Fly by Wire: A Novel (24 page)

^{"Did you ever consider that he might be right?"}

^{Davis paused. "Its not out of the question. But I really doubt it."}

^"Why?"

^{"I visited his wife back in Houston. After I saw her, I made a side trip to Moore's apartment. In truth, I found a few things I hadn't wanted to find. An empty Jack Daniel's bottle in the recycle bin. A few beers in the fridge. But that was it. And thank God, no goodbye cruel world' note sitting like a headstone on the dining room table."}

^{"So he
had
been drinking," she said.}

^{"Apparently. Just like at the hotel the night before the flight. But I found some other things in his apartment. There was a schedule for his son's soccer team with the scores filled out to mid-season. An e-mail confirmation for a pair of shoes he'd ordered online the day before he left. He just wrote a check to fund his IRA account. And Moore TiVo'd two ballgames on TV."}

^{Davis drained the last of his beer and looked squarely at Sorensen. "I can't say what was on his mind the day of the crash. But when Earl Moore left home, he had every intention of coming back."}

^{Two hours after spotting Fatima, Whittemore was sipping ginger ale in a dark corner of a cheap bar. He would have preferred something more substantial -- disciple of the grain that he was -- yet the idea that Caliph might be nearby demanded absolute sobriety.}

^{Fatima had taken a cab from the ferry terminal and checked into a cheap hotel, a place that might get two stars if the rating inspector came on just the right day. She had taken a key from the front desk, given her bag to a bellman, and gone straight to the bar. That was over an hour ago. Since then, she'd done nothing but drink -- rum and soda, if he wasn't mistaken. The more plowed she got, the more Whittemore was sure that Caliph's arrival was not imminent. Who would meet their boss in the shape she was getting into? Especially when your boss was the world s most ruthless terrorist.}

^{It was a dreary establishment. The old wood floors had been worn smooth by generations of hard boots and dragged chairs, and patterns of dirt and dust denoted the spots where there had been no recent meeting between spilled beer and a mop. A brass rail, dull and dented, ran along the foot of a hardwood bar. The elbow-high bar itself had probably been stout fifty years ago, but now was riddled with tiny holes -- termites or worms. Above it all, the wall trim sported a coat of fresh red paint that accented the rest like lipstick on an aging drag queen.}

^{It was just after nine in the evening and the place was half full, a typical mix of transients and regulars, Whittemore figured. Groups of men and women interacted casually, and a few couples nuzzled in dark corner booths. A handful of men were perched at the bar on high wooden stools. They were spaced evenly between empty seats, hunched and immovable, the type who hold drinking among life's more solemn pursuits.}

^{Fatima was largely ignored.}

^{Whittemore decided that the pictures he'd seen had not done her justice. She was even uglier in real life. The dim light, mostly red and green hues cast from neon beer signs, gave her dark, pitted complexion an unearthly aura. She still had on the same clothes she'd worn on the ferry, and if Whittemore had read the immigration guy correctly, she probably smelled like puke. Even from thirty feet away in a dark room, her hair looked like she'd just rinsed it in the crankcase of an old truck. She was overweight, maybe a hundred extra pounds on a five-five frame. Not obese by American standards, but her clothes were inappropriately tight and highlighted the fact that all her acreage was down the wrong roads. Big thighs, big belly, no chest -- Fatima was the penultimate loser in life's genetic game of roulette. Whittemore's regard for Caliph slipped a few notches.
If I was the world's most wanted terrorist, I'd at least have a hot messenger.}

^{His attention ratcheted up when Fatima stood. Looking marginally steady, she stretched like an overweight cat, scratched her crotch, and moved to the bar.}

^{"I wan' another drink!" she demanded in English. Her voice was throaty, the words slurred like she had a mouthful of glue.}

^{The bartender was a short, heavyset guy wearing an apron. He frowned. The room was relatively quiet, so Whittemore heard his response. "One more," he said, "then you must go."}

^{Fatima smiled and looked the guy over like he was hanging on a hook in a butcher's shop. "You married?" she asked.}

^{He held up his hand to show a ring.}

^{"Ah, hell, that don't matter! You kinda cute."}

^{He slid her cutoff drink across the bar, along with the tab.}

^{"What time you finish work?"}

^{The man ignored her and went to the far end of the bar to engage one of his regulars -- a guy who was snickering.}

^{Whittemore gauged the scene. He knew a lot about drinking. Knew people handled it differently. Some giggled. Some got nasty. Some fell asleep. From the look of it, Fatima Adara got horny. One of God's little jokes, he decided. He hoped none of the men at the bar was that desperate. The last thing he needed was for some free-range drunk to stumble in and confuse things. Ever so briefly, Whittemore considered sending Fatima a drink himself, maybe engaging in some alcoholic nuptials. A little amorous pillow talk might give him Caliph. Then again, it might give him erectile dysfunction. Whittemore wanted a promotion, but he had his limits.}

^{Fatima downed her last drink, snapping her head back to get every last drop. Then she fished into her pocket, dropped a wad of euros on the bar, and headed out.}

^{Whittemore had settled in advance. He was increasingly disappointed. Short of spotting Caliph, he hadn't known exactly what he was looking for, what to expect. But so far, Fatima had gone to a hotel, gotten drunk, and now she was probably headed to her room to pass out. Once that happened, there wouldn't be anything to do until morning. If that was how it went, Whittemore didn't have much choice. He would have to call in the contact. Take his commendation plaque.}

^{He followed Fatima into the hotel lobby. Whittemore looked discreetly toward the elevator, expecting to see her there. Nothing. His head whipped around and he spotted her, just a flash, as she cleared the main entrance and headed down the street.}

^{Chapter
TWENTY-TWO}

^{The bar menu had a decidedly European tilt. Davis and Sorensen both skipped the special of the day, seaweed and oyster tartare, and neither gave a thought to ordering snails. He went with the salmon bagel, while she settled on onion soup.}

^{"So that file you have on me," Davis asked, "what's in it?"}

^{Sorensen dipped a crusty piece of bread into her soup. "It said you put your fist through a wall at an officer's club."}

^{"That was in there?" He shrugged it off.}

^{Sorensen gave him a look that asked for more. Perhaps a reasonable explanation.}

^{"I was at a dining in," he said.}

^{"A dining in?"}

^{"It's a formal military banquet where the whole fighter wing gets dressed up in our best uniforms. We do guy stuff--eat meat, drink bourbon, smoke cigars. On the night in question, some of my squadron buddies and I were having a stud-finding contest. I lost."}

^{Sorensen took the bait. "Okay -- and what does the winner get in this event?"}

^{"A broken hand."}

^{She paused, but then moved on without comment. "The file said you spent three years in the Marines, then got an appointment to the Air Force Academy. Why did you switch services?"}

^{"The Marine Corps is a great organization, but I wanted to fly jets. The Air Force seemed the most likely place. Plus I was a little tired of living in dusty tents and eating MFJEs."}

^{"And you shot down a MiG in the first Gulf War?"}

^{"Yeah, I was flying F-15s at the time. My wingman and I tracked down a MiG-23 that was headed for Iran. Saddam thought his jets would be safer there."}

^{"I guess you proved him wrong."}

^{"I guess."}

^{"So it was a dogfight? Just like in the old movies?"}

^{"You mean like with the wind snapping at my scarf, maybe shaking my fist at the other guy? No. The real thing is very clinical, very quick. And usually very one-sided. The Iraqi pilot had been ordered up on what was basically a suicide mission -- his commander told him to fly a jet to Iran before we blew it out of its bunker. He got airborne and was running away at six hundred knots. I chased him down doing six-eighty, put a heater up the poor bastard's tailpipe. Bottom line, we both had jobs to do and gave it our best -- but my airplane, missiles, and information were a lot better. So I killed a guy in a fight that wasn't fair."}

^{"In combat I suppose that's how you want all your fights," she said.}

^{He shrugged.}

^{She said, "I remember reading a report a few years back -- it said a lot of those Iraqi pilots who actually made it across the border were never heard from again."}

^{"Which means what? That I gave his family a little ... closure or something?"}

^{Sorensen said nothing.}

^{Davis spread mustard on his bagel. He had an urge to change the subject. "So tell me what you found out about our Egyptian friend."}

^{"Dr. Jaber? Nothing troublesome. At least not yet. He's a career engineer, sort of a vagabond. He's worked for a number of the big aerospace companies. There's no evidence of any fringe politics, no family members in the Islamic Brotherhood. Jaber has a wife and two kids back in Cairo."}

^{After a pause, Davis said, "And that's it?"}

^{"Langley says they're still working on it."}

^{Davis was putting the finishing touches on a clever reply when the phone in his pocket buzzed. "Excuse me." He wedged it open with a thumb and saw a message from Jen: aunt l can chaperone at dance, please! please.
1
kisses, j.}

^{Davis weighed a reply, maybe something like: GO DO YOUR HOMEWORK. Sure. That would score points. Davis put the phone away and frowned. He rubbed a hand over his face, top to bottom, and let out a long, controlled sigh.}

^{"Your daughter?"}

^{He nodded.}

^{"Can I help?"}

^{"You don't even know her."}

^{"I'm a girl."}

^{Davis gave her a hard look that said,
No shit.
He turned his beer mug by the handle. "Jen is fifteen years old. It'll get easier, right?"}

^{"My mom used to say that kids are the reverse of anchors -- the more they weigh, the less they hold you down."}

^{He didn't reply.}

^{"Jammer ... what happened to your wife?"}

^{The question caught him off guard. He replied in a smartass tone, "Wasn't that in the file?"}

^{This time Sorensen went silent.}

^{"Sorry," he said, "you didn't deserve that."}

^{Davis had told the story more times than he could count. But not lately. Family and friends all knew what had happened, which meant he only had to deal with fresh acquaintances now. People like Sorensen, Jen's teachers every year, the occasional new neighbor moving in. Someday, he figured, time would do its thing. People would stop asking altogether. Davis wasn't sure if he'd like that or not.}

^{"Diane was killed in a car crash. It was almost two years ago now. She was on her way home from a night class, some kind of healthy-living nutrition class. A big delivery truck -- not a semi, but the next size down -- blasted right through a stop sign and hit her Honda square in the drivers-side door."}

^{"God, how awful. For you
and
your daughter. I can't imagine dealing with something like that."}

^{"I'll tell you what really made it hard. It was just an accident. The truck driver was an old Guatemalan guy, barely spoke English. But he was here legally. He'd been working a thirteen-hour shift. That's legal too."}

^{After a pause, Sorensen said, "So there was nobody to blame."}