There was one frighteningly obvious possibility.
Boyce placed his cigar in the big marble ashtray. He looked around, then said in a low voice, “Killer, would you by any chance be screwing Lieutenant Parker?”
DeLancey broke out in a laugh. “C’mon, CAG, give me a break. I’m her commanding officer, for Christ’s sake. You know I wouldn’t —”
“You’d screw a pile of rocks if you thought there was a snake in it.”
DeLancey kept smiling, but his eyes darted around, making sure no one else was listening. “Not if it had ‘U.S. Navy’ stamped on it. I know better than that. I just think the kid deserves a break. Hell, she’s a good pilot. In fact, she’s already approached me about being a section lead.”
“Section lead?” Boyce nearly choked. “Tell her she’d better learn how to get aboard the ship first. Next cruise, maybe we’ll talk about section lead.” If she’s still around, he thought.
DeLancey nodded. “I’ll tell her.”
Boyce puffed his cigar back to life. He hoped Killer wasn’t bullshitting him. When a female pilot was having flying problems, it was a no-win situation. If you saved her life by kicking her out, you faced a sexism charge. If you kept her in the cockpit and she hurt herself, you were to blame. Either way, everybody lost.
At exactly six o’clock Boyce finished the stub of his cigar. “Drink up!” he bellowed. “CAG’s hungry.”
He knew a restaurant called Cico’s which, he informed them, had the most superb Italian food in the Middle East. Maybe in the whole damned world. Boyce knew this because his mother was Italian. No one argued. The pilots understood the realities of military life. CAG was boss; they were on their way to a joint called Cico’s.
Maxwell thought once again about the Gulf Hotel and Claire. Why hadn’t she answered his calls? Damn it, she knew he was here. She had left the note.
On the way through the lobby, he tried phoning again. Still no response. This time he left a message with the concierge that he would call after dinner.
The food at Cico’s, just as Boyce had promised, was excellent. He presided at the head of a long table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth. Bottles of wine were passed up and down the table. Boyce told a story about when he’d been on exchange duty with the Royal Air Force in Oman and they’d gotten drunk and stolen a camel. Everyone laughed, though most of the senior pilots had heard the story a dozen times.
The pilots liked CAG Boyce. He was a traditional fighter jock, not one of the politically astute fast-burners on his way to higher command. Boyce was an old war horse who, everyone figured, had gone as far as he would in the Navy’s pyramidal rank structure.
The conversation around the table dwelled on the usual subjects: airplanes and women. The only subject not being talked about was the one most on their minds: why they were in Bahrain. If asked, the pilots had been warned to say only that they were on weekend liberty. Sea duty was a bitch, you know. This was the New Navy, and they had to give you time on the beach to blow off steam.
Leaving the restaurant, the group dispersed. Boyce and a contingent of his strike leaders piled into taxis and headed for a jazz place. DeLancey and his followers announced they were laying siege to a gin mill called Henry’s. They had gotten reliable intelligence reports that a flock of GAGs had been sighted on the premises.
Maxwell watched them depart, then took a taxi back to the hotel.
“Come on, Claire, be a sport. Let’s drink up and go to my room.” Chris Tyrwhitt gave her a bleary smile. “For old times’ sake.”
Claire Phillips swirled the ice in her vodka tonic and regarded him over the rim of her glass. He hadn’t changed. Still ruddy-faced, probably from all the drinking. He was wearing the same old attire: wrinkled khaki shorts, long stockings, safari shirt. His mop of reddish hair had begun to show flecks of gray. “You haven’t forgotten how to make a girl feel wanted, have you?” she said. “Is that still all you ever think about?”
“When I’m with you, yes.”
“You haven’t been with me for — what? A year and a half?”
“Nineteen months, sixteen days and —” he made a show of looking at his watch, “— nearly seven hours. Your choice, not mine.”
“I remember. After you’d spent the night with that Danish woman, the consul’s wife. Or was it the other one, the German floozy who —”
“She wasn’t a floozy. She was a cabaret singer with a voice like Piaf.”
“And a disposition like Himmler. Wasn’t she the one who threatened you with castration?”
“No, that was the Ukrainian girl who worked over at the Reuters bureau. And I’m pleased to report that she didn’t succeed. Since you believe nothing I say, however, you may wish to verify that fact for yourself.”
She ignored the suggestion while she fumbled in her purse for a half-empty Marlboro pack. She had nearly kicked the habit. These days she smoked only when she was stressed out. She pulled a cigarette from the pack, then changed her mind and left it unlit in the ash tray.
“Baghdad must be pretty boring now,” she said. “Most of the embassies shut down, no major news services except your own. What do you do for amusement?”
“The usual thing. I’ve developed a relationship with a certain female named Martha.”
“Martha? Is she Iraqi…?”
“Hard to tell. She’s a camel, but I’m not sure of her nationality.”
Claire had to laugh. It was that wacky outback humor that had drawn her to him in the first place. She reminded herself to be careful. This was a guy who could flaunt every code of moral conduct — especially the seventh commandment — and have you laughing about it. At least for a while.
“Do the Iraqis censor your dispatches?”
“Sure,” he said. “But they like what I write, so it’s no problem.”
She crossed her legs and tugged the hem of her skirt closer to her knees. “Is that why you write such ingratiating bullshit? Like that piece about the schoolchildren in Basra? Are you on their payroll?”
He didn’t seem to be insulted. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.” He gave her a wink.
“You know what the U.S. military calls you out here? Baghdad Ben. They think you’re the Iraqis’ mouthpiece.”
“How do you know what the U.S. military thinks? Still hanging out with the Yank flyboys?”
“I’m still a reporter.”
“Anything for a story.” He tipped his glass up and drained it. “Basically, we’re all whores.”
“That’s pretty tasteless, Chris.”
“We do what we have to do.”
She bristled but let it go. After all, that was Chris Tyrwhitt’s style. Three years ago, back in Washington, she had thought he was terrifically funny, that disarming Crocodile Dundee manner. She had known him only a couple of months before they were married. He was witty, good looking and, when he felt like working at it, could be a competent journalist. What she learned later was that Chris Tyrwhitt seldom worked at anything except drinking and philandering.
Tyrwhitt put his hand on her knee. “I really have missed you, you know.”
“You missed me so much you went to Baghdad.”
“You threw me out, remember?”
She was about to make a sarcastic reply when she noticed he wasn’t looking at her. Tyrwhitt was gazing at something over her shoulder. She turned to see what he was looking at.
Sam Maxwell stood in the entrance to the bar. His eyes were locked on the two of them.
“Do you know that chap?” Tyrwhitt asked. “He’s been standing there staring at us.”