Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (26 page)

The enemy staggered but did not go down. Brought up his rifle barrel, but the bullet wound slowed his movements.

Blount followed with a side kick. Knocked the weapon from the dirtbag's hands. The AK clattered to the floor and slid to where Ivan lay hemorrhaging.

The big terrorist lunged at Blount.

The chains had left Blount with his center of gravity askew; he remained a little off balance from his last kick. When the dirtbag shouldered into him, both men tumbled to the floor.

Blount broke his fall, slapping the floor with his forearms. Landed with his head up to prevent cracking his skull. But that gave the terrorist an opening. The man fell on top of Blount, grabbed a length of chain and wrapped it around Blount's neck.

Blount wrenched his head to the side. That moved some of the pressure off his trachea, changed his predicament from an airway choke to a blood choke. Still, a blood choke could rob his brain of oxygen and put him out in seconds.

He clawed at his enemy's face. Put the heel of his hand against the terrorist's jawbone. The beard felt like steel wool.

Blount's vision began to dim. A snarl of rage died in his throat. A python seemed to tighten coils around the arteries of his neck.

The enemy twisted harder with the chain, used his good arm. Let out a howl of exertion and pain.

With all the power that Blount could muster, he pushed up on his enemy's head. Before he passed out, he hoped to give Fender a target.

His triceps burned. Vision grew darker. Shoot, boy, Blount thought. In a second or two it won't matter if you hit me.

A thump sounded from the corner of the room. After so much gunfire in close quarters, that's all Blount's ringing ears could sense from one more shot.

The dirtbag's head came apart in Blount's hand. Blount found
himself holding on to a face but little else. Blood and brains splashed him. His wrist stung. The terrorist went limp, became deadweight.

Blount pushed the corpse off him. Rose up on one elbow, pulled the chain from around his neck. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus.

Ivan sat against the wall, blood pooled beneath his legs. With both hands, he held the AK the big terrorist had dropped. Smoke curled from the muzzle.

A
t a clinic in Illizi, Algeria, Gold waited while a doctor treated the Tuareg boy who'd suffered a split lip during the camp brawl. She sat with Major Ongondo and the other two Tuaregs in a small kitchen. For security reasons, Ongondo had asked to keep Gold and the refugees out of sight instead of in a public waiting room.

One of the clinic attendants made tea for the group. The man lit a gas burner under a pot of water. While he waited for the water to boil, he spooned shredded tea leaves from a foil pouch into two glass bowls.

The white-tiled kitchen looked well worn but spotless. Algerian folk music played on an old transistor radio. After the awful news about Sergeant Farmer, Gold tried to settle her mind, to focus on something else. She could tell the music came from some sort of stringed instrument, though she could not identify the instrument precisely. She asked Ongondo about it.

“That is a mandole,” he said. “Very similar to a mandolin.”

“Beautiful,” Gold said.

When the water came to a boil, the attendant poured it into the bowls containing the dry tea leaves. He stirred the mixture in the bowls, and the aroma of green tea filled the room. Then he poured the contents of both bowls through a strainer, leaving behind the steaming, soggy tea leaves. The liquid ran down the sink drain.

It smells so good, Gold thought, so why did he pour it out? The
man must have noted her puzzled expression. He communicated as best he could in what English he knew.

“Only to clean, ma'am. Only to clean tea.”

Gold smiled, nodded. Ongondo chatted amiably with the Tuaregs in their language. He sat with his legs crossed, and he wore his sidearm, the only weapon he'd brought with him. Gold could not understand the conversation, but it flowed so casually that they might have been discussing music, food, or soccer. Excellent, Gold thought. Keep them at ease.

The attendant took fresh mint leaves from a small icebox. He washed the leaves and placed them in a pewter teapot. Added cold tap water from a spigot, dumped in the wet tea leaves and two cubes of sugar. Placed the teapot on the burner.

After the teapot began boiling, the attendant poured the tea into four cups. Steam curled from each one, and a pleasant aroma of mint filled the room.

Before leaving the refugee camp, Gold had called Parson about the three Tuaregs, one of whom might know something about where to find terrorists—or at least where terrorists had ordered food delivered. She hadn't pressed the boy for specifics yet; she wanted him in a place where he felt safer. But Parson needed time to get approval from AFRICOM to send an aircraft and allow billeting for three Algerian nationals and an AU officer.

She lifted her cup and took a sip. The balance of the delicate flavors surprised her. Gold tasted the mint, the sugar, and the tea almost separately. She'd had tea across much of the world, in countless variations, and she appreciated the care the attendant took in brewing this batch. It was sweet and . . . clean, just like the man had said. This small act of kindness, his meticulous preparation of the tea, showed a respect for his own culture and for his visitors. Gold closed her eyes for a moment and savored the civility of this moment, in its contrast with the violence and hatred beyond these walls.

The man put on a cloth mitt, opened a tiny oven, and removed an iron skillet. He let the dish cool for a few minutes, and cut three slices of something that looked like quiche. He put the slices on ceramic plates and poured honey over the food. Then he found forks in a drawer and served his guests.

“Thank you,” Gold said. She forked a mouthful of the food. Found it still quite hot, but she chewed anyway. Much like quiche but sweeter.

“You like?” the man asked.

Gold swallowed the mouthful, took a sip of tea.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Very good. What is it?”

“
M'shewsha
. We call
m'shewsha
.”

“Thank you very much.”

The Tuaregs seemed to like it, too. The boy smiled, ate with his fingers. When Gold finished eating, she tied on a head scarf to cover her blond hair and went outside to her vehicle. She and Ongondo had transported the Tuaregs from the refugee camp to Illizi in the UN's Nissan Armada.

They had parked on a sandy street next to the clinic. A layer of desert dust covered the new vehicle. Good. That would show signs of tampering all the better. Even though they had stopped at the clinic for only a couple of hours, Gold wanted to take every precaution. If people at the camp suspected one of the Tuaregs knew something about terrorists, who else might suspect? She stepped around the SUV, looking for handprints, stray wires, or anything else that suggested someone had installed something that didn't belong. Terrorists knew how to plant a bomb so that the opening of a car door or the turning of an ignition switch could send the driver and passengers to oblivion. She took her time with the inspection so anyone watching her might see. If the bad guys noted her caution, she reasoned, they might decide she presented too difficult a target.

She saw no signs of a bomb, no evidence of anyone staking out the Nissan. A few meters down the street, a brown dog of
indeterminate breed skulked from behind a building. Hairless scar tissue marred its hindquarters, and the animal carried its tail between its legs. Two blocks beyond the dog, a white Toyota pickup started its engine. The vehicle pulled away from the curb, motored past the clinic, and disappeared in a left turn down an alleyway. The bearded driver did not seem to notice Gold.

Gold opened the Nissan's door and sat down behind the wheel. The interior still smelled like a new car, a sensory input all out of accord with the dust and heat of a Saharan town. She found her satellite phone under the seat, rotated the phone's antenna from its stowed position until it clicked into place at a forty-five-degree angle. The antenna—a black cylinder about the length of a pen—slid out a few inches when Gold extended it. She pressed a button at the bottom of the keypad to power up the device. The word “searching” appeared on the screen until the phone found its connection in space. Gold punched in Parson's number. When he answered, he sounded like he spoke from next door.

“Hello, Michael,” Gold said. “Any luck getting approval to bring these guys to Mitiga?”

“Yeah. Had to take it to the two-star level, but I'm sending an aircraft for you now.”

“Any idea when we should expect the plane?”

“The nearest airport to you is Takhamalt. That's just a few miles away. Can you get there by five?”

Gold checked her watch. “Yes,” she said. “We borrowed a vehicle from the UN camp.”

“Sounds good. I'm about to launch a Herk.”

“Great. Maybe we'll see you by tonight.”

“Major Ongondo can come to Mitiga with the refugees,” Parson said. “We don't have anybody else who speaks their language.”

“That's a good idea,” Gold said. “You can fly him back here when he's done, and the vehicle will be waiting for him at the airport.”

“That'll work.”

Gold could imagine the horse-trading and lobbying Parson must have gone through to get all this approved. His unorthodox style of command bent rules and interpreted regs in a way that strained the English language. She'd known Parson to get away with things that might get other officers canned, but his bosses tolerated him because he got things done.

After Gold terminated the call, she went back inside the clinic. The doctor had finished sewing the injured boy's lip. The boy sat in the kitchen with Ongondo and the other Tuaregs. His lip was swollen, and Gold could see a stitch of thread at the edge of his mouth.

“He is sore,” Ongondo said, “but he will survive.”

“What do I owe the doctor?” Gold asked.

“Nothing. I already took care of it.”

“Very kind of you, sir. Colonel Parson is sending a plane to Takhamalt to pick us up. I'd like to go ahead and get to the airport now.”

Gold felt a little exposed, escorting refugees who might have sensitive information. She wanted to return to the relative safety of Mitiga as quickly as possible.

“Agreed,” Ongondo said.

“I'll drive.”

In the Nissan, Gold started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning. A mixture of dust and mist spewed from the vents for a couple of seconds, and then the AC's output cleared. Ongondo sat in the front passenger seat. The Tuaregs climbed into seats in the back and began talking among themselves.

Gold consulted a map she'd left in the console, studied the route to the airport. A habit she'd retained from driving around Afghanistan: Know where you're going. Don't get lost and have to spend extra time meandering through a hostile area.

A plainer vehicle would have been better, she knew, or at least an older one. Something that blended in more. Savvy Americans driving in Kabul often chose rattletraps, the dirtier the better. But Gold
would make do with what she had. She moved the shifter for the automatic transmission, stepped on the gas, steered into the street.

She drove past the office for Sonelgaz, the state natural-gas and electricity company. The Algerian flag flew atop the roof: half green, half white, with a red crescent and star in the center. The business district gave way to a residential area. Trees that resembled the palmettos of the southern U.S. dotted the courtyards of bigger homes.

Men in linen cloaks, or
gandouras
, strolled the neighborhood. Gold saw few women. One man eyed the Nissan as it passed, a cell phone to his ear. Nothing unusual about that; North Africans loved their mobile phones and other devices as much as anyone else.

The Tuaregs continued chatting. “They have never flown before,” Ongondo said. “The boys are excited about getting on an airplane. The man is just worried.”

“I hope they enjoy the flight,” Gold said.

She didn't want to seem rude, but she limited her small talk to stay focused on her surroundings. In the unfamiliar town, she didn't want to miss a turn, get lost, or blunder into the wrong area.

The paved streets led to a dirt road at the edge of the town, and the dwellings turned to hovels made of mud and stone, with thatched roofs. Dust rose off to her right. Gold looked closer and saw a white Toyota pickup—perhaps the same one she'd seen back at the clinic—rolling along a side path. The path intersected the road ahead of her, and she eased off the accelerator to let the truck get ahead.

The truck matched her speed.

From the left, two more vehicles approached. A beat-up taxi and a Land Rover bounced through ruts. It appeared they would meet the Toyota at about the same spot. Gold slowed just a bit more to avoid the momentary congestion.

She checked her mirror. An SUV approached from behind, perhaps an American-built Jeep, its white paint coated with dust. The vehicle gained on her.

Gold's palms began to sweat as she gripped the steering wheel.

“I think we have a problem,” Gold said. She placed her right hand on the shifter, scanned around to look for options.

There weren't many. No more side streets between her position and the intersection ahead. Ditches on both sides of the road, too deep to cross even in four-wheel drive.

If you wanted to set up a vehicle ambush, she realized, this is where you'd do it.

Ahead, the Toyota, the taxi, and the Land Rover met in the intersection. All three slid to a stop.

The vehicles blocked the road.

Men emerged from them. Bearded figures holding rifles. Bandoleers across their chests sagged with magazines for their AK-47s.

Ongondo drew his pistol.

“Hold on tight,” Gold shouted. She saw only one chance for escape: back away from the roadblock, reverse course and get past the Jeep now behind her.

She stomped the brake pedal. The Nissan ground to a halt, dust enveloping it.

The men raised their weapons. Gold shoved the shifter into reverse, placed her left hand on the steering wheel's three o'clock position.

“Get down,” she yelled.

Hit the accelerator.

Gold had not practiced tactical driving in a long time, and never in a vehicle like this. With the ditches on either side, she had no room for error. And no time for hesitation. Every two-tenths of a second in a kill zone meant another bullet coming her way. She fell back on her training.

The Nissan sped backwards. Over her shoulder, Gold watched the Jeep loom larger in the rear window. It had stopped to block the road behind her.

Inside the Nissan, the Tuaregs shouted and screamed. Ongondo
pointed his sidearm, fired shots through the windshield. The bullets punched white-rimmed holes in the glass. Gold couldn't tell if he hit any of the attackers.

When she came within about eight car lengths of the Jeep, she whipped the steering wheel to begin a Y-turn; she meant to swerve ninety degrees in reverse, shift into drive, then twist the wheel in the opposite direction to peel out and escape.

The Nissan's rear wheels backed to within inches of the ditch. Gold slammed on the brake, shifted into drive. Dust shrouded the vehicle.

Gold wheeled to the right to complete the Y-turn. Planted her foot on the gas. Keep it moving, she told herself. If they stop your car, it becomes your coffin.

Momentarily blinded by the dust, Gold heard pops of rifle fire from the Jeep. Two bullets slammed through the windshield from outside. Gold felt the pricks of flying, pulverized safety glass.

The Nissan blasted through the dust cloud. The view cleared to reveal the Jeep parked in the middle of the road, both doors open. From behind both doors, men aimed AKs.

Gold ducked as low as she could. Steered for the right of the Jeep. Ongondo kept firing.

More gunfire cackled from outside. Bullets slammed into the body of the Nissan. Flying glass stung Gold's cheek. She didn't see where the shards came from. In one of the back seats, someone shrieked.

Don't look at the obstacles, Gold had been taught. Look at the escape path. She gauged she had just enough room to slip between the Jeep and the ditch—if she hit the Jeep's door and the man behind it.