had little to offer in return but his gratitude, a few Arabic words of thanks, and an understanding of the body language of the culture. He held his hand to his heart and nodded deeply so many times in the past day he almost felt as if he could pass for a Darfuri, if not for the pigmentation of his skin.
Court had worked in dozens of different places in his career, either as a CIA singleton operator, as a CIA Paramilitary Operations officer, or as a private sector assassin, and many of those places, for want of a better term, sucked. But from time to time he found himself somewhere remote, both geographically and culturally, and completely taken in by the scenery or the people or the way of life in ways that stayed with him after he’d done his job and left the place behind.
He felt this way about Darfur. He wasn’t supposed to be here. There was much to hate. It was hot as hell and thick with bugs and controlled by a despot and murdering bands of marauders, but Court felt something about this place, the people, the stubbornness and discipline needed to face a miserable day armed with nothing but one’s own devices. He could not help but respect the people for scratching out what existences they had, and he appreciated their kindness to him.
He would love to repay the kindness by removing the man from power who was systematically killing them.
He reached across the mattress, picked up his phone, and called a number in Saint Petersburg.
Gregor Ivanovic Sidorenko had not slept. His man had disappeared into the depths of Darfur, the opposite side of the country from where he needed to be, and he had not heard from him in almost seventy-two hours. Furthermore, the international news channels were broadcasting reports from Darfur, reports of an attack on an aid convoy not ninety minutes’ driving time from where Gentry was last seen. Details were sketchy, but things did not look good.
Sid sat at his breakfast table in the cold, bit into a hard-boiled egg, and stared at his phone. He’d hardly taken his beady eyes from it in three days.
But for once it rang, and it startled him.
The Russian mobster tipped a mimosa in a fluted crystal glass while lurching forward to grab the receiver, fresh-squeezed Florida orange juice, Cuvée du Centenaire Grand Marnier, and Krug Grande Cuvée Champagne drenching his thick, gold-lined fleece robe. He ignored the expensive mess and answered the phone.
“Slushayu vas.” I am listening.
“It’s Gray. You receiving me okay?”
“Mr. Gray, where are you?”
“I’m back in Al Fashir. I’m safe at the moment, but I can’t stay here for long.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing to worry about. I got sidetracked.”
“Side . . . ? Mr. Gray, that is not acceptable! You have jeopardized everything! The FSB is very upset.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
“My people spoke to the pilot. You left the airport to save a woman. A woman!”
“Your pilot shouldn’t have left me behind.”
“A woman!”
“It’s more complicated—”
“This is a very serious damage to our timetable.”
“It’s no problem.”
“How can you say that it is no problem? We do not have another flight to Khartoum scheduled until after Abboud’s trip to the Red Sea! How are you going—”
“Can you get a plane back here to Al Fashir?”
“Yes, I have arranged a flight. It will depart today from Belarus. But we can only get you out of the country with that flight. It will not be landing again in the Sudan.”
“It doesn’t have to land.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Get a pen and paper. I’m going to need the aircraft to bring in some gear I’ll require if I’m going to continue on with the operation. Get the FSB to help you put it together. Just relax. This little hiccup along the way will be forgotten.”
“If they don’t land, how will you—”
“They will need a flight path out of the country that takes them over the Red Sea. They can arrange that. Now, write all this down.”
There was a scramble on the other end of the line. “Wait . . . okay. I am ready.”
Court dictated a list to the Russian mob boss, who scribbled like a frantic secretary. When he was finished, Sidorenko blew out a long breath. “You can do this?”
“Sure.”
“The pilot . . . he can do it?”
“You will talk to him when we are in the air. Encourage him to follow my instructions to the letter.”
“Da, of course.” Gregor Sidorenko was no longer angry. There was a high-pitched