Read Online Fly by Night by Ward Larsen - Free Book Online Page B

to understand. His freshly earned doctorate in aerospace engineering was taken from a top school in America, and while Khoury did not know Jibril’s exact age, the man was young, certainly no more than thirty. Presently he was standing at a workbench, smoothing a long bundle of wire with his thin fingers. Everything about Jibril was delicate, almost feminine. There was no question about his sexuality—he was married to a thick, matronly woman who was, rather predictably, five months pregnant with their first child. Still, Fadi Jibril was not a man’s man. His limbs seemed toswim in the loose-fitting shirts and trousers he preferred. His shoes looked too big, like those of a clown. Yet there was no doubting his intensity, the focus that encompassed everything he did. This was forever etched in his eyes, a thing Khoury appreciated, yet never quite understood. Religion was part of it—that was why he was here, indeed why any of them were here—yet for Jibril there was something more. Khoury sensed it at this very moment as he watched the engineer caress the insulated wire, watched his sharp black eyes critique his work. Khoury could not dismiss the idea that he was watching a man who was, at heart, more an artist than a scientist.
    He cleared his throat and Jibril straightened.
    “Sheik,” he said, “I am honored.”
    This was what Jibril always said, each day when Khoury came to check his progress. He supposed Jibril was not being polite. He truly was honored. Khoury smiled inwardly.
    “And how does our work progress?” the imam asked, the pronoun covering not only the two of them, but God as well.
    Jibril sighed. “Certain parts have been difficult to work with. Our lathe is not the best. If we had a better machine—”
    “Fadi, Fadi,” Khoury interrupted, acquiring his most patient tone. “You know our troubles. We must make do with what we have. You have made great strides, no one can deny it.” He swept an arm across a work area that was surrounded by tools, machinery, and electronics. “Six months you have been at that bench, hammering and turning screwdrivers. Time, however, is not our ally.”
    The young man relented. “Yes, sheik, I know. But things are always more difficult when one turns the screws clockwise.”
    Hand tools had never been a friend to Khoury, but the metaphor was clear enough. It is easier to take apart than to build. He committed this thought to memory, recognizing its potential for a future sermon.
    “The schedule cannot be altered,” Khoury insisted. “You must distinguish between what you would like, and what you must have.”
    Jibril’s put his hands to his temples. He looked defeated, near exhaustion.
    Khoury put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Fadi, look at me.”
    The engineer did, and Khoury asserted his most persuasive gaze.
    “Always remember—you will be to Sudan what A.Q. Khan was to Pakistan. The father of a nation’s technical might.” Khoury watched the young man swell, his ego stoked by the bellows of his words. Khoury thought perhaps he might have struck upon it. What was different about Jibril? Scientist and artist—what combination could breed a more outsized ego?
    “Now,” Khoury suggested, “tell me where your troubles lie.”
    Jibril picked up his gaze and led Khoury to a bench where circuit boards and test equipment were strewn haphazardly. Khoury recognized a pungent electrical odor, burnt insulation or arcing wires. The engineer picked up a metal box the size of a bread pan. Three wires dangled freely, their loose ends stripped of insulation and scorched with solder.
    “This is the telemetry interface module,” Jibril said. “I told you yesterday it was giving me trouble. This unit is defective. I now suspect they are all defective.”
    Khoury sighed. “Yes, the Chinese do not have a reputation for reliability.”
    “Which is the very reason they paid us such a favorable price for the unit we removed.”
    “Indeed,” Khoury said. He