Davis considered a number of smart-ass replies, but said, “I am. The name’s Jammer Davis.”
“I understand that you were also on this flight today, Mr. Davis. May I ask why?”
Davis thought, Because you and Schmitt sent me. He said, “Because I wanted to check out your operation.”
Khoury nodded. It was a good answer, convenient for everyone. He asked, “And what did you think?”
“I think your captain did a first-rate job.” Davis nodded toward the airplane. “The rest speaks for itself.”
“We must all pray for Achmed’s safety. He is a strong young man, and Allah will be with him.”
“Yeah,” Davis said, “he seemed like a great kid. The kind of kid who always did what he was told.”
Khoury stared at Davis with his incongruous green-and-brown gaze. With far less deliberation than he had used to remove them, Khoury put his glasses back on. He reminded Davis of an actor, every movement and word calculated for effect. But Davis didn’t allow himself to be distracted. Didn’t lose his SA. While he and Khoury had been staring each other down, the big guy had slowly arced around behind Davis, almost as if he was stalking. Like T. rex’s probably did millions of years ago. Yet if there was a scent of trouble on the air, it dissipated when Rafiq Khoury took a step back.
“Tell me, Mr. Davis, how does your investigation progress? We have been operating our airline for nearly a year, and this tragic crash is our only case of misfortune.”
Davis looked over the bullet-riddled airplane behind them. “If we don’t count today’s misfortune.”
“I am sure our mechanics can repair the damage.”
“And I’m sure you can recruit a new kid to fill the hole in the right seat.”
Khoury stiffened, but said nothing. Davis figured the imam wasn’t used to being challenged. Around here, arguing with Khoury was tantamount to arguing with God. But even if Davis had been a man with strong religious leanings — even if he was a Muslim — he couldn’t imagine turning to this man for anything spiritual. Khoury struck him as a manipulator and nothing more.
Loudly enough for everyone to hear, Davis said, “Since you’re here, Mr. Khoury, maybe I could ask you about the airplane that went down.”
The imam hesitated, and Davis imagined his eyes moving fast behind the dark glasses. Searching for help.
Schmitt tried to give it. “What could the sheik know that would help your investigation?”
Davis kept his gaze locked on Khoury. “You seem to have connections.”
“I have many followers.”
“Do any of them work in the government?”
No response.
Davis continued, “You see, I was wondering if any wreckage might have been discovered along the coast. When an airplane goes down in the water there’s always debris, so something should have been found by now. Seat cushions, plastic fittings, maybe a wing floating on an empty fuel tank. It might have been picked up by a fisherman, or maybe washed ashore. There’s even a chance that the body of a crewmember might have been found, but we just haven’t heard about it.” Davis paused for effect. “Could you do that for me, Mr. Khoury? Ask around and see if any bodies have, you know, turned up?”
Davis let his gaze drift obviously to the T. rex who was still rooted a few steps behind him. He locked eyes with the brute. Everyone knew the storm flag had been raised. Knew it was snapping stiff in a force five gale of bullshit. Davis watched as Khoury considered how to respond. It wasn’t a short-term, tactical deliberation, but the longer strategic variety, like a chess player thinking five moves ahead. Only Davis doubted the imam was a good chess player. He figured Khoury for the type who would analyze things in a linear fashion. My move, my move, my move, check. Davis had played a little himself, and he knew that you had to consider your opponent’s countermoves. When you did, the mathematical possibilities got real big, real fast. And Davis had always been good at math.
“I have heard nothing,” Khoury said. “But I will see to it that the authorities are notified. It should be simple enough to have the police agencies along the coast report on the matter.”
“Great,” Davis said, beaming a huge smile. “My investigations always go faster when I get that kind of cooperation.”
Khoury turned to address Schmitt. “I must go now. If Mr. Davis needs anything else to aid his inquiries, see to it.”
“My pleasure,” the chief pilot said.
The imam walked briskly to the Land Rover. His T. rex stomped ahead to beat him there, and pulled open the door with forced delicacy, as if he didn’t want to rip it off its hinges by accident. A minute later, Rafiq Khoury’s British-made SUV swerved away.
Davis was the first to speak. “So who was the Sasquatch?” he asked.
Boudreau answered. “His name’s Hassan. Sort of a bodyguard, I guess. You never see Khoury without him.”
Schmitt added nothing.
With Khoury gone, the tension was sucked right out of the air. Davis’ eyes skipped past the chief pilot and landed squarely on Boudreau. “Buy you a beer?”
The Louisianan smiled. “Captain always buys the first round.”
Boudreau bought the first round, and the second. By the fifth he was all alone.
It wasn’t an uncommon situation. No pilot ended up in a place like this — a makeshift watering hole in the African desert — without a sad story. As a career, aviation could be both rewarding and costly, both enlightening and depressing. Broken marriages were common. Stress-related illness — ulcers and high blood pressure — a fact of life. And some turned to drink. Boudreau was coming in for a landing after a tough day, and this was his way of keeping the right side up. Davis thought no less of the man. He’d faced his own demons when Diane had died, and might have hit the bottle hard had it not been for Jen. His daughter had needed him more than ever, and Davis made sure he was there for her with no complications or distractions. Over time, their bond had become more of a two-way street. Jen was his foundation now, a stabilizer for the top-heavy monument that was his aviator’s ego.
Davis was enduring Boudreau’s sorrowful account of former wives and airlines. It was a saga of scandal and disrepute that, in the hands of the right screenwriter, might have made a smashing miniseries. He was on wife three and airline five when Johnson came into the room. Like any good mechanic, he was covered in sweat and grease. He sidled up next to Davis and put two thick, hairy forearms on the bar.
“Buy you a beer?” Davis asked.
A downtrodden Johnson shook his head. “I’ve been looking for you, Jammer. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Things are getting weird around here.”
“Like they haven’t always been?”
Johnson ignored that, and said, “A few weeks ago we stopped getting our usual shipments of expendables. You know — tires, hydraulic fluid, oil. Stuff like that.”
“Have you run out?”
“No, not yet. We’ve got enough to keep operating for two weeks, maybe three. That is, if we keep flying.”
Boudreau sensed a hot rumor, and asked, “What do you mean,‘If we keep flying?’”
Worry was etched into Johnson’s meaty face. “I’ve been in this industry a long time, over twenty years. It hasn’t always been pretty. I’ve been furloughed twice and seen three former employers go out of business.”
“And you think that’s going to happen here?” Davis asked. “Just because you’re running low on oil?”
“There’s more. Three of our airplanes have been grounded for maintenance problems. One in Rwanda and two in Qatar.”