port to the cargo hold of the truck. The radio coms between the trucks were all but drowned out by the wailing away of some woman. Bishara sang alone for a moment until the older Rasid laughed and joined in.
The men continued singing into the next song, then the next. Court wished, momentarily, that he still had his gun on his hip and was still waiting in the heat by the side of the road for a ride.
Bishara only stopped his singing to question Court about various American hip-hop artists, a subject on which the Gray Man was not terribly well versed. He continued ignoring the kid, who finally went back to his music.
From time to time the convoy radio would crackle to life with the Italian-accented English of Signor Mario Bianchi up in the lead vehicle, usually reporting one thing or another to those in the convoy behind him. A large outcropping of bundled roots from the remains of a dead baobab had broken free from the hard pack alongside the road and needed to be negotiated, a dry wadi that crossed the highway required downshifting to safely cross, a hobbled camel had decided to stop in front of them, so there would be a short delay.
Court would have felt a lot better if this convoy had an armed escort. “Why don’t you have UNAMID soldiers with you out here?” he asked Bishara.
The young man just shrugged while he moved to the lousy music. Then he said, “Darfur is as big as Texas in your America, and there are only ten thousand UNAMID soldiers. Most of them are at the camps. Not enough left for every little convoy.” He smiled again. “It’s no problem. The Janjas don’t attack SI. Everybody knows that.”
Court looked down at the young man, surprised. “And why is that?”
“Mr. Mario is a friend to the Janjas.”
Court just looked out the window at the dust. “Perfect.”
Court had not noticed that Bianchi had not transmitted in some time. He could barely hear anyway with the music and the sing-along in the stuffy cab. But when the Italian’s singsong voice finally did come back on the radio, Court immediately sat up straight. Something in the man’s tone was different. His cadence and sudden protocol caught the American’s attention, and he reached out and turned the dial up quickly.
“SI IDP camp Dirra, this is SI Convoy, Truck One, over.”
Court hushed the singing in the cab with him, reached back, and fumbled with the transistor radio to turn it down.
“Go ahead Truck One, over.” A female voice. Australian.
“Margie,” Bianchi’s disembodied voice sounded official and serious. Court had studied voice stress patterns for over a decade. He knew this radio transmission meant trouble even before the Italian spoke. “Our convoy has picked up a woman who claims to be an investigator for the International Criminal Court. She is with a colleague. Can you contact their office and Khartoum and confirm her credentials? If she is who she says she is, we need to have them send a helicopter—”
“Dammit!” Court shouted. The two local tribesmen in the cab with him just stared.
Court realized these transmissions would surely be picked up by the NSS, who, though certainly no tier-one intelligence organization, could sure as shit figure out that the people the SI convoy had just picked up were the same two killing government agents and blowing up shit in front of the Ghost House the night before.
Fucking lawyer bitch, thought Gentry, but he caught himself. She had no reason to trust him over Signor Bianchi. She must have felt safe up there with the head of this aid organization and just confided in him about the danger. It was understandable, even if it did just create a potential disaster.
Gentry’s mind began working full throttle. What were the chances the NSS had picked up that transmission? What were the chances that they would put two and two together? What were the chances they could mobilize assets in the area and either intercept the convoy or be waiting for it outside the IDP camp at Dirra? What were the chances, failing that, that they would be allowed to march right past the UNAMID guards at the camp and grab the girl?
Court looked out into the haze and dust. He thought to himself in a near frantic mental scream, Think! Think, Gentry! What are they going to do? He struggled to channel the thought process of the leadership in Sudanese intelligence. They could not just let