“A trick. Europeans are very tricky.”
“He’s not European,” said Tilia. “His accent is American.”
“I think he’s British,” said Commander John.
“He was trying to disguise where he was from,” said Tilia. “He is most likely CIA.”
“Maybe,” said Uncle Dpap, picking apart the slide group and barrel.
“Why would the CIA help us?” Commander John asked. As pretty as she was, he resented Tilia for sounding too much like a know-it-all.
Satisfied that the gun was not booby-trapped, Uncle Dpap reassembled it. He had never owned a Beretta, and knew of the weapon mostly by reputation. It was used by NATO and the Americans, a good recommendation.
Commander John reached for it. Uncle Dpap slapped his hand.
“I just want to try it,” said John. “Maybe it is defective. You shouldn’t be the one to test it.”
Uncle Dpap loaded the magazine, slapped it into the pistol butt, then handed the weapon to his brother. “Go outside. Make sure you are not near anyone.”
“You don’t have to treat me like a child,” said Commander John, though in fact he was gleeful at the prospect of trying the new weapon. “Should I call the others in?”
“Not yet.”
Uncle Dpap reached down to the lowest drawer in his desk and took out a small pencil case filled with tools. He sorted through them and retrieved a small screwdriver, then began dismantling the phone.
“You think he was CIA?” he asked Tilia.
“Very likely.”
“Why would the CIA help us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to ambush us.”
“To what purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he is CIA and not a dealer, he is trying to get us to ally together. Why would that help them?”
She thought for a few moments. There were no obvious reasons. Every American who came through the area, even the relief workers, was assumed to be working for the CIA, though Tilia knew this was rarely the case.
“We had science visitors the other day,” she noted. “And now this one. The man who was our main source of ammunition dies, and now these men show up.”
“I would think this Mr. Kirk killed him,” said Uncle Dpap. “To get more business.”
“Maybe. If he is truly dead.”
Uncle Dpap did not particularly care for Luo. Except for his inability to find a new source of weapons and bullets, he would not have been disappointed in the least at his demise.
“If he is an arms dealer, why get us together?” asked Uncle Dpap. “What would be his benefit? To save a few dollars transporting the weapons?”
“He would be afraid of a price war, or of being ambushed,” said Tilia. “That was Luo’s concern as well. If he sold to all, yes, he could make more money.”
“But Luo didn’t try to gather us together.”
“Luo knew Sudan. This man — he is still feeling his way.”
“Yes. But he was confident.”
“Or if he is CIA, he might be working with the Egyptians,” said Tilia. “To counter the Iranians. That would not be bad for us.”
Uncle Dpap took the last screw from the back of the phone and edged it up carefully. The phone circuitry was printed on a single card. There was no bomb. It was possible that the phone line was tapped, but Mr. Kirk himself had said to use it only to contact him, and not to say anything. So what would the point of tapping it be?
Uncle Dpap didn’t know that much about cell phones, but unless he had been the man who designed this particular model, it was unlikely that he would have realized that the phone was actually bugged: what looked like a small magnet for the miniature speakerphone was already transmitting to the portable unit used by the other bugs in the town.
“You like this Mr. Kirk,” said Uncle Dpap, starting to put the phone back together.
Tilia blushed.
“You think I’m too old to notice things like that,” he continued, amused. He liked to tease the young woman, who was more like a son to him than the three he had. “His motives are not very important, except for this question — why would he want to deal with several groups together? That is our real question.”
Tilia recognized from his tone that he had come up with an answer.
“The answer could be that he is impatient,” continued Uncle Dpap. “As you say, he is afraid of competition, and being ambushed. But I think he has a very large amount of weapons and ammunition sitting somewhere that he must get rid of. To take the time to sell it piecemeal — you see he has us do all the work.”
“It may be.”
“And he is greedy. That, of course, goes without saying. Greed is impregnated in these men’s souls. It is a universal disease, but the men who sell weapons have it very strongly. It is one reason they do not live very long lives. Something to consider, Tilia.”
She straightened her back and lifted her shoulders, determined to remain stoic and not answer him.
“You will have to think of leaving your Uncle Dpap and the rest of your family sometime,” said Dpap, suddenly wistful. He looked over at her, admired her form. She had a regal face. In another time, she could have been queen.
“We have work to do,” she told him, her words and tone exactly echoing what he would have said had she suggested something silly.
Uncle Dpap chuckled and went back to the phone, screwing it together. When he was done, he handed it to her.
“There is another possibility we haven’t considered,” he said. “Perhaps it is the Iranians who are really behind this.”
“They back Colonel Zsar.”
“Yes. They give him much money. But Zsar has trouble bringing people to his side. If we joined with him, then he would have a good core force.”
“And Red Henri?”
Red Henri, in Uncle Dpap’s opinion, was a crazy man, not to be trusted to remain sane for more than a few minutes at a time. But his men were well-trained. They would be a valuable addition to any force.
Uncle Dpap had turned down several overtures from the Iranians. Their religion made him nervous.
But not as nervous as running out of ammunition did. The danger was not just from the government forces, but from the other rebel bands, who coveted his village and other resources.
“Red Henri would not join in an alliance with either of us,” said Uncle Dpap. “He is content to herd his goats in his own way. But Zsar we could deal with. Go to him and tell him about my meeting. Tell him I do not trust this Mr. Kirk, and do not recommend a meeting yet. But maybe he will give us all a good price. Tell him I am open to buying bullets for the best price. As I have always been.”
“If we tell Zsar that, he is sure to tell the Iranians.”
“Exactly.”
20
Boston insisted on collecting the submachine guns from the mercenary bodyguards as soon as they got back to Base Camp Alpha. Nuri thought it was unnecessary, and maybe a little foolish, in effect telling the men that they didn’t trust them. But Boston didn’t care. He didn’t trust them, and he saw no reason to be cute about it.
