Fly by Night (31 page)

“What do you want here?” she said, her tone confrontational.

A sea of less confident eyes watched from around the tent.

“Are you in charge here?” Hassan asked.

“No.”

Hassan reached out with his massive hands and grabbed the woman by the neck. He began to squeeze and her eyes bulged, looking like they might come out of her head. She turned red, then purple. She slapped helplessly at Hassan’s massive forearms. He lifted her off the ground and looked around the tents, waiting for someone to come forward.

“Stop!” a voice shouted. A young man in doctor’s scrubs crossed over from an adjacent tent. He walked with authority, but stopped a good ten paces away.

Hassan eased his grip ever so slightly. Gurgling noises leaked from the nurse’s gullet, like an animal in its death throes.

“An American named Davis was here two days ago. Where is he now?”

The doctor hesitated, so Hassan cut off the gurgling. His victim began to lose all color.

“He went to the coast with one of our staff doctors.”

“Where?”

“The village of al-Asmat. Now let her go, please!”

Hassan seemed to consider the request. He released the nurse’s neck, shifted his hands down to her waist and raised her over his head like a human barbell. Hassan sent her flying toward the doctor who, to his credit, tried to catch the poor woman. The two tumbled to the dirt in a rolling heap of hospital attire and stethoscopes.

Hassan kicked over an empty cot and strode away.

When Davis rose the next morning, his waking thoughts were the same as when he’d faded off. Regina Antonelli. He hoped the delivery of the child had gone well. Even more, he hoped she was free again for dinner tonight. She’d been in his mind increasingly each day, but last night had reached a new plateau. It was a nice reboot for his outlook on life, a nice diversion from his troubled investigation. Now, however, the stark reality of another day’s light was pouring into his window, and Davis was forced back to less pleasurable concerns.

He sat up quickly, a minor mistake as his lower back clenched into a hard cramp. His head remembered the wine as well. Davis had no idea what time it was, but a look outside made it clear he’d already overslept his agreement with the old man—
Meet me at the boat at sunrise
.

Davis washed in a stone basin and donned his loaner shorts. Having dried overnight, they were stiff enough to stand on their own, but that would change as soon as he jumped back in the sea. Outside he found a breezeless morning, the sea air seeming even heavier than yesterday. Davis plodded over the hot sand with bare feet, something that wouldn’t be an option in another hour. The old man was waiting, sitting on the gunnel of his boat and whittling a gnarled piece of wood with a pocketknife. Whatever he was making, it was nothing artful. Rounded and with a handle, his project had the distinct appearance of utility, perhaps a reel for hand-line fishing. The old man wasn’t the sort to waste time, something Davis appreciated.

When he looked up and saw Davis, there was no recognizable expression, no annoyance at having had to wait. The old man simply put down his work, hopped off the boat, and went to a heavy canvas bag that was sitting on the hot sand.

Davis stopped right in front of him, and for the second day in a row said, “Good morning.”

The old man nodded without looking, then began extracting scuba gear from the bag. At least Davis thought it was scuba gear. There was a regulator with two accordion hoses, the kind that wrapped around both sides of your head and met in a mouthpiece. It looked like something Jacques-Yves Cousteau would have put in his garage sale fifty years ago. There was no backup octopus rig, no depth gauge or buoyancy compensator. The lone air tank, gray and corroded, didn’t even have a plastic boot on the bottom to keep it upright.
Beggars can’t be choosers,
Davis thought. He hooked up the regulator to the tank, opened the air valve, and heard a brief hiss as the system charged with pressure. Then he heard another hiss, this one softer. One that didn’t stop. He found the leak in the right-hand air hose, just under a stencil that warned of something in Cyrillic.

The old man was looking at him.

Davis lifted a foot, and used a flat hand to imitate a swimming fin. “Any fins?”

The old man shrugged. Not a chance. There was a slight gleam of anticipation in his gaze. Davis supposed the old guy had a great time last night telling his buddies how they’d spent their day on Shark Reef. And he probably couldn’t wait to see what lunacy the big American was going to come up with today.

Davis shut off the air and put his hands on his hips. When he’d asked for scuba gear this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. It was probably something the Soviets had left behind back in the Cold War days. Khrushchev’s Cold War days. There was no pressure gauge, so Davis didn’t know much air he had. There might be enough for an hour on the bottom, or he might have five minutes. In the end there was really no choice. This was likely the only diving gear in a hundred mile
radius. For sure, the only gear he was going to find today. So Davis was committed, because even one minute with the wreckage might give him his answer, might explain why X85BG had made its last touch-down fifty feet beneath the Red Sea.

“I thought you could use this.”

Davis turned and saw an angel carrying a big cup of coffee.

He took it with reverence. “Bless you.”

“Sleep well?” Antonelli asked.

“Always.” He took a long hearty sip. “So did the village population go up by one last night?”

“Two.”

“Twins? Good thing you were there.”

“There are midwives. That’s how it’s been done for a long time. But yes, a little training always helps.”

He sipped again while he looked over the scuba gear. “So how much did I pay to rent this stuff?”

“One hundred U.S.”

Davis shook his head. “I guess the pirate culture is alive and well in the Horn of Africa.”

The old man said something to Antonelli.

She relayed to Davis, “He says you must go soon. The air is heavy today, and rain may come in the afternoon.”

“Rain? It does that here?”

“On occasion.”

“Tell him I need a few things before we go. Half a dozen plastic jugs, empty, the bigger the better. A screwdriver, a hacksaw, and maybe a claw hammer.”

Antonelli stared at him quizzically.

“Hand tools work just as well underwater. The jugs act as salvage buoys. If I find something I want to bring up, I can tie them on and fill them with air.”

As Antonelli passed on the request, Davis picked up two fist-sized lumps of coral from the beach and dropped them into the boat. The old man didn’t bat an eye as he walked off. He was probably having
great mental fun picturing what Davis was going to do fifty feet underwater with saws and hammers and rocks.

“So are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Barring any new arrivals. But there is one bit of sad news.”

“What’s that?”

“There will be no wine. Apparently we drank all they had in the village.”

“Wow. I’ve never single-handedly drunk a town dry before.”

“You had my help.”

“Right.”

“Will you be long?” she asked.

“Five hours, maybe six. It depends on how much air is in this tank.”

Antonelli studied the equipment. “It looks quite old.”

“It belongs in a museum.”

“Is it safe?”

“About as safe as the airplanes I’ve been flying lately.”

She gave him a rueful glare.

Twenty minutes later Davis was seated backward in the boat, the old man steering by Mr. Gamun’s instructions. Back on the beach, he saw Antonelli give a subdued wave. Davis returned it. He liked the doctor. Liked her a lot. In some strange corollary, he even found himself wondering if Jen would like her. But that was a question for another day. Right now Davis had to plan.

Not knowing how long he would have on the bottom of the sea, it was important that he prioritize his inspection of the wreckage, consider which parts of the airplane to study first. The cockpit was high on the list because he needed to know who’d been flying X85BG. He suspected it was a pair of Sheik Khoury’s Sudanese contingent, although according to Boudreau and the others no crewmembers other than the Ukrainians had gone AWOL. Still, somebody had flown the airplane from Khartoum to its watery grave. Hopefully somebody
with a wallet or a passport, something to explain who they were and what they’d been doing. Davis also had to look at the configuration of the airplane. Were the gear and flaps extended? Had the engines been shut down? He’d look for obvious signs of distress, like a damage pattern from a missile strike, or soot from a fire. Anything to tell him what tragedy had befallen the last flight of X85BG.

More importantly, anything that would tell him what the hell Rafiq Khoury was up to.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When they arrived at the crash site, the old man tossed over an anchor—actually a concrete block on a rope—and Davis dove in with only the mask. He spotted the wreckage instantly. Mr. Gamun had them right on the spot. Davis clambered back into the boat and began to don the scuba gear. The harness consisted of a collection of straps and a metal ring to hold the tank in place. Sized medium at best, the rig fit over Davis’ shoulders like a dog bridle on a horse. Even with the straps fully extended, he had to leave two buckles unlatched, flapping by his hips. He decided it was secure enough to keep everything in place for one dive.

Davis grabbed the hammer and got the old man’s attention. He leaned toward the transom and banged the hammer three times on the engine’s lower housing. He handed over the hammer, held up three fingers, and jabbed his thumb in an upward motion.
Three bangs, I come up
.

The skipper nodded like he got it.

Davis put on his mask and stood in the gear, his legs bending in rhythm with the rocking boat. He reached down and picked up the coral he’d taken from the beach and wedged the rocks into his pockets. This would act as his weight belt, to be discarded in the event of negative buoyancy. He put the screwdriver in a back pocket, but decided to leave the hacksaw and bottles here. He’d come back later if he needed them. That was it. Davis was breaking pretty much every rule in the dive book. He didn’t have fins or decompression tables or a wrist computer. His divemaster was a hundred-year-old Sudanese
fisherman who didn’t speak the same language. Davis didn’t even have a diver’s most critical safety instrument—a buddy.

He nodded toward the old man.

The old man nodded back and leaned to the port side of the boat to act as a counterweight. He was smiling again.

Davis turned to starboard. One giant step later, he splashed into the crystalline blue water.

“Have you seen Davis today?” Khoury asked, already knowing the answer. His chief pilot was on the other end of the phone.

“No,” Schmitt said, “the last time I saw him was Friday, when he got back from the Congo.”

“Very well,” said Khoury. “But if you should see him, tell him to contact me. I wish to speak to him.”

Schmitt remained silent, not inquiring about the subject. Khoury’s doubts about the man were fed once again.

“Tell me about tomorrow’s flight,” he continued. “Are you prepared?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah, I’ll be ready. But I don’t like it. It’d be nice to know what the hell is going on. First all my pilots are either deported or disappear, and now we’re flying again?”

“I have told you, the flight tomorrow involves a joint military project between Sudan and Egypt. You will be delivering a specially instrumented airplane to an airfield near Cairo.”

“The airfield you showed me on the map?” Schmitt asked.

“Yes. After arriving, transportation has been arranged to take you to Cairo. All your exit papers are in order.”

“And the rest of my money?”

“Did you not receive the first installment?”

“I called the bank. It’s there.”

“Good. And once you have completed your contract, the rest of your severance will follow.”

“Three days ago you told me we’d be hiring soon. Now FBN is shutting down?”

“Enough!” Khoury barked. “I do not answer to you. We have been
more than generous. If you would rather, I can send Hassan right now. He has matchless talents when it comes to escorting malcontents to the door.”

“All right,” Schmitt said. “I’ll be there bright and early. What am I going to do for a copilot?”

“Achmed has returned, praise be to Allah.”

“Achmed?” Another long silence, then, “Yeah, what a blessing.”

Khoury hung up and sighed deeply. He wished he did not have to rely on Schmitt, but there was simply no other way. None of his more loyal pilots were up to the task. Achmed would at least take the copilot’s seat to monitor Schmitt and make sure he did nothing destructive.

A knock from the inner hangar door startled Khoury. Muhammad had gone home for the day, so it could only be one person.

“Come, Fadi.”

The engineer entered. Khoury thought he looked tired and haggard, even more so than usual. He felt a pang of concern.

“I have finished, sheik. All is ready.”

Khoury rose and embraced the young man, a gesture of goodwill that was truly heartfelt. “One day to spare. You have done well, Fadi. Allah smiles upon us.”

“Yes, sheik.”

Khoury kept an arm around Jibril’s shoulder and led him to a chair.

“There is something I must ask you,” Jibril said, taking a seat.

“Anything.”

“My part here will soon be done.”

“Yes, and you have performed brilliantly.”

“Afterward …” Jibril hesitated, “Yasmin worries where I will find work.”

“Fadi, a man of you talents will never be wasted.”

“But you see, my wife wishes to return to the West. I know I can find work there, yet—”

“You worry that what happens tomorrow will be tied to us,” Khoury suggested. “Do not be concerned, my son. We know how
unforgiving the Israelis can be, so we have gone to great lengths to ensure that this strike can never be brought back to us. The Mossad may buzz with anger, but nothing can ever be proven. That is the beauty of using American hardware, don’t you see?”