Andrew Britton - The Exile

“We’ve been together for a while,” Swanson said. “Four years for me, almost as long for Mac. Phillips was the newbie, came over to us maybe two years ago. Holland wanted a man who worked outside the embassy and got creative with him. Jake manages an old Brit hotel called the Granville, but it looks like they’re about to have a job vacancy.” He shrugged. “People get used to working as a team, what can I say? I guess when you’re stuck in hell, the heat just strengthens the bonds.”

Abby gave a smile. “I’ve been there,” she said. “Several times.”

Swanson glanced in the rearview. “What about you, Kealey? Word is you’ve been around.”

“Enough to figure out it doesn’t pay getting attached to anyone or anything,” Kealey said tersely. “How close are we to Mirghani’s house?”

Swanson’s eyes had returned to the windshield. “It’s under a mile up ahead,” he said.

“We need somebody ready in case he tries to break for it,” Kealey said. “Who’s best? Phillips or Mackenzie?”

Swanson shrugged. “Mackenzie was a counterterrorist in Afghanistan right after nine-eleven, one of the first to hook up with the Northern Alliance.”

“Jawbreaker?” asked Kealey.

Swanson made a zipping gesture across his lips. “You’d have to ask him the details,” he said. “We can all handle ourselves. But if you want my opinion, Mac’s got the quals for any situation.”

Kealey nodded. “Buzz him on the cell,” he said. “I want him out back of the house.”

Swanson nodded, reached for his sat phone, passed along Kealey’s instructions as he drove on for several minutes. The sun was sinking low now, its glow staining the sky to the west shades of red and violet, casting orange embers on the slow-moving Nile waters to their right. Flat-roofed homes the color of sandstone lined the street to their left, ranging from single-story buildings to some that rose three stories high. Many had trees and iron gates in front.

“This used to be Osama bin Laden’s neighborhood before he got Tomahawked, did you know?” Swanson jabbed a finger at one of the taller houses. “There’s Mirghani’s place just up ahead…but I guess you might have figured it out for yourself.”

Kealey looked out his window. There were several vehicles parked in front-three cars and a minivan, which he took to be the one Phillips had seen Mirghani climb into outside the gold exchange in the Souq Arabi. A group of men were on the sidewalk, some standing vigilantly near the vehicles, others gathered near Mirghani’s door. He took a quick head count. “Bodyguards,” he said. “Five of them.”

“Compared to four of us…and that’s just from what we can see,” Swanson said. “What do you think of our odds if we have to tangle?”

“I never bet against myself,” Kealey said. “Does Mirghani always have that kind of protection?”

“Exactly the opposite,” Swanson said with a shake of his head. “This is unusual. He keeps a low profile, never flaunts his clout. It’s partly why Bashir tolerates him.”

“What’s the other part?” Kealey asked.

“His supporters make up a large political and religious base,” Swanson said. “With all the pressure coming at him from outside the country, Bashir needs to unify the political factions inside it, especially here in the northern part of the country. There’ve been some deep divisions over Darfur, and then over the new hydroelectric plant to the east, which provides most of the power to the capital. Whole villages were wiped out to make room for it, which didn’t do much for Bashir’s popularity in those areas. And no wonder, since it was already damned low.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Thousands of people were already displaced by Chinese and Russian petroleum refineries that process the crude oil drilled in the south. They pipeline it up here and then ship the barrels out of Port Sudan.”

Kealey grunted thoughtfully, still watching the men on the sidewalk. “Okay, slow down,” he said. “Let’s stop across the street from them. I mean right across. Phillips too.”

“I suppose you want them to notice us,” said Swanson.

Kealey nodded in the affirmative. “And to know we don’t care about it.”

“Do you mind if I ask what comes after that?” Swanson asked.

“Holland wanted us to try the peaceful approach,” Kealey said. “We’re going to have a talk with them.”

Kealey, Abby, and Swanson exited the Cherokee together, Phillips leaving his car and hastening over to them as they crossed to where Mirghani’s bodyguards watched curiously from the sidewalk. Although Kealey had taken a quick shower and changed clothes at the embassy, he hadn’t shaved since leaving Cameroon, and his cheeks showed almost a week’s dark growth of beard. He was wearing a lightweight black field jacket over a Glock 35 9mm that Seth Holland had provided on loan, the jacket halfway unbuttoned so he could have rapid access to the gun.

He went straight toward the largest of the bodyguards, a tall, blockish, square-shouldered man in loose trousers and a traditional thigh-length tunic with a holstered pistol bulging underneath it. He was leaning against the front of the parked minivan, studying the Westerners with the intensity of a raptor perched on a ledge.

“You speak English?” Kealey said. He’d stepped onto the pavement to face the bodyguard, aware Abby and the others had moved in slightly behind him.

The bodyguard fixed him in a long stare. “What are you doing here?”

“We want to talk,” Kealey said.

“Who sent you?”

“I already answered one question,” Kealey said. “It’s your turn.”

The man kept looking at him. “Go ahead,” he said then. “Talk.”

“Not to you,” Kealey said. “We have some questions for Ishmael Mirghani.”

“He cannot see anyone now.”

“He’ll be willing to see us,” Kealey said. “If he’s smart.”

The bodyguard’s stare hardened. “Whoever you are, this is not your country,” he said. “You do not belong here. And you must leave at once.”

“Like Mirghani’s leaving?” Kealey said. He tilted his head toward the minivan. “Somebody’s going somewhere, and I assume he’s the man. But I propose you do him a favor. Phone inside the house, or have one of your men do it. Let him know I’d like to talk to him.”

The bodyguard studied his features for another long moment. “Who are you?”

“You can tell him my name is Ryan Kealey,” he said. “And that I know Cullen White.”

The bodyguard shot one of the others a glance. “Ahzir,” he said, extending his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Ahzir took his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to him. He thumbed a key, spoke into the phone in Arabic. Kealey heard his name mentioned, and then White’s, but the rest was unintelligible to him. After a moment the bodyguard paused, dropped his voice, added something too quiet for Kealey to hear. Finally he looked at Kealey again, shaking his head.

“It is as I told you,” he said, the phone still raised to his ear. “He cannot speak-”

Kealey lunged at him, simultaneously drawing his 9mm, knowing he’d have to take him by surprise. He jammed the gun into the big man’s solar plexus and shoved him back against the side of the minivan, snatching the cell phone from his grasp before he could recover his balance.

Behind him, Abby, Phillips, and Swanson had pulled their sidearms on the other bodyguards and were holding them out in two-handed grips.

“Stay where you are!” Swanson barked, motioning with his gun. “One move, you’re dead! Mat! Understand?”

Kealey, meanwhile, pressed the cell against his own cheek, keeping the Glock buried in the tall bodyguard’s ribs. “Mirghani, you there?” he shouted into the phone.