Their destination was next to the clinic building: a squat, thatch-roofed pavilion that looked like an open-sided tent. About the size of a train car, it ran back from the open square at a slight angle, and was filled with a variety of benches, picnic tables, and cast-off plastic chairs. It was filled with people, more than two dozen, scattered in various groups. A pair of white-headed gentlemen played chess near the front; farther back, two men with machetes stood behind a squat, pale-skinned man whose face was covered with pimples.

The man was Gerard, the de facto leader of Meurtre Musique. He sat in a red plastic chair, gazing straight ahead.

“Someone should stay with the car,” said Nuri.

“Boston, you stay,” said Danny. “I want to get a look at him.”

“You got it, boss.”

Danny got out and followed Nuri into the pavilion.

“Bonjour, Gerard,” said Nuri, rattling off a greeting in French.

Gerard stared straight ahead. Danny thought he looked like a strung-out heroin addict.

“I hope you have been well.” Nuri pulled over a chair and sat down, just off to the side of Gerard.

Danny walked over and stood behind him. He had arranged the strap on his rifle so it hung down near his hand; he kept his fingers on the butt grip, ready just in case.

The two men with the machetes eyed him fiercely, but soon turned their attention back to the general area. Danny wondered why: most of the people beneath the shed roof were old, and couldn’t have hurt themselves, let alone Gerard. His gun was the only one visible.

“Je voudrais de l’eau,” said Nuri. “I’d like some water. What about you?”

Gerard’s head moved ever so slightly downward. Nuri straightened in his chair and turned toward a woman standing nearby. Gerard said something; the woman replied, then left, crossing the street.

Nuri continued his slow assault on Gerard’s silence, telling him that he had been doing much traveling in the past several months, seeing many people and learning many new things. He used French, even though it wasn’t his best language. He’d taken off the MY-PID ear set—Gerard might have wanted it if he’d seen it—but could speak the language reasonably well without the computer translator’s help.

He could have been speaking Portuguese for all the results he was getting. Gerard remained silent.

The man was a cipher. The first time they had met, Nuri thought he was stoned on some local alcoholic concoction; there were an almost infinite variety. But he’d spent considerable time with Gerard at their second meeting, and saw that he only drank pure water. And when the barrier actually came down—when Gerard broke his silence and spoke about the guns he was interested in buying—he was quite articulate and even a good negotiator. Nuri had decided that the stony glare was part of some sort of religious commitment, Gerard’s version of meditation or prayer.

His girl brought back two bottles of water. Nuri checked the seal to make sure his hadn’t been refilled from a local tap—always a possibility, and sure to induce diarrhea—then opened his. Gerard stared at the bottle, then took it. He had a small sip. Nuri sensed he was ready to talk.

“Are you happy with your current supplier?” Nuri asked in French.

“Hmmmph,” answered Gerard.

“I don’t want to make trouble,” said Nuri. “If there comes an opportunity, I am always ready.”

Gerard handed the water bottle back to the girl. She was thirteen or fourteen, probably a relative as well as a mistress. Nuri tried not to be judgmental. Things were different here, and he had a job to do.

“We are satisfied with the Russians,” said Gerard in English.

“Russians?” Nuri switched to English as well. “They’re supplying you now?”

Gerard said nothing.

“They do give good prices,” admitted Nuri. The dealer might or might not be Russian; anyone from Eastern Europe was likely to be considered a Russian—Poles, Ukrainians, Georgians. All were more likely candidates, and most likely operating on their own. When he was last here, the real Russians were notably absent. “If you are satisfied, then there is no need to change. A good relationship is worth more than a few bullets, one way or the other.”

Gerard remained silent.

“And the government—have they been giving you much trouble?” Nuri asked.

“They are monkeys,” said Gerard. “Imbecilic monkeys.”

“Yes.”

“What would be of use to us would be medicines,” he said. “Aspirin would be a very good thing.”

“Aspirin? Of course. Yes. I believe I could arrange to find some of that. For the clinic?”

“The clinic is run by thieves,” said Gerard. “We have established a new one.”

“What other medicines?” asked Nuri.

Gerard rose. He moved stiffly, but compared to how Nuri had found him, he was a dynamo.

“I will take you to talk to the doctor. We will go in your car.”

Danny followed Nuri to the Mercedes. Gerard, the girl, and the two guards came as well. They got into the back with Boston, while Nuri took his place up front. Danny didn’t like that—it was far too dangerous, he thought—but there was no way to tell Nuri that.

Gerard gave directions from the back in French. Nuri translated them into African, and MY-PID—connected via the team radio—retranslated to English.

The directions took them to a single story building that looked very much like an American double-wide trailer.

“Wait in the car,” Nuri said as the others got out.

“No way,” said Danny.

They exchanged a glance. Nuri frowned, but didn’t protest when Danny followed him inside the building.

They were met near the door by a black woman in her early twenties. She was enthusiastic and friendly, and clearly didn’t speak the local language—she fumbled worse than Nuri did over the greeting.

“Do you speak English?” she asked. She had a British accent; Nuri pegged her as a volunteer, here to do her part for world peace.

“Certainly, Doctor,” Nuri answered.

“I am not a doctor,” she said, leading them through the crowded reception room. “I am just a nurse. Marie Bloom.”

“I’m sorry. Gerard introduced you as a doctor.”

“I think they use the word for anyone with a medical interest.” She smiled at Gerard, nodding. “He has been very good to us. You are here to see our clinic?”

“We may be able to supply some medicines for you,” said Nuri. “Through Gerard’s generosity. If I knew what it was you needed.”

“Oh that would be wonderful. Let me show you around.”

The two examining rooms were austere, furnished with basic tables and some cabinets. There were two rooms with beds where patients could rest, a pair of small offices, and a storeroom. A dozen people, all women or children, were being seen by two aides, both locals whom Marie had trained. They had been open only a few weeks, said Marie, but already had seen a number of difficult cases, including many patients with AIDS.

“We are going to be involved in a program,” she said. “But for now, we send those with AIDS to the capital. We can’t really help.”

“What about the other clinic in town?” Nuri asked.

Marie glanced at Gerard before answering.

“Many people won’t go there.”

That had to be because the other clinic was associated with Sudan First. The friction between the two groups was new.

Most likely it wasn’t serious, or Gerard would not have been in the city center. But you could never tell.

“Give me a list of what you can use,” said Nuri as the tour ended. “And I will see what I can do.”

Nuri led Danny back to the car without Gerard and his small entourage. Boston was in the driver’s seat; Danny got in the back.

“Why didn’t you ask about the UAV?” asked Danny as Boston backed out onto the road.

“The time wasn’t right,” said Nuri.

“Why not?”

“Let me handle this, all right? We have to get this medicine.”