Fly by Night (16 page)

When he got to his room, Davis went straight to the shower. There was something about death—touching it gave an irresistible urge to scrub and cleanse, to wash the scourge away. Yet if the physical grime could be rinsed, the mental residue was far more persistent. It stained your thoughts and dreams, and the only agent that would ever wash it away was the truth. All the same, Davis scrubbed. He spent a full ten minutes under spray that was hot enough to hang a curtain of fog on the bathroom mirror. For the first time since arriving in Sudan, he wanted the heat. Davis bent his head down so the stream could beat deep into the muscles of his neck and shoulders.

When he was done, he dried and wrapped a towel around his waist. Davis fished the ring from his pocket and took a seat on the bed. Turning the ring to get an angle on the best light, he studied it
inside and out. It was a simple enough thing, a plain gold wedding band, maybe wider than most. On the inside was an inscription, the lettering in Cyrillic—just like on the crate he’d seen yesterday. But this time Davis had a head start, knew what it
might
say. He only needed a single word, one he could probably translate given enough common letters. And he did see it, clear as day. ЙPEHA. He was certain of that translation: IRENA. He remembered the name from Gregor Anotolii’s personnel file. Wife: Irena. When Davis looked closer, even the rest of the inscription made sense. ЙPEHA AHД ГPEГOP. He knew enough characters, and knew what it might say. IRENA AND GREGOR. No doubt about it.

He eased down on the bed and held the ring between two fingers, turned it back and forth. Davis stared at the ceiling and added this revelation to his other results. A forged maintenance write-up. A downed aircraft that was still flying. Radar data that showed a normal flight profile. And now? Two crewmen dead in a way that had nothing to do with a crashed airplane. More than ever, Davis was investigating a crash where any reasonable investigator would relent and say,
There never was a crash
. But if that was true, then why was somebody going to so much trouble to convince the world otherwise?

Davis closed his eyes and let the fatigue of a long day settle in. His thoughts began to drift as the numbing tendrils of sleep wrapped around him. There, in that limbo of consciousness between dreams and reality, he heard a distant sound. The pitch ebbed and flowed, though not in any lyrical way. Indeed, there was nothing good in how this sound registered. Davis sat up, wide awake again. The sound was definitely there, and he was sure he recognized it. An everyday occurrence, given the right time and the right place. This was neither.

Davis couldn’t let it go. He had to know.

Dressing quickly in fresh clothes, he left the ring on the night-stand. The hallway was quiet, the rest of FBN’s expatriate staff fast asleep. He went to the stairs and climbed to the roof. Stepping softly across an asphalt-broomed rooftop, Davis made his way to the eastern ledge. He knew exactly where to look, and sure enough he saw it. His second telling discovery of the night.

The roof was bathed in still night air, and so the engine noise was more distinct here, even if the commotion was taking place over a mile away. Davis had good elevation, and there was nothing to block his view. Right at the spot in the desert where he’d encountered the bodies, he saw two security trucks from the compound parked so that their headlights were trained on a single spot in the brush. There, two men with rifles slung casually on their shoulders watched as the backhoe worked the ground. The digging machine’s own headlights vibrated as the modest bucket strained and clawed through hardpan earth.

Davis watched for a full ten minutes. What he saw told him nothing about what was in FBN Aviation’s hangar. But it told him a lot about Rafiq Khoury. This was no exhumation. They were digging deeper.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Davis woke early the next morning, dressed, and headed for the bar. He found pastries in the refrigerator, took one, and put two U.S. dollars in the honor box. At the front desk he checked the big scheduling board and saw that his flight was set for a 5:15 a.m. departure. Call sign: Air Sahara 12. He didn’t see Boudreau, or anyone who looked like a copilot, so Davis headed to the flight line.

The air outside was motionless and cooler than he expected—still teasing—with the sun lost over the horizon. Building and percolating. The flight line was well illuminated, a yellow sodium glare that would carry for another hour, until it was overpowered by nature’s heat lamp. Even at this hour the ramp held its familiar scent, the acrid tang of vaporized kerosene hanging on the breeze, cut by the musty aroma of desert sage.

Davis spotted activity at one particular airplane and headed that way. In his Air Force days it would never have been so easy. He’d have found red lines painted on the concrete and armed security keeping a sharp eye—bored two-stripers who lived for the day when some dumbass company-grade officer would screw up and cross without authorization. Here there were no red stripes. The tarmac was barren, save for rows of weeds sprouting at the shoulders and lining up in the expansion cracks.

He spotted Boudreau at the far side of the airplane, pointing a finger and shining a flashlight beam on an engine. Achmed the snacko stood next to him, looking disinterested. They both wore a uniform of sorts, khaki trousers and short-sleeved white shirts with epaulets. Four stripes on Boudreau’s shoulders, three for Achmed. Take away
the uniforms, though, and they couldn’t have looked more different, the Louisianan stout and freckled in cowboy boots, the first officer rail-thin and swarthy, wearing tennis shoes. As Davis closed in, the kid saw him coming and broke away toward the loading stairs.

“Morning,” Davis yelled over the clatter of a taxiing turboprop.

“Hey, Jammer! Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. But I’m not sure if your first officer feels the same way.”

Boudreau shook his head. “I can’t figure that kid. I was just trying to show him how the flaps change the shape of the wing to give more lift. He didn’t even try to understand. I tell you, that boy’s hopeless. I’ve told him so, but he keeps coming back for more.”

“Schmitt won’t fire him?”

“We’ve all asked. He just says we’re required to have a Sudanese presence in flight ops. Some part of Khoury’s big dream. I’ve given up that fight.”

Davis looked over the airplane. “I won’t get many more chances to ride in one of these.”

“Yeah, she’s a dinosaur all right. This particular airplane has been flying the friendlies since the Roosevelt administration.”

“Franklin or Teddy?”

Boudreau chuckled, then banged hard on a panel. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

Davis had to admit, it sounded solid. But up close the airplane showed its scars. The sun-baked paint, probably once white, was faded and dirty. There were spots where the outer coat had flaked away, and underneath an old green and black camouflage pattern was revealed, like a scar from some sordid, soldier-of-fortune past.

Davis said, “So where are we headed today?”

“Jungle strip, Congo River basin.”

“That sounds a little sporty.”

“Been to plenty like it.” Boudreau bent down by one of the main wheels, took a pen from his pocket and poked it into the air valve. There was a loud hiss of high pressure air. After a few seconds, he stood back up and gave the tire a swift kick, nodded like he was satisfied.

“What was that for?” Davis asked.

“You’ll see.” Boudreau headed to the boarding stairs. “Come on, Jammer, step into my office.”

Davis followed him up the stairs. It was a short climb. Three days ago he’d ridden a massive A-380 across the Atlantic. He felt like he was going from the
Queen Mary
to the
African Queen
. Inside, the DC-3 was all business, sheet metal and stringers and rivets, all seventy years old and counting. There was a chain of floodlights in the ceiling that eked out just enough light to see the rest. A dirty floor blotted with stains from old liquid spills. Battery acid, oil, grapefruit juice—no way to tell. Sawdust and gum wrappers were scattered along the side walls like leaves in a street gutter. Loose pebbles were lodged in the floor joints.

Today’s load seemed light, the cargo bay only half full of crates and boxes. The fact that there was volume remaining meant one of two things. Either the receiver was taking a small shipment, or the crates he was looking at were very heavy. Davis noticed that the tie-down straps looked heavy duty, so he guessed the latter. Some of the boxes were stenciled with the U.N. logo and labels that looked fresh and amateurish.
SPARE PARTS. CANNED FOOD. MEDICINE.
Yeah
, he thought,
right
. His doubts were confirmed when he recognized the smell. Gun oil. These boxes were indeed heavy, full of things made from nickel and lead and titanium, the part of the periodic table of elements that didn’t give way. The part that penetrated softer, carbon-based things.

Davis moved toward the cockpit and found Boudreau in the left seat, the traditional captain’s station. Achmed was beside him on the right, slapping switches like they’d done him wrong.

“Easy, son,” Boudreau admonished. “You don’t treat your girlfriend like that, do you?”

The young man scowled. “Nasira is not my girlfriend. That is not a respectful term.”

“Then what the heck do I call her?”

Achmed didn’t reply, and Davis saw a glint of mischief in Boudreau’s eyes.

The skipper said, “Tell you what, since you’re in training to be a
pilot someday, we’ll just call her your future ex-wife.” Boudreau gave his signature cackle.

Achmed ignored him.

This could be a long day
, Davis thought.

He settled into the jumpseat, a folding bench behind the main crew positions that was used for observers—third pilots who might ride along to give checkrides or government inspectors. Which, Davis figured, was what he was right now. An inspector. So he inspected Achmed, watched his hands bounce inefficiently over the switch panels, watched him fumble through radio frequencies and confuse the air traffic controller who issued their flight clearance.

Boudreau was the other end of the spectrum. He moved in methodical flows, well-honed patterns that belied his good-old-boy aura. Presently, he was building his nest. Even the most experienced pilot didn’t just sit down and fly. There were charts, flight plans, sun visors, headsets, pens, lucky ball caps, gum, sunglasses. No engine turned until everything was in the right spot, ready to go, like a ballplayer getting ready for a big game.

Boudreau tapped the fuel gauge. “Rule number one about flying into the bush, Jammer—always bring enough dead dinosaurs to get back out. This is Africa, so we’re not talking about a simple flight between two well-maintained airfields. We’re on an expedition. Kinda makes you feel like an Old World explorer, don’t it? Just pull up anchor and head toward the edge of the map—you know, where they always draw those dragons.”

“Dragons.” Davis sat back and grinned. Boudreau was trying to wind him up. All the same, he knew there was an element of truth in it. Fly on a commercial airliner in the West, and your chances of dying in a crash were about one in a hundred million. In this airplane, on this continent—not nearly as many zeroes in the denominator.

The two pilots cranked the engines, checked that everything was in order. Boudreau taxied to the runway and they were cleared for takeoff. The skipper goosed the throttles full forward, and if the machine had been shaking before, it rattled like a jackhammer now. The racket from the engines cancelled every other sound, and Davis felt the
familiar push in the back of his seat. The grip of aerodynamic lift took hold, and the main wheels levitated. Everything fell more quiet, more smooth, and, like with all airplanes, just a little more tenuous. Even experienced pilots felt it. There was a tactile certainty to rolling down a runway with rubber on concrete, but once you broke ground everything became just a bit less convincing. Safe, certainly. A sense of freedom, no doubt. But a dash of risk sprinkled in as the vertical dimension was introduced.

The early morning air was smooth, and Boudreau looked right at home, one easy hand on the controls and the other holding a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Davis’ ears popped as the unpressurized airplane climbed. Their initial heading was north, and he could see Khartoum ahead under a hazy blanket of sodium light. The city was split by the dark serpentine shadow of two rivers merging into one, the confluence of the Blue and White Niles.

Once they had some altitude, Boudreau banked the airplane to the right. A minute later they were headed due south for the equator.

Khoury stepped into his office before sunrise, leaving Hassan stationed outside at his usual post. He did not typically rise so early, but today he was keeping the general’s schedule. He went into the hangar and found Jibril asleep on his cot. Khoury left him alone, knowing there were limits to how hard he could drive the man. Back in his office, he sat at his desk and waited.

When the call came, he let the first and second warbles run before picking up on the third. Obedient but not kowtowed. “Yes?” Khoury said, as if he might be expecting any number of important calls.

“Give me the report.” No salutation, just a command. The baritone from the Ministry of Defense in Khartoum was much in the habit of issuing orders.

“The engineer has nearly completed his tasks,” Khoury announced.

“Nearly?” General Ali barked. “The deadline is upon us.”

“Everything will be ready,” Khoury assured. He then tried to sound casual as he added, “And the crash investigator has arrived.”

“How unfortunate,” Ali grumbled. “Apparently my request to the Minister of Aviation to arrange a delay has fallen on deaf ears. Another post, I think, that will soon have a vacancy.”

Khoury weighed a humorous reply, but decided the most clever reaction was silence.

“Tell me about this investigator,” the general prodded.

“His name is Davis. He is American.” Knowing this would not sit well, he added quickly, “We were expecting a Frenchman, of course, but perhaps we can make the best of the situation.”