Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [105]
Jack and Alli were examining a laptop computer, twisted out of shape by the explosion and resultant fire, when Thatë began screaming.
“Tell me! Tell me!”
Jack ran over and pulled him away from a badly wounded guerilla. There was spittle on Thatë’s face; he was virtually frothing at the mouth. For his part, the guerilla slid to the floor. His body was a mass of deep burns and his face was bloody and distorted out of all proportion.
Paull tried to hold the kid back, but he just shook the older man away. Jack looked at Alli and she went over and took Thatë by the arm. It was a restraint, the only one he would tolerate at the moment. He gave the guerilla a venomous glare over her shoulder.
Jack squatted beside the guerilla. He could see at a glance that his wounds were mortal. “What’s your name?”
One bloodshot eye stared back at him. “Bek … Bekir.” The other eye was swollen closed, so heavily bruised it looked like a fist.
“Where is Arian Xhafa?”
“He isn’t here.”
Jack sat back on his haunches. He gave Thatë a querying look, but the kid was still livid with rage.
“Give me five minutes with him,” Thatë said.
“The poor bastard doesn’t have five minutes,” Jack told him. “Besides, what can you do to him that hasn’t already been done?” Turning back to Bekir, he said, “Where is Xhafa? Where did he go?”
“In … into the wind.” Bekir’s mouth was red and black, the lips so distorted it was unclear whether even his mother would recognize him. “He left a little while ago.”
“How little?” Jack pressed.
“Twenty minutes, maybe fifteen.”
“Christ, we just missed the fuck,” Paull said.
Bekir started coughing. His condition was clearly declining rapidly.
With time running out, Jack tried another tack. If Bekir couldn’t solve the mystery of where Arian Xhafa went, maybe he could solve another mystery. “Bekir, were you here when the American unit tried its assault?”
Bekir nodded. His eye could not stop rolling in its socket. He must be in terrible pain, Jack thought. But it was too late to do anything to save him.
“For God’s sake help him,” Alli said from over Jack’s shoulder. “Give him water, at least.”
“His lungs are filling,” Jack told her. “He’ll drown in even a tablespoon of water.”
He returned his attention to Bekir. “How did Xhafa defeat the American unit?”
“Fast.” Bekir’s voice was thick with phlegm and blood. “Very fast.”
“Not like with us.”
The one eye stared at him.
“See, this is what I don’t understand.” Jack edged closer. “I know you had sophisticated weaponry, but so did the American unit.”
Bekir’s eye stared at Jack for what seemed a long time. Then his lips moved, as if of their own volition, and the voice came out, hollow as a drum. “The weaponry helped. How could it not? But Xhafa had an edge that meant the Americans’ certain death.”
Jack’s insides went cold. Then he felt Paull leaning closely in.
“And what was that?” Paull said.
Bekir’s lips curled up into a smile, which began another coughing fit that produced a prodigious flow of blood from his mouth. When he calmed somewhat, he spoke. “He knew they were coming. He’s got an American informant.”
“That’s a fucking lie,” Paull said dismissively.
Jack rocked back on his heels. “Bekir, my friend, here’s my problem with what you claim. Even with his newfound money and links to international arms dealers, Xhafa is unlikely to have that kind of political or military connection. Very, very few people do.”
There was a peculiar light in Bekir’s good eye, and Jack knew he was preparing himself to die. During the interview, his breathing had become shallow. Now it was irregular. Blood drooled out of one ruined ear. And yet he was determined to persevere for at least one more moment, at least long enough for him to deliver his farewell message.
“Then whoever is funneling money and arms his way is one of those elite people.”
* * *
JOHN PAWNHILL smiled a magnetic smile that momentarily caused Naomi’s knees to feel as if they’d turned to jelly.
“How may I be of assistance?”
“Agent McKinsey and I are investigating the