Fly by Night

by Ward Larsen

  “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.”

  Rafiq Khoury had never been to Egypt, so as the helicopter made its final approach he was glued to the window. The landscape looked no different from Sudan, flat and brown and arid. The only landscape he had ever known. He could see the city of Giza in the distance, low earthen buildings arranged in no particular scheme. Khoury heard lively chatter from the two pilots, and shifted his gaze forward. In the front windscreen, framed by their shoulders, he saw a view that took his breath away.

  It was a vision of legends, of pharaohs and ancient civilizations. The impression of size was heightened by the motion of the helicopter—the pyramid of Giza seemed to rise as their aircraft descended, the massive tomb reaching up to almost touch the blue sky. It was the same impression people had likely been having for thousands of years, but for Rafiq Khoury the effect was doubly inspiring. This was not only an ancient treasure to behold. This was their objective. After six months of hard work, Khoury had arrived at the site where his metamorphosis would be finalized—from wretched prisoner to member of the ruling elite.

  The helicopter touched down, and Khoury saw a contingent of Egyptian soldiers outside turn their heads aside to avoid the wave of dust. They were not enlisted men, but rather officers in dress uniform. There was even a red carpet laid out across the sand. As this was an official government visit, the Egyptians had dispensed with any kind of customs inspection. Khoury imagined he could get used to such conveniences. No, he would get used to them.

  A crewman opened the side door of the helicopter. Being nearest the opening, Khoury started to move, but was immediately pulled back and driven into his seat by what felt like giant hook. The long arm of Hassan.

  General Ali pushed by him and whispered harshly, “Say nothing!”

  Their first half hour was spent enduring a tour of the pyramids, no doubt the same trivia that impaled millions of tourists every year. Khoury thought General Ali looked impatient. But then, he always did. Khoury and Hassan kept to the rear, and if the Egyptian colonel leading the way had any reservations about General Ali’s unusual entourage—a lone civilian bodyguard and an imam—he made no mention of it. Sudan was, after all, a fundamentalist Muslim state. Khoury toyed with that thought—a cleric with full diplomatic standing. The established imams of Sudan, those who had earned their religious reputations the old-fashioned way, might not approve. But Khoury would answer to none of them. He decided to bring it up with General Ali in the near future. Imam of State. Khoury rather liked the sound of it.

  After what seemed an eternity, the colonel led them outside to the stage where the ceremony would take place. Finally, he began to address security matters.

  “The crowd will be small,” he said, “and very thoroughly screened. No fewer than six hundred soldiers and police will be committed to the immediate area.”

  General Ali said, “That puts a great many weapons within reach of the stage.”

  The colonel bristled at this naked reference to the assassination of Anwar Sadat, when a group of rogue soldiers in a parade had opened fire. “We have learned our lesson,” their guide said acidly. “Those with critical access have been carefully screened. The rest are here for intimidation, and will have no ammunition.” The colonel quickly launched into a detailed description of security measures, things like transportation to and from the event, and coordination among the various state security details. It was the same briefing he had likely given yesterday to generals from Jordan and Algeria.

  When he seemed done, General Ali asked, “How long will our president be exposed?”

  The colonel handed over a timetable. “The heads of state are to arrive at the preparatory area behind the stage no later than nine forty-five that morning. They will be in place on stage at precisely ten, and the ceremony will be complete by ten thirty-five.”

  Khoury thought, A thirty-five minute window. More than enough.

  “What about other contingencies?” General Ali asked.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as air defenses.”

  The colonel grinned smugly. “If you refer to an Israeli air strike, I doubt the Zionists would be so bold. Even so, our Air Force will have twelve fighters airborne. All of our air defense radar and missile systems will be active.”

  Every one of them looking north, toward Israel, Khoury thought but didn’t say.

  General Ali nodded approvingly. He asked a few more questions, and everyone turned almost jovial as they headed back to the helicopter. The colonel saw them off, and as the Sudanese chopper began its ascent, the Egyptian saluted smartly. General Ali snapped a hand to his visor in return.

  Khoury remained in character. He issued his most pious wave. As he did, he regarded the scene, an odd mix of the ancient and contemporary that seemed delicate, almost precarious. On this morning, all was serene. In three days’ time, however, the mood would be different.

  Very different indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nearing al-Asmat, they left the main road. The path that led to the village was narrow and rutted, winding carelessly across the region kn
own as the Red Sea Hills. If there were any hills, Davis didn’t see them. Perhaps some mild bumps on the far horizon, but otherwise just a gradual flat plain that sloped down to the sea. The vegetation had almost completely disappeared, giving way to rutted soil that was crusty and cratered. If there was a road to the moon, this was what it would look like.

  Davis was driving now, Antonelli navigating. The kid was still in back, using his good arm to hold steady against the pitching truck. They could have squeezed him in the cab, and Davis had offered when they’d stopped to switch drivers, but the kid insisted on staying where he was. Davis figured it for some kind of self-deprivation thing, a Bedouin gene that insisted he suffer the desert in the same manner as his ancestors.

  The village came into view, but there was no marquees with WELCOME TO AL-ASMAT on one side and THANK YOU FOR VISITING on the other. Probably because they didn’t have visitors. The place was nothing more than a few dozen buildings, squares and rectangles that looked as if they were growing out of the hardpan earth. Most were clearly homes, smooth-sided mud-brick dwellings cooked to impervious perfection, the sweat of artisan masons baked in for centuries.

  Antonelli guided through a series of turns while Davis manhandled the moody truck, grinding through gears and fighting the heavy steering wheel. The road disappeared completely, and they began to crunch over a path of dirt and stone. At the edge of the village was a small souk where a dozen men and women were engaged in buying and selling. It was a market that had probably been here since the pharaohs. Merchants and smugglers and pirates, arriving by camel and sailing dhow.

  She pointed to one of the village’s biggest structures, and said, “Turn right, stop there.”