Final Flight

deck. And the wise and the weary knew its days were also numbered.

“I had to quit. They stopped carrying my brand.”

Reynolds feigned surprise, his hand on his chest and his mouth in a little a He leaned across the desk and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m only letting them stock seven brands from now on, the least popular brands on the ship. When the smokers complain, I’m just going to look surprised and tell them it’s the supply system. It’ll work sort of like the no-smoking sign caper.” No-smoking signs had appeared magically one night in a grab bag of spaces where smoking was traditionally allowed, and the ship’s master-at-arms force had ruthlessly enforced the prohibition. Protests about the signs’ legality fell on deaf ears. “The little people must be made to suffer.”

Reynolds screwed his face up and giggled. In spite of himself, Jake joined in the laugh. Reynolds was one of the few men Jake had ever met who truly loved stress. Not excitement or danger, but pure fingernails-to-the-quick, heart-attack stress. He thrived on it, reveled in it, lived for it. Once Laird James had figured that out, Reynolds could do no wrong. In his mind’s eye Jake could see the two of them huddled like thieves on the bridge, plotting every detail of the antismoking campaign and the subsequent disinformation cover-up to deflect the outrage of the addicted.

“One of the reasons I came down here to see the Knight of the Busted Ashtray,” Jake said, “is because I’d like to send a message to Oceana.” NAS Oceana was the air base where the air wing had its headquarters when the ship was not deployed. “My wife and four or five of the other wives wanted to come to Europe sometime this cruise, and I figure we’d better do it now. May not have another chance.”

“No sweat. You draft up the message. I think there are six or eight officers in ship’s company who want their wives to come over, too. I’ll ask around and we’ll put it all in the message.”

“Okay.” Jake stood up.

Reynolds held out his hand. As Jake passed through the open door, Reynolds roared, “Get your miserable ass in here, Ski, and tell me some more of your pathetic lies.”

* * *

The old man had difficulty making the first step up into the bus. A young man in a dirty undershirt and smelling of wine steadied him. The old one’s back was hunched and he moved slowly, carefully, with the aid of a walking stick. A woman gave him her seat. He sank down with a sigh. “Grazie!” His hair was gray, his face lined, and his glasses had an obvious correction. In spite of the June heat, he wore a shabby black suit and leather gloves that had been expensive when new.

As the bus wound its way through the Naples business district, Colonel Qazi ignored his fellow passengers and stared out the window, which was covered with grime. The glasses strained his eyes, so after a few minutes he closed his eyes and nodded as if drifting off to sleep. Every so often he started at a car horn or a severe lurch, glanced around with eyes blinking vacantly, then he napped again. The bus slowly made its way into the suburbs.

It had taken several hours to dye his hair gray, and two hours more to get the makeup just right. He wore cotton plugs between his cheeks and lower teeth to appear more jowly, and the upper front teeth were covered by a false cap that made them look yellow and slightly twisted.

He left the bus at an intersection of a tree-lined street. No one got off with him. He looked about in all directions, examined the fronts of the nearest houses as if unsure of where he was, and began walking slowly.

In a few moments a car stopped beside him and a middle-aged man exited from the backseat and held the door for him. He got in unaided and sat with his walking stick between his knees, both hands resting on the handle. Neither the driver nor the man in the backseat spoke.

Twenty minutes later the car turned off the two-lane country road and swept through an open iron gate. After fifty meters of gravel, a large villa appeared. The car circled the house and eased to a stop on the lawn in back. Qazi’s backseat companion helped him from the car and pointed toward the garden.

A man in a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves was pruning leaves from tomato plants. He greeted Qazi and watched him settle into a wrought-iron chair with a padded seat.

“Buon giorno, Signor Verdi.”

“Signor Pagliacci, with respect, it is indeed a pleasure,” Qazi replied, keeping his voice soft and husky.

The Italian produced a large handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his brow. He was at least sixty, with an ample girth, though he didn’t look fat. He poured two small glasses of wine, held them up and examined them against the sky. He grunted after a moment, then set one glass on the small table on Qazi’s right. He, too, took a chair.

Qazi took a tiny sip of wine. It was dry and robust.

“You had a good trip?”

“Si. The jet airplanes are much better than the old ones. Really, it is the airports now.”

Pagliacci smiled politely and drank from his glass. If he knew Qazi was thirty years younger than he looked, he had never even hinted at it in the five years Qazi had known him.

“Is he well?” the Italian asked.

Qazi knew he was referring to El Hakim. “Oh, yes. He is a bull. It is the women.” Qazi chuckled dryly.

Pagliacci smiled again and used the handkerchief on his brow. He sipped his wine in silence and frowned at his tomato plants. Looking at his clothes and hands, one would think him a gardener or perhaps a captain of industry who had taken early retirement and burned his business clothes. Pagliacci was neither. He was one of the most powerful mafiosi in southern Italy, and he was very well connected in the international cocaine trade: four of his sons were in the business — two in New York, one in Colombia, and one, the eldest, here in Italy. Qazi had never met the sons, preferring to do business with the father.

“He agreed,” Qazi said at last, after he had lowered the level of the wine in the glass half an inch and set the glass on the table.

“I hoped he would. You see, I have many friends, and I like to help them out as best I can. I help you because you are a friend and I help them because they are friends. Friends help each other, right?”

“It is so.”

“And a man cannot have too many friends, friends he can count on in times of trouble, for favors and aid. Aah, sons and brothers, we have too few. So friends are the next best thing, friends who are as brothers and who help each other.”

“I have taken the liberty of preparing a list,” Qazi said and slowly felt in his jacket pocket. He passed it across.

Pagliacci held it out, almost at arm’s length, and scanned it. “The uniforms will not be a problem. The vans are, of course, no problem. The helicopters …”

“They must be fueled and ready. Every night, all night, for the entire ten days. And I cannot guarantee their safe return.”

Pagliacci reached and flipped a slug from a tomato plant. Finally he nodded, “We can do it,” and looked again at the list. At last he folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. “We can help you. The telephone items”—he waved his hand to show their insignificance—“and all these other things. But the airport surveillance at both Roma and Napoli? That will take many people. They will have to be paid.”

He belched and poured himself another glass of wine. “People for a month? And a safe office at both airports, with passes to get through security? These things will be expensive. It is our organization and expertise your cocaine is compensating us for, so we should not go out of pocket on your behalf.” He gestured for understanding to his guest. “Do you agree?”

Qazi had expected this. The old pirate would squeeze him for every lira. “Signor Pagliacci, we value your friendship. What do you think is fair?”

“First we must know just what is it that you are planning. What are our risks?”

Qazi rested both hands on the head of his cane. They were badly palsied. Next time he must remember to half the drug dosage.

“I will be frank with you,” Pagliacci said. “I will tell you my problems. You must explain carefully to El Hakim. If an … event … happens at an airport, then the authorities will place such pressure on my people that they might be compromised.” He gestured again, hugely. “I must watch out for their interests.”

“It will cost more?” Qazi asked disingenuously.

“Truly. I must take care of them.”