He went to the door of the Ground Control Station. He rapped the door.
'Lizzy-Jo – the head honcho's down.'
A man climbed awkwardly from the Cessna's hatch. He was big, bloated, and his shirt-tail flapped out of his trousers in the wind. He was unshaven, was mopping his forehead already in the few short yards he had walked across the Tarmac, and was clinging to a briefcase, as if it held his life savings, holding it against his chest. He came towards the little ghetto of tents, awnings and vehicles that George Khoo had made in the night at the extreme end of the runway.
George worked the men hard, and the noise had disturbed Marty nearly as much as the worries about flying conditions.
'You Marty?'
'Yup, that's me, sir.'
The man looked at him quizzically. It wasn't said, but the man gave him the feeling that he had expected Marty, the pilot, to be ten years older, or fifteen – not looking like a student just out of high school; it was the way he'd been looked at by the other Agency guys and the Air Force men when he'd first pitched down at Bagram. He was getting used to it, but it still annoyed him.
'I'm Juan Gonsalves – God, flying's a bitch. We were tossed around like rats in a sack. Wish I could do your sort of flying.'
'What is my sort of flying, sir?'
'Just sat in a cabin, air-conditioned – no air-pockets and no turbulence… Hey, I'm not suggestin' you don't do the real thing.
Look, where can we talk, where are there no ears? I mean no ears.'
'There's people at Ground Control. Back in the tents, there's people sleeping, sir. I'd say there's no ears right here, sir.'
Marty waved expansively around him. They were a hundred yards from the tents and the awning shelters where the wings of First Lady and Carnival Girl were going on to the fuselages. The sun was high, at the top, and his shadow was around his feet. Lizzy-Jo came out, hopped down the steps. He introduced her and Gonsalves broke off from the mopping to shake her hand, then took a map from his briefcase, spread it out on the dirt and put small stones on the corners.
'You been in this sort of heat before, Marty?'
'No, sir.'
'We're lookin' at one hundred and twenty degrees. Christ, do you know what pisses me off, Marty, more than the heat?'
'No, sir.'
'It's being called "sir". Call me Juan. I may not be prettier than you, son, but I am your superior. Funny thing is that great temple, our mutual employer, has given you a job that I can't do, and me a job that you can't do… so today, that makes us about equal. Nice to meet you, Marty, and how d'ya do, Lizzy-Jo? What else you need to know about me is that the love of my life is Teresa and our kids, and the hate of my life is Al Qaeda. I'd like to say I live and sleep Teresa and the kids, but I don't. I live and sleep Al Qaeda. Each time we nail one of those A-rabs, I get a hard-on… Nothing personal, you know, it's not that anything has happened to anyone I know, but it's the obsession that rules me. What I say to anyone who raises an eyebrow, thinks I'm a freakin' lunatic, is "If we don't throttle that organization right now, then we'll sure as shit end up on our backs with their boots on our throats," that's what I say.'
Marty gaped at the intensity. The sweat now ran on the man's face and he squinted as the sun came back up off the dirt and the map.
His thinning hair was plastered wet. Gonsalves pressed on: 'I am a technophobe and an intelligence officer. I do not own a power drill but I understand the cell-system intricacies of Al Qaeda. In my house, Teresa has to change the lightbulbs, but I know the way the mind of A1 Qaeda works. And don't ever try to blind me with the science of your machines. I don't care… Let's do the map.'
Marty saw that the nails were short but still had dirt under them, and the first two fingers of the right hand were nicotine-stained. The hand splayed out and passed over the map of the southern quarter of Saudi Arabia.
'What I predict, and here's where I'm gonna stick my neck out, is that this is the next big war zone. Forget Afghanistan, most particularly forget the stuff in Iraq, you're looking at the new ballpark.
It is the Rub' al Khali, which is the Arabic for "Empty Quarter" – it is what the Bedouin simply know as "the Sands". It's bigger than you or I can comprehend, amigo, it is as hostile as anywhere on the good Lord's Earth… You see, it's where I'd crawl to if I'd taken a bad punch and was down and the count had started, except I'm going to beat the count, and I want the bell, I need to hunker down in my corner and get my breath and focus. I'd go to the Rub' al KhaTi. It's where I'd be, and I'm confident I know their minds… Believe me, it's where they are, and I bet my shirt on it.'
He grimaced.
'I don't take everyone at Langley along with me. They still want paratroops and mountain forces and Rangers tramping in the Pakistan tribal lands and the Afghan mountains, but I say that's history. What I say is, they're right here right now. They are wounded, hurt, as dangerous as a maimed bear. They are supplied by couriers, they have no phones and no electronics… And do you think I can call on the Saudis for help? Hell, no. First off, they're suspicious of anyone telling them what to do, second, they're not capable of doing it, third, man, they're so insecure, I tell them nothing and they tell me nothing… Well, I beat on the temple's door often enough for the Langley people to get freakin' sick of me, you know, they want to shut me up. Get me nice and quiet, so they sent you.'
'What are we looking for?' Lizzy-Jo was subdued and staring at the expanse of the map now covered by a film of sand.
'Wish I knew.'
Marty said, 'We have to know what we're looking for. It's one mother of a playing field, more map boxes than we've ever tried to cover. We have to know.'
Age, tiredness seemed to lodge on Gonsalves' face. Marty craned to hear him better. He spoke as if he knew what he said was inadequate. 'Well, not wheels… not big groups in caravans… not on roads because there aren't any – there's only one track that goes nowhere. .. Small groups, maybe three or four guys and three or four camels. .. out where nothing exists… A pinhead in a dump truck of dirt. .. Maybe the camels are carrying gear, maybe they aren't. People where they shouldn't be. This is not a refuge for low-life but for the leadership – they must send and receive messages and retain control. Only a very valued few will be summoned to their hole in the ground, people they need to see… Can't help any more than that.'
Lizzy-Jo said, 'We'll give it our best shot.'
He pushed himself up and shook the sand off the map, then folded it and made a mess of that, gave it to Marty. He told them what their cover would be, and he said he'd get down again as soon as was possible but meantime he'd speak each day. Gonsalves started to walk back to the Cessna, his head down, as if he knew he'd failed to convince. He stopped. 'It's good, this equipment you've got?' He waved his arm airily at the birds under the awnings.