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He frowned. “Your targets are Americans, huh? Not many of them have business in this part of the world.”

“Hence my interest in why a pair of bubbas from Idaho would come to Khartoum.”

Ian looked startled. “Bubbas from Idaho? Wow. That is weird. And you’ve got no idea why they’re here?”

She shook her head. She did, in fact, have a few ideas, but none she cared to share with anyone.

“What were they up to back in Idaho?” Ian asked.

“Putting out poorly punctuated pamphlets about returning America to the values that made it a great country, starting with getting rid of all modern technology,” she replied. “And with a healthy dose of racism and xenophobia thrown in.”

“Luddites, huh?”

She shrugged. “The original 19thcentury Luddites in England smashed textile machinery that replaced human artisans. To date, the PHP haven’t shown any inclination to resort to violence. But this little junket to Sudan make me wonder if that’s about to change. Hence, my interest in what they’re doing here.”

What does PHP stand for?”

“Patrick Henry Patriots.”

“Hmm. He was a bit of a radical in his day.”

She replied, “Although he was stridently opposed to federal government, he never actually advocated terrorism.”

“What about the whole, ‘Give me liberty or give me death’ speech?”

She leaned forward eagerly. “Did you know that quote was only attributed to him decades after he’d died, in a biography? There’s no evidence he actually said those words. In fact, he was less of a radical than elementary school history books give him credit for.”

Ian replied thoughtfully, “A bunch of bubbas in Idaho probably wouldn’t make that distinction.”

“Nope. Not hardly,” she responded sourly.

Ian took another pull on the vodka. “What’s your assessment of these PHP guys?”

He was interested in her opinion? Whoa. She should get him half-drunk more often.

She shrugged. “Hard to tell what they really want. They have a fenced and heavily guarded compound that no outsiders are allowed inside. They don’t make trouble in the local area. Live almost entirely off the grid. Self-sufficient bunch. Mostly male, ranging from their 20’s to 50’s. A few wives and girlfriends who appear as committed to the cause as the men. I would’ve called them a garden-variety separatist group until this trip to Sudan. Now, I don’t know what to think of them.”

Ian’s only contribution was to grunt, “huh,” and take another swig of vodka before commenting, “K-town doesn’t sound their style. Not many white-bread American rednecks hanging around these parts.”

“I know. Right?”

“If Dharwani’s heard about them, they must be poking around the criminal underbelly of this town. Could they be looking to buy black-market military hardware?” Ian suggested.

She frowned. “Doesn’t fit their profile. They strike me as the kind to make a grand political statement rather than a simple terrorist attack.”

“I dunno. A man-portable missile through the front door of the U.S. Capitol Building would be a hell of a political statement.”

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. But her gut told her that wasn’t what the PHP guys were up to. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. They had shown themselves to be long-term planners. And they were certainly capable of plotting and executing a terrorist attack they perceived to be a grand political statement.

But why Sudan? Why Khartoum? She’d been asking herself those questions obsessively ever since she got here and still had no answers.

Frustrated, she turned her attention to Ian’s problem. “What’s your target doing here?”

He made a face. “Above my pay grade. I was just told to look out for a Palestinian who might be working the local marketplace.”

“Is he buying or selling?”

“That’s what I’m supposed to find out.”