“I told him I would cover your debts with a loan, but only if the gear can be had at a reasonable price — all, of course, at very unreasonable rate of interest to you.”
“Thanks again.”
“Not at all,” she said. “And by the way — the medicine you retrieved for us has already saved one life today.”
“Glad to hear it. So are we still on for dinner?”
“Of course,” she said, coming closer.
Davis had always had a lousy sense of smell — not a bad way to go through life in his opinion — but right now it was working, registering a curiously inspiring mix of perfume and iodine.
Antonelli tugged on the ragged old T-shirt she’d found for him. Davis had put it back on for the ride to shore, but it was nearly shredded after a day at sea on a frame two sizes too large. She said, “The dress standards here are casual, however I will insist on something better.”
“Half an hour?” he asked.
“Done.”
She walked away, and Davis watched her go. The sway of her hips, the flow of her hair in the breeze. The old man caught him looking, and smiled like old guys did anywhere.
Davis grinned back and made two gestures. He pointed to his own eyes, and then a rounded movement with his hands toward the east. See you in the morning.
The old man nodded enthusiastically. Davis had the distinct feeling he was beginning to enjoy this little sideshow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There are nine hundred thousand words in the English language. Jammer Davis couldn’t think of a single one.
She was standing by the same table on the same patio where they’d dined yesterday. Only the doctor was not the same. She was wearing a pair of blue shorts and a tiny white shirt knotted above the belly. Even with flat shoes, her long legs seemed to go on forever, lithe and brown. The shorts and shirt accentuated her curves and exposed a stomach that belonged on a late-night infomercial for blasting abs. If Davis was built for rugby, Antonelli was a pole vaulter, all long limbs and sinew and muscle. Her flawless skin was dark, though not so much a tan as the native bronze of her Mediterranean heritage. Davis had never seen the doctor in anything other than work clothes and hospital scrubs, so now he knew what he’d been missing. His only concern was that her new fashion statement would raise eyebrows in the village — they were still in a Muslim country. But then, Antonelli knew the local sensibilities better than he did.
“Hi,” she said for a second time.
He finally spit it out. “Hi.”
Davis pried his eyes away from Antonelli, and they landed on a bottle of Pinot Noir on the table. It was open, and situated nicely between a pair of mismatched glasses, probably the same two they’d used yesterday.
He said, “I see you were serious about only drinking from bottles with corks.”
Antonelli poured. “Wine is very serious.”
They took their regular seats and toasted a successful day, his in the ocean and hers in the clinic. The wine was quite good. As far as Davis could tell.
She said, “You must tell me about what you found in the sea.”
“I found what I was looking for. The wreckage is lying in about fifty feet of water. But I need a closer look.”
“What will that tell you?”
“A lot, I’m hoping. Chances are this wreck will never be brought to the surface. Sudan doesn’t have the resources for that kind of salvage. But I can learn a lot from a closer look. I’ll see if there was any cargo. I’ll check the position of switches and levers in the cockpit to verify the configuration when the airplane hit, things like landing gear and flight controls.”
“And that can give you a solution?”
“It’s a start. But there might be more to it.”
“Such as?”
“FBN Aviation is a shady operation. Aside from delivering supplies to people like you, they deliver a lot of things that are … well, less helpful to the world.”
“Weapons?” she suggested.
“I’m sure you’ve seen them. For my investigation that brings a lot of possible causes into play. This crash might not even have been an accident. At least not in the usual sense.”
Antonelli pulled her glass from her lips in mid-sip. “Are you saying FBN might have sabotaged the airplane?”
Davis shrugged to say it was a possibility.
“What about the pilots? I knew one man fairly well, the one who helped at our clinic.”
Davis studied her for a moment, wondering how far to go. He relented. “I probably should have leveled with you earlier about that. I told you that I found the crew, the two Ukranians.”
She looked perplexed. “Yes?”
“Actually, I found their bodies in the desert a few days ago. They had been executed.”
Antonelli gasped. “Executed?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“My guess is FBN Aviation. Imam Khoury has his own private army. And I suspect it goes higher than that. In a place like this, Khoury would never be able to operate without support from someone in the government.”
She said nothing for a long time. The same woman who had served them last night arrived with food and a smile.
When she was gone, Antonelli said, “The world can be a cruel place.”
“Yes it can,” he agreed. “But it can also be a good place.”
She raised her glass. “To the good.”
He tapped his against it. “To the good.”
The meal was fish, well seasoned, accompanied by couscous. It was even better than the previous evening. Or maybe Davis had only worked up a greater hunger by getting dragged through the Red Sea all day.
Midcourse through dinner, Antonelli offered up her phone for another call to Jen. Davis had also been contemplating a call to Larry Green. The general might have new information, although more likely he’d just order Davis home again. In the end, neither idea got off the ground for the most basic of reasons — her handset was low on power and wouldn’t hold a connection. Davis was disappointed, because he really wanted to talk to his daughter. He had fewer regrets about the call to D.C. After his dive tomorrow, he’d find a way to get back to Khartoum. Then he’d find a phone and check in. What difference could a day make? he reasoned.
Davis made Antonelli tell him about her day at the clinic, and that subject lifted the mood considerably. Or perhaps it was the wine. They pulled a second cork before finishing, and still had half a bottle left when the server took away their plates. Both agreed that a walk on the beach was in order. She grabbed the glasses. He grabbed the bottle.
On reaching the water, they turned left, and meandered toward the dim orange glow. The sun was finally gone, resting after another twelve-hour shift spent beating the earth into submission. Waves slapped gently onto shore, and above the tideline a warm offshore breeze rustled through a thin stand of palms. With the village behind them, they followed a strand of sand that curved out toward sea, then disappeared at a point miles in the distance. They strolled side by side, their steps irregular, arms swinging carelessly. It might have been the wine or it might have been the mood, but for the first time in days Davis found he wasn’t thinking about crashes or drones or thieving soldiers. It felt good.
Antonelli looked skyward, and said, “It’s such a clear evening. We should look for shooting stars.”
“You can’t. They only come when you’re not looking for them.”
She frowned in mock disappointment.
“But I’ll watch just the same.”
She said, “Tell me, Jammer, will you go back to Washington as soon as you have solved the mystery of this crash?”
“Yes.”