The men didn’t complain. After a big lunch beneath the tent pavilion that served as their mess hall, Boston set them out in a picket watch around the perimeter, with two of his Whiplash people as supervisors. The blimps would see anyone who approached in plenty of time for them to be armed.
To a man, the mercenaries believed Danny was an arms dealer, something Nuri had been careful to hint at but not say explicitly when they were hired. They assumed that the trenches were part of whatever story Danny needed to give the authorities so he could operate here without problems. They were all illiterate, and had no idea what dinosaurs were, let alone how paleontologists worked. Their prime concern was money, and they were being paid plenty of that to keep their curiosity in check. As long as they were kept busy, they wouldn’t be a problem.
The question was how to keep them busy. Boston suggested holding training sessions. Danny nixed that idea.
“That’s all we need. Better trained soldiers of fortune.”
“They could use the discipline.”
“Come up with something else.”
Boston finally decided that he would use the soldiers to dig the trenches, making them look a little more realistic. The initial response was unenthusiastic.
Then Hera came up with an idea.
“Ten dollars to the first man who finds dinosaur bones,” she said.
Once she explained what dinosaur bones were, there was no trouble getting volunteers.
Even before Danny and his men arrived back at base Camp Alpha, Tilia was driving to Colonel Zsar’s fortress on the other side of the hills. She’d chosen two men to go with her — one, because he was the biggest man in the troop, and the other because he was the best shot. She had no illusions, however, that they would be able to protect her if things went bad. All three of them would die, with luck quickly.
Tilia carried two pistols in bandoliers across her chest, and a sawed-off elephant gun besides. If she had to fight, she would reserve one bullet for herself.
They had to pass through a small village in the shadow of the hills to reach Colonel Zsar’s stronghold. She had been there only once before, more than a year ago. The changes astounded her. The village had been a complete wreck, most of its buildings still destroyed from a raid three years before by Ethiopian forces, who at the time were angry with Colonel Zsar as well as the legitimate Sudanese government. Stones lay at the edges of the street; foundations were cluttered with weeds and windswept sand. Perhaps two dozen people lived in the surviving shanties, ramshackle structures built of cardboard and other refuse on the southern end of town.
Those were gone now. In their place was a village of prefab trailers, five dozen arranged in a tight rectangle just off the main road. On the other side of the road, where the abandoned foundations had been, sat three steel buildings, barns where cattle were kept and milk processed. Three milk trucks, with gleaming tanks, were lined up in the yard next to them. Fifty head of cattle grazed in the fields beyond.
Tilia was tempted to stop the Jeep and talk to the people. If the Iranians had brought this prosperity, there would be no question of allying with them. But it was getting late, and she wanted to be sure to conclude her business with Colonel Zsar before nightfall.
Colonel Zsar’s fortress was embedded in a cliff, centered around a pair of caves dug out by successive generations of fighters and smugglers. Tilia’s Jeep was observed well before she came to the checkpoint leading to the stronghold’s entrance. Jeeps were not plentiful in the area, and though the colonel’s forces had little interaction with Uncle Dpap’s, it was quickly recognized. The colonel was alerted, and gave his permission for the vehicle to proceed.
Seeing that there were two men — as far as they were concerned, the woman didn’t count — the guards at the gate decided there would have to be six escorts. Two men sat on the hood of the vehicle, two clung to the rear fender, and two others trotted behind.
Tilia drove the truck up a steep, serpentine dirt road, passing three different sandbagged machine-gun emplacements before reaching a parking area in front of one of the caves. Once again she was surprised. There were a dozen white pickup trucks in the lot, all nearly brand new. Belts of bullets crisscrossed the guards’ chests, and there were extra boxes near a sandbagged gun emplacement covering the entrance to the building — if the colonel’s forces were experiencing a bullet shortage, he was doing his best to hide it.
A man in a flak vest met them at the door.
“Your weapons,” he demanded.
Tilia’s escorts looked at her. She nodded, but did not hand hers over.
“Your gun, miss,” said the man.
“My gun stays with me.”
“You are just a woman,” he said, with obvious disdain. “Why do you think you deserve such a privilege?”
“You are afraid of a woman?”
“Wait here.”
The man turned on his heel and went back inside. Tilia realized she’d made a mistake. Uncle Dpap had told her to deliver the message no matter what. If the guard insisted on her handing over her gun, she would have to do so. It would be very bad to start the meeting with such a sign of weakness.
“Since you are a woman, we won’t worry about it,” said the man when he returned. He looked at the others. “This way.”
The interior of the cave had been divided into a bunker with masonry and concrete walls. An external generator supplied electricity, and while the lights were relatively dim, they were still ample enough to light the long corridor back to Colonel Zsar’s post. Tilia had arrived just as the colonel was waiting for dinner. Ordinarily he would have had her and the others wait — assuming he had decided to see them at all — but his men had told him about the woman soldier’s beauty and he wanted to see it for himself.
It surpassed their descriptions.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am an aide to Uncle Dpap,” she said.
“Have a seat.” He snapped his fingers at the two bodyguards standing near the door, gesturing for them to bring over a camp stool. The men rushed to comply.
“I don’t need to sit,” Tilia told him. “Uncle Dpap wanted you to know about a visitor.”
Tilia laid out what had happened, finishing before the men arrived with her stool.
Colonel Zsar had heard that Uncle Dpap had a niece working as his aide, but the stories did not adequately convey her beauty. Zsar had lost his wife two years before, but he would have lusted after Tilia in any event. He knew that she was not Muslim — none of Uncle Dpap’s people followed the true religion — but her beauty was so transcendent that he didn’t care about that. And besides, she was intelligent and well-spoken — he could not think of a better helpmate.
“So what does Uncle Dpap want to do?” he said when she finished speaking. “He wants us to meet with this man?”
“He wants to discuss him with you. A meeting might be too dangerous for now.”
“I see.”
“Uncle Dpap is considering doing business with him. Our other friends are not always the most reliable, and sometimes their prices are not good.”
The display by his men notwithstanding, Colonel Zsar was also in need of a new source for weapons and ammunition. Arash Tarid had promised that he would make new arrangements soon, when he and the other Iranian visited the other day, but an additional source might be useful. In any event, a meeting would give him an excuse to ask Uncle Dpap about this girl.
He would have to mention it first to Tarid. There was always the possibility that this was some sort of test by the Iranians.
“Maybe we can discuss it,” said Colonel Zsar. “Let me consider the point.”
“Thank you, then,” said Tilia, starting to leave.
“Wait,” said Colonel Zsar. “You’re not going to go right away, are you?”
“I had only the message to deliver.”
“You should join me for dinner.”
