“How long to Majorca?” Khazid asked.
“I’ll take my time. I’ll use less fuel if I don’t push this old bucket too hard. Besides, I like it. Maybe three and a half hours-something like that. Then we’ll check the plane situation at Palma. I’ve got a good feeling. It all worked out. It could have been much worse.” He leveled off at five thousand feet and put the plane on automatic. “God, I stink.” He looked down at the soiled suit. “I don’t know what Armani would think.”
“You’re the man who said if you need a suit, you buy a suit. You’ll be okay at the airport.”
“Yes, Palma ’s sophisticated enough. I expect the airport’s full of boutiques. Open my flight bag for me. In the bottom right corner there’s a brooch in the lining.” Khazid found it and Hussein slid back the top and found the button.
“Our lifeline to the Broker.” He pressed it and put the brooch in his pocket.
IT WAS AMAZING how quickly the response came, and the Broker listened quietly to Hussein’s story.
“A pity about Major Hakim Mahmoud. A valued ally.”
“You’ll replace him soon enough.”
“So what happens now?”
“We’ll park the seaplane when we get there, then we’ll go to the airport. You check on flights for us and call me back.”
A half hour later, the Broker did. “I’ve checked. There are a lot of flights to French destinations including a number of cheap basic flights to provincial airports. Flights of the kind where they pack you in and don’t even offer a cup of coffee, but they don’t give a damn who you are. One such destination is Rennes, which is less than fifty miles by train from Saint-Malo on the Brittany coast. Saint-Denis is only twelve miles outside of Saint-Malo. That should be your best bet. The booking is your affair.”
“The insolence of this man is unique,” Khazid said. “With his so-called perfect world showing signs of cracking, his condescension is breathtaking.”
“Don’t let it get to you.” Hussein put things back on manual. “Try and get some sleep. I’m going to fly the plane.” He took the control column, leaned back and started to enjoy himself.
FOUR O’CLOCK, a half-moon giving everything a faint luminosity, they came in from the sea at five hundred feet, turning parallel to the coast looking for just the right sort of place. It was Khazid who finally noticed one, a small crescent-shaped cove beneath a steep headland at the north end of the island. There were many opulent villas on the coast on either side of it and a lonely jetty, no boats tied up.
“The kind of place tourists with hire boats may use. Most of the villas have their own. I think people will think an item like a private aircraft properly belongs to somebody in a rich man’s area like this.”
“It does have a certain logic.”
Hussein landed on the sea beyond the cove and taxied in, his engines reduced to a muted rumble. They coasted in and he cut the engines, allowing small waves to edge the plane against the jetty, then opened the door and got out, followed by Khazid with the curved rope of the line in one hand. He tied up, then got the two flight bags, passing his to Hussein. There was a line of steps and a decent path beyond.
A pine wood was at the top and the path led them through it to an extensive vineyard beyond. There were villas here and there, cottages, but it was a scattered sort of landscape.
“Coats off,” Hussein said. “Try to fit in, look casual.”
The sky was pink, then gold, the sun rose, and they saw people occasionally in the distance. It was all incredibly beautiful. Reaching the main road, they came to their first village, and already life was stirring.
“Well?” Khazid said. “What next?”
“I don’t know.” At that moment, they came to the end of the village and found an inn with a pleasant garden, a young woman brushing a terrace.
She smiled and said good morning in Spanish, and Hussein answered in English. Khazid followed, putting on a slight French accent.
“Good morning, mademoiselle. I see no sign of a bus service.”
“Not until noon. Do you have a problem?”
He said smoothly, “Our problem is a hire car which gave up the ghost on us, I’m afraid, and I’ve tried their number, but there is no reply.”
“And we have a plane at noon,” Hussein said.
“Oh, I see. So you need to get to Palma?”
“As soon as possible.”
“As it happens, my barman, Juan, is going to town in the truck for supplies after he’s had his breakfast. I’m sure you could come to an agreement with him. I’ll go and have a word. Perhaps you would like some coffee and rolls while you’re waiting?”
She went out and they sat at a small table. “We do have another problem,” Hussein said. “The plane we didn’t get, the one doing some sort of drug run from Khufra to France, was going to drop us off illegally- which meant that we could still keep our weapons.”
“So no guns,” Khazid said.
“And none from Romano. Everything we need will be provided by Darcus Wellington, that’s what the Broker said.”
“Okay. Let’s get it over with.” Khazid transferred the two Walthers and the Colt.25s into his pockets. “It breaks my heart, but if it must be done…” He shrugged. “I’ll go and find a drain.”
He moved into the vineyard beside the garden and disappeared. The girl returned with coffee, rolls and marmalade. She wrinkled her nose. “What happened to you?”
“I was trying to fix the car and fell into a ditch beside it.”
“If you want to use the washroom, feel free. It’s the door next to the bar. There’s a shower.”
So in he went, saying hello to a young man, presumably Juan, cleaning the bar top. In the washroom, he examined himself, a sorry sight, then stripped his clothes and showered and toweled himself vigorously, which made him look better, although the clothes were still dreadful. When he went back, Khazid was flirting outrageously with the girl and drinking red wine she had supplied.
“Come on, mon ami,” he said. “Try a glass. It’s good for the heart.” And Hussein, knowing what he was trying to do, took the wine down manfully.
Juan appeared, good-byes were said and they got in the rear of the open truck, their backs against the driver’s cabin, and departed.
“Nice girl,” Khazid said. “Just think. A couple of real desperadoes like us and she never knew.”
“Better for her, I think, much better.” Hussein leaned back and closed his eyes in the early morning sun.
AT THE AIRPORT, they gave Juan fifty dollars, then searched the numerous shops and selected a men’s boutique. Hussein kept his flight bag, but gave Khazid his British passport on the off chance they’d allow him to get both tickets. No one knew better than he did how slipshod matters of security could be, especially when dealing with large numbers of people.
In the boutique, the proprietor and an assistant who was obviously his boyfriend tut-tutted when he explained about the accident and set about clothing him from head to toe. Underwear, socks of silk, shirts, white and blue, an expensive tan summer suit from Armani and tan brogues finished things off. He stood and examined himself in the mirror. Yes, it would do for now. He noticed a khaki trench coat on a rail, bought that, too, and was just paying for it all when Khazid returned.
“My goodness, but you look stylish,” he said.
“Flattery is the last thing I need. What about the tickets?”
“Easy. The girl was French, and I do French well. Two tickets in row E, taking off for Rennes at eleven-thirty. We’re returning holiday-makers.”
“Good. Hide those extra passports in the special compartment in your flight bag; we’ll buy a suitcase, put both flight bags inside so they can go in the hold. I’m going to speak to the Broker.”