“You’re right about that.”
Green realized his thinking had reverted — he was talking less as a crash investigator and more as a general. “We need to put the Israelis on alert so they can establish strict air cover. They’re good at it — no sixty-year-old airplane would ever get through one of their defensive counter-air screens. Not even if FBN launches their whole fleet.”
“All right,” the DNI said. “I’ll put that forward to the Joint Chiefs. If they agree, well pass it across.”
“And we can help out,” Green said. “We need a carrier nearby.”
“Two already in the neighborhood.”
“So there you are. With all that surveillance, there’s no way anything could get into Israeli airspace without being seen. Not a chance.”
“Where the hell is he?” General Ali’s voice cannoned over the speakerphone.
Khoury was in his office, Hassan hovering at his side. Khoury was exhausted, having been up most of the night. A few fitful naps had done nothing to refresh his outlook. Now, at six in the morning, the general was sounding reveille.
Khoury answered, “We have not found him yet.”
A stream of obscenities assailed the air. Khoury waited for the tirade to pass, then said, “But we have discovered that a truck he has been using was seen a number of times at an aid clinic outside town. It is the same clinic from which your soldiers were …” he paused, “acquiring supplies.”
“So get over there and track him down, you fool! This is no time to have an American spy running free!”
The line went dead.
Khoury took a long, tired breath. One word clattered in his head — spy. Could it be true? Having met Davis, Khoury had trouble envisioning the American as any kind of secret agent. A soldier, perhaps. Even a killer like Hassan. Certainly nothing more. Still, the general was in a dangerous mood, the pressure clearly getting to him. There was no choice. All it took was a nod, and the huge Nubian turned on a heel and strode purposefully outside.
As soon as he was gone, Khoury began to think more positively. If Hassan could learn where Davis was, Khoury would simply forward this information to General Ali. The army was best suited for that kind of hunt. If Davis was found, they would have one more American to parade in front of the world. And if not? Nothing changed, as far as Rafiq Khoury could see. No one could stop events now.
Hassan arrived at the Al Qudayr Aid Station in a flurry of dust and noise. He jumped out of the Land Rover and was immediately flanked by two Kalashnikov-toting young men. Hassan led to the biggest tent, where an old woman in nurse’s clothing came forward to challenge him. She was rail thin but had steel in her eyes, the kind of confidence often displayed by matrons who thought they’d seen every trouble life had to present.
“What do you want here?” she said, her tone confrontational.
A sea of less confident eyes watched from around the tent.
“Are you in charge here?” Hassan asked.
“No.”
Hassan reached out with his massive hands and grabbed the woman by the neck. He began to squeeze and her eyes bulged, looking like they might come out of her head. She turned red, then purple. She slapped helplessly at Hassan’s massive forearms. He lifted her off the ground and looked around the tents, waiting for someone to come forward.
“Stop!” a voice shouted. A young man in doctor’s scrubs crossed over from an adjacent tent. He walked with authority, but stopped a good ten paces away.
Hassan eased his grip ever so slightly. Gurgling noises leaked from the nurse’s gullet, like an animal in its death throes.
“An American named Davis was here two days ago. Where is he now?”
The doctor hesitated, so Hassan cut off the gurgling. His victim began to lose all color.
“He went to the coast with one of our staff doctors.”
“Where?”
“The village of al-Asmat. Now let her go, please!”
Hassan seemed to consider the request. He released the nurse’s neck, shifted his hands down to her waist and raised her over his head like a human barbell. Hassan sent her flying toward the doctor who, to his credit, tried to catch the poor woman. The two tumbled to the dirt in a rolling heap of hospital attire and stethoscopes.
Hassan kicked over an empty cot and strode away.
When Davis rose the next morning, his waking thoughts were the same as when he’d faded off. Regina Antonelli. He hoped the delivery of the child had gone well. Even more, he hoped she was free again for dinner tonight. She’d been in his mind increasingly each day, but last night had reached a new plateau. It was a nice reboot for his outlook on life, a nice diversion from his troubled investigation. Now, however, the stark reality of another day’s light was pouring into his window, and Davis was forced back to less pleasurable concerns.
He sat up quickly, a minor mistake as his lower back clenched into a hard cramp. His head remembered the wine as well. Davis had no idea what time it was, but a look outside made it clear he’d already overslept his agreement with the old man—Meet me at the boat at sunrise.
Davis washed in a stone basin and donned his loaner shorts. Having dried overnight, they were stiff enough to stand on their own, but that would change as soon as he jumped back in the sea. Outside he found a breezeless morning, the sea air seeming even heavier than yesterday. Davis plodded over the hot sand with bare feet, something that wouldn’t be an option in another hour. The old man was waiting, sitting on the gunnel of his boat and whittling a gnarled piece of wood with a pocketknife. Whatever he was making, it was nothing artful. Rounded and with a handle, his project had the distinct appearance of utility, perhaps a reel for hand-line fishing. The old man wasn’t the sort to waste time, something Davis appreciated.
When he looked up and saw Davis, there was no recognizable expression, no annoyance at having had to wait. The old man simply put down his work, hopped off the boat, and went to a heavy canvas bag that was sitting on the hot sand.
Davis stopped right in front of him, and for the second day in a row said, “Good morning.”
The old man nodded without looking, then began extracting scuba gear from the bag. At least Davis thought it was scuba gear. There was a regulator with two accordion hoses, the kind that wrapped around both sides of your head and met in a mouthpiece. It looked like something Jacques-Yves Cousteau would have put in his garage sale fifty years ago. There was no backup octopus rig, no depth gauge or buoyancy compensator. The lone air tank, gray and corroded, didn’t even have a plastic boot on the bottom to keep it upright. Beggars can’t be choosers, Davis thought. He hooked up the regulator to the tank, opened the air valve, and heard a brief hiss as the system charged with pressure. Then he heard another hiss, this one softer. One that didn’t stop. He found the leak in the right-hand air hose, just under a stencil that warned of something in Cyrillic.
The old man was looking at him.
Davis lifted a foot, and used a flat hand to imitate a swimming fin. “Any fins?”
The old man shrugged. Not a chance. There was a slight gleam of anticipation in his gaze. Davis supposed the old guy had a great time last night telling his buddies how they’d spent their day on Shark Reef. And he probably couldn’t wait to see what lunacy the big American was going to come up with today.
Davis shut off the air and put his hands on his hips. When he’d asked for scuba gear this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. It was probably something the Soviets had left behind back in the Cold War days. Khrushchev’s Cold War days. There was no pressure gauge, so Davis didn’t know much air he had. There might be enough for an hour on the bottom, or he might have five minutes. In the end there was really no choice. This was likely the only diving gear in a hundred mile radius. For sure, the only gear he was going to find today. So Davis was committed, because even one minute with the wreckage might give him his answer, might explain why X85BG had made its last touch-down fifty feet beneath the Red Sea.