Outside on the scorching tarmac, she thought of five thousand refugees jammed into an exposed tent camp. It would take one plane to slaughter and maim hundreds, and Wesley Dare would leave them without a shield for eighteen thousand dollars. Such mercenary greed was beyond her understanding. She no longer disliked him, she hated him. Forgive me, Lord, for that, forgive me.
As she stood, perplexed about what to do—really, there was nothing she could do—a pickup truck swung across the asphalt and parked between the Hawker and the Cessna. A familiar figure climbed out and, after staring at Quinette for a second or two, walked over. Put together as always. Not a strand of tinted hair out of place. Pressed white shirt tucked into creased khaki trousers.
“I thought it was you!” Tara said. “Didn’t recognize you in that.” She gestured at Quinette’s apparel.
“A disguise. I guess it worked. How are you?”
“Fine.” Tara hesitated a beat. “Actually not. Had a run of bad luck. Bad luck with a shove from behind. Never mind. How are you?”
“We’ve had a run of bad luck, too.”
“Bloody awful, I’ve heard. How long are you in for?”
“Not sure. A few days maybe.”
“Good! We’ll have a chance to talk. Sorry I can’t now. A flight. Picking up your old boss, as a matter of fact.”
“Ken? Ken Eismont?”
“He is your old boss, isn’t he? I’ll be overnighting. Hope to see you tomorrow then.”
Tara began her taxi to the runway. As she shielded her eyes from the prop-wash, Quinette saw what she could do. Because the idea wasn’t the product of her own mental labors—it came to her as a lyric might come to an inspired songwriter—she concluded it was heaven sent. God wanted His Nuban children to be protected and was directing her to be the agent of His will. Thus she was confident, absolutely so, that she could make it happen.
Telling Negev to wait for her, she went back into the hangar. Wes was looking at a printout of his ad.
“Would you do it if I guaranteed you’d get your eighteen thousand?”
“Jesus Christ! What part of no is it that you don’t understand?”
“I don’t know what went down between you and Doug, but I can see”—she spread her arms and moved her head to point out the ad in his hands, the run-down hangar with engine parts racked along a wall, the tired airplane outside—“that you’re not on top of the world. You could use the money.”
“It wouldn’t be eighteen. Thirty-six. Eighteen for the flight we didn’t get paid for, eighteen for the one you want us to make.”
The peculiar, bashful, sidelong look. He seemed to realize that he’d taken a step back from categorical refusal—he was bargaining.
“I can’t promise thirty-six. Eighteen. If I can raise a little more, you’ll get it.”
“Raise it!” he scoffed. “Y’all gonna hold a bake sale? A raffle?”
“Never mind the how. I know I can put it together and fairly quickly.”
He swept a hard, appraising look across her face. “Wish I could be as sure of you as you are of yourself.”
“Wes . . . ,” Mary said, indicating a corner of the hangar with a jerk of her head. In whispers, the two conferred there for a few minutes. Mary appeared to do most of the talking, Wes with hands on his hips, looking at the floor.
“No less than twenty, “ he said when they came back. “Can you guarantee that?”
She made a rough mental calculation and nodded.
“Hold your bake sale right quick. The Hawker gets sold before you’re done, you’re out of luck. And here’s the important part—you put the money in our pockets first, then we fly.”
“And I’ll have to trust that you will?”
“Trust is a wonderful thing,” Wes drawled.
The next day, as she spoke to Ken Eismont in what had been the Pathways compound but was now under new management, she recalled Michael’s rule: In Sudan the choice is never between the right thing and the wrong thing but between what is necessary and what isn’t. She made a slight revision—in Sudan, the necessary thing is the right thing—which eased the twitches of conscience she experienced, despite her conviction that her plan had divine approval. She wasn’t deceiving Ken and the WorldWide Christian Union to enrich herself or anyone else, but saving lives, aiding in the defense of her people. Who could fault her for using all and any means at her disposal?
When she’d approached him after breakfast, Ken was less than cordial