“We have been told that Commander Dpap is a very important person here,” said Nuri. “We would be honored to pay our respects.”

Commander John glanced over at Hera, and decided that he could use the doctor to get a chance to spend time with the woman, who surely would fall under his charms if he had a little more time.

“Uncle Dpap is my brother,” he said. “I will take you to meet him.”

“Nothing would please me more,” said Nuri.

15

Pentagon

Washington, D.C.

“TEN MINUTES UNTIL YOUR MEETING WITH THE ADMIRAL, Ms. Stockard.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bennett.”

Breanna Stockard tapped the interphone button and went back to reviewing the Excel file on her computer. The rows of numbers—some bold, some highlighted, some in different colors—purported to show the cost effectiveness of a new shipboard cannon the Navy was angling for. But the numbers couldn’t demonstrate the real need for the weapon or, even more important, whether it would truly function as designed—and how long it would take to become operational. Those were the real questions when it came to new technology. The answers were almost always guesses—sometimes very good ones, but still guesses. Breanna’s office wasn’t developing the gun itself—a private contractor had been working on it for several years—but she had to give a report that would either help the admiral’s quest to win more funding or help kill the project. Her staff was divided, as were many of the people in the Navy.

As important as the issue was, Breanna couldn’t seem to focus on it, even with the admiral on his way over. She kept thinking about Danny and Whiplash in Africa.

Danny checked in twice a day, either by secure satellite phone or text message. She could have gone over to Room 4 at Langley, plug into the MY-PID network, and find out what was going on, but she resisted. It wasn’t her job to watch over every little decision Danny made, or to ride on the team’s shoulder as it went in battle. That was the whole point of MY-PID—it was a tool to help the people in the field, not to shepherd them.

She didn’t want to tell them how to do their job. But she was worried about them, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. She found it difficult to remove her emotions from the op, separate herself from the people.

The intercom buzzed.

“Ms. Stockard, the admiral has arrived early,” said Ms. Bennett with the slightest hint of annoyance.

Breanna glanced quickly at the small mirror she kept under the computer monitor, checking her makeup.

“Please send him in,” she said, rising to greet him.

16

Jabal Dugu, Sudan

NURI PUT HIS HAND INTO HIS POCKET, SLIPPING HIS FINGERS around one of the video bugs as he followed Commander John’s men into the building. It would be risky to bug the headquarters—but well worth it.

“Come,” said Commander John, looking at Hera as he spoke. “My brother is always at his desk. He will be very pleased to meet distinguished visitors.”

The pews, altar, and other religious items had been removed from the church years before. A few chairs and small tables formed different islands in the interior, but for the most part the space was filled with bundles of clothes and bags of rice and other supplies, which shaped half walls and low partitions. Three overhead fans pushed warm, stagnant air around the room. Sticky no-pest fly strips, the type outlawed in the U.S. for environmental and safety reasons years before, hung from the rafters, occasionally snapping in the fans’ breeze. A scent of sweat mixed with something sharp like cinnamon and dust.

Four of Uncle Dpap’s aides were sitting on chairs on the right side of the building. They looked up when Nuri entered, but went back to talking among themselves when they saw Commander John.

The floor of the chancel was raised about a foot higher than the nave, and it was here that Uncle Dpap had his desk. Six young soldiers sat on the floor nearby, their rifles either in their laps or next to them.

Uncle Dpap was speaking on a satellite phone. His smooth, almost polished forehead extended into a bald scalp; his face looked babylike despite his age, which was fifty-five. No flaw or blemish marked his deep black skin. He frowned as the conversation continued, yet looked serene, a father confident of his place in the world, and of his progeny’s place as well.

Nuri spotted a perfect place for the bug, on the side of a filing cabinet near a cluster of rolled-up, dusty maps. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and began chewing furiously.

“We will wait,” said Commander John. He looked at Nuri. “You have a piece for me?”

“Sure,” said Nuri. He reached into his pocket for the package. It was going to taste like cardboard, but it was useless to explain that.

Commander John took the entire package, slipped a piece out, then pocketed the rest. Nuri raised his hand to ask for the gum back, but Commander John ignored him.

“Tilia, translate for me,” he told a young woman at a desk behind Uncle Dpap. “We have an important visitor and must impress them.”

Tilia got up slowly and walked over.

“She will help with my English,” Commander John told Hera. He understood her Arabic well enough despite her accent, but having a translator brought prestige, and the whole point of the visit was to impress her. Besides, Tilia could translate from the village language, which was less arduous to speak.

“Look at this map,” Commander John told Hera, taking her elbow and steering her to the far wall. “This is the area where our people live. Our ancestors toiled in this area for many years.”

Tilia translated dutifully. Her English was close to flawless; she had lived in England as a child and returned there for college. She had joined Uncle Dpap, to whom she was distantly related, after her parents were killed by Sudan government troops.

“There were lions in the foothills once. My people chased them away. Ferocious lions,” Commander John told Hera, emphasizing the word “ferocious” as if there might be some doubt. “There are stories—true or not, I do not know—of people facing them with just their bare hands.”

“She won’t believe that,” said Tilia, who didn’t believe it herself.

“I said, I am not sure it is true. Tell her.”

Tilia knew Commander John was trying to impress the woman, and also knew that he would fail. He was constantly on the make—any female new to the village, African, European, got his attention, until he bedded her or she left the village. Tilia herself had only been spared his advances because Commander John suspected his brother was sleeping with her, an impression Tilia encouraged, though she was not.

Nuri, meanwhile, walked casually across the room and, after a quick, surreptitious glance, ducked down to tie his shoe…and plant the bug.

At times like this, just after placing a bug, there was often a moment of doubt, a dread certainty that he had been seen. That fear seized him as he rose, and for a second he found himself dizzy. Blood rushed from his head. His muscles tensed, ready to fight.

Nuri forced himself to breathe slowly. One breath, two…there were no explosions, no accusations, no one grabbing him by the neck and dragging him away.

See, he told himself. Nothing to worry about. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Nuri turned and walked toward the center of the room. As his apprehension receded, a low-grade euphoria swept into its place, encouraging him that he could do practically anything. If his dread had been misplaced, so was this optimism, and he tried to tamp it down, folding his arms and feigning interest in the map Commander John was using for his pseudohistory lesson.