Fly by Night (26 page)

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 known 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.”

Davis did both.

The big machine settled and seemed to groan with relief when he set the parking brake and killed the engine. When Davis opened the door and clambered down, the Red Sea was thirty steps in front of him. But there was no trade wind or refreshing ocean breeze. The heat was still suffocating, perhaps heavier now, and the smell of fish hung on the viscous, saline air.

A group of people came out of the big building to greet Antonelli. The young man who’d been suffering in the truck’s bed began to shout wildly. He climbed down and got the kind of hugs you only got from family. Now Davis understood. Arriving with battle scars, riding shotgun on a tall pile of goodwill—the kid must look like a conquering hero. In a way, he was.

Antonelli took a few hearty embraces as well. She had indeed been here before. After all the happiness ran its course, she walked over to Davis.

“I explained that you’ve come to help. I’ll introduce you later.”

“Okay.”

No time was wasted. A group of men and boys began to pull boxes from the truck. Davis jumped in and lent a hand, because it was the kind of job that didn’t need a common language. Twenty minutes later, everything was on the ground and the sorting began.

Antonelli came over, and said, “They will take care of the rest. To show the village’s appreciation, a meal is being prepared for us.”

“Great,” he said. “This being a fugitive has given me a heck of an appetite.”

He followed Antonelli into a courtyard. There was a perimeter wall draped in fishing nets, and big conch shells were lined up on the rim
getting bleached by the sun. At the base of the wall was a tall stack of wooden traps—crab or lobster, he guessed—and rows of filleted fish had been hung out to dry on a rack near the house.

An old woman with deeply wrinkled skin was sweeping the steps at the home’s entrance. She exchanged a greeting with Antonelli and stepped aside to let them pass. Davis gave her a polite nod, and she responded with the kind of wry, knowing smile that only seventy-year-old women can get away with. There was no door, only a pulled back curtain, and the first room they entered was a kitchen. Pots and utensils were hanging on hooks, the kind of thing you saw back home as a decorative accent. These specimens, however, were well used, dented and worn. Davis could see heat coming from an oven built into the wall, and next to it a stolid matron, gray hair and an outdoor face, was standing at a wooden counter doing something to a fish. They passed right through the house and ended up in another courtyard, this one looking out over the sea. There were two potted palm trees and a canvas tarp for shade. A table for two was being set by a young woman. When she saw them coming she held out an arm elegantly. She could have been the maître d’ at the Savoy.

Antonelli hesitated, and it took Davis a moment to shift gears. He’d spent the last four days cracking heads and looking for charred metal, so the shift in deportment put him off balance. Finally catching the hint, he swept past Antonelli and pulled a chair back for her. She slid in.

Davis took the opposing seat, and said, “Does this mean we get the rest of the night off?”

“I think we have earned it.”

The maître d’ became a waitress and asked something of Antonelli, who nodded vigorously. The woman moved at a languid pace. She’d never have kept a job at a diner in the States, never have made it serving milkshakes on roller skates. But here, in what was probably the closest thing to a restaurant in al-Asmat, she was perfect.

“I hope you asked for something to drink,” he said. “I’m pretty thirsty.”

“The desert has its way.”

“Is there a menu?” he asked.

“No, there is only the chef’s special, but I have never been disappointed.”

“So how long are you planning to stay here?” he asked.

“I leave for Port Sudan in three days. Until then, my work is here. There are people who have been waiting months for primary-care issues.”

“And I raise a stink when I have to wait thirty minutes for an office visit.”

Antonelli smiled. “Yes, we do take these things for granted.”

Davis surveyed the beach. What he saw wasn’t a powder-white strand from a tourist brochure, but rather tan desert that disappeared in a scalloped profile at the water’s edge. Gentle waves collapsed on themselves submissively a few feet from shore. Davis knew a little about the Red Sea. It was a narrow body of water, so there was no reach for the wind to build and carry swells. Today there was no wind to begin with. He also knew that the Red Sea was unusually saline, narrow openings at either end, and hot desert air sucking out moisture like an invisible sponge. He was surprised there was any water at all.

“And you?” she asked. “Will you come to Port Sudan with me?”

“No. I still have an investigation to complete.”

“In al-Asmat?”

“Maybe. If an airplane did go down, it was close to here.” He pointed on a diagonal across the coastline. “Twenty miles that way.”

“You can find this airplane in the sea?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I can try. Actually, you might be able to help with that.”

“How?”

“You speak Arabic. I’d like you to ask around, see if anything strange has washed ashore or been picked up at sea. When an airplane goes down in the water, something always floats.”

“All right, I will ask.”

The maître’d-slash-waitress came back with a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and two mismatched glasses on an old, corroded steel tray. She set it down, and Antonelli went to work on the cork.

“Alcohol?” he remarked. “Isn’t this a fundamentalist Muslim country?”

“I’m Italian,” she said.

Davis could have thought for a hundred years and not come up with a better reply.

Antonelli made quick work of the cork and poured two generous servings. She said, “To the people of Sudan. May they be happy and well.” She raised her glass.

“To the people of Sudan,” he repeated.

They both took the required sip, and when her glass came down Davis found himself looking at her lips. They were broad and full, with a tendency to stay just slightly apart. Like an invitation.

“So, Contessa, I really don’t know much about you. Is there a count?”

“If there was, you would be calling me Countess.”

He grinned, said nothing.

“But yes, there is. Only, not for much longer. He left me.”

Davis thought,
What an idiot
. He said, “I’m sorry,” because that was the polite thing to say. Even if he wasn’t.

“He is a brilliant surgeon, cardio-thoracic,” she said. “Handsome, wealthy, charismatic. Line up a hundred men and ask any woman which they would marry, my husband would always be the first pick.”

Davis waited for the punch line. Waited for the he-left-me-for-that-bitch howitzer round. It never came.

“He is perfect in his own eyes as well. He …” her words drifted off.

Davis let the silence build.

“The divorce has been coming for years,” she said. “We both saw it. I have found my calling here in Sudan, although I still live and work in Milan for a portion of each year. We have taken different roads in our lives.”