She stared at the list of traditional sayings, generic, standard ones that could be found in a fortune cookie.
Her mind shuffled through what little she’d learned… Could the sayings on the other piece of cloth be as standard? It was just a matter of stacking the right ones, in the right order, then pick through a sequence of letters to form a coherent message. Tedious, but doable if she had all the parts.
Made sense not to keep the cloths together. She read the interpreted phrases again, generic, nothing to draw undue attention. Most likely the other half would have much of the same.
She clicked through an Internet search for most common sayings woven into kangas. The more popular, the less likely it would draw attention. Then plugged them into the program and cranked back in the chair…She glanced at the time on the screen and—crap—she’d already been here for nearly forty-five minutes. How much longer did she have? Jose would send up a warning if there was a problem, and quite frankly, there wasn’t any reason why she shouldn’t be here. Mr. Smith could be territorial all he wanted. She had rights.
It would just be easier if she didn’t have to fight for them.
Her eyes scanned along the rapidly scrolling words jumbling and shifting, her mind racing to sort through possible patterns. She narrowed the search and typed in more parameters. She’d learned long ago this kind of work was a mix of science and intuition. That instinct was a higher level of the logical, something needed here as she was looking for a message in a pattern in another language altogether…
A hum started deep in her belly, the kind that told her she was on the trail. Words came together, chemical components, not a full plan but bigger pieces… A date, but no time. A name, but no place. But those parts she could fill in for herself. Just as the kid had said. There were plans to disrupt the vice president’s wife visit, during her first day in Somalia.
And while she didn’t have all the pieces yet, the chemical sounded a helluva lot like a tetanus bio toxin.
***
Jose found Mr. Smith in the last place he would have expected—out back rolling an unsmoked cigar between his fingers. The CIA operative was in charge of the intelligence angle here; even the military dudes reported up their own chain to him. This guy had some clout for even the base commander to stay hands-off this operation.
The agent didn’t jolt or even look around, but Jose could see the second Smith realized he wasn’t alone. He stopped playing with the cigar and just held it. Jose pulled up alongside him, the African sun baking the ground so hot it burned clear through his boots.
“Mind if I join you?” Jose pulled his unsmoked cigar from his uniform pocket, looking for an excuse to keep the guy occupied while Stella worked her magic.
Smith shrugged wordlessly, apparently taking a page from Bubbles’s silent and grumpy act.
Rolling his cigar between his palms, Jose tried again, “Find out anything new about the attack outside?”
Smith flipped the unlit stogie between his fingers. “Base security caught the truck that drove off, about a mile away. Local authorities stepped in after that.”
“Well, that’s the last we’ll hear of them… until the next time they attack us.”
“We do what we can do.” Smith shrugged again, stony and stoic as ever. “Once the VP’s wife is done here, we’ll be able to draw back on our presence. Or rather you will.”
Would Stella stay? Yeah, that thought had crossed his mind about a time or fifty while she slept. “I’m just focused on getting through this week. I’ll worry about future pirate missions after that.”
“Did you need something?”
Shit. His reason for coming out here. “Uh, yeah…” He held up his unsmoked Cuban and pulled the wrapper off. “Just to smoke.”
“You don’t strike me as a smoker. No nicotine stains under your fingers or on your teeth. No twitchy reach for a pack,” Mr. Smith detailed, reminding Jose that every damn move he made was analyzed.
“I’ve broken the habit for the most part. I hold out for one a month, reserve it for a stressful time.” He pulled out a lighter but… held back. “Having Stella captured by separatists hell-bent on torturing her qualifies as stressful.”
Smith pulled out his lighter again but didn’t light up the cigar. He just flicked the flame on and off, on and off. “I quit a year ago.”
Jose watched the dude, not quite able to get a read off him. He didn’t hold a cigar right so why did he have one? The question would have to wait because top priority now was keeping the head spook here from walking around the hangar while Stella snooped around.
“I imagine you’ve got big fat files on me and my team since we’ve stepped in to help on security.”
“Just call me Big Brother,” Smith said, but he wasn’t laughing.
“Well, since we’re playing on the same team here, I’m happy to help out with the profiles, if you need anything.”
“Oh really,” Smith said, eyeing him as if he already knew this was all a game.
Who the hell cared as long as it kept him outside, away from Stella? Jose shifted through for some benign stuff to share, things that were likely already in their files anyhow, like their call signs.
“You can tell a lot about each guy on the team from his call sign—nickname. Wade Rocha’s is ‘Brick,’ which means rock, like rock, rock head. He’s one hardheaded, driven dude. Then there’s Marcus ‘Data’ Dupre because, well, he’s just like Stella with the analytical brain. We call Gavin Novak ‘Bubbles’ because of the irony. We had a team leader named ‘Walker,’ but he’s moved up the chain. Captain Dominic Jablonski’s our new one. Jury’s still out on him.”