his sisters, Adara and Lina, and his mother, smiling at him from Paradise, enfolding her four children in her arms. She was nodding, and her lips were moving-but he couldn't hear what she was saying, though he knew she was proud of him and was encouraging him to finish the task of avenging their deaths.
He opened his eyes and looked at the blue sky ahead of him. A single brilliant white cloud hung outside at eye level, and somehow he knew this cloud held his family.
He thought, too, of his father, whom he barely remembered, and said silently to him, 'Father, I will make you proud.'
Then, he thought of Bahira, and it suddenly struck him that this monster sitting next to him had actually been responsible for her death.
Bill Satherwaite said, 'I wish I'd had the Gadhafi run. That was Paul's target, the lucky bastard. I mean, we weren't sure that Arab asshole would be in that military compound that night, but our G-2 guys thought he was.
You're not supposed to assassinate heads of state. Some kind of stupid law-I think that pussy Carter signed the law. Can't try to kill heads of state. Bullshit. You can bomb the shit out of civilians, but you can't kill the boss. But Reagan had a ton more balls than pussy Carter, so Ronnie says, 'Go for it,' and Paul draws the hot ticket. You understand? His wizo was this guy Jim, who lives on Long Island. Paul finds Gadhafi's house, no problem, and Jim puts a big one right on target. Bye, bye house. But fucking Gadhafi is sleeping in a fucking tent out back or someplace-Did I tell you this? Anyway, he escapes with nothing more than shit and piss on himself.'
Asad Khalil drew another deep breath and said, 'But his daughter was killed, you said.'
'Yeah… rough break. But typical of how this fucking world works. Right? I mean, they tried to kill Hitler with a bomb, a bunch of people around him get pureed, and fucking Hitler walks away with a singed mustache. So, what's God thinking? You know? This little girl gets killed, we look bad, and the head scumbag walks away.'
Khalil did not reply.
'Hey, the other hot ticket was drawn by another squadron. Did I tell you about that? This other squadron has some targets right in Tripoli, and one of the targets is the French Embassy. Now, nobody ever admitted to that, and it was supposed to be a mistake, but one of our guys plants one right in the backyard of the French Embassy. Didn't want to kill anybody, and it was early A.M., so nobody should be around there, and nobody was. But think about that-we hit Gadhafi's house, and he's in the backyard. Then we hit the backyard of the French Embassy on purpose, but nobody's in the embassy anyway. See my point? What if it had been reversed? Allah was watching over that asshole that night. Makes you wonder.'
Khalil felt his hands trembling, and his body began to shake. If they had been on the ground, he would have killed this blasphemous dog with his bare hands. He closed his eyes and prayed.
Satherwaite went on, 'I mean, the French are our good buddies, our allies, but they went pussy on us and wouldn't let us fly over their territory, so we showed them that accidents can happen when flight crews have to fly extra hours and get a little tired.' Satherwaite laughed hard. 'Just an accident. Excusez moil'
He laughed again and added, 'Did Ronnie have balls or what? We need another guy like that in the White House. Bush was a fighter pilot. You know that? Got shot down by the Japs in the Pacific. He was an okay guy. Then we get that ball-less wonder from East Chicken Shit, Arkansas -you follow politics?'
Khalil opened his eyes and replied, 'As a guest in your country, I do not make comments on American politics.'
'Yeah? I guess not. Anyway, the fucking Libyans got what they deserved for bombing that disco.'
Khalil stayed silent a moment, then commented, 'This was all so long ago, yet you seem to remember it all quite well.'
'Yeah… well, it's hard to forget a combat experience.'
'I'm certain the people in Libya have not forgotten it either.'
Satherwaite laughed. 'I'm sure not. You know, the Arabs have long fucking memories. I mean, two years after we unloaded in Libya, they blow Pan Am One-Zero-Three out of the sky.'
'As it says in the Hebrew scriptures, An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.''
'Yeah. I'm surprised we didn't get them back for that. Anyway, that wimp Gadhafi finally turned over the guys who planted the bomb. That kind of surprised me. I mean, what's his game?'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, this scumbag must have a trick up his sleeve. You know? What's in it for him to turn over two of his own people, who he ordered to plant the bomb?'
Khalil replied, 'Perhaps he felt great pressure to cooperate with the World Court.'
'Yeah? But then what? Then he has to save face with his terrorist Arab buddies, so he goes and pulls another stunt. You know? Like maybe what happened with that Trans-Continental flight was another Gadhafi stunt. The guy that they suspect is a Libyan. Right?'
'I am not very familiar with this incident.'
'Me neither, to tell you the truth. The news sucks.'
Khalil added, 'But you may be right about this latest act of terrorism being revenge for the Libyans being compelled to surrender these individuals. Or perhaps, the air raid on Libya has not been fully avenged.'
'Who knows? Who gives a shit? You try to figure out those ragheads, you'll go as crazy as them.'
Khalil did not reply.
They flew on. Satherwaite seemed to lose interest in conversation and yawned a few times. They followed the coast of New Jersey as the sun sank lower. Khalil could see scattered lights below, and to his front he saw a bright glow on the ocean. He asked, 'What is that?'
'Where? Oh… that's Atlantic City coming up. I've been there once. Great place if you like wine, women, and song.'
Khalil recognized this as a reference to a verse by the great Persian poet Omar Khayyam. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness-Oh, wilderness is Paradise enough! He said, 'So, that is Paradise?'
Satherwaite laughed. 'Yeah. Or hell. Depends on how the cards are running. You gamble?'
'No, I do not gamble.'
'I thought the… the Sicilians were into gambling.'
'We encourage others to gamble. The winners of the game are those who do not gamble themselves.'
'You got a point there.'
Satherwaite banked the aircraft to the right and set a new heading. He said, 'We'll go out over the Atlantic and head in straight for Long Island. I'm beginning my descent now, so your ears may pop a little.'
Khalil glanced at his watch. It was seven-fifteen and the sun was barely visible on the western horizon. On the ground below, it was dark. He removed his sunglasses, put them in his breast pocket, and put on his bifocals. He said to his pilot, 'I have been thinking of this coincidence that you have a friend on Long Island.'
'Yeah?'
'I have a client on Long Island, whose name is also Jim.'
'Can't be Jim McCoy.'
'Yes, that is the name.
'He's a client of yours? Jim McCoy?'
'This is the man who is the director of an aviation museum?'
'Yeah! I'll be damned. How do you know him?'
'He buys cotton canvas from my factory in Sicily. This is a special cotton that is made for oil paintings, but it is excellent for use to cover the frames of the old aircraft in his museum.'
'Well, I'll be damned. You sell canvas to Jim?'
'To his museum. I have never met him, but he was very pleased with the quality of my cotton canvas. It is not as heavy as sail canvas, and because it must be stretched over the wooden frames of the ancient aircraft, the lightness is desirable.' Khalil tried to recall what else he'd been told in Tripoli, and continued, 'And, of course, since it is made for artists, it has the ability to absorb the aircraft paint much better than sail canvas, which in any case is a rarity today, as most sails now are made from synthetic fibers.'
'No shit?'
Khalil stayed silent a moment, then asked, 'Perhaps we can visit Mr. McCoy this evening?'
Bill Satherwaite thought a moment, then said, 'I guess so… I can give him a call…'
