The Peacemakers (23 page)

After a light lunch, they took refuge in a large open room inside Mission House, sheltered from the cresting heat of the day. “Reverend Person,” Richards asked, “exactly how stable is the political situation here?” Jill mentally shifted gears into the intelligence mode. She gave the general high marks for probing the area where they were the most vulnerable.

“Not very, General,” Toby replied. “We’re caught in a civil war between the Arab north and Africans in the south. It’s been going on over fifty years and I don’t see it ending soon.”

“I thought that ended when the South Sudan gained its independence and made

Juba the capital.” Richards said.

Toby shook his head. “They may have signed a so-called treaty of independence, but they never agreed on the border.” He unfolded a map and spread it out on the table. He pointed to the mission. “We’re here, on the south bank of the Al Bahr Al Abyad, the White Nile, which Juba claims is its northern border. The Sudanese Army is operating on the north side of the river, and along with the Janjaweed, consolidating its hold.”

“Which is in our area of operations,” Allston added.

“And the prize is oil,” Jill said, leading the conversation in the direction she wanted.

Toby gave her a long look before answering. “Exactly. And the Sudanese want it all.” He used a pencil as a pointer to indicate large areas of land blocked in with squares and rectangles, all in Allston’s area of operations. “These are the oil concessions where oil has been discovered. The reserves are not huge like the Middle East but they’re nothing to sneeze at – about the size of Columbia and Venezuela. The government in Khartoum parceled the concessions out to foreign consortiums, mostly Chinese, and takes eighty percent of the gross. We never see a bit of it down here, and as far as the government is concerned, the Africans are kafirs – unbelievers – and not entitled to a cent. To solidify their position, they’ve used the Janjaweed and the Army to systematically drive the Africans out of the concessions and created an African Diaspora.”

“Enter the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission, Southern Sudan,” Jill added. “A testimonial to corruption, greed, and sheer incompetence.” Richards shot her a warning look. Jill was to be seen and not heard.

“But the Army and the Janjaweed have left you alone,” Richards said, again asking the very questions Jill wanted to ask.

“So far,” Toby replied. “There’s been some trouble around Malakal, thanks to Major Hamid Waleed. He’s the only Sudanese Army outpost on the southern side of the White Nile. For the most part, he just bullies the Africans, otherwise Juba might get involved, and they know how to fight.”

“I met him twice,” Allston grumbled. “That was twice too many.”

“Unfortunately,” Toby continued, “a Canadian exploration team discovered a large oil reserve in block five, here.” He tapped an odd-shaped, penciled-in area on the map located a hundred miles south of the mission. “Khartoum wants it but Juba has served notice it belongs to them, which is why Khartoum called for jihad against the Africans. Juba” – he pointed to the large town 300 miles south of the mission – “wants to make the White Nile the de facto boundary and Juba their capital.” He pointed to the large town 300 miles to the south of the mission. “The good news is that we’re on the south side of the river, on Juba’s side. The bad news is that we’re caught between the Army and the new oil discoveries.”

Jill put it all together. “Which is why you invited Tara to the mission.”

Although Toby lived in central Africa far removed from the main currents of world opinion, he was a realist. “Publicity works every time.”

“I want to be here,” Tara added. “We’ve got to make a stand somewhere, and I can’t think of a more worthwhile place.”

“I’ll give you the tour,” Toby said.

“I’ll drive,” Jill said, hoping to learn more.

Toby sat in the front seat as Jill drove slowly through the compound, following Toby’s directions. “The mission is really a plantation,” he explained, “but a very modern one. Thanks to the Nile, we’ve over 4000 acres under irrigation and export food, mostly a type of disease-resistant sorghum. We also have some cottage industries that could be commercially successful. But more important, we have the best schools and the largest medical station in sub Sahara Africa. Our hospital has six doctors, two operating rooms, a hundred beds, and a training school for nurses and midwives. Our medical teams vaccinate over 10,000 children a year. It’s taken five generations to create the mission and I’m just the current caretaker.”

Near the end of the tour, Jill asked a key question. “Why doesn’t the United Nations stop the fighting?”

Again, Toby gave her a long look, considering his answer. He shook his head and there was no doubt the missionary knew she was probing for operable intelligence. “And violate Sudanese sovereignty? If the UN got involved simply because the Sudanese were engaged in a little genocide in their own country, what country would be next?”

Allston changed the subject. “How long is your airstrip?”

“We’ve got 4000 feet of macadam and a 1000 feet of hard-pack at the western end and 1500 on the eastern end. An Airbus made an emergency landing once. No problem.” Allston slumped in his seat, deep in thought. It was more than enough for C-130 operations.

A gentle evening breeze caressed Mission Awana and held the pillaging insects at bay. Allston and Jill sat alone on the veranda of the guesthouse and savored the night air. “My favorite time of day,” Allston said. Only the rattling chirps of an unknown bug disturbed the tranquility. “It’s amazing what Toby has done here.”

“He has made a difference,” Tara said from behind him. She pushed through the screen door carrying a tray with the same unusual crock pitcher that gleamed with condensation. She had showered and changed into another, even more beautiful wrap. This one was made of a finer material and flowed over her body, outlining every curve. For a brief moment, a light from inside outlined her figure, leaving little to the imagination about what was not underneath.

A primal urge shot through Allston and he was thankful for the dark. “I was just telling Major Sharp this is my favorite time of day.” An animal call echoed through the night. “That sounds canine.”

Jill heard a tone in his voice that sent tingles down her spine. There was nothing provocative or unusual in what he said, but it was the call of an eagle reaching out in the dark and her body responded. But she knew the call was not meant for her. With a will that surprised her, she said nothing.

“That’s a spotted hyena,” Tara answered. “They really own the night.” She sat the tray down and poured them a drink. “I love this drink,” she told them. “It’s non-alcoholic and so refreshing. In the right hands … it could be a commercial success.”

Jill bit her tongue. It was not what Tara said, but an undertone in her voice combined with the way her body moved that left little doubt the actress was responding to Allston. “That stone pitcher is most unusual,” Jill said. “The way condensation forms.”

“It is unusual,” Tara said. “Some consider it a work of art, and it definitely cools

… the drink. With the right approach … well, who knows?” She sank into a chaise lounge opposite Allston as the night captured them. Again, the call of a hyena split the night, this time farther away. “She won’t be happy until she finds her mate,” Tara explained.

“Do you think so?” Allston asked.

Tara sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on him. “Oh, yes,” she said. They sat in silence as the chirping resumed. “Hyenas run in large packs and are led by a female.”

“So that explains why they are so vocal,” Allston said.

Richards joined them and sat down. “Why who is so vocal?” she asked.

“The leaders of a hyena pack,” Tara answered.

“Who is always a female,” Allston added. “I just learned that.”

“You do have a lot to learn,” Tara said. “About females.”

Allston laughed. “Oh, I hope so.” Jill felt her face flush. There was no doubt they were engaging in verbal foreplay, sophisticated, low-keyed, and beyond anything she had experienced. She was jealous and stifled a sigh. “I’m bushed,” Allston said. “Time to hit the sack. Good night, ladies.”

The three women watched him as he disappeared through the door and turned left toward his room. Tara made conversation for twenty minutes or so and then bid them good night, claiming it had been a long day. Jill’s eyes followed her as she entered the guesthouse and turned left. “Her room is on the other side,” Richards said. “Next to ours.” Her words were clipped and hard. The echo of a faint knock on a door reached the veranda. A long silence came down. Then, “Major, don’t even think about it.” It was a clear warning that Allston and Tara were free to engage in whatever relationship they chose, but not Jill.

“Pardon, ma’am? Think about what?”

“Sleeping with Allston. Do I need to remind you of his reputation and the differences in your rank?”

“I’m well-aware of his reputation and the prohibitions on fraternization,” Jill replied. “His conduct has always been above board and proper.”

“I’m not talking about his conduct, but yours.”

“General, I have done nothing …”

Richards interrupted her. “Nothing indeed.”