the country they were in, quite despite-or perhaps because of-French tutelage, had the distinction of being rated as the most corrupt country in the world, some years, and never better than seventh from the bottom.
Of course 'it's all the white's fault,' Labaan thought. Isn't that what all the black studies people said at the university? Except it isn't. Though conquered once, Ethiopia was never really colonized. It's a mess. 'The imperialists mixed up tribes and thus guaranteed conflict.' Which would seem to be true except that Rwanda and Burundi have the same tribal mix they had before the Euros showed up. They're the very definition of a mess. And of my own 'country,' the less said the better.
I'm barely old enough to remember the euphoria of decolonialization, though I've heard enough about it. I wonder if there's a man or woman in Africa who wouldn't prefer things to go back the way they were under colonialism? What did that expat Canadian cynic say? Ah, yes, I remember: 'By comparison with the sonofabitch system, colonialism is progressive and enlightened.'
And at least back then we could all get together in peace, love, and harmony in hating the whites. Now we only have each other to hate and fear. And to steal from, of course.
There was a youngish white man, tall, muscular, tanned, blonde, and bearded, waiting for the Kenya Airways flight as the hatch opened. The white's sweat-stained shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his navel.
Labaan took one look and thought, God . . . no! Not one of them, not here?
'Dude,' the white said, as Labaan reached the foot of the debarking steps, 'the plane . . . it's bogus . . . it's broken.'
God save me from Californians, Labaan thought. It wasn't enough to have to go to school with the mindless twits. Even here, without a surfable beach for over a thousand miles, they find me to blight my existence and insult their own language.
'And you are?' Labaan asked.
'Lance, dude.'
Of course. Lance. 'What's wrong with the plane, Lance?' he asked.
The California expat's real name was Roger. Since, however, he was acutely conscious of his origins, he went by 'Lance.' Lance threw his arms in the air and answered, 'Man, I dunno. I'm still trying to figure it out.'
I knew everything was going too well, Labaan thought, calmly. For the first time since beginning his mission he felt comfortable. This was Africa, after all, and things were not supposed to go well. Besides, God must have his little joke with us.
'How long to fix it?' Labaan asked.
'No clue, dude. Nobody here can do a fucking thing with it, and I mostly just fly 'em.'
'Of course' Labaan sighed. He began rubbing his forehead against the headache that was beginning to build. There are maybe three hundred kilometers of paved road in this country, he thought, and most of them are not between here and our next stop. Fuck.
Hmmm . . . we could hire some camels and drivers. And that would take weeks . . . .maybe months. That would be too late. The local airline would be a bad option. We can hardly trust our prisoner not to make trouble and if I inject him again nobody would let him on their flight. Rent a van, truck, or bus? I shudder. Stay here until the plane is fixed?
Labaan took another look at Lance. A rental vehicle it is.
Labaan sipped a coffee in a small shop overlooking the buses. His compatriots were with him. So was Adam, who had been tranquilized but not given anything else beyond that. Abdi had liberally sprinkled the boy with some imported brandy, enough so that he reeked of it. Labaan watched as the drivers of the various conveyances busied themselves with fixing luggage to the roofs of their vehicles even though there were no paying customers yet.
'What is all that?' he asked his waiter.
The waiter laughed, broad white smile showing in a friendly black face. 'The buses don't leave until they're full. So they put the fake luggage on to convince people that they're nearly full so that more people line up to get on their bus. In a strange way, it even works as those who are best at looking like they're ready to leave are most successful in getting people aboard so they can leave.'
'I see. And yes, I see how that could work.'
And I've no time to fuck around with this; I'll just rent the whole bus. The budget will cover that.
'Make sure the driver has the tank filled before you take off,' the waiter warned. 'Sometimes they'll deliberately run out of gas so they can take up a collection among the passengers.'
Labaan thought the driver's demand for rental of the bus to be outrageous.
'You think so, sir?' said the driver. 'Come with me.'
The driver then led him to the nearest gasoline station. Labaan took one look at the cost of a liter of fuel and said, 'I agree. Here to Abeche, at the price you quoted.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
The villainy you teach me I will execute,
and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.
-Shakespeare, 'The Merchant of Venice,'
Act III, Scene I
D-123, San Antonio, Texas
It was very late. While some of the crew could be heard arguing quietly, or in the case of Kosciusko and Gordo, not all that quietly, most were asleep. Phillie could hear still others typing on keyboards. She was amazed that any of them were still on their feet. She heard footsteps and looked up as Boxer descended the staircase.
'Well,' said Ralph, walking down the stairs, 'Victor's going to be a problem.'
Stauer, currently poring over a map with Wahab, looked up and asked, 'Why's that?'
'He's been caught and is in a Myanmar jail. Lox and Bridges are working on a complete report of the situation.'
'So much for Victor,' Stauer said. 'Now who replaces him?'
'Nobody,' Boxer answered. 'The only other one who both could have and would have, Israel Efimovich, is in an Italian jail. And that Yemeni I mentioned is too much of an unknown quantity.'
'Well that sucks moose cock. Suggestions?' Wes asked.
'Spring one of them. I'd recommend Victor, in part because he's better at his job than Efimovich, in part because his operation is probably much more intact, and in part because a Myanmar jail has to be easier to spring
