Grabbing the bike by the handlebars, he swung into the seat, simultaneously attempting to kick-start the ancient Honda in a single motion. It coughed… nothing. Cursing, he shouted to the defector to climb on behind him as he tried again. On the third try, the engine finally sputtered to life. With Xi Lin’s arms wrapped tightly around his ribcage, Corbett gave the motorbike gas then stabbed it in gear. Pointing it along the rutted alley that stretched between the makeshift hovels of scrap wood, wire and corrugated steel that passed for dwellings, he raced for the outskirts of the slum where the USAID four-wheel drive ambulance would be waiting. The motorcycle leaped ahead, fishtailing through the mud and garbage as it fought for traction. An instant later they were in the street, Corbett urging the bike beneath his breath, “Come on, come on, come on….”
Narrowly avoiding a body in the road, he steered the motorbike past the chaos and the carnage. An agonizing half-mile later, he finally spotted the camouflaged four-by-four, a large Red Cross insignia painted on its doors, parked at the side of the road. Going full throttle, he headed for it. Hearing the sound of the motorbike, a dark-skinned woman in her thirties wearing fatigues and a U.N. armband rushed out to assist getting Xi Lin off of the bike and into the back of the vehicle. By the time she turned back, Corbett was already headed back the way he’d come.
A member of the Chinese trade delegation to Kenya, Xi Lin had passed the word through channels that he possessed significant intel which he was willing to trade for cash plus transport and asylum in the West. The assignment to exfiltrate him had fallen to Corbett and a second agent, Jon Alesander. This was not the first time the two men had worked together. Only this time things had gone sideways. Delayed by the rioting, Alesander had failed to make it to the rendezvous.
Having been friends since they had met at Oxford, Corbett refused to abandon his American compatriot. Racing back to find him before the paramilitary police did, he was keenly aware that as “muzungus” – Swahili for white men – both were now among the hunted.
Speeding past the war-ravaged slums. Shacks on fire. The pungent odor of putrefying garbage, cadavers and human waste choked the air. An acrid smell of burning tires cauterized his nostrils. The sheer squalor was overpowering. Kibera was burning. Reacting to the sound of an Uzi off to his right, Corbett cornered hard sending the motorbike down a narrow passageway.
At the same time, three blocks away, Jon Alesander, staggered through the rubble of a burned-out storefront. Blue paint peeling. Panes of broken glass beneath a corrugated roof. Clutching his Leica in his left hand, his right held a bloody handkerchief pressed hard against the cut above his ear. Just ahead, he spotted a green door and threw his shoulder against it. The doorjamb splintered, leaving barely enough room for him to slip through, tearing his shirt as he forced his way into the smoke-filled street. Caught in the limbo between panic and pain, Alesander glanced quickly to his right. Fifty yards up the road, three mounted Kenyan paramilitary policemen in camouflage fatigues and crimson berets were riding his way, firing their machine pistols at anything that moved. Quickly backpedaling, he spun and ran in the opposite direction. Turning down the first passageway on his right, he stumbled. Quickly regaining his feet, he forced himself ahead as bullets ricocheted off the corrugated roof above his head.
Gunning the motorcycle through the burning streets, Corbett rounded the next corner and skidded to a stop. There not twenty feet away a half dozen crimson berets had set up a checkpoint. Glancing up, one of the policemen caught his eye and motioned him forward. Ignoring the command, Corbett jerked the bike in the opposite direction and took off. Drawing his weapon, the policeman opened fire. As bullets pounded into the wall behind him, Corbett guided the motorcycle into a narrow gangway and raced back between the rundown shacks. Reaching the next street, he hesitated, peering first to his left, then right. A moment later, he spotted Alesander, clothes torn, face covered in blood and grime, careening across the fetid road.
“Jon…!” he shouted as he unslung the MP-5, “Over here!”
Hearing his name, Alesander’s head turned in Corbett’s direction. Seeing him straddling the Honda and beginning to lay down covering fire, Alesander half-grinned. “About fucking time…” he whispered beneath his breath as he ran toward the motorbike. Raising his voice, he deadpanned: “Want to stop for a beer…?”
“Fuck the beer… let’s go…!”
Re-slinging the automatic across his back, Corbett pivoted the bike while motioning to Alesander to jump on behind. At the same time, two mounted policemen came charging pell-mell into the street, opening fire as they came.
“Come on, goddamnit… we’ve gotta move!”
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’…”
Running hard, legs pumping, teeth clenched, Leica still gripped in his left hand, Alesander raced for the bike. Powerless to do more, Corbett stared, unable to move or turn away.
The first bullet struck Alesander in the back between his shoulder blades. Staggering, arms flailing, he kept coming. Arms akimbo. Legs like rubber.
His face filled with anguish, Corbett struggled to turn the bike around, to get closer, but the engine stalled. Cursing, he kick-started it again as a second round cut into Alesander’s left leg above the knee causing him to stumble forward. The third blew the back of his head off sending him sprawling face-down in the mud. As the bullets
