CHAPTER 8
The odor of raw sewage stung Enver Uzan’s nostrils as he walked near the White Nile riverbank. His eyes watered and he wiped them, muffling a curse. Khartoum’s slums were endless. It was a city of six million and probably half of it was comprised of starving Sudanese from the south, who had come here hoping to find help, jobs, and food for their families. But no such luck would be with them. The refugees set up their sagging canvas tents for miles on yellow dirt on this side of the slow-moving Blue and White Nile Rivers, which both flowed through the city southward.
Although the river water was filled with sewage, the wives took their five-gallon plastic jugs daily to the riverbank and filled them up. They would boil the water to use for cooking, drinking, and bathing.
Uzan loathed the smell of sweat combined with dirt on the tent-lined avenue, and he turned away from the thin, dirty children, their bodies shrunken so that their heads appeared twice their normal size. They stared up at him with glazed eyes as he passed. And why would they pay attention to this man who wasn’t wearing new clothing that would’ve instantly flagged the attention of one of the city’s roving gangs? They would want to kill him and tear the clothes off his body for starters, then rob him and slit his throat.
Uzan wiped a hand across his trimmed black beard to dislodge the sweat. He was searching for a particular faded green tent with a gold lion painted on the side of it. He hated Khartoum, preferring to be back in Pakistan, but his lord, Zakir Sharan, had sent him on this sordid mission. Although he would never turn down an assignment, this one made him nauseous. He felt as if he were walking through the bowels of hell. The people were pitiful to look at and the children quickly scurried out of his way like wild animals, sensing he was someone important, perhaps dangerous.
Finally, he stopped and asked a man leading a donkey—which was wobbling along with a heavy load of mud bricks—where he could find the caliph of Aziim Nimir, Great Leopard. The man quickly told him, his eyes hooded with fear as he jerked on the rope, the donkey braying in protest as the man and his beast lumbered off, wanting to get as far away from the stranger as they could.
Uzan made a turn, walking down another long row of faded tan, white, and green tents. And just as the man had directed, there was Bachir’s “palace,” as he’d grandly referred to it on a satellite phone days earlier. Hell, decided Uzan, it looked like all the other ragged, thin, torn tents, with one exception: there were two haflas with food supplies piled high on the truck beds, zealously guarded by a motley crew of aggressive youths high on drugs. They strutted around the perimeter of the trucks like young lions, carrying AK-47s, looking fierce and threatening. The crowd surrounding them was hungry and saw there were sacks of sorghum, wheat, and rice on those beds. While they desperately wanted to get to them, the warning glares of the soldiers with their AKs stopped them. The crowd knew that if anyone tried to grab a sack, he would be shot.
Making sure he kept his Glock 18 well hidden among the folds of the robe he wore, Uzan aimed for a young man with a missing eye standing at the half-open tent entrance. He, too, was armed and probably no more than eighteen. The boy glared at him and Uzan knew he was dangerous. Starvation could make a man crazy.
These men were not like his al-Qaeda brethren, who came from villages in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They were well enough fed, their brains worked adequately, and they weren’t on drugs like this sorry excuse for an army.
This was the first time he had visited Sudan, and he wasn’t at all impressed with the quality of the soldiers here. They all had shrunken stomachs and huge, protruding eyes. He estimated these men hadn’t eaten in days, but as he neared the tent, he smelled roasting goat meat being cooked inside, among other pleasant food odors.
“I’m Uzan,” he told the boy. “Caliph Bachir is expecting me.”
Instantly the boy’s eyes widened, and he looked the visitor up and down. Uzan was five feet eight and nearly twice the weight of this pathetic soldier.
“Enver Uzan?”
Surprised, Enver nodded. The boy had a memory, at least. “Yes.” He pulled a scroll from within the folds of his robe and handed it to the young soldier. “Give this to your caliph. It’s from Lord Sharan.”
The young man disappeared, gripping the scroll. Uzan was uncomfortable here in this deadly slum, feeling out of his element. He knew how to operate in Afghanistan and Pakistan, but not this sordid African country. Lord Sharan’s passion for destroying Delos Charities was uppermost in his mind. Uzan was one of twenty top officers who served his master, and they had all received orders and were being sent out to places around the world. Each had, as his priority, a specific Delos charity.
Uzan had taken part in the planning of this imminent massive global attack. Because the Culver family—who owned the far-flung charities—had killed Sharan’s only two sons in Afghanistan, his lord was seeking an eye for an eye—nothing would stop him.
Uzan considered himself fortunate not to have been sent to the hot, moist jungles of southern Africa or South America, as others had been. At least he was in a dry, hot climate—he’d been born in Pakistan and was used to it.
The soldier reappeared. “Come,” he ordered in Arabic.
Uzan slipped through the folds, suddenly surrounded by the pleasant, spicy odors of food being served. His stomach betrayed him by rumbling and he realized he was very hungry.
He saw a man on a wooden throne, dressed in a white jalabiya, a white cap on his short black hair. This had to be Caliph Bachir, a murderer, a sociopath, and the leader of Aziim Namir, which had a fragile alliance with an al-Qaeda affiliate in Pakistan. Well, he’d find out shortly if he could work with the crazy Sudanese warlord.
The Delos Safe House Foundation in Kitra was his target. Would this madman help him or not? Uzan carried enough Sudanese pounds in a heavy knapsack on his back to gather a mercenary army. But looking at these starved soldiers, he now wished fervently for a good group of Taliban or al-Qaeda–trained operators instead.
Unfortunately, his orders were to work with Caliph Bachir. He was cursed.
*
Nolan was trying to quell his need to see Teren. He’d just left Ayman’s busy security office and was heading toward her office in another part of the administrative complex. Inside his black calfskin briefcase were documents for Teren. The other papers he was carrying had been given to Ayman.
As he moved down the sparkling white tile halls, he met women of all ages, some in colorful Sudanese tobs, others in more contemporary clothing, moving between offices. There was a quiet sense of urgency coupled with compassion among the employees of this charity.
Smiles were frequent, kindness everywhere. Was he lost? Did he need help finding Teren’s office?
The windows were plentiful in each office, allowing lots of light into each massive room. He spotted Teren’s name in Arabic beside her open door. Nolan had not seen her since early this morning—funny, he thought, how she’d taken up residence within his heart.
He quietly stepped into the outer room. Beyond it was another open door, and he was sure that was Teren’s busy office.
“May I help you?” a young woman asked from behind the desk.
“Yes. I’m here to see Ms. Lambert. Will you tell her that Nolan Steele is here?” He looked at his watch. It was nearly two p.m.
“Of course, sir,” she said quietly, pressing a button on her speaker box. She spoke in Sudanese, but Nolan followed the short conversation. Teren’s soft Southern drawl came over the speaker.
“Tell him to come on in. Thank you.”
“Please, go in, sir,” the woman said, smiling. She stood, gesturing gracefully toward the door.
Nodding, he thanked her in Arabic. Her brown eyes widened and she smiled broadly because he knew her country’s language. Nolan was sure that she hadn’t expected a white man to know her language at all.
Sauntering in, he saw Teren, with three large screens sitting on her massive wooden desk. She had three keyboards as well. On one corner of the desk was a pile of files. On another corner was a half-empty glass of pink hibiscus tea. She was wearing a bright orange cap-sleeved tee, jeans, and sandals, the same outfit he had seen her leave her apartment in after a shower and breakfast.
There was something touching about her sable hair, now twisted upward and tamed into the barest semblance of order with a tortoiseshell comb. Teren looked up, beaming at him.
“Hey, come in and make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in just a minute,” she said, and turned in her chair, her full focus on one of the computer screens.
Nolan brought over a four-legged stool and set it down near her desk, between the stacks of files. He watched her long fingers fly across that keyboard. She had amazing speed. Looking up, he realized that she was writing code for a piece of software.
He could hear phones ringing up and down the hall. There was a red landline phone sitting on Teren’s desk, and Nolan idly thought that Teren was probably the go-to person for any and all emergencies that occurred around here of a computer or server nature.
“There,” she finally murmured in a pleased drawl. “All done for now.” She turned in her black leather chair. “Are you thirsty? Would you like some chilled hibiscus tea?”
“No thanks, but a bottle of water sounds good, if you can lay your hands on one.”
She nodded, getting up and rubbing her hands together. “That’s an easy fix.” Walking around her desk, she went to one corner, where she had a small refrigerator. “You’re living large, Steele,” she teased, taking out a bottle and closing the fridge. Handing him the chilled bottle, she added with a slight grin, “Cold water here in Sudan. Now, that’s a real luxury.”
He twisted off the cap. All bottled water in any African country was “gassy,” or carbonated. Still water was likely to have been taken out of a bad well—or worse, the dirty Nile—and sold as clean, safe drinking water. “Thanks, and you’re right, it’s a rare luxury.” He followed her movements with his gaze while chugging down half the contents. Few Sudanese had a fridge or the electricity to run it, and even if both were available, most of Sudan couldn’t afford either one. Even fewer had good drinking water. Nolan knew how fortunate he really was.
“The fridge your idea?” he asked, capping the bottle and setting it on the edge of her desk.
Teren shut the door to her office and turned around. “No, actually. Nafeesa, our chef, found an Alibaba website deal online about two years ago. If we bought ten small fridges, we’d get them for a steal. So, Farida looked at our budget’s bottom line and declared it done. Before that, we were all spending a lot of time walking to and from the dining room way on the other side of the building to get a drink of water and ice cubes. Buying the fridges was cheaper than redoing the piping to put in water dispensers all around this old building.”
“You make do with what you have,” Nolan agreed, watching the gentle sway of her hips. Watching Teren was like watching a ballerina. She was nothing but grace. She sat down, sipping her hibiscus tea.
“Okay, so you’re going to teach me more about being a PSD, right?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were alight and he could feel the happiness around her. Teren’s morning must have gone well for her, and he was glad. “Do you want notepaper and a pen?”
“No, if I need anything, I’ll just type it in on this screen,” she said, gesturing to the black keyboard in front of her. “And don’t worry. Everything we deal with here is encrypted. Part of Artemis’s new orders was encryption of all documents and emails, so the charities could talk with the security firm without worry of being hacked.”
“Yeah, sadly, the world has come to that.” Nolan opened his briefcase, setting several files on the desk in front of him. “I’m going to lead you through a lot of intel, Teren. If at any point you want further explanation, just shoot.”
“Okay,” she sighed, sitting back in her chair, rocking it slowly back and forth, frowning. “I wish things hadn’t escalated to the point where we have to do this, Nolan.”
“Me too,” he admitted, sympathy in his low voice. Nolan was even more protective of Teren now that he had feelings for her. It was clear to him that something good, possibly even beautiful, had taken root between them. Putting those thoughts away for now, he opened the first file, turning it around and pushing it in her direction.
“The story behind the story,” he told her. Nolan told her how two of the Culver children, Tal and Matt, had killed Zakir Sharan’s only two sons in Afghanistan. And Agnon Rasari, son to Valdrin Rasari, a Malgarian billionaire who was one of the world’s biggest sex traffickers, died with Raastagar. Zakir Sharan and Valdrin Rasari joined forces because their sons were murdered by the Culvers. Before that, Sharan had a huge sex-trafficking trade in children stolen from Afghanistan and Pakistan. He linked up with Rasari, who was the kingpin of the global trade. The fact that their two sons were murdered together made them bond on another, more lethal level and vow to destroy Delos wherever and whenever they could.
Nolan showed her a picture of the Pakistani and Malgarian billionaires. She picked them up, studying them, frowning more.
“Could the killings have been prevented?” Teren asked, looking over at him. “I mean, the murder of these three sons?”
With a shake of his head, Nolan said, “Sidiq and Raastagar Sharan were in Afghanistan to increase the opium trade to sell around the world. And they also kidnapped young girls and boys, hauling them across the border into Pakistan to be sold as sex slaves in a global marketplace that operates out of that country. Sharan makes money in various ways, legal and illegal. Both his sons were in illegal trade. They were affiliated with al-Qaeda. In fact, Sharan is one of the major backers of that organization, pouring millions into it every year.”
“That’s horrible,” she said. As if the photo were germ-ridden, she dropped it on her desk and pushed her fingers against her jeans, wiping them off.
“Valdrin Rasari is even worse. He’s one of the biggest sex traffickers in the world. His son, Agnon, was learning the trade from Sidiq and Raastagar when they got tagged. That’s three vermin that will no longer infect our planet,” Nolan muttered. “Don’t feel sorry for any of them, Teren. They take part in creating the suffering that’s going on around the world.”
He pushed another photo to her.
“This photo is one you want to memorize and know like the back of your hand. This is Enver Uzan, thirty years old, a captain with al-Qaeda, and one of Sharan’s top men, who carries out his orders, whatever they may be. The CIA picked up cell phone traffic from Sharan’s office. They only have pieces of the intel, but Kitra was mentioned as an attack site and as one of the jewels in the crown of Delos. So it’s a worthwhile target to hit.”
A cold chill ran down Teren’s spine as she stared at the dark-eyed, black-bearded man named Uzan. He wore a brown Afghan rolled cap and a black vest over a white long-sleeved cotton shirt. And across his chest were bandoliers of bullets. His mouth was thin, like his face, his eyes cold and lifeless. Automatically, she pulled back, releasing the photo as if her fingers had been burned. She could feel the hatred emanating from the man—hatred of everyone who was not like him.
“His eyes are dead,” Teren said, her voice cracking. She glanced over at Nolan. “Is he after me? Or does he want to destroy Kitra to make a statement for his boss, Sharan?”
Nolan heard the low quaver in her voice, saw the fear in her eyes as she clung to his gaze. She was a civilian and believed in doing good in the world. Uzan believed in destroying any world that wasn’t just like his, and he had no qualms about doing it.
Feeling her shock, her disbelief that she could be a target, he said quietly, “Teren, these people are terrorists. They’re fanatics with only one goal, and that’s to rid the world of anyone or anything who doesn’t believe exactly as they do.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, moving her palms slowly up and down her arms, staring at Uzan’s piercing eyes in the photo. Biting down on her lower lip, she asked hoarsely, “Do you know? Does Artemis know?”
“Know what?”
“If Uzan and Sharan are going after Kitra? Or after me?”
Straightening, Nolan told her what he knew. “The CIA listeners picked up bits and pieces, Teren. They heard Kitra mentioned. Your name was mentioned.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
Shrugging, Nolan rasped, “No intel is perfect, Teren. Artemis has some of the most advanced satellite, photographic, and listening equipment in the world. The best security people in the world are working for them. They’ve got the CIA and NSA tapes from these conversations. Their intel people think that Uzan’s plan is twofold. In order to satisfy Sharan, who seems fixated on Kitra as a world model of the Delos organization, he wants to destroy it.” Shaking his head, Nolan muttered, “This place is so damned big and sprawling it would take a nuclear bomb to wipe it off the map. That’s not going to happen. Sharan, so far, does not have a dirty bomb or any nuclear weapon in his possession. So, to destroy Kitra, he’d have to have a sizable army of men with him. And with the Sudanese Army already trying to eradicate these terrorist groups from their country, Uzan isn’t going to be able to mount that kind of overwhelming attack against Kitra.”
She moved her finger across the shining reddish wood of her desk. “So? Plan B is what? Kidnap me? Make an example out of me to the Western world? Behead me on a video and put it on the Internet?” Her eyes narrowed and she saw a lot of unspoken emotion in Nolan’s eyes. His mouth compressed.
“Artemis is thinking along those lines, yes.” He hated saying it but was surprised to see strength and resolve come to her face. Maybe she was a lot stronger emotionally than he’d first thought. Although she wasn’t military, she had already realized Sharan’s strategy. His respect for her grew even more. This smart, practical woman had swiftly sized up the situation.
“Do you agree with Artemis, Nolan?”
He heard the concern underlying her cool, authoritative tone. He didn’t want to nod, but did, looking into her darkening eyes. “I do. You’re the route of least resistance that will allow Uzan to partially succeed at this task. It’s easier to pick you off, a lone female in this very male-dominated society, than to try to attack and destroy Kitra itself. You are the American face of Kitra. That would be enough to make their point newsworthy, globally.”
She wove more patterns with her fingertip onto the top of her polished desk. “This doesn’t seem real,” she confessed, looking up at him.
“I know. It’s not part of your worldview,” he said apologetically, seeing her fear mixed with confusion. “You’re an innocent in all of this, Teren. You’ve done nothing wrong. You live in your heart; you live your passion to support others who struggle and need help. You’re a saint in comparison to these sick bastards who are plotting against you.”
Hearing the deep anger in his low voice, she closed her eyes, trying to think, to put this all into perspective. Opening her eyes, she asked, “If I leave Kitra, will the attack stop?”
Snorting, Nolan said, “I don’t know, Teren. No one knows. Artemis intel has played out all possible scenarios. Wyatt has looked at it every which way. He feels, ultimately, that wherever you are, you will be the easiest target of opportunity.” And then his voice faltered. “I’m sorry…” He stared at her, seeing real fear in her eyes for the first time as this new reality started to sink in.
Teren sat up, rubbing her damp palms against her jeans. “If I left, would Uzan follow me? Could we lure him into a trap, Nolan? I’m not taking this sitting down. I’ll be damned if I’ll be a sacrificial lamb for this bastard!”
She suddenly stood up, needing to move, to run, but there was nowhere to run. She wouldn’t leave Kitra, and all her friends, open to an attack from this insane terrorist. Pushing her fingers through the loose strands near her temple, she paced the length of her office, scowling.
“I don’t know,” he said, straightening, watching her pace like a caged cheetah.
“Then why don’t you call Wyatt and ask? What if we could turn the tables on him, Nolan? What if we could trap Uzan instead?”
“We discussed that possibility during the mission briefing,” he told her gently. “They left it up to me to determine, based upon ground conditions at the time.”
“If I could lead Uzan away from Kitra, it would keep this place safe. That’s all I really care about, Nolan.”
He stood and stepped across the office, gripping her shoulders, bringing her to a halt. “We’re not there yet.” He kept his fingers still on her shoulders, wanting to shelter her, because he heard the terror banked in her husky voice. She was more concerned for the people of Kitra than herself. “Take a deep breath, okay? There is no overt threat that has arisen yet.”
“But,” she whispered, anguish in her tone, “I worry for the people here. I don’t worry about myself. I’m a survivor, Nolan. They shouldn’t become targets…and I care so deeply for all of them.” She choked, giving him a pleading look.
“I care about your life too, Teren,” he said, locking on to her startled gaze. Her flesh was so firm and strong beneath her tee that Nolan could feel the heat of her skin. He wanted desperately to protect this brave woman, who had no idea what she was suggesting.
“Look,” he rasped, his fingers holding her upper arm gently. “I know we haven’t had time to talk much personally, but I’m too damn familiar with the slums of Khartoum. I was undercover in that hellhole for a year. Those who live in those deplorable, ungodly conditions are slowly starving to death. They’re turned into mindless soldiers, addicted to drugs, and they worship their local warlord. And they’ll do anything he orders without giving it a second thought. Ayman has already sent three of his best men undercover to seek out Uzan. It’s dangerous to all of them, with no guarantee of success.”
Teren relaxed beneath his large hands, heard the emotion vibrating in his voice, saw the concern in his eyes for her. “I don’t want to put anyone at risk. I don’t.” Hot tears gathered in her eyes. “You know how much I love these people, and they love me.”
“I know that,” he said, seeing her eyes glisten with tears. Nolan could handle anything but a woman’s tears. It just tore him apart, and he had no way to fix it or them. The helplessness tunneled through him as he saw Teren fighting to stop from crying. He could feel her terror—she was trapped. And to her credit, she was trying to figure a way out of this, so she could protect Kitra and those she loved. Nolan ached for her. Damn, she was brave—and selfless.
Teren wasn’t military trained, but she had the heart of a soldier, the heart of a Delta Force operator. She was willing to sacrifice herself to save others, and that was a part of their creed. Nolan didn’t want to lose this woman. She stood there before him, warm and alive, and he inhaled her spicy scent as he gazed into her wide, searching eyes.
“I’ll talk to Wyatt further about this. I’ll let him know what you’d like to do, but there’s no way to know what his decision will be, Teren,” he told her heavily, forcing himself to release her. For a moment, she swayed toward him and then caught herself once more. Nolan wished Teren would allow herself to fall into his arms so he could hold her and give her a sense of safety. She now fully recognized that she was a target and he imagined she felt like the defenseless rabbit he’d seen out on the grasslands this morning. She was now facing down a hyena called Uzan, who had every intention of tearing her apart, one limb at a time. And all he could do was stand there and watch as the terrifying reality finally sank in.