Unusually for him, Frank got no feel for MacIntosh, but maybe that was because Frank was better at picking up details at a distance. They both sat quietly, the narrow aisle between them. The canvas sacks of money were uniform — clasps turned and locked, tops folded over, the outline of the square corners within just barely visible. Whoever had packed up what Arthur had said was ten million dollars, Frank thought, was an orderly person. Louis dozed off.
They flew east. The Comet was a quiet plane. Frank was interested to note how they’d installed the engines — not under the wings, which was what he was used to, but within them. And the wings themselves reminded him of some sort of swooping bird — a barn swallow, maybe.
When Louis woke up, he shook his head and looked around, then shifted in his seat with a groan. After a moment, he stood and went into the toilet. As soon as Frank heard the door lock, he was on his feet. He felt all the pockets of Louis’s jacket, which was draped over the back of his seat, and all the pockets of his coat, which was folded into the open compartment above their heads. No wallet — that would be in Louis’s pants. No briefcase. He looked in the pocket of the seat in front of Louis, and he felt under Louis’s seat. Nothing. He sat down again as the lock turned in the door of the toilet, and stared out the window. Below them, the vast Atlantic, black under the moonless cascades of stars.
Frank had intended to beg off this time. Arthur’s earlier “assignments” for Frank had been convenient and interesting, and getting to know Jim Upjohn might have been the best thing that had ever happened to him — Jim Upjohn was not only a good friend and a great connection, he was also endlessly eccentric, and fascinating as only a wealthy man at the center of what Aunt Eloise always called “the ruling class” could be. This job — making a very long-distance delivery — had no evident purpose (at least, evident to Frank) and seriously interfered with his day-to-day routine. As usual, the only payoff was giving Arthur what he wanted, and getting Arthur’s gratitude in return, and once Arthur got your attention, he could be very compelling.
But Frank’s resistance had been momentary. All he had to do was think of spending yet another evening at home with Andy, Janny, and the twins (not yet six months old, but six months felt like an eternity, and twins seemed like quintuplets if you never thought, waking or sleeping, about anything besides feeding, diapers, bathing, burping, crying). Andy was always either tending to one of them or out on the back deck, smoking a cigarette. She had risen to the occasion, no two ways about it — the nurses they’d hired for two months had taught her to order her every moment and the twins’ every moment; the boys were thriving, but at the expense of all that was idle or easy. After much hemming and hawing, he and Andy had bought a house in the winter. It was an airy, modern split-level with plenty of windows, contemporary furniture, and wall-to-wall carpet. It felt as bleak in the summer and the spring as it had in January, when they moved in. Doing this job for Arthur felt like playing hooky — returning to his younger, sharper, brighter, and more restless self. If only Andy — the Andy of two years ago — could have come along.
When they stopped to refuel in Sardinia, he wanted to walk around, smell the air. What was her name, that girl, the love of his life? Joan, it was. Joan Fontaine, he had called her. A whore. But it was foolish to daydream about a woman who was lost; instead, he sat quietly and waited for Louis to make a move. When the door opened, Louis stood up and scuttled forward. It was, indeed, Mediterranean light here. Hard to believe that he hadn’t been to Italy or France since the war. It was as if he had no idea that Italy would have changed or recovered since he last reconnoitered this cratered city or that blown-up house, looking for Jerries. He had treated stories of postwar renewal in newspapers as unsubstantiated rumors without even realizing it. The airfield was barren, just a long stretch of concrete with a rudimentary tower at one end, not far from the fuel tanks.
Louis hunched down the steps. Frank went into the toilet and pissed without flushing — flushing would release onto the tarmac. He went back to his seat and ate half of his sandwich. When Louis returned, he brought a couple of Cokes. Frank took one.
Louis sat down and buckled his seat belt. Frank said, “This reminds me of the war.”
“You in the European theater?”
Frank said, “Africa first, then Italy.” Someone closed the hatch. Frank could hear the crew shouting something.
“Pacific for me. Midway. Philippines. Nimitz was a great man.”
“Not so many cats to herd,” said Frank. “At the time, I was a big fan of Devers, and I couldn’t figure out why Ike stopped us at Strasbourg, but now I understand a little more about outrunning your fuel supply.”
Louis nodded, then said, “I think you had the prima donnas with you. Montgomery was a fool.”
They sniffed simultaneously. The plane began taxiing down the runway, and Frank turned to stare at the beach and then the ocean, so much paler here. Louis said, “Can’t say I’m all that comfortable in this aircraft.”
Frank turned and looked at him. “Why not?”
“That BOAC Calcutta crash.”
“I didn’t hear about a Calcutta crash.”
“No? Last May sometime. Everyone killed — crew, passengers, everyone.”
Frank again glanced out the window at the engine.
Louis said, “Here’s the creepy part, you ask me. Witnesses say, when the plane went into the Indian Ocean, it was on fire”—Frank couldn’t help looking at him now—“and the wings were gone. Just say this: let’s hope we don’t encounter a hurricane.”
“Let’s hope that,” said Frank. They were quiet. And it was odd that they were using an English plane, given the antipathy the Iranians were supposed to feel toward the Brits. On the other hand, it was the fastest plane Frank had ever been in — twice as fast, if you included takeoff and landing, as a DC-6. Frank looked out the window past the wings this time, and imagined a hundred thousand hundred-dollar bills fluttering in the air.
—
THE SUN WAS GOING down again — Frank checked his watch. For him it was about nine or ten in the morning, but here, where the Mediterranean ended and Asia began, it was darkening and reddening toward nightfall.
He had dropped off, but it had been a restful if alert sort of doze that not only reminded him of his time in North Africa but made him remember what it felt like to be twenty-one rather than thirty-three. He undid his seat belt and stood up, allowing himself to yawn. He cocked his head to the side and slid toward the bathroom, opened the door, went in. He gave himself a bit of time, but not too long, and then he stood up, flushed, waited another moment. He unlocked the door. Louis was sitting just as he had been most of the trip, rereading his copy of The Saturday Evening Post. Frank saw at once that the angle of the folded top of the third bag forward on the right — Frank’s side — was slightly different. And the middle of the three clasps had not been twisted as tightly as before. The other clasps were unchanged. This was why Arthur had hired him — to notice things. Frank sat down again. Louis paid no attention to him. Frank had no idea what Louis’s self-defense skills were. Frank also had no idea how his own skills might have deteriorated since he was actually twenty-one and could grab some guy’s fist almost before the guy decided to pop him one.
The Comet landed in a different kind of dark from American dark — much deeper, no glow of nearby cities or streetlights or even headlights making their way from one empty spot to another. Wherever they landed — it was August 13 here, almost the 14th — Frank knew they were somewhere in Iran, but it was not a base or an oil field. It was a quiet place, dry-smelling. The door opened. Three men came up the stairs and began carrying away the sacks. When the man picked up the last two of the ten sacks, Louis stood up to follow him. Frank stood up to follow Louis. Louis had his jacket on, and when he came to the top of the stairs, he slipped into his coat, but that didn’t stop Frank from noting the rectangular outline just barely discernible against Louis’s chest.