“Dragons.” Davis sat back and grinned. Boudreau was trying to wind him up. All the same, he knew there was an element of truth in it. Fly on a commercial airliner in the West, and your chances of dying in a crash were about one in a hundred million. In this airplane, on this continent — not nearly as many zeroes in the denominator.
The two pilots cranked the engines, checked that everything was in order. Boudreau taxied to the runway and they were cleared for takeoff. The skipper goosed the throttles full forward, and if the machine had been shaking before, it rattled like a jackhammer now. The racket from the engines cancelled every other sound, and Davis felt the familiar push in the back of his seat. The grip of aerodynamic lift took hold, and the main wheels levitated. Everything fell more quiet, more smooth, and, like with all airplanes, just a little more tenuous. Even experienced pilots felt it. There was a tactile certainty to rolling down a runway with rubber on concrete, but once you broke ground everything became just a bit less convincing. Safe, certainly. A sense of freedom, no doubt. But a dash of risk sprinkled in as the vertical dimension was introduced.
The early morning air was smooth, and Boudreau looked right at home, one easy hand on the controls and the other holding a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Davis’ ears popped as the unpressurized airplane climbed. Their initial heading was north, and he could see Khartoum ahead under a hazy blanket of sodium light. The city was split by the dark serpentine shadow of two rivers merging into one, the confluence of the Blue and White Niles.
Once they had some altitude, Boudreau banked the airplane to the right. A minute later they were headed due south for the equator.
Khoury stepped into his office before sunrise, leaving Hassan stationed outside at his usual post. He did not typically rise so early, but today he was keeping the general’s schedule. He went into the hangar and found Jibril asleep on his cot. Khoury left him alone, knowing there were limits to how hard he could drive the man. Back in his office, he sat at his desk and waited.
When the call came, he let the first and second warbles run before picking up on the third. Obedient but not kowtowed. “Yes?” Khoury said, as if he might be expecting any number of important calls.
“Give me the report.” No salutation, just a command. The baritone from the Ministry of Defense in Khartoum was much in the habit of issuing orders.
“The engineer has nearly completed his tasks,” Khoury announced.
“Nearly?” General Ali barked. “The deadline is upon us.”
“Everything will be ready,” Khoury assured. He then tried to sound casual as he added, “And the crash investigator has arrived.”
“How unfortunate,” Ali grumbled. “Apparently my request to the Minister of Aviation to arrange a delay has fallen on deaf ears. Another post, I think, that will soon have a vacancy.”
Khoury weighed a humorous reply, but decided the most clever reaction was silence.
“Tell me about this investigator,” the general prodded.
“His name is Davis. He is American.” Knowing this would not sit well, he added quickly, “We were expecting a Frenchman, of course, but perhaps we can make the best of the situation.”
“As with the other Americans?”
“Exactly,” Khoury said. “He was sent here by their government, and the timing could not be more perfect.”
“Yes, I see your point.”
Khoury was happy that the general seemed to be taking the news well. He said, “But for now, I will keep the man busy.”
“Yes, that would be best, dear sheik.” Ali went back to issuing orders, “The helicopter will arrive Saturday morning for our final tour. Nine o’clock.”
“I will be waiting.”
“And bring Hassan this time,” the general said with a lighter tone. “I don’t think he has ever seen the pyramids.”
“Of course,” Khoury replied dryly.
There was a deep chuckle from the north before the line went dead.
Khoury set the phone in its cradle, leaned back in his chair, and put his heels up on the hardwood desk. He pulled the kaffiyeh from his head, allowing his shoulder-length black locks to fall free over the collar of his tunic. He considered going out to the hanger again to appraise things, but without Jibril to explain technical matters, Khoury would understand little. It bothered him at times, the degree to which he relied on the engineer, but so far the man had been wholly reliable.
The dawn call to prayer sounded from the speakers in the hangar, spreading with its usual ill fidelity, as if emanating from a soup can. The wailing chant echoed inside the voluminous building, and spilled out across the surrounding desert. Khoury did not move. He imagined his men outside making their way dutifully to the prayer room. Perhaps Hassan would even make an appearance. Khoury, in a custom that would be foreign to most imams, did not join regularly in prayer with his flock. It had been one of his first issuances on arriving here. His office served a dual purpose, one side arranged for work — a desk, a chair, one moderately ornate cabinet — while the other half was committed to worship, a humble space for the imam to conduct the protocols of his faith. None of his followers doubted their imam’s reasoning — that his dialogue with Allah was so intense, so personal, that it could only be undertaken in a private arena.
Rafiq Khoury took a deep breath and pulled a key from his pocket, used it to unlock the door of the small cabinet that was an arm’s length from his desk. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, then inspected three tumblers to judge which was the cleanest. He made his choice, poured three fingers, and leaned back as he took the first sip, making a mental note to keep the ice bucket current. It was so much better over ice. Khoury lit a cigarette and took a long, deep draw, holding the flavor in his lungs before exhaling with the satisfaction of one who truly needed the fix. Soon, lyrical chanting from the nearby prayer room washed in like a distant whisper. Idly, Khoury closed his eyes and swirled the wondrous elixir in his mouth. He felt the familiar burn as the whiskey went down, and when he opened his eyes again Khoury studied the bottle on his desk. He had never been to America, but perhaps someday he would go. If it should ever come to pass, his first stop would be this wondrous place called Kentucky.
Khoury took another long draw on his cigarette, poured a second bracer. He eased back in his chair and closed his eyes. Only a year ago his circumstances had been tenuous. No, his very existence had been tenuous. Yet here he was, not only alive, but on the verge of greatness and riches. There were times when he was still stunned by the speed of his advance. By necessity, Khoury had eschewed the traditional path to clerical recognition. To spend years in holy scholarship was an entirely impractical pursuit, though if anyone asked — and they rarely did — Khoury claimed to have run that course. The only ones who could challenge this assertion were other clerics, and he made a marked point of not finding their company. His thoughts drifted, and he wondered what his mother would think of it all. Another of her American metaphors came to mind. A meteoric rise.
It fit his situation, Khoury supposed. Still, he had always thought the phrase odd, as meteors did not rise. At least not any he had ever seen. They went the other way, ending, to be sure, quite deep in the earth. Not wanting to dwell on that thought, Khoury tipped back his glass, and again felt the delicious burn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN