Raven Strike by Dale Brown and Jim DeFelice

considerable time with Gerard at their second meeting, and saw that he only drank pure water. And when the barrier actually came down—when Gerard broke his silence and spoke about the guns he was interested in buying—he was quite articulate and even a good negotiator. Nuri had decided that the stony glare was part of some sort of religious commitment, Gerard’s version of meditation or prayer.
    His girl brought back two bottles of water. Nuri checked the seal to make sure his hadn’t been refilled from a local tap—always a possibility, and sure to induce diarrhea—then opened his. Gerard stared at the bottle, then took it. He had a small sip. Nuri sensed he was ready to talk.
    “Are you happy with your current supplier?” Nuri asked in French.
    “Hmmmph,” answered Gerard.
    “I don’t want to make trouble,” said Nuri. “If there comes an opportunity, I am always ready.”
    Gerard handed the water bottle back to the girl. She was thirteen or fourteen, probably a relative as well as a mistress. Nuri tried not to be judgmental. Things were different here, and he had a job to do.
    “We are satisfied with the Russians,” said Gerard in English.
    “Russians?” Nuri switched to English as well. “They’re supplying you now?”
    Gerard said nothing.
    “They do give good prices,” admitted Nuri. The dealer might or might not be Russian; anyone from Eastern Europe was likely to be considered a Russian—Poles, Ukrainians, Georgians. All were more likely candidates, and most likely operating on their own. When he was last here, the real Russians were notably absent. “If you are satisfied, then there is no need to change. A good relationship is worth more than a few bullets, one way or the other.”
    Gerard remained silent.
    “And the government—have they been giving you much trouble?” Nuri asked.
    “They are monkeys,” said Gerard. “Imbecilic monkeys.”
    “Yes.”
    “What would be of use to us would be medicines,” he said. “Aspirin would be a very good thing.”
    “Aspirin? Of course. Yes. I believe I could arrange to find some of that. For the clinic?”
    “The clinic is run by thieves,” said Gerard. “We have established a new one.”
    “What other medicines?” asked Nuri.
    Gerard rose. He moved stiffly, but compared to how Nuri had found him, he was a dynamo.
    “I will take you to talk to the doctor. We will go in your car.”
    D anny followed Nuri to the Mercedes. Gerard, the girl, and the two guards came as well. They got into the back with Boston, while Nuri took his place up front. Danny didn’t like that—it was far too dangerous, he thought—but there was no way to tell Nuri that.
    Gerard gave directions from the back in French. Nuri translated them into African, and MY-PID—connected via the team radio—retranslated to English.
    The directions took them to a single story building that looked very much like an American double-wide trailer.
    “Wait in the car,” Nuri said as the others got out.
    “No way,” said Danny.
    They exchanged a glance. Nuri frowned, but didn’t protest when Danny followed him inside the building.
    T hey were met near the door by a black woman in her early twenties. She was enthusiastic and friendly, and clearly didn’t speak the local language—she fumbled worse than Nuri did over the greeting.
    “Do you speak English?” she asked. She had a British accent; Nuri pegged her as a volunteer, here to do her part for world peace.
    “Certainly, Doctor,” Nuri answered.
    “I am not a doctor,” she said, leading them through the crowded reception room. “I am just a nurse. Marie Bloom.”
    “I’m sorry. Gerard introduced you as a doctor.”
    “I think they use the word for anyone with a medical interest.” She smiled at Gerard, nodding. “He has been very good to us. You are here to see our clinic?”
    “We may be able to supply some medicines for you,” said Nuri. “Through Gerard’s generosity. If I knew what it was you