Milspec stood for military specifications, hardware that was designed for combat conditions. Green had pegged it just like he had.
“That’s what caught my eye,” Davis said. “Find out what it is, who makes these parts. And most important—”
“Who in Africa might use stuff like that,” Green interrupted.
“Right.”
“Okay, the government’s open now, so give me thirty minutes.”
“Twenty-eight.” Davis ended the call.
It took twenty-six minutes. Davis picked up after the first ring.
“I’ve got some of it, Jammer. These parts are all U.S. manufacture, all milspec.”
“And it’s drone equipment, right?”
“Yep. Mostly from QF-4 modifications.”
Davis knew all about QF-4s. The Air Force had modified hundreds of mothballed fighters, including Vietnam era F-4s, to act as target drones. The Q prefix signified a drone conversion. They flew unmanned from Tyndall Air Force Base in Florida, sortied out over the Gulf of Mexico to act as fodder for live-fire missile shoots. Davis himself had shot down a QF-106, back in the day.
He said, “I doubt there’s much need in Sudan to modify old fighters for live missile testing.”
“Nope. I’ll try to track down the shipper, but that’ll take some time. I can tell you that all this stuff is obsolete. These parts have been sitting on shelves for twenty years. I can’t figure it, Jammer. If you have the wreckage from a high-tech drone sitting in your hangar, what’s the point of ordering a bunch of old-school drone hardware?”
There was a long pause as both men digested it. Davis stared at the window and saw a lizard outside, clinging to the glass. It was big and motionless, no doubt stunned by the scorching heat. He finally said, “You know what I could do with stuff like that, Larry?”
“Yeah,” Green said, obviously having reached the same conclusion. “You could take it out of the boxes, throw it away, and use the paperwork and packaging to forward newer stuff anywhere in the world with very little suspicion.”
Davis grinned. “If we think so much alike, how come you made two-star and I only made major?”
“Because you—”
“No, no. Don’t answer that.”
Green asked, “When did these shipments happen?”
“It all came in two loads back in the middle of August.”
“So if it worked like we think, we’ve already missed our chance. The most important parts of Blackstar are already gone. Damn. Darlene Graham isn’t going to like this.”
“Yeah …” Davis hesitated, “but there’s still one thing that doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s that?”
“The report that started all this. It said Blackstar is still there in the hangar, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Well,” Davis reasoned, “if Khoury turned the place into some kind of chop shop, crated up the bits and pieces and shipped them off months ago — how would there be anything recognizable left? And why is there still activity around the hangar? They should have closed up shop by now.”
“I see what you mean,” Green said. “Sure would be nice to get a look inside, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m working on it. In the meantime, keep checking. I want to know about those tail numbers. Go back a few months and study FBN’s international flight plans. If you track those two airplanes, there might be a pattern of shipments. Maybe we can figure out where all those pieces went.”
“I’ll work on it,” Green said, then added, “And Jammer — try to stay out of trouble.”
“You know me, Larry.”
“Yeah. That’s why I said it.”
Davis hung up.
He pocketed the phone and considered his options. Everything began to unfold in his head like a big map, paths and destinations and obstructions. As was his custom, Davis selected Route One — the shortest distance.
He headed for the chief pilot’s office, but found it locked up tight. There was a security keypad on the wall next to the door, something Davis hadn’t noticed on his first visit. It looked pretty serious, a back-lit alphanumeric display that was blank right now, waiting for eight digits in some perfect sequence. Ten to the eighth power. A lot of possibilities, mathematically speaking. The door looked sturdy too, a metal frame with heavy striker plates. All in all, heavy security for the chief pilot’s office of a Third World flying circus.
He backtracked to the operations desk and inquired as to Schmitt’s whereabouts. Got blank stares and shrugs in return. Davis checked his watch. Four thirty. Too early for a chief pilot to have quit for the day. He sighed in frustration. No matter which way he turned, he was getting headwinds. On the crash he had a bogus maintenance write-up and a downed airplane that had turned up in one piece. Larry Green’s radar data was just further proof that there had never even been a crash. And on the Blackstar drone he had nothing at all. No Lamborghini parts getting shipped out. Only Edsel parts getting shipped in. The overall status report on his investigation — sliding backward and accelerating.
Then and there, Davis made his most important decision of the day. He needed a beer. And there was, he suspected, only one place to find one.
Rafiq Khoury’s room at the hangar had only one window. It was a modest opening, perhaps an architectural afterthought, and completely covered by a slatted blind that served to keep prying eyes at bay. That the blind might also prevent the illumination of Allah from penetrating his sanctuary had never occurred to Khoury.
He stood at the window now, a finger pulling aside one of the thick slats to watch the Land Rover approach. He had summoned Schmitt to his private office, an unusual request that Khoury expected would instill at least a tremor of foreboding in the overconfident American. The fact that Khoury had sent Hassan to collect him made the exercise even less nuanced. He watched Schmitt get out of the truck, trundle a few steps across the blazing ramp, then stop to wait for his escort to catch up. Hassan performed well, taking long enough to reinforce who was in charge. Long enough to make the man sweat.
When Hassan finally made his way to Schmitt’s side, he dwarfed the squat American. They walked side by side to the door, and Khoury noted the manila files in Schmitt’s hand. He let the slat fall, took a seat behind his desk, and waited. The knock came.
“Come,” Khoury said.
Schmitt was in the lead, Hassan hovering behind.
“That will be all, Hassan. Wait outside.” The giant nodded, then disappeared.
Schmitt was indeed sweating, though it was likely a consequence of the heat, combined with the fact that the man was terribly unfit. Khoury did not bother with his public mask of benevolence — he would never raise a palm of compassion to this man.
“Sit,” Khoury commanded, in a tone appropriate for a disobedient mutt.
Schmitt sidled over to a chair and did as instructed. Even so, he sat erect, his posture stiff and his gaze firm. It confounded Khoury that he could not intimidate the man.
“These are the files I asked for?” Khoury inquired, holding out a hand.
Schmitt passed them over. “Yeah. What did you need them for?”
Khoury set the files on his desk and ignored the question completely. “I am told the investigator has arrived.”
After a pause, Schmitt said, “He got here yesterday.”
“Do you think him competent?”
Schmitt steepled his hands as if measuring an answer. “I imagine he is.”
“What is his nationality?”
“He’s American.”
“American?” Khoury spat in surprise. “How can this be? You said the investigation would fall to the Europeans. The French.”
“That was what I expected, but apparently the French bureau is a little overextended right now.”