Fly by Night (21 page)

Schmitt finished at the desk and pointed to him. “Come with me. I want this story from both you and Boudreau.”

Davis stepped out into the hallway.

Schmitt reached by him and pulled the heavy office door closed. A red “locked” light on the keypad illuminated. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

“Sure.”

They were nearly to the door when Davis felt the phone in his pocket buzz.

“I’ll catch up,” he said.

Schmitt turned around and gave him a pained look, but that didn’t mean much—it was how the man went through life. Forty-something years ago he’d come out of the womb and gotten slapped by an obstetrician, and Bob Schmitt had been slapping the world back ever since. But right now he was a man on a mission, so he disappeared out the door.

Davis saw a message to call Larry Green. He dialed, and Green picked up halfway through the first ring. Like he’d been waiting with his hand poised on the receiver.

“Jammer, I’m glad you called. How’s everything going?”

At the moment, Davis figured he could answer that in a very negative way, but Jen had been telling him he needed to become a more positive person. He said, “There are indications I’m making progress.”

“Good. I saw Darlene Graham today, and we figured a few things out.”

“I’m glad somebody has.”

“We’ve been going down the wrong path. An airplane
did
go down that night. We have radio traffic and satellite photos to confirm it. Right time, right place.”

“Wait a minute. You told me an FBN airplane took off, flew some circles, then went right back and landed.”

“It did, but there’s more to it. The radar returns I saw for that night showed a shadow. It came and went, so I originally figured it was just a glitch in the processing. You’ve done enough radar work to know how common queertrons like that are.”

“Sure. But now you don’t think it was a spurious return?”

“Nope. I think it was a two-ship formation.”

Davis took a few moments to think about that. “You know, if you put it together with the rest—a lost drone, some telemetry hardware—do you realize what we could be looking at?”

“I know what you’re going to say, Jammer. Exactly what came to my mind. I suggested to Darlene Graham that they might have tried to fly Blackstar, maybe with the other airplane as some kind of mother ship to control it.”

“Is that feasible?”

“The engineers back here say there’s absolutely no way. Two reasons. First, Blackstar has some very advanced flight control software, all fly-by-wire stuff. The inputs come over a secure satellite link from halfway around the world, and there’s no way anybody could duplicate that feed—everything is strictly encrypted and the frequency hops around constantly.”

“Okay,” Davis said. “And the other reason?”

“That’s the slam dunk. This is our latest stealth platform. According to Director Graham, Blackstar would have been invisible to the type of radar that took the pictures I saw. You wouldn’t get the slightest blip.”

“Okay, good point. But if it wasn’t Blackstar, then what kind of two-ship formation was out flying around in the middle of the night?”

“Beats me,” Green said. “I guess the important thing is that
something
went down in the water.”

Davis added, “And we know it wasn’t N2012L, which is what somebody wants us to believe.”

“That somebody being Rafiq Khoury?”

“Most likely.”

There was a prolonged silence before Green said, “Jammer, I don’t like how this whole thing is going down. Darlene won’t be happy, but I’m pulling you out. Get on the next plane home, we’ll have a beer tomorrow night. The CIA can fix this mess on their own.”

Davis didn’t say anything right away. He’d always known his old boss as a bundle of energy, a guy who could never sit still, so right now Davis had a mental picture of Green circling his desk as if he were training for some kind of office marathon.

“Larry, do you have good coordinates on this crash site?”

“Did you not hear me? I said get out now—that’s an order, mister!”

Davis said, “You know what I did last night, Larry? I went for a walk in the desert, over by that hangar. And do you know what I found?”

No reply.

“Two bodies. They were buried out there in the sand, only not very deep. Some dogs had started digging them up. After I left, a few of Khoury’s people went out with a backhoe and dug a little deeper. Later, I identified one of the bodies. Can you guess?”

Green responded, “The two Ukrainians?”

“Yep.” Davis let that sit for a few seconds, then said, “I don’t like
how this is going down either. But two pilots are dead and Bob Schmitt is running a flying unit. Fire me if you want, but I’ve got things to do. Now, I want those coordinates.”

“You really are a dumbass, Jammer.”

Davis said nothing. Green relented and read off the latitude-longitude set. Davis searched the operations counter, found a pen and a scrap of paper, and scribbled the numbers down.

“Where do you take it from here?” Green asked.

Davis knew the answer to that question. But he didn’t say it, because his attention was now riveted outside. A big SUV was heading right for Boudreau’s bullet-ridden airplane. Davis suspected he knew who was inside.

“Larry, I gotta go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Davis walked out into the heat.

He made it to the airplane just ahead of the advancing Land Rover. The truck rolled to a stop in front of the bullet-riddled DC-3. The driver’s door opened, and an immense man got out. He was taller than Davis by a good two inches, outweighed him by fifty pounds. His arms and legs belonged on an oak. He was dark skinned, with close-cropped black hair on a head the size of a basketball. His cheeks were dark, the kind of five o’clock shadow that didn’t care what time it was. As he walked around the front of the Rover, Davis was sure he felt the guy’s footsteps transmit through the ground—like a Tyrannosaurus rex out for a stroll.

T. rex opened the passenger door, and Rafiq Khoury stepped out. Dark glasses, bird’s nest beard, slender limbs. Just like the photo Davis had seen. The cleric walked toward them—no, he flowed toward them, an apparition of white cotton fluttering in the torrid breeze.

“What has happened?” Khoury asked, addressing Schmitt.

Davis wondered how Khoury knew that
anything
had happened.

Schmitt looked cautious—like any American who worked for a fundamentalist Muslim cleric would. He said, “There was trouble on our delivery to Congo today. Some gunfire broke out while the airplane was on the ground, right as they were finishing the unload. The airplane took a few hits.”

Khoury looked over the aircraft—even a nonflier couldn’t miss the damage—and then swiped a fleeting glance at Davis who was standing away from the rest.

“And the crew?” the imam asked.

Boudreau said, “Achmed is still down there. We don’t know what happened to him.”

Ever so slightly, Khoury’s head cocked to one side. Davis would have given anything to see the expression hidden behind his knock-off Serengetis. As if to accommodate, Khoury walked toward him. He stopped right in front of Davis and very slowly pulled his glasses away from his eyes. Davis was taken aback, struck by the intense, mismatched gaze. That hadn’t been in the file, hadn’t been in the lone photo in which Khoury’s eyes were masked behind dark glasses. Davis almost felt as if he was looking at two different souls. Yet it struck him, aside from the eyes, that there was nothing special about the rest of the man. Take those away, put Khoury in a suit and tie, add a decent haircut and a shave, and he might have been a fastener salesman at a convention. Which somehow put even more emphasis on his gaze.

“I am Imam Rafiq Khoury. I manage FBN Aviation. You are the investigator who has come to help us?” The cleric’s English was good, if a little deliberate.

Davis considered a number of smart-ass replies, but said, “I am. The name’s Jammer Davis.”

“I understand that you were also on this flight today, Mr. Davis. May I ask why?”

Davis thought,
Because you and Schmitt sent me
. He said, “Because I wanted to check out your operation.”

Khoury nodded. It was a good answer, convenient for everyone. He asked, “And what did you think?”

“I think your captain did a first-rate job.” Davis nodded toward the airplane. “The rest speaks for itself.”

“We must all pray for Achmed’s safety. He is a strong young man, and Allah will be with him.”

“Yeah,” Davis said, “he seemed like a great kid. The kind of kid who always did what he was told.”

Khoury stared at Davis with his incongruous green-and-brown gaze. With far less deliberation than he had used to remove them, Khoury put his glasses back on. He reminded Davis of an actor, every movement and word calculated for effect. But Davis didn’t allow himself
to be distracted. Didn’t lose his SA. While he and Khoury had been staring each other down, the big guy had slowly arced around behind Davis, almost as if he was stalking. Like T. rex’s probably did millions of years ago. Yet if there was a scent of trouble on the air, it dissipated when Rafiq Khoury took a step back.

“Tell me, Mr. Davis, how does your investigation progress? We have been operating our airline for nearly a year, and this tragic crash is our only case of misfortune.”

Davis looked over the bullet-riddled airplane behind them. “If we don’t count today’s misfortune.”

“I am sure our mechanics can repair the damage.”

“And I’m sure you can recruit a new kid to fill the hole in the right seat.”

Khoury stiffened, but said nothing. Davis figured the imam wasn’t used to being challenged. Around here, arguing with Khoury was tantamount to arguing with God. But even if Davis had been a man with strong religious leanings—even if he was a Muslim—he couldn’t imagine turning to this man for anything spiritual. Khoury struck him as a manipulator and nothing more.

Loudly enough for everyone to hear, Davis said, “Since you’re here, Mr. Khoury, maybe I could ask you about the airplane that went down.”

The imam hesitated, and Davis imagined his eyes moving fast behind the dark glasses. Searching for help.

Schmitt tried to give it. “What could the sheik know that would help your investigation?”

Davis kept his gaze locked on Khoury. “You seem to have connections.”

“I have many followers.”

“Do any of them work in the government?”

No response.

Davis continued, “You see, I was wondering if any wreckage might have been discovered along the coast. When an airplane goes down in the water there’s always debris, so something should have been found by now. Seat cushions, plastic fittings, maybe a wing floating on an
empty fuel tank. It might have been picked up by a fisherman, or maybe washed ashore. There’s even a chance that the body of a crewmember might have been found, but we just haven’t heard about it.” Davis paused for effect. “Could you do that for me, Mr. Khoury? Ask around and see if any bodies have, you know, turned up?”

Davis let his gaze drift obviously to the T. rex who was still rooted a few steps behind him. He locked eyes with the brute. Everyone knew the storm flag had been raised. Knew it was snapping stiff in a force five gale of bullshit. Davis watched as Khoury considered how to respond. It wasn’t a short-term, tactical deliberation, but the longer strategic variety, like a chess player thinking five moves ahead. Only Davis doubted the imam was a good chess player. He figured Khoury for the type who would analyze things in a linear fashion.
My move, my move, my move, check
. Davis had played a little himself, and he knew that you had to consider your opponent’s countermoves. When you did, the mathematical possibilities got real big, real fast. And Davis had always been good at math.

“I have heard nothing,” Khoury said. “But I will see to it that the authorities are notified. It should be simple enough to have the police agencies along the coast report on the matter.”

“Great,” Davis said, beaming a huge smile. “My investigations always go faster when I get that kind of cooperation.”

Khoury turned to address Schmitt. “I must go now. If Mr. Davis needs anything else to aid his inquiries, see to it.”

“My pleasure,” the chief pilot said.

The imam walked briskly to the Land Rover. His T. rex stomped ahead to beat him there, and pulled open the door with forced delicacy, as if he didn’t want to rip it off its hinges by accident. A minute later, Rafiq Khoury’s British-made SUV swerved away.

Davis was the first to speak. “So who was the Sasquatch?” he asked.

Boudreau answered. “His name’s Hassan. Sort of a bodyguard, I guess. You never see Khoury without him.”

Schmitt added nothing.

With Khoury gone, the tension was sucked right out of the air.
Davis’ eyes skipped past the chief pilot and landed squarely on Boudreau. “Buy you a beer?”

The Louisianan smiled. “Captain always buys the first round.”

Boudreau bought the first round, and the second. By the fifth he was all alone.

It wasn’t an uncommon situation. No pilot ended up in a place like this—a makeshift watering hole in the African desert—without a sad story. As a career, aviation could be both rewarding and costly, both enlightening and depressing. Broken marriages were common. Stress-related illness—ulcers and high blood pressure—a fact of life. And some turned to drink. Boudreau was coming in for a landing after a tough day, and this was his way of keeping the right side up. Davis thought no less of the man. He’d faced his own demons when Diane had died, and might have hit the bottle hard had it not been for Jen. His daughter had needed him more than ever, and Davis made sure he was there for her with no complications or distractions. Over time, their bond had become more of a two-way street. Jen was
his
foundation now, a stabilizer for the top-heavy monument that was his aviator’s ego.