what the Brotherhood stood for; he simply saw his mission separate from his experiences with and feelings for real Americans. He was like a professional sports player who could play ferociously against another team, and yet at the end of it think nothing of shaking and even hugging his opponents.
The heat in the pizza parlor was overwhelming. It was moist and pungent, an oregano-scented sauna.
“Hey,” said the man behind the counter. He was a white man with a child’s face and a belly two sizes too large for the rest of his body. “Help ya?”
“Pizza. To go.”
“Cheese?”
It had been quite a while since Amara had eaten pizza. But the safest answer was yes.
“Yes,” he told the man.
“Large or small?”
“Large,” said Amara, guessing.
“What da ya want wid that?” said the man, punching a cash register. “Soda?”
“Uh, yes.”
The man pointed to a trio of coolers at the side. There were a variety of sodas and other drinks; the last was filled with beers.
He took a water for Ken — he couldn’t imagine he would drink anything else — then, giving in to temptation, pulled open the beer cooler and took a Coors.
“Gotta drink the beer here,” said the man behind the counter.
Amara didn’t understand.
“I can only sell it to serve,” said the man. “OK? So if you want it…”
He shrugged, as if his meaning was obvious.
“OK,” said Amara. “I’ll drink here.”
Just as well — Ken might take the ban on alcohol far more seriously than he did.
“Thirteen fifty,” said the man, ringing up the bill. “Pizza’ll be done twelve minutes.”
Amara fished into his pocket and pulled out two twenties. He handed one to the man, took his change, then sat down with his beer.
It tasted like water with algae in it. But he drank it anyway. He didn’t realize he was gulping until he was more than halfway through.
Two teenage girls came in, texting on their cell phones as they walked to the counter. Amara remembered that he hadn’t called to say he had arrived.
He got up, leaving the drink, and went outside.
His finger paused over the quick-dial combination.
Two rings, then he went directly to voice mail.
“I am here. It is very hopeful,” he said in Arabic.
After he hung up, he turned quickly to make sure he hadn’t been overheard. Using Arabic had been a mistake — he should have made the call in English.
It was nothing to worry about now. Amara went back inside to wait for his pizza and finish his beer.
Chapter 13
Nuri watched the sky, waiting as the shadow descended. By the time he could make out the parachute, the SEAL harnessed into it was only a few feet from the ground. The sailor walked into his landing, then began gathering his chute. He had it squared away by the time Nuri arrived.
“Hey, Navy,” said Nuri.
“You’re Jupiter?” answered the SEAL.
“Yeah.” Nuri thought the code word was funny, and gave a little self-deprecating laugh.
The man retrieved a small ballistics case from his kit. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. The command post is that large building up there on the left,” said Nuri. “Someone’ll find you food and arrange for a pickup.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Nuri started away.
“Tell me, if you don’t mind — what exactly is it that I just brought you? They rushed me special here from Italy and flew me on my jetliner. I never seen such a fuss.”
“Bottle of vodka,” said Nuri.
The Russian was just finishing his dinner when Nuri entered the tent. A small card table had been placed in the middle. The guards had removed his hand restraints, but were watching him carefully from the side.
“You can wait outside,” Nuri told them. He put down the case and pulled out the empty chair.
“How was dinner?” he asked Kimko in English.
“All right.”
“You prefer English or Russian?”
“Your Russian is horrible.”
“Ready to talk?”
“I have said everything necessary to say.”
“I think you have a lot to say.”
Kimko smiled and shook his head. “Nuri, you are young yet. You do not know how this game is played.”
“No?”
Kimko laughed. “You waste your time. You are Mr. Nice Guy. Before, when you threaten me with the gun — that was more effective. Then you feed me. Mistake. You should make me wait. Hunger pains do much.”
Nuri reached down and opened the case. He removed the two glasses from the cushioned interior and set them down. Then he took the bottle of vodka and opened it.
Kimko said nothing.
“I know all about you, Milos. You have no secrets.”
Nuri put a finger’s worth of the liquid into the one closest to him. MY-PID was recording the session through a video bug planted in the far corner of the walls near the ceiling; it analyzed the Russian’s facial features and what physiological data it could deduce about how he was reacting to Nuri’s interrogation tactics. It gave Nuri a running update on the data as it watched.
But he didn’t need MY-PID to tell him that Kimko really wanted the vodka.
Nuri picked up the glass and swirled it: it was all very dramatic and over the top, but he had a captive audience, and hamming it up only helped.
“I know you work for SVG,” he told Kimko. “I know who your supervisors are. I know every stop in your career. I know how you got shafted. Because your boss wanted to sleep with your wife. It was an injustice. They screwed you. You should be a supervisor by now. Or a rich man. A very rich man.”
Nuri took a small sip from the glass. He
“I can help you,” he continued. “With my help, you can get out of Africa. I can help get you promoted. I can make you rich. And most of all, I can help you get revenge.”
Kimko’s pupils dilated ever so slightly; Nuri didn’t need MY-PID’s nudge to tell him he had just scored big. He paused, hoping Kimko would talk, but he didn’t.
“You can talk to me, and I can help you a lot,” said Nuri. “You don’t like being assigned to Africa. That’s clear. I can give you information that will get you out. And no one will know where it came from. Except you and me.”
“You are more clever than I thought.”
“No. I just have all the cards. But I can share.” Nuri gestured at the bottle. “Why not use them to get yourself out of this shit hole.”
“It is a shit hole,” agreed Kimko.
