Jake patted his pockets dramatically. Sighing, he said at last, “Oh gee, I almost forgot. I quit.”
“A sinner saved! Hallelujah!” Reynolds clasped his hands together and looked up. “Thank you, Lord, for saving this poor ignorant fool sitting here before me from the evils of tobacco and impure women and bad whiskey and marked cards and …”
Jake couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Most of the berthing compartments and working spaces aboard ship were now nonsmoking. The ship’s smoke shop, where cigarettes and pipe tobacco had been sold, was now a free-weight gym. The only place aboard a man could still buy cigarettes was in the ship’s store under the forward mess deck. And the wise and the weary knew its days were also numbered.
“I had to quit. They stopped carrying my brand.”
Reynolds feigned surprise, his hand on his chest and his mouth in a little a He leaned across the desk and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m only letting them stock seven brands from now on, the least popular brands on the ship. When the smokers complain, I’m just going to look surprised and tell them it’s the supply system. It’ll work sort of like the no-smoking sign caper.” No-smoking signs had appeared magically one night in a grab bag of spaces where smoking was traditionally allowed, and the ship’s master-at-arms force had ruthlessly enforced the prohibition. Protests about the signs’ legality fell on deaf ears. “The little people must be made to suffer.”
Reynolds screwed his face up and giggled. In spite of himself, Jake joined in the laugh. Reynolds was one of the few men Jake had ever met who truly loved stress. Not excitement or danger, but pure fingernails-to-the-quick, heart-attack stress. He thrived on it, reveled in it, lived for it. Once Laird James had figured that out, Reynolds could do no wrong. In his mind’s eye Jake could see the two of them huddled like thieves on the bridge, plotting every detail of the antismoking campaign and the subsequent disinformation cover-up to deflect the outrage of the addicted.
“One of the reasons I came down here to see the Knight of the Busted Ashtray,” Jake said, “is because I’d like to send a message to Oceana.” NAS Oceana was the air base where the air wing had its headquarters when the ship was not deployed. “My wife and four or five of the other wives wanted to come to Europe sometime this cruise, and I figure we’d better do it now. May not have another chance.”
“No sweat. You draft up the message. I think there are six or eight officers in ship’s company who want their wives to come over, too. I’ll ask around and we’ll put it all in the message.”
“Okay.” Jake stood up.
Reynolds held out his hand. As Jake passed through the open door, Reynolds roared, “Get your miserable ass in here, Ski, and tell me some more of your pathetic lies.”
* * *
The old man had difficulty making the first step up into the bus. A young man in a dirty undershirt and smelling of wine steadied him. The old one’s back was hunched and he moved slowly, carefully, with the aid of a walking stick. A woman gave him her seat. He sank down with a sigh. “Grazie!” His hair was gray, his face lined, and his glasses had an obvious correction. In spite of the June heat, he wore a shabby black suit and leather gloves that had been expensive when new.
As the bus wound its way through the Naples business district, Colonel Qazi ignored his fellow passengers and stared out the window, which was covered with grime. The glasses strained his eyes, so after a few minutes he closed his eyes and nodded as if drifting off to sleep. Every so often he started at a car horn or a severe lurch, glanced around with eyes blinking vacantly, then he napped again. The bus slowly made its way into the suburbs.
It had taken several hours to dye his hair gray, and two hours more to get the makeup just right. He wore cotton plugs between his cheeks and lower teeth to appear more jowly, and the upper front teeth were covered by a false cap that made them look yellow and slightly twisted.
He left the bus at an intersection of a tree-lined street. No one got off with him. He looked about in all directions, examined the fronts of the nearest houses as if unsure of where he was, and began walking slowly.
In a few moments a car stopped beside him and a middle-aged man exited from the backseat and held the door for him. He got in unaided and sat with his walking stick between his knees, both hands resting on the handle. Neither the driver nor the man in the backseat spoke.
Twenty minutes later the car turned off the two-lane country road and swept through an open iron gate. After fifty meters of gravel, a large villa appeared. The car circled the house and eased to a stop on the lawn in back. Qazi’s backseat companion helped him from the car and pointed toward the garden.
A man in a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves was pruning leaves from tomato plants. He greeted Qazi and watched him settle into a wrought-iron chair with a padded seat.
“Buon giorno, Signor Verdi.”
“Signor Pagliacci, with respect, it is indeed a pleasure,” Qazi replied, keeping his voice soft and husky.
The Italian produced a large handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his brow. He was at least sixty, with an ample girth, though he didn’t look fat. He poured two small glasses of wine, held them up and examined them against the sky. He grunted after a moment, then set one glass on the small table on Qazi’s right. He, too, took a chair.
Qazi took a tiny sip of wine. It was dry and robust.
“You had a good trip?”
“Si. The jet airplanes are much better than the old ones. Really, it is the airports now.”
Pagliacci smiled politely and drank from his glass. If he knew Qazi was thirty years younger than he looked, he had never even hinted at it in the five years Qazi had known him.
“Is he well?” the Italian asked.
Qazi knew he was referring to El Hakim. “Oh, yes. He is a bull. It is the women.” Qazi chuckled dryly.
Pagliacci smiled again and used the handkerchief on his brow. He sipped his wine in silence and frowned at his tomato plants. Looking at his clothes and hands, one would think him a gardener or perhaps a captain of industry who had taken early retirement and burned his business clothes. Pagliacci was neither. He was one of the most powerful mafiosi in southern Italy, and he was very well connected in the international cocaine trade: four of his sons were in the business — two in New York, one in Colombia, and one, the eldest, here in Italy. Qazi had never met the sons, preferring to do business with the father.
“He agreed,” Qazi said at last, after he had lowered the level of the wine in the glass half an inch and set the glass on the table.
“I hoped he would. You see, I have many friends, and I like to help them out as best I can. I help you because you are a friend and I help them because they are friends. Friends help each other, right?”
“It is so.”
“And a man cannot have too many friends, friends he can count on in times of trouble, for favors and aid. Aah, sons and brothers, we have too few. So friends are the next best thing, friends who are as brothers and who help each other.”
“I have taken the liberty of preparing a list,” Qazi said and slowly felt in his jacket pocket. He passed it across.
Pagliacci held it out, almost at arm’s length, and scanned it. “The uniforms will not be a problem. The vans are, of course, no problem. The helicopters …”
“They must be fueled and ready. Every night, all night, for the entire ten days. And I cannot guarantee their safe return.”
Pagliacci reached and flipped a slug from a tomato plant. Finally he nodded, “We can do it,” and looked again at the list. At last he folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. “We can help you. The telephone items”—he waved his hand to show their insignificance—“and all these other things. But the airport surveillance at both Roma and Napoli? That will take many people. They will have to be paid.”
He belched and poured himself another glass of wine. “People for a month? And a safe office at both airports, with passes to get through security? These things will be ex
pensive. It is our organization and expertise your cocaine is compensating us for, so we should not go out of pocket on your behalf.” He gestured for understanding to his guest. “Do you agree?”
Qazi had expected this. The old pirate would squeeze him for every lira. “Signor Pagliacci, we value your friendship. What do you think is fair?”
“First we must know just what is it that you are planning. What are our risks?”
Qazi rested both hands on the head of his cane. They were badly palsied. Next time he must remember to half the drug dosage.
“I will be frank with you,” Pagliacci said. “I will tell you my problems. You must explain carefully to El Hakim. If an … event … happens at an airport, then the authorities will place such pressure on my people that they might be compromised.” He gestured again, hugely. “I must watch out for their interests.”
“It will cost more?” Qazi asked disingenuously.
“Truly. I must take care of them.”
“El Hakim is looking for several enemies of his regime,” Qazi lied. “He is irrevocably committed to removing these people as threats to our political system. We will provide your watchers with photographs of these misguided ones. When they are found, of course they will die.” The colonel needed a reasonable explanation for the equipment and services he needed from the Italian, and the best way to provide a plausible one was to expand the list of goods and services required to fit a fictitious story, the cover. This was the cover. The entire airport project was designed to keep Pagliacci’s people occupied while Qazi was busy elsewhere.
“Here? In Italia?”
“Probably.”
Pagliacci named a figure which both men knew from past experience was twice as much as he wanted.
They discussed it like two pensioners relating recent surgical experiences, with gusto and mock sympathy. Pagliacci came down. Qazi came up. They sipped wine and finally compromised.
Qazi was apologetic. “El Hakim expects me to haggle. You know the Arab mind.”
Pagliacci was gracious. “No man likes to pay too much. And sometimes what sounds right in one place will sound too expensive in another. Do not concern yourself.”
“As long as you understand.” Qazi wet his lips with wine and set the glass down with finality.
“When can I tell my friends in New York to expect the first shipment?”
“It will arrive at our embassy via the diplomatic pouch the day after tomorrow. Your man should call at the embassy and ask for this man.” Qazi produced another scrap of paper from a pocket and passed it over. They settled on a recognition phrase. “I am sorry we must deliver it there in the embassy, but it has become too dangerous for our man to carry it in the streets.” This was an understatement. Should a diplomat accredited to the United Nations be involved in an accident, or be detained by police, and be found in possession of several kilos of cocaine, the diplomatic consequences would be catastrophic. Even El Hakim understood that.
“Getting it into the U.S. is the problem,” Pagliacci said. “My friends can handle it from there.” His sons, he meant.
“We will deliver two kilos of pure, uncut cocaine on the same day every other week until you have the quantity we have agreed upon. If your man does not show on the appointed day, he will be expected two days later. If he does not appear then, it will be assumed that he is never coming and all deliveries will cease.” Qazi leaned back carefully in his chair. “Money would have been easier.”
Pagliacci ignored that comment. Years ago, when Qazi had first approached him for aid on another project, cocaine was the only currency which Pagliacci would discuss. The money was secondary, icing on the cake, for the local soldiers.
“But now I must go back to El Hakim and inform him that money is also required.” Qazi had made this comment on other occasions. Both men knew it was pro forma.
“He will understand. I have great respect for him.”
“I suggest that we pay you the money when we are ready to take delivery of the goods.” Qazi was apologetic again. “It is no reflection on you or on our relationship, which is an excellent one of long standing, with mutual satisfaction, but a necessity due to my position with El Hakim.”
Pagliacci nodded slowly. Qazi always insisted on this point, too.
Qazi used his cane to rise from the chair. “Signor Pagliacci, I salute you. You are a man of wisdom and discretion.” He looked slowly about, at the grass, the tall palm trees, and the rows of olive trees across the back of the lawn. “It’s so beautiful here. So peaceful,”
“It is perfect for an old man like me. With my wife gone”—he crossed himself—“and with the children in homes of their own, I am left with the pleasures of old men. And the summer is not being kind to my tomatoes. Like all old men, I complain, eh?”
“Arrivederci. Until we meet again.”
The two men shook hands and parted. Qazi made his way toward the waiting car without looking back.
* * *
When Jake walked into the air wing office, one of the A-6 squadron bombardiers was sitting in the chair by Farnsworth’s desk. Jake tried to match the name to the face but couldn’t. He was too far away to read the leather name tag on his flight suit. “What can we do for you today?”
“I need to talk to you, sir.”
Farnsworth nodded toward the helmet hanging by the door. Jake tilted it and a bright piece of metal fell into his hand. Naval Flight Officer’s wings. A piece of white paper with a name was taped to it. Lieutenant Reed.
“Better come into my office.” Jake led the way.
When both men were seated with the door closed, Jake tossed the wings in the middle of his desk.
“Okay.”
Reed swallowed several times and wet his lips with his tongue. He was about twenty-five, with short blond hair. His features were even, as if eyes, nose, lips, and chin had been carefully chosen to make an attractive set. A fine sheen of perspiration was just visible on his forehead. His name tag proclaimed he was Mad Dog Reed.
Jake pulled out his lower desk drawer and propped his feet on it. The desire for a cigarette was very strong, so he rammed both hands in his trouser pockets. “What’s the deal?”
“I want to turn in my wings.”
Jake grunted and stared at his toes.
“Uh, you know …”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you said if we got to feeling that we couldn’t do our best up there, we ought to turn our wings in. That’s the way I feel,” he said defensively. When Grafton didn’t respond he added, “I’ve had all of this bullshit I can stand.”
“By chance, do you have a personal computer on board?”
“Yessir.” Reed brightened. “I do all my paperwork on it. I’ve written a few programs. We can now track …” and he rambled on enthusiastically.
Jake wiggled his toes. Almost every junior officer these days had a computer in his stateroom. The flight program had become so competitive that one almost needed an honors engineering degree to have a chance for the limited slots available. As a result, the pilots and naval flight officers today were the cream of the college crop, brilliant youngsters with stock portfolios and spread sheets that the navy couldn’t keep beyond the first tour. Over half of them turned down career-retention bonuses that approached fifty thousand dollars and left after their first tour. Rocket scientists, one admiral called them. “I see,” Jake murmured.
“I submitted my letter of resignation from the navy, but it won’t be effective for six months. I just don’t think I should keep flying if my heart isn’t in it.” Reed’s words were carefully enunciated, respectful but not apologetic.
Jake searched for something to say. “How’d you get that nickname, Mad Dog?”
Reed flushed. “There was a big party at Breezy Point.” Breezy Point was the name of the officers’ club at NAS Norfolk. “I had too much to drink and … made something of a fool of myself. When the CO of the base called the squadron a few days later to complain, the skippe
r told him I was just a mad dog.”
The A-6 skipper was John Majeska. “What does Commander Majeska say about all this?”
“Well, sir, he and I fly together and I’ve talked it over with him.”
“And …”
The door opened and Farnsworth stuck his head in. “You better start suiting up now, CAG. You have a brief in ten minutes for a five-minute alert bomber. With the A-6 outfit.” His eyes swiveled to Reed.
Jake stood up. “You’re my bombardier tonight, Reed. See you at the brief in ten minutes.”
“But, sir—”
“No fucking buts, Reed. Ten minutes. Now get out of here so I can change clothes.”
When Reed was gone, Farnsworth said, “That was a good line, sir. ‘No fucking buts’ …”
“Go fly your word processor, Farnsworth.”
“A very good line, sir. I may use it as the title for my memoirs, which will chronicle my lifelong crusade to promote heterosexuality.”
Jake Grafton laughed and slammed the door in his face.
* * *
An hour and a half later Jake stood in Flight Deck Control and stared out the bomb-proof porthole at the flight deck. Misting rain and water trickling down the glass distorted the planes and men on the flight deck and made them look grotesque in the weak red light.
He turned and watched the aircraft handling officer, the “handler,” who was seated in a raised chair, direct the spotting of the planes that were landing. As each aircraft announced its arrival on deck with a full-power bellow of its engines as the arresting gear dragged it to a halt, a sailor wearing a sound-powered telephone headset placed a cutout of the plane in the landing area of the table-sized model of the ship, which stood in front of the handler’s chair. Taxiing out of the landing area, the pilot visually signaled the aircraft’s maintenance status to a man on the deck, who relayed it by radio to another sailor here. This man placed a colored nut or washer on the model aircraft. The handler then announced the parking spot, which other sailors wearing radio-telephone headsets relayed to the taxi directors on the flight deck.
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