“What did you learn?”
Paul Deladier slumped into a padded chair that, unlike the vintage wine he sipped, had not improved with age. He regarded his boss, then replied, “There is more to the American team than we thought.”
“Well?” Hurtubise was never known for his tolerance.
“I managed a chance meeting with the black woman. I tailed her from the American embassy and talked to her for a few minutes. She said she’s a temporary stenographer, but I don’t believe her.”
“Why not?”
Deladier mussed his dark blond hair and swirled the wine in its glass. “Well, for one thing, Etienne and I have seen her with the training team. There is no reason for her to associate with them unless it’s social, which is unlikely.”
Hurtubise swung his legs away from the kitchen table. He was becoming more interested in his young colleague’s opinions. “Go on.”
A Gallic shrug. “Just a sense of her. She’s confident, looks you in the eye. Not at all like some prissy little clerk.” Deladier paused for a moment, recalling the woman’s face; her expression. “I think she might be an operator.”
Marcel Hurtubise sat back, rubbing his trademark stubble. “Now that is an interesting observation. She’s what? Forties? Overweight, not very attractive.”
Deladier smiled. “You are no gentleman,
Hurtubise ignored the backward compliment. “Nobody would expect a fat black American female to be very capable, would they?”
“No, I suppose not. Which is why…”
“… she would be an excellent undercover agent.”
Deladier drained the glass and smacked his lips. “Should I talk to her again?”
Hurtubise shook his head. “No, that would be too much of a coincidence. I have another idea.”
“Yes?”
“My young friend, you don’t always send a fox to catch a chicken. Sometimes you send another hen.”
27
Daniel Foyte, being a retired gunnery sergeant, knew a great deal about marksmanship and precious little about diplomacy. At the moment he was caught with one foot in each world, attempting to convince Sergeant Major Bawoyeu of the institutional wisdom of the United States Marine Corps. He assessed a couple of the Chadians’ targets and collected his thoughts. Turning to his African colleague, he said, “I’m not worried about where they’re hitting right now. We can move the group to point of aim by adjusting the sights. I’d rather see better groups before we start worrying about that. After all, trigger control is a lot more important than sights.”
The sergeant major seemed unconvinced. “It is not necessary to aim so carefully when a rifle fires automatically.”
Foyte ground his molars in silent frustration. When he finally spoke, he managed a civil tone.
Bawoyeu shrugged eloquently. Clearly he did not care to dispute with so senior an advisor, but equally clearly the close-cropped American was more concerned with theories than reality.
Foyte turned away stalking the firing line and stopping occasionally to assess his team’s instruction technique. He listened as Boscombe and Johnson tackled a problem shooter.
“Keep the stock firm against your shoulder,” Bosco said to the soldier. “Don’t grab the fore end with your left hand; just let it rest there. Otherwise you’ll get lateral dispersion.”
He looked at Johnson. “How do you say that?”
J. J. grinned at his partner.
Breezy furrowed his brow. “Really? It’s a lot like English.”
“G’won. Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not!”
Johnson slowly shook his head in bemusement. “Dude, you are
“Norman who?”
J. J. threw up his hands in frustration. He wondered if he weren’t being sandbagged but decided to press on.
“Look, it’s like this. About… oh, 950 years ago there were these guys, the Normans. Okay? Their leader was a dude named William. He was like the Duke of Normandy. You
Bosco nodded gravely. “Damn straight. Omaha Beach and The Big Red One.”
“Right! Except, well, not exactly. The Conquest was like D-Day in reverse. From France to England instead of the other way around. Anyway, William decided that he should rule England, so he took his guys and whupped up on the Anglo-Saxons. Their leader was named Harold, and he checked into an arrow at a place called Hastings.”
Bosco scratched his head. “When did you say this was?”
“Man, aren’t you listening? I said, like 1066.”
“Oh. Right. Nine hunnerd an’ fifty years ago.” He frowned in concentration. “So what’s that got to do with forty percent French?”
“Bosco, the Normans
“So why’d this Harold dude and his guys start talking French?”
Somewhere far back in the recesses of his cranium, J. J. Johnson badly wanted to scream.
“Because they were frigging
“Well that’s pretty gnarly.”
Jeremy Johnson had no response to that observation.
To say that the home team won decisively would have been gross understatement. Chad: eleven. America: three.
The SSI clients had laid out a soccer field one hundred meters long by fifty meters wide, with markings scratched in the packed dirt. The Americans had trouble getting their brains around the game’s extreme flexibility, with teams composed anything from seven to eleven players. Since SSI could only field six willing warriors — they steadfastly refused to allow Martha Whitney on the team — the locals convinced two Foreign Legionnaires into an ad-hoc alliance. The Americans and “French,” actually an Algerian and a Spaniard, elected J. J. Johnson team captain on the basis of his previous Legion service.
Johnson had his linguistic hands full, shouting directions alternately in English and French. At one point, with the score at four-zip, he had to deliver an earnest lecture to Bosco who in frustration had picked up the ball and drop-kicked it into the Chadian net from inside the penalty line.
The Spaniard was drafted as SSI goalie, and
