She said, "I talked to the World Express chief pilot this morning. The first officer on the flight had been at the factory for a week. She was kept in France after another delivery fell through. The French are working her profile. The captain," she paused, "had some issues."
"Issues?"
"He was going through a divorce."
Davis didn't like where this was headed. "Lots of people get divorced."
McCracken turned away from her painting. "And he went through alcohol rehab last year."
His eyes narrowed further, but he said nothing.
"Go to Houston and talk to his widow. Then you head straight to France."
"France? You've got to be kidding!"
"None of your smart-ass crap!" she shot back. "You are employed by the NTSB to investigate aircraft accidents. I'm sorry about what happened to your wife, Davis, but that was a long time ago. I have bent over backward to keep you local. Sooner or later this was bound to happen."
He fumed. "Why do I have to brief them in person? What's wrong with just writing up a report on my findings?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because the French have asked for an NTSB liaison. You will be part of the investigation team."
"0n the investigation? That could take a year! Maybe more!"
"It won't be continuous — a few weeks there, a few weeks back home."
"No way! Find somebody else!"
McCracken moved behind her fancy desk and leaned forward on stubby, freckled arms. "You take this assignment, or I'll have your resignation."
Davis leaned across from the other side, giving the image of two rams butting heads. "You've got it! On your desk tomorrow morning!" He whirled and stormed toward the door.
"Davis!" she screeched. "Don't you walk out on—"
The door slammed, cutting off the rest. In the anteroom, Davis paused. He could hear Sparky screaming his name and spewing obscenities like some kind of verbal Roman candle. Michael the receptionist was at his desk now. Davis grinned at him.
Michael grinned right back.
By the time he hit the parking lot, Davis was feeling better. He'd done a lot of rash things in his time. Sometimes he regretted them. This one felt pretty good. With his military retirement he could get by without the paycheck. And he had enjoyed walking out on Sparky. Really enjoyed it.
Davis was unlocking his car when he heard a shout.
"Jammer! Wait!"
He turned to see Larry Green. Larry headed up the Office of Aviation Safety, one rung above Sparky in the organizational food chain. He was also one of Davis' old squadron commanders, a guy who'd made two stars before getting out of the Air Force and signing on with the NTSB. Green was running at a good clip, which came naturally — he was a marathon runner, one of those lean, wispy guys who could go all day. When he caught up to Davis he wasn't even breathing hard.
"Bad news travels fast," Davis said.
"Jammer, hear me out—"
"I can't work for that hellion, Larry."
"She needs your help."
"She needs her barnacles scraped!" Davis reached for the door handle.
"This is not about her, Jammer." Green stared with his trademark intensity. Davis knew him as an old-school commander, the kind of guy who would spend thirty minutes spitting profanity-laced nails at his squadron, then turn things over to the chaplain for a prayer. Even now, without the stars on his shoulders, he was a guy you listened to. Davis paused.
Green said, "An airplane went down. Two pilots are dead."
Davis gave no reply.
"Hell, Jammer. A new airplane type, just certified. Dealing with all the different countries and agencies that'll be involved. This one's gonna be a bitch. It might even be out of your league."
Davis put his hands on his hips. A challenge. That was good. Flattery wouldn't have done it. Intimidation? Not a chance. But Jammer Davis never turned down a challenge. A good commander like Green always knew which buttons to push.
"Larry, I can't shuttle back and forth to France for a year."
"I know. But Collins himself wants you on this one."
"Collins? The managing director of the NTSB asked for me?"
"By name."
Davis was skeptical. It must have showed.
"I talked to him about you, Jammer. I told him you're a guy who gets things done."
"No, I'm a guy who pisses people off — which sometimes gets things done."
Green kept pressing. "You speak French, right?"
"I'm a little rusty, but yeah."
"Look, give me two weeks. Go to Houston for the seventy-two-hour, take it to France and look things over. Then, if you want out, I'll get somebody else."
Davis crossed his arms, leaned back on his car. "Two weeks?"
"Not a day more — unless you agree."
"And you'll demote Sparky?"
Green didn't miss a beat. "She'll be cleaning toilets by lunchtime."
"Men's room?"
"Men's room."
Davis nodded. Almost smiled. Then he said reflectively, "You know, Larry, a lot of people seem to find me gruff, uncompromising. I've never figured out why."
His old boss shrugged. "Beats me, Jammer. I think you're a sweetheart."
Chapter THREE
At mid-afternoon, the streets of Damascus were busy. The air was laced with dust as throngs of black-clad women scurried to and from the markets. Businessmen and beggars plied their respective trades. Amid it all, children darted haphazardly between buildings, lean-to kiosks, and donkey carts, chasing a friend here, picking a pocket there.
No one bothered the two burly men who strode through the chaos. Their speed and posture indicated a purpose, and while no one could give their names, everyone knew who they worked for. The two were sweating heavily when they arrived at the Al-Koura Hotel — winter was a relative term here, and the simple exertion of a quick walk was enough to dampen even those accustomed to the conditions.
The men stopped at the front desk. Eyes hard and jaws set, they simply glared at the proprietor.
"Twelve," the man said meekly, already knowing why they were here. He held out a key.
The room was on the second floor and a key was not necessary. The door was unlocked. Barging into the squalid place, they found her on the bed, snoring and quite naked. The two men looked at one another in disgust. The woman before them was an unsightly vision. Grievously overweight, her pale, cratered folds sprawled wide, covering nearly the entire mattress.
"This," said one of the men, "is why God invented the burqua."
The other agreed. "Without it, such a woman could never hope to find a husband."
Together they went to the bed and, in the interest of everyone's dignity, one of the men drew a sheet over her bloated body. With considerable effort they rolled her until her face was displayed — a disappointment in equal measure to the rest of the woman. Flabby chin, pockmarked cheeks, hawkish nose, and a sallow, mottled complexion. Her black hair was bristly and coarse — a cut section might be used to scrub a filthy pot clean.
"Get up!" one of the men ordered. "You are late!"
The woman let out a snort that would have sounded more natral coming from a camel. Then she began to stir. "Wha—"
This one syllable rode on breath that was not only foul, but laced with alcohol — enough to make the nearest man turn his head in revulsion. Her eyes opened briefly, blankly. Then her head sagged back to the pillow.
"Wretched cow!" Frustrated, one of the men strode into the bathroom. The trash can was empty. He filled it with cold water from the tap, hauled it to the bedroom and took careful aim.
In the Old City of Damascus the streets were narrow, less busy. The cramped warren of mud-brick buildings was a maze that had evolved over the best part of two thousand years. Complicating things further, many of the most ancient structures within the ramparts of the Old City had been abandoned, simply left behind as a new generation gave up on tradition and migrated to outlying neighborhoods where reliable plumbing and uninterrupted power were a given. The result was predictably awkward — a snarled mix of timeless architecture, rubble stacks, and business as usual.