23
By the time Uncle Dpap used the phone Danny had given him, Nuri and Danny knew everything — that they wouldn’t deal with Red Henri, and that Colonel Zsar had suggested they use the arms dealer to try and get a better price from their other dealers and contacts. They were also confident that they weren’t planning an ambush, though that was one thing they couldn’t take for granted.
Nuri made the call back, using an electronic voice box to disguise his voice. He told Uncle Dpap that the meeting would happen at midnight, agreeing to the place Uncle Dpap had selected, an abandoned farm building outside a hamlet that lay between Uncle Dpap and Colonel Zsar’s camps.
The rebels didn’t like the fact that the meeting was being held at night. And they liked it even less when, at five minutes past the appointed time, Nuri called their sat phones, dialing them all into a three-way phone conference.
“The meeting will be held at Murim Wap,” said Nuri. He was sitting back at the base camp, watching the rebels on the laptop thanks to the Owl and the sensors he’d planted that afternoon. Danny and the trucks were already at Murim Wap. “The vehicles will be waiting. You have a half hour to get there.”
“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” said Uncle Dpap.
“Send your scouts, just as you did here,” said Nuri.
“You don’t dictate to us where the meeting is,” protested Colonel Zsar.
But Nuri had already hung up.
The two rebel leaders brought their vehicles together to confer. Both Nuri and Danny heard the entire conversation that followed, thanks to the bugged cell phone, which Tilia had in her pocket.
“He doesn’t trust you,” said a voice they hadn’t heard before. “Of course he’s not going to meet you here. They only agreed to this place so they could watch you come.”
“Is it a trap?” asked Uncle Dpap.
“Too elaborate,” said the man. “It would have been easier to kill you here.”
“I agree,” said Tilia.
“You are sure this man is not working for the government in Sudan?” asked Uncle Dpap.
“That much I am positive of,” said the man. “My spies would know.”
The debate continued for a short while, but it was clear that, having gone to the trouble of arranging to meet themselves, the two rebel leaders were loath to miss the meeting with the arms dealer.
“The person who’s with Colonel Zsar must be the Iranian,” said Nuri. “He’s the one you have to mark when you meet. Make sure you touch him on the skin.”
“I’ll shake his hands like a politician.”
“Break the vial, daub your finger, touch him. That’s all you have to do.”
“Is the Owl online?” Danny asked.
“Are you asking me, or are you asking the Voice?”
“You.”
“You can ask the computer. It’ll tell you.”
“I’m asking you,” snapped Danny.
“Good snarl,” said Nuri, thinking that Danny was just playacting. In fact, he was really annoyed. “It’s online. Have fun.”
“I intend to.”
Though they’d scouted Murim Wap and planted video and listening devices earlier in the day, they hadn’t stayed there, fearing someone would tip off the rebels. Danny waited until the advance scouts Uncle Dpap had sent signaled that the place was clear, then they drove over, Boston driving as if he were racing in the Baja.
“Gotta stay in character,” Boston explained. “Outlaw like you isn’t going to have a wussy driver.”
Murim Wap had once been an important stop on a trade route from the interior into Ethiopia and the sea. But the village’s attractiveness faded when trucks and buses replaced carts and feet. A few families had remained in the area, one to run a gas and diesel station, the others to farm and catch on as best they could. Two years before, a cell tower had been built just off the highway, behind the gas station. A UN project had helped increase yields at the nearby farms, and there was a small store that sold goods to the dozen or so families that lived within walking distance. As a general rule, the village street was deserted after nightfall, with the gas station closing down a half hour after sunset.
Except tonight. The lights were still on in the station as Danny’s vehicles approached.
“Think he’s gonna be a problem?” Boston asked.
“I don’t know.” Danny considered stopping and getting gas, but that might only add to whatever suspicions the man might have. “Let’s just play it,” he told Boston.
They planned the meeting for a fallow field off the highway just outside of town. The area was clear of any walls or other cover. Even though they had been under constant surveillance since the early afternoon, Danny still had Boston circle around it slowly while he looked around the landscape with a set of thermal night glasses.
“We’re clear,” he said finally. “Let’s stop and launch the Catbirds.”
The Catbirds were UAVs a little bigger than the Owl. Their bodies were packed with plastic explosive, and they could be dive-bombed into targets by command. Danny launched six, enough to take out a well-positioned company of soldiers.
“Take it back by the road. Keep it running,” he told Boston. He turned on the truck’s dome light and switched the Voice into the radio circuit. “We leave the two trucks running, by the road, just the way we drew it out. Flash, you’re with me. McGowan, you’re backing up Boston.”
“Right, boss,” answered McGowan.
Danny got out of the truck and walked across the field to a spot about twenty feet off the road. He was wearing two sets of body armor — a very light vest under his shirt, similar to what Nuri had been wearing in Italy when he was shot, and the thicker, ceramic-insert model that the rebels expected. The combination meant that anything smaller than a howitzer shell would only give him a bruise, but it was heavy and awkward, and he spent quite a lot of time shifting it to get it to feel more comfortable.
Finally he gave up. He reached into his pants pocket and took out the vial with the biomarker, squirting it on his gloved left hand. The marker was mixed in a petroleum jelly base; in order for it to work, it had to touch skin.
Ready, he stood and waited. MY-PID was tracking the rebels, and the Voice declared that their caravan was two minutes away.
“Kill the headlights in the trucks,” said Danny. “Be ready.”
Behind him, Flash shifted his hands nervously on his submachine gun. In this situation, he would have preferred his SCAR-H/MK-17 or an old M-249. The latter’s size alone intimidated people.
“Truck coming,” said Danny.
“All right,” said McGowan. “Showtime.”
Nuri watched the caravan moving in. Everything was in place, he thought. Danny was on his own.
“Hera, you’re up,” Nuri said, rising. “All right, Clar, let’s get going. We only have a few hours to get everything done.”
“Uh-huh,” said Sugar, who’d been sitting in a chair across the room for the past half hour.
“What’s wrong?” Nuri asked as she got up slowly.
“Aw, nothin’.”
But her pain was obvious. She took a few short steps, breathing heavily as she went.
“Hold on, hold on. What’s wrong?” Nuri asked again.
“I just — my stomach is beat up. Something I ate I guess. It’s just gas — I’ll get better.”
“Hell no. You’re staying here.”
“Who’s got your back?”
Hera Scokas, sitting at the console, said nothing. She and Nuri had avoided each other since the other
