"All right," Sorensen said, seeming satisfied.
They started walking again.
"Other than that," she said, "I thought you handled Bastien pretty well."
"You sound surprised."
"I guess I expected a little more volume, maybe some bad words."
"Bad words? No way. That's Navy stuff. I never worked there."
She asked, "How much of Bastien's story do you buy?"
"Most of it. The part about CargoAir needing extra time is rubbish, though. If an airplane manufacturer makes a design mistake or has lousy recordkeeping, they don't fix it with suitcases full of cash."
"I don't know, Jammer. Remember, CargoAir is flush with oil money from the Middle East, Russia. In those parts of the world that's how business is done." Then she said, "What about the two guys Jaber had with him? Do you think they were the same ones we met last night?"
"Probably. So tell me, can you really get Bastien any kind of protection?"
"I have no idea."
Davis glanced at her and Sorensen shrugged defensively. "What was I supposed to say?" She was nearly running to keep up with his strides. "But why would CargoAir do something like this? What could be the point of bogging down the investigation?"
"CargoAir has orders booked for hundreds of airplanes. If they suspect there's a glitch in the flight control software, they might want time to try and isolate the problem."
"Or," she suggested, "maybe they already know exactly what the problem is. Maybe they want a chance to erase it, put a fix in the code before anyone finds out."
"Good point. But for us, either case results in the same endgame."
"Which is?"
"Just what I suggested yesterday — ground the entire fleet."
"Oh, sure. And how do we do that?"
"We get details, specifics. And I know just who has them."
He led to the receptionist's desk at the front of the building. A new woman was parked there, a dour young creature with questioning brown eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses.
"Dr. Jaber!" Davis barked as he closed in.
"Pardon?" she said.
"Dr. Jaber — is he in the building?"
"I believe he left, perhaps an hour ago."
Davis turned to Sorensen. "He's not staying at the hotel, is he?"
She shrugged. "I've never seen him there."
Davis turned back to the receptionist. "Where does he stay?"
"I cannot give out such information, sir. Even to a member of—"
Davis moved. She had said she couldn't give information — not that she didn't have it. He circled around to the business side of her desk and opened the biggest file drawer.
"Sir! You cannot do this!"
Davis did it anyway. He found the personnel files, everyone with investigation credentials arranged in nice alphabetical order. He flicked through the tabs and found jaber, opened it and began scanning for a local address.
"Laurent!" the receptionist cried.
The lone security guard got up from his chair and started over. "Monsieur!"
Ignoring the guard, Davis found the address and memorized it. He saw a note that suggested Jaber was staying with his aunt. He put the file back, between T and U, and said, "Thanks," adding a smile for the receptionist.
The guard closed in.
He was roughly Sorensen's height. Roughly Sorensen's weight. Which meant that he tipped the scales at about Jammer Davis, divided by two. And chances were, unlike Sorensen, he wasn't an Olympic-class practitioner of any martial art. Still, he had the confidence a guy gets from an embroidered security company badge and striped epaulets on his shoulders. He also had a thick belt full of accessories. A flashlight, a radio, and a couple of pouches that probably held keys and flex cuffs and maybe some pepper spray. Most conspicuously, there was no sidearm.
The guy came to within an arm's length of Davis and put a finger in his chest. "Sir, if you persist I will have your credentials!"
Davis looked at the guy's finger. Then he leaned forward slowly on the balls of his feet. It wasn't good posture for a fight. Wasn't good in terms of center of gravity or room to maneuver. But if they had happened to be outside, particularly any time near the middle of a day, Davis' profile would have blocked out the sun.
Total eclipse.
He delivered his words in his most persuasive manner — slow and low. "And if you persist, I will put your nuts in that drawer and slam it closed so hard you'll need a crowbar to get them out."
The guard took a step back. Then another. He pulled his weapon of choice from his belt — the radio. Laurent was calling for backup. Davis didn't feel like waiting. He turned to Sorensen and said, "Let's go."
The receptionist actually snorted. The guard stood tall, but not as tall as Davis, who strode past with Sorensen in tow. On the way out, he called over his shoulder, "You both need to go up and report to the investigator-in-charge. He needs you immediately!"
Outside, Sorensen said, "You really know how to make an impression on people."
Davis said nothing.
"Jammer, are you sure this is wise? We can't just go to Jaber and accuse him of shaking down the investigation. We have to get the BEA involved now, the French authorities."
"No time."
"But Jammer —"
"Car!"
They found the Fiat and climbed in. She looked at him plaintively. "Why not—"
"Go!"
She put the key in the ignition. "You really have that nickname because you talk too much?"
"Yes."
Chapter THIRTY SIX
The raid took four hours to coordinate. It was carried out by the Iraqi Army, which had taken full responsibility for such matters. The home in question had already been subject to some scrutiny in recent months, and for a short time had even been quietly monitored. In the course of that surveillance, there had never been anything suspicious, any cause for a physical breach.
Tonight there was.
The woman who owned the house was a second cousin to Caliph, a spinster who spent her days selling dates and figs behind a pushcart at the market. They knew going in that she was a widow, a result of the Iran-Iraq war, and that she lived with her mother, a woman of nearly ninety.
It was almost ten in the evening when a squad of Iraqi Army regulars arrived at the front door. They didn't bother to knock. A rifle butt did the trick for entry, and six men swept from room to room, clearing as they went — not much of a feat since there were only four rooms to deal with. The two women were rousted from their beds. Once the place had been declared secure, the captain in charge ordered a more thorough search. Soldiers began to turn over beds and shove furniture aside.
It was a junior man who spotted the giveaway glance from the younger of the two women huddled in the corner. He saw her eyes dart toward a large bin of dates at the back of the kitchen. The bin looked heavy, but the soldier saw tracks where dust on the floor nearby had been disturbed. He gave the bin a shove and, much to his surprise, found that it moved easily. He yelled for his commander.
The captain came at a trot. "What is it?"
The young soldier showed him the bin, showed him how freely it moved. "It must be on wheels," he said.
The captain called the rest of the squad over. Everyone kept their weapons trained loosely on the foot of the bin. On the officer's order, the container was pulled clear, indeed sliding easily across the hardpan floor. And there it was. They had found their spider hole.
The entrance was three feet square, and a wooden ladder dropped down into the earth. The soldiers peered cautiously below. On closer inspection, they saw that the space was more than just a simple nook for hiding. It was a basement of sorts. At the bottom, there was little distinguishable beyond a dirt floor, but bright electric light streamed up from the passageway. The men stood stockstill, the business ends of their weapons addressed without compromise on the narrow opening. The captain listened intently but, aside from the rapid breathing of his men and a muffled wail from one of the women, he heard nothing. There was, however, a distinct smell wafting up from the pit. The rank signature of human feces.