Rare Earth (12 page)

T
hey rushed straight from the slum chapel to the Nairobi airport. The snarled traffic became just another enemy they had to fight. Marc called Kitra back twice, checking in, gaining new details. The UN contingent had arrived at the camp in two SUVs and two battle vans. They presented the camp elders with eviction notices. The evacuation was to begin in thirty-six hours. The officials ignored the director's protests and the elders' pleas as they had in previous evictions. Marc fed the status updates to Boyd Crowder, who in turn made plans with Karl Rigby.

The third time Marc phoned, Kitra did not respond.

They were met at the Lodestone hangar by six more security personnel. They loaded their gear into the chopper and headed into the sun, now low on the horizon. Crowder passed around the photograph of Frederick Uhuru and the man who had threatened the elder. “We don't know if either of these men will be among the attackers. But if they are, do not, repeat, do not put either man down.”

“Say again, Colonel.”

“They may have our first lead regarding our missing personnel. Disable them as required. But it is essential that we question them.”

When Crowder settled into the cockpit's other jump seat, Marc said, “I've just realized something. Uhuru offered me that contract because he wanted to distract me.”

“You're assuming the UN guy is part of the problem.”

“The man who threatened the elders was there with him.”

“Correction. He was on the same porch of a hotel café.” Boyd Crowder waved his own statement aside. “You know what I hear most clearly in your words? Trust. Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing finer, especially when we're heading into action.”

Marc did not reply. It seemed so clear to him now. Uhuru's intention all along had been to remove a potential obstacle from the grid. And Uhuru had almost succeeded. Marc's thoughts swirled, as malevolent as the volcano plume looming on the horizon. He recalled the warning embedded in the elders' questions. And wondered what else he had gotten totally wrong.

They landed almost a mile away from the gates of the camp. The sunset was a ruddy glow as they loaded up their gear and set off. The volcano's plume glowed like a fiery pillar, a huge tent of ash and smoke that covered the western sky. But the wind was away from them and the air was clear.

The dust thrown up by the men's passage held a bitter taste, like a fire that threatened to engulf them all. They joined the road leading to the camp but held to the verge so as not to be slowed by the exhausted refugees. Boyd's men held to a pace one step below a full run. The adults they passed glanced over, saw there was no threat, and looked away.

When the main gates came into view, Crowder directed his men into the same copse of trees where Marc had defended the women. He took the satellite phone from Marc's pack and said, “Make the call.”

This time it was the director who answered. His French accent was made far heavier by the tension. “Kitra, she is in the clinic. Where are you, please?”

“Just outside.” Marc used Crowder's binoculars to scan the front gates, which appeared to be unmanned. “Where are Sergeant Kamal and his men?”

“The trucks, they came for all the soldiers two hours ago.”

“The camp's been left with no security?”

“The official from Nairobi, he said the camp is to close; there is no need for guards.”

“We're coming in. Royce out.” Marc stowed the phone and asked, “Who would have the clout to order a contingent of UN soldiers away from their assigned station?”

“Someone so far up the food chain he could roast us both for dinner,” Crowder replied. “Okay. On my signal. Let's move out.”

But the enemy was no longer in the camp.

Marc and the arriving Lodestone operatives were met at the gates by his young contingent. They split into three groups and wound through hovels veiled by shadows and woodsmoke. Children watched them pass with round solemn gazes. Chickens and pie dogs scattered before them as they hurried into place. The intent was to spring on them from all sides. Just appear from nowhere, round up the intruders, and interrogate them while surprise left them vulnerable.

But as they approached the central compound, Marc heard trucks come to life and rumble down the main road. From behind him, Crowder said, “We can still stop them.”

Marc shook his head. “Not without firing.”

The soldier behind Crowder huffed, “That's how we get things done, bro.”

Marc said, “As far as we know, this is a contingent of UN troops. Even if their purpose is bogus, attacking them would land us in a world of trouble.”

Crowder hesitated, then said into the body mike attached to his wrist, “Do not attack. Repeat. Hold your fire.”

The trucks raced past unseen. Marc heard the roaring motors and surmised, “They knew we were coming.”

The soldier behind Crowder said, “Well, duh.”

Crowder said, “That's enough, mister.”

“Come on, sir. We gear up, we flush the quarry, and we let them go?”

“I said, that's enough.”

Marc decided the best thing he could do was ignore the exchange. “They posted a watcher outside the gates.”

“Probably in the woods we passed through,” Crowder agreed.

“So what does that tell you?”

Crowder was silent.

“Whatever it is they're really doing here,” Marc said, “they intend for it to remain secret.”

Crowder mulled that over. “You got those photographs with you?”

“In my pack.”

“Let's go see if anyone spotted them hereabouts.”

The photographs that Rigby took meant nothing to Philip or the other camp leaders. The pictures were passed from hand to hand, then given back. The old men and Philip were almost apologetic. Crowder stood in the shade of the hut's overhanging roof as Marc seated himself beside Kitra, who tried to serve as translator in Charles's absence. But her Swahili was not nearly up to the challenge. Finally Philip began translating for the other elders. His deep voice carried a strong accent, but his English was surprisingly good.

The camp elders described how the UN official had been accompanied by six African soldiers and four of the yellow men. Marc asked, “The Africans were not Kenyan?”

The elders discussed this at length. Philip finally said, “We are trying to decide their tribe. We think it was Somali. These people are everywhere. They did not speak or show any ID. They could also have been Angolan, or Ethiopian. There is no way to tell for certain. But we all agree the soldiers wore the blue armbands.”

“We are going to try and stop the eviction from happening.”

Philip responded with a slow nod. But the colonel interrupted his response by jerking in surprise, touching his earpiece and speaking into his body mike, “This is Colonel Crowder. Are you certain this is genuine?” He glared at Marc as he listened. “Roger. Crowder out.” The colonel rose from his chair and said to Marc, “I need a word.”

Marc excused himself and followed Crowder from the yard. The colonel walked to the center of the central compound and signaled for his guard to join them. The trooper was short and slight in the manner of a hidden dagger. He had dark hair and even features and languid eyes. He cradled a semiautomatic Remington, wore a pistol and a brace of carbon-bladed knives on his belt.

Crowder said, “Nairobi reports we've got incoming VIPs from D.C. We're ordered to return immediately.”

“We log out of the compound, we talk with the elders, we fly out here, and suddenly we learn that a group of Lodestone top brass are leaving on a private jet from Washington?”

“You were included in this direct order,” Crowder said. “We are to return to base immediately.”

“What's crucial is
how they responded
.”

Crowder shrugged. “Somebody in my operation is feeding them intel. I've assumed that all along.”

“You're missing the big issue. Something about our being in Kibera and then out here has them so worried they'd jump on a plane. We need to find out why.”

Crowder squinted at the horizon. Marc felt a faint southerly breeze on his face, dry as old bones. He tasted the day's fragrances, the woodsmoke and the packed humanity and the animals. A faint hint of volcanic sculpture drifted with the wind. The colonel conceded, “Hunting for answers will be tougher with the Washington bureaucrats crowding our moves.”

“There's something else. When the Kibera elders asked to see me alone, they questioned Kitra's motives. I've been going over what I remember about her and Serge's files. There are some issues I should have red-flagged long before now.”

Crowder focused on him. “You want to tell me who generated those files you're not sharing?”

Marc met his gaze. “Soon as we're back, I'm making an official request to my superiors. I think they should set aside their reservations and let me share everything with you.”

“Including who they are, and what is behind their concerns?”

“Everything,” Marc replied.

“Okay, I'll ride the bird back to town, then order it to return for you tomorrow midmorning.”

“Thanks, Colonel.”

Crowder tapped the face of his watch. “Just you keep listening to the drumbeat. We're facing opposition that doesn't want the questions asked, much less the answers found. And they're closing in.”

Kitra was bedded down in the women's dorm by the time Marc returned to the central compound. Marc waited until chapel was over the next morning, then led her into the shade of the neighboring baobab tree. Ever since seeing Crowder off, Marc had debated what to say and how to shape the words. But standing there in front of her, he knew he had no choice but to tell her, “I need to be straight with you. We don't have much time. Why are you really here?”

The instant she hesitated, the moment she jerked her gaze from his, Marc knew he had finally asked the right question. He went on, “Your brother trained as a medic during his service in the Israeli Defense Force. I always assumed you two were down here fighting the good fight. Which meant I ignored a vital bit of information. You told me Serge was now an electronic engineer. Does that have anything to do with why you came to Kenya?”

Kitra's gaze rested on her hands clasped in front of her and did not respond.

“What was Serge doing before you came to Kenya?”

Kitra remained silent.

“And you. What is your background?”

Kitra did not answer.

“You also trained as a nurse with the IDF. But your file says you took your university degree in business administration. Since then, what have you done?”

No response.

“Why didn't you request the help of the Israeli embassy when your brother went missing?”

“I went to them,” she said softly. “They told me to file a notice. Which I did. Since then I've heard nothing.”

“Why did Serge go into that village? He was looking for something, wasn't he, Kitra?” Marc had nothing to go on except hunches. Until Kitra's silence offered definite confirmation. He felt a hand squeeze his heart until his voice was robbed of strength. “Why haven't you been honest with me?”

“Everything I have told you is the truth.”

“But it's never been the whole truth, has it? What—?”

Kitra bounded to her feet. “I have to make a phone call.”

“What? No, Kitra, wait—”

“You want answers? All right. I need to speak with someone first.” She tried for scorn, but the shakiness to her voice belied her deeper emotions. “If you are really that concerned with the truth, then you can wait another few minutes.”

Marc watched her leave. He wished he had a reason strong enough to bring her back. He sat there for a long time, feeling the heat gather.

Philip found him there, still seated beneath the baobab, vainly searching his surroundings for answers. The young chief said in English, “You will walk with me, Marc Royce?”

“I'm waiting for Kitra.”

“She has spoken on the phone. Now she paces with the apparatus held in both hands. She waits as you are waiting.” Philip gestured into the sunlight. “Come.”

When Marc rose to his feet, the chief took his arm and guided him around the admin building. Once they were out of the central compound, Philip said, “My friend, you are troubled.”

The simple way Philip spoke, without any question, released the torrent. Marc spoke softly, but the heat released with his words was as strong as the sunlight.

As they crossed the compound, Marc spoke of his late wife. Their love. Her illness and her passage. And the dark days that followed. Then the trip to Iraq, he mentioned that as well, for the travel ignited what he was feeling now, a need to move on.

Philip led them through the first rim of hovels, then took a winding trail away from the main road. As they traversed the camp, people emerged from the huts. They murmured a low greeting to Philip, eyeing Marc with solemn awareness. Marc was aware of them as well. He had no idea how much of what he said Philip actually understood. But he was not sure that the chief's understanding was nearly as important as the fact that he spoke at all.

By the time Marc went silent, a collection of children and young teens formed a motley retinue. The youngsters spoke quietly among themselves. When Marc was finished, one of the teens had the temerity to speak with Philip. Behind the boy, a woman from a neighboring hut came into view. Two more stepped forward, and an elderly man. All waiting their turn. Philip used his fly whisk to point them all back in the direction from which he and Marc had come, clearly telling them to bring their concerns to the elders' hut. They dropped their gazes and moved away.

Philip took hold of Marc's hand and steered him on. He said, “You loved your wife long and well. It is a good thing, this love. Even when you must bury your heart with your love when she departs.” He pointed them down an even narrower trail. His words were far clearer than before and carried the easy resonance of an educated man. “But now the Lord Jesus, he has performed the miracle. Your heart is called from the cave of death. And you are afraid of the light.” He used his whisk to offer a greeting to an ancient crone, who appeared from within her hut's shadows. “Will you accept advice?”