“The 105 was a light-attack helicopter,” Simon said, enthusiasm apparent in his tone. “This one was operated by the West German army.”
Mellania stifled a yawn; Simon ignored it.
As he went on and on, extolling the technical merits of his ’56 Bell 47H (one of only thirty-four built), Ava noted her companions’ glazed expressions and experienced a moment of clarity. Is this how she sounded when talking about history? In the future, Ava resolved, she’d pay more attention to her audience and avoid smothering them with extraneous detail.
Meanwhile, Simon had directed attention to his modern exhibits. Conspicuous was an Aérospatiale SA-330 Puma that had participated in Opération Daguet.
“And this is my sentimental favorite.” He gestured toward a helicopter displayed on a concrete riser: “The AS 565 Panther.” Stepping up, he placed a loving hand on the craft’s fuselage. “In eighty-two, I commanded one in Lebanon. We survived some tight scrapes.” For a moment, Simon was lost in reverie.
Ava whispered, “Is he for real?”
Paul nodded. “Simon loves helicopters. They’re his children.”
“Does he still fly?”
“Hell, yeah! He’s a legit ace. He keeps all these birds in top condition, and occasionally he takes one for a spin. Whatever else you think of him, never doubt his piloting skills. Simon can really fly.”
Noticing a locked doorway, Nick asked, “What’s in there?”
DeMaj cocked an eyebrow. With a sly grin, he whispered, “Nothing that’s included on the public tour.” He pulled an electronic passkey from his jacket, swiped the door, and ushered his guests into a dark antechamber. When Simon flipped on the lights, they beheld a jet-black aerodynamic machine.
Impressed, Nick whistled. “Is that what I think it is?”
“May I present the RAH-66 Comanche prototype. Assembled in Boeing-Sikorsky’s Stratford, Connecticut, facility, it first flew on January 4, 1996. Only four were completed before the U.S. Congress canceled the program.”
“It must be worth a fortune!”
Pleased to have an appreciative listener, Simon expounded on the topic. “Well, the Comanche is state of the art. The LHTEC engines are shielded against infrared. Its composite airframe incorporates several antidetection features: silent running, stealth faceting, energy-absorbent materials. It’s effectively invisible to radar.”
“And, I presume, illegal for a private citizen to own,” said Ava.
“Officially, this helicopter does not exist.” Simon smiled. “But I have friends in the industry.”
“I’d love to see it fly,” Nick said.
Simon beamed. “I’m free tomorrow after five o’clock. Why don’t we pop over to Naples for some pizza?”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. I can accommodate two passengers, provided you don’t mind getting cozy. Care to join us, Mellania?”
She demurred.
“But wouldn’t that be an act of war or something? A Comanche has to be loaded with classified missiles and technology,” said Nick.
“Oh, no. We’ll have no problems. True, some design elements are classified, but the U.S. military removed all armaments, countermeasures, and combat equipment long before I took possession. Despite what you may have heard, I’m not in the munitions business.”
Ava and Paul left the hangar together and strolled toward the villa. The main house, perched atop a high precipice, had been constructed to take advantage of the view. Hand in hand, the Americans walked to the cliff and peered over the edge. It was a stunning drop. Hundreds of feet below, waves battered ancient boulders. A boreal wind gusted in from the sea. Ava shivered, visualizing slaves thrown to their death by a sadistic emperor.
“Can we go back?” she asked. “It’s getting chilly.”
Paul took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Follow me.”
He led her through a sliding door into an airy gallery decorated with Hokusai prints. Ava relaxed. It was much warmer inside. She stopped to admire a striking Shirabyŏshi dancer. Something about the woman’s attire sparked a question in Ava’s mind.
“Paul, did you come up with that anagram: hat bag?”
He looked sheepish. “No. I can’t take credit for that. Hatbag was Simon’s code name for our dig in Israel. I had no idea what it meant until he explained. I figured you’d love it because you’re both…”
Her voice turned cool. “We’re both what?”
“Look, don’t take this the wrong way…”
Her eyes narrowed.
“But you remind me of him sometimes.”
Ava scoffed. “I hope you don’t expect me to be flattered.”
“No. I mean, I know you think he’s an evil capitalist.”
“I’m hardly alone in that judgment.”
“Right, and I don’t mean to offend. Obviously, you’re a much better person. I’m just saying you’re alike in some ways. I bet you have a lot of common interests.”
Disgusted, Ava stomped off to bed. Paul started to follow, but another print, one depicting a clumsy chess player, reminded him of Sefu. Out of habit, Paul glanced at his wrist. Was it too late to call the clinic? As Ava vanished into the adjoining chamber, Paul exhaled. Someday she’d get to know Simon. The two of them would probably while away countless hours discussing Tintoretto, Sobek, Charlemagne, and Thales. Then maybe she’d understand.
Midnight found Simon and Nick seated across a chessboard. DeMaj opened with the King’s Gambit, sacrificing a pawn to gain a commanding position. Sipping his single malt, Nick mounted a vigorous counterattack, but on the twenty-seventh move, he faced a dilemma: whether to exchange his active knight for a defensive bishop. After some thought, Nick passed on the exchange and retreated his piece. Pouncing, Simon advanced his queen. “Mate in six,” he announced.
Nick slumped. Then, straightening his back, he began to reset the board. Glancing up, he caught his opponent in a smirk.
“Don’t get cocky, DeMaj. I play better after I take my first lick.”
Simon laughed. “Like Masséna.”
“Who?”
“Marshal Masséna was a brilliant tactician, perhaps Napoleon’s best field commander. Bonaparte said Masséna was useless until the first cannons fired, then he became a lion.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“Mine too,” Simon agreed. “Nick, you play well, but withdrawing your knight was a mistake.”
“I felt vulnerable.”
“Conquer that fear. Use it to your advantage. Weak players shy away from open, complex positions because they dread the unknown. They tie themselves in knots to avoid exposing their king, afraid the essential piece will be caught in the crossfire, and to be sure, common sense supports this habit. Superlative players, on the other hand, embrace complexity, seizing opportunities to attack from unexpected angles. Create confusion, then let your opponent’s aggression work against him. Tempt him into rash moves by risking something precious. In my experience, a queen standing brazenly undefended often lures the enemy into a fatal error.”
Nick pushed himself back from the table and gave Simon a long, appraising look. After a moment, DeMaj inclined his head and said, “Shall we play again?”
Chapter 15
The sheik’s call woke Barakah at two in the morning.
“Meet me at the harbor immediately.”
A half hour later four men were cruising north aboard the Saracen, a Riva 63 Vertigo. The glassy Mediterranean shimmered under the full moon’s glow. Ahmed took a long drag from his cigarette. Tossing it overboard, he directed Barakah to follow him belowdecks and shut the door. The cabin’s dark hardwood floor contrasted with its pale oak, leather-bound bulkheads. In this private setting, Ahmed revealed some information gleaned from his spy within the DeMaj household.