he’d managed to take her mind off the market and her actions there. She squeezed his hand again.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For being yourself, I guess.”
He stood up with a little evil grin. “Well, as long as I’m being myself, I have to say I told you so.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“When push came to shove, you didn’t go out on your knees, begging for your life. You may not like it, but you’re a meat eater.”
She sat for a minute with her mouth open, not believing he’d actually said what he had after she’d opened up about how the death had affected her.
“Jesus, Pike, it’s not something to brag about. It’s not something I’m proud of. I don’t want—”
“Wanting’s got nothing to do with it. Some people have it, and some don’t. No different from a higher IQ or the ability to run fast. It’s a talent, nothing more.” He pointed to the next room. “And they don’t brag about that shit either, but they do respect it. Which might end up saving their lives someday because they won’t be guessing on how you’ll react.”
It clicked that he was talking as if she was going to stay with them, as if the killing she’d committed had changed her mind to continue. That wasn’t going to happen.
“Pike, I… I think I’m going to—”
She was cut off by a shout from the other room. “Pike, you’d better get in here. Kurt’s sent a message, and it’s about as fucked up as a football bat.”
Pike held up a finger to her and said, “Hold that thought. Looks like we get more fun.”
She watched him leave the room, the conflicting emotions bouncing through her.
35
The customs agent didn’t appear to be particularly vigilant, but looks could be deceiving. Standing behind a party of four from the United States, Rafik felt sweat drip down his side. He silently cursed, knowing no matter how well he pretended to be calm, his body could still give him away. He studied the agent to see how closely the man scrutinized the passports.
Rafik knew his was perfect. A copy that couldn’t be discerned from an official Algerian one. It was the Czech Republic tourist visa that concerned him. He had no idea what a real visa looked like and had nothing to compare his against. He’d looked at the loadmaster’s passport, but the man had a work visa for his job with Noordin’s travel agency. It was similar, but different enough to be of little use. With dark humor, he supposed this was a good test. The same people who were providing him with explosives that could slip through customs had made the visa.
Before he knew it, he was being called forward. The agent smiled perfunctorily and said, “What brings you to the Czech Republic?”
Rafik beamed and said, “A visit. My first visit to Europe.”
The man took his passport, Rafik waiting on the inevitable barrage of questions, but none came. Before he knew it, he was through and headed to the baggage claim, the stamping and swiping happening so quickly he didn’t have time to realize he was holding his breath. He stopped on the far side to watch the loadmaster.
Because four Arabs with tourist visas and one Indonesian with a work visa traveling together would cause questions, they had placed the loadmaster in between them. He was the next in line, and if he was going to sound an alarm, it would be to the customs official.
Rafik watched him lean into the window, apparently talking. Rafik gauged the distance to the baggage claim door, calculating his chances of getting out. When he turned around, he saw the loadmaster walking stiffly toward him. He kept the relief from showing on his face, but the incident drove home how much this operation depended on luck, how many single points of failure littered his operational plan.
He knew it was a single link — a courier — that had killed Osama bin Laden. A single thread that had unraveled, leaving the sheik to face the barrels of the Great Satan’s commandos. He buried the doubts, saying, “Good, you get to live another day.”
The loadmaster said nothing, simply stopping and staring at the other passengers.
“Go get your bags. Call the pilot and tell him to meet us at the plane. Wait for us outside.”
Before he could leave, Rafik touched his arm.
“Please don’t cause unnecessary bloodshed. Wait for us.”
The loadmaster jerked his arm away as if he’d brushed a stove, then walked through the baggage claim door.
By the time Rafik and the others had collected their bags and processed through customs, the loadmaster had made contact.
“He’ll meet us at the plane in fifteen minutes. It’ll take that long to get there.”
“Where is it? At another airport?”
“No, it’s technically at this airport, but all private and general aviation aircraft go to terminal three, which is separated from the main airport by the tarmac itself. It’s about a mile away, but we’ll have to drive out of the airport and down the highway to get there.”
Rafik hailed a cab, having a little trouble explaining to the driver that they wanted to go from terminal two to terminal three. Finally convincing the man that he wasn’t misunderstanding Rafik’s English, they pulled out of the airport.
Reaching the exit for Prague, the driver made one last attempt to ensure he wasn’t making a mistake, pointing at the sign showing the city to the left. Rafik pointed to the exit on the right, reading TERMINAL THREE.
The driver shrugged, and followed directions. Winding down a graffiti-painted four-lane road, terminal three came into view. Consisting of several three-story buildings, some modern, others resembling relics from the Cold War, it appeared more like an office park than an airport. As they hit a roundabout, Rafik saw the pilot waiting on the sidewalk and pointed him out to the driver.
The pilot smiled nervously as they approached. When he saw his partner, his face lit up with real joy. He helped them with their bags, saying, “The plane’s here. No trouble. We had no trouble.”
Rafik said, “Where is it?”
The pilot led them into the building, winding down hallways until they could see the tarmac on the other side through the windows. He showed his badge to a man at a desk and exited the building again, turning left toward the general aviation section. Rafik saw the stolen DHC-6 Twin Otter on a pad next to another cargo plane, a Casa 212. Both with the same tail numbers.
“You didn’t repaint the tail?” Rafik said. “Idiot. What if someone sees the two numbers?”
The pilot looked like he had sucked a pickled egg. “Wait. I can’t paint the thing right here. That would only highlight the number. It needs to be brought into scheduled maintenance, inside a hangar.”
He paused, waiting to see what Rafik would do. When no violence or threats erupted, he continued, “I’ll do it this week. I have it scheduled.”
“That may be a problem.”
“Why?”
Rafik glanced at Kamil and said, “You’re going to Montreal, Canada. With some cargo I need.”
The pilot paled. “I can’t do that. I… I—”
Rafik faced him and bared his teeth. “Shut up. You
The pilot stuttered, his mouth working but no words coming out. Eventually, he said, “When?”
Rafik looked at Kamil. “It depends. We have a call to make. Show me the cargo.”
Walking up the staircase of the Twin Otter, the pilot popped the clasps on two pelican cases, both four feet
