Читать книгу Arachnosaur - Richard Jeffries - Страница 15

Chapter 8

“Now that’s more like it,” Daniels said as he took his first look at Muscat, the big and ancient capital of Oman.

He was wearing a plain white dishdasha—though thankfully not what remained of Ayman’s dishdasha—along with a somewhat sedate turban made of knotted head-cloth, as well as open-toe, open-back sandals. Gonzales had pulled them all out of his workshop’s locker before he changed into his own regional garb.

When Daniels complained about the simple footwear, Gonzales had explained, “They’re called nahl; easy to remove and they keep anything from getting trapped inside.”

“‘Nahl’ kidding,” Daniels had drawled. “What could get trapped inside?”

“Everything from sea snakes to the khanjar daggers of angry husbands,” Gonzales had advised knowingly. “Wear them. You’ll thank me.”

Key now followed the sergeant out onto dusty tarmac—squinting at the bright blue sky, the sparkling waters of the Oman Gulf, and, in the distance, the copper crags of the Hajar Mountains. It was the tropical opposite of Shabhut; elegance, and even grace, as opposed to oppressive misery.

He turned away from the clean majesty of even this northeastern edge of the city to see Gonzales emerge from his small private jet in full going-native splendor. The Hispanic Mechanic was wearing an authentic wazar undergarment beneath his more detailed dishdasha, with a long tassel hanging down from the neckline, and subtle, but impressive, embroidery around the wrists, across the shoulder blades, and neckline. On his head was a more ornate massar turban. If only given a cursory glance, he could have passed for a native—at least to Key’s inexperienced eye.

Key didn’t have to ask exactly where they were. Gonzales had gone into detail during the flight. They were at what remained of the Bayt al Falaj airport, which had gone into minimum service once the grander Muscat International Airport opened in 1973. Gonzales had correctly surmised that Key wanted as low a profile as possible, but also didn’t want to waste eight hours driving there.

So Gonzales had led them to his prize hobby: a 1991 Cessna Citation light business jet, which he had personally reconditioned after it was simply left behind by an unsatisfied billionaire. That sort of whim had become nearly commonplace in the oil-rich region. Although the Cessna was relatively small, it was certified for operations with a single pilot, and ready to go.

Key had looked at Gonzales incredulously. “Well, what about—” He extednded his arms to encompass the workshop.

Gonzales just grinned as Daniels elbowed Key in the side. “He’s a civilian contractor, Joe,” the sergeant informed him. “The Corps needs him more than he needs the Corps.”

“And I think you need me more than the Corps does at the moment,” Gonzales added.

Key’s eyebrows had not lowered. “But—”

“Don’t worry about any future repairs for the base, Corporal,” Gonzales said. “Got some decent assistants. In fact, that drunk who bothered you in the bar was one of them.”

That had not exactly put Key’s mind at ease. Every few minutes, while Gonzales had filed flight plans and garnered permissions, he offered other reasons why the mechanic should not get involved.

Finally, Gonzales had simply turned on Key with a solemn expression. “Look,” he said. “I just watched a guy I know go boom. If he went boom, that means anybody can go boom. So, should I just hang around here or should I take you where you need to go to try stop it from happening again?”

And, according to Gonzales, where they needed to go was Muscat. If they had any chance of cornering anyone from the Study Committee, it would be there.

Key couldn’t argue with that, so he had finally shut up and let Gonzales get on with it. Two hours later they were slipping into the edge of Muscat as much as it was possible to do in a country with less than two dozen registered private jets. But, in the interim, Key was informed via text that the Marine hazmat team had locked down Ayman’s Emporium, if not what was left of Ayman himself.

Key was half expecting Logan to rip his ear off, but also half expecting what actually happened—a calm, subsequent, text requesting that he keep the Captain informed. Key looked around at the overgrown field and sandy runway, feeling a little exposed.

“You ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” he muttered.

“Don’t worry, Corporal,” Gonzales assured him, misunderstanding the comment. “They know me here. They’ll take good care of CJ.”

Daniels leaned over and mock-whispered in Key’s ear. “That’s his plane’s name. He names everything.”

Already several young men in greasy coveralls, who looked like locals, were walking around the aircraft as if they had done it many times before. Gonzales said something to one of them in Arabic, which sent the man scurrying off.

“So, what now, Corporal?” Gonzales inquired as Key continued to survey the area.

“We need a base of operations,” Key reminded him.

“Already done,” Gonzales promised. “I arranged it from the cockpit. It’s my usual hangout. I wasn’t sure you wanted to go there first, though.”

Key felt relieved, and not for the first time, that he had finally allowed Gonzales to volunteer for the team. “Good guess,” he started, but was then distracted by Daniels giving off a loud moan.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

Key turned as a white Toyota Yaris came driving up beside them, and the young man who had scurried away emerged from behind the wheel. He and Gonzales had a rapid conversation.

“He says it’s clean, the air conditioning works, and he checked the engine himself,” Gonzales told Daniels with only the slightest hint of a smirk. “He wants to know what the problem is.”

“As if you didn’t know,” Daniels complained. “Was that the smallest car you could find? Why not a Yugo?”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Gonzales laughed. “He will take you to where we’re staying in his own Jeep.”

Key put a hand on Daniels’s shoulder. “Didn’t think you wanted to go scouring the hospitals with me anyway.”

“That’s what you’re going to do?” the sergeant asked, wincing with anticipated boredom.

“Yeah. And schools. Anyplace we can find out if anybody else”—he looked at Gonzales—“went boom.”

“Hospitals and schools?” Daniels echoed. “You think you’re going to find out anything there?”

“Got to start someplace,” Key told him. “And got to start fast.”

Daniels shook his head curtly. “Let me bring our stuff, whatever’s left of it, to the hotel, then I’ll bring my own prodigious intellect to the problem.”

Key had known the sergeant too long to get unduly worried by that statement. Even so, he felt impelled to give Daniels a disclaimer. “Okay, but keep in mind that even with Captain Logan’s influence, we don’t have much pull here.”

“And,” Gonzales added, “keep in mind that, according to Arabic laws, women may not be in a room alone with a man who is not a relative.”

Daniels shook his head. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

Gonzales laughed. “Oh, we of much faith in knowing what you do. And, by the way, it’s not a hotel.”

“Okay, okay,” Daniels said as he waved them away like annoying gnats. “Go off on your wild goose chase, and let the grown-ups get the goods for you.”

Key waited until Daniels had gone off with the young scurrying man before getting into the passenger seat of the Yaris.

“You think Morty’ll be okay around here?” Key solemnly asked Gonzales, who was in the driver’s seat.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” Gonzales answered, half-jokingly. “Let me tell you something. When Sultan Qaboos took over in 1970, he decided to make Oman accessible to non-Muslims and Westerners—in order that we might ‘appreciate the beauty of Islam.’ If Morty was anyplace else in the region, we’d probably find him in pieces being eaten by camels when we got back. But here? They don’t even allow corporal punishment in the schools anymore. He’ll be fine.”

“There’s a ‘but,’” Key observed.

Gonzales sighed a little. “He’ll be fine—probably.”

Key nodded in hopeful agreement as Gonzales started the Yaris’s one-point-five liter, four-cylinder engine.

“Where to, Corporal?”

“Call me Joe,” Key finally suggested. “And take me someplace I can find a translator who won’t spook the locals, and an expert on communicable diseases.” Key looked at the mechanic apologetically. “Preferably both. And step on it.”