Russian. Cyrillic. Let's get Google to translate." It takes Jacob a little while to find the characters in a form that can be pasted into Google's online form. "Here we go. Means needle in Russian." Jacob shakes his head, mystified. "Needles in a haystack, eh? Seriously big ones if they need boxes that size to carry them."
Veronica says, "Wait a minute. What's the phonetic translation?"
"The phonetic? Why?"
"Is it Igloo?"
Jacob brightens, nods. "Wikipedia should have a cross-reference page." They have to wait a few seconds, the Internet connection is slow, worse than a phone line. "Here we go. Bingo. You're almost a genius. Not Igloo, Igla. Whatever that means. I guess we can Google and see -" He switches back to Google, types igla, and hits return.
"International Gay and Lesbian Aquatics," Veronica reads the first result aloud. "Somehow I don't think that's it."
"No. But look, here's Wikipedia. '9K38M Igla-1, which has the NATO reporting name SA-16 Gimlet.'"
He clicks on the second link. The page loads. As Jacob reads, his eyes get very wide.
"'The 9K38 Igla is a Russian/Soviet man-portable infrared homing surface-to-air missile,'" Veronica reads aloud, softly. "Oh my God."
Jacob feels dizzy. Zanzibar Sam. SAM. Surface to Air Missile. The enormity of this discovery is far beyond what he expected. "Holy fucking shit. Boxes of them. Look at this picture, they're not that big, there must have been probably four in each of those boxes."
"Oh my God," Veronica repeats.
"This is a big deal. This is a really big deal. If those are going to the terrorists -"
"Going? They're gone. They've got them. They're in the Congo already."
"They can shoot down helicopters with those. Or airplanes. Smuggle them into Kenya or back to Entebbe and blow up whole airliners full of tourists. Al-Qaeda on the loose with two boxes of man-portable anti-aircraft missiles. I'd say that's pretty fucking close to a worst-case scenario."
She says, "We have to tell someone."
"Yes. Of course. We have real evidence now, pictures of missiles being smuggled. And Prester saw them too."
"Let's show these to Rukungu, see if he knows anything. He might recognize some of these guys."
"Good idea. Then we better get some rest. Long drive ahad of us. Back to Kampala and straight to the embassy. Sooner we tell the whole fucking world about this the better."
"Strick's at the embassy."
"Not for long," Jacob says grimly. "Not by the time we're done."
* * *
"Yes," Rukungu says tersely, looking at the hypermuscled man on the computer screen. "I know this man."
Veronica looks at Rukungu and wonders what he's thinking. When she knocked on his door and entered his room he was standing on the balcony, staring at the Ruwenzori mountains. The bed was mussed, and there was water on the shower floor, but otherwise there was no sense that his room was occupied. She wonders why he didn't even collect his possessions before leaving the refugee camp. As far as Veronica can tell he has his clothes, his phone, his rubber boots, and nothing else in this world.
"Who is he?" Jacob asks.
"His name is Casimir. He is from Rwanda."
Veronica blinks. That wasn't the answer she expected. "He's Muslim?"
Surprise flickers across Rukungu's face. "No. No Muslims are with the interahamwe."
"He came with the Arab man, right? He and his three friends? Maybe earlier this year?" Jacob asks.
Rukungu looks at Jacob, perplexed. "No. Casimir has been with Athanase for many years. Since we left Rwanda. There are no Muslims. The only Arab who comes to Athanase is a man who comes to buy gold. That man has no religion but money."
Veronica looks away. Since we left Rwanda. That's all the confirmation she needs. Rukungu is interahamwe, a mass murderer.
"That doesn't make sense," Jacob says, puzzled. "Your buddy Casimir here is the guy who killed Derek. Chopped his fucking head off with a machete. If he's not Muslim, why was he wearing a dishdash? Are you totally sure this is him?"
"This is Casimir. I have no doubt. I have known him for twelve years."
Veronica frowns. "Then why was he in a dishdash?"
Jacob reflects. "Maybe for TV. Maybe they didn't have any real terrorists handy who were willing and able to swing the panga, so they dressed up the big interahamwe guy for the camera."
Something about his phrasing nags at Veronica. She tries to figure out what it is exactly, but it won't come to her.
"Figure it out later," Jacob says. "Let's sleep on it. I'm beat. And we should keep a low profile anyways. I saw a couple other white folks