The Lion's Game (45 page)

“Nope. That’s my job. You’re the customer. Ready?”

Khalil had been told they had to file a flight plan, but the female pilot was already at the door.

He walked to the door, and the woman behind the counter said, “Have a nice flight.”

“Thank you. Have a nice day.”

The female pilot held the door open for him, and they walked out into the heat and sunshine. The sunglasses made it easier to see.

She said, “Follow me.”

He walked beside her as they made their way toward a small aircraft parked close to the office.

She said, “Where you from? Russia?”

“Greece.”

“Yeah? I thought Demitrious was Russian.”

“Demitri is Russian. Demitrious is from Greece.”

“You don’t look Russian.”

“No. Poulos. From Athens.”

“You fly into Jacksonville?”

“Yes, Jacksonville International Airport.”

“Right from Athens?”

“No. From Athens to Washington.”

“Right. Hey, you hot in that suit? Take your tie and jacket off.”

“I am fine. It is much hotter where I come from.”

“No kidding?”

“Allow me to carry the bag.”

“No problem.”

They reached the aircraft and the woman asked, “You need the bag, or should I stow it in the passenger compartment?”

“I need the bag.” He added, “There are delicate terra-cottas in the bag.”

“Say what?”

“Ancient vases. I am a dealer in antiquities.”

“No kidding? Okay, I’ll try not to sit on the bag.” She laughed and put the bag down gently on the tarmac.

Khalil looked at the small blue and white aircraft.

Stacy Moll said, “Okay, FYI, this is a Piper Cherokee. I use it mostly for flight instruction, but I make short charter flights with it. Hey, you have a problem with a female pilot?”

“No. I am sure you are competent.”

“I’m better than competent. I’m great.”

He nodded, but felt his face flush again. He wondered if there was a way to kill this brazen woman without jeopardizing his future plans. Malik had said to him, “You may have a desire to kill rather than a
need
to kill. Remember, the lion has no desire to kill, only a need to kill. With every killing, there is a risk. With every risk, the danger increases. Kill who you must, but never kill for sport or in anger.”

The woman said to him, “Hey, you look good in shades—sunglasses.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She said, “She’s all ready to go. I gave her a complete pre-flight check. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“You a nervous flier?”

Khalil had the urge to tell her he’d arrived in America in an aircraft with two dead pilots, but instead he said, “I have flown often.”

“Good.” She hopped onto the right wing, opened the Piper’s door, and reached her hand out. “Give me the bag.”

He handed the bag up to her, and she placed it on the back seat, then reached out her hand to him and said, “Put your left foot on that little step and use the handhold on the fuselage.” She pointed to the protruding bracket just above the rear window. “I’ve got to get in first—this is the only door—then you slide in after me.” She got into the aircraft.

He climbed up on the wing as she said, then eased himself down into the aircraft’s right front seat. He turned and looked at her. Their faces were only inches apart, and she smiled at him. “Comfortable?”

“Yes.”

He reached behind him and placed the black bag on his lap.

She fastened her harness and told him to do the same. He managed to fasten his belt with the bag still on his lap.

She said, “You want to keep that bag on your lap?”

“Just until we are in the air.”

“You need a pill or something?”

I need to be close to my weapons until we are safely out of here
. “The vases are delicate. May I ask you—do we need to file a flight plan? Or has it been filed?”

She pointed out the window and said, “Chamber of Commerce blue skies. Don’t need a flight plan.”

She handed him a headset with a boom microphone, and he put it on. She put hers on and said, “Calling Demitrious. How do you hear me, Demitrious?”

He cleared his throat and said, “I can hear you.”

“Same. This is better than screaming over the engine noise. Hey, can I call you Demitrious?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Stacy.”

“Yes.”

She put on her sunglasses, started the engine, and they began to taxi out. She said, “We’re using Runway Fourteen today. Blue skies all the way to Daytona Beach, no turbulence reported by anyone, good southerly wind, and the best damned pilot in Florida at the controls.”

He nodded.

She stopped at the end of Runway Fourteen, reached across him to close and lock the door, did an engine check, then broadcast, “Piper One-Five Whiskey, ready for take-off.”

The Control Tower broadcast, “Cleared for take-off, One-Five Whiskey.”

Stacy Moll ran up the engine, released the brake, and they began rolling down the runway. Within twenty seconds, the aircraft lifted off and climbed out.

She turned the Piper thirty degrees to the right to a heading of one hundred seventy degrees, almost due south, then punched some buttons on the panel, explaining to Khalil, “This is the Global Positioning Satellite Navigation radio. You know how that works?”

“Yes. I have one in my automobile. In Greece.”

She laughed. “Good. You’re in charge of the GPS, Demitrious.”

“Yes?”

“Just kidding. Hey, do you want me to shut up, or do you want company?”

He found himself saying, “I would enjoy company.”

“Good. But tell me if I’m talking too much, and I’ll shut up.”

He nodded.

She said, “Our flight time to Daytona Beach Airport is forty to fifty minutes. Maybe less.”

He replied, “It is not actually to Daytona Beach Airport that I wish to go.”

She glanced at him and asked, “Where exactly do you wish to go?”

“It is a place called Spruce Creek. Do you know it?”

“Sure. Pishy-poshy fly-in community. I’ll reprogram.” She hit some buttons on the console.

He said, “I am sorry if there was confusion.”

“No problem. This is easier than the big airport, especially on a perfect day like this.”

“Good.”

She settled back in her seat, scanned her control panel, and said, “Eighty-four nautical miles, flight time forty-one minutes, expected fuel burn nine and a half gallons. Piece of cake.”

“No, thank you.”

She looked at him, then laughed. “No, I mean ... it’s like slang. Piece of cake. Means, like, no problem.”

He nodded.

“I’ll keep the slang down to a minimum. If you can’t understand me, say, ‘Stacy, talk English.’”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’re climbing through twenty-five hundred feet, passing due east of Jacksonville Naval Air Station. You can see it down there. Take a look. The other air field to the west was called Cecil Field, also Navy, but that’s been decommissioned. Do you see any jet fighters out here? They’re doing some practice crap on most days. Keep a lookout. Last thing I need is some jet-jockey up my ass—pardon my French.”

“French?”

“Forget it.” She said, “Hey, none of my business, but why are you going to Spruce Creek?”

“I have a business appointment there. A collector of Greek antiquities.”

“Okay. About an hour on the ground?”

“Perhaps less. No more.”

“Take as long as you need. I’m free all day.”

“It will not take long.”

“You know where you need to go when we hit the ground?”

“Yes. I have the information.”

“You ever been there? Spruce Creek?”

“No.”

“Pishy-poshy. That means people with too much money. Well, they don’t all have big bucks, but lots of them have their noses in the air. You know? Lots of doctors, lawyers, and businessmen who think they know how to fly. But you’ve also got lots of commercial airline pilots—active and retired. They know how to fly the big stuff, but sometimes they get themselves killed in their little sports planes. Sorry, I’m not supposed to talk about crashing to the customers.” She laughed again.

Khalil smiled.

She continued, “Anyway, at Spruce Creek you also got some retired military guys. Real ‘Right Stuff’ kind of macho types. You know? I mean, they think they’re God’s gift to women. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, the guy you’re going to see wouldn’t be named Jim Marcus, would it?”

“No.”

“Whew! Good. I used to date that idiot. Former Navy, now a US Airways pilot. My father was a military jet pilot. Told me never to date a pilot. Good advice. Hey, what’s the difference between a pig and a pilot? Give up? A pig won’t stay up all night to screw a pilot.” She laughed. “Sorry. You didn’t get it anyway. Right? Anyway, if I never see that SOB again, it will be too soon. Okay, enough of my problems. Down there on the left—you can’t see it now, but on the way back you can—is Saint Augustine. Oldest settlement in America. I mean, European settlement. The Indians were here first. Right? Gotta remember my PC.”

Khalil asked, “Do retired military pilots in America have much money?”

“Well ... depends. They get a good pension if they have enough time in service, and enough rank. Like maybe a colonel—in the Navy, that would be a captain. They do okay if they saved a little and didn’t piss away all of their pay. A lot of them go into some kind of related business. You know? Like working for a private company that makes parts or weapons for military aircraft. They got connections, and they talk the talk. Some of them do some corporate jet flying. Big shots like to hire ex-military guys. Macho male crap. Old boys network. The CEOs want somebody who dropped bombs on some poor bastards. They tell all their friends—like, my pilot is Colonel Smith, who bombed the crap out of the Yugos, or the Iraquis. You know?”

“Or the Libyans.”

“We never bombed the Libyans. Did we?”

“I think so. Many years ago.”

“Yeah? I don’t remember that one. We gotta stop doing that. Pisses people off.”

“Yes.”

The Piper continued south.

Stacy Moll said, “We just passed Palatka. Okay, if you look out to your right, you’ll see the Navy bombing range. See that big wasted area down there? We can’t get any closer because it’s restricted airspace. But you can see the target areas. Hey! They’re bombing today. Did you see that guy swoop in, then climb straight up?
Wow!
Haven’t seen that in about a year. Keep an eye out for these hotshots. They usually come in high, and they release way up there, but sometimes they practice low run-ins—like they do when they’re ducking under enemy radar. You know? Then you have to watch out. Hey—look! See that? That’s another guy making a low run. Wow. You see any aircraft?”

Asad Khalil’s heart was beating heavily in his chest. He closed his eyes and through the blackness he saw the burning red plume of the attack jet coming toward him, the indistinct blur of the aircraft itself, backlighted by the glow of Tripoli. The jet fighter was not more than an arm’s length from his face, or perhaps that was how he recalled it with the passage of time. The fighter had suddenly risen straight up into the air, and seconds later, four ear-splitting explosions erupted, and the world around him was destroyed.

“Demitrious? Demitrious? You okay?”

He was aware that his hands were covering his face, and sweat was pouring from his skin. The woman was shaking his shoulder.

He put his hands down, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, I am fine.”

“You sure? If you get pukey, I’ve got a barf bag handy.”

“I am fine. Thank you.”

“You want some water? I have water in the back.”

He shook his head. “I am fine now.”

“Okay.”

They continued south over rural Florida. After a few minutes, Khalil said, “I am feeling much better.”

“Yeah? Maybe you shouldn’t look down. You know? Vertigo. How do you say that in Greek? Vertigo.”

“Vertigo. It is the same.”

“No kidding? That means I speak Greek.”

He looked at her, and she glanced at him. She said, “Just kidding.”

“Of course.”
If you spoke Greek, you would know that I do not
.

She said, “Out there to the left—don’t look—is Daytona Beach. You can see the big hotels on the beach. Don’t look. How’s your tummy?”

“I am fine.”

“Good. We’re starting our descent. Might get a little choppy.”

The Piper descended toward one thousand feet, and the lower they went, the more turbulence they experienced. Stacy Moll asked, “How we doing?”

“Fine.”

“Good. It won’t get much bumpier than this. Just some low-altitude turbulence.” She dialed in a frequency on her radio and clicked her transmitter three times. An automated female voice came on the air and said, “Spruce Creek Airport advisory, wind one hundred ninety degrees at nine knots, altimeter three-zero-two-four.”

Stacy Moll changed frequencies and transmitted, “Spruce Creek traffic, Piper One-Five Whiskey is two miles west, to enter downwind for Runway Two-Three.”

Khalil asked, “To whom are you speaking?”

“Just announcing our position to other aircraft who might be in the area. But I don’t see anyone, and no one is saying anything on this frequency. So we’ll head right in.” She added, “There’s no tower at Spruce Creek, which is six miles south of Daytona Beach International. I’m staying low and west of Daytona so I can just skirt around their radar and not have to talk to them. Understand?”

He nodded. “So ... there is no ... record of our arrival?”

“Nope. Why do you ask?”

“In my country, there is a record of all aircraft.”

“This is a private airfield.” She began a slow, banking turn. She said, “It’s a guard-gate community. You know? If you drive in, the Nazi at the gate wants to strip-search you unless you’ve been cleared by one of the residents inside. Even then, you get the once-over and the third degree.”