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.
He studied his own reaction to the long flight, the layover, and the physical labor in the heat. He wasn’t twenty-five years old anymore, but he seemed to be all right—aware of no signs of dehydration or muscle aches.
He lay there thinking about Marie. She would have found the laptop and the videodisc a few hours ago, so she knew what he had done. He felt a painful mixture of affection and regret grip his stomach, and then waited for it to pass. When it didn’t, he spent a few minutes reviewing the provisions he had made for her. They should be sufficient to keep her safe and comfortable for the rest of her life. He reviewed everything again, and soon he dozed off.
Around 5:00 a.m. growling engines signaled the arrival of the three trucks that were to take the aid workers to their first clinic. The volunteers stowed their cots and their belongings, and then began loading the trucks. The wind had shifted while they were sleeping and the temperature had dropped about ten degrees.
The Canadians relaxed and regained their optimism. These were men and women in their twenties through forties—a generation or two younger than Alan—and they had recovered from the long flight overnight. They set up a line like a bucket brigade to pass the cardboard cartons of supplies from the terminal to the trucks. Alan took a place in the line and began to pass boxes.
After a few minutes he sensed someone behind him and turned. It was Dr. Zidane, and she pulled him out of the line and led him a few yards away.
“Alan, I want to express my thanks for the way you handled things last night. I guess what I mean is, how you handled me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I wasn’t handling anybody,” he said. “I was just trying to bow to the inevitable, and people let me do it. I find the gray hairs help.”
“I made a foolish mistake,” she said. “I was tired and irritated, and I think I’ve gotten too used to living in places where people wouldn’t think of breaking the rules. Here you have to be flexible and patient. My parents moved to Canada in the seventies, so I never lived here as an adult.”