Fly by Night (25 page)

Davis was putting everything back where he’d found it when he heard a noise from the hallway. He took one last look in the top drawer and spotted a cell phone on the bottom. One that looked a lot like the one he’d been issued. The one he’d annihilated. He thought,
They really do hand them out like candy
. Davis pulled it out and hit the power button. Nothing happened. A dead battery perhaps. Or it might be broken. Then again, Schmitt could have confiscated the handset from someone else and disabled it. A lot of possibilities.

Davis put the phone back where he’d found it, and once again pondered the chances of Bob Schmitt being a CIA source. It was no
minor coincidence to find a CIA-issued phone in the man’s three-drawer file, but there were any number of scenarios that might have put it there. Davis wasn’t ready to trust Schmitt. Not yet.

“What are you doing here?”

Davis wheeled around and saw part of the skeleton crew from the front desk, the taller set of bones.

Davis said, “I’m investigating.”

“You should not be in here!” the man said.

Wanting to keep him off balance, Davis said, “Never despair of God’s mercy.” It was a quote from the Koran, the only one he knew.

“You are not Muslim.”

“Me? No, I’m a pugilist agnostic.”

The guy stared at him blankly.

Davis explained, “I believe in hitting people—I just don’t know who.” He took a step toward the man.

Bones looked over his shoulder for help, but didn’t find any. He said, “Abu is calling the security forces!”

“I’ve already met the security forces,” Davis replied. “They’re not coming.” He kept advancing.

The skeleton took one step back, followed by another. And then he was gone.

Seconds later, so was Davis.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The arriving helicopter was late, but Rafiq Khoury was in no position to complain.

It was half past eight in the morning, and he was standing on the tarmac next to Hassan, trying to stand straight as the settling chopper’s downwash raked across them. The sound was penetrating, a thumping pulse that carried right through Khoury’s body, rattling his bones and his brain. The aircraft was a twin to the one General Ali had brought last time, a heavy Russian gunship bristling with antenna and armament. Khoury was sure there were other helicopters in Sudan—he had seen government ministers riding in civilian models that were far sleeker and quieter—but he supposed the general preferred this type for that very reason. It rattled people.

The machine crouched onto the concrete, and a crewman wearing a helmet beckoned them with a wave. For once, Hassan did not let Khoury lead. He strode ahead and climbed aboard, leaving the imam to follow. Khoury struggled to get a leg up into the cabin and, after three failed attempts, felt himself being pulled up by the elbows and directed none too delicately to a webbed seat. The crewman buckled Khoury’s lap belt, slid the access door closed, and the symphony of racket began—churning gears and vibrating rotors.

Khoury held fast to the frame of his seat as the big machine began to levitate. Hassan had taken the seat across, shoulder to shoulder with General Ali. The minister of defense was decked out in his finest regalia. Together the two men made an imposing pair. Ali was not as tall as Hassan, yet his thick chest and heavy gut would sum to a balance on any scale. The general’s pockmarked face held a twinge of amusement
as Hassan whispered into his ear. Or maybe he wasn’t whispering—the ambient noise was deafening.

“Is everything ready?” Ali barked across the divide.

“Yes,” Khoury said. “Jibril is still working, but he says all will be ready.”

“And the rest?”

“I have formally dismissed all employees except the Americans.”

“What about Achmed?” the general asked.

“I received his call this morning. He expects to return tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. Flights out of the Congo do not always run as scheduled.”

“Let us hope he returns in time. We will need him come Tuesday. What about the hangar?”

“Everything is being prepared for Monday’s transformation. I particularly liked your idea about the flag.”

Khoury saw it again, crinkles of cruel amusement at the margins of the general’s expression. He was impressed, in a way, that the man could still find humor given the stakes. Come Tuesday’s upheaval, there would certainly be moments of indecision and panic, a degree of unpredictability that could put them all at risk. The general had the benefit of foresight, but his light mood spoke a confidence that Khoury did not wholly share. He looked out the small window and saw the hangar in the distance. The general had picked them up on the opposite side of the airport—as had long been the case, he kept his distance from FBN Aviation, lest anyone make an association.

General Ali said, “There was an unattractive incident last night involving some of my men at a checkpoint outside the airfield.”

“I heard nothing of it,” Khoury replied.

Hassan leaned in again to whisper. The general nodded and said, “It may involve your American investigator.”

“Davis?” Khoury asked.

“Yes. I want your help in dealing with him.”

Khoury had seen the general “deal” with people before. It was not a pretty sight. “What can I do?” Khoury asked.

“Since he lives in your compound,” Ali said sarcastically, “perhaps you could
find
him. He has committed crimes.”

“Will you arrest him? Would that be wise? It could draw attention to our work, and since he is here as the official representative of—”

“He has committed crimes!” Ali interrupted, leaning his massive bulk forward. “My soldiers have begun to look for him. When we return today you will do your part.” He raised a blunt finger. “We cannot afford to have him interfering at this critical moment. Find him and give him to me!”

Khoury held steady. He knew the general relied on intimidation for his livelihood. It was his stock in trade. Yet Khoury was a master of opportunism. He said, “But Davis
is
an American. If your men should take him into custody, what would they do? Throw him in prison? I suggest we put him to far better use.”

The general calmed as he considered this. “Yes, perhaps you are right. But first we must find him. When we return from our tour today, that is your priority.”

“Rest easy, General. A man like him in our country? He has nowhere to hide.”

Davis woke with his shoulder slumped against the passenger door of the truck cab. Antonelli had offered to drive the first shift, knowing he’d had a long night, and she was there next to him, concentrating on the road, dark eyes sharp with two hands hugging the steering wheel in a wide bus driver’s grip. The highway was better than most, so Davis reckoned they had been making good time. Yet the miles covered had done nothing to change the scenery outside. Still parched vegetation, brittle and sun-yellowed, clinging to life on loose rocks and sand. Still God’s xeriscape.

The cab of the truck was cramped for such a large vehicle, and even with the seat all the way back Davis’ knees were wedged against the glove compartment. It was also hot. If there was an air conditioner, it wasn’t keeping up. Davis wondered briefly if this was where FBN’s mechanics had gotten the big compressor for their own truck. If so,
then the behemoth was spinning a unit from a Ford F-150 under its massive hood. It certainly felt like it.

Davis looked over his shoulder and saw a young man riding in the open bed, the kid he’d last seen in a cot in the clinic. He was crammed into a shady spot amid the cargo, leaning on a wooden crate. His arm was in a sling and his face was heavily bandaged. Otherwise, he’d been cleaned up and looked much improved. Eighteen-year-old bodies had a way of healing fast. Antonelli looked better too, the only marks from her assault being a few scrapes on one hand and a bruised cheek. She looked over and caught his gaze.

“Good morning,” she said.

Davis shifted higher in his seat. “Morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I always sleep well.” Davis noted the sun brooding high overhead. “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock, perhaps ten thirty.”

Under present circumstances, he figured that was close enough. He said, “I left my watch in my room. Actually, I left everything in my room.”

“When we arrive at al-Asmat, we can stop at the shopping mall and put you in some new clothes.”

Davis looked over and saw a slight grin. He gave one back.

Antonelli shifted her eyes to the road and steered around a tumbleweed that was rolling into their path. Davis took that moment of distraction to check her ring finger. He didn’t see a wedding band, although there was a faint tan line where one might have been. Which made for a lot of possibilities. It could be that she wasn’t married. Or maybe she was, but didn’t want to flash bling in such an impoverished country. Davis
could
just ask. He didn’t.

He said, “How far to the coast?”

“Our drive will take most of the day. We should arrive early this evening.”

Antonelli started to wrestle with a road map, turning it back and forth with her free hand. After a few tries she handed it to Davis.

“You can be our navigator. I think there is a turn soon, but I can’t find it.”

“A paper map? Don’t see these much anymore.” He took it and saw the problem right away. Davis began straightening the factory folds, and once he had it fully open, put the origin at the bottom and their destination on top, then made the creases he wanted.

“There’s an art to this,” he said. “Spend a few years in the cockpit of a small jet, and you learn how to tame a chart. You have to fold so that only the part you want shows—the rest is superfluous.” He finished and showed her a nice neat rectangle that covered their entire route. “See? Jammer’s map origami. I’m a master.”

She looked mildly impressed. “Are you an equally good investigator?”

“Not really. I’m more of a nuisance than a detective. But I get results.”

“How is your work progressing on this crash? Do you have a solution yet?”

“Somebody suggested one to me when I got here. But everything I’ve turned up so far has proved that theory wrong. I actually found the airplane that was supposed to have crashed sitting on the tarmac over at the airport.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “You cannot be serious.”

Davis nodded. “And then I found the crew.” He left it at that, not wanting to expand on the specifics of that revelation.

“So you are saying there was no crash?”

“I don’t know, I’m still working on it. I thought I might ask around when we get to al-Asmat. If something did go down it was close to there, about twenty miles north.”

“You’ll need my help. I speak Arabic and few in the village speak English.”

Antonelli began telling him about al-Asmat. As she did, she drove like all Italians—one hand steering, the other talking. The village sounded like a simple place, and right now that appealed to Davis. He needed a little time to slow down and think things through.

“About what you did last evening,” she said. “I want to thank you again. It was very noble.”

“Actually, it was very stupid. But I’ve done dumber things. Practically made a career of it.”

“Yes, I imagine you have.”

He gave her the grin that deserved, then asked, “How many times have you come to Sudan?”

“This is my third tour.”

She said this like it was some kind of combat duty. From what he’d seen, it nearly was.

She added, “I would like to come back again next year and—”

Antonelli’s thought was cut short, and Davis followed her eyes. A vehicle was coming in the opposite direction. At least Davis thought it was a vehicle—at the moment it was no more than a cloud of dust. He watched closely to see what materialized out of the brown mist, and it wasn’t good. A small military convoy, three vehicles. Or to be exact, three EQ-2050s, China’s knock-off clone of the U.S. Humvee. In his previous life, Davis had been required to memorize the silhouettes and capabilities of ground combat vehicles, both the good and bad guy versions. Air-to-ground pilots had to know things like that before they started bombing and strafing.

“Will they stop us?” he asked.

“Not without reason.” Antonelli banged on the rear window and pointed ahead. The young man in the cargo bed nodded, acknowledging the warning.

She said, “We have our aid agency markings displayed prominently.”

“Those soldiers back at the airport didn’t seem to care.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. He saw her hands go tight on the steering wheel. The little convoy closed in, then passed and kept going. No hesitation at all. The cloud of dust behind them began to recede. Davis watched until it disappeared completely.

Antonelli heaved a sigh of relief. “They seemed in a hurry,” she said. “Do you think—”

“No,” he said quickly. “What I did last night was nothing in a place like this. They’ll send out the police to ask a few questions, maybe add a squad of soldiers at the checkpoint. But nobody’s going to bother with a country-wide manhunt.”

The cab went quiet and Davis looked ahead, watching for anything else coming their way. All he saw was heat shimmering on an empty road, mirage-like waves that disassembled the horizon.

“You want me to drive for a while?” he asked.

She smiled appreciatively. “Yes, perhaps soon.”

The smile captured Davis. He studied her features and decided that she could never be anything but Italian. Straight nose and olive skin. Roman eyes, dark and lively. There was a regalness about her.

“Contessa,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You look like a contessa.”

“Have you ever seen one before?”

“Not that I know of. But if I did, she’d look like you. I’m sure of it.”

She nodded. “I suppose that is a compliment.”

“I suppose. I’m starting to like you more and more, Contessa, in spite of the fact that the first time we met you took a swing at me.”

Another smile, this one starting slowly at one corner of her mouth, then spreading until lines came creased at the corners of her eyes. Antonelli’s olive gaze came alight as she said, “And I am starting to dislike you less and less.”