Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [54]
“Duckey, you have no idea how much you’ve just helped.”
“Then why do I feel like I just gave you the go-ahead to do something stupid?”
I chuckle at that but do not answer, because he’s right. I’m so enthralled with the information he’s provided, I almost forget to ask for my second favor. “Ducks, I hate to overdraw from my account, but I need another favor.”
“You do realize I’m on vacation, don’t you?”
“If I send you a list of names, can you get your buddy at the State Department to run them through their system?”
It’s the sort of request that can change the entire nature of a conversation. Indulging a friend by collecting information about a reclusive billionaire is one thing; leveraging the resources of two government agencies in one week is quite another.
“What’s going on, Jack?”
I sigh, understanding the position in which I’ve put him. “It’s important, Ducks. I can’t go into it right now, but I wouldn’t ask if I had any other options.”
For the second time in as many days, I’ve asked him to weigh the level of trust that exists in our friendship. Fortunately, it appears I still have enough in the account to cover this one.
“Send me the names,” he says. “But that explanation you owe me? It had better be the most eloquent thing I’ve ever heard, or else every one of your classes will be at eight a.m. next semester, got it?”
“Got it.”
“What am I asking them to check for?”
I tell him and then, after ending the call, I turn to Romero.
“Do you know if there are any direct flights to Addis Ababa?”
CHAPTER 12
Addis Ababa sits in the foothills of the Entoto Mountains, and as we travel north along Menelik II, I can see their greens and browns through an unseasonable haze. It’s been more than a decade since I’ve been here but there are some things that leave a lasting impression. And looking out over the Ethiopian capital from a mountain ridge is one of those things. My knee aches and I shift as much as the cramped space will allow until I’m rewarded by a relaxing of pressure.
I gaze out the window as the minibus slows to pass a donkey train that is navigating a boulevard shaded by a long line of eucalyptus trees. As the man next to me—the one virtually sitting on my lap—shouts again into his cell phone, the thought of conveyance by a smelly, cantankerous animal seems pleasant by comparison, and that’s taking the flies into consideration. As if to validate that desire, the weyala leaning out the door of the vehicle calls to a group of pedestrians in Amharic, gesturing toward the oversized taxi. My command of the language is suspect, but it’s a good bet he told them we’re headed to Arat Kilo Square, and we’ve got plenty of room. There are no takers, and the blue and white bus speeds off.
Across the aisle, Espy is sandwiched between two young men who look like students. She wears a smile, and I can tell it’s not manufactured. Even though twenty-two people are jammed into a vehicle built to seat twelve, and the air is filled with a dense mixture of unpleasant smells, and the weyala—in between collecting fares—is making off-color remarks about her, and one of her seatmates keeps smelling her hair, she seems to be having a great time. It’s a full cultural immersion; more than that, it’s an embrace of her circumstances. I have to smile, despite the fact that cell-phone guy has turned so he’s shouting directly into my ear.
The fact that she’s on the bus is a testament both to her stubbornness and my inability to hold