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nothing.”
    â€œWhy did you accuse Lodestone of being behind the abduction?”
    Her gaze was fierce. “Because he said that the chief came with a squad of mercenaries. He was very certain of this. Not UN soldiers, and not Kenyan. Private security.”
    Marc reluctantly confirmed, “Lodestone is the only group operating security personnel in Kenya.”
    â€œYes. I know that. I checked.”
    â€œWe need to find that chief.”
    â€œI’ve spoken with the only elder I could find from that village. He claims the district chief has never visited them. Not once.”
    â€œDoes that make sense to you?”
    Kitra shrugged, the weight of too many unanswered questions pressing on her. “Serge would not have made it up. That is all I can say for certain.”
    â€œWhat else did Serge tell you?”
    â€œSerge said the man who confronted him positively stank with greed.”
    When she stopped, Marc pressed, “I need to hear the rest.”
    â€œAs he was saying that, the line went silent. The phone was still connected, I could hear him breathing. I called his name. Then he whispered that the mercs were hunting him.”
    â€œHe said that? Specifically?”
    The hand that swept the hair from her face trembled. “His exact words were, ‘The mercs are tracking me. I just heard them ask where the Israeli was hiding. Two Anglos, six African.’ He said they were coming his way. He said to tell our father . . .” She swiped her face. “Then nothing. Until now, nothing.”
    â€œYou’ve tried to phone him back?”
    â€œOf course I’ve tried. Morning and night I’ve called his line.” The anger turned her voice coppery. “Lodestone stole my brother.”
    â€œYou don’t know that.” His protest sounded weak to his own ears.
    â€œOh, but I do. And I am still frightened that I might be putting my trust in the enemy.” She shut her eyes to the thought, and murmured, “What I would give to taste a clean wind.”

Chapter Nine
    T hey arrived at the Red Cross camp in the early afternoon. The first sign they had of their destination was a pair of flags dangling limply against a pale blue sky. As the gates came into view, Kitra pointed out a collection of huts near the entrance.
    â€œLebanese traders,” she explained. “They hear when a camp is starving. They flock like carrion to rotting meat. When the refugees grow desperate enough, they will sell whatever they have, including children.”
    The Lebanese trading posts were flanked by armed guards, all of whom scowled as the trucks appeared. Refugees standing in front of the huts reached out in supplication as the trucks rumbled past.
    Kitra explained, “This camp started during the AIDS crisis. Just as they brought that under control, the region was hit by a blight called black sigatoka. It devastated the two main staples, plantain and banana. Both crops will feed a family from a small patch of land, and both were vulnerable to the same disease. No one had ever heard of it before. In two years it wiped out every farm in this entire district.”
    The Red Cross administrators were pitifully glad to see them. The camp director could not hold back his tears as they off-loaded the boxes of Plumpy Nut and cooking oil and sacks of mealy grain.
    Marc left the others to finish unloading and started listing everything the administrator wanted with their next shipment. He did the same with the chief medic. Kitra approached him twice, both times to urge him to greater speed. They did not want to be caught in open territory after sunset. The bandits, she insisted, would not know the trucks were empty.
    They reached the forest fronting their own camp’s main gates just as the sunset was fading. Fatigue had long rendered them all silent. Marc had visions of a hot meal, a drink of water that did not taste of the road, a shower, and bed. But when the camp