“No,” Early said.
“The best sword remains in its sheath so that it is ready when it is needed. A sword outside of its place will rust and break and become worthless, only to be tossed into the fire.”
Cella shook her head. “You men and your talk of war and borders and killing. If you made life inside of you instead of taking the lives of others around you, you would hear how foolish you sound.”
Mossa laughed. “You should talk, daughter! You are the fiercest warrior of us all. You fight for those you love, too. Only not with bullets.”
The camel driver called out, lifting the great round wheel of bread out of the hot sand.
“You see? All your talk of war, and you should have been making tea!” Cella stood up and headed over to the camel driver to help.
“She is worse than two generals,” Mossa said. “But she has a good heart.” The Tuareg glanced at Pearce. “But you already know this.”
“She saved many lives in Afghanistan, including mine, I think.”
“And yesterday you came here. Perhaps she is the one I should thank for our lives.” Mossa stood. “But first I shall make the tea.”
Pearce scanned the wide horizon. If the Malian army decided to come after them here, nothing could save them. He was all out of tricks now and there was nowhere to hide.
47
Maersk Oil Pumping Station
Tamanghasset Province, Southern Algeria
11 May
Lieutenant Beaujolais kneeled down to get a better photo on his cell phone. The Danish woman was beautiful. Such a waste. He pressed the button. The cell phone camera flashed. The woman’s face appeared on the small screen. Blond hair, brown eyes, a mouth twisted in a rictus of terror.
He pressed SEND. The message was addressed to the French Foreign Legion command. He stood. The rubber soles of his boots made a crackling sound as he moved. The floor was sticky with blood. He took a photo of the Danish woman’s twisted body, three feet away from her head.
“Lieutenant!” The shout came from outside.
The lieutenant pulled his pistol and dashed outside. The corporal’s voice came from around back.
“Lieutenant! Here!”
Beaujolais ran to the far side of the building. The corporal, a wiry Haitian, pointed in the distance. A man stumbled around in the distance on a low dune, like a drunk.
“You! Stop!” the lieutenant called. But the man stumbled on.
Beaujolais fired his pistol in the air. “STOP!” But the drunk plodded on.
The lieutenant and the corporal ran the distance, their boots marching a straight line through his wobbly footprints. They were both in fantastic shape, but sprinting uphill a hundred meters in the hot sand left them both exhausted, thighs and calves throbbing.
The lieutenant’s eyes stung with sweat. He wiped it away with his free hand, afraid he was seeing things.
Mon Dieu.
The wide-eyed Haitian corporal saw the same thing.
The two soldiers raced the last few meters, shouting for the man to stop in French, English, and Arabic. He didn’t.
The Haitian dropped his rifle and tackled the man from behind. He didn’t resist. They rolled him over. The drunken man held up his two arms, raising blackened stumps to heaven, crying out, I am no thief! in Arabic, blood and tears streaming down his lidless eyes. He wasn’t drunk.
He was out of his mind.
No question. This was the man on the AQS video beheading the Danish woman in the pump house posted just hours before.
The Haitian opened his canteen and tried to give the man water, but he spit it out. The corporal dumped it on his face to cool him and relieve his sun-scorched eyes.
The lieutenant shot a cell phone picture of the man’s blistered face for confirmation from HQ, but he was certain it was him, the killer in the video. But this wretch wasn’t AQ Sahara. They wouldn’t do this to their own kind. Besides, he had no beard, no weapon, and they left him behind—unlike the other two masked butchers in the video holding the girl. Maybe they forced this man to behead her?
“Who did this to you?” the lieutenant asked in Arabic.
The man wept and burbled.
“I can’t understand you.”
“Al Rus,” the man finally muttered.
The lieutenant cursed. They had just missed him. But at least they knew he was in the area. Maybe headquarters could do something with that.
The Oval Office, the White House
Washington, D.C.
Diele poured himself another scotch. Without asking.
Again.
President Greyhill was coming to regret his arranged marriage with the esteemed former senator from Nevada. Diele had helped broker the deal that got Myers to resign her office in exchange for blanket pardons for Pearce and his friends. The broker’s fee Diele charged was the vice presidency. The exchange gave Greyhill the big desk in the Oval Office, but he could never shake the feeling that Diele had one hand on the doorknob, ready to shove him back out.
But Diele had his uses. He was a formidable ally to have in his corner—the kind of bare-knuckled street fighter who would gleefully kick an unsuspecting opponent in the balls before the fight even began. The kind of fighter that would rather kick an opponent in the head when he was down on the ground clutching his scrotum than actually get in a ring and prance around for ten rounds. That made Diele extremely valuable to Greyhill.
But the vice president was a pain in the ass, too. Didn’t know his place. Stomped around the Oval Office like he owned it. Drank up Greyhill’s best liquor. Didn’t even have the courtesy to ask Greyhill if he wanted one of his own, which he did.
“Quit pissing your pantaloons. It’s a nonstarter,” Diele said over the top of his glass. “Fiero can’t touch us.”
Greyhill shifted in his chair behind the famous desk. The pronoun “us” grated on him. “You’ve seen the headlines today, haven’t you? Seems Fiero is awfully prescient.”
Today’s below-the-fold front-page article in the New York Times featured a map of Africa and the spreading influence of the Chinese. A Washington Post op-ed had picked up on the Fiero Sunday-morning interview, too, and echoed her concerns.
“Slow news day at the fish wrapper, that’s all. And who watches those tired old news shows anyway?” Diele fell onto the couch, put his feet up on the heirloom coffee table. Greyhill clenched his jaw. Diele was a primitive.
“But what about her point? China and REEs and all of that? And, of course, the terrorist connection.”
“What terrorist connection? She didn’t offer any proof. Just some damn hearsay speculation. Don’t you see? She’s throwing everything out on the stoop, see what the dog’ll lick up. Or in this case, the reporters. You can smell her desperation. Don’t you think if any of this was legit, it would’ve popped up on the PDB?” Diele was referring to the Presidential Daily Brief, a document provided each morning by the director of national intelligence. Greyhill preferred an oral presentation by someone from the DNI’s office with just bullet points. He seldom read the actual documents. Diele pored over them.