Danny sensed trouble as soon as the white Range Rover turned the corner. Dirt and dust flew in every direction as the nose of the vehicle swung hard to the left and then back to the right. He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Nuri, who was sitting on one of the camp chairs in front of Gerard.
The Rover skidded to a stop. A man jumped out from the rear, raising his arm.
“Down!” yelled Danny. He threw himself forward, pushing Nuri to the ground as the man near the car began firing.
Gerard joined them as his bodyguards began returning fire.
“Go! Come on, let’s go!” hissed Danny, grabbing Nuri and pulling him in the direction of the building next to the pavilion where they’d gone to meet Gerard. Someone got out of the Range Rover and began firing a machine gun; the bullets chewed through the tables at the front and the canvas overhead. There was more gunfire up the street, screams and curses.
“What is it? What is it?” demanded Nuri, as if Danny had an answer.
“The building—come on,” Danny told him, pulling him to the back of the building where they had some hope of getting out of the cross fire. But a splatter of bullets from the machine gun cut them off. Danny spun back, ready to fire. But when he raised his head, the Range Rover was speeding down the street.
One of Gerard’s bodyguards continued to shoot. The man’s gun clicked empty; he dropped the magazine and reached for another, firing through that. He didn’t stop until he had no more magazines.
A half-dozen people lay on the ground. Two or three moaned; the others were already dead. Blood and splinters were everywhere. One of the picnic tables had been shot in half, its two ends reaching up like a pair of hands praying to the heavens.
Gerard sputtered in rapid French.
“Stay down,” Danny told Nuri, crouching next to him. “There were people firing from up the street.”
“They were with Gerard.”
“What’s he saying?”
“He’s asking who did this,” said Nuri, who’d drawn his pistol. “Dumb question. Has to be Sudan First.”
Nuri got to his knees, listening as Gerard continued to yell.
“He says it was Girma’s truck. That’s Sudan First.”
“Time for us to get out of here,” said Danny.
“We’re going to have to help clean this up,” said Nuri.
“What?”
“We have a car. We have to take the victims to the clinic.”
This wasn’t a particularly good time to be playing good Samaritan, thought Danny, but Nuri made sense. A half-dozen armed men had appeared from other parts of the square. They formed a perimeter around the battered pavilion. Gerard stood a few feet away, railing in French against whoever had done this. He’d taken a pistol out and was waving it around.
“Go get the car,” Nuri told Danny. “I’ll explain.”
By the time Danny retrieved the Mercedes, two of Gerard’s men were waiting with one of the wounded, a gray-haired old man whose face was covered with blood. Danny guessed that the man was already dead, but didn’t argue; he helped three other people into the front seat, and took another into the rear.
“I’ll stay,” said Nuri, running up to him. “Gerard will help us now.”
“Be careful,” said Danny.
“I’ve been in much worse situations. Speak as little as possible,” added Nuri. “Very little. They’re going to be suspicious. The cover will be that you’re a mercenary from Australia, probably a wanted criminal. They might accept that.”
“I don’t sound Australian.”
“They won’t know.”
The two bodyguards climbed on the trunk; Danny rolled the windows down so they could hold on, then backed into a U-turn to get to the clinic.
Marie Bloom was not the naive do-gooder that Melissa had taken her for at first. On the contrary, Bloom was a steely and wily woman who started questioning her as soon as Nuri and Danny had left.
“What spy agency do you work for?” she asked, getting straight to the point.
“I’m not a spy,” Melissa told her.
“Lupo didn’t just find you on the street,” she said. “You’re an American. You’re with the CIA.”
“I am an American,” Melissa said. She fidgeted in the office chair. It was a small room; if she held out her arms, she could almost touch both walls. “I was in Kruk last week. There were problems in one of the camps. I had . . . trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked Bloom. Her voice was borderline derisive. She leaned against the bare table she used as a desk; it doubled as an examining table for infants.
“There were problems with one of the supervisors,” said Melissa. “He tried . . . let’s say he pushed me around.”
“And then what happened?”
“I took care of it.”
Bloom frowned, and reached for Melissa’s shoulder. She jerked back instinctively.
“I know it’s hurt. Let me see it,” said Bloom.
Melissa leaned forward reluctantly.
“Take off your shirt,” directed Bloom.
Wincing, Melissa unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it back on her shoulders, exposing the massive bruise.
“You dislocated it,” said Bloom, probing gently at the edges.
“I put it back in place.”
“Yourself?”
“I had help.”
“He pulled it from the socket?”
Melissa didn’t answer.
“I would bet there’s tearing,” said Bloom. “The rotator cuff—”
“I’ll be fine,” said Melissa. “Someone is going to meet me. We’ll go to the capital and I’ll go home.”
She pulled her shirt back into place. She didn’t think Bloom fully believed her story, but the injury was certainly authentic, and it made everything else at least somewhat plausible. In general, that was all people needed—an excuse to find something believable.
“What are you taking for it?” asked Bloom.
“Aspirin.” She shook her head. “I’m OK.”
“We have hydrocodone.”
“No. You’ll need them for real patients.”
“As if you’re not hurt? You think you’re more stoic than the next person?”
“I saw a hell of a lot worse at Kruk.”
Bloom gathered a stethoscope, a thermometer, and gloves from a basket at the left side of the desk. “How do you know Gerard?”
“I have no idea who he is.”
“Lupo?”
Melissa shook her head. “He was a convenient ride. I needed to go. It sounded like a good solution.”
“You travel with people you don’t know?” said Bloom, her voice once more harsh. “That’s very dangerous.”
“One of my supervisors said he could be trusted. He’s a criminal, I know,” added Melissa. “But he didn’t try to hurt me.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“When my friend comes, I’ll give him a hundred dollars.”
“You have it?”
“My friend will have it. I don’t.”
“I hope your friend has a gun,” said Bloom. “Several.”
Melissa rose and started to follow Bloom out of the office. As she opened the door, they heard gunfire in the distance. Bloom tensed.
“What’s going on?” asked Melissa.
“I don’t know.” She turned around and went to the cabinet behind Melissa. Reaching inside, she took out a pistol—an older Walther automatic. She put it in her belt under her lab coat. “Get ready for anything.”
Danny drove the car to the clinic’s front door, scattering a flock of birds pecking at the dirt. A thin man in a white T-shirt coming out of the building jumped back, fear in his eyes as Danny slammed on the brakes. The two men on the back leaped down and pulled open the doors, helping the wounded out of the car.
Except for the soft purr of the engine, it was eerily silent. Danny picked up a woman who had been shot in the arm and carried her inside. She was a limp rag, passed out from the loss of blood but at least breathing.
That was more than he could say for the man they’d lain across the backseat. Danny stopped the two guards as they picked him up and moved him out of the car. He put his finger on the man’s pulse and shook his head.