Authors: Dale Brown and Jim DeFelice
Duka
I
t had been two weeks since Milos Kimko had drunk his last vodka, but the taste lingered in his mouth, teasing his cracked lips and stuffed nose. He longed for a drink, but there were none to be had, which was a fortunate thing for a man struggling to break the habit.
The locals all chewed khat, an ugly tasting weed that supposedly mimicked amphetamines. Kimko thought it made them crazy and wouldn’t go near it. The homemade alchoholic concoctions, brewed in repugnant stills, were even worse. He therefore had a reasonable shot at staying sober long enough for it to take.
Africa was not exactly a punishment for the career SVR officer, much less a rehabilitation clinic. It was more a symbol of his diminishment. Milos Kimko had once been a bright star in the Russian secret service, a master of over a dozen languages, an accomplished thief and a persuader of men, a large number of whom were still in the SVR’s employ as spies. For several years he’d headed the service’s Egyptian operation, and at the time had contacts throughout the Middle East. He had even helped, behind the scenes, negotiate several of the secret pacts with Iran that Russian prime minister Vladimir Putin had used to outmaneuver the U.S. and its allies during the Clinton administration.
But that had been his high point. Instead of the assignment in Moscow he coveted, he was rotated into Western Europe, and from there, inexplicably, to South America. He could blame drinking for his downfall, but that was a lie; the drinking was a consolation, not a reason. He never knew whether he had inadvertently crossed someone or if one of his bosses had coveted his wife. Both, probably.
Petra had been gone five years now, a distant memory.
Kimko smiled at the server as she brought his tea. He sniffed it first—you couldn’t be too careful here—then took a sip. As he set down the cup, a short African with a scruffy beard entered the café.
Girma, the man he had come to see.
Kimko rose to get his attention, then sat back down. Girma sauntered over.
“Well, my friend, you are looking well this morning,” said Girma in Arabic.
“And you.”
Girma sat. He headed the local faction of rebels known in English as Sudan First, and had a reputation as slightly unbalanced. The waitress rushed over with a pot of fresh tea brewed especially for him. It was a local concoction, sprinkled heavily with khat.
“The weather is pleasant this morning,” said Kimko.
The two men chatted about the weather for a few minutes, wary lions sizing each other up. The full name of Girma’s group translated as “Sudan the Almighty First Liberation.” Its beliefs varied according to the person and, as near as Kimko could tell from his two days here, the hour. But it was larger and somewhat richer than the other group, Meur-tse Meur-tskk. The leader of Meur-tse Meur-tskk, an improbable French-loving African named Gerard, was even crazier than Girma, spending most of his time staring into the distance. So Kimko knew that if he wanted information, Girma and Sudan First were the ones to deal with.
He had heard rumors in the south that the Brothers were trying to forge an alliance with Girma, but had so far not put enough money on the table to cement it. That was the problem with true believers—they failed to see that corruption was the easiest way to a man’s soul.
“Did the commotion last night wake you?” asked Kimko after Girma had his second cup of tea.
“The commotion?”
“The Americans attacked one of the buildings outside town.” Kimko wasn’t sure if Girma was faking ignorance or if it was genuine. “Near the train yard. I assume it was an attack on your rivals, Meurtre Musique.”
“Meurtre Musique are our friends,” said Girma carefully. He studied his tea before placing it down. “Why do you say they were attacked?”
“There was an Osprey in the air last night. I happened to be awake and went there for a look. There had been an explosion, but otherwise I saw nothing important. The children told me this morning it had once been a warehouse for rice.”
“The rice warehouse.” Girma shook his head. “That isn’t Meurtre Musique’s
.
Why would they take our building?”
“It’s your building?”
“All of Duka is ours.”
“Who were the Americans attacking?” asked Kimko.
“The Americans are not here. You are obsessed with Americans.”
Kimko let the comment pass.
“There was a robbery last night, that is one bad thing that happened,” said Girma. “I know of that—and when I catch the thief, his hand will be cut off.”
“Where was the robbery?” asked Kimko.
“The clinic.”
Kimko nodded.
“Meurtre Musique is jealous. They cannot be trusted,” said Girma darkly.
“Jealous?”
“They have opened their own clinic.”
“I see.”
“For a long time we have lived side by side, but now I see—they can’t be trusted.”
“What was stolen?”
“Wires for the computers.”
“Wires?”
“To tie something up. They aren’t even smart enough to take the computers. Imbeciles.”
Kimko sipped his tea. The theft of computer wires was even more interesting, if perplexing, than an attack on a warehouse.
“If the Americans were to attack someone,” said Girma finally, “it would be the Brothers.”
“The Brothers? They’re here?”
“Yes, the government chased them from the mines to the south. They haven’t contacted us, but of course we know everything that goes on in the city.”
Except for the most obvious things like Osprey attacks in the middle of the night, thought Kimko.
“I expect they will talk of an alliance again,” said Girma. “They are always anxious for one.”
“I wonder,” said Kimko, “if there might not be a way to talk to them.”
“Why would you talk to them? They have no power here.”
“Of course not. You are the power,” said Kimko. “Still, it might be useful.”
“To sell them weapons?”
“Perhaps.” Kimko saw the slight pout on Girma’s face. “Of course, if I made a sale, I would pay a commission to whoever helped make that possible. A nice commission.”
“Hmmmm.”
Girma drained his tea and poured a fresh cup. “A meeting could be arranged.”
“Good.”
Girma rose. “Come with me.”
“Now?”
“I believe I know where they are. There is no sense waiting, is there?”
“Certainly not.”
Duka
D
anny let Nuri do the talking when they arrived at the clinic, hanging back and watching Marie Bloom. People who worked with NGAs—nongovernmental agencies—were always an odd mix, and for Danny at least, hard to read. Both Nuri and Melissa had assured him that she was a volunteer, not a British agent. Naiveté and religious devotion had brought her here, Nuri assured him, in a way that made it sound several times more dangerous than warfare.
The two boxes of medicines were accepted almost greedily. Bloom didn’t ask many questions of Melissa, whom Nuri claimed he had recruited while getting the supplies. Melissa said that she worked for WHO, the World Health Organization, and was due in Khartoum in three days. A colleague would pick her up in forty-eight hours and give her a ride.
As she was talking, one of the children who was waiting with his mother ran over and grabbed her leg, apparently playing a game of hide and seek with another kid. Melissa bent down and smiled at him, asking in Arabic what his name was.
Watching, Danny once more thought of Jemma, though this time in a much kinder way. She had always had a soft spot for kids, before and especially after they learned they couldn’t have one.
He curled his arms in front of his chest and frowned the way he assumed a bodyguard would. The others took no notice.
“Next stop, Gerard,” said Nuri when they were outside.
“You think Melissa is OK in there?” asked Danny.
“They won’t hurt her,” said Nuri. “I’m sure they think she’s a spy, but they think that of everyone.”
“I don’t know.”
“She wanted to be there. Relax, Danny. They don’t generally kill women.”
“Not generally?”
“We’re in a lot more danger, I’ll tell you that.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Duka
T
he lookout yelled from across the street as soon as the Range Rover drove up.
“Who?” hissed Li Han.
“Girma. Sudan First,” added Amara, naming the Islamic rebel group that shared control of the city. “He’s coming to the house.”
“How does he know we’re here?” asked Li Han.
Amara didn’t answer. It was probably a foolish question, Li Han realized—the town was so small any stranger would stand out.
“Let him come.” Li Han moved his pistol in his belt, making it easier to retrieve, then pulled a sweatshirt over his head.
Amara opened the door as Girma and his small entourage approached. Besides the Muslim rebel there were two bodyguards and a blotchy-faced white man with greasy, dark hair. The white man was wearing a thick flannel shirt and a heavy suit jacket.
A Pole or a Russian, Li Han guessed. What did this mean?
Had the brothers betrayed him? They had seemed cowed since he shot the tall one, but that was the problem with Africans—they always snuck around behind your back.
“I have come to see the Brothers!” bellowed Girma, practically bouncing into the house. He was overflowing with energy—probably hopped up on khat, Li Han realized.
“We are here on other business,” said Li Han in English. Amara translated.
“Who are you?” asked Girma, switching to English himself.
“A friend.”
Girma gave him an exaggerated look of surprise, then turned and spoke to Amara in what Li Han gathered was Arabic, though it went by so quickly he couldn’t decipher the words.
“They are wondering why we are here and have not greeted them,” said Amara.
“Tell them we were afraid that we would bring them trouble.”
“Why would you bring us trouble, brother?” said Girma. “Are you running from the Americans?”
“What Americans?” asked Li Han.
“The Americans attacked a building not far from here last night,” said the white man in English. “Were they looking for you?”
“No,” lied Li Han. “I didn’t know there was an attack. Why would the Americans come here?”
“Then whose trouble are you afraid of?”
“Who are you?” asked Li Han.
“Milos Kimko. I work with friends in Russia. We are making arrangements to bring weapons and supplies to our friends here. Perhaps we could help you. You are part of a very impressive organization.”
“I’m just a friend.”
“I see. But these men are Brothers.” He gestured at the others, whose white African clothes hinted at their alliance. “Pretty far north for the Brotherhood, aren’t you?”
Li Han didn’t answer. He didn’t like the man, whose accent he had by now noticed gave him away as a Russian. Like many of his countrymen, he was clearly full of himself, a big talker who undoubtedly delivered less than half of what he promised.
This was, however, clearly an opportunity.
“I am always looking for a chance to do business,” added the Russian. “I give many good prices.”
“Do you buy as well as sell?” asked Li Han.
“Buy what?”
“You mentioned the Americans. I haven’t seen them, but I have seen a weapon they have. It was an aircraft, a robot plane. I wonder if it would be worth money to you.”
“We have Predators,” said Kimko disparagingly. “Our own versions are better.”
“This is not a Predator,” said Li Han. “This is a much more capable aircraft.”
“A Flighthawk?”
“Better even.”
“How do you know?” Kimko asked skeptically.
“I’ve seen it fly.”
“Show it to me.”
“I don’t have it,” lied Li Han. “But I could arrange to show you parts, and give you a photo. Would your government be willing to pay?”
“I don’t work for the government.”
“Whoever you work for, then,” said Li Han.
“Maybe.”
“I will deliver a photo to you this evening in town,” he said. “Where will you be?”
K
imko eyed Girma carefully as they got back into the Range Rover. Girma had started off the meeting with surplus energy. Now he was positively agitated, rocking as he sat in the backseat of the truck. He took his pistol out and began turning it over in his hand, examining it.
“This aircraft may be of great interest to me,” Kimko said. “Have you heard anything about it?”
The African didn’t answer. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small sack; he took out some dried, broken leaves and pushed them into his mouth.
More khat. Just what he needed, Kimko thought.
“Do the Americans fly UAVs here often?” he asked. “I wonder if there are other wreckages we could look at.”
Girma shook his left fist in the air and pounded the seat in front of him.
“It is that Gerard’s fault,” he said loudly. “He stole our wires.”
The back of the Rover was about the last place Kimko wanted to be. But there was no graceful way to escape. Or ungraceful, for that matter.
“I know my friends would be very, very interested in paying money for American weapons and technology,” said Kimko, desperately trying to change the subject.
“I will kill him,” said Girma. This time he slammed the seat with his right hand—and the pistol.
“Tell me what you need, my friend,” said Kimko. “What wires? Let me make a present to you. It is fitting for our friendship. Show me the wires you need, and I will get you twice what you had. Because of our friendship.”
Girma turned toward him, eyes wide.
“You are too good a friend,” said Girma.
“Nothing is too good for you,” said Kimko.
“I kill him!” yelled Girma. He pounded on the back of the driver’s seat. “Take me to the square.”
“Girma, it might be good if—”
“Take me now!” shouted Girma, raising the gun and firing a round through the roof of the truck.
Washington, D.C.
A
diehard baseball fan, Zen Stockard had adopted the Nationals as his favorite team partly because he loved underdogs, and partly by necessity—they were the only team in town. He had a pair of season tickets in a special handicapped box, and often used them to conduct business—though any baseball outing with Senator Stockard was generally more pleasure than business, as long as the home team won.
Tonight, with the Nationals down 5–1 to the Mets after three innings, pleasure was hard to come by.
“A little better pitching would go a long way,” said Dr. Peter Esrang, Zen’s companion for the night. Esrang was a psychiatrist—and not coincidentally, a doctor Zen had personally asked to take an interest in Mark Stoner’s case.
“Jones always has trouble in the first inning,” said Zen. “He gets a couple of guys on and the pressure mounts.”
“Psychological issue, obviously,” said Esrang.
“But after the first, he’s fine,” said Zen as Jones threw ball four to the Mets leadoff batter in the top of the fourth.
“I don’t know,” said Esrang, watching the runner take a large lead off first.
Jones threw a curve ball, which the Mets clean-up hitter promptly bounced toward second. A blink of an eye later the Nats had turned a double play.
“Now watch,” said Zen. “He’ll walk this guy on straight fastballs.”
There was a slider in the middle of the sequence, but Zen was right—the player never took his bat off shoulder.
“How would you fix this guy?” he asked Esrang. He pushed his wheelchair back and angled slightly to see his guest’s face.
“My specialty isn’t sports,” said Esrang. “But I wonder if it might be some sort of apprehension and overstimulation at first. Nervousness, in layman’s terms. His pitches seem a lot sharper than they were in the first inning.”
“Could be,” said Zen.
“A variation of performance anxiety.”
“So what do you do?”
“Have him pitch a lot of first innings,” said Esrang. He laughed. “Of course, that’s not going to work well for the team.”
“Maybe if he pitched
no
first innings,” said Zen.
“That would be another approach.” Esrang sipped his beer. “Break through that barrier.”
“Change the scoreboard so it looks like it’s the second inning?” asked Zen. “Or hypnotize him.”
“I don’t trust hypnotism,” said Esrang. “But if you could change his environment, even slightly, it might work.”
A perfect segue, thought Zen. “I wonder if something like that would work with Mark.”
Esrang was silent for a moment.
“Do you think it would?” asked Zen.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I was wondering if perhaps he might go out for short visits,” said Zen. “Little trips.”
“Senator, your friend is a potentially dangerous individual. Not a big league pitcher.”
“Jones is pretty dangerous himself,” laughed Zen as a ball headed toward the right field bleachers.
Zen let the subject rest for a while, ordering two beers and sticking to baseball. The doctor surely felt sandbagged, but in the end that wasn’t going to matter one bit—eventually they were going to help Stoner. Somehow.
A pop fly to the catcher ended the Mets half of the inning. The Nationals manufactured a run in the bottom half with an error, a steal, and two long fly ball outs.
Jones struck out the side in the top of the second, his only ball missing the strike zone by perhaps a quarter of an inch.
A shadow swung over the sky near the edge of the stadium as the players ran to the dugout. Esrang’s head jerked up. Zen followed his gaze.
“What’s that airplane?” asked the doctor.
“That’s security,” said Zen. “The D.C. police are using UAVs to patrol some of the airspace over the past few weeks.”
“It’s a Predator?”
“No, civilian,” said Zen. “The plane is smaller. But the idea is basically the same. They have infrared and optical cameras. They’re just testing them for crowd control right now. A few weeks, though, and they’ll be using them to give out tickets.”
“Really?”
“That’s what they claim.”
“Hmmm.”
“Personally, I think the money would be better spent on foot patrols.” Zen was on the committee that oversaw D.C. funding, and had actually voted against the allocation, even though it was mostly funded by a private grant. “High tech has its limits. You need people on the ground, in the loop. Here you’re spending the equivalent of six police officers—I’d rather have the people.”
“I can’t disagree,” said the psychiatrist.
“Plus, I’ll probably be the one getting the ticket,” laughed Zen.
A roar rose from the crowd. Zen turned in time to see a ball head over the right field fence.
“Here we go,” he told Esrang. “Brand new ballgame.”
“I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea,” said the psychiatrist. “But we have to be careful.”
“The UAVs won’t give out the tickets themselves.”
“I mean with Mark.”
“Oh, of course.”
“The drugs they used, we don’t have a good handle on the effects,” said Esrang. “We don’t know exactly if they’ve made him psychotic. He’s very focused; he’s very internal. I can’t completely predict what he’ll do.”
“He hasn’t harmed anyone since he’s been in custody. Or done anything aggressive.”
“I realize that. I know. But—”
The Nationals third baseman cracked a hard shot down the first baseline. Esrang jumped from his seat to watch as the player zipped past first, took a wide turn at second, and raced for third. He slid in under the tag.
“Not bad,” Esrang told Zen, sitting back. “But I would never have given him a green light on three balls and no strikes.”
“No.” Zen held his gaze for a moment. “Sometimes you take a chance, and it works out.”
“Hmmm,” said Esrang.