The Crisis by David Poyer Page B

clock’s minute hand. The major, in starched fatigues, a brown-leather-holstered Makarov automatic at his hip, listened to her without expression. “Here are our passports, visa, and documents,” she said, squaring them on the green paper desk protector. “And the letter from your minister expressing his hope we can work together. Perhaps our first step should be to link up with the local police for a background briefing.”
    The translator spoke around a cud of what Aisha assumed was qat. He had a red-eyed stare, as if looking at someone behind her at whom he was very angry. The major, whose name was Assad, said through him, “Unfortunate, Minister Samatar has left the city. Like big assistant. I am senior officer left in charge.”
    â€œI see. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
    â€œThat major can’t talk you. Political situation is . . .
orooyo
at moment.”
    She had no idea what
orooyo
meant. Fluid? “Well . . . I’d like to begin by discussing the security situation, and how we can help.” She hesitated. “
Tatakullum arabi, Ra’id
? Do you speak Arabic?”
    â€œ
Shwei.
Not much.
Parlez-vous français
?”
    She said she did not. Erculiano said nothing, though she glanced at him, so they continued as they were. Assad spoke, leaning on the desk, and the translator spat, “Major say outsiders, foreigners, they give Ashaara too much help. No. Not little help. When to say when.”
    â€œPerhaps I didn’t understand that properly. Please ask the major if that is an official comment? For the record?”
    Assad shrugged. He said something the translator didn’t bother with. Then added, “Any rate, Major will do what I can. Are Americans considering come?”
    â€œI don’t know. I doubt it. Background, that’s what I’m principally here for.”
    â€œBackground . . . background,” the translator mumbled. Assad scowled at him.
    â€œInformation. Knowledge about Ashaara.”
    â€œIntelli-jenz,” the man tried.
“Espion?”
    â€œNot exactly. Uh, can the major tell me what are his principal concerns? As an officer of the Ashaaran national police force?”
    â€œHe wants to know what yours. What your concerns.”
    â€œWell . . . safety and security of the airport, and the area close to the embassy.”
    â€œ
Tous les deux sont parfaitement secure
,” Assad said in what she guessed was exquisite French. The translator said, “Oather okay.”
    Oather? “Um, second are what might become personnel safety issues, such as drugs.”
    â€œHe say, you interest in drugs? What kind?”
    She looked at the bulge in the translator’s jaw. “What is this gentleman chewing?”
    The man grinned, showing her a grassy mass in his teeth. “This qat. Is no big deal. Is like coffee.”
    â€œHarder drugs, then. Whatever you find most threatening.” She paused, then chanced it. “Monsieur Bahdoon mentioned rebels on the ride from the airport. I knew there was unrest, due to the famine. Food riots? But what is this about a rebellion?”
    â€œParlero Italiano?”
said Erculiano.
    Assad looked blank, but the aged transcriptionist, or whatever she was, turned immediately in her backless chair.
“Sì, parliamo Italiano. Che cosa gradite sapere?”
    â€œ
La città è nel corso della divisione.
The city is in the process of being divided,” Assad said through her, then via Erculiano to Aisha as he studied her face. “The president has always governed without distinction of clans. All are equal. As are all religions: Christians, Muslims, even the animists of the Western Mountains, all are equal before the state and the law. The rebels reject this. They fight for loot and power, and for their savage interpretation of the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”
    â€œPeace be upon him,” Aisha repeated,