seat’s moldering fabric until he could see the object.
It was a screw-top stainless steel canister, roughly the size of two soda cans stacked atop one another.
He grabbed it, then turned and started climbing.
31
“I assume you haven’t opened it?” Lambert said.
Fisher switched the satellite phone to his left ear and moved out of the sun beneath the low-hanging branches of an olive tree. In the distance, over some scattered
“Which one?” Fisher asked. “The journal or the canister?”
“The canister.”
Fisher smiled into the phone. “A mysterious sixty-year-old stainless steel canister I found inside a plane in the middle of the jungle. No, Lamb, I didn’t open it.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“As for the journal, the cover looks to be in good shape, but the edges of the pages feel spongy. I think it’s best we wait for Quantico. If I open it, there’s a good chance we’ll lose whatever’s in there.”
“I agree.”
“Anything more from Omurbai?” Fisher asked.
“More of the same, but his speeches are taking on a hysterical tone — the evils of the West, of ‘infidel’ cultures, of technology, and so on. As we’d guessed, he’s sealed the border to all non-Muslims but has extended an invitation to all Muslims who want to, and I quote, ‘partake in the jihad to end all jihads and to live in harmony in the true way of Islam, ’ unquote.”
“Gracious of him.” Fisher checked his watch. “Jimiyu and I just fueled up, and we’re on our way to the second set of coordinates. I’ll be in touch.”
From Kusa they followed the C19, a heavily potholed road that meandered along the coastline southeast for a few miles before curving northwest into the Winam Gulf Peninsula, then on to Kendu Bay. On both shoulders, scrub grass, freshly green with spring, spread over rolling savanna. Here and there Fisher could see cones of earth rising from the landscape. Volcanic plugs, Jimiyu explained, exposed by erosion.
Four miles from the coordinates, Fisher’s satellite phone chimed. He answered it and barely got one word out before Aly’s panicked voice came over the line: “Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell them, but—”
“Aly, what—”
“They said they were going—”
“Aly, stop, slow down,” Fisher commanded. “What’s happened?”
There were a few seconds of silence. Fisher could hear her trying to catch her breath. “They came the night after you left. They broke into the house, tied me up, wanted to know where you’d gone. They had knives. They said they would—”
Fisher clutched the phone tighter. “Did they hurt you, are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, but I told them, Sam. I’m sorry, but—”
The driver’s side window shattered. Jimiyu cried out and fell sideways into Fisher, who dropped the satellite phone; it clattered across the floorboards and disappeared. The Rover veered left, off the road, bumped up onto the shoulder, down into a depression, and began tipping onto its side. Fisher reached across Jimiyu’s body, grabbed the wheel, straightened the Rover out, then groped with his foot until he felt the gas pedal and stomped on it. The engine roared. The Rover lurched up the hill.
“Jimiyu, can you hear me?” Fisher yelled. Using his free hand, he grabbed the Kenyan’s shoulder and shook him. “Jimiyu!”
Jimiyu groaned.
A second bullet punched through the rear window and slammed into the dashboard. Fisher ducked down. Somewhere he could hear Aly’s tinny voice calling, “Sam… Sam… are you there…?” A third and fourth bullet tore through the back window, shattering it and spiderwebbing the windshield. Through the cracks he saw a kopje looming.
He jerked the wheel to the right, felt the left front tire bump over a rock, then they were tipping, the sky canting through the windshield.
Fisher forced open his eyes — one of his lids felt glued shut with what he assumed was blood — and looked around. The Rover had rolled once and come to rest on its roof, but the solid-cage construction had kept the interior intact, save his side window, which had shattered with the compression. Through the side window Fisher could see scrub grass. Jimiyu, whose seat belt had been demolished by the first bullet, lay in a heap, wedged between the dashboard and the windshield. Fisher realized the Rover’s engine was still running. He vaguely thought,
“Jimiyu,” Fisher whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“… es…”
“Stay still, don’t move. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”
Squeeze.
“Play dead. They’ll be coming to finish us off.”
Squeeze.
Fisher rolled over. He looked between the seats, searching for the M-14, and spotted the stock between the center console, which had detached itself during the rollover, and the roof. He grabbed the stock, gave it a tug. It didn’t budge.
From outside came the roaring of an engine, then tires skidding on dirt. Three car doors opened and slammed, and Fisher heard boots crunching on gravel.
He reached out, wrapped both hands around the stock, took in a deep breath, and heaved. The M-14 came loose, the butt smacking him in the lip. He tasted blood. Rifle held lengthwise down his body, he pushed off the dash with his legs, squirming until his torso was out the side window, then pushed again and drew his knees out.
On the other side of the Rover he heard a whispered voice say something, then once more. It took a moment for Fisher to realize it was Kyrgyz — something about going around.
Slowly, quietly, Fisher rose into a crouch. He flipped off the M-14’s safety, took a few breaths to clear his head, then crab-walked to the rear of the Rover. Around the corner post he heard footsteps chafing the grass. He switched the M-14 to his left hand, drew the Applegate, flipped it open, and clenched it in his right hand, blade down and pointing back along his forearm. A thought popped into his head:
The footsteps came closer. Fisher saw a man-shaped shadow fall across the grass. In one smooth motion, Fisher stepped around the Rover’s corner post and rose up, grabbing and lifting the man’s rifle stock while sweeping the Applegate up in a tight arc. He jammed it hilt-deep into the hollow spot behind the man’s jaw and beneath his ear. The man never made a sound, dead before he hit the ground.
Fisher kept moving. He reversed the man’s rifle — a FAMAS 5.56mm — shouldered it, took three quick steps out from behind the Rover, and saw a man turning toward him. He fired twice. Both rounds punched through the man’s sternum. Even as he fell, Fisher was moving again, this time in the opposite direction, back across the rear of the Rover, where he dropped to one knee and leaned out, rifle at his shoulder. The last man was moving down the passenger side, his FAMAS coming up. Fisher fired. The bullet caught the man in the hip and spun him around. He screamed and toppled onto his side and kept rolling, trying to bring the FAMAS to bear. Fisher fired again. The
