Tongues of Fire (37 page)

Krebs hurried past her along the corridor, and up the first flight of stairs he saw. He did not think they were the same stairs he had climbed earlier, but he paused when he reached the door and listened carefully. It was quiet on the other side. Was it the master bedroom? Were they asleep? He opened the door.

He was in a large kitchen. Gray early-morning light entered through a large bay window. At the table by the window sat Birdwell and the president eating pancakes. The president wore a red silk robe; Birdwell still wore evening dress.

“More flapjacks?” the president said around a mouthful of them.

“Love some,” Birdwell said.

The president raised his voice. “Luis. More flapjacks.” He turned his head toward a door on the opposite wall, and saw Krebs. “What the hell?” the president said in a high, frightened voice. He shoved his chair back from the table and ducked his head.

Birdwell looked up. “It's okay, Mr. President. It's just Krebs. The man I was telling you about.”

The president sat up. “Oh yes,” he said, pulling his chair to the table. He nodded at Krebs. “Good work, Mr.… ah. But don't scare me like that. How about some flapjacks?”

“I don't really …”

“Sure. Come on. Pull up a chair. Luis! Where is that lazy son of a bitch?”

Krebs sat between them. The president ate. Birdwell ate. Finally Krebs could keep it inside no longer. “What's been decided?”

The president looked at him, blinking. “He means about the Sudan,” Birdwell explained, glaring at Krebs.

“Oh that,” the president said. “Don't ask me.” He poured some maple syrup on his pancakes. “Luis?” The door opened. “It's about time.”

But it wasn't Luis. It was the secretary of state. He poked his head into the room and said to Birdwell: “The Mahdi business: Plan B.” Without waiting for a reply, he shut the door and went away.

“The hell with it,” the president said. “Flapjacks or no flapjacks, I'm not sitting here another minute. I've got a day ahead of me you wouldn't believe. First I've got to have my hair cut, then lunch with that pisspot king, veto the goddamned social security bill or whatever it is, and Christ knows what else.” He stood up and glanced at Krebs. “If Luis doesn't show up, you can finish that,” he said, gesturing at what was left on his plate. He went out.

“What's Plan B?” Krebs said.

Birdwell speared a pancake with his fork and sliced off a corner. “The president was very pleased with you He even spoke of a decoration when you retire.”

“What's Plan B?”

Birdwell laid down his knife and fork. “Plan B means we do nothing.”

“Do nothing?”

“Don't shout, Krebs,” Birdwell said calmly. He watched Krebs like a teacher waiting to see if a pupil would control himself or have to be sent into the hall. Krebs controlled himself. “Plan B means we wait and see,” Birdwell continued. “Times have changed, Krebs. Oil's not so important now. We don't have to suck up to the Arabs anymore. Besides, the Jews have calmed down. There hasn't been any trouble for a long time. So we'll just sit back and watch what this Mahdi does. Why show all our cards to the Arabs?” Birdwell smiled. “And don't forget, he was born in New York. That probably makes him an American citizen. As such he has certain inalienable rights.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Please, Krebs.” Again Birdwell waited. “You have to accept the realities. He may prove very useful to us one day. If he doesn't, if he gets out of hand, we can always blow the whistle on him. His mother was a whore and his father was a Jew. The Arabs wouldn't like that.”

For a long time Krebs stared at Birdwell. At last he said, “What about Rehv?”

“What about him?”

“We can't just do nothing.”

“That's exactly what we are doing. Rehv's not really important. The Mahdi is important. Anyway, it's nothing for you to worry about. You've only got a few more weeks in harness. It's time to start relaxing.” He raised the fork to his lips. “By the way, he was very serious about that decoration. It's a great way to go out, Krebs.” He opened his mouth and closed it on a pancake.

Slowly Krebs stood up. “Do you mean I'm still retiring?”

“Of course,” Birdwell said, chewing. “You've earned it.”

“I don't want to retire,” Krebs shouted. He whipped his arm across the table. Cups, saucers, plates, and cutlery crashed to the floor.

“It's settled,” Birdwell said.

Krebs grabbed a pancake and shoved it in Birdwell's face. Birdwell's chair tipped over. He fell on the floor. A door opened and a little brown-skinned man came in, wearing a short white jacket and carrying a tray heaped with food. “Flapjacks, señors?” he said.

Krebs drove to the office. He opened the drawers of his desk and sorted the contents. What was he going to retire to? He had no real home, no kids, no wife. He had a wife once, but he lost her. Eight push-ups. He began throwing things around the room.

They could make him retire, but they couldn't make him stop looking for Isaac Rehv.

He dialed the airport and asked about flights to Khartoum. “I'm sorry, sir,” the ticket agent said after a long pause. “That airport was closed early this morning.”

He called Fairweather on an ordinary line. There was no need to use the scrambler: Rehv had no satellites to intercept the call.

“Hello,” Fairweather said. Every call was taped at both ends. Krebs didn't care.

“I've got to go to Khartoum,” he said.

“No can do. They sealed off the whole country a few hours ago.”

“Then find me a plane that can go the distance and someone who can fly it.”

“That's no problem. I can fly you myself.” Fairweather had taken lessons in everything. After a pause Fairweather whispered; “We haven't heard anything from you-know-who.”

He had forgotten Gillian Wells. Birdwell hadn't mentioned her either. “Don't worry about it.”

“Right.”

Krebs drove to the airport and caught the first flight to Cairo.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In the afternoon a helicopter swooped down from the yellow sky and circled low over the camp. The Mahdi came out of his tent to watch it with the others. Many of them had seen a helicopter before—a few years earlier one had flown over them in the same way and then dropped dozens of sacks filled with powdered milk. Most of the sacks had split, sending clouds of white powder drifting across the plain; they were left with scraps of cloth that said “United Nations” in six languages. But no one had worried about it. As long as they could keep the herds alive they would have milk. What they needed was rain to make the grasses grow, and no helicopter could give them that.

So they watched it circle above, waiting for sacks of powdered milk. It flew very slowly. Once around. Twice. Finally the helicopter hovered over the center of the camp, a few hundred feet in the air. There it hung, shuddering slightly and giving off invisible waves of heat that distorted the sky around it. Then it dropped one sack. The sack had arms and legs. It jerked and kicked them all the way down, but none of that could make it fly. It hit hard ground near the Mahdi's tent with a sound that was soft, like a fist striking a pillow.

He ran to it as fast as he could, although he knew what it was and knew there was no point in running. Bokur, broken on the ground. His silver teeth were scattered around him.

Without seeming to hurry, the helicopter rose in the sky and flew away to the east. To those in the helicopter, the Mahdi realized, he was an insect far below, to be squashed at will as Bokur had been. What could he do against helicopters? His father had been dreaming a fool's dream. Instead of coming true, it had killed a trusting old nomad in Kordofan and the white woman. And it had made him what he was.

He felt people press around him. Neimy. Una. Bokur's other wives, his children and grandchildren. They fell on the body and began to wail, loud ululating cries that spread quickly through the camp.

“You did this,” someone shouted. A hand dug into his shoulder and spun him around. Hurgas. His face was twisted, his teeth bared. Hurgas punched at him, but he caught his wrist in midair and squeezed it until the fist slowly opened. The cries died down. He sensed the eyes of everyone on him. The moment had come, just when he knew that all was hopeless.

“No, Hurgas,” the Mahdi said quietly. He released Hurgas's arm. “They did it.” He pointed to a speck disappearing in the eastern sky. He raised his voice. “But now I will do something. Neimy, bring me the black mare.”

Kneeling over her father's body, she looked at him, her cheeks wet with tears. “Where are you going?”

“Khartoum.”

Neimy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood up. “I'm coming with you,” she said.

Somewhere in the crowd a man said, “Jihad.” He did not speak very loudly, but because he was listening for it the Mahdi heard.

“Yes,” he said: “Jihad.” Holy war.

They caught the word like a disease. “Jihad. Jihad.” Their voices rose. “Jihad. Jihad.” They fired rifles in the air. The women took up their ululating cry, no longer so much in grief as in anger. The sound made the Mahdi's skin prickle. He felt power surging around him. It was real power, dangerous power, but he did not know what it could do against helicopters.

The next morning they broke camp: the Baggara and all the others who had come from the west to be near the Mahdi. Slowly they began moving east, women and children on the backs of oxen, the herds following behind. Rich men rode horses, poor men rode donkeys. The poorest walked. In front where they could see him rode the Mahdi on the black mare.

Only Hurgas had stayed behind. Just before it was time to go, Una had taken the Mahdi to plead with him. Hurgas sat on the ground near the newly dug grave. “Come,” Una said.

“No.”

“Then come for revenge. Don't you want revenge?”

Hurgas looked at her. Then he looked at the Mahdi. He said nothing.

Una turned to the Mahdi. “Say something to him. He can't stay here alone.”

The Mahdi laid his hand on Hurgas's shoulder. Hurgas jerked away. The Mahdi stepped back. “It's his decision,” he said coldly. “He has his own cattle. He'll survive.”

Hurgas stayed behind.

They moved east across the plain. From time to time they came across other people. The other people joined them—nomads, hunters, villagers. Whole towns emptied and followed. The dust they raised filled the sky from horizon to horizon. The Mahdi sensed their force at his back. Even if he wanted to he knew he could do nothing now to stop them, to turn them around. Some were hungry, some were thirsty, some were armed. They had been waiting for him for a long time. Yet he was aware that he was not really leading them: He felt their push. The most he could hope for would be to steer a little. What would happen would happen. He smiled at that thought. He was becoming like them.

“Why are you smiling?” Neimy asked when they halted for the night.

“I'm happy.”

“I've never seen you so happy.”

He heard the worry in her voice and looked at her. She seemed smaller. The world he had been living in was shrinking. Soon he would be entering the world he had been prepared for. If everything worked.

Campfires burned across the plain like the lights of a great city. They ate and talked and sang and finally slept. The Mahdi lay awake most of the night. Neimy laid her head on his chest. He moved away.

“What is it?” she said.

“I can smell the river. The Nile.”

“You aren't sad about my father, are you?”

“Yes. I am.” He was sad about his own father too. But sadness could not compete with the smell of the river. Neimy rolled over and was quiet, leaving him to enjoy his happiness alone. All night it welled up in his chest.

At dawn the camp was awakened by a shriek that came out of the east. People rushed from their tents as a jet with sweptback wings roared overhead. Orange flames shot out from under the wings. Rockets exploded among the tents. People screamed. It rained steel. The screams grew louder. The screamers ran back and forth, trying to find safety. There was no safety. They died.

The Mahdi stood in front of his tent and watched. The jet banked in a broad circle and turned for them again. They were helpless. They would all be slaughtered on the plain. His father had been a fool, and he was a fool too. Born and bred a fool.

Two more jets dove out of the sky. People fell on the ground and prayed. The two jets fired orange flames. They struck the first jet. It vanished in a ball of fire. The two jets wheeled in the sky and flew away.

It was very quiet.

The Mahdi understood. His father had not worried about helicopters or jets. All that mattered were the minds of the pilots. The jets were his.

“Jihad.” He screamed.

“Jihad. Jihad.”

By the time they reached Khartoum the government had fled. The inhabitants cheered them through the streets. The Sudan was his. He wanted more than that. His father had wanted more than that. Khartoum was a step. It led to Port Sudan, the Red Sea, Mecca.

“On to Mecca,” he told them.

“Jihad. Jihad.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

He gazed out the little barred window, past the dirt yard where chickens pecked and a man slept, and over the high wall at the blue sea beyond. It stretched away to the horizon where it met the cloudless sky in a white haze. What was on the other side of the sea? A high wall, a dirt yard, a little barred window?

“What's on the other side of the sea?” he called down the long wide hall to Baby-Finger. Baby-Finger tapped the stick on his knee and said nothing. What the point of asking Baby-Finger? Just because he had the stick didn't mean he knew anything. “What do you know anyway, Baby-Finger?” Tap, tap went the stick. He stopped shouting at Baby-Finger. He knew Baby-Finger didn't like it. And when Baby-Finger didn't like something, he got up from his chair, came down the hall, and used the stick. He hated the stick, so he kept his mouth shut and stared out the window at the sea.