Free Rare Earth by Davis Bunn

authorizing you to fly in sufficient supplies to keep these camps operational for the next ten days. No, let us be realistic and make it the next three weeks. And don’t forget medical supplies, will you, Mr. Royce?”
    Marc watched the man print out the instructions and knew he was being handed a blank check. “Absolutely not.”
    â€œBe sure and include as many Plumpy Nut packets as you have in stock. I am seeing too many children with swollen bellies. And I dislike that among my children. I dislike that intensely.” Uhuru signed the document with a flourish, then ponderously pushed himself from the table. “Be so good as to accompany me, Mr. Royce.”
    As they left the mess hall, Kitra remained seated in the far corner, isolated by the shadows. She lifted her head and gave Marc a silent plea. Marc nodded once in reply and followed Uhuru into the dusk.
    They crossed the central yard and started down the main road toward the exit gates. As they passed the chief’s encampment, Uhuru lifted his hand and called a cheery farewell in what Marc assumed was Swahili. Two of the camp’s elders responded in kind. The administrator’s aides and one of Kamal’s men followed at a discreet distance. Marc figured he would never have a better chance to ask. “I need a favor.”
    â€œOf course I will help if I can, Mr. Royce.”
    â€œOne of the medics here has gone missing.”
    â€œI am aware of this. Serge Korban, yes? Nine days and counting. I fear his chances are not good.” The declaration did not alter the man’s apparent good humor. “Korban is an interesting name. Do you happen to know where he is from?”
    â€œIsrael.”
    â€œAh. So many people are drawn to our country in times of tragedy. From so many places. And here you are, newly arrived, and already you have taken on the woes of the missing man’s lovely young sister.”
    â€œCan you help?”
    â€œI doubt it, Mr. Royce. I doubt it most sincerely. Serge Korban had entered an official no-go area, and did so without proper authorization.”
    â€œHe was investigating why a village had been displaced.”
    â€œA curious task for a medic, wouldn’t you say? And you know what curiosity did to the cat.” Their footsteps scrunched over the loamy earth. Marc felt eyes press on him from all sides. “I also want you to fly in tents. We need to establish satellites of existing camps to the west of here. Tell your Nairobi office to supply us with ten thousand tents, on a cost-plus basis. As swiftly as possible.”
    Marc did not know what to say, so he settled on, “Thank you.”
    â€œWhat brings you to Kenya, Mr. Royce? I find this most interesting. Is it merely a nose for profit, or is more at work?”
    Marc sensed the piercing quality of an experienced diplomat, probing deep beneath the surface. “We were talking about tents. And Serge.”
    â€œWe were talking about whatever it is that I wish to speak on. And I detect a reluctance to discuss your own motives.” As they passed through the camp gates, Uhuru waved a hand in response to the guard’s salute. Uhuru said, “I only ask because I wish to know what it is that drives my new fixer.”
    â€œI’m sorry, what?”
    â€œFixer is a long-established title in this line of work. A fixer does anything and everything for a profit. They make things work when everything else is broken down. Communications, transport, supplies, all gone. And yet a fixer makes the impossible happen. My first fixer, that was in Nigeria back in the eighties. The man made his reputation by supplying ice cream in the middle of a heat wave. The power was knocked out, the roads were melted, even helicopters could not fight the invisible heat drafts. Six weeks it had been like this, people driven mad by the heat and the lack of drinking water. And suddenly this fixer delivers five hundred gallons of ice