Free Final Flight by Stephen Coonts Page A

lengthy
corridor at the top of the stairs. Dirt from the
desert lay accumulated in corners. Their
footsteps echoed on the slate floor.
    After several turns, the major opened a door and
stood aside. The two men from the Mercedes
entered a well-furnished apartment. The late afternoon
sun shone in the one window, a window in which glass had
been installed at some time in the past but which had
apparently never been washed.

Final Flight
    “Colonel Qazi, Sakol is in the
next room. Is there anything further you need?”
    “Tell me about Jarvis, the weapons expert.”
    “Your instructions have been followed precisely.
He was examined by a physician while still sedated
after his journey. The physician found him in fair
health with no apparent abnormalities, although
seventeen kilos overweight. He has been kept
naked in solitary confinement and fed precisely one
thousand calories a day, with all the water he can
drink. The bucket in his cell is never emptied.
The light there remains on continuously. No one
has spoken to him.”
    “Very well. Has Sakol been any trouble?”
    “No trouble, sir, although he has asked several
times when to expect you.
    “You have guarded him well?”
    “Of course. His guards are unobtrusive, but
he cannot leave the apartment area where he is staying.”
    “Thank you, Major. Bring Sakol in.”
Qazi selected a stuffed chair and
sank into it. His companion stood against the wall, a
man of medium height with short, dark hair and
olive skin. He wore dark blue trousers, a
white shirt open at the collar, and a lightweight
Italian sport coat that had lost its shape at
some point in the distant past.
    He had a large, square jaw which he
unconsciously clenched and unclenched rhythmically,
making the muscles in his cheeks pulsate. His
restless black eyes scanned the room, then steadied
on the door through which Sakol, the ex-CIA agent,
would enter.
    Qazi placed a pack of American
cigarettes and some matches on the table before him, then
studied his fingernails.
    The door opened and a bearded man in his fifties
entered. He had the broad chest and heavy arms of the
serious weightlifter, but now the muscles were covered
with a layer of fat that made him look even more
massive. He stood at least six feet tall.
“Ah, Sakol. So good to see you,” Qazi
said in English.
    Sakol stopped three steps into the room and
studied the man against the wall. “Why did you bring this
son of a dog?” Sakol asked in
Arabic.
    The expression of the man against the wall did not
change.
    “Sit here, Sakol.” Qazi pointed to a
chair beside him. The American turned the chair so
he could see both Qazi and the man against the wall
and sat. “You know Ali is indispensable to me. I
cannot do everything myself.” English again.
    Sakol sniffed several times and said in Arabic,
“Ah, yes, I can still smell him.”
    “English please,” Qazi said firmly and
offered the American a cigarette, which he accepted.
Qazi had gone to great lengths in the past to ensure
Sakol thought Ali could speak only Arabic, and
he was not yet ready to drop the deception.
Conspirators felt most comfortable when their secrets
appeared safe.
    “You have succeeded brilliantly with the Jarvis
recruitment. I’ve had good reports.”
    “I took a lot of heavy risks pulling it
off Qazi, and earned every goddamn dime of the
money you agreed to pay. I assume the money is
where it’s supposed to be?”
    Oeaeaazi extracted a bankbook from his jacket
pocket and passed it to Sakol, who
examined the signatures carefully, then placed it
in his trouser pocket without comment.
    “That’s a lot of money, Sakol.”
    “I’ve supplied things you could purchase nowhere
else. I risked my butt doing it. I earned the
fucking money.”
    “Indeed. Have you enough money now?” Sakol pursed
his lips momentarily. “Jarvis is a nuclear
weapons expert.” He smoked his cigarette while
Qazi sat in silence and watched the dust swirl in
the sunbeam coming through the one