“All right,” Schmitt said. “I’ll be there bright and early. What am I going to do for a copilot?”
“Achmed has returned, praise be to Allah.”
“Achmed?” Another long silence, then, “Yeah, what a blessing.”
Khoury hung up and sighed deeply. He wished he did not have to rely on Schmitt, but there was simply no other way. None of his more loyal pilots were up to the task. Achmed would at least take the copilot’s seat to monitor Schmitt and make sure he did nothing destructive.
A knock from the inner hangar door startled Khoury. Muhammad had gone home for the day, so it could only be one person.
“Come, Fadi.”
The engineer entered. Khoury thought he looked tired and haggard, even more so than usual. He felt a pang of concern.
“I have finished, sheik. All is ready.”
Khoury rose and embraced the young man, a gesture of goodwill that was truly heartfelt. “One day to spare. You have done well, Fadi. Allah smiles upon us.”
“Yes, sheik.”
Khoury kept an arm around Jibril’s shoulder and led him to a chair.
“There is something I must ask you,” Jibril said, taking a seat.
“Anything.”
“My part here will soon be done.”
“Yes, and you have performed brilliantly.”
“Afterward …” Jibril hesitated, “Yasmin worries where I will find work.”
“Fadi, a man of you talents will never be wasted.”
“But you see, my wife wishes to return to the West. I know I can find work there, yet—”
“You worry that what happens tomorrow will be tied to us,” Khoury suggested. “Do not be concerned, my son. We know how unforgiving the Israelis can be, so we have gone to great lengths to ensure that this strike can never be brought back to us. The Mossad may buzz with anger, but nothing can ever be proven. That is the beauty of using American hardware, don’t you see?”
“Yes, of course. I understand that.”
There was more than a trace of guilt in Jibril’s tone, the kind of emotion Khoury was expert at recognizing. “So what more could there be?” Khoury asked. “You will be able to find work anywhere.”
Jibril shook his head. “My concern is not for my work, sheik. You see, Yasmin and I are expecting our first child soon. How will I … how will I raise him to be a good Muslim in America or England?”
A relieved Khoury said, “Fadi, Fadi. I am acquainted with many other imams. Indeed, you were recommended to me by the imam in Virginia, were you not?”
Jibril nodded.
“Then trust that I can put you in contact with followers of the faith wherever you go. They will guide you, make your path to a new life smooth. Allah has no limitations, Fadi. He does not exist only in certain corners of the world. He is everywhere. Even those in America can be His children.”
Khoury saw his words hit home. This was what Jibril wanted to hear. He looked truly relieved, and his tiredness was gone in an instant.
“Yes, you are right. I must go tell Yasmin.” He jumped up from his chair, but Khoury put a firm hand to his shoulder and eased him back down.
“You cannot go to your apartment, Fadi. Not today.”
“But I have not seen Yasmin in three days.”
“Fadi! You know the importance of what we are doing. For every-one’s sake, it is better that you sleep here tonight. There can be no distractions whatsoever.”
Jibril sighed aloud.
“Tomorrow we will celebrate a great victory. Then you can go to Yasmin, tell her of our success. The two of you will plan a great future for your child, and I promise to do everything in my power to help.”
“Yes, sheik. Thank you.” Jibril retreated to the work area.
When he was gone, Khoury took a deep breath. He eyed the cabinet that held his stash of whiskey, but for once ignored it. Instead he crossed the room and pulled back one slat on the window blind. Hassan’s shoulder was there by the door. Khoury felt a strange coldness, and he let the slat fall.
In the beginning, General Ali’s man had been a comfort. Now Khoury was less sure. Yesterday he’d seen Hassan’s work. The two Americans, Johnson and Boudreau, had been rounded up and brought in. Hassan had taken charge and beaten the men severely before handing them over to General Ali’s men.
Schmitt and Jibril, the other links to America, still had parts to play for another day. Four Americans, altogether — two pilots, a mechanic, and an engineer. Soon, the general’s men might round up Davis as a fifth. Then all would be situated for the photographers, posthumously if necessary, amid the remnants of FBN Aviation — a hangar and the wrecked shell of an airplane. The standard of proof, as presented by the new Sudanese government, would be incontrovertible. Everything was going as planned for the big show. Indeed, that was how Khoury viewed it — as if it were a major Hollywood production.
He eyed his cabinet again, and this time succumbed. Opening the bottle, Khoury poured a generous bracer to quell his nerves. He took a liberal sip, allowing the drink to swirl in his mouth, and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, the vision that came to mind did nothing to soothe his frayed edges — Hassan looming ominously at his threshold. Khoury had always thought himself a shrewd man, one who retained command of situations. But he now feared that he had lost a degree of control. For all the potential ahead, he remained at General Ali’s mercy. The man had made a great many promises. He had supported the concept of an “Imam of State,” a position that, leveraged properly, would enhance Khoury’s following overnight by a factor of a hundred. Alternately, Khoury had been offered the ministry of his choice. But for all the general’s assurances, there was one outstanding dilemma, one quirk of fate that left Khoury hanging on a precipice. It involved his mother.
By her blood, Rafiq Khoury, director and CEO of FBN Aviation, was himself half American.
Davis decided the reef was aptly named, because as soon as the bubbles cleared away the first thing he saw was a shark. And not just any shark, but a full-grown tiger with its blunt body and lateral stripes. Cruising twenty feet below, the fish was bigger than Davis by a factor of two. It swam with an undulating side-to-side motion, slow and arrogant, as creatures at the top of the food chain tended to move.
Davis had been fascinated by sharks as a young boy, and had read every book he could get his hands on to learn about them. He knew that sharks possessed excellent receptors for motion, able to detect the slightest thrash or vibration from a wounded fish. Davis wondered if the big beast could sense his elevated heart rate and respiration right now. If so, it wasn’t making an impression. Sharks preparing to feed exhibit a distinct, agitated swimming motion — hunched spine, pectoral fins down, sharp spasms in the stroke. The huge fish lumbering by showed none of that. He — Davis could only think of it as a he — simply looked on with disinterest at the puny six-and-a-half-foot creature that had just fallen into its reef. The tiger glided by no more than ten feet away, its dead starboard eye both uninterested and unafraid. Even so, Davis watched closely as the big fish moved away, watched until it faded to nothing in the hazy submarine horizon.
He turned his attention to the wreckage and started down. His regulator had a minor leak, and so with each breath he sucked in a trace of salt water. As he descended, Davis couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the reef’s beauty, an endless array of color and movement. Schools of brightly colored fish swirled over coral heads while sea fans swayed back and forth in rhythm with the currents. The reef also had its sounds, a constant chatter of clicks and grunts, backed at the moment by the far-off pulse of a big engine, probably a freighter miles in the distance.
Davis approached the wreckage from behind, where the relatively unblemished tail section loomed up with its inverted T shape. The aircraft skin was clean, only a slight dusting of algae and silt. In a year’s time, barring any salvage, the transformation would be well under way. The ship’s metal skin would become encrusted with coral polyps and sponges. Crabs would nestle in the throttle quadrant, worms would take up residence in the pitot tubes, and a dizzying array of fish would find refuge in the hull. In ten years, Neptune’s claim would be complete — X85BG would be no more than substrate, an unrecognizable base for a new section of reef.