Gift of Revelation (16 page)

That night was a tough one, for I tossed and turned into the wee hours of the night. I couldn't sleep. The elders talked about sensing that something wicked was about to happen and having that creepy feeling go through your soul. I sat up, wringing my hands nervously, as the sun peeked out above the trees. Eventually, I splashed water on my face, scrubbed my pits, and pulled on my shirt and shorts.

Spotting Dr. Bromberg on his way to breakfast, I caught up to him and walked with him. As we went, I discussed the crisis with Addie and our need to return to the States. He listened patiently, then said that a plane out of Juba was leaving in ten days. Maybe he could get us on that transport, with a little favor from the authorities. If not, Elsa says she can possibly work something with the officials she knows. Other journalists took the Juba route so they didn't have to deal with hassles from the government in Khartoum.

After breakfast, a meager meal of cornmeal and beans, I went with the doctor on his rounds. We carried our cups of hot, stout black coffee with us. After we stepped into one of the medical tents, Dr. Bromberg handed his defective stethoscope to a staffer, then put on surgical gloves and a mask.

“How are you, little grandmother?” he asked an older woman with matted hair who was barely alive on a stretcher. Her chest was trembling as she caught ragged breaths.

She whispered something to him that was barely audible. He patted her hand gently, trying to give her comfort. Then a staffer gave her an injection to ease her anguish.

I stood off to the side while Dr. Bromberg put another pillow under the perspiring head of a girl whose arms had been blown off by a land mine along the road. The doctor ordered two staffers to carry her to surgery. They would prepare her, lay in the supplies and meds, and the doctor would come later.

“Over the weekend we had several people injured by land mines that had been placed by the roads and trails,” Dr. Bromberg said, standing near one of his assistants and checking a patient with severe stomach pain.

“Someone from security told me that they had swept the area for mines, but I guess they missed a few,” I said, adjusting my mask.

“Indeed, Reverend,” the doctor said. “I don't know if I told you this before, but the sermon at the funeral service was very fine. Good work.”

“Thanks. Glad to be of service.”

Dr. Bromberg pointed at another staffer and suggested he give a child a neurological exam, because the parents had said he was dull and sluggish. They had also noted that the boy couldn't keep food down or water. He had passed out three times in two days, causing some worry.

“Who are these girls?” the doctor asked, pointing at two young girls lying on a cot.

“Two Nubian girls from the mountains who crossed over from one of the border towns,” one staffer noted. “A grenade exploded near them, and both of them are complaining of ringing in their ears. The taller one said she feels spacey—that's my word, not hers—and has a constant headache. We checked their ears and found slight trauma.”

“What about the headache?” the doctor asked.

“We're looking into that right now,” the staffer answered.

“And in the corner . . . What's going on there?” the doctor asked.

A woman was sprawled on a cot in the corner, her face toward the exit, one of her legs heavily bandaged. The wrapping was soaked with blood. Grunts came from her quivering mouth, between clenched teeth.

“A very deep machete wound on her leg,” the staffer explained. “The wound is extensive, quite deep, through the muscle to the bone underneath. She was protecting her mother when the militia assaulted her.”

“She's in great pain,” Dr. Bromberg said. “Did you give her something?”

“In just a minute I will. I've sent for an injection of morphine,” the staffer replied.

“That should give her relief until we patch her up.”

Overcome by the whole drama going on around me, I stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out. These folks did this every day, day after day. I didn't know how they could summon the strength.

“Doctor, can I speak to you for a moment?” another staffer asked.

“Yes.” The doctor stared up at the lanky assistant, who whispered that he couldn't stop the bleeding from a gunshot wound. The wounded young man, who had resisted the militia, had been shot twice in the stomach. The doctor went over to where the young man lay, pressed down on the injury, then asked for a sterilized needle and thread.

A row over, there was a teenage boy with pneumonia who was being given oxygen. The assistant administering the oxygen whined that the camp was running out of antibiotics. The doctor ignored him and continued mending the young man's wound.

Suddenly, two assistants ran over to a little girl in a tattered dress who had collapsed on the floor. Someone screamed, “She's not breathing!”

The doctor trotted over there, followed by me. The girl's skin was chalky, her lips were blue, and her eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling. A staffer began to work on her chest, doing CPR, pressing on her ribs, trying to force air back into her lungs. Another staffer injected her with something, and her pulse returned, though it was very faint. Finally, she gulped air, and they transported her to a machine to help her lungs function.

“Who is that kid there?” I asked the doctor.

“One family brought in this child with Down syndrome and wanted to leave him,” the doctor explained. “They said the child was cursed with some voodoo, had a curse of some sort, and the family no longer wanted to keep him. They said the tribe shunned them because of the child. They left him in the care of the camp and wandered off toward the border.”

The child, with the customary mongoloid face of those afflicted with Down syndrome, rocked back and forth near the doorway. He was agitated by the heat and the activity of the medical staffers as they went from one cot to another.

“You guys are good souls to do this,” I said, pulling up a chair.

“All in a day's work,” the doctor said, smiling.

There was a ruckus at the rear of the tent. One of the Dinka guards ran up to the doctor, waving his hands frantically, jabbering in his native tongue. The doctor listened attentively. A few of his assistants gathered around the guard, questioning him.

“Reverend, you should hear this,” the doctor said, turning to me. “Your friend Addie has been abducted by one of the militias. There was an ambush. Some of our people were killed and injured. They took her, along with a guard and a woman from one of the border towns. We're doing all we can to get them back.”

Immediately, the camp administrators and the doctors held a conference, which I was invited to attend, to see what they could do to free Addie and the others. The camp administrators insisted that they would not pay a ransom to any terrorists to secure the release of the three prisoners. The doctors contacted several faith-based organizations to explore all options, even contacts with the enemy side. Maybe they could find someone who could negotiate her freedom.

I was elected to call Addie's folks stateside to tell them about her plight. Only one of her aunts expressed concern. She worried that somebody would cut Addie's head off or hurt her in some other way.

“I hope they do something on her behalf, especially since she was working so hard to help those African people,” her aunt said the second time I talked to her in two days. “Addie is a person who gives it her all. I know they appreciate all she did for them.”

Little did she know that Addie had been unraveling before she was snatched. Drinking, carousing, and simply acting a fool. I didn't tell her this. I let her believe a lie.

“We have the American government and the UN trying to do everything to bring her back home,” I said. “They know what these people want. They know how to deal with these people.”

“I called the State Department after we first spoke, and the man say they don't pay money for any hostages,” her aunt said in her Southern drawl. “That's what he said.”

I couldn't let her believe that nobody in the government would do anything. The last time an American hostage was held, there was talk about private donors pitching in monetarily to secure the hostage's release or some trade of prisoners from Guantánamo. This was a mess. I had warned Addie about this foolishness.

“Reverend, I hold you responsible for her,” her aunt said angrily. “She wouldn't have gone over there if it was not for you. She thought that if she went there, you would protect her.”

“I'll do my best to get her back,” I replied.

“That's not enough,” she countered. “I want you to promise me. I want you to promise me that you'll get her back. Promise.”

I didn't want that obligation. “I can't promise.”

“What did you say, Reverend?” she said, barely containing her temper. “Why can't you promise?”

“Because this place is hell, and nobody knows what these demons will do,” I explained. “You've read the papers. They're killing whole villages, killing women and children. I don't know what they will do.”

I heard the sound of a newspaper being crumpled. Addie's aunt cleared her throat, trying to compose herself. “The newspaper said a suicide bomber went into a mosque and started shooting worshippers,” she said. “They killed more than seventy people and injured about thirty. Then the killers set off bombs that murdered the people sent to help the injured. Is that these people who got Addie?”

“No. Those killers are in Iraq,” I replied.

“Who are these people who got her?” her aunt asked.

I explained that these kidnappers were Africans, worshippers of Allah, who were trying to get rid of all Christians. They had been at war with the followers of the Lord for years. That seemed to satisfy her for the moment. She was pleased that Addie was a warrior of Jesus Christ.

After the call, the doctors escorted me into the main building for a meeting. Elsa was going to speak about her contacts on the other side. We made our way to the back of the building, to a room that resembled a classroom, and sat down at an oval table. A large map, on which various routes to the rebel-held territory were highlighted, hung on the far wall. On the blackboard at the front of the room was scribbled the locations of the last known enemy activity. This information had been furnished by the authorities, for whom this whole affair was an embarrassment. They thought that it was best to avoid any trespass against Americans, unless someone was trying to make a point. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” was their motto.

“I wonder how much money they would take for her,” Dr. Bromberg said to Elsa, who had some experience in this area.

Elsa lit a cigarette and let the smoke drift out of her nostrils. She walked around to the blackboard and examined the list of sites where the enemy was holed up. Her eyes took in every detail on the map as well.

“You know, only America and Britain do not pay a ransom for their hostages,” she said, scribbling down notes. “Now, if Addie were European, a deal could be made. Some European nations are not too proud to bail out their citizens. I know Italy, Spain, Germany, and France have done some back-channel deals to get their people free.”

I knew she could present a pessimistic view of things, but I realized she was right about this thing. And I would be willing, if I was asked, to deliver a couple of suitcases packed with cash to the killers in the bush or in the desert. Her aunt was right. I did feel responsible for Addie.

“However, I can imagine that if every country started paying off these nutters, then things would get a bit crazy,” Elsa mused.

Dr. Bromberg was drinking a glass of something with alcohol in it. I couldn't figure out what it was. Dr. Arriale looked at the new armed recruits, eight soldiers sent from someplace along the White Nile, then grunted and filled his pipe. Possibly he was thinking, like I was, that the enemy would ask for a large sum of money and then would kill Addie, anyway.

“Not that long ago, four French journalists were freed after being captured in Syria,” Elsa said. “France said they did not pay anything for their release, but most people in the media know they paid something. It probably cost them a pretty penny.”

“So it can be done, the freeing of an American hostage,” I said, hoping against hope. “But how can we do it?”

Dr. Bromberg sipped his drink and frowned. The tension and anxiety in the room were rising. Nobody could say how a positive outcome could be achieved in this depressing situation.

“First, we have to find intermediaries, go-betweens, to act on our behalf,” Elsa said. “Second, we must find someone who is trustworthy and is able to act with a sense of loyalty to our cause.”

“Or Addie is dead,” I blurted out.

“I hope these people are reasonable,” Dr. Bromberg said. “With Isis, being an American or a Briton means death. I think we have to find out what faction took Addie and the others. Once we know what they plan to do with the hostages, then we can start to negotiate.”

I was itching for a cigarette. “Is that right, Elsa?”

“Yes, for the most part, but some of these militias are fanatics,” she said. “They would kill Addie and the others just to make a sick point. And then they would use the money to recruit, buy more arms, and stake out their territory.”

“How is Addie's family holding up?” Dr. Arriale asked.

“The family is concerned and wants to get this thing over with,” I said. “They're afraid for her safety. I don't know if the American media has been called in.”

Elsa puffed on her cigarette, then stood next to the soldiers. “Have you notified the U.S. State Department?”

“Oh yes. I did that as soon as I learned the news,” Dr. Bromberg said. “The officials said they would get back to me and that they handle such situations on a case by case basis. They asked me not to go to the press.”

Elsa cracked up. “This is the story of a lifetime. It just fell in my lap. The press is involved. I won't call London until I get something solid.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, smiling.

“But then I've got it exclusively,” Elsa said. “Agreed?”

All of us agreed. If Elsa could help us in our quest to free Addie and the others, then it would be worth it.

“But where do we find these go-betweens?” Dr. Bromberg asked.

“I know somebody,” Elsa stated.

“Who?” We all asked at the same time.

“Bishop Obote,” she answered. “He has all kinds of contacts. He knows the government officials and the rebels. He plays both sides.”

“But he doesn't like me one bit,” I said.

Dr. Bromberg dismissed that notion, saying it could have been male bravado. He added that he knew the bishop didn't like Americans, since they meddled in everything around the world. Also, he thought they were pious, self-righteous, arrogant, and concerned only with themselves. He especially hated George W. Bush.

“Do you think Obote would do it?” Dr. Arriale asked Elsa.

“He might, for a little bit of the take,” Elsa replied. “It would have to be worth his while. He's a man who doesn't like to get his hands dirty.”

“I'd like to talk to the survivors of the ambush,” I said. “Can somebody arrange that for me?” The only bright spot in all this was that some of the soldiers on our side had interviewed one of the survivors of the ambush. He and the other survivor, both of whom were Addie's Dinka pals, had played dead after they were shot by the militia. They were recuperating at a clinic somewhere through the bush.

Elsa said she would check into it, and she volunteered to come with me. She warned me, however, that this excursion might not be easy to arrange but then noted that some people always wanted to score favors with the West.

“Now we're on track,” Dr. Bromberg said. “At first, I thought this was a lost cause. I liked Addie and didn't want to write her off.”

I was eager to contact some of the church officials from the south and ask them for assistance and guidance. They had been battling this war for some time. They had seen many of their number as dead or missing. They had seen their churches burned and their congregations scattered and slaughtered.

“We know there is enemy activity in this area,” Elsa said. “We've seen the raids, the killings, and the burning of the villages. Sometimes they strike a series of villages and go across the border. They sell the women and girls. They turn the young boys into killers.”

Dr. Bromberg set down his glass, grimaced. “I hope they don't harm Addie. I like her. She is a pleasant sort.”

“I could take her or leave her,” Elsa said and sniffed. “I don't think she's the brightest bulb in the marquee. A little too country for my taste.”

Dr. Arriale smoked his pipe, filling the room with a peach-flavored scent. “You like the girl, right?” He asked, looking at me.

I ignored him at first, until Elsa coughed loudly.

“Yes, I do,” I said, grinning.

“Is there anything serious between you two?” Dr. Bromberg asked me, refilling his glass.

I thought about that. “I like her, but I have been trying to figure her out.”

“All women are mysteries, my dear man,” Dr. Arriale said.

Elsa joked, “I think he figured her out and decided to return her to the shelf. She is a bit wild, even for him.”

I shrugged. “Wild? I don't know.” I didn't want to put all of Addie's business in the streets. Elsa was wrong to go down this road.

“Addie has had the men panting and begging to be with her,” the reporter added. “I don't think she's the reverend's kind of girl.”

I stood up, nodded to the doctors before leaving. “When all the arrangements are done, please notify me. I'll be working on my end. Thanks for the meeting. I'm extremely hopeful now.”