Ruvo checked his pulse. “He’s gone,” he said. “Goddamn it.” They were quiet for a second, fellow gladiators mourning one of their own.
“Let’s get him back,” said Lachs. SEALs never leave their fallen behind.
“We got a little work to do first,” said Ruvo.
The next morning, with Colonel Bianchi sitting in a chair in front of his desk, Gondorf reported by secure phone to Benford, who after a stunned silence on hearing that Gable was dead, cursed for five minutes and told him to stay by the phone. He secretly vowed to drum him out of the Service. Gondorf blanched when Bianchi told him about the firefight with the militia patrols, but he did not appear to be concerned any longer about the missiles, now that they were securely returned to the embassy storeroom. And he seemed not to care that a CIA officer was in a plastic bag, lying on a pallet in the embassy cooler. He saw a way to divert blame as he reverted to the gasbag bureaucrat-careerist his colleagues knew him to be.
“Your guys killed twelve militia troops? Are you crazy? There will be serious repercussions when they’re found.” Gondorf was thinking about official protests, riots at the embassy front gate, a fuming ambassador, diplomatic expulsions.
“More like fourteen. Your guy got eight himself. No one’s going to find anything,” said Bianchi. “They parked the jeeps down the road behind a warehouse with the keys in them.”
“You’re all maniacs. When they find the men, all hell will break loose.”
“Those guys ain’t coming home for supper. Here.” Bianchi flipped a pile of militiamen’s ID booklets on Gondorf’s desk. They were soggy with sweat and blood, one with a bullet hole through the center. Gondorf’s mouth curled with disgust as he flipped open one booklet with the point of a pencil.
“Jesus,” Gondorf said. “That’s one of my support assets who got rid of the missiles in the first place.”
“Any more?” said Bianchi. Gondorf opened the other booklets with the pencil. His face fell.
“This one too, and this one, three of them. I don’t know the others.”
“Pretty efficient agent network you got going there, Mister Chief of Station, recruiting Khartoum militia as clandestine assets,” said Bianchi.
“Who your SEALs gunned down last night, like some gangsters.”
“Your so-called assets were coming last night to retrieve those missiles, you dickhead,” said Bianchi. “Your man Gable got zapped to save your ass, which I’d personally like to kick.”
“What about the missiles?” said Gondorf, ignoring the threat. “I want them out of here.”
“
Gondorf looked at the Milatt, trying to decide how to strengthen his position, for there was always some bureaucratic dodge, some refuge. His thoughts raced to creating a distracting controversy with DOD as scapegoat. He pointed at Bianchi accusingly.
“Your office is going to have to answer for murdering those men. I’m filing an official crimes report to DOJ.”
“Based on what?” said Bianchi, getting out of his chair. The SEALs flew out for Little Creek last night. (All flights departed Khartoum after midnight when the soft, sunbaked tar runways hardened in the cooler night air.) “The Pentagon isn’t going to help you, the way you act on the country team, and the ambassador is pissed at your scary good performance. My guess is that whoever that was from Langley screaming over the phone will make you feel like you were swallowed by wolves and shit over a cliff.” Bianchi walked to the office door.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” said Gondorf, sweating. “When they find those men, there’s going to be a shitstorm, with you right in the middle of it.” Bianchi looked out at the river through the blinds.
“The SEALs took care of it. Like I told you, those militia troopers won’t be home for supper,” said Bianchi, over his shoulder. “River crocs already had ’em over for dinner last night.”
Sauté greens (traditionally wild sorrel, or substitute dandelion, watercress, or spinach) with chopped onions until wilted and soft. Add chicken stock, bring to a boil, then simmer to finish. Remove from heat, add sugar and lemon juice for balance. Temper egg yolks with broth, stir into soup, and simmer without boiling. Serve hot or cold with sour cream.
21
Smell a Rat
Benford woke Nate up in the middle of the night with the black news about Gable. Nate felt the icy shock run up his back, and he stood gripping the receiver. Gable. Indestructible. A shootout in Khartoum, for nothing. That piece of crap Gondorf. Nate asked about services, the funeral, memorials.
“Never mind that,” Benford said. “You get to the safe house tomorrow and do your job.”
“How do I tell her?” Nate said. “He was like a brother . . .”
