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pushed northward. Thousands of such makeshift air bases had been constructed in haste all over the world, only to be orphaned with equal alacrity in the wake of frontal advances. For a time after the outbreak of peace, the government had made halfhearted attempts to revive the place, but inevitably it had fallen to disrepair, doomed to rot by forces more destructive than any military campaign—lack of funds, cronyism, bureaucratic indifference. Whatever strategic design had existed in 1944 to build this place had long ceased to be relevant. Without a populace, without backing from the Sudanese Air Force or commercial interests, all that remained was a triangle of beaten concrete waiting to be reclaimed by the desert—timetaking man’s work back from whence it came. But this very isolation, together with the geographic location, was what suited their needs so perfectly.
    “Give it to me,” the general ordered.
    The imam reached into his robe and produced a handheld GPS navigation device. He handed it to the general. The big Nubian pressed buttons to register the waypoint in memory. Then, wanting no chance for error, he said, “Write down these numbers.”
    The imam produced a pen and paper, and scribbled the numbers recited by the general. Later, they would compare the coordinates to those on an aeronautical chart that displayed the airfield. The whole process was tedious, but a necessary step. Maps of this region were notoriously inaccurate, a nuisance born not of careless cartography but rather intent—such charts were, by definition, public domain, and the Arab countries of North Africa didn’t want to make things easy should the Israelis or Americans come calling again.
    When they were done, the two men stood in silence for a time.
    The general looked down and turned over a loose chunk of concrete with the toe of his gleaming boot. “Is this surface adequate?”
    After a pause, Imam Khoury said, “For what we have in mind, it is perfect.”
    The general stared at him. He was not a man given to humor, yet as Rafiq Khoury watched, the general’s brutish, rough-hewn visage seemed to crack as little used muscles regained memory. The man, apparently, could smile after all.
    Five minutes later, they were back in the helicopter and skimming across the desert toward Khartoum.
    Davis had been in Sudan for an hour, and he already had three enemies.
    He reached the perimeter road and walked straight across, kept going until he hit the tarmac. There, he turned left and skirted the edge of the flight line. For all Sudan’s shortages, he could see that one thing was in abundant supply—concrete. The ramp and taxiways stretched for miles, a gray-white ocean of rock.
    As he made his way, Davis studied the aircraft parked along theflight line. The fleets were segregated by utility. A flock of military helicopters sat idle, rotors tied down and plastic plugs stuffed into the engine intakes to keep sand out. Davis had spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and so he knew all about sand. It got into everything—your pockets, your food, your ears. And your aircraft. Sand was the enemy of machinery, so this handful of Russian-made choppers probably didn’t get daily runs. More likely they were kept ready, clean and oiled, waiting for a crisis. Waiting until the government needed a show of either force or goodwill.
    The next section of ramp held a cluster of aircraft with a wide mix of types and registrations. Russian, Chinese, Italian, United Nations. This was the humanitarian ramp, the place where boxes with red crosses and bulk food arrived, the frequency and size of the shipments correlating to the immediate state of the world’s conscience.
    Finally, at the far end of the concrete ocean, Davis saw what he was looking for. Two DC-3s sat baking on the ramp, doors and windows left ajar to keep the heat from building inside, their aluminum skin undulating in the radiant mirage that rose from the tarmac. By Larry Green’s count,