Then more Janjaweed arrived, with camels, horses, and two Land Cruisers mounted with machine guns. There was nothing but killing, cutting, slashing, screaming to heaven—no other purpose to this attack.
I fought off a few of the bastards, but there wasn’t anything I could do to stop so many. I understood the way the people of this camp, of this country, understand: No one can help us.
But that night someone did. Finally, Sudanese regulars and a few UN troops arrived in jeeps and vans. The Janjaweed began to leave. They took a few women and animals with them.
Their last senseless and vengeful act: They burned down a grain shed used for storing millet.
I finally found Adanne, and she was cradling a child who had watched her mother die.
Then everything was strangely quiet except for the people’s sobbing and the low winds of the harmattan.
Chapter 89
IT WAS GETTING close to morning when I finally laid myself down in a tent with a straw mat on the floor. It had been provided to me by the Red Cross workers, and I was too tired to argue that I didn’t need a roof over my head.
The flap of the tent opened suddenly and I got up on one elbow to see who it was.
“It’s me, Alex. Adanne. May I come in?”
“Of course you can.” My heart pumped in my chest.
She stepped inside and sat down beside me on the mat.
“Terrible day,” I said in a hoarse whisper.
“It’s not always this bad,” she said. “But it can be worse. The Sudanese soldiers knew a reporter was in the camp. And an American. That’s why they came to chase away the Janjaweed. They don’t want bad press if they can possibly avoid it.”
I shook my head and started to smile. So did Adanne. They weren’t happy smiles. I knew that what she had said was true, but it was also ridiculous and absurd.
“We’re supposed to share the tent, Alex,” Adanne finally said. “Do you mind?”
“Share a tent with you? No, I think I can handle that. I’ll do my best.”
Adanne stretched herself out on the mat. She reached out and patted my hand. Then I took her hand in mine.
“You have someone—back in America?” she asked.
“I do. Her name is Bree. She’s a detective too.”
“She’s your wife?”
“No, we’re not married. I was—once. My first wife was killed. It was a long time ago, Adanne.”
“I’m sorry to ask so many questions, Alex. We should sleep now.”
Yes, we should sleep.
We held hands
until we drifted off. Only that—hand-holding.
Chapter 90
THE FOLLOWING DAY, we left the camp at Kalma. Nine refugees had died during the nighttime attack; another four were still missing. If this had happened in Washington, the entire city would be in an uproar now.
Emmanuel was one of the dead, and they had cut off his head, probably because of his participation when we’d fought back earlier.
A mutual hunch took Adanne and me to the Abu Shouk camp, the next-largest settlement in the region. The reception there was more ambivalent than we’d gotten at Kalma.