Maybe Luo double-crossed the Iranians, who were the source of most of the money the rebels had in the Sudan. Or maybe the Israelis didn’t like him for some reason. They tended to do their own assassinations, but weren’t above outsourcing when it was convenient.

“Luo’s assassination brings us back to square one,” said Reid. “We want to take another look at the rebel groups in the Sudan, and possibly find another way into Jasmine.”

“Why not track the murderer?” asked Danny Freah.

Nuri smiled. He knew he was going to resent working with anyone, but at least this fellow thought like he did.

“That’s impractical,” said Reid. “She’s a professional. It’s unlikely she’ll yield much information.”

“You’re protecting her?” said Danny.

“She wasn’t working for us, Colonel. We don’t know who she was working for. Nuri has some theories.”

Nuri shrugged. “I would have preferred to do it that way, too,” he told Danny. “But it didn’t work out.”

“So what happens now?” Danny asked.

Nuri turned to Reid.

“Originally, Mr. Lupo was able to work in Ethiopia.”

“That won’t work anymore,” said Nuri. “Jasmine used a café in Addis Abba. I bugged the place. But unfortunately, the owner was arrested a few days later and the café was closed down. The smugglers are staying out of there for the most part, because the government’s cracking down.”

“So we’ll have to work directly in the Sudan,” said Reid. “And given the situation there, Nuri could use some protection and backup.”

“Which is where Whiplash comes in,” said Danny.

“That’s exactly the way it’s supposed to work,” said Breanna.

She looked over at Nuri and could tell he was apprehensive. She couldn’t blame him. He’d never worked with Danny and didn’t know what to expect.

“Do you think you can bug the rebels in the Sudan?” she asked him.

“Yeah, of course,” said Nuri. “I’ve already checked the area out.”

He had been through the area earlier. He’d also worked a little with the simulator, which presented 3-D models and conjured situations to practice infiltrating an area. But Nuri had found that real life, at least in the Sudan villages, was much too messy for the computers to model correctly. He’d already decided he wouldn’t bother trying to model the next mission there.

“What’s the goal here?” asked Danny. “How much is it to test MY-PID, this computer thing, and how much to find out what these Jasmine people were doing with the aluminum tubes?”

“Actually, to find out who got the tubes and what they’re doing with them,” said Nuri. “Jasmine was just the conduit.”

“I’d say, Colonel, that the tubes are much more important than the technology at this point,” said Reid. “It’s there to help, nothing more. If the tubes are being used to process nuclear material, that’s an extremely serious situation.”

“Who the hell would process the material in the Sudan?” said Danny.

“That’s exactly what we want to find out,” answered Reid.

“RELATIVELY PAINLESS, WASN’T IT?” ASKED REID AS THEY drove back to the administration building.

“I guess.”

“I think you and the colonel will get along fine.”

“He thinks he’s in charge,” said Nuri.

“Keep your ego in check, Nuri.”

Nuri frowned and reached for his coffee. It was still warm.

“Do you want some time off?” Reid asked.

“I don’t need it.”

“Good. You’re booked on a flight out to Paris tomorrow night. You can connect from the there to Egypt.”

“Fine.”

Nuri began mentally checking off what he’d have to do. They’d need a cover, first of all. And gear. He could get most of it in Alexandria.

“You’ve done very well, Nuri,” said Reid as he parked. “Luo’s death was not your fault.”

“Thanks.”

“One more thing before you go,” said Reid. “Accounting needs to talk to you about some expenses.”

8

Port Sudan, Sudan

Ten days later

DANNY FREAH PULLED HIS YELLOW BASEBALL CAP LOWER as the boat approached the pier. He stepped up toward the bow, holding his bag tightly against his leg as someone jostled against his side. The small ferry had set out hours earlier from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. When it left the dock there, the sun was about at eye level over the water; now it was long gone, sunk into the gray mass of Africa.

The passengers crowding Danny were mostly poor Sudanese returning from work. There were a few pilgrims mixed in, devout Muslims who had performed the hajj, or holy trek, to Mecca. The rest were operators, thieves, and pretenders.

Danny fell firmly into the last camp. His passport and papers declared that he was a doctor of paleontology, a claim backed up with several official letters from the Sudanese and Egyptian governments. Each seal had been bought for five thousand dollars cash, a price high enough for him to consider turning them over to a legitimate paleontologist when his job here was done.

Except few legitimate paleontologists would dare travel to the Sudan.

“How’s the dock look?” Danny muttered.

“Rephrase question,” answered the Voice.

He pushed the earphone in his right ear a little deeper. Though designed specifically for his ears, the plugs didn’t feel very comfortable.

“Are there armed men on the dock?” he asked.

“Affirmative. Six guards within customs area. Additional men beyond the gate. One armored car.”

“Why do they need the armored car?”

“Rephrase question.”

Danny didn’t bother. He had been using the MY-PID “appliance” for several days, but it still felt uncomfortable. Nor had it been particularly useful. He knew where he was going and what to do. The Voice’s contribution to his mission so far had been to tell him how warm it was and how unlikely it was to rain.

He squeezed his eyes together, fighting off fatigue. He’d flown from Cairo via Rome with barely an hour stopover, and from there to Saudi Arabia. Immediately on landing he’d rented a car and driven halfway across the country to the ferry. All told, he’d spent roughly eighteen hours traveling. He’d napped for a little less than four hours during the first flight. Those were the most he’d had in a row since starting his new assignment.

Searchlights flashed on above the pier as the ferry closed in. Through the glare, Danny saw men armed with automatic rifles waiting for the ship to dock. Behind them was the armored car the Voice had mentioned.

Danny gripped his bag as the ferry bumped against the dock. A deckhand sprung across, tying the ship to the wharf. Another removed the spar from the rail and stepped back. People began jumping across. Danny waited until it was clear that the boat wasn’t getting any closer, then leapt as well, crossing over to the worn wooden planks.

The rickety dock was bisected by a metal fence that enclosed the customs and passport control areas. To get into Sudan, a visitor or resident had to queue in the single line that started at the center of the fence and spread willy-nilly in front of it. Occasionally, a customs officer or one of the soldiers guarding them attempted to form the wedge-shaped mass into order, but it was hardly worth the effort; as soon as one person moved forward, the order collapsed, and the crowd once more jockeyed for position.

Like nearly everyone who’d gotten off the ferry, Danny was black. But his fresh, Western-style clothes and confident manner stood out from the others as sharply as if his skin had been green. One of the customs officers waved at him, calling him around the press of the line. He had Danny walk to a chained gate at the far end of the pier. One of the soldiers accompanied him, glancing backward every few seconds to make sure none of the other passengers followed.