“You will kill him or he will kill you. He will kill me,” said Abul.
“You come this way a lot?” said Danny.
Abul had already resolved that he would never drive this way again, but that was irrelevant. The soldiers were fierce and predatory; they would certainly want revenge for this sort of embarrassment.
“I don’t know, Colonel,” said Boston. “Abul may be right. They aren’t going to interpret mercy as a good thing here.”
Danny looked into the soldier’s face. He fully expected to die.
“How old are you?” he asked.
The soldier had no idea what he was saying.
“Abul?”
Abul translated. The man simply shrugged. He wasn’t able to answer the question accurately, and would not talk to a devil for anything. It was one thing to lose his life — everyone did, some more quickly than others — and a much different thing to lose his soul, which he knew would last forever.
“Get the door, Boston,” said Danny.
“Mr. Rock,” said Abul, appealing to Boston. “To let him go now — foolish.”
“So was not paying him,” said Danny. He hauled the kid to his feet and pointed the gun toward his groin.
“You remember me. My name is Kirk,” he told him, using one of his aliases. “Kirk. You screw with me, next time I blow these off.”
He jammed the gun hard enough to make the kid suck wind.
Boston opened the door at the back. Danny pushed him out.
“Go,” Danny told the driver. “Get us the hell out of here.”
9
While Danny Freah was deciding how to best impress the Sudanese army that he was not a man to be messed with, Nuri Abaajmed Lupo was another two hundred and some miles to the south, doing his best not to be noticed by one of the army’s most ferocious opponents, a rebel by the name of General Mohamed Henri Wani — Red Henri, in the local slang, because of his red hair and his unusual French given name.
Nuri had traveled to a village some fifty miles west of the base camp, intending to be back before Danny and Boston arrived. But talk in town that Red Henri was coming had enticed him to bug the small bar-restaurant-inn that served as the village’s main hangout. He’d no sooner gotten the bugs placed when two of Red Henri’s bodyguards showed up at the door, effectively sealing everyone inside for the duration of their leader’s visit.
As an outsider, Nuri was immediately suspect. He was dressed in the loose white garb worn by nearly everyone else in the village. His stubble beard and swarthy skin made him look Arab, like about thirty percent of the population. But the population was so sparse that locals knew instantly who fit and who didn’t, and their glances toward Nuri gave him away to the two bodyguards.
Nuri told them enthusiastically that he had been hired to help a scientific team looking for dinosaurs in the foothills nearby. It was the same story he’d told the cafe owner and everyone he’d met. The bodyguards — two boys barely fourteen — weren’t very impressed.
“Sit there,” said the taller one, pointing to a small wooden chair near the side of the room. “Hand over your gun.”
Nuri handed over his AK-47. Few men traveled without weapons here, and the rifle raised no extra suspicions from the bodyguards.
The question for Nuri was whether to hand over either of his pistols. He finally decided that he would give up his Glock, and lifted his long shirt to reveal its holster.
“Why do you have a pistol?” asked the tall bodyguard. “These monsters you dig up — they are dangerous?”
Anywhere else in the world, the comment would have been meant as a joke. But the rebels were uneducated and largely naive about anything beyond their limited experience. They also tended not to joke with strangers.
“Yes,” said Nuri, his voice grave. “Some men have been killed by them. The medicine is very strong.”
“You should have the general protect you,” said the bodyguard, meaning Red Henri.
“It would be a great honor.” Nuri bowed his head. All he could do was hope that the young man would forget the suggestion.
Red Henri had gotten his nickname as a young man, when his hair was red. It had since thinned and turned gray, but for many of his victims the adjective remained an appropriate reference to the blood on his hands. Like many of the rebel leaders, he called himself a general, but the highest rank he had held in the Sudanese army was corporal.
After the sun set, Nuri thought the visit would be canceled and they would be let free. But darkness had no effect on Red Henri’s itinerary. They all continued to wait, bored and barely awake.
Finally, about twenty minutes after midnight, an ambulance siren sounded in the distance. The guards immediately snapped to attention, prompting everyone in the place to rise and stand. The proprietor, a short man with caved-in cheeks and a right ear that looked as if it had been bitten off, rubbed his hands nervously by the door.
The siren grew louder. A blue flashing light stroked the darkness outside. The guttural roar of mufflerless trucks and a heavy bass beat vibrated the walls and floor of the house. Nuri couldn’t place the beat until the motorcade pulled up in front. It was the bass line of an American rap song, an obscure Beastie Boys tune more than two decades old.
Red Henri traveled with the core of his army, about two hundred strong, most of them packed into the backs of old pickup trucks. They spread out around the town, posting themselves as lookouts and rousting any of the residents who had fallen asleep after the arrival of the advance party.
All twenty-three of his personal bodyguards — he considered the number, which could only divided by itself and one, a strong omen of success — jumped from the troop truck that rode in front of his Chinese-made Hummer knockoff. They formed a phalanx around their general, who waited for his aides riding in the ambulance at the head of the convoy. As his communication czar approached — that was the man’s title — Red Henri pointed at him. The communications czar shook his head and held up his BlackBerry. Red Henri frowned; he liked getting messages on the device, though he never answered them.
Entourage assembled, the rebel leader swept toward the house. The men inside, who’d been standing at attention the entire time, strained to stand even straighter as his first soldiers came in.
The rebel army’s dress was a collection of different castoffs. Some wore uniforms purchased from Kenya, a sometime ally. Others wore civilian clothes donated by charity groups in Europe and the U.S. who thought they were helping the needy. The handful of former Sudanese soldiers wore the uniforms they had deserted in.
All of Red Henri’s bodyguards dressed in baggy khaki pants and white T-shirts, with red scarves tied around their closely shaven skulls. To a Western eye — an American one especially — they looked more like television or movie “gangstas” or wannabe gang members from a decade before. This was not a coincidence. Red Henri had been inspired by music videos when he established the uniform; he loved American rap, gangsta and otherwise.
At six-ten, Red Henri dominated a room, even a crowded one like the one Nuri was trapped in. The rebel extended his arms as he swept in, greeting everyone as if he was joining a party in progress. The owner of the house cowered at the side, then tried to kiss his hand as he came near. Amused, Red Henri waved him off, asking for something to drink.
Nuri had never seen Red Henri this close before, and while he wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, he couldn’t stop himself from staring as he made mental notes. Red Henri’s face was baby smooth, unmarked by either care or disease. He’d been shot many times over the decade that he had fought, but none of those wounds were visible beneath the white track suit he wore. He had the air of a politician, and the self-assurance a phalanx of
