and four men, including the new lad, rushed to greet them. They formed a makeshift receiving line at the passenger door, spiking to attention as Khoury eased out of the truck. Each bowed to their leader in turn.
“Allah be with you, sheik,” said the first.
Another, “Praise be to Allah.”
Khoury said nothing. He simply raised an open palm to hip height, a minimalist acknowledgment of their good wishes. It seemed the clerical thing to do. Khoury made ten paces toward the hangar, moving slowly, his head cocked at a benevolent angle. Then, rather suddenly, he stopped. He turned and pulled up his gaze—this still obscured by his wide black sunglasses—and directed his attention to the new boy.
The skinny lad stiffened.
Khoury moved closer, and stopped directly in front of him. The youngster was no more than his own height, scrawny and malnourished.
“You are new here?” Khoury asked.
The boy nodded briskly. “Yes, my sheik. Yes.”
After an appropriate pause, Khoury said, “And you will join us in our struggle?”
“If it is the will of Allah, my sheik.”
Khoury very slowly reached up and pulled the sunglasses from his face. He locked his eyes to those of the boy. Watched him react. The boy was clearly struck.
In the first fifty-two years of his life, Rafiq Khoury had seen many reactions to his eyes. As a child he had often been teased that he was some kind of half-breed or bastard. Later, women often saw him as impure or tainted. Long into adulthood, Khoury had cursed hisgenetic quirk—one eye brown, the other bright green—as something to hide. Then, in the autumn of his existence, he had finally come to realize its leverage. Instead of hiding his affliction, he displayed it openly, if judiciously, to create a mystique. The Arab culture, as with many across the world, viewed the eyes as windows to the soul. There was a mysticism about them, in particular, when they were unusual, or even dysfunctional. How many blind clerics kept large, devoted followings? Once Khoury had understood this, it was a simple matter of adjustments to his carriage and demeanor. And here he was.
He stared with laser intensity and watched the young man closely. First he saw awe. Then something more permanent. Reverence.
Barely breathing, the young man bowed his head.
And Khoury knew he had another.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Davis started with meteorology, but found nothing remarkable. No thunderstorms or turbulence or weather fronts on the night in question. No dust storms, which could be a concern in this part of the world. All in all, the conditions on the night of the accident had been quiet, almost serene. Certainly nothing to make an airplane fall out of the sky. He studied the flight plan and aircraft history, and again came up empty.
This wasn’t going to be easy. Davis was accustomed to going into an investigation with teams of experts from the NTSB, military, and industry. He was used to having people who specialized in tiny corners of knowledge: engines, structures, aircraft performance. He was used to having photographers to document wreckage. He was used to having wreckage. Davis felt like a homicide detective trying to solve a murder without a partner or a medical examiner or even a body.
He pulled out the crew profiles, and right away two pages jumped out at him—the personnel records on the two pilots. There were no photos, just two vibrant lives, each condensed to a single page of words and numbers. The captain’s name was Gregor Anatolii, former Ukrainian Defense Forces. Born in Kiev. Nine thousand hours of flight time, including eighteen hundred in the DC-3. First officer Stanislav Shevchenko, former Air Belarus. Native of Sevastopol. Eighty-four hundred hours, nine hundred in the DC-3. There were dates of hire and contract terms regarding pay and housing. Copies of airman and medical certificates issued by the EASA, Europe’s regulatory sister to the FAA. Then Davis’ eyes went to the bottom of each page.
“Allah be with you, sheik,” said the first.
Another, “Praise be to Allah.”
Khoury said nothing. He simply raised an open palm to hip height, a minimalist acknowledgment of their good wishes. It seemed the clerical thing to do. Khoury made ten paces toward the hangar, moving slowly, his head cocked at a benevolent angle. Then, rather suddenly, he stopped. He turned and pulled up his gaze—this still obscured by his wide black sunglasses—and directed his attention to the new boy.
The skinny lad stiffened.
Khoury moved closer, and stopped directly in front of him. The youngster was no more than his own height, scrawny and malnourished.
“You are new here?” Khoury asked.
The boy nodded briskly. “Yes, my sheik. Yes.”
After an appropriate pause, Khoury said, “And you will join us in our struggle?”
“If it is the will of Allah, my sheik.”
Khoury very slowly reached up and pulled the sunglasses from his face. He locked his eyes to those of the boy. Watched him react. The boy was clearly struck.
In the first fifty-two years of his life, Rafiq Khoury had seen many reactions to his eyes. As a child he had often been teased that he was some kind of half-breed or bastard. Later, women often saw him as impure or tainted. Long into adulthood, Khoury had cursed hisgenetic quirk—one eye brown, the other bright green—as something to hide. Then, in the autumn of his existence, he had finally come to realize its leverage. Instead of hiding his affliction, he displayed it openly, if judiciously, to create a mystique. The Arab culture, as with many across the world, viewed the eyes as windows to the soul. There was a mysticism about them, in particular, when they were unusual, or even dysfunctional. How many blind clerics kept large, devoted followings? Once Khoury had understood this, it was a simple matter of adjustments to his carriage and demeanor. And here he was.
He stared with laser intensity and watched the young man closely. First he saw awe. Then something more permanent. Reverence.
Barely breathing, the young man bowed his head.
And Khoury knew he had another.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Davis started with meteorology, but found nothing remarkable. No thunderstorms or turbulence or weather fronts on the night in question. No dust storms, which could be a concern in this part of the world. All in all, the conditions on the night of the accident had been quiet, almost serene. Certainly nothing to make an airplane fall out of the sky. He studied the flight plan and aircraft history, and again came up empty.
This wasn’t going to be easy. Davis was accustomed to going into an investigation with teams of experts from the NTSB, military, and industry. He was used to having people who specialized in tiny corners of knowledge: engines, structures, aircraft performance. He was used to having photographers to document wreckage. He was used to having wreckage. Davis felt like a homicide detective trying to solve a murder without a partner or a medical examiner or even a body.
He pulled out the crew profiles, and right away two pages jumped out at him—the personnel records on the two pilots. There were no photos, just two vibrant lives, each condensed to a single page of words and numbers. The captain’s name was Gregor Anatolii, former Ukrainian Defense Forces. Born in Kiev. Nine thousand hours of flight time, including eighteen hundred in the DC-3. First officer Stanislav Shevchenko, former Air Belarus. Native of Sevastopol. Eighty-four hundred hours, nine hundred in the DC-3. There were dates of hire and contract terms regarding pay and housing. Copies of airman and medical certificates issued by the EASA, Europe’s regulatory sister to the FAA. Then Davis’ eyes went to the bottom of each page.
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