account in Switzerland, the manager replied, in a tone implying that he considered the question idiotic. Fitzhugh prided himself on his tolerance but had to admit to owning one unreasonable prejudice: he didn’t like Indians. Their accent grated on his ears, and in their manner they managed to be obsequious and supercilious at the same time. Thank you, he said, masking his irritation. And did the manager recall if such wire transfers had been made when Knight Air Services was in existence? If so, who authorized them? Excuse me, Mr. Martin, but are you conducting an official audit? What is the reason for these questions? Fitzhugh merely smiled, thanked him for his time, and left.
Could Douglas be runing guns for the money? he thought, hailing a taxi for Jomo Kenyatta Airport. For the money alone and all that business about providing for the Nubans’ defense so much claptrap?
The taxi dropped him off at the Department of Civil Aviation, where he paid a call on his old friend, the director. This was his day to walk paper trails. He requested copies of recent flight plans filed from Wilson Field. He gave her a range of dates. Pleased to accommodate him, the source of her favorite American cookies, she made a phone call, said yes, they were available, and sent him to another office, where a clerk gave him the plans in a manila envelope. Fitzhugh took out the flimsies and read the information various pilots had scrawled in the boxes and blanks, at the dated stamps and signatures on the bottom of the forms.
Aircraft identification: 5Z203. Type of aircraft: G1C. Departure aerodrome: Wilson. Destination aerodrome: JKIA, for Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Total EET: HR. 08. Min. 00. Pilot in command: Braithwaite, D. Filed by: Pilot or representative—and there Fitzhugh saw a signature almost as familiar as his own. The date stamp in the lower right-hand corner indicated that the flight had been made on the seventh of the previous month. He looked at a calendar—the seventh had been a Saturday. The crashes occurred the following Monday.
He made a copy of the flight plan, one more small fact, which contained one big falsehood. He felt no satisfaction, only a sickness of the heart.
HASSAN ADID’S SECRETARY said he was full up with appointments for the day but would be pleased to meet Fitzhugh for dinner.
It was at the Tamarind, Adid’s favorite restaurant. Fitzhugh arrived early to calm himself with a double scotch, neat. Adid came in a little late, swinging an attaché case, his stylish jacket and trousers testifying that their wearer was no ordinary urban African in an ill-fitting knockoff but a man of the world.
He apologized for his tardiness—a last-minute phone call. After the preliminary chitchat, the fussy business of asking the waiter for recommendations, he asked what was on Fitzhugh’s mind.
“The meeting you and Douglas had last month,” he replied. It was the only lead-in he could think of. “I was wondering, what were your fresh ideas?”
“Fresh ideas? Ideas about what?”
“Our—our problem.”
The first course came: salad for Fitzhugh, lobster bisque for Adid. A none-too-observant Muslim, he paused to sniff and taste the Fumé Blanc, then signal his approval with a flick of his brows.
“What problem are you referring to?”
Of course he would play dumb. What else could Fitzhugh expect? What, for that matter, did he expect to come out of this get-together? A confession? “The story that reporter was working on,” he said.
“Ah, that,” Adid said, perfectly composed. “It was nothing, so I told Douglas to do nothing. If you want to call that a fresh idea, you may do so.”
“Nothing?”
“It wasn’t the problem he seemed to think it was. In any event, it is not any kind of problem now.”
“It certainly isn’t.”
Adid cocked his elegant head aside. “It’s a moot point.”
“Mute,” Fitzhugh said. “I prefer mute.”
“It’s too bad what happened. A dangerous business, flying in Sudan.”
“I’m curious. Why did you think the story wasn’t a problem?”
“To say that Knight is profiting off a war? That’s been said before. And what is the difference if we are? One goes into business to make a profit.”
Shrimp in a cream and brandy sauce was set before him. “That’s what Douglas said? That we were going to be painted as war profiteers?”
Adid accepted his grilled Malindi snapper. “I don’t know why he flew all the way to Nairobi to discuss that. Was there something he did not mention?”
Even Adid could not lie this well, Fitzhugh thought. This is too cute and coy to