“El Hakim is looking for several enemies of his regime,” Qazi lied. “He is irrevocably committed to removing these people as threats to our political system. We will provide your watchers with photographs of these misguided ones. When they are found, of course they will die.” The colonel needed a reasonable explanation for the equipment and services he needed from the Italian, and the best way to provide a plausible one was to expand the list of goods and services required to fit a fictitious story, the cover. This was the cover. The entire airport project was designed to keep Pagliacci’s people occupied while Qazi was busy elsewhere.
“Here? In Italia?”
“Probably.”
Pagliacci named a figure which both men knew from past experience was twice as much as he wanted.
They discussed it like two pensioners relating recent surgical experiences, with gusto and mock sympathy. Pagliacci came down. Qazi came up. They sipped wine and finally compromised.
Qazi was apologetic. “El Hakim expects me to haggle. You know the Arab mind.”
Pagliacci was gracious. “No man likes to pay too much. And sometimes what sounds right in one place will sound too expensive in another. Do not concern yourself.”
“As long as you understand.” Qazi wet his lips with wine and set the glass down with finality.
“When can I tell my friends in New York to expect the first shipment?”
“It will arrive at our embassy via the diplomatic pouch the day after tomorrow. Your man should call at the embassy and ask for this man.” Qazi produced another scrap of paper from a pocket and passed it over. They settled on a recognition phrase. “I am sorry we must deliver it there in the embassy, but it has become too dangerous for our man to carry it in the streets.” This was an understatement. Should a diplomat accredited to the United Nations be involved in an accident, or be detained by police, and be found in possession of several kilos of cocaine, the diplomatic consequences would be catastrophic. Even El Hakim understood that.
“Getting it into the U.S. is the problem,” Pagliacci said. “My friends can handle it from there.” His sons, he meant.
“We will deliver two kilos of pure, uncut cocaine on the same day every other week until you have the quantity we have agreed upon. If your man does not show on the appointed day, he will be expected two days later. If he does not appear then, it will be assumed that he is never coming and all deliveries will cease.” Qazi leaned back carefully in his chair. “Money would have been easier.”
Pagliacci ignored that comment. Years ago, when Qazi had first approached him for aid on another project, cocaine was the only currency which Pagliacci would discuss. The money was secondary, icing on the cake, for the local soldiers.
“But now I must go back to El Hakim and inform him that money is also required.” Qazi had made this comment on other occasions. Both men knew it was pro forma.
“He will understand. I have great respect for him.”
“I suggest that we pay you the money when we are ready to take delivery of the goods.” Qazi was apologetic again. “It is no reflection on you or on our relationship, which is an excellent one of long standing, with mutual satisfaction, but a necessity due to my position with El Hakim.”
Pagliacci nodded slowly. Qazi always insisted on this point, too.
Qazi used his cane to rise from the chair. “Signor Pagliacci, I salute you. You are a man of wisdom and discretion.” He looked slowly about, at the grass, the tall palm trees, and the rows of olive trees across the back of the lawn. “It’s so beautiful here. So peaceful,”
“It is perfect for an old man like me. With my wife gone”—he crossed himself—“and with the children in homes of their own, I am left with the pleasures of old men. And the summer is not being kind to my tomatoes. Like all old men, I complain, eh?”
“
The two men shook hands and parted. Qazi made his way toward the waiting car without looking back.
When Jake walked into the air wing office, one of the A-6 squadron bombardiers was sitting in the chair by Farnsworth’s desk. Jake tried to match the name to the face but couldn’t. He was too far away to read the leather name tag on his flight suit. “What can we do for you today?”
“I need to talk to you, sir.”
Farnsworth nodded toward the helmet hanging by the door. Jake tilted it and a bright piece of metal fell into his hand. Naval Flight Officer’s wings. A piece of white paper with a name was taped to it. Lieutenant Reed.
“Better come into my office.” Jake led the way.
When both men were seated with the door closed, Jake tossed the wings in the middle of his desk.
“Okay.”
Reed swallowed several times and wet his lips with his tongue. He was about twenty-five, with short blond hair. His features were even, as if eyes, nose, lips, and chin had been carefully chosen to make an attractive set. A fine sheen of perspiration was just visible on his forehead. His name tag proclaimed he was Mad Dog Reed.
Jake pulled out his lower desk drawer and propped his feet on it. The desire for a cigarette was very strong, so he rammed both hands in his trouser pockets. “What’s the deal?”
“I want to turn in my wings.”
Jake grunted and stared at his toes.
“Uh, you know …”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you said if we got to feeling that we couldn’t do our best up there, we ought to turn our wings in. That’s the way I feel,” he said defensively. When Grafton didn’t respond he added, “I’ve had all of this bullshit I can stand.”
“By chance, do you have a personal computer on board?”
“Yessir.” Reed brightened. “I do all my paperwork on it. I’ve written a few programs. We can now track …” and he rambled on enthusiastically.
Jake wiggled his toes. Almost every junior officer these days had a computer in his stateroom. The flight program had become so competitive that one almost needed an honors engineering degree to have a chance for the limited slots available. As a result, the pilots and naval flight officers today were the cream of the college crop, brilliant youngsters with stock portfolios and spread sheets that the navy couldn’t keep beyond the first tour. Over half of them turned down career-retention bonuses that approached fifty thousand dollars and left after their first tour. Rocket scientists, one admiral called them. “I see,” Jake murmured.
“I submitted my letter of resignation from the navy, but it won’t be effective for six months. I just don’t think I should keep flying if my heart isn’t in it.” Reed’s words were carefully enunciated, respectful but not apologetic.
Jake searched for something to say. “How’d you get that nickname, Mad Dog?”
Reed flushed. “There was a big party at Breezy Point.” Breezy Point was the name of the officers’ club at NAS Norfolk. “I had too much to drink and … made something of a fool of myself. When the CO of the base called the squadron a few days later to complain, the skipper told him I was just a mad dog.”
The A-6 skipper was John Majeska. “What does Commander Majeska say about all this?”
“Well, sir, he and I fly together and I’ve talked it over with him.”
“And …”
The door opened and Farnsworth stuck his head in. “You better start suiting up now, CAG. You have a brief in ten minutes for a five-minute alert bomber. With the A-6 outfit.” His eyes swiveled to Reed.
Jake stood up. “You’re my bombardier tonight, Reed. See you at the brief in ten minutes.”
“But, sir—”
“No fucking buts, Reed. Ten minutes. Now get out of here so I can change clothes.”
When Reed was gone, Farnsworth said, “That was a good line, sir. ‘No fucking buts’ …”
“Go fly your word processor, Farnsworth.”
“A very good line, sir. I may use it as the title for my memoirs, which will chronicle my lifelong crusade to promote heterosexuality.”
Jake Grafton laughed and slammed the door in his face.
An hour and a half later Jake stood in Flight Deck Control and stared out the bomb-proof porthole at the flight
