Khartoum. For Ron Cassetti, the very word had always held adventure. And a lust for adventure had been in his blood for as long as he could remember.
Cassetti, a Washington Post reporter, walked along the cobbled stones toward the White Nile Bridge, where the White and Blue Niles met and the colored waters meshed with the clarity of bright blue and white paint being splashed together.
The young man on the bridge thought back over his twenty-one years of life. For most of those years, he had concentrated on his schoolwork and martial arts, with only an occasional date, here and there. But within a week of the day heâd left Oklahoma for Georgetown University, he had met Margerete. And they had dated ever since.
He had finally graduated with a double major in journalism and English literature and acquired his third-degree black belt in karate at roughly the same time. Rather than open his own dojo in the D.C. area, he had instead accepted a job in Khartoum where he would report on both Sudanâs rumored nuclear-weapons program and the civil war raging in Ethiopia, next door. There, in this ancient country bordering the Red Sea, the violence between the Ethiopian government and the Coalition for Unity and Democracy continued to spill over into Sudan.
The problem, as it pertained to Sudan, was that both CUD and out-of-control Ethiopian regularsâ had begun attacking installations and villages in Ethiopia, then fleeing to safety across the Sudanese border. Both sides wore unmarked green fatigues to avoid being recognized and, for that reason, they had all come to be called âgreenies.â Certain elements within the Sudanese government wanted to declare war on Ethiopia and wipe out the invaders entirely.
Cassettiâs mind drifted away from Sudan and Ethiopia and back to his own problem, and he felt as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. For a brief moment, he thought again about Margerete. Then the picture in his mind turned quickly to Fran.
He had never been true to Margerete, he realized, and the guilt increased even more. He had almost always had someone âon the sideâ during their four years at Georgetown. But in the three months he and Fran had been together, he had never even considered cheating on her. After Fran had entered Cassettiâs life, he had lost all desire for other women.
Cassetti wiped his face with his hand, telling himself it was water that had blown up from under the bridge rather than tears. Margerete would have returned to Washington by the time he returned from Sudan. And a decision would have to be made. A decision, he knew, that would affect the rest of his life.
The bottom line, as Ronnie Cassetti saw it, was that he owed Margerete. But he wanted Fran.
Cassettiâs tormented thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of running footsteps and huffs and puffs approaching from his right. Turning back toward the direction from which heâd come, he saw an elderly man wearing a striped robe and matching headdress shoving people to the side as he ran and limped toward the top of the bridge. A second commotion of some kind was occurring farther down the bridge, past the old man, with other people sprawling on the ground.
Cassetti squinted but was unable to make out the source of the problem.
As the elderly man reached the top of the bridge, Cassetti could see that he held a white envelope in his left hand. With his right, he clutched his chest, as if he might be about to have a heart attack. Cassetti was surprised further when the old man stopped next to him against the railing.
âI haveâ¦seen you,â the old man gasped out. âAmerican?â
Cassetti nodded.
âWriter?â came another gasp. âAmerican writer?â
Cassetti nodded again.
The old man grabbed Cassettiâs hands and pushed the envelope between them. âYou take,â he said in heavily accented English. âGoââ He never finished the sentence.
Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, and the old man in the robe folded at the waist. A second later, he was on the ground, his open eyes staring sightlessly up at the clear blue North African sky.
Ronnie Cassetti stared down at him, confused, but another shot brought him out of his trance.
Now Cassetti could see what had caused the second disturbance behind the old man. Two equally dark complected figuresâboth dressed in lightweight tropical suitsâwere pushing their way along the crowded footpath toward him. Both held pistols in their hands, and more shots exploded as the men raced toward him.
Ronnie Cassetti was no fool. These shots were meant for him.
The envelope still clamped in his hand, Cassetti turned and sprinted down the other side of the White Nile Bridge. He didnât have the slightest idea what the envelope contained or why men were willing to kill for it. But he had no doubt that the envelope was what this was all about.