45

Eastern Sudan

“AT LEAST FORTY MEN THERE, CHIEF.” SUGAR HANDED BACK the long distance night vision binoculars. “Two platoons, spread out in the positions. Then whatever they have behind them at the barracks.”

Boston refocused the glasses. Not only were there plenty of soldiers, but the Ethiopian army had brought up two armored cars to cover the road and surrounding area. A troop truck blocked the road near the gate. Nearby, a group of forty or fifty Sudanese were squatting on the ground near the border fence, denied permission to go over the line.

“The border is often closed at night,” said Abul. “Maybe in the morning.”

“There’ll be more troops there in the morning,” said Boston, raising the glasses to view the barracks area beyond the checkpoint.

There were two dozen troop trucks parked near the dormitory-style buildings used as quarters for the border guards. The trucks had arrived late that afternoon, sent as soon as word reached army headquarters that there had been a massive raid on rebel units nearby. Such raids always increased the number of refugees trying to cross the border. As it had periodically in the past, the government decided not just to shut the border, but to be serious about it. The soldiers had been authorized to shoot to kill rather than allow the refugees to cross.

Boston wasn’t worried about getting shot, but he had yet to hear from Washington about the arrangements for diplomatic passage. He couldn’t see anyone near the checkpoint who looked as if they might be from the embassy, sent to help them across. Being interred in an Ethiopian prison camp—or kept among the refugees—was hardly how he wanted to spend the next few days. Or years.

“There is another passage one hundred kilometers south,” said Abul. “We can be there shortly after daybreak.”

“That one will have troops, too,” said Boston.

“Why don’t we just go south until we find a spot, and cut through the fence,” said Sugar. “Pick a spot, then drive across.”

“It’s not just the fence,” said Boston. “Satellite photo shows the ditch extends the entire way.”

The ditch was an antitank obstacle, designed to prevent exactly what Sugar was suggesting. It would probably only slow a determined tank attack an hour or two at most, but the steep sides made it impossible for the bus to scale.

Boston considered splitting up—he could go across with the body of their dead comrade, then wait for the others to pick him up after crossing legitimately. But that would be inviting even more complications, completely unnecessary if Washington could just make the arrangements.

“Let me talk to Mrs. Stockard,” he said, handing the glasses back to Sugar. “Maybe they’ve made the arrangements. Otherwise our best bet right now is just to sit and wait.”

“You hear that?” asked Sugar, turning quickly.

“What?”

“I’m hearing a motorcycle over the hill.”

She’d heard it several times earlier as well. They’d checked once, Boston dropping off as the bus went ahead, but hadn’t seen anything.

He didn’t hear anything now. He shook his head.

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” she said.

“Hopefully,” said Boston.

46

Room 4

CIA Campus

HALFWAY ACROSS THE WORLD IN ROOM 4 ON THE CIA’S Langley campus, Breanna Stockard was sitting at her desk, keeping tabs on Danny and the others in Iran. She’d left a message for Ms. Bennett, telling her how to reach her, then brought her work here.

Being tied into the MY-PID system made her feel a little better. But not much.

As originally conceived, MY-PID took over many of the support functions spies and special operations units needed, and in theory there was no need for her to watch them from afar. But theory and reality were still struggling to fit together.

Breanna found it almost impossible not to check on their progress every so often, monitoring their communications and watching their locations. She hadn’t done this when Nuri started out the Jasmine mission alone, but now the stakes were considerably higher. And she knew more of the people involved.

Maybe the missions should always be directly monitored by someone, she thought, even if that was a deviation from the original plan and philosophy. She’d have to discuss it with Reid.

But if they were, she wouldn’t be the one doing it. And then she’d feel left out.

The communications system buzzed with an incoming call from Boston. The wall screen opened a window at the lower right-hand corner, mapping where the call was coming from. Had the area been under real-time visual surveillance, an image would have been supplied.

“Go ahead,” she said, allowing the transmission to connect. Technical data on the encryption method and communication rates were added to the screen.

“Mrs. Stockard?”

“Hello, Boston. I see you’re at the border. I’m still waiting for the embassy. They need to get permission from the Ethiopian government. They don’t think there’ll be a problem, but they have to make contact with the right officials. The situation remains the same—they’ve closed all the crossings.”

“Do you have an ETA on that permission, ma’am?”

“I wouldn’t expect it before morning. It may not come until the afternoon. They are working on it.”

“Yeah…” Boston’s voice trailed off.

“Is there a problem, Chief?”

“As I told you before, we left the base camp in kind of a hurry. I’m not sure that the people we left behind are, uh—well, they may be a little pissed at us, if you know what I mean.”

“You can present yourselves at the border and go into Ethiopian custody if things get crazy,” said Breanna.

“That’s not my first preference.”

“It’s not mine, either. We should have an answer in the morning,” she told him. “I don’t think there’s going to be any problem in the end. It’s just the paperwork on their side. And getting to the right person.”

“All right,” said Boston.

The resignation in his voice was so obvious that Breanna told him not to worry again; she’d get him out under any circumstance.

“I’m not worried. I know you will,” said Boston.

“I’ll talk to you at nine A.M. your time,” Breanna told him. “Can you hold out until then?”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said.

As soon as Boston hung up, Breanna called back over to State to check on the request. But instead of the undersecretary who had been acting as a liaison, she got a bubbly assistant—the first bad sign.

The second bad sign came a moment later, when the assistant told her that all border crossing into Ethiopia had been closed “for the near future.”

Her voice made it sound like she had just scored tickets for the Super Bowl.

“I know that already,” said Breanna. “The ambassador is supposed to be explaining that we have a special situation.”

“Oh. Please hold.”

Breanna tried not to explode. The assistant was part of the night staff, and clearly not the best informed.

“We’re still working on it,” said the assistant, coming back on the line.

“And how long is that going to take?”

“Well, it’s nighttime over there now. Very late. You realize they’re several hours ahead of us. Six, actually.”

“Thank you,” said Breanna, confident the sarcasm in her voice would go right over the woman’s head.

It did.

“I think we have to make other arrangements,” she told Reid a short time later. “If we can’t count on help from the Ethiopian government.”

“They’ll help us, I’m sure.”

“But in how long? Two weeks? I don’t want to leave my people in an Ethiopian jail for two weeks. They’ll put them in a detention center until this gets straightened. And God knows what will happen there.”