Free The Exile by Andrew Britton

Sudan, stood at the small, barred window of his corner office and sipped from a cup of steaming black coffee, his twelfth of the day. As he took in the sweeping view of downtown Khartoum—the chaotic jumble of dun-colored buildings, olive green trees, and domed mosques that formed the city center, all of it backed by the towering flats of Barlaman Avenue and divided by the twin routes of the Nile—he was suffused by a sense of burning resentment, the same bitter anger he felt each time he stopped to consider the prospect of another two years in the sweltering pit of North Africa.
    Reynolds had assumed the post of chargé d’affaires just ten months earlier, shortly after leaving his previous post in Côte d’Ivoire, but he was already sick of the place. In fact, he had been ready to leave the day he arrived, and it wasn’t just because of the heat.
    In his thirty years with the Foreign Service, Reynolds had come to understand just how vast the cultural gap between the United States and the rest of the world actually was. Nevertheless, he had always made an effort to appreciate the cultural practices of the countries to which he was assigned, even when he found them personally distasteful. He’d also learned that what counted as “acceptable” social behavior could vary greatly from country to country. He had done his best to take this in stride, and for the most part, he’d succeeded. After all, that was part of being a diplomat. Some level of feigned interest—or acceptance—was occasionally called for, and Reynolds could disguise his inner disgust with the best of them. During his time in Sudan, he’d found it necessary to do just that, and with far more frequency than usual.
    At least, that was how it had been prior to the disastrous events of April 4. Since the barbaric attack on Camp Hadith, everything had changed, and Reynolds no longer felt the urge—or the need—to mask how he truly felt. Over the last two months diplomatic relations between the United States and Sudan had essentially ceased to exist, and up until the previous afternoon Reynolds had been expecting the inevitable call from the State Department that would bring him, his wife, and the rest of the embassy staff home. Privately, he’d been wondering why the evacuation was so long in coming. Now he was starting to suspect it might not happen at all.
    Walter Reynolds was one of the few people who had known about Lily Durant’s presence in West Darfur—as well as her closely guarded relationship to the president—right from the start. He had met her just once, on the day she had first arrived. That had been several months earlier. They had kept the meeting short for the sake of discretion, but despite the brevity of that encounter, he’d found her to be an exceptionally charming, if somewhat naïve young woman. The fact that she had volunteered for such thankless work was more than enough to earn his genuine admiration, as he had visited the camps of West Darfur, and he knew just how terrible the conditions actually were. Not just for the refugees, but for the aid workers themselves.
    The knowledge that someone would actually choose to live in such squalor in order to help others had done much to restore his faith in humanity, which had been sorely lacking since he had arrived in Khartoum. The only thing that worried him was Durant’s blatant lack of concern regarding her personal security. She had politely but firmly brushed off his warnings, despite what had happened to John Granville, a senior USAID official who had been killed in Khartoum some years back, along with his driver, a Sudanese national. Reynolds had painted a colorful picture with that story, trying to impress upon her the danger of working in such an unstable environment. But she would not be dissuaded, and he could not help but admire her tenacity even as he privately feared for her personal safety.
    He