Davis snapped on a light switch, shut the door quietly, and went to the cabinet with the crowbar ready. He slid it through the exterior locking bar, just below the combination padlock, and was about to heave when he paused. This way would work, but it would make a lot of noise. He wondered if there might be an alternate method. Bob Schmitt was an idiot, but he was also a pilot, and Davis knew how pilots viewed things like information security. He started looking. The edge of the file cabinet, the nearby wall trim, the underside of the wooden picture frame around the Sudanese president. Nothing. On top of the cabinet was a pile of office supplies — copier paper and file folders and staples. He found it on the underside of a stack of Post-it notes, scribbled in pencil. 30–12–28. Davis shook his head.
He spun the tumblers, gave a solid pull, and the lock snapped open. Davis disengaged the bar as quietly as he could, set the crowbar aside, and opened the bottom drawer. He saw personnel files, just like the ones Schmitt had already given him. He saw gaps between the manila sleeves that implied a few were missing. As they were arranged alphabetically, it was easy enough to figure out which ones: Boudreau, Johnson, and Schmitt. The three Americans.
Davis moved to the middle drawer, rifled through maintenance requirements and flight plans. He found records for each aircraft in FBN’s fleet, but noted two missing. Schmitt had given him the file for N2012L, so that was in his room. But there was nothing at all on X85BG. Scanning the records of the remaining aircraft, Davis was struck by a certain symmetry. FBN’s airplanes had been purchased from tiny operators all over the world, yet they had one thing in common — U.S. registration. Every single one. He moved to the top drawer and found Schmitt’s personal gear. A headset, some charts with notes, a pilot’s flight logbook.
Davis picked up the logbook. Pilots were required to track their flight time. There were currencies to keep up, things like night landings and instrument approaches. And if you ever switched jobs, you needed a written record of your fight experience. Davis went to the back of Schmitt’s logbook and found the most recent entry. He’d flown ten days ago, Qatar and back. Davis flipped though a few pages until he found the day of the accident, maybe hoping for an entry to tell him that Bob Schmitt had been flying N2012L on the night of September 20th. There was nothing. Schmitt hadn’t flown the entire week of the crash. At least that’s what it said in his logbook.
Davis was putting everything back where he’d found it when he heard a noise from the hallway. He took one last look in the top drawer and spotted a cell phone on the bottom. One that looked a lot like the one he’d been issued. The one he’d annihilated. He thought, They really do hand them out like candy. Davis pulled it out and hit the power button. Nothing happened. A dead battery perhaps. Or it might be broken. Then again, Schmitt could have confiscated the handset from someone else and disabled it. A lot of possibilities.
Davis put the phone back where he’d found it, and once again pondered the chances of Bob Schmitt being a CIA source. It was no minor coincidence to find a CIA-issued phone in the man’s three-drawer file, but there were any number of scenarios that might have put it there. Davis wasn’t ready to trust Schmitt. Not yet.
“What are you doing here?”
Davis wheeled around and saw part of the skeleton crew from the front desk, the taller set of bones.
Davis said, “I’m investigating.”
“You should not be in here!” the man said.
Wanting to keep him off balance, Davis said, “Never despair of God’s mercy.” It was a quote from the Koran, the only one he knew.
“You are not Muslim.”
“Me? No, I’m a pugilist agnostic.”
The guy stared at him blankly.
Davis explained, “I believe in hitting people — I just don’t know who.” He took a step toward the man.
Bones looked over his shoulder for help, but didn’t find any. He said, “Abu is calling the security forces!”
“I’ve already met the security forces,” Davis replied. “They’re not coming.” He kept advancing.
The skeleton took one step back, followed by another. And then he was gone.
Seconds later, so was Davis.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The arriving helicopter was late, but Rafiq Khoury was in no position to complain.
It was half past eight in the morning, and he was standing on the tarmac next to Hassan, trying to stand straight as the settling chopper’s downwash raked across them. The sound was penetrating, a thumping pulse that carried right through Khoury’s body, rattling his bones and his brain. The aircraft was a twin to the one General Ali had brought last time, a heavy Russian gunship bristling with antenna and armament. Khoury was sure there were other helicopters in Sudan — he had seen government ministers riding in civilian models that were far sleeker and quieter — but he supposed the general preferred this type for that very reason. It rattled people.
The machine crouched onto the concrete, and a crewman wearing a helmet beckoned them with a wave. For once, Hassan did not let Khoury lead. He strode ahead and climbed aboard, leaving the imam to follow. Khoury struggled to get a leg up into the cabin and, after three failed attempts, felt himself being pulled up by the elbows and directed none too delicately to a webbed seat. The crewman buckled Khoury’s lap belt, slid the access door closed, and the symphony of racket began — churning gears and vibrating rotors.
Khoury held fast to the frame of his seat as the big machine began to levitate. Hassan had taken the seat across, shoulder to shoulder with General Ali. The minister of defense was decked out in his finest regalia. Together the two men made an imposing pair. Ali was not as tall as Hassan, yet his thick chest and heavy gut would sum to a balance on any scale. The general’s pockmarked face held a twinge of amusement as Hassan whispered into his ear. Or maybe he wasn’t whispering — the ambient noise was deafening.
“Is everything ready?” Ali barked across the divide.
“Yes,” Khoury said. “Jibril is still working, but he says all will be ready.”
“And the rest?”
“I have formally dismissed all employees except the Americans.”
“What about Achmed?” the general asked.
“I received his call this morning. He expects to return tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. Flights out of the Congo do not always run as scheduled.”
“Let us hope he returns in time. We will need him come Tuesday. What about the hangar?”
“Everything is being prepared for Monday’s transformation. I particularly liked your idea about the flag.”
Khoury saw it again, crinkles of cruel amusement at the margins of the general’s expression. He was impressed, in a way, that the man could still find humor given the stakes. Come Tuesday’s upheaval, there would certainly be moments of indecision and panic, a degree of unpredictability that could put them all at risk. The general had the benefit of foresight, but his light mood spoke a confidence that Khoury did not wholly share. He looked out the small window and saw the hangar in the distance. The general had picked them up on the opposite side of the airport — as had long been the case, he kept his distance from FBN Aviation, lest anyone make an association.
General Ali said, “There was an unattractive incident last night involving some of my men at a checkpoint outside the airfield.”