“I heard nothing of it,” Khoury replied.
Hassan leaned in again to whisper. The general nodded and said, “It may involve your American investigator.”
“Davis?” Khoury asked.
“Yes. I want your help in dealing with him.”
Khoury had seen the general “deal” with people before. It was not a pretty sight. “What can I do?” Khoury asked.
“Since he lives in your compound,” Ali said sarcastically, “perhaps you could find him. He has committed crimes.”
“Will you arrest him? Would that be wise? It could draw attention to our work, and since he is here as the official representative of—”
“He has committed crimes!” Ali interrupted, leaning his massive bulk forward. “My soldiers have begun to look for him. When we return today you will do your part.” He raised a blunt finger. “We cannot afford to have him interfering at this critical moment. Find him and give him to me!”
Khoury held steady. He knew the general relied on intimidation for his livelihood. It was his stock in trade. Yet Khoury was a master of opportunism. He said, “But Davis is an American. If your men should take him into custody, what would they do? Throw him in prison? I suggest we put him to far better use.”
The general calmed as he considered this. “Yes, perhaps you are right. But first we must find him. When we return from our tour today, that is your priority.”
“Rest easy, General. A man like him in our country? He has nowhere to hide.”
Davis woke with his shoulder slumped against the passenger door of the truck cab. Antonelli had offered to drive the first shift, knowing he’d had a long night, and she was there next to him, concentrating on the road, dark eyes sharp with two hands hugging the steering wheel in a wide bus driver’s grip. The highway was better than most, so Davis reckoned they had been making good time. Yet the miles covered had done nothing to change the scenery outside. Still parched vegetation, brittle and sun-yellowed, clinging to life on loose rocks and sand. Still God’s xeriscape.
The cab of the truck was cramped for such a large vehicle, and even with the seat all the way back Davis’ knees were wedged against the glove compartment. It was also hot. If there was an air conditioner, it wasn’t keeping up. Davis wondered briefly if this was where FBN’s mechanics had gotten the big compressor for their own truck. If so, then the behemoth was spinning a unit from a Ford F-150 under its massive hood. It certainly felt like it.
Davis looked over his shoulder and saw a young man riding in the open bed, the kid he’d last seen in a cot in the clinic. He was crammed into a shady spot amid the cargo, leaning on a wooden crate. His arm was in a sling and his face was heavily bandaged. Otherwise, he’d been cleaned up and looked much improved. Eighteen-year-old bodies had a way of healing fast. Antonelli looked better too, the only marks from her assault being a few scrapes on one hand and a bruised cheek. She looked over and caught his gaze.
“Good morning,” she said.
Davis shifted higher in his seat. “Morning.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I always sleep well.” Davis noted the sun brooding high overhead. “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock, perhaps ten thirty.”
Under present circumstances, he figured that was close enough. He said, “I left my watch in my room. Actually, I left everything in my room.”
“When we arrive at al-Asmat, we can stop at the shopping mall and put you in some new clothes.”
Davis looked over and saw a slight grin. He gave one back.
Antonelli shifted her eyes to the road and steered around a tumbleweed that was rolling into their path. Davis took that moment of distraction to check her ring finger. He didn’t see a wedding band, although there was a faint tan line where one might have been. Which made for a lot of possibilities. It could be that she wasn’t married. Or maybe she was, but didn’t want to flash bling in such an impoverished country. Davis could just ask. He didn’t.
He said, “How far to the coast?”
“Our drive will take most of the day. We should arrive early this evening.”
Antonelli started to wrestle with a road map, turning it back and forth with her free hand. After a few tries she handed it to Davis.
“You can be our navigator. I think there is a turn soon, but I can’t find it.”
“A paper map? Don’t see these much anymore.” He took it and saw the problem right away. Davis began straightening the factory folds, and once he had it fully open, put the origin at the bottom and their destination on top, then made the creases he wanted.
“There’s an art to this,” he said. “Spend a few years in the cockpit of a small jet, and you learn how to tame a chart. You have to fold so that only the part you want shows — the rest is superfluous.” He finished and showed her a nice neat rectangle that covered their entire route. “See? Jammer’s map origami. I’m a master.”
She looked mildly impressed. “Are you an equally good investigator?”
“Not really. I’m more of a nuisance than a detective. But I get results.”
“How is your work progressing on this crash? Do you have a solution yet?”
“Somebody suggested one to me when I got here. But everything I’ve turned up so far has proved that theory wrong. I actually found the airplane that was supposed to have crashed sitting on the tarmac over at the airport.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “You cannot be serious.”
Davis nodded. “And then I found the crew.” He left it at that, not wanting to expand on the specifics of that revelation.
“So you are saying there was no crash?”
“I don’t know, I’m still working on it. I thought I might ask around when we get to al-Asmat. If something did go down it was close to there, about twenty miles north.”
“You’ll need my help. I speak Arabic and few in the village speak English.”
Antonelli began telling him about al-Asmat. As she did, she drove like all Italians — one hand steering, the other talking. The village sounded like a simple place, and right now that appealed to Davis. He needed a little time to slow down and think things through.
“About what you did last evening,” she said. “I want to thank you again. It was very noble.”
“Actually, it was very stupid. But I’ve done dumber things. Practically made a career of it.”
“Yes, I imagine you have.”
He gave her the grin that deserved, then asked, “How many times have you come to Sudan?”
“This is my third tour.”
She said this like it was some kind of combat duty. From what he’d seen, it nearly was.
She added, “I would like to come back again next year and—”
Antonelli’s thought was cut short, and Davis followed her eyes. A vehicle was coming in the opposite direction. At least Davis thought it was a vehicle — at the moment it was no more than a cloud of dust. He watched closely to see what materialized out of the brown mist, and it wasn’t good. A small military convoy, three vehicles. Or to be exact, three EQ-2050s, China’s knock-off clone of the U.S. Humvee. In his previous life, Davis had been required to memorize the silhouettes and capabilities of ground combat vehicles, both the good and bad guy versions. Air-to-ground pilots had to know things like that before they started bombing and strafing.
“Will they stop us?” he asked.
“Not without reason.” Antonelli banged on the rear window and pointed ahead. The young man in the cargo bed nodded, acknowledging the warning.
She said, “We have our aid agency markings displayed prominently.”
“Those soldiers back at the airport didn’t seem to care.”