The hangar was locked up and darkened. The only light in the office spilled from the desk lamp under which Ace rested and from the screen of her computer.
Ace got up, turned end-for-end, flopped down again, and tucked his head under his forepaw.
Kramer finished her last paragraph and saved everything to disk.
“That, Ace, is a magnificent piece of writing. Creative writing.”
Ace didn’t say anything.
She picked up the phone and dialled the number of the Sandy Inn.
It rang only once.
“Wyatt.”
“Andy, are you hooked up?”
“Just a second, Jan.”
While she waited for him to connect the modem of his portable computer, she called up the communications program and selected the files she would send.
“Okay, darlin’.”
“Coming your way.”
She zipped the data off to Nebraska, then waited while he read it on the screen of his computer.
“Looks good,” he said. “You do wonderful things.”
“I can’t believe that I, a member in relatively good standing of the New Mexico Bar, wile away my nights creating illegal documents.”
“You’re not doing it,” Wyatt said. “Somebody else will. Somebody who’s probably also a member of the bar.”
“How about the roster?”
“It’s still the same. Go ahead and send it all to the number.”
“What if I’m ever asked to testify against you, Andy?”
“We’ll just have to get married.”
“You said you weren’t ever getting married again.”
“It’s better than jail,” he said.
But not much better, from his point of view, she knew. He was perfectly happy with their relationship, roaming when he wanted to roam, or had a contract to chase, and spending as much time in her condo as he did in his own. She had thought that it would work for her, also, but sneaky bits of doubt had been creeping into her mind in the last few months.
Maybe she wasn’t truly a ’90’s woman.
“When do I see you again?” she said.
“I’ll try to get back in the next couple of days.”
“I miss you.”
“Me, too.”
She hung up, then used the computer to dial the 202 area code number. When she had the connection, she began sending each of the files to the Washington computer.
There was a file for each man taking part in the operation. In addition to a passport photograph, the file provided a short biography of the man along with his vital statistics, address, phone, and occupation.
The photo and statistics were correct, but everything else was the product of her imagination.
The last file provided a detailed cover story, what the spooks called a legend. From all of the information, whoever was the expert in this sort of thing would develop the necessary documents: passports, credit cards, driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, purchase orders, aircraft paperwork, insurance coverage, and probably even matchbook covers that agreed with particular hometowns.
Kramer had done this ten or eleven times before, but never on such a scale. Usually, it was a team of two or three. She had the distinct impression that the larger the operation was, the greater were the odds of something going wrong.
This one didn’t feel good.
Somebody wasn’t coming back.
And she loved them all.
Especially Andy.
Formsby wore a pale blue Oxford broadcloth shirt of soft cotton, khaki slacks, and a khaki Safari jacket. His low-cut leather boots had cost him ninety pounds Sterling, but then his footwear was always expensive, handmade so that the left shoe or boot supported his ankle adequately.
He thought he was dressed appropriately for Rabat. Later he would prowl the marketplaces for souvenirs or perhaps even something useful. In the afternoon, he would stroll the waterfront, taking in the sights, and adding to his knowledge. He wished he had time to go to Casablanca, simply because he had never been there before.
If Formsby had a stated goal in life now, it was to go where he had never been before. At one time, the objective had been to fly anything and everything with a wing and a power plant. That was no longer to be, and he was fairly successful at erasing the desire from his mind.
His travel goals were well supported by his salary, and he was grateful for that. On top of which, his job did not interfere unduly with his life.
Today, he had two tasks.
He approached the first by sitting on the edge of his bed in his hotel room, picking up the telephone, and asking the operator to place a call for him.
Fifteen minutes ticked by before the connection was made. The telephone rang, and the operator told him in broken English that he might proceed.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Carrington-Smyth here.”
“Ah, yes. How are you?” Muenster asked.
“Quite well, thank you. I’m calling to see if the pieces have fallen into place.”
“Finally, yes. A couple of the pieces were difficult to find, but I have succeeded.”
“And the paperwork?”
“Is all but complete,” Muenster said.
“It is trustworthy?”
“To the highest scrutiny.”
“And the cost?”
“It will come to one-point-eight. American, of course.”
“Of course. However…” Formsby let his voice trail off.
“Ah,” the German laughed, “there is always a ‘however.’ Did you have another figure in mind?”
“I did indeed. My mind was firmly set at one-point-two.”
“That is, I am afraid, quite impossible.”
They haggled for a quarter hour before arriving at one-and-a-half million dollars. Muenster gave him a long number that Formsby recognized as a Swiss bank account number. He knew also that it would be only a receiving account, and the funds would be immediately transferred out of it, floating off to an account whose number was far more secret.
“Half-and-half,” Formsby said.
“That is agreeable. And the destination?”
“The location will be forwarded along with the first payment.”
“Excellent, Mr. Carrington-Smyth. It has been a pleasure.”
“Quite,” Formsby said and hung up.
He stood and straightened the hem of his jacket. Now, he would walk the bazaars in search of something useful.
Perhaps one hundred thousand litres of JP-4 petrol for jet engines.
And tanker trucks to haul it.
And someone to drive the trucks several thousand miles into the desert.
It was not an insurmountable problem.
He had solved similar ones in the past, and as Director of Logistics for — whatever it was this time, Noble Enterprises? — he had no doubt whatsoever that he would find that for which he was searching.
Newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed al-Qati bought some new uniforms before he left Tripoli. He had left almost everything he owned in El Bardi, and he did not want to get caught somewhere in the desert without a change of uniform.
He thought about calling Sophia, the Italian girl he had met in Tobruk, then decided against it. She seemed to him to be very sophisticated, and he did not want to appear too eager.
Al-Qati had a military truck take him to the airport in time to catch a ride on the weekly Aeritalia G222 transport to Marada. It was over six hundred kilometres away, and the flight took two hours. At the small airfield in Marada, he was met by a driver with another truck, and they drove for another two hours to the northwest over roads that were barely defined from the surrounding desert.
Twice, he saw mounted Bedouins topping dunes on their camels and was reminded of his heritage, now withered and gone, if not forgotten.