The Old Man(89)

Alan noticed that there seemed to be some kind of commotion beginning near the far side of the main pile of boxes. He recognized Dr. Zidane immediately, and Dr. Leclerc, and they seemed to be unhappy with the man Alan had decided must be the head of the militia contingent. He moved closer and listened.

In a few seconds Dr. Zidane noticed him. She said in English, “He wants to take food and supplies. Can you believe it?”

Alan said, “How much?”

She said, “Who knows? We can’t spare any of it.”

Alan stepped closer and bowed to the leader. “I am Alan Spencer,” he said in Arabic. “Are you the commander of the militia?”

“Abdul Hamid, colonel of the Misrata Militia. I’ve been speaking with this woman, and she doesn’t seem to understand anything she wasn’t taught in an American school.”

Alan said, “American? Dr. Zidane is Canadian, like the rest of us.”

“That difference means nothing here.”

Alan could see that one thing hadn’t changed much in the past thirty years. This was not a part of the world where men—at least men like this militia—were accustomed to arguing with women. Alan said, “Maybe I can help clear up the misunderstanding.”

“You were able to land a plane here because we fought for this airport in two great battles. We’re here to protect you because the plane brought food and other supplies that the people need. We’re not going to sell it or throw it away. The people around here are our relatives. We know how to get it to them.”

Alan smiled, he hoped, convincingly. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you for explaining. Please give me a moment.” He stepped to the two doctors. “I think he feels insulted.”

“He’s insulted because I’m a woman,” said Dr. Zidane. “For that and because I won’t let him steal food and supplies. We didn’t bring this here to support a war.”

Alan said, “He wants to distribute some to the people around here, who are his relatives or members of his faction. How much of the food can we spare?”

“None.”

“Would his tribe and its allies get some of the supplies if he didn’t ask?”

“Of course. We don’t choose sides or tribes. We give aid to whomever we can reach who needs it.”

“Maybe we could trust him to deliver the supplies that are going to his people anyway.”

She scowled. “I don’t trust him. Why do you?”

“Several reasons. He can’t steal the supplies from his men’s relatives, and he knows it. He’s not a king. Nobody who is surrounded by men carrying machine guns is a king. He’ll just be doing some of our work for us.”

Leclerc looked at her. “This sounds logical to me.”

She threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration. “All right. Do it.”

Alan turned to Leclerc and said, “The other reason is that we can’t stop him. If we say no, he can take everything.”

Alan returned to the colonel. “I’m sorry for the delay. If you would be willing to distribute the goods intended for your friends and relatives, it would save us time and effort, and we would be grateful. Take one quarter of the food and supplies, but please leave the medical goods here for the clinic.”

The colonel looked hard at him for a couple of seconds. “That woman. What about her? Does she agree? What if I take it all?”

Alan shrugged. “If you have skilled doctors, you might do some good. But Dr. Zidane is an expert on North African diseases, the only one we have with us. Dr. Leclerc is a famous surgeon. Dr. McKnight is a great anesthesiologist.”

The colonel smiled. “I see why they brought you with them.”

“Thank you. I’ll ask some people to help your men pick out the cartons you need.”

Alan joined the nurses and volunteers waiting nearby. “Give them a quarter of the food. Nothing else. Keep all the medical supplies and the agricultural machinery and so on.”

The work went quickly because the militiamen wanted to travel while it was still dark and their convoy wouldn’t attract attention, so they did much of the lifting and loading. Meanwhile, Alan began an informal inventory of the items that the soldiers were not supposed to take.

He was careful to locate a crate he had packed personally in Toronto. It held the diagnostic X-ray machine and some stands and associated equipment. Inside he had placed a Czech-made .45 caliber pistol with the barrel threaded for its silencer, and four spare loaded magazines. He had taken the pistol off the body of one of Faris Hamzah’s assassins who had come for him in Chicago. He had chosen this pistol as the one to retain, because it was high quality and had no purchasing history that could possibly lead to him.

He had hidden the pistol and the rest wrapped in two of the lead-lined aprons that went with the X-ray machine, and then restored the original packaging so that even if the machine were subjected to a physical search, his additions wouldn’t be noticed. He slipped the pistol and magazines into his travel jacket. When he found his duffel bag he took off the jacket and hid it inside the duffel.

Alan worked with a few other volunteers to place the pile of supplies and equipment inside the terminal’s damaged waiting area and then set up enough folding cots so they could all sleep as a group and watch each other, their bags, and boxes. When Alan got the chance to pick a cot, he chose one on the perimeter. He reached into his duffel bag, took out a towel, rolled it to use as a pillow, and then reached back into the bag and felt for the weapon he had hidden there. He screwed the silencer on the barrel, engaged the safety, and buried the gun among the clothes.