Mission Liberty (17 page)

“These are innocent people,” Chaline said, finishing in English. “They are sick and need medicine. They are women and children.
They are no threat to anyone. They are victims of displacement and violence and war. I know that the Koran teaches mercy and
compassion for the innocent. Letting my plane through would be an act of compassion.”

Dadullahjid thought for a moment longer. Mack thought she saw a figure move furtively, concealed behind a pair of louvered
doors.

“I think you overestimate what I can do,” the imam said at last. “I am one man. I don’t have some fancy communications center.
If you want to fly your plane, fly your plane and I will ask those I know to tell the others, but I can guarantee nothing.
I can guarantee your own safety only within these walls. I myself have been the target of President Bo’s assassins three times.
I cannot give you what you want. It’s not within my power. I can ask, but beyond these walls, there is only so much I can
do.
Si les femmes et les enfants sont des Musulmans, alors Allah prendra soin d’eux. S’ils ne le sont pas, alors je ne sais pas
qui tendra à leurs besoins.”

Mack’s French was several levels below conversational, but she understood the gist of what Dadullahjid had said. “If the women
and children are Muslims, Allah will look after them. If they are not, I don’t know who will.”

“Merci,”
Claude Chaline said.
“J’ai la foi dans la puissance de vos mots.”

When Chaline was finished, Stephen stepped forward. MacKenzie took a step toward the desk with him, her head bowed.

“My name is Stephen Ackroyd,” the writer said. “This is Mary Dorsey. We speak on behalf of the United Nations Women’s Health
Initiative. We’ve come in the hope—”

“Enough,” Iman Dadullahjid said, rising suddenly and walking out the rear door without saying another word.

Stephen looked stunned. He took two steps back and turned, his head down.

“It’s not your fault,” Mack whispered. “I don’t think our friend was in a mood to listen.”

“This reminds me of a date I went on in college,” he said.

She stepped forward, rushing toward Zoulalian, who raised his AK-47 in front of him to block her approach.

“Tell the imam he has to protect the women and children in Camp Seven,” she said, getting in Dennis’s face. “You can tell
him. Grown men have nothing to fear from women and children.”

Zoulalian grabbed her roughly by the arm, putting his mouth next to her ear in the struggle and whispering menacingly,
“Deux camions. J’essayerai d’arrêter les autres,”
before throwing her roughly back and causing her to stumble. Rahjid Waid laughed, as did the third man. “Two trucks,” he’d
said. “I’ll try to stop the others.”

“You have to tell him,” Mack again implored. “In the name of God.”

They were led to their vehicle. Mack noticed that the two white trucks previously in the courtyard were missing, a white 4¥4
pickup and a white Montero, if her memory was correct. Two men guarded them as they walked.

“Dr. Chaline,” she said, “would you mind if I drove?”

“I will drive,” Chaline said.

“Dr. Chaline,”
she said, taking his arm and squeezing it firmly.
“Il est très important que vous me laissiez conduire. J’expliquerai plus tard.”

He looked at her and then, reluctantly, surrendered the keys. She saw the scornful looks on the faces of the men at the sight
of a man surrendering his car keys to a woman.

She started the car.

“Seatbelts, please,” she said. She scanned the walls of the compound for gunmen but saw none. The gas tank was half full,
not enough fuel to get back to Camp Seven. They had two ten-gallon steel jerry cans filled with gasoline attached to the back
of the Land Rover. Either was certain to explode into a spectacular ball of fire if struck by a bullet. There wasn’t much
she could do about it. Removing the gas cans, at that point, would have raised suspicion.

She put the vehicle in gear and moved toward the gate. The Rover had seven forward gears, three of them in the low range for
off-road traction or towing. The exit was protected by a gate, which swung open once the guard nodded to them, as well as
by a zigzagged sequence of concrete barriers, forcing her to leave at a walking pace. At the last barrier, she stopped to
adjust her rearview mirror and to drop her veil. The Montero was parked on her left, the white pickup on her right, with Dennis
behind the wheel. There were four soldiers in the back of the pickup. She couldn’t tell how many men were in the Montero because
the windows were tinted.

“Everybody grab hold of something and stay down,” she said.

She put the car in first with the clutch in, stepped on the gas until the engine reached 3,000 rpms, then popped the clutch,
the vehicle lurching forward, spraying gravel, but holding a true line with all four wheels turning.

“What are you doing?” Chaline shouted, but Mack kept the gas pedal to the floor as she worked through the gears. She heard
a burst of machine-gun fire and then two bullets shattered the rear passenger window, broken glass flying across the passenger
compartment.

“Stay down!” she commanded. “Is everyone all right?”

“What’s going on?” Stephen shouted.

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out,” she told him, her speedometer reaching sixty miles an hour on a road so rough
that nothing above forty was advisable. Goats and sheep scurried out of her way as she honked the horn to let the people ahead
of her know she was coming. She wove past a man on a bicycle, forced a boy to dive out of the way, and veered around a parked
truck until it felt like she was riding on two wheels. In the rearview mirror, she saw the Montero, gaining ground.

Zoulalian had tried to get in front of the Montero but didn’t have enough horsepower from the starting line to do it. He saw
a man leaning out the window of the Montero, aiming a rifle at the Land Rover they were chasing. They’d gone perhaps a mile
before he saw his chance, riding on the tail of the Montero and then passing it when it braked for a cart, which he struck
as he passed before taking the lead in the chase. Two of the Algerians were firing from the back of the truck, so he tried
to jerk the wheel every few seconds to throw off their aim.

Mack saw in her rearview mirror that Dennis had passed the lead chase vehicle and was now behind her. She hoped that was a
good thing.

Zoulalian saw his opportunity ahead where the road narrowed to a constriction between two buildings, and narrowed further
by a telephone pole at the corner of one building. He double-checked to make sure his seatbelt was fastened, glanced briefly
to note that there was no passenger-side airbag, tapped the console at the center of the steering wheel (as if that might
somehow ensure that his own airbag was going to successfully deploy—all he could really do was hope), then slowed to about
thirty miles an hour before steering the pickup into the telephone pole, to strike it head on squarely with his right front
bumper. Either his demolished vehicle would block the road, or the Montero would crash into it or stop of its own accord,
or maybe they’d swerve around him and continue their pursuit, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances—DeLuca
had warned them that they would have to improvise. He only hoped he’d know whether he’d been successful, once he regained
consciousness. Perhaps one of the soldiers in the back would slam through the cab’s rear window and kill him from behind.

There was no time to change his mind now.

When DeLuca logged onto his CIM to check his e-mail, he found a message from his son, who had been working in Image Analysis
with the 23rd Air Expeditionary Force out of Kirkuk since the beginning of Iraqi Freedom. He also found an offer for Viagra
from an online pharmacy and three offers for home equity loans.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. “How did they find me?”

Scottie’s e-mail read:

Hey Pops,

I know you’re busy. Greetings from Washington, first of all. Also I’ve been made captain, with a new assignment you may be
interested in. I told “Uncle Phil” I wanted to break the news to you myself. I trust he hasn’t told you anything. After the
last mission, his office decided Team Red needed its own JIOC officer. The idea of Joint Intel Op Centers is to “coordinate
systems and flatten echelons.” We’ll see. Anyway, when he asked me who I could recommend, I might possibly have mentioned
something about being open to a change of assignment. He thought I was right for the job despite the obvious conflicts of
interest. The designation was by committee after blind review, and I was one of five candidates, so you don’t have to worry
about the appearance of nepotism. I wasn’t going to tell you if I didn’t make it, but there’s no way to hide it now. The only
thing keeping this from being permanent is your approval. I will, of course, miss Kirkuk… I think I found a house I want
to buy in Silver Spring, but I need to talk to you about how to go about it. I tasked SIGINT to go over what the mortgage/loan
officer was telling me but they couldn’t understand it either. On to business.

ACTION:
Attached find photographs General Kwesi Emil-Ngwema, taken yesterday 1640 hours at the Port Ivory airport. The man with him
is Col. Jumar Inshal-Mukebo, former commander gov forces, Kum region with Ligerian Second Army. Caucasian number one is Simon
Bell, head mercenary forces arrested/ confined two days ago, and number two is Hugh Lloyd, the money man. At 1730 hours, a
British Hercules took off bearing 48 degrees northeast, destination Benghazi, Libya. Zero off-load, refueled, still there.
Why fly an empty plane to Libya? The aircraft was briefly towed into the hangar at the PI airfield where mercenaries were
being held under guard. One cellphone call from hangar to South Africa, nothing hard (Boer): “Things are changing rapidly,
I’ll be in touch,” etc. The suspicion is that the C-130J picked up and airdropped mercs, somewhere on flight vector. Unfortunately,
our bird went off-range at 1748 hours, so we have no IMINT past that time. No current sign of guards at hangar. Possible destination—WAOC
has directed employees to relocate to El Amin oil facility for safety (40K NE you—see GPA attached).

ANALYSIS:
Ngwema will act in WAOC’s best interests, allied with Mukebo/northern forces.

ACTION:
SIGINT/IMINT indicates Ngwema adopting defensive positions only to direct/divert rebel forces against loyalist troops, similar
to analysis his actions re Port Ivory—you were there, you know. Appears to be allowing deep incursions southward, where only
Presidential Guard/Port Ivory area will/can mount significant resistance.

ANALYSIS:
Ngwema wants rebels to defeat Bo, then his forces can encircle/defeat rebels (IMINT confirms— see map). Expect heavy casualties/collateral
damage. Also expect no support—you are in the middle.

ACTION:
LPLF/IPAB in three columns (see map/ falcon views). Leadership unclear at this time. Massacres in Mbusi, Angasa, Bok, Dasai,
Pomogoso. Ligerian version of “shock and awe,” largely along eastern flank/west central. Will spare you the imagery unless
requested. Enemy troop identification not possible at this time.

ANALYSIS:
The shit has seriously hit the fan.

I will alert you to movements on your position, 20K radius. You may want to set your alarm to silent. Have advised others
of same. Currently Mack has departed Kumari (high speed/ground). Sykes is flying into same, private helicopter. Zoulalian
signal lost, cause unknown.

Went to 9/11 Memorial site with Mom and left flowers for Aunt Eileen. Mom is worried. She knows not to ask but she knows I
can’t lie to her either. We chitchat. Carolyn is staying with her. FYI.

Scott.

DeLuca smiled.

“Good news?” Hoolie asked him as he drove. Paul Asabo was in the passenger seat, staring out the window, the foliage getting
thicker and thicker as they traveled toward Tsotho National Park, a section of the Ligerian rain forest that had, so far,
survived the pressures that had leveled so much of Liger’s southern jungle, isolated kakum and kapok and mahogany trees rising
from the lesser growth to stand three and four hundred feet above the ground. They’d passed coffee and cocoa plantations with
gates guarded by armed men. The Park Motel was down the road from the park’s northern entrance.

“Not entirely,” DeLuca said. “My son made captain.”

“Congratulations,” Hoolie said. “What’s it like to have a kid who outranks you?”

“It’s not that much different from having a teenager,” DeLuca said. “I can still kick his ass at eight-ball. That’s what matters.”

“My father and I played chess,” Asabo said. “I used to beat him, but it has occurred to me since then that I never would have
beaten him if he hadn’t let me.”

“I let Scottie beat me at tennis once,” DeLuca said. “I learned my lesson. He was furious at me for letting him win.”

“My father beats me at accordion playing,” Hoolie said. “He used to study with Fred Zimmerle. When we play and he says, ‘Take
it,’ I say, ‘Keep it.’”

“Bocce,” DeLuca said. “Long Island Bocce Ball Association. My old man played every Friday and Saturday. I couldn’t come close
to beating him. When he died, we put a bocce ball in his coffin. I used to tell Scottie that when it thundered, it was his
grandpa, playing bocce ball in heaven.”

“I would like to visit my father’s grave,” Asabo said, still staring out the window.

“Maybe if there’s time, we could arrange that,” DeLuca offered. Asabo turned around and looked at him in the backseat.

“First, we would have to find out where it is,” Asabo said. “Can you tell your satellites to search all of Liger for him?”

DeLuca couldn’t quite tell whether Asabo was being sarcastic or sincere. There was more sadness in his voice than bitterness.
DeLuca had wondered what it was like for Asabo, coming home after all these years. He’d lingered at the stalls when they’d
taken a short tour of the open-air market across from the hotel, running his fingers along the various fruits and vegetables,
sparse though the selection was, smelling them, feeling the handwoven textiles and bragging that Ligerian weavers made the
finest cloth in all of Africa. They’d gone to get a feel for how the public felt about the rebels in general and about John
Dari in particular, but for Asabo, it was a full immersion in lost memories. He’d told DeLuca and Vasquez about a delicacy
called
jashi,
which was barbecued bush meat in a spicy peanut sauce, and he was shocked to learn it was no longer available and hadn’t
been for years. He was surprised to see booth after booth selling bootleg American movies on DVD. The market had once sold
strictly African products, but now half of what was for sale was made in America or Japan, plastic dinosaurs and surplus McDonald’s
Happy Meal toys, Las Vegas key chains, knockoff Atlanta Braves and Los Angeles Lakers jerseys. Occasionally he would see portraits
of his father, old postcards for sale, commemorative plates marking his royal enstoolment, pictures of the king resplendent
in the Royal Sun Robe of golden feathers, his staff in hand, smiling. “They haven’t forgotten,” Asabo had said in the marketplace.
“I thought that maybe by now they would have.”