Final Flight

office.”

“I want you to get me another date with her, sir,” Toad blurted. “Please,” he added as Jake stood up so fast his chair crashed against the bulkhead.

Jake leaned across the desk and roared, “I don’t procure women for anybody, mister. I’m a captain in the United States Navy. You’re a fucking lieutenant and don’t you forget it. How dare you come into my office and ask me to fix you up!” The last three words dripped off his lips like poison from a snake. “Jesus H. Christ!”

“But—”

“Shut up!” He could have silenced a riot with that shout. “I’m doing the talking here. Now when I finish, you will about-face and march your brassy, sassy ass out of my office. If I ever again lay eyes on you in this office on anything other than official business, you will be the radar intercept officer on a garbage scow in Newark for the rest of your naval career. Are you reading me loud and clear?” He was in fine voice, braying at the top of his lungs.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you ever again ask a senior officer to assist you in your debaucheries.” He lowered his voice: “You ask the senior officer’s wife. Mine is still at the hotel.” The volume went back up: “Now get out! Out out out!”

Toad fled. As the door to the outer office closed smartly, Jake collapsed in laughter into his chair. This was the first good laugh he had had in months. Farnsworth appeared in the door with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

16

Colonel Qazi and Ali sat in the car and stared through the chain-link fence at the six helicopters sitting on the concrete mat.

“There’s another in the hangar,” Ali said. “Pagliacci’s man says the choppers will be fueled and ready tomorrow night. The watchman at the gate and the man at the office of the helicopter company have been visited by Pagliacci’s men. We are to tie up the watchman.”

“We only need three helicopters.”

“We may take any three. All will be fueled and ready, so if we have a problem with one, we merely leave it and take another.”

“What if none of them are ready?”

“But …”

“What if the watchman gets frightened before you arrive and calls the police? What if there is a police car sitting there beside the office? What if the transport company manager has panicked and sabotaged the helicopters and none of them will start? We will already be aboard the ship. We will be committed. What will you do then?”

“Well, if it’s just a police car, we’ll kill the policeman and proceed as planned. If the helicopters won’t start, we will go to the backup machines at the military base.” Weeks ago Qazi and Ali had examined every airport within fifty miles, and had located acceptable machines they thought they could steal if necessary. “Nothing will go wrong, Colonel. We will get the helicopters.”

“Where is our watcher?”

“Over there.” Ali nodded toward an abandoned warehouse. “He’s in that little room up at the apex. We relieve him every twelve hours and Yasim develops his photographs. If the watchers see anything suspicious, they will let us know immediately by telephone.”

“Who are you using as watchers?”

“The pilots. Here and at the military airfield. But the last shift before departure will have to be stood by nonpilots. It’s unavoidable. We only have four of them. Still, it’s an acceptable risk. Nothing will go wrong, inshallah.”

“Don’t give me that ‘if Allah wills it’ dung! You will succeed no matter what happens, because you will be very careful, take precautions, and be ready for the unexpected.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Qazi sounded weary. “Everything will go wrong. Believe it. Know it and be ready and keep thinking. Now tell me who comes to see the watchman after ten P.M.”

“Occasionally, every third or fourth night, a security guard parks his car and they play dominoes. We haven’t seen anyone else during the night, except helicopter company employees and passengers. Occasionally rich people arrive just before dawn and are flown to their yachts. And occasionally a chopper goes away and returns with a yachtsman, but those trips are in the morning or early evening.”

“I am tempted to forego these machines,” Qazi said thoughtfully, staring at the hangars and the black windows that looked down upon the concrete mat and the street. “One wonders about Pagliacci.”

“Has he not done everything he promised — the vans, the uniforms, the weapons, the wiretap equipment, the cooperation of the ship-painting firm? For him, this is just good business.”

“Ayiee, the faith of the foolish! Help me, Allah,” Qazi muttered. “So tell me again how you will take the helicopters.”

Ali did so. He had gone over the plan on four previous occasions with Qazi. He had it down. When he was finished, Qazi put on his brimmed hat and motioned toward the gate. Ali spoke to the man in the watchman’s booth, the day watchman, then drove slowly on and parked by the door to the office of the helicopter company. He got out of the car with an attache case and came around to the passenger’s side, where he held the door for Qazi. The colonel eased himself out. Once again he was an old man. Ali preceded him and handed him the case as Qazi passed through the office door.

The only person in sight in the offices was a young woman. She had a breathtaking bosom and wide, ample hips. Her hair was yellowish blond, dark at the roots. She stubbed out her cigarette as Qazi muttered, “Prego, Signor Luchesi.” She rose from her desk and bolted for the manager’s door, glancing at Qazi over her shoulder.

He steadied himself with his cane and scanned the room. Aviation magazines lay on the table near the four pea-green chairs where customers presumably waited. Aviation charts of southern Italy and the islands covered the walls.

The door opened and a man in shirtsleeves appeared. The secretary was visible behind him, nervously smoothing her dress. “Prego.” He gestured and Qazi entered his office, steadying himself several times by touching the wall for support. He carefully lowered himself into the armchair across the desk from the manager. The secretary took three steps toward the door, then stopped and stood, shifting from foot to foot, twisting her hands.

“Grazie, Maria.” The manager nodded toward the door. He was at least twenty years older than the woman, bulging badly at the waist. His complexion was mottled, as if he had a heart condition. “I am Luchesi,” he said.

Qazi opened his attache case. He extracted three large manila envelopes and tossed them on the desk. “Count it.”

“There is no need, signore.” The perspiring manager spread his hands and tried to smile. “I trust …”

Qazi took the Walther from the case and laid it on the desk. Then he closed the case firmly and snapped the latches. “Count it.”

The manager ripped open the first envelope and shuffled through the bills.

“Count it slowly.”

Luchesi’s head bobbed and his lips began to move silently. The light from the window reflected on the moisture on his bald pate. When he finished with the third envelope, he said, “Fifty million lire, grazie. I will do as promised …”

Qazi opened the case and put the pistol back in.

“You may rely …”