promised.
“Actually, when you’re there, talk to a man named Robert Mohl. M-o-h-l. He’ll be on the stool at the end of the bar closest
to the lobby. He’s the CIA field agent, but he never leaves his stool. He’s like Norm in
Cheers.
Actually, that’s not fair. Sometimes he ventures as far as the table by the door. Ask him about Imam Isfahan Dadullahjid.
He’s the Non-Commissioned Ayatollah in Charge for the Kum. He might know where Dari is, and Mohl might know where Dadullahjid
is. After the last few days, you’ll recognize Mohl by the pee stains running down his pants.”
Johnson leaned his head toward the window. Ahead, DeLuca saw smoke rising into the sky from something burning.
“This is my stop,” Johnson said, stooping to grab his bag from beneath the seat. “You’re the one who got the ambassador out,
right?”
DeLuca nodded.
“Just as well,” Johnson said. “We were plan B. Blow the shit out of everything, with our customary panache. You hear the rumors
about Ambassador Ellis?”
“Which ones?” DeLuca said. “That he’s a shit?”
“No,” Johnson said. “That he owned slaves.”
“I heard that one,” DeLuca said. “Does President Lincoln know about this?”
“It’s not all that uncommon in Liger, actually,” Johnson said. “Especially in the rural villages. Some family pisses off the
tribal chief, so to make amends, they give him their daughter for ten years. Bo has them in his palace. People think he gave
some to Ellis as a gift. A party gift, if you catch my drift. I heard Ellis liked to videotape himself. It’s probably not
true, but that’s what people say.”
“People say the darndest things,” DeLuca said. He moved aside as Johnson crossed to the aisle, stepping over a goat that someone
had brought on board.
“You take care of yourself, Don Brown,” Johnson said. “Ethnic tension-wise, this place makes Iraq look like a board meeting
at the American Library Association.”
“You have a number I can reach you at?” DeLuca asked. “Just in case I get lonely?”
“Already told you,” Johnson said. “Isaiah thirty-six, v. twelve. Twenty-third book, thirty-six, ‘v’ Roman numeral for five,
and then twelve. Two-three-three-six-five-one-two, same prelims and country codes as yours, which I have. But don’t worry,
you won’t get lonely. And if you ever get in trouble, remember, just say,
‘Kwa maana jinsi hii Mungu aliupenda ulimwnegu, hata akamtoa Mwanawe pekee, ili kila mtu amwaminiye asipotee; bali awe na
uzima wa milele.’
That’s John three-sixteen in Swahili. Nobody here speaks Swahili, but it sounds good, don’t it? Take care. Don’t let the
bedbugs bite. That’s not just a figure of speech in Liger. They vo-racious sons-of-bitches in this neighborhood.”
Chapter Six
MACKENZIE’S PALE BLUE UNITED NATIONS helicopter set her down outside a place known only as Camp Seven. She’d been the lone
passenger, the remaining available space in the Russian-made chopper filled floor to ceiling with cases of baby formula and
diapers. As the helicopter landed, it was possible, even in the dimming light, to gauge the misery below, centered in a sea
of makeshift shelters, plastic tarps, and blankets held up by sticks, the landing zone a circle in the dirt formed by a cordon
of African Union soldiers in blue berets and green kerchiefs keeping back a throng of displaced people surging to meet the
aircraft and obtain a portion of its cargo.
As she ducked her head into the backwash from the rotors, she was met by a young man who took her by the elbow and led her
to a lean-to made from a large piece of corrugated tin roofing, a transport parked next to it that had to be forty years old.
“My name is Stephen Ackroyd,” the young man said above the din. “What’s yours? We didn’t know anybody was coming.”
“Mary Dorsey,” MacKenzie said. “United Nations Women’s Health Initiative. I hitched a ride. I would
“Actually, when you’re there, talk to a man named Robert Mohl. M-o-h-l. He’ll be on the stool at the end of the bar closest
to the lobby. He’s the CIA field agent, but he never leaves his stool. He’s like Norm in
Cheers.
Actually, that’s not fair. Sometimes he ventures as far as the table by the door. Ask him about Imam Isfahan Dadullahjid.
He’s the Non-Commissioned Ayatollah in Charge for the Kum. He might know where Dari is, and Mohl might know where Dadullahjid
is. After the last few days, you’ll recognize Mohl by the pee stains running down his pants.”
Johnson leaned his head toward the window. Ahead, DeLuca saw smoke rising into the sky from something burning.
“This is my stop,” Johnson said, stooping to grab his bag from beneath the seat. “You’re the one who got the ambassador out,
right?”
DeLuca nodded.
“Just as well,” Johnson said. “We were plan B. Blow the shit out of everything, with our customary panache. You hear the rumors
about Ambassador Ellis?”
“Which ones?” DeLuca said. “That he’s a shit?”
“No,” Johnson said. “That he owned slaves.”
“I heard that one,” DeLuca said. “Does President Lincoln know about this?”
“It’s not all that uncommon in Liger, actually,” Johnson said. “Especially in the rural villages. Some family pisses off the
tribal chief, so to make amends, they give him their daughter for ten years. Bo has them in his palace. People think he gave
some to Ellis as a gift. A party gift, if you catch my drift. I heard Ellis liked to videotape himself. It’s probably not
true, but that’s what people say.”
“People say the darndest things,” DeLuca said. He moved aside as Johnson crossed to the aisle, stepping over a goat that someone
had brought on board.
“You take care of yourself, Don Brown,” Johnson said. “Ethnic tension-wise, this place makes Iraq look like a board meeting
at the American Library Association.”
“You have a number I can reach you at?” DeLuca asked. “Just in case I get lonely?”
“Already told you,” Johnson said. “Isaiah thirty-six, v. twelve. Twenty-third book, thirty-six, ‘v’ Roman numeral for five,
and then twelve. Two-three-three-six-five-one-two, same prelims and country codes as yours, which I have. But don’t worry,
you won’t get lonely. And if you ever get in trouble, remember, just say,
‘Kwa maana jinsi hii Mungu aliupenda ulimwnegu, hata akamtoa Mwanawe pekee, ili kila mtu amwaminiye asipotee; bali awe na
uzima wa milele.’
That’s John three-sixteen in Swahili. Nobody here speaks Swahili, but it sounds good, don’t it? Take care. Don’t let the
bedbugs bite. That’s not just a figure of speech in Liger. They vo-racious sons-of-bitches in this neighborhood.”
Chapter Six
MACKENZIE’S PALE BLUE UNITED NATIONS helicopter set her down outside a place known only as Camp Seven. She’d been the lone
passenger, the remaining available space in the Russian-made chopper filled floor to ceiling with cases of baby formula and
diapers. As the helicopter landed, it was possible, even in the dimming light, to gauge the misery below, centered in a sea
of makeshift shelters, plastic tarps, and blankets held up by sticks, the landing zone a circle in the dirt formed by a cordon
of African Union soldiers in blue berets and green kerchiefs keeping back a throng of displaced people surging to meet the
aircraft and obtain a portion of its cargo.
As she ducked her head into the backwash from the rotors, she was met by a young man who took her by the elbow and led her
to a lean-to made from a large piece of corrugated tin roofing, a transport parked next to it that had to be forty years old.
“My name is Stephen Ackroyd,” the young man said above the din. “What’s yours? We didn’t know anybody was coming.”
“Mary Dorsey,” MacKenzie said. “United Nations Women’s Health Initiative. I hitched a ride. I would
Similar Books
