“At the moment I was heading for dinner,” said Todd.

“After dinner?”

“Probably watch the Nationals on the tube. They’re playing the Mets. I’d love to see them win.”

“You’re going to the game?”

“Too late for that. I’m staying in to watch.”

“Want some company?”

“You’re stooping to baseball?”

“Yes.”

“Game’s on at seven. I’ll leave word.”

Chapter 22

Duka

It had been two weeks since Milos Kimko had drunk his last vodka, but the taste lingered in his mouth, teasing his cracked lips and stuffed nose. He longed for a drink, but there were none to be had, which was a fortunate thing for a man struggling to break the habit.

The locals all chewed khat, an ugly tasting weed that supposedly mimicked amphetamines. Kimko thought it made them crazy and wouldn’t go near it. The homemade alchoholic concoctions, brewed in repugnant stills, were even worse. He therefore had a reasonable shot at staying sober long enough for it to take.

Africa was not exactly a punishment for the career SVR officer, much less a rehabilitation clinic. It was more a symbol of his diminishment. Milos Kimko had once been a bright star in the Russian secret service, a master of over a dozen languages, an accomplished thief and a persuader of men, a large number of whom were still in the SVR’s employ as spies. For several years he’d headed the service’s Egyptian operation, and at the time had contacts throughout the Middle East. He had even helped, behind the scenes, negotiate several of the secret pacts with Iran that Russian prime minister Vladimir Putin had used to outmaneuver the U.S. and its allies during the Clinton administration.

But that had been his high point. Instead of the assignment in Moscow he coveted, he was rotated into Western Europe, and from there, inexplicably, to South America. He could blame drinking for his downfall, but that was a lie; the drinking was a consolation, not a reason. He never knew whether he had inadvertently crossed someone or if one of his bosses had coveted his wife. Both, probably.

Petra had been gone five years now, a distant memory.

Kimko smiled at the server as she brought his tea. He sniffed it first—you couldn’t be too careful here—then took a sip. As he set down the cup, a short African with a scruffy beard entered the café.

Girma, the man he had come to see.

Kimko rose to get his attention, then sat back down. Girma sauntered over.

“Well, my friend, you are looking well this morning,” said Girma in Arabic.

“And you.”

Girma sat. He headed the local faction of rebels known in English as Sudan First, and had a reputation as slightly unbalanced. The waitress rushed over with a pot of fresh tea brewed especially for him. It was a local concoction, sprinkled heavily with khat.

“The weather is pleasant this morning,” said Kimko.

The two men chatted about the weather for a few minutes, wary lions sizing each other up. The full name of Girma’s group translated as “Sudan the Almighty First Liberation.” Its beliefs varied according to the person and, as near as Kimko could tell from his two days here, the hour. But it was larger and somewhat richer than the other group, Meur-tse Meur-tskk. The leader of Meur-tse Meur-tskk, an improbable French-loving African named Gerard, was even crazier than Girma, spending most of his time staring into the distance. So Kimko knew that if he wanted information, Girma and Sudan First were the ones to deal with.

He had heard rumors in the south that the Brothers were trying to forge an alliance with Girma, but had so far not put enough money on the table to cement it. That was the problem with true believers—they failed to see that corruption was the easiest way to a man’s soul.

“Did the commotion last night wake you?” asked Kimko after Girma had his second cup of tea.

“The commotion?”

“The Americans attacked one of the buildings outside town.” Kimko wasn’t sure if Girma was faking ignorance or if it was genuine. “Near the train yard. I assume it was an attack on your rivals, Meurtre Musique.”

“Meurtre Musique are our friends,” said Girma carefully. He studied his tea before placing it down. “Why do you say they were attacked?”

“There was an Osprey in the air last night. I happened to be awake and went there for a look. There had been an explosion, but otherwise I saw nothing important. The children told me this morning it had once been a warehouse for rice.”

“The rice warehouse.” Girma shook his head. “That isn’t Meurtre Musique’s. Why would they take our building?”

“It’s your building?”

“All of Duka is ours.”

“Who were the Americans attacking?” asked Kimko.

“The Americans are not here. You are obsessed with Americans.”

Kimko let the comment pass.

“There was a robbery last night, that is one bad thing that happened,” said Girma. “I know of that—and when I catch the thief, his hand will be cut off.”

“Where was the robbery?” asked Kimko.

“The clinic.”

Kimko nodded.

“Meurtre Musique is jealous. They cannot be trusted,” said Girma darkly.

“Jealous?”

“They have opened their own clinic.”

“I see.”

“For a long time we have lived side by side, but now I see—they can’t be trusted.”

“What was stolen?”

“Wires for the computers.”

“Wires?”

“To tie something up. They aren’t even smart enough to take the computers. Imbeciles.”

Kimko sipped his tea. The theft of computer wires was even more interesting, if perplexing, than an attack on a warehouse.

“If the Americans were to attack someone,” said Girma finally, “it would be the Brothers.”

“The Brothers? They’re here?”

“Yes, the government chased them from the mines to the south. They haven’t contacted us, but of course we know everything that goes on in the city.”

Except for the most obvious things like Osprey attacks in the middle of the night, thought Kimko.

“I expect they will talk of an alliance again,” said Girma. “They are always anxious for one.”

“I wonder,” said Kimko, “if there might not be a way to talk to them.”

“Why would you talk to them? They have no power here.”

“Of course not. You are the power,” said Kimko. “Still, it might be useful.”

“To sell them weapons?”

“Perhaps.” Kimko saw the slight pout on Girma’s face. “Of course, if I made a sale, I would pay a commission to whoever helped make that possible. A nice commission.”

“Hmmmm.” Girma drained his tea and poured a fresh cup. “A meeting could be arranged.”

“Good.”

Girma rose. “Come with me.”

“Now?”

“I believe I know where they are. There is no sense waiting, is there?”

“Certainly not.”

Chapter 23

Duka

Danny let Nuri do the talking when they arrived at the clinic, hanging back and watching Marie Bloom. People who worked with NGAs—nongovernmental agencies—were always an odd mix, and for Danny at least, hard to read. Both Nuri and Melissa had assured him that she was a volunteer, not a British agent. Naiveté and religious devotion had brought her here, Nuri assured him, in a way that made it sound several times more dangerous than warfare.

The two boxes of medicines were accepted almost greedily. Bloom didn’t ask many questions of Melissa, whom Nuri claimed he had recruited while getting the supplies. Melissa said that she worked for WHO, the World Health Organization, and was due in Khartoum in three days. A colleague would pick her up in forty-eight hours and give her a ride.