Andrew Britton - The Exile

The man looked suspicious. Landis couldn’t blame him; had the roles been reversed, he would have felt the same way.

“I suppose that depends,” Reynolds said slowly, “on what you need to hear.”

Landis pointed toward the document on the desk, which was facing away from him. “Sir, do you believe that this is a legitimate document? More specifically, are you comfortable with the terms stated in the letter, and are you willing to abide by them?”

The senior diplomat leaned back in his chair and smiled tightly. “Well, that all depends, doesn’t it? I’m sure you’re comfortable with the terms, Mr. Landis. This document seems to give you a good deal of authority. Essentially, it makes you my superior.”

“That it does,” Landis replied neutrally. He would have preferred to demur, but Reynolds was right, and it would be better if he understood the hierarchy right from the start. That way, they could avoid the argument later. “But again, are you willing to abide by the terms? Because if you are not, I need to know now so I can leave this building and make some calls.”

The older man’s smile faded away. “That sounds like a threat.”

Landis knew Reynolds was thinking about the four names at the bottom of the introductory letter and what those people could do to his career.

“Not at all, sir,” he replied calmly. “Far from it. I’m merely pointing out that by seeing this document, you already know a great deal, and that could endanger my work here. If you are not willing to cooperate, I’m going to have to leave the country and make alternate arrangements. Surely you can see the logic in that.”

Reynolds mused over this for a moment. Then he nodded once, conceding the point. “If I agree to your terms,” he said slowly, “will you tell me what this is about?”

“No, sir,” Landis said. He strived to sound genuinely regretful, as though it wasn’t his decision to make. “I can’t and I won’t. In time you’ll know everything. I promise you. But for now, I just need to know that we’re on the same page. And in case you were wondering, calling those people”-he pointed to the signatures at the bottom of the letter-“will get you nowhere. As the document states, I have full control on the ground for the duration of this operation. They will tell you exactly the same thing, only they’ll probably be less polite about it.”

The senior diplomat lifted his cup and took a long sip, thinking about it. The word operation said much in itself, he thought. It seemed to imply a prolonged, potentially dangerous task, and he realized that he had misjudged the man sitting across from him. Despite his rather ineffectual appearance, the consultant was clearly not the kind of man who worked from a desk. Regardless of what he was trying to accomplish in Sudan, Reynolds had no doubt that James Landis would be in it up to his neck…and assuming that was the case, it could mean only one thing for Reynolds and his staff of seventy.

He set down his cup and looked at the younger man. “We’re not going home, are we?”

“No, Mr. Reynolds, I’m afraid you’re not. The embassy will not be evacuated, and diplomatic ties will not be severed. But there are going to be some changes around here, and I assure you, they will be for the best. Now, can I count on your cooperation?”

Reynolds was still hesitant, but he was also boxed in, and-he had to admit it-more than a little curious. “Yes, you can.”

“Good.” Landis smiled. “Now, here is what I need from you.”

Ten minutes later the consultant emerged from an elevator on the ground floor of the embassy. He crossed the scuffed floor of the crowded lobby, ignoring the cursory glance of a marine corporal standing post. As he headed for the main entrance, he did his best to skirt the restless crowd, his ears filled with the low, angry buzz of 80 people standing in line to get or apply for their visas. Unlike the people waiting in line, he was in a good mood, and it was getting better with each step he took toward the door. The meeting with the chief of mission had taken less than fifteen minutes, and it had accomplished a great deal. He had secured Reynolds’s assistance-not only for the transfer of incoming funds, but also for the housing of personnel, should the need arise. The embassy was now a sanctuary of last resort-not only for him, but also for his assets, most of whom were Sudanese nationals-and the letter of introduction, which had made him uneasy to begin with, even though he’d understood the need for it, was now a pile of gray ash in the steel garbage can sitting next to Reynolds’s desk.

Despite his warnings as to where it would lead, Landis had no doubt that the chief of mission had been on the phone to Washington the minute he’d left the room. What he’d said to the older man had been true. Regardless of who Reynolds called, he would be told nothing more than what he already knew. In fact, depending on who he called first, he would probably be told in no uncertain terms to back off and keep his mouth shut, which was fine with Landis. More than anything, the meetings back at the State Department had focused on the consequences of failure-on what would happen if it all went wrong.

It had been decided that the biggest threat to the entire operation was the possibility of a leak. As always, the damage it could do would depend entirely on where it was sprung. A leak on the local level, for instance-a botched recruitment, perhaps, or a note slipped from one of his assets to someone in Bashir’s regime-would end up with Landis dead and his network rolled up; a leak in Washington might well lead to one of the biggest scandals since the Iran-Contra affair.

The national opposition to Bashir was as generally widespread as it was internally divided and fractious. There was the Justice and Equality Movement, or the JEM. And the United Resistance Front, led by Bahr Idriss Abu Garda, the JEM’s deputy chief before his split with its founder Khalil Ibrahim-a man now seen by many former followers as no less an opportunist and demagogue than Bashir. Then, of course, you had the Sudan People’s Liberation Army and its Abdel Wahid al-Nur and Minnawi factions…and others.

The man who called himself Landis thought it almost unimaginable that anyone in the United States government would be bold enough to try pulling these groups together, or even to decide a coalition was within the realm of possibility. But history had seen stranger bedfellows joined-if not quite united-for a common purpose.

Given the possible fallout-especially on the political side of things-Landis had never expected it to get this far. Somewhere along the line, he had expected someone to lose their nerve, and to some extent, he still expected it. Yet he did not intend to waste valuable time planning for that eventuality. If the powers that be decided to call a halt to the whole thing, he would not draw back easily for them. If it failed, the operation might still end up as a minor footnote in history. If it succeeded, it would be considered one of the most audacious ever conceived and seen to fruition.

Landis did not consider himself to be a vain man, but the prospect of being right there, on the knife edge of history, filled him with a kind of exhilaration he’d never known, and he wanted nothing more than to see it through to the end, regardless of how it played out.

He slowed as he approached the main entrance, then shifted course, heading for a discreet door set in the far wall of the lobby. Like all U.S. embassies and consulates, the building in Khartoum was secured by a detachment of U.S. Marines, all of whom had passed through a specialized training program at the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group, or MCESG, located in Quantico, Virginia. Post One, the security hub for the entire embassy, was located just inside the main entrance, where it served to deter an attack from the street. Inside the small, overheated room, Landis was met by the detachment commander. Reynolds had already called down for him, and the confused but compliant marine sergeant had the appropriate materials packed and waiting. Less than a minute later Landis was walking out the front door into the afternoon sunlight, an olive green rucksack slung over his right shoulder.