ibrahim Fekry who had first helped the CIA as a teenager, during the Suez Crisis of 1956-Milo learned this in the first few minutes of their acquaintance, listening to his singsong French. He had scarred features, skin blackened by decades of sunburns, and a face that was in a perpetual state of animation. He looked younger than his seventy years. Most importantly, though, he had papers to allow him to fish freely in this part of the Red Sea.
He was immediately taken by Leticia, calling her “my Nubian princess,” and she warmed to the attention. Quietly, Fekry asked Milo if he had slept with her yet, but Leticia’s hearing was sharp. “He refused,” she called from the bow, “even though I offered.”
Disbelief spilled into Fekry’s face, followed quickly by disgust. He didn’t speak to Milo again for the rest of the journey.
Again relying on Leticia’s phone, they reached a spot from where they could see, in the clear blackness, lights from two countries. There was the myriad of colors from Saudi Arabia, and only occasional dim white clusters from Sudan. To the north and south, they spotted boats moving gradually along, as if no one were in a hurry. As they waited, Leticia told Milo to keep his mouth shut. “You’re here to look like my boss, and that’s how I’m going to spin it. I don’t know how they would deal with a woman on her own, and I’m not interested in finding out. We’ll be talking in English, but you won’t say a word. Ibrahim?”
Fekry worked open a crate and handed Milo a 9 mm Bernardelli pistol. Milo checked the safety, put a round into the chamber, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Her contact arrived late, just after two thirty, in a bright red speedboat that shook the peaceful night. Three men, two in simple robes, the driver had a Kalashnikov strung over his back, while a heavyset man beside the motor held his Kalashnikov up to his shoulder, aimed at their boat. Between them sat a man in dark brown Sudanese robes, a jelabiya, hands crossed in his lap, waiting as they killed the engine.
All three were richly black, and as they approached Milo could only see eyes and the occasional flash of teeth as they spoke to each other. In English, the driver called, “You’re in Sudanese waters!” His syllables pounded like hammer blows.
Fekry muttered something that sounded like an Arabic curse as he backed to the far side of his boat. Milo didn’t like this either.
“I’m in Sudanese sand,” Leticia called back-it was a recognition code. “Put those guns away.”
“You,” said the driver, pointing a long finger at Milo, “you’re not supposed to be here.”
“If he’s not convinced,” Leticia said, “you get nothing.”
The man in the brown robes cocked his head, then spoke to his men in Arabic, and they both relaxed. Then he stood up without faltering as the speedboat rocked beneath his feet and, with a voice nothing like his driver’s, said, “Aasalaamu Aleikum.”
“Wa-Aleikum Aassalaam,” Leticia answered. Milo said nothing.
“Do we remain in our places?” the man asked. His accent had a touch of London to it.
“I’m not going down there,” said Leticia.
“So be it,” he said and settled down again. “You are interested in helping us push out the Chinese who support our enemy’s government. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Leticia. She was leaning forward against the gunwale, speaking quietly.
“It’s an interesting proposition,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve discussed it-in a limited way. Our primary issue is that it would take place outside of our country. Khartoum is our natural enemy, not Beijing.”
So there it is, Milo thought. Out in the open.
Leticia said, “Beijing is supplying Khartoum with weapons and money. Chinese advisors are teaching the Janjaweed how to better kill your people. The UN arms embargo means nothing to Beijing.”
The man just stared at her, waiting.
She said, “Without Chinese support, al-Bashir will fall. You know this. An attack on Khartoum might wound him, but it would never crush him. This way, you can deliver a greater blow without laying waste to Sudanese people.”
“Which is the very point,” he said, beginning to sound exasperated. “We know this-it’s why I’m talking to you now. The risks, though, are immense.”
“Bigger than the long-term risks of losing this war?”
“We’ll be heading back to the negotiation table soon.”
“Only a fool believes what that government signs.”
The man looked from Leticia down to his hands in the folds of his robe. “I have one question for you before
