Fatima began to wander the room. "You got that computer here?" she asked. "In this place?"
Jaber was very tired. So tired he nearly told the truth. But then something else came out, from where he had no idea. "No, I keep it in the safe at my headquarters office in Marseille. It must be kept secure at all times."
Fatima nodded, kept moving. "That's smart." Her great figure swayed under layers of cloth. Thankfully, she ended up by the door. "Okay. I'll tell Caliph everything is ready. That will make him happy."
Jaber watched as she let herself out.
As soon as she was gone, he went to the door and threw the bolt. He walked slowly to his chair, eased down, and took a long draw on his cigarette. If there was any consolation to his condition, it was that he would never again have to endure Fatima Adara.
Jaber had always considered himself above Caliph and his lot. Blinded by rage, they were such simple people. Not stupid, or even uneducated. Just simple. Fatima, of course, was a heathen. But the rest were so predictably pious — ruled by religion, and thus inseparable from the currencies of faith, hope, and prayer. A man of science, Jaber had never bothered with such delusions. He had been drawn into this unclean affair by a faith in other currencies, the denominations far more practical.
Caliph had offered assurances regarding the long-term security of his family — yet here Jaber had taken matters into his own hands. He would trust no one else when it came to Asim and Malik. He had found some distaste, of course, in what they'd asked him to do. But he also could not deny the excitement, even the pleasure he derived from it all. There was a distinct sense of satisfaction when one outsmarted the world.
Jaber looked at the picture next to his chair before closing his eyes. Soon it would all come to an end. And then he would find peace.
Chapter THIRTY-ONE
They woke up early, entangled in the sheets. Entangled in each other. Davis wasn't sure who was the first to stir. There was only gentle movement, an arm under a shoulder, a foot under a calf Here and there, give and take, until light began to register at the window's edge. They didn't make breakfast for another hour.
At the restaurant, they lingered. Both hungry, both unrushed. They talked about the Air Force Academy and the 2000 Olympic trials. Daughters in Virginia and cabins in Colorado. Not a word was said about the investigation. It was a magnificent diversion from their work, a continuation of what had started last night. When the check eventually came it landed with a thud, like some kind of grim subpoena demanding their appearance before the real world.
They headed south to Marseille on the A7, passing through the region known as Provence. Davis knew the area well, and so he knew there was no specific federation or administrative boundary to claim the name. It was more of a culture, really. A mind-set. The geography of Provence was varied, gentle hills and abrupt massifs, all ceding eventually to the Mediterranean at the southern limit. Life here was slow, adaptive. The marks of man fell into flow with the mistral, the cold, dry wind that whipped down the Rhone valley with such fierce regularity that most farmhouses faced south to keep their backs to the maelstrom. Davis noted that the mistral was active today, the trees showing a stronger than usual southward tilt. He concluded, summing the cold and distinct lack of sun, that the Provence of mid-winter was not the Provence of tourist brochures.
The road was wet from an overnight rain, and the tires of their Fiat 600 hissed over wet asphalt, punctuated by the occasional splatter of puddles into the wheel well. Reflecting the greater European way, driving in France was one part mode of transportation, one part sport. Sorensen held her own, negotiating the manual transmission smoothly as she maneuvered through the mid-morning rush.
Davis found himself watching her. She looked better than ever, fat lip and all. Or maybe his perspective had just changed.
She caught his stare and smiled. "What?"
"I was thinking you handle the car pretty well."
"The car."
Davis grinned.
She went back to the road.
He went back to her.
"Roundabout," she announced.
A distracted Davis looked up and saw a traffic circle closing in. Acting navigator, he referenced the map. "Straight through, the A7. No, wait—"
The signs at the intersection came fast, and thin wisps of fog had begun to bring the visibility down. They missed their turn.
"Sorry," he said, giving her the correct road.
"No problem. I'll bet even Lindberg got lost once or twice."
"Once or twice."
Sorensen kept in the circle and found their road on the second pass.
Davis' mood descended. A relationship with Sorensen was only going to complicate things. But then, how much more complicated could they get? A vision came to mind of the Fiat going round and round in the traffic circle, stuck in an eternal left turn and going nowhere. Just like his investigation.
He said, "So did you find out how Bastien got in charge of this fiasco?
"Sort of. The Bureau Enquetes-Accidents assigns all the spots on the board. Their original choice to head up the team was another guy — I think his name was Fontaine. Anyway, he pulled out and recommended Bastien."
"This all had to happen pretty fast," Davis said. "The airplane only crashed a few days ago."
"Yes. The word is, nobody thought very highly of Bastien."
"I don't think very highly of him either."
"You think they'll figure out why this airplane crashed?"
"Oh, they will. Like I said, there are plenty of good people here. Just not enough direction at the moment."
"Langley did mention one other thing of interest," she said.
"What's that?"
"It seems that last night one of our officers was gunned down in an alleyway. Before he died, he got a call through and was able to spit out one word — Caliph."
"So Caliph took out one of your agents?"
"Apparently."
"Where did this happen?"
She hesitated before saying it. "Marseille."
The two exchanged a look.
"So maybe you have good instincts," she offered.
"Maybe I need my head examined."
Silence fell for a long moment. Davis sensed Sorensen glancing back and forth between him and the road. He changed tack. "I spent a little time yesterday getting smarter on flight control software."
"Sounds scintillating."
"You can't imagine. Network protocols, information domains. Heavy stuff."
"So what did you find out?"
"The certification process is very, very thorough. Lots of review, lots of what they call beta testing on the programs. The whole airplane runs on code, just like any computer. When the pilot moves the joystick, he or she is essentially making a request for the airplane to do something — like say, turn right. That input commands the computer to look at air loads and performance data, then cross-check against gains and limits. Of course, this all happens in the blink of an eye. Once everything is sorted, the computer sends signals to move the flight controls. That's fly by wire. It's all buried deep in three independent flight control computers. They run in parallel and crosscheck each other continuously. If one fails, the others rule."
"And the airplane can fly on one?"
"Supposedly."
"You said gains and limits. What's that about?"
"Think of them as restrictions — the software won't let the airplane go too fast or accelerate too hard, won't let it command any maneuver that would be dangerous or abrupt."
"Like pointing straight down from seven miles up?"
"Exactly. I asked Jaber that very thing — how would the computers have allowed what this airplane did?"
"And?"
"He threw it back on Earl Moore. Suggested that there are modes in which the pilot can override the computer."
"And are there?"