watching the luggage move around. Three-fourths of the bags were black, and at least half of those looked like his. Amara eyed them nervously, twice examining a suitcase before realizing it wasn’t his.
Finally, with the crowd around him thinning, he found his bag. He pulled it off the belt and turned to leave.
“Amara, my cousin,” said a man on his right. “We are glad you are here.”
His voice was extremely soft — so low, in fact, that Amara nearly didn’t hear him. The tone belied the words: rather than being a warm greeting, it sounded cold and impersonal.
Which, of course, it was.
“My uncle,” said Amara, trying not to let the words sound like a question.
“This way. We’ll take a cab,” said the man, who had tan skin, but lighter than his. If he’d had to guess, he would have said he was Egyptian or Palestinian. He took Amara’s bag and led him to the large doors at the front of the terminal. “Is your backpack heavy?”
“I have it.”
Amara remained on his guard as he was led to a cab parked at the curb.
He knew little of the project, beyond the fact that the Brothers were cooperating with others, presumably in exchange for money.
Amara wasn’t sure if the taxi driver, who looked Palestinian, was part of the network. He knew better than to say anything that would give himself away. And as his guide was silent, he thought it best for him to remain so as well.
The city sprawled on both sides of them as they drove toward Manhattan. The rows of houses seemed endless. Tall buildings rose in the distance. It had been nearly three years since he’d been in New York. The city had seemed like a vast temptation, a fascinating place filled with many sweets, a decadent paradise. Or hell, depending on one’s point of view.
“First time in New York?” asked his “uncle.”
It was a dumb question, thought Amara — his “uncle” should know the answer.
“I have been here before,” he said.
“A grand city for a young man like yourself.”
Amara turned to the window, staring at the old bridge they were crossing. When he first came to New York, he was surprised to find so many
They drove through the heart of the city, weaving through thick morning traffic. Finally, they pulled up to a curb.
“Come now,” said his uncle.
Amara got out of the car and waited as the other man retrieved his bag. The driver closed the trunk, nodded, then left.
They descended a long flight of stairs to Penn Station. Two National Guardsmen in battle dress were standing against the wall, M4s ready.
Amara wondered if they had ever used them in battle. Neither man had the hard glance that he associated with tested warriors.
His uncle led him down the long hall of shops, past stores and stalls. Amara’s nose was assaulted from every direction; his stomach began to call for food.
They stopped in a crowd of people. His uncle turned toward a large board with the names and numbers of trains.
“We’re just in time,” he told Amara, reaching into his pocket. “Here is your ticket. Your track is at the end of the hall. Take the elevator on the right. Number twelve. Go.”
Amara made his way to the train, an Amtrak Acela bound for Washington, D.C. He settled into a seat and tried to relax as the train pulled out of the station, running through the long tunnel to New Jersey. Within a half hour he had dozed off, exhausted by the travel.
He saw Li Han’s face in his dreams. It was exactly as he had seen him in Sudan: a mixture of sneering and respect, kindness mixed with disdain.
In the dream, Li Han began lecturing him about how to fly the UAV. Amara tried to pay attention, but there was one major distraction — the hole in the middle of Li Han’s skull where he’d shot him.
Somewhere in Delaware a conductor shook Amara awake.
“Did you have to get off at this next stop?” asked the man.
Amara jerked upright in his seat. He looked around — he wasn’t sure where he was.
“Do you have your ticket?” asked the conductor.
Amara pulled it from his pocket.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the conductor, examining it. “You’re Union Station. All the way in D.C. I apologize. I must have gotten you confused with someone else.”
He handed the ticket back. As he took it, Amara realized that he’d been given two tickets.
A message.
He glanced up at the man. He was almost white: Iranian, Amara would guess, or perhaps Iraqi.
There was a phone number on the second ticket. Amara understood he was to call that number when he arrived at Union Station. He tucked it into his pocket, then leaned against the side of the train, hoping to fall back asleep.
Chapter 8
Melissa pulled out her satellite phone as soon as the repaired Osprey reached the new operating base Danny had set up southwest of Duka. She was well overdue to check in.
It was still early. Harker might be sleeping.
It would serve him right.
“What?” her boss said gruffly, answering the phone.
“This is Ilse. The flight computer is not in Duka.”
“No kidding.”
“Our best bet is that it’s south in the mountains, with the Sudan Brotherhood. One of their members left the city, probably after killing Mao Man.”
“You told me that yesterday, Melissa. This is old information.”
“We need permission to search the camp. Can we?”
“That’s not up to me. You’re
“We’ve looked everywhere, believe me.”
“And it wasn’t at the crash site?”
“God, what do you think? I’m a fool? You do.”
“You have to watch these Whiplash people,” said Harker. “They’re trying to screw us.”
“How so?”
“There’s all sorts of political bullshit back here. You’re sure it’s not in Duka?”
“I’m sure.”
“Did you personally check every one of the hiding places? Or did Whiplash?”
“Personally?”
“You heard me. Did you?”
Screw you, thought Melissa, hanging up.
