to hide, and he was not going to get away with it.
Gennady broke in. “Look, she ships goods for the United Nations. The United Nations has Il-76s in their fleet. She has to know how big they are and how far they travel and how much they can carry. She has done nothing wrong by asking for a tour of my aircraft.” He reached across the table and took the sheet of paper from the open notebook, held it up to illustrate his point.
The secret policeman regarded the Russian pilot’s comments for a moment, then said, “Perhaps you are correct.” He looked back to Walsh. “Who did you say you worked for in Khartoum?”
Ellen sighed, rolled her eyes. Rubbed her left upper arm with her right hand. “I’ve told you a dozen times, and just like my ID says, I work for UNAMID in the Transportation and Logistics Division. I came here to interview camp workers about their needs and—”
“What is the name of your director?” the secret policeman asked. He picked up a booklet that he’d brought into the interview room with him.
The man looked into the book for several seconds, nodded sourly, and then put it down.
Court had just begun to relax again when he glanced over at Gennady on the other side of the woman under interrogation. The pilot had noticed something on the page with the drawing and info about the Il-76, and he peered at it intently. Confusion grew on his face now, and to Court that could only mean trouble.
Gennady spoke softly. “Ellen. The aircraft represented here is an MF variant.”
She shrugged her shoulders. Too quickly and nonchalantly for Court’s taste. It seemed an artificial reaction.
“It is?”
“Yes. The UN does not fly the Il-76MF.” The Russian was looking up at her now, but her eyes remained to the front, towards the NSS officers.
“They don’t?”
“No . . . they don’t.”
Shit, thought Court. Gennady was suspicious now. Hell, Court was suspicious now himself. Why would a UN do-gooder have a hand-drawn diagram of the Russian plane? He really hoped she could talk her way out of this predicament because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help her.
“Who are you, and who do you work for?” Gennady asked, louder now, reaching out and turning the woman around by the shoulders to face him.
EIGHTEEN
The Russian pilot spun her around. He’d figured her out, and she knew she could not play dumb with him like she could with the NSS.
It was time for a counterpunch.
When she was a kid her father had a saying, and she had turned it into her mantra. “Go big or go home.” All her life she’d pushed herself to the limits of her abilities, did not accept second best or half measures. And now, clearly she’d found evidence of illegal weapons transfers between Russia and Sudan, exactly what she knew had been going on, and exactly what she wanted to prevent by moving to Holland and joining the International Criminal Court.
This was not a time to be demure, to be compliant, to run and hide. She would use the weight of her position, the power of her organization, the strength of the international community to get herself away from here, away from these thugs, and back to her office, so she could reveal what she’d discovered. Back in Khartoum, she had stared down Sudanese government officials a half dozen rungs higher up the ladder than these two little black-suited buffoons, and she was not going to let these men intimidate her. And the Russian pilot was an arrogant bastard who needed to see that women were not placed in front of him just to bow to his will.
Go big or go home?
Ellen wasn’t going home until this dark secret, the secret that many had suspected, had been revealed to the world.
She was about to go big.
Say something lady, Court said to himself. She just stood there, staring at the tall Russian. Court needed to get this over with, to get this woman tossed into the little cell here at the airport until he and his waste-of-time flight could get wheels up and out of here.
Say something! Anything, Court silently implored the woman, but when she did break the silence, he immediately regretted her opening her mouth.
“Very well, gentlemen. My name is Ellen Walsh. I am not an employee of UNAMID. I am, in fact, an inspector with the International Criminal Court, here in the