“What’s the matter?” asked Breanna as they started moving away.
“They don’t want to go.”
“Why? Are they afraid of the aircraft?”
“No. They think the borders are artificial. And the camps, they say, are hell.”
“That fence is real,” said Boston. “Tell them that.”
“I’ve tried explaining,” said Abul. “They don’t want to go to the UN camp.”
“They’ll be safe there,” said Breanna.
“They could have gone there in the first place,” said Abul. “They didn’t. They want to cross over the border, but if they can’t, they would rather stay here. This is tribal land. Here, there, on both sides of the fence. They say it goes back many hundreds of years. They’ll stay right on this spot if necessary.”
“How long?”
“Until the dead walk. That’s how they put it.”
Abul shook his head. He thought they were crazy, but he understood their doubts about the refugee camp. As well-intentioned as the camps might be, none had good reputations.
“Look, it’s getting dark,” said Boston. “We can’t stay here too much longer. And the Ethiopians over there are eventually going to move. Or the mercenaries. Tell these people this is their last chance.”
“Try again, Mr. Abul,” said Breanna. “Make them see logic.”
“It’s not a matter of logic,” said Abul, but he tried again. This time the elders spoke directly to Breanna. Their words were in Arabic, but the gist of what they were saying was clear enough. They didn’t and wouldn’t go.
“If you stay here,” said Breanna, “you may be killed. On purpose or by accident. You can’t get any water or shelter — what will you do in the rainy season?”
They were unmoved. She grabbed Abul’s arm.
“Make them understand,” she pleaded. “They can’t stay.”
“Tell them they were going to be killed by the Ethiopian army,” said Boston.
“I did.”
Abul tried once more, but by now no one was listening to his hoarse voice.
“But we want to help them,” said Breanna. “We want to help.”
“We can’t do any more, Ms. Stockard,” said Boston. “We better get out of here.”
An alert tone sounded on Breanna’s radio, a sharp whistle followed by Greasy Hands’s gravelly voice.
“Bree, there’s something serious going on with the radar. What’s your status?”
“How serious, Chief?”
“It’s picking up a lot of aircraft at low level. Several warnings. Something big is happening. They’re coming almost right at us.”
Breanna stared at the refugees, trying to think of something to say to them. But there was nothing that she hadn’t already said. Reluctantly, she went back to the Osprey.
62
It was completely dark by the time Danny and Hera reached the stone wall twenty yards behind the building. They stopped there, making sure they understood the security system before continuing.
Whoever designed the system had counted on an intruder not being able to get past the substantial network of detectors that ran up the driveway. But that also left a hole they could exploit.
The rear of the building was protected by motion detectors, as well as video cameras posted on the back wall. There was no motion detector on the side or the front of the building, however, and the only video camera on that side of the property covered the front door.
The video from the bug on Tarid’s coat showed that the windows were protected by a simple contact alarm system similar to those used in many homes and businesses in the States. Even Danny could defeat it.
“We have to make a zigzag across the courtyard to the window,” Danny told Hera, drawing it on his palm with his finger. “Just follow me.”
“Go.”
He started toward the stone wall. The Voice told him when to jump it.
Hera followed through the field as Danny crisscrossed toward the side of the building, trying to go step by step in his path. She was resigned to the fact that this was going to be her last mission with Whiplash, that Danny would dump her when it was over. She’d have to rebuild her career.
She was glad he’d taken her along tonight. It wasn’t so she could redeem herself — she knew it was because she spoke Farsi. But going gave her something to concentrate on. It was better than sitting with Flash or Nuri, who were watching Tarid at the hotel. There would have been too much time to brood, about McGowan, about everything.
Maybe she had been a bitch. It seemed like such a sexist label, something a man would put on a woman for things a guy would never be called on. But maybe, she conceded, maybe there was a tiny bit of truth in it.
Maybe it would have been more accurate to say she was conceited and thought she had a better way to do things.
The focus now was on the mission, not her. She continued through the field, moving with Danny to the building.
Danny had the current scanner out. “Only the wires,” he said, easing to the side.
Hera slipped a suction cup on the glass, focusing on the task. She cut around it quickly, concentrating on making the perfect scribe on the first pass with the cutter. Then she focused on pulling it away, then on jumping the wires.
“We’re good,” she said, pushing up the window.
They took a good look around the inside before going in, making sure there were no motion detectors or other devices nearby.
Danny climbed in first, entering a large storeroom, behind the one where the meeting had taken place. Most of the room was empty; there were large crates at the far wall. Danny turned around slowly, examining the walls. They were painted and smooth, making it more difficult to find a place to put the bugs where they wouldn’t be seen.
Taking out a stick of gum, he wadded it into his mouth as he looked for a hiding place. He settled on the molding beneath the window. Once it was in place, he pulled off his rucksack and removed the pane of glass he’d brought to replace the small panel they’d cut through.
Hera walked over to the boxes and took out a radiation detector — a miniaturized Geiger counter sensitive enough to pick up a shielded weapon at a meter’s range. The screen lit before she could even get it calibrated.
“Bingo,” she said.
Danny came over and looked.
“This is it,” she said. “There’s uranium in those boxes. They may be all bombs.”
He looked at the readings, then the crates.
“I don’t know if any of these are warheads,” he told her. “There’s definitely material here, but it may be the residue from refining.”
“Let’s take them apart and find out.”
Danny bent down and examined them. They varied in size from about six by three feet to ten by eight.
“We don’t know how long Aberhadji’s going to be gone,” he said. “Let’s tag them, get out the chemical sniffer, check for chemicals — I’ll get the window ready in case we have to leave. Then we’ll see if we can get these open without being detected.”
“Can’t we just blow them up?”
Danny thought they might be able to rig something, but the explosion would only damage the warhead mechanism; the bomb itself could be salvaged. They’d have to take the warhead — or warheads — to permanently end the threat.
“Let’s take this one step at a time,” he told her. “Tag them while I get the window ready.”
