2
The airport at Misratah was primarily a military base, with its parking areas dominated by fixed-wing Aero L-39 Albatross fighter-trainers. But there was very little in terms of intra-service rapport between the U.S. and Libya. Rankin made a vain attempt at soliciting the base commander’s help, telling him that he was sure that Atha’s aircraft had landed here and that any cooperation would be remembered in the future. But his promise was too nebulous for the commander, who valued tangible and immediate rewards; he recommended that Rankin speak to the men in the control tower but added that personally he doubted there would be anyone there who could help.
Guns worked the opposite direction, walking over to the fixed base operator’s shack and trying to strike up a conversation with the men there. He was wondering about airplanes that might have been fueled recently, he told them, because he was trying to find someone who’d flown out a few hours before. But there was too much of a language barrier — none of the men who fueled or worked on the planes spoke enough English to understand his questions, even with twenty-euro notes as an incentive.
The office manager understood, but claimed there had been no aircraft in or out in several days. She did this with her arms folded and one eye on the television in the corner of her small office inside the hangar. An Italian soap opera was playing on the television, the sound turned down while a translation of the dialogue into Arabic ran across the bottom. Guns turned and watched the program for a few minutes while he tried to think of another tactic.
A short, bald man with a beard pushed a broom into the office. The woman scolded him in Arabic, telling him he was late, but the man paid no attention. He swept the dust into a small pile near the door, then went back out into the hangar area.
“So, uh, who else can I talk to?” Guns asked the office manager when the program went to commercials. “I’m really looking for information and willing to pay.”
The woman shrugged. Guns wrote a local telephone number down for her — untraceable, the number would be answered by Corrigan — and said that if she thought of anything, she could call. He left one of his twenties next to the note and left.
He wondered what Ferguson would do next as he walked toward the hangar door. Maybe see something that he wasn’t seeing. Guns tried absorbing everything in front of him, staring, glancing — if there was something significant here, it just wasn’t registering.
“I know what you’re after,” said the man with the broom, pausing over his work near the doorway.
Guns stopped, surprised not so much by what the man said as the fact that he was speaking perfect English.
“You want information about Ahmed.” The man glanced around. “Flies out of here all the time in his little putt-putt plane.”
“How do you know?”
“Ah, I don’t know nothin’.”
The man went back to sweeping. Before Guns could ask another question, the office manager’s voice rang across the large building, once more scolding the sweeper in Arabic. The man pushed his broom toward a corner.
“He is a retard,” she told Guns, walking toward him. The English pejorative flew from her mouth in three syllables: “ree-tuh-ard.” “Not right in the head. Don’t worry about him.”
“I could see that,” said Guns.
Outside, Guns walked as slowly as he could toward the helicopter, parked a hundred yards away. Rankin had already gotten back.
“They’re probably all on the take,” said Rankin, agitated, standing near the nose of the Seahawk. “Control tower guy lied to my face. He claimed he hadn’t had a plane in or out for days, except for the military patrols. He does that in almost perfect English, then he pretends he doesn’t understand when I ask if knows of any Iranians who fly in and out of here. How about you?”
“I’m not sure,” said Guns. “But there’s a guy in the offices there who might talk to us, if we could figure out a way to get his boss out of the picture. She’s kind of a nasty-edged woman.”
“Ferguson would go make love to her,” said Rankin.
Guns laughed. He probably would — or at least flirt. “Well, that won’t work for us.”
“Are they together?” Rankin asked.
“There’s an office inside. She’s watching a soap opera. He’s cleaning up.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll go talk to her. You come around after me and see what the guy has to say.”
The man with the broom had been watching them from across the cement apron, and Guns didn’t have to do very much to get him to talk.
“They think I’m a dope,” the man told Guns while Rankin went inside. “I’m not right in the head, but I’m not a dope.”
“I’m looking for an Iranian,” said Guns.
“That would be Atha,” said the man. “He is always with Ahmed. Ahmed the pilot and his little plane.”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“I can tell you everything. Everything.”
“And what do you want?”
“Get me out of here. I know you’re American and I know you’re a spy. Get me back to America.”
“We could probably do that,” said Guns, in his most casual voice.
“I’ll be in your helicopter in half an hour.”
“What’s your name?”
“Just call me Paul.”
Paul showed up at the Seahawk five minutes after Guns and Rankin climbed in. Rankin thought Paul looked like a burned-out hippie, and the brief story he told of his background more or less confirmed the assessment: he’d wandered through Africa for nearly two decades, for fun and enlightenment.
“Done some good drugs,” he admitted. “Got tossed in jail in Morocco for a while. Not a great place.”
“So tell us about Ahmed,” said Guns.
“You guys are going to get me back to the States?”
Rankin looked at Guns. He hadn’t heard about the deal.
“Yeah, we’ll get you there,” said Guns. “I just have to work it out. But I will.”
“I think I can trust you,” said Paul. He turned to Rankin. “Not you.” He turned back to Guns. “But you’re OK.”
Guns asked again about Ahmed, the pilot Paul had mentioned by the hangar.
“Flies a little Fuji FA-200. Tiny little plane. Putt-putt-putt-putt-putt. Fills up with his av fuel, comes back almost bone-dry. Goes south. Doesn’t take much water.”
“Why would he take a lot of water?” asked Guns.
“That’s the desert, man. The desert. People are dying down there. No water. So he’s going someplace with water. Dig?”
“Are you sure he’s goes south?” said Rankin.
Paul snickered. “You don’t trust me.”
“No,” said Rankin.
“Honesty. Ha. Overrated.”
“How
“Flight vector,” said Paul. “I watch. Some days with glasses. You don’t waste fuel in the desert. You go somewhere, you go. You know, I could fly that plane if he let me. I don’t have a license, but I can fly. I could fly this plane.”
“This is a helicopter,” said Guns.
