Raven Strike

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, Da

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 Da

“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, Da

“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.”

Chapter 24

Duka

The 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 fla

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 ru

“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?”

Kimko 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.

Chapter 25

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 i

“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.