“Oh, we’re definitely outsiders. But we have money,” said Nuri. “And we’re not going to stay. So we’re in a special category. They like us. Until they don’t.”
Danny swerved around a goat that had wandered near the highway. The Mercedes fishtailed and the rear wheels went off the road. He fought the car straight, half on and half off the pavement, then gently brought it back.
“About a half mile more,” said Nuri calmly. “There should be a road heading to the east.”
Worried that even going near the abandoned warehouse buildings would seem suspicious, Nuri had Danny drive through the city to a rise about three-quarters of a mile north of the warehouse area. He got out there, making a show of stretching his legs and then pretending to go off to the side to relieve himself in case anyone was watching.
Reaching into his pocket, Nuri took out a small case about the size of a quarter. He opened it, then gingerly removed what looked like an oversized mosquito from the interior. It was literally and metaphorically a bug — a tiny video camera was embedded in the eyes; the legs were used as antennas. The rest of the body was a battery, with about a twelve-hour life span.
He walked into the weeds and positioned the mosquito. Its circuitry had woken up as soon as he took it from the box.
“MY-PID, are we connected?” Nuri asked, tapping his ear set. The control unit he was using looked exactly like a higher-end civilian cell phone system such as a Jawbone Icon; rather than using Bluetooth to connect to a cell phone, it had a proprietary burst radio connection to talk to the control unit in his pocket. The control unit in turn connected to the MY-PID system via a link with the Tigershark, orbiting overhead.
“Connection established,” replied the Voice.
“Do you have a visual on the target warehouse?”
“Affirmative. Visual on target.”
“Gotcha.”
“Rephrase.”
Inside the car, Danny used a pair of binoculars to examine the building where the UAV transponder was located. It was a simple metal structure, roughly two stories high and about 200 by 200 square feet. There were a dozen other buildings, most very similar, scattered around the area, all butting close to the railroad tracks and now disused sidings. There were clusters of houses near them, run-down shacks and battered brick buildings. Most were not occupied, according to MY-PID, which based the claim on the infrared readings from Tigershark’s sensors.
There were two openings in the target building: a large garagelike door facing the road, and a standard- sized door nearby. There were no windows.
MY-PID said there were two people inside the building. They appeared to be sleeping.
“No guards outside,” said Danny as Nuri got back in the car. “Just the two inside.”
“Not that we can see,” answered Nuri. He pulled out the MY-PID control unit, which was dummied up to look like an iPod Nano. He could have the computer tell him what it saw, but preferred to see it himself, even if it was on a ridiculously small screen. “There are kids playing on the other side of the railroad track. They probably get a few dinars for spotting strangers. Or anybody else.”
“Those kids are only seven or eight years old,” said Danny.
“Another year and they’ll all have guns,” said Nuri, sliding into the car. “Center of town is back the way we came.”
Danny toyed with the idea of simply driving up to the building and having a look. The Osprey and two of his men were a few minutes away, hunkered down in the desert. If things looked easy, he could call it in quickly and they could haul the UAV away.
But things rarely went as easily as they looked. Most of Whiplash’s advanced gear was still back in the States and wouldn’t be available for at least another twenty-four to forty-eight hours. While he wasn’t about to wait that long, it was better to wait for dark and come in with the whole team.
“Take a left ahead. There,” said Nuri, pointing. “The roads are all dirt from here on. I’ll warn when the next turn is coming up.”
They worked their way around a patch of houses to an open area that served as Duka’s business section. Small buildings were arranged haphazardly around the large dirt lot. There was a garage with several cars out in front; next to it were a pair of buildings with tin roofs that held small storefronts. A larger building, this one of brick, stood opposite the shops. About the size of a small ranch house in the States, the structure was shared by a medical clinic, a post office, and a store that sold farming gear.
Their destination was next to the clinic building: a squat, thatch-roofed pavilion that looked like an open- sided tent. About the size of a train car, it ran back from the open square at a slight angle, and was filled with a variety of benches, picnic tables, and cast-off plastic chairs. It was filled with people, more than two dozen, scattered in various groups. A pair of white-headed gentlemen played chess near the front; farther back, two men with machetes stood behind a squat, pale-skinned man whose face was covered with pimples.
The man was Gerard, the de facto leader of Meurtre Musique. He sat in a red plastic chair, gazing straight ahead.
“Someone should stay with the car,” said Nuri.
“Boston, you stay,” said Danny. “I want to get a look at him.”
“You got it, boss.”
Danny got out and followed Nuri into the pavilion.
Gerard stared straight ahead. Danny thought he looked like a strung-out heroin addict.
“I hope you have been well.” Nuri pulled over a chair and sat down, just off to the side of Gerard.
Danny walked over and stood behind him. He had arranged the strap on his rifle so it hung down near his hand; he kept his fingers on the butt grip, ready just in case.
The two men with the machetes eyed him fiercely, but soon turned their attention back to the general area. Danny wondered why: most of the people beneath the shed roof were old, and couldn’t have hurt themselves, let alone Gerard. His gun was the only one visible.
Gerard’s head moved ever so slightly downward. Nuri straightened in his chair and turned toward a woman standing nearby. Gerard said something; the woman replied, then left, crossing the street.
Nuri continued his slow assault on Gerard’s silence, telling him that he had been doing much traveling in the past several months, seeing many people and learning many new things. He used French, even though it wasn’t his best language. He’d taken off the MY-PID ear set — Gerard might have wanted it if he’d seen it — but could speak the language reasonably well without the computer translator’s help.
He could have been speaking Portuguese for all the results he was getting. Gerard remained silent.
The man was a cipher. The first time they had met, Nuri thought he was stoned on some local alcoholic concoction; there were an almost infinite variety. But he’d spent considerable time with Gerard at their second meeting, and saw that he only drank pure water. And when the barrier actually came down — when Gerard broke his silence and spoke about the guns he was interested in buying — he was quite articulate and even a good negotiator. Nuri had decided that the stony glare was part of some sort of religious commitment, Gerard’s version of meditation or prayer.
His girl brought back two bottles of water. Nuri checked the seal to make sure his hadn’t been refilled from a local tap — always a possibility, and sure to induce diarrhea — then opened his. Gerard stared at the bottle, then took it. He had a small sip. Nuri sensed he was ready to talk.
“Are you happy with your current supplier?” Nuri asked in French.
“I don’t want to make trouble,” said Nuri. “If there comes an opportunity, I am always ready.”
Gerard handed the water bottle back to the girl. She was thirteen or fourteen, probably a relative as well as a mistress. Nuri tried not to be judgmental. Things were different here, and he had a job to do.
“We are satisfied with the Russians,” said Gerard in English.
