be military pilots working for Rosoboronexport or former Russian military. Either way, it didn’t matter.
“Yes, I speak a little bit.” The redheaded pilot smiled at her, then slowly and suggestively, he looked her up and down. Ellen realized his actions were for the amusement of his colleagues; she knew she was not much of a sight to behold at this moment. Immediately she determined the man to be a pig, but she also told herself she could use this distraction of his to her advantage. Some of the other men leaned in closer to her, as well.
“Great,” she said with a wide, friendly smile designed to put the men at ease, although they surely didn’t seem on guard. “Ellen Walsh, United Nations.” It was a lie, but it was delivered without a batted eyelash. “I sure am glad to see you boys. I’ve been stuck here at Al Fashir for three days. I’m looking for transport out of here, Khartoum, Port Sudan . . . at this point I’d go just about anywhere just to get out of this terminal. I’d be happy to pay you cash for the trouble, and I’m sure my office could work it out with your employer.”
The lecherous pilot clearly didn’t understand every word. His head cocked a couple of times. She knew she was speaking a little fast; the pace of her words seemed to follow along with her elevated heart rate.
“Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Join us for dinner first, please, and we will discuss this.”
“Delighted.” Ellen sat, smiled, but she could tell this guy wasn’t going to let her fly on his plane. He was stringing her along for personal reasons.
She knew now that a flight out on this mysterious aircraft was too much to hope for, but she would string this bastard right along as well, to see if she could glean information from him or even just get a closer glimpse at the Ilyushin or its cargo.
Two could play the game he was playing. She leaned in close to him.
“Chto vy delaete?” came a voice from the end of the table. Ellen looked to the speaker, saw that somehow she had miscounted the Russians before. There were six men at the table, not five, and this sixth man was asking a question of the pilot. He, like the majority of these guys, wore a thick beard and scruffy hair; his was longer than the others. He seemed more athletic than the rest, and darker complected. When the pilot did not answer him, he repeated himself.
“Chto vy delaete?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing?” replied Gennady in Russian. “I am asking this lovely woman to have dinner with us.”
“You must not allow her on the aircraft,” Court said flatly, straining his Russian abilities to do so.
Gennady looked at him and replied, “You do not tell me who I can and cannot allow on my plane. I don’t know who you are, but I know who I am. I am the pilot. I am in charge.”
Court looked away. His eyes drifted back out over the concourse. Turning away from what was beginning to look more and more like a fucking mess in the making.
The Canadian woman introduced herself as Ellen. She shook each man’s hand with a smile. Court did not make eye contact when he shook her hand limply and grunted out the name “Viktor.”
“So, where are you guys from?”
“We are Russian,” said Gennady.
“Russian. Wow. Neat.”
Court turned to study the woman’s face carefully now, like an art student studying the brushstrokes of an oil painting on a museum wall.
“What brings you gentlemen to Darfur?”
Play cool, Gennady. Court said it to himself in Russian.
“What is your job with UN?” the Russian pilot asked warily, responding to a question with a question and not exactly “playing cool” in Court’s eyes.
The woman smiled at the Russian, asked him to repeat himself, though Court sensed she understood him well. Gentry was trained to look for clues in the limbic system, the part of the brain that controls subconscious actions. Court knew how to discern the movements and expressions and postures that were indicators of deception. This woman glanced away quickly to the right when asked what she did, and to Court this was a signal that she was going to attempt to deceive with the next words out of her mouth. That she delayed by asking him to repeat himself was only more indication that a deceptive or untrue answer was being prepared