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  “Who knows?” I said stubbornly. “But something still has to be done.”

  “Indeed, you are correct, something must still be done,” Jean-Paul said, smiling, tapping the ash from his cigarette onto the ground. “That’s what I thought, back when I was your age. That I would do something important. I was a lawyer in a small village in the south of France, and I thought I should do more besides prepare land-deed transfers and wills for elderly widows. I had a hunger to see the world, to do more. The curse of the French, you know. We feel we have to share our superiority with everyone.” He laughed and even I smiled along. It was good to see him laugh, especially after the days we had been having.

  He continued. “Like you, I think, my father is one who—”

  “Please,” I said. “I really don’t want to bring my father into this.”

  Jean-Paul eyed me coolly. “You must not continue to blame him for what happened in Mogadishu. It was not his fault.”

  “He was in command. Everything in his command was his responsibility. Including the deaths that occurred. Sorry, Jean-Paul, it was his fault. So can we drop the matter, all right?”

  “Very well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, keeping the cigarette held at the ends of his fingers. “I will talk, then, about my father. A tall, dour man who married my mother when he was in his fifties. He was a lawyer as well, but he always kept quiet concerning what he had done as a young man, before he started his own practice. Only after he passed on did I learn the truth about what my father did as a lawyer. You see, Samuel, during a certain time in the 1940s he was employed by the French government in a small city just north of our village, a place called Vichy.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Yes, ‘oh’,” Jean-Paul said. “He was young and had no real power, but what little power he had aided the Nazis and their Gestapo to round up Jews in the south of France and send them to places like Treblinka and Auschwitz and Theresienstadt. That was what my father did. When I learned that, within a week I had quit my position and applied to the UN in Geneva. So here I am.”

  “You and me and everybody else,” I said. “Your village—where is it?”

  “Ah, it is in Provence, a place of warmth and beauty and fine food and wine. A place where even today you can see monuments from the Roman Empire. The arenas, the memorial arches, the old roads.”

  The sound of the helicopters grew louder and I scanned the horizon, still not seeing a thing. Routine patrol, perhaps. One hoped.

  “I was there once, on a college trip,” I said. “I’m sorry to say that I think the food was overrated, except for the desserts. But the landscapes were amazing.”

  “Ah, of course, quite beautiful, like this land we are in now,” Jean-Paul said. “But this place is still bloody, with lots of bloody memories. The early colonists. The French and Indian wars. The Civil War. So forth and so on. And my memories begin with relics of the ancient Romans. Ironic, isn’t it, that we owe so much to the Romans and their concepts of law and government. The Senate, the voice of the people, ideas and ideals handed down over thousands of years. But the Romans also gave us their legacy of slavery, of conquering other nations, of killing your enemies for sport in the arena. An odd balance, when we cherish the good and try to overlook the bad.”

  He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground and ground it out with his heel. “And while we try to balance this, even to this day, the barbarians are out there, beyond the gates, beyond the pale, preparing their weapons, preparing to kill us all. Samuel, my apologies.”

  “Excuse me—apologies for what?” I asked.

  “Apologies for giving you a lecture as if you were a schoolboy. No more lectures today.” Jean-Paul stood up and said, “You are right. We have done nothing these past days but go in circles, and each time we have been in the line of fire, in some sort of danger. No longer. This afternoon, we will—”

  We both turned at the sound of an engine revving up, and I saw a black cloud of diesel smoke rise up from the Ukrainian APC. The rear hatch was open and the APC commander was waving frantically at Jean-Paul, who trotted down the hill with me following right behind him. The Ukrainian shouted over the noise of the APC engine: “Monsieur, so sorry, but we must leave! Two of our comrades, they are under fire, some distance away. We must go help!”

  Jean-Paul yelled back, “But we need you here, we need—”

  The Ukrainian smiled and gave a thumbs-up, as if he couldn’t hear or didn’t care what Jean-Paul was saying. He ducked back into the APC and slammed the hatch shut. Jean-Paul cursed in French, leaned over and pounded his fists against the APC’s side, but the engine revved up again and the armored vehicle bounced its way down the hillside, its fat black tires sinking into the soft soil and grass. Jean-Paul stood there, fists now at his side, and slowly the other people in our team came over, not saying a word. It felt horribly vulnerable up there on the hill, and I knew that if probing or curious eyes were looking us over they’d just seen our main line of defense leave. I thought Charlie was wonderful and superb in what he had done for us, but he was just one man. Just one man with weapons, against the entire countryside.

  Jean-Paul turned to us and said, “Samuel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please be so kind as to put on your vest and helmet. All right?”

  “Certainly,” I said, glad that he wasn’t raising his voice, wasn’t expressing disappointment, though Karen—still clad in her own helmet and vest—smiled with satisfaction at seeing me rebuked.

  “Messieurs et medames,” Jean-Paul said. “We are finished here for the day. We are going to head back whence we came, and we’re not going any further into this area without better support.”

  Karen, Miriam and Sanjay were smiling, and Peter said, “Where are we headed, then?”

  Jean-Paul said, “I think we all agree that the motel from a couple of days ago was in a safe place. That’s where we will return. And we will not leave it until we have better assistance. When we get to the motel, I will be in contact with the Commissioner’s field office. Peter, is that agreeable to you?”

  I wondered why Jean-Paul had asked Peter’s opinion about anything. Maybe he was seeking reassurance, maybe he was just trying to confuse Peter. If so, he was succeeding.

  “Agreeable?” Peter asked. “It sure as hell is agreeable.”

  Jean-Paul folded his arms. “But you know that it puts us behind in our quest for Site A.”

  Peter grinned. “Hell, Jean-Paul, I said I wanted to find Site A. I sure as hell don’t want to become part of Site A.”

  That caused some smiles among us—with one notable exception: our borrowed Marine, Charlie. He had his M-16 slung over his back and was looking down the hill at the slowly dissipating cloud of dust that had been left behind by the APC rattling away from us. He shook his head.

  “Damn Ukrainians,” he said.

  PACKING UP TOOK only a few minutes and with the Land Crusiers’ engines idling Jean-Paul gathered us together and said, “Charlie and I will take the lead. This will be a straight sprint, driving as fast as we can to get back to the motel. I’ve radioed ahead and there’ll be a contingent of Peter’s countrymen waiting for us.”

  “Paratroopers?” Peter asked.

  “The same,” Jean-Paul said.

  Peter grinned, and for once I didn’t mind that mocking smile. “How fucking brilliant. Best news I’ve heard all day.”

  Jean-Paul said, “We drive fast and we drive safe. We don’t stop for anyone. I don’t care if we even see some young lads holding up a sign, eh, that says, ‘This Way to Site A.’ We just go on and make our way back to the motel.”

  He looked at each of us individually. “I know you are disappointed. I know you are frightened. But you’re a good crew, and I am happy to be with you. And one more thing. I was told that the power will be back on tonight at the motel. So. Hot showers—does that sound good?”

  Karen said, “It sounds excellent, Jean-Paul.”

  “Bien,” Jean
-Paul said. “We go now.”

  Which we did.

  I SAT IN front this time, next to Peter. Miriam made as if to protest and I said, “Please, Miriam. You’re safer in the rear, with the gear and the supplies.”

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “I don’t like being treated as though I’m weak and—”

  “Oh, shut up, will you?” Peter said. “Or I’ll sit in the back and you both can sit in the front. We’ve got to get moving before it gets dark.”

  So we bounced down the hillside, seat belts secure, our helmeted heads striking the roof of the Land Crusier. Peter laughed maniacally as we reached pavement and started speeding west, heading back to that motel, the precious dumpy little motel that had seemed so dreary a couple of days ago and was now scrubbed and cleaned in our minds to make a little slice of paradise.

  “Oh, this is it, this is fine,” Peter said, grinning widely, handling the steering wheel with aplomb. “None of this putt-putting along. We’re making time, friends, we’re making good time, and there’s hot showers tonight!”

  “Real beds,” I said, actually enjoying Peter’s exuberance. “Real beds with mattresses.”

  Miriam laughed as well. “Electric lights. I do love electric lights.”

  We stayed close behind the lead Toyota, with Karen and Sanjay keeping close behind us. I looked at the sun heading toward the horizon, saw a line of low-lying clouds moving in. It would be twilight soon, and then dark, but if we were lucky we’d be back at the motel, in the comforting presence of British paras, before the sun completely disappeared. The road went through the small village, past a town green with a monument to a past war—and I pledged then to apologize to Sanjay when the moment arrived—and past stores and buildings, their windows either broken or covered up by old plywood boards. Scraps of paper and cardboard blew by as the lead Toyota, driven by Jean-Paul and with Charlie riding shotgun, powered ahead.

  When we were through the village, Peter exhaled loudly and said, “OK, that was good. No snipers, nobody outdoors. Hate small towns like that. Plenty of hiding places. One last thing, we go like a fucking bat out of hell past that warehouse, and we’ll be free and clear. Just you see.”

  I laughed. Miriam squeezed my shoulder and said, “What’s so funny?”

  “Just thinking about when I was in high school, sneaking out before the day was over,” I said. “Couple of us would pile into someone’s car and then drive out of the school parking lot. Other kids who would try it got caught, and we figured that was because they moved too slowly. We’d drive fast and bounce over the speed bumps, and because we moved quick we made it out without being caught.”

  Miriam squeezed my shoulder again and Peter said, “Speed, that’s what it takes, speed, and—Bugger!”

  The taillights ahead of us flashed red. Peter slammed on the brakes, slewed us to the right, and there was a bang! as the third Land Cruiser clipped our rear. Our vehicle bumped up and down, grinding to a halt as Miriam yelped and I said, “What the hell—”

  The lead Land Cruiser was making a bumpy U-turn and the driver’s-side window was down, Jean-Paul waving at us frantically. Charlie was leaning through his window, the M-16 poking out alongside his head. Peter swore, backed up, looked over and saw the third Toyota, its front right fender and headlight smashed, backing down the road. He yelled out after Sanjay, “Fucking wog, can’t you fucking drive?”

  Miriam was saying something, trying to calm Peter down, I think, but the third Toyota was now turning around, leaving us, as Peter rocked us up and out of a shallow drainage ditch that had almost trapped us. On both sides of the road was flat pastureland, one small factor in our favor because we had a clear view all around and could see that no one was coming toward us.

  I swiveled my head and saw what had happened, where it had all started.

  Just ahead was the small bridge that spanned a river, one we had crossed just a couple of hours before. But now it was blocked. Someone had parked a yellow school bus directly across the road, blocking both lanes of the bridge, and the tires were flattened. I knew there was no way we could get through that mess, especially if the people who had moved it were still around, of which there was a pretty good chance. Peter slammed on the brakes, backed us up and made a quick turn. I turned and said, “Miriam, duck down, right now.”

  Much to my surprise, she did just that. I tasted something salty, wiped at my lip, and saw blood. I winced as the pain started.

  “Speed,” Peter muttered, punching the accelerator to the floor. “Bloody speed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We didn’t have much of a choice, so we ended up back on the hill with the little park, picnic tables and desecrated war memorial. We parked in a triangular formation again and Peter bailed out after setting the parking brake. He went to the rear of the Toyota, started swearing again. “Samuel, how about you getting a tool, maybe a tire iron or something? Look here, will you?”

  In the fading light I saw what he was pointing out. Where we’d been struck by the third Toyota the rear fender had crumpled in, and a jagged piece of metal was only an inch or so away from our left rear tire. Peter muttered something and said, “If that fool had been going just a bit faster we’d still be there by that bridge, waiting to get our throats slit or our brains blown out.”

  I said nothing, opened up the rear door and found the tire iron below our first-aid kit and flare-gun case. I handed it over to Peter, who started to lever back the piece of metal. Hesitantly, Sanjay came over and said, “Is … is everyone all right?”

  Peter didn’t even look up. “Back away there, friend, unless you want this rod shoved up your Indian arse.”

  Karen was next to Sanjay and she said, “It was an accident, that’s all! We didn’t see you brake! It was just an accident.”

  The metal bent back and Peter stepped aside, looking at his work. Then he shot a gaze over at Karen. “What was going on back there in that truck, love? Hmm? A little kissy-kissy? A little hand job for your boyfriend? Was that why you almost tossed us into a ditch?”

  Karen strode forward, “You limey son of a bitch, why don’t you—”

  Miriam grabbed her arms, tugged her away, and Peter went back to work, pulling free another twisted piece of metal. By now the light was getting dim and Peter was breathing hard. Then he stopped, dropped the tire rod and leaned back against the dirty fender of the Toyota. He folded his arms and looked over at me, shook his head.

  “It’s going to be one long night, just you see,” he said.

  I nodded. Despite my dislike of Peter, I had to admit that having an ex-cop and an active-duty Marine with us tonight was going to be the best news we could expect.

  I WAS SITTING by myself on top of one of the picnic tables, getting a drink of water, when I saw Jean-Paul talking to Sanjay, Peter and Karen separately, and then to all of them as a group.

  I couldn’t hear what was going on and was glad. I wasn’t in the mood tonight for what passed as diplomacy. The water tasted good, even coming from a plastic canteen. It made me think of how much water we had left, how much food we had left. Hot showers, hot food, an actual bed to sleep in—they seemed further away than ever. Peter had been right. It was going to be a long night. And I didn’t like long nights. Another gift from my father.

  Someone broke free of the group and came up to me. Our Marine escort, Charlie. His M-16 was slung over his shoulder, and he was carrying a black duffel bag, presumably the same one that contained his grenade launcher. He sat down next to me on the picnic table and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” I said. “Want a drink?”

  “Sure,” he said. I passed the canteen over. He took a long swig and handed it back to me, and I took another swig myself, just sitting there on the table, feeling a cool breeze come up the hill.

  Charlie said, “We’re in trouble, you know.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out.”

  “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said
.

  “Jean-Paul, he put a call out to the field office,” Charlie said. “There’s low-lying clouds and fog moving in. About the only way we’d get off this hill is by helicopter, and that ain’t gonna happen with the weather turning bad.”

  “They have equipment that lets them fly at night and in bad weather, don’t they?”

  “Yep,” he said. “But they only said they would come if we was under attack, with gunfire and all that good stuff. Then—maybe—they’d risk an extraction. Otherwise, here we stay, on our own.”

  “If you’re trying to scare the shit out of me, you’re succeeding.”

  Charlie scraped mud from one of his boots, using the toe of the other one. “Wondering if I could count on your help tonight.”

  From somewhere I remembered my training from months ago and an admonishment that as civilian UN workers we shouldn’t offer assistance to any military member that might jeopardize our status. That kind of training emphasized that the only way we could be above the conflicts in this troubled land was if we didn’t show that we favored our armed escorts. I promptly forgot that part of my training.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “What do you need?”

  Charlie chuckled. “What I need is some sleep. I get a feeling that you nice folks think I’m just a living, breathing military machine. Well, that ain’t true.”

  I said, “I’ve never thought that.”

  “Well, it’s nice that you said that, but you’re lying,” he said. “Which I don’t care about right now. What I do care about is doing my job, which is protecting you and your partners, and I can’t do that right if I’m nodding off. So here’s what I’m asking: can I count on you to spell me a bit during the night—to keep watch?”

  The thought that I would be responsible for everybody’s safety while our armed protector dozed terrified me. But what else could I say? “Sure, you can count on me. How about the others?”