“Careful where you’re driving,” Danny told Boston as he came a little too close to a truck on the side of the road. “You put any scratches in this and Nuri’s going to have to pay to have them fixed out of his own pocket.”
Boston stopped himself from answering that the CIA was rolling in cash. The men in the back didn’t speak English, but they might recognize the letters CIA and start thinking. The last thing Boston or Danny or anyone else on the team wanted was them thinking.
Nuri, of course, would have disagreed about the funds, since he was sure to be hounded about the expenditure. But leasing the trucks had been well worth it.
The handle of the gun Danny presented so casually to Uncle Dpap had been smeared with a bio marker that allowed the MY-PID system to track the rebel leader wherever he went. The phone contained a bug that uploaded audio whenever anyone nearby spoke. Any phone call would be recorded as well, though by now the NSA was listening in to practically all of his communications anyway.
Once past the guard post at the entrance to the village, Danny began to relax. They’d launched a small Owl UAV to supplement the blimps, which watched the area farther north. The Voice told him there was no traffic within the entire area.
“Pretty girl, huh?” said Boston. “That translator.”
“She was.”
“Like to jump her bones.”
“She’s too much for you to handle.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She has to be tough to deal with those characters. And she looked it.”
“I can charm a snake into giving milk.”
Tilia reminded Danny of his ex-wife Jemma, when they’d first met. The similarity wasn’t in their features — Tilia’s skin was lighter, her nose a little smaller, her eyes prettier. What struck him was her expression: all business. She wasn’t very old — early twenties, maybe a few years more. At that age she should be smiling more, happy. But her job weighed her down.
Jemma had been in law school, en route to becoming a professor, en route to becoming a political activist, en route to becoming an assemblywoman and state senator. She was out of politics now, out of law, out of everything — burned out before forty. The last he’d heard, she was living in Vermont, living on a farm that she’d bought with money her parents left her. A mutual friend said she was raising sheep, and selling organic wool and meat.
“I think she has a crush on you,” said Boston.
“Who?”
“Tilia. She was making eyes at you. Circumstances were different,” he continued, “you could have a hell of a time with her.”
“You’re the one that wants to sleep with her,” Danny said.
“Absolutely.” Boston turned to him. “You don’t mind, right?”
“Hell no. As long as you don’t.”
“Maybe we’ll have to,” said Boston. “To keep our cover up.”
“Dream on, Boston.”
“All I’m saying is, I’m sworn to do my duty. It’ll be a sacrifice, but I’m ready.”
19
As soon as the arms dealer was in his truck, uncle Dpap returned to his office. He told everyone but Tilia and Commander John to leave the building. Then he carefully dismantled the pistol and examined it.
“Do you think he cheats you?” asked Commander John.
“I want to make sure this is not some type of trick,” said Uncle Dpap.
“What kind of trick could it be?”
“A trick. Europeans are very tricky.”
“He’s not European,” said Tilia. “His accent is American.”
“I think he’s British,” said Commander John.
“He was trying to disguise where he was from,” said Tilia. “He is most likely CIA.”
“Maybe,” said Uncle Dpap, picking apart the slide group and barrel.
“Why would the CIA help us?” Commander John asked. As pretty as she was, he resented Tilia for sounding too much like a know-it-all.
Satisfied that the gun was not booby-trapped, Uncle Dpap reassembled it. He had never owned a Beretta, and knew of the weapon mostly by reputation. It was used by NATO and the Americans, a good recommendation.
Commander John reached for it. Uncle Dpap slapped his hand.
“I just want to try it,” said John. “Maybe it is defective. You shouldn’t be the one to test it.”
Uncle Dpap loaded the magazine, slapped it into the pistol butt, then handed the weapon to his brother. “Go outside. Make sure you are not near anyone.”
“You don’t have to treat me like a child,” said Commander John, though in fact he was gleeful at the prospect of trying the new weapon. “Should I call the others in?”
“Not yet.”
Uncle Dpap reached down to the lowest drawer in his desk and took out a small pencil case filled with tools. He sorted through them and retrieved a small screwdriver, then began dismantling the phone.
“You think he was CIA?” he asked Tilia.
“Very likely.”
“Why would the CIA help us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to ambush us.”
“To what purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he is CIA and not a dealer, he is trying to get us to ally together. Why would that help them?”
She thought for a few moments. There were no obvious reasons. Every American who came through the area, even the relief workers, was assumed to be working for the CIA, though Tilia knew this was rarely the case.
“We had science visitors the other day,” she noted. “And now this one. The man who was our main source of ammunition dies, and now these men show up.”
“I would think this Mr. Kirk killed him,” said Uncle Dpap. “To get more business.”
“Maybe. If he is truly dead.”
Uncle Dpap did not particularly care for Luo. Except for his inability to find a new source of weapons and bullets, he would not have been disappointed in the least at his demise.
“If he is an arms dealer, why get us together?” asked Uncle Dpap. “What would be his benefit? To save a few dollars transporting the weapons?”
“He would be afraid of a price war, or of being ambushed,” said Tilia. “That was Luo’s concern as well. If he sold to all, yes, he could make more money.”
“But Luo didn’t try to gather us together.”
“Luo knew Sudan. This man — he is still feeling his way.”
“Yes. But he was confident.”
“Or if he is CIA, he might be working with the Egyptians,” said Tilia. “To counter the Iranians. That would not be bad for us.”
Uncle Dpap took the last screw from the back of the phone and edged it up carefully. The phone circuitry was printed on a single card. There was no bomb. It was possible that the phone line was tapped, but Mr. Kirk himself had said to use it only to contact him, and not to say anything. So what would the point of tapping it be?
Uncle Dpap didn’t know that much about cell phones, but unless he had been the man who designed this particular model, it was unlikely that he would have realized that the phone was actually bugged: what looked like a small magnet for the miniature speakerphone was already transmitting to the portable unit used by the other bugs in the town.
“You like this Mr. Kirk,” said Uncle Dpap, starting to put the phone back together.
Tilia blushed.
“You think I’m too old to notice things like that,” he continued, amused. He liked to tease the young woman, who was more like a son to him than the three he had. “His motives are not very important, except for this question — why would he want to deal with several groups together? That is our real question.”
Tilia recognized from his tone that he had come up with an answer.