Fly by Night (42 page)
Davis was sitting on the floor, ruminating on it all, when he heard a rustling noise outside his cell. The slot at the base of the door opened and someone slid a tray of food inside.
“Hey!” he shouted. “I want to see somebody from the U.S. Embassy!”
No reply. Not that he really expected one.
The food looked exactly like what it was—daily fare from an Egyptian prison kitchen. A chunk of hard bread, something glutinous in a bowl, a bottle of water. It was the best meal Davis had seen in two days, and made him realize how hungry he was. He stood up slowly, which introduced a few new aches, and retrieved the tray. He began to eat and drink, and as he did, Davis listened at the door. The only sound from outside was a whisper of distant Arabic chanting, no doubt from other cells. So he wasn’t completely alone.
The bread was like a rock. He ate every bit. The gruel in the bowl was awful, but he scraped it clean with two fingers. Davis was pondering the merits of shoving the tray back through the slot when he heard voices. One—gloriously—that he recognized.
The lock rattled on the cell door, and Larry Green walked in. The door shut immediately behind him.
Green stood still for a moment studying him. He finally said, “I send you here to investigate an airplane crash, and what do you do? You crash another one.”
“Good to see you too, Larry.”
“Then you get thrown in prison.”
Davis said nothing.
“And to top it off, you nearly annihilate one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
Green clearly was, but when he came closer his grin faded. He put a hand to the side of Davis’ head. “Anybody look at that yet?”
“My private physician.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Nothing dire.”
Green stood back. “Well you look like hell.”
“Thanks. Now can you tell me what happened—did I take it out?”
“The Great Pyramid of Giza?” Green was smiling again.
Davis was silent again.
“You got Blackstar, Jammer. It hit a half mile south of the event. Went straight in and made a heck of a crater. CIA has some people digging it out right now.”
“You said they didn’t do crash work.”
“In this case I think we all know the cause. It’s just a matter of sweeping things up.”
“So how is it all playing out?” Davis asked.
“Well, you boosted everyone’s news ratings. There are pictures of your aerobatic prowess in every newspaper in the world, and the videos have gone viral. Bad news is—you won’t get any credit. The Egyptian authorities are giving out another pilot’s name as the pilot-in-command.”
“Who?”
Green’s eyes went to the stone ceiling. “Achmed somebody or other. He was another casualty of this whole fiasco.”
Davis thought,
How perfect
. He said, “Is this whole plot out in the open?”
“Bits and pieces. There’s some manipulation going on, but blame for the whole fiasco is getting put right where it should be. On the late Rafiq Khoury and the guy who employed him.”
“General Ali?”
Green nodded. “You even had that part figured out, huh? The coup attempt?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a good thing you were on top of it. If this attack had gone down as planned, we’d be in a damned fine mess right now.” Green then added in a matter-of-fact tone, “Those were the president’s exact words, Jammer. I saw him right before I left Andrews.”
“We’re still going to catch some blame. That was our drone any way you look at it.”
“Yeah, we’ll have a black eye, I suppose. But nothing like it could have been. Darlene Graham’s people are working quietly with the Egyptians to show this for what it was—a crazy plot by a handful of crazy people. General Ali was arrested in Sudan and probably doesn’t have a real bright future.”
“And Khoury?” Davis asked.
“He’s dead, but I think you knew that. We did find out a little more about him. Apparently the NSA tapped into a database in Sudan. It seems that eight months ago “Imam Khoury” was six years into a twenty-year stint at Kober Prison.”
“He was in prison?”
“Yep. As far as we can tell, the guy was never any kind of cleric. He acquired a modest following while he was locked up, a sort of jail-house preacher. Khoury had been in and out of lockups pretty much his whole adult life. Petty stuff—thieving, smuggling, fraud. He was a con man who got offered the gig of a lifetime. General Ali decided he needed an imam to make things work, and he must have made Khoury an offer he couldn’t refuse. There’s a strange coincidence, though. Rafiq Khoury was actually born to an American mother.”
“Maybe that’s why he was chosen,” Davis suggested. “That would
have given pretty much everybody at FBN Aviation ties to the U.S.”
“Yep. One more American to shoulder the blame. I don’t know what General Ali promised Khoury, but I can’t imagine he was going to get anything short of a bullet in his head in the end.”
Davis nodded, and asked, “What about Regina Antonelli?”
Green eyed him. “Your copilot?”
“A darned good one too.”
“The Italians have already arranged her release. She’s on her way to Rome right now. I met her briefly at the airport—quite a looker. How did she end up in your right seat?”
“Long story,” Davis said. “What about Schmitt and the engineer?”
“Schmitt crash landed his airplane about twenty miles south of here at a military airstrip. The Egyptians have him locked up there while everything gets sorted out—but you know Schmitt.”
“You think he’ll land on his feet again?”
“Probably,” Green said. “The engineer’s case is a little trickier. His name’s Fadi Jibril, practically a kid. He went to university in the States, then came here and created this monster. The DNI’s techs back in D.C. say he must be a brilliant engineer to have pulled it off. According to Schmitt, Jibril was the one who shot Khoury in the end. That might mitigate his crimes. The Egyptians have Jibril in custody, too, so they’ll be the ones who figure out what to do with him.”
Davis nodded. “So when can I get out of here?”
Green stepped back and knocked twice on the cell’s thick steel door. It opened right away, and a half dozen men were standing outside, a mix of what could only be U.S. Embassy staff and prison officials.
“How about right now?” Green said.
Five minutes later, Davis was in the backseat of an armored Mercedes limo, the driver whisking them expertly through heavy traffic.
“You can get cleaned up and issued some fresh clothes at the embassy,” Green said. “We’ll be on a Gulfstream headed home in two hours.”
Davis didn’t reply. Home sounded good. But Norway sounded
better. Maybe he could talk Green into it. With a stop in Italy along the way to pick up another passenger. They owed him something.
He said, “Can I borrow your phone, Larry?”
Green handed over his mobile.
Davis dialed Jen’s number. In the biggest surprise he’d had all week, she picked up immediately. He wanted to launch on her right there, scold her for being out of touch for a week and not returning his calls. But he just couldn’t do it. Right now, he only wanted to hear her voice.
“Hey, sweetheart, it’s me.”
“Hi, Dad!”
“How are you?”
“Great. I’m watching this crazy thing on YouTube right now. It’s been all over the news. Some guy down in Egypt almost crashed his airplane into the Pyramid of Giza. Have you seen it?”
“Uh … yeah. I did see it, actually.”
“Isn’t that insane? The guy must be the worst pilot ever!”
Jammer Davis grinned. “Yeah, sweetheart, the worst pilot ever. No doubt about it. So tell me about school—”
Author’s Note
I have made every effort to keep my research for this book both timely and accurate, however two locales are fictional. The new Khartoum International Airport has been in the planning stages for many years, yet remains little more than a blueprint. I have accelerated the construction for reasons of dramatic convenience. The village of al-Asmat is also fictional, though any number of such fishing villages dot the Red Sea coast.
Other faults and inaccuracies are unintentional, and attributable only to me.
Acknowledgments
As always, I must recognize my coconspirators. Thanks to Bob and Patricia Gussin for their enduring support and encouragement. To Frank Troncale, David Ivester, and Kylie Fritz at Oceanview Publishing for making things happen. Susan Hayes, your ever-sharp copy-editing skills save me endless embarrassment. To my agent, Susan Gleason, whose experienced eye is invaluable. And to Maryglenn Mc-Combs, magnificent publicist and better friend. Thank you.
And of course, a heartfelt thanks to my family for their unwavering support.
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