“English is fine for me,” said the man. “What did you do with the UAV?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do.”

“Who are you?”

“It’s not important who I am. Where is the UAV? Did Li Han give it to you?”

“Li Han. Who is Li Han? I don’t know him. Who are you? Why have you taken me here? You’re an American—I can tell from your accent. Are you CIA? Who are you?”

“It’s who you are that’s important. You’re a Russian gun dealer, violating UN sanctions. You’re a criminal.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“Do you really think the SVG is going to get you off, Milos? The reality is, they washed their hands of you years ago. When you first turned up with a drinking problem. And when your boss wanted to screw your wife.”

Kimko couldn’t help but be surprised by the amount of information the man knew. He tried to make his face neutral but it was too late.

“Of course I know,” said the other man. “I know everything about you. You were on the scrap heap before they brought you out for this assignment. You thought you hit rock bottom, but it’s amazing how much further you had to fall.” The man reached into his pocket and took out a small, airplane-size bottle of vodka. “This will make you feel a lot better.”

Kimko started to reach for the bottle, forgetting the chains. The man laughed at him and shook his head.

“Where is the UAV?”

Kimko lowered his head, trying to regroup. He had to do better—if he was going to survive, he had to do better.

But he wanted that vodka. The American was taunting him. He knew every weakness.

He had to do better.

He slapped the bottle away. But the man, lightning fast, grabbed it before it fell.

“Good reflexes,” said Kimko.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me your name,” Kimko said. “Tell me your name, so I know who I’m talking with.”

“John. You can call me John. Where is the UAV?”

“In the city somewhere.” Kimko raised his head. “He said he had it and would show me a picture.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Nuri. He pocketed the vodka bottle. “I’ll be back.”

Outside the hut, Nuri had MY-PID replay the conversation. Analyzing the voice patterns, it judged that the Russian had been telling the truth.

He was weak, though. He truly wanted a drink. With a little effort and patience, Nuri knew he could undoubtedly elicit a great deal of information, everything the Russians were trying to do in Africa.

But he didn’t care about any of that. He needed to know where the Raven flight computer was—and that seemed to be the one thing Kimko couldn’t tell him.

Surely he knew something. The only question was, how much vodka would it take to find out?

The little bottle Nuri had shown Kimko was his entire stock. It had been in his luggage, a souvenir from his flight from Europe to Egypt that he’d pocketed and then forgotten. It was barely a shot’s worth.

Damn good thing he’d caught it in midair. Try it a hundred times and he’d never do it again.

“Get him some food,” Nuri told one of the guards. “Don’t talk to him at all. I’m going to go for a walk and clear my head. I’ll be back.”

Chapter 10

Washington, D.C.

It was not easy to find a pay phone. And when Amara finally did find one and dialed the number, he went straight to voice mail.

Flustered, he hung up. He had no idea what to do or where to go. He’d never even been in Washington, D.C., before.

He had a cell phone but was sternly warned to use it only once, and that was to call and say he had arrived at his final destination. Using it for any other purpose was beyond question. He was sure to be punished for doing so; he guessed the punishment would be death.

Amara walked around the train station, trying to decide what to do. He would have to find a place to stay. That part was relatively easy, even though he had limited funds. The question would be what to do next.

The bookstore had a stand with small magazines listing inexpensive hotels. He studied it, then found the taxi stand. But as he queued up for the line, he saw from the magazine ad that he could get there from the Metro. That would be cheaper.

Back inside, he passed the phone booth and decided to try calling his contact one last time.

A male voice answered on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“This is Amara from the old country,” he said. “I’ve come looking for my cousin.”

There was no answer. Fearing a trap or perhaps a simple mistake with the number, Amara was just about to slap the phone down when the man said, “Go to the Air and Space Museum. Wait outside.”

“What train do I take?” asked Amara. But the man had already hung up.

Amara found his way to the Metro and bought a fare card. He could feel the others staring at him as he wheeled his suitcase down to the tracks. But there were other travelers with cases as well.

Someone bumped into him from behind. Amara jerked back.

“I’m sorry,” said a white girl, about nineteen or twenty. She had a stud below her lip. She put her hand up to reassure him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I, uh . . .” Amara’s throat was suddenly very dry. He searched his brain for something to say in English. “I . . . wonder which way.”

“What way?” She gave him a bemused smile.

“I have to meet someone in front of the Air and Space Museum. Is hard to get to? From here?”

The girl led him back over to a map of the subway system, explaining how he would have to go. She smelled like flowers, Amara thought. American girls always did.

Some forty minutes later, Amara paced in front of the museum, trying to look inconspicuous.

He froze as he saw a police car pass by.

It’s all been a trap, he thought. An elaborate hoax to get me to America. They’ll throw me in Guantánamo and torture me there for life.

“Cousin,” said a deep voice as a hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind.

Amara, startled, spun around. A short, light-skinned man with an extremely scraggly beard stood behind him. It was difficult to correlate the voice with the man—he was diminutive, barely the size of a thirteen-year-old boy.

“How is my uncle and aunt?” asked the man. His English had a Pakistani accent.

“I’m good—they’re good,” said Amara, trying to pull himself back together.

The little man rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he said under his breath. “Crap.”

He took Amara’s rolling suitcase and began leading him down the block.

“Call me Ken,” said the man after they had gone several blocks. “I will call you Al.”

“Al,” said Amara.

“Nothing else. You have a cell phone.”

“No,” said Amara.

“Good. Anyone give you anything in New York?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Ken continued walking. They had left the Mall area and were now on a residential street.

“This is my car,” said Ken, pointing with a key fob to a battered Impala and opening the trunk. “Get in.”

Amara did as he was told. Ken didn’t speak again for nearly a half hour. By then they were pulling down the back alley of a row of dilapidated town houses.

“Wait while I undo the fence,” said Ken, throwing the car into park. He got out, undid three locks with different keys, then unwrapped the chain that held the fence together. Amara glanced up. There was barbed wire at the top of the fence line.

Car parked and gate relocked, Ken led Amara down a short flight of concrete steps to a steel door. Two more keys. They entered a tiny hallway. Once again Ken had to unlock a door guarded by several locks, one of them a combination. They stepped into a dark basement.