control. His eyes held Hienckel’s without emotion. He was clearly not Ethiopian, but Hienckel couldn’t tell if he was American, like Nuri, or a European returning to his homeland.
Did he trust him?
Of course not. But so long as he paid, there was no need for trust.
“I specialize in men who ask no questions,” he said. “Let us make the arrangements.”
18
The Toyota Land Cruisers shone like black diamonds in the desert sun, gleaming nuggets topped by a bar of yellow emergency lights and lined with chrome. The trucks had every conceivable option, including and most importantly a full complement of hired men, who flashed their Belgian-made MP5 submachine guns as they flew out the doors, forming a cordon for their boss as he exited the vehicle. They were dressed in identical khaki uniforms, no insignias. Their headgear consisted of a camo-style do-rag tied around their close-cropped scalps. Each had a pair of sunglasses, and a radio with an earphone and microphone discreetly tucked up his arm. And though they were standing only a few yards from each other, the men used only the radio to communicate.
“Clear,” said one of the bodyguards.
The front doors of the lead Land Cruiser popped open simultaneously. Danny Freah — known to the bodyguards as Mr. Kirk — stepped from the passenger side. His driver — Boston — came out of the other door, pistol in hand.
Way over the top, Danny thought. But the young soldiers who’d been lazing around near the front of the church had risen to their feet, staring with awe and envy.
Danny had always hated the cliches of American gangsta rap. To his mind, they glorified the worst misconceptions about black life, doing for honest African Americans what mafia stories did for Italian Americans. But the images conveyed power overseas, where they were taken as a blueprint for how outlaws should act.
And he was definitely acting the part of an outlaw — Mr. Kirk, a supposed renegade from America, or maybe Libya, or maybe parts unknown — with guns and ammunition to sell.
If the murmurs around him were any indication, his act was going over big.
“Where is Uncle Dpap?” said Danny, using an Arabic phrase he had carefully memorized. “I have a business proposition for him.”
A few of the older rebels exchanged glances. One headed toward the church door, where he was met by Commander John.
The guards at the northeastern end of town had alerted Uncle Dpap to the Land Cruisers and their occupants. The vehicles alone made it clear what the man was up to, and Uncle Dpap had told the guards to let them proceed.
“Who are you?” demanded Commander John.
“You can call me Mr. Kirk. I’m here to see your brother,” said Danny, still sticking to the script.
“My brother is not here.”
Danny had to wait for the Voice to translate.
“This is incorrect,” added the Voice, which was monitoring the bug Nuri had placed inside the headquarters two days before. “Uncle Dpap is working at his desk.”
Danny folded his arms in front of his chest. Nuri had told him that Commander John was likely to run interference. He was determined to show that he wasn’t intimidated by his bluster.
“What are you standing there for?” said Commander John. “Have you come here for business? If so, you will deal with me.”
“Where is Uncle Dpap?” Danny repeated.
“Deal with me,” said Commander John. Since being a tough guy wasn’t working, he decided to try a different tact. “Let us get something to drink.”
The computer translated, and when Danny didn’t immediately respond, suggested what he should say.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” offered MY-PID, first in English, then in Arabic.
“Where is Uncle Dpap?” insisted Danny. The computer’s response seemed too polite.
Commander John frowned, then walked into the store. He came out with a pair of Cokes and the storekeeper.
“Here,” he said, holding one out to Danny. “Would you like some other refreshment?”
Danny eyed the drink, then turned to Boston.
Boston took the drink, sipped, then handed it back to Danny.
“You don’t trust me?” said Commander John.
“No,” said Danny, in English.
The Voice gave him the word in Arabic, but Danny didn’t repeat it.
“You are English?” said Commander John.
“I am not a citizen of any country,” said Danny, first in English, then in the Arabic the computer offered.
“Sit, sit,” said Commander John, gesturing toward a table. “Come, let us talk.”
Danny shook his head.
“I speak only to Uncle Dpap,” he told Commander John, first in English, then in Arabic.
Commander John was so befuddled by the stranger that he didn’t even wonder why he was translating from English into Arabic if he spoke English. He noticed the earphone clipped into Danny’s ear, but thought it connected him to his security team. A device like the Voice belonged to the realm of fantasy as far as he was concerned.
“My brother will speak to you. But first, some refreshment. Drink.”
Commander John took a long guzzle from the bottle. Danny took a small sip. It wasn’t that he thought the rebel was trying to poison him. He just didn’t like cola.
“Your men should have something as well,” Commander John said. He gestured to the shopkeeper.
“My men are paid not to want anything,” said Danny loudly.
The members of the team — all mercenaries hired in Gambella — stiffened. A few were thirsty, but the outlaw arms dealer had already paid them the equivalent of three months’ wages, with the promise of three more at the end of the week.
Uncle Dpap had listened to the conversation from the door of the church. Deciding he’d heard enough, he signaled Tilia to accompany him and went outside. Pausing on the steps, he gazed across the street at his brother and the stranger.
Was this the answer to his prayers? Or an agent of the government?
If the latter, the man would not leave the village alive.
Three miles away, sitting in Abul’s bus, Nuri watched a laptop displaying the feed from one of the video bugs they’d stuck on the roof of the Land Cruisers. He was just far enough away not to be seen, but close enough to rally to Danny’s aid if things went bad.
Maybe. Flash and McGowan were with him, and while he had no doubt they were good at what they did, three against thirty was still pretty poor odds.
Danny seemed to be carrying off the charade fairly well, however. He was a natural for the part — the less he spoke, the more nervous the others became. And the more nervous they were, the greater his advantage.
To a point. If Uncle Dpap became so nervous he felt he was in danger, he might order his men to open fire. The trick was not to make him quite that nervous. But Danny seemed to have it well in hand. Nuri watched as Uncle Dpap swept his hand to the side, gesturing that Danny should accompany him.
“I’d rather stay in the sun,” said Danny. “I have nothing to hide.”
He’s good, thought Nuri. He almost has
“Where is this ammunition? You have it in your trucks?” demanded Uncle Dpap.
“I’m not stupid,” said Danny, in English. He let Tilia translate; the Voice indicated she was extremely
